Dear friends, if you could have seen what I have seen. . . .
And then his thoughts slid down into darkness, and the blissful numbness of sleep.
Midnight. Plus some. An hour of peace, even this close to the whirlpool. Ciani was sleeping soundly—at last—and Senzei was still lost in the oblivion of his healing trance. The three of them were sharing a suite, which had turned out to be the perfect situation; Damien could check on his companions easily enough, but if one of them happened to wake in the night and glance about before returning to sleep, they wouldn’t see that he’d left. He had left a note on his pillow just in case, but didn’t really expect anyone to find it; he should be back long before they awoke. And hopefully, he would have some new answers.
The town itself was silent, so much so that he could hear the soft wash of salt-laden waves against Kale’s rocky shore. He made his way toward the sound, using it as a compass to maneuver through the narrow, twisting streets.
As with most of the northern coast, Kale’s shoreline was a series of ragged cliffs and overhangs, inhospitable to travelers. Damien worked his way slowly westward, toward the port itself. Natural caverns were etched deep into the rock beneath him, and periodically something dark would fly out of the mouth of one, to shriek its way across the jagged shallows. Not a good place for boats or men, he reflected. But it was still far safer than the ocean shorelines which were battered by an endless procession of tsunami; and so man had forced this coast to accept a port wherever there was the slightest opening for one, and would make do with its shortcomings. Erna was a harsh mistress.
Soon, the cliff edge he traversed began to drop. A narrow path led him around several major obstacles, to a place where the earth, shaken by one too many tremors, had collapsed. A mountain of jagged boulders sloped down to the Serpent, covered over by a webwork of wooden walkways and stairs that made safe descent, if strenuous, possible.
Damien clambered down, noting that there was activity about several of the boats that were docked below. Erna’s opposing moons made for a complex tidal pattern, and the few windows of opportunity that occurred must be grasped when they did; in the city itself life might subside at sunset, but Kale’s shipping fleets never rested.
At last he reached a sizable boardwalk that gave him a level surface to the water’s edge. Long piers stretched out across miles of water, bridging the boulder-strewn shallows. At high tide it was perhaps possible for a boat to come in close to the shore itself; at low tide, the sailors would have quite a hike after docking. For a moment Damien wondered why they hadn’t done something more permanent to fill the land in, or thoroughly dredge it out; then he remembered where he was, and reminded himself: There is no such thing as permanence, in this part of the world. What man chooses to construct, earthquakes can unconstruct in an instant. Better to build flexibly—or at least temporarily—and give way to Nature’s temper tantrums when they occur.
Come to think of it, didn’t the whole Stekkis River shift once, within recent centuries? Wasn’t Merentha once the port city at its mouth, instead of Kale? It must be hard to invest time or money in a city that might be made worthless tomorrow, he thought. That alone would explain an awful lot about the city’s appearance.
He watched the men moving about the piers for some time, assessing various facets of their activity. Ganji-on-the-Cliffs had a similar port, and it was no hard task for him to draw parallels between them. After a while he thought he saw what he was looking for, and he began to pick his way over to the far eastern end of the docks, near where the cliffs began to rise. There was a small boat docked there, whose relatively shallow draft was well suited to inhospitable ports. As he came closer, he could see that it had strong masts and a small steam turbine in the rear; its owner didn’t trust technology, but had enough survival sense to pack it as a backup. Excellent. Damien assessed its size, its probable speed, the amount of room on board, and nodded. This one was promising.
He walked out to where the small ship was moored. Two men were bustling about its deck, gathering up the last of some precious cargo. A third stood at the bow and watched; he glanced up shortly when Damien approached but didn’t acknowledge him otherwise. Damien waited. The cargo was loaded into a coarse handwagon with a shipping emblem seared into its side. When it was full the two men handed documents to the third, who read them by moonlight. And nodded. Not until the laborers had grabbed hold of the handcart and begun to pull it toward shore—not until they were out of hearing, and almost out of sight—did the overseer acknowledge Damien with his eyes and slowly walk over to meet him.
“C’n I help you?”
Damien nodded towards the boat. “Yours?”
The overseer assessed him. “Maybe.”
“I need to hire transportation.”
The man said nothing.
“I’m prepared to pay well for it.”
The man chuckled. “That’s vulkin‘ fortunate. It don’t come cheap.”
Somewhat disdainfully, Damien pulled a small leather pouch from his pocket; he rattled it once, so that the sound of metal striking metal was clearly audible.
The man’s nostrils flared, like an animal scenting its prey. “Where you headed?”
“East. Southern shore. Near the mouth of the Achron River. You interested?”
The man coughed, and spat into the water. “You’d need more’n money to buy that kind of passage.”
“What, then?”
“You need a pilot that’s vulkin‘ set on suicide—which I’m not. That’s some of the worst shoreline on the Serpent.” He grinned, showing stained and chipped teeth. “How about somewhere else for vacation, eh? I hear there’s a good river up north.”
“It’s business,” Damien said shortly.
“Then I’m real sorry.” He looked hungrily at the purse, but his expression didn’t soften. “That’s death on the rocks, that trip. I don’t want none of it. No one will. Not unless you can find some young fool of a merchant’s son with a spanking new yacht to wreck . . . and then you’d just die in the landing, along with‘im. You catch my drift?”
Damien stretched open the mouth of the purse and spilled two gold coins into the palm of his hand. The man’s eyes widened.
“Perhaps you know someone who can take us.”
The man hesitated—it seemed that two parts of him were at war with each other—but at last he shook his head. “Not in Kale, Mer. Don’t know anyone foolish enough to try. Sorry.” He chuckled. “Wish I even had a good lie, for that kind of money.”
Damien was about to speak when another voice—smooth as the night air and nearly as quiet—intruded.
“I believe the gentleman doesn’t understand the value of your currency.”
He turned quickly toward the source of the voice, and found Gerald Tarrant standing not ten feet from them.
“Permit me,” the tall man said, bowing slightly.
After a moment Damien nodded. Tarrant approached—and withdrew a thin golden disk from his tunic, which he displayed to the mariner.
The side that Damien saw was a familiar image: it was the earth-disk that the stranger had displayed in Briand. But whatever was on the other side made the mariner’s face go white beneath its stubble, the jaw dropping slack beneath.
“Tell him what he needs to know,” Tarrant said quietly.
The man looked over his shoulder—northward, across the Serpent—and then stammered, “Not here. You understand? You need to go to Morgot. That’s where the kind of men would be, who could help you. Morgot.”
Damien looked questioningly at Tarrant, who explained, “an island just north of here. A caldera, made into a port. It occasionally serves as a way station for the . . . shall we say, less than reputable sort?”
He reached over toward Damien, so smoothly and so quickly that the priest failed to react in time. He took the gold coins out of his hand, and gave them to the mariner. A faint chill touched the priest’s flesh where contact had almost been made.
“Y
ou’ll take his party over to Morgot tomorrow.” Tarrant’s tone was one of confident authority. It was hard to say exactly where in his words or his manner the threat was so evident. “No questions asked. Agreed?”
The man took the money awkwardly, as though not quite sure what the ritual of acceptance should be. “Yes, your lordship,” he whispered. “Of course, your lordship.” He scrambled down to the deck of his craft and disappeared hurriedly into the cabin; after a few minutes had passed without him reappearing, Tarrant turned to Damien, clearly satisfied that the man would not disturb them.
“Forgive me for intruding in your business.”
Damien forced himself to respond to the politeness of the man’s manner, rather than what he imagined lay beneath the surface. Which made his skin crawl. “Not at all. Thank you.”
“I think you now have what you came out into the night to find.” Tarrant said quietly.
“Now I do,” he assured him.
Tarrant laughed softly. “You’re a curious man, priest. Courageous enough to take on the demons of Kale, not to mention the rakh’s vicious constructs . . . but not quite confident enough to share a dae’s fireside with another human traveler.”
“Are you that?” Damien said sharply.
Tarrant’s expression tightened, ever so slightly. The pale eyes narrowed. “Am I what?”
“Human.”
“Ah. Let’s not get into philosophy, shall we? Say that I was born a man—as you were—and as for what a man may become . . . we don’t all follow paths that our mothers would have approved of, do we?”
“A bit of an understatement, in your case.”
The silver eyes met his. Cold, so cold. The dead might have eyes like that. “You don’t trust me, do you?”
“No,” he said bluntly. “Should I?”
“Some have chosen to.”
Ciani wants to, Damien thought. And: I never will.
“You killed that boy. In Briand.”
“Yes. I told you why.”
“And I believed it—at the time.” It was impossible to tell from the man’s expression whether he would buy a bluff or see right through it. He decided to chance it. “I didn’t know then what I do now.”
“Ah.” Tarrant’s eyes were fixed on him: piercing through his wordly image, weighing his soul. “I did underestimate you,” he said at last. “My apologies. It won’t happen again.”
He felt like he had won points in some game, without even knowing what he was playing. Or if he would ever see the rulebook. He indicated the boat that was tied up before them, in whose cabin the mariner was presumably still cowering. Probably won’t show his face until we’re out of here, he thought. Then corrected himself: Until Tarrant’s out of here.
“What was it you showed him?”
Tarrant shrugged. “I merely indicated that I understood the situation.”
“Which is?”
“Morgot plays host to a number of legitimate shipping concerns. It’s also a refuge for smugglers and other unsavory types. For all he knew, you were some kind of local inspector trying to track down a freelance. Out to hurt his friends. You see,” he said quietly, “trying to maneuver in this region without knowing the rules can be . . . difficult.”
“And you know the rules.”
He shrugged. “This is my home.”
“Kale.”
No answer. Only silent, unvoiced amusement.
“He called you lordship,” Damien pressed.
“An ancient honorific. Some men still use it. Does it bother you so much?”
He met Tarrant’s eyes—so pale, so cold—and suddenly understood what made the man so dangerous. Control. Over himself, over his environment . . . and over everyone who dealt with him.
“It would seem,” the priest said quietly, “that we hunt the same creatures.”
“So it would seem.”
“For the same purpose?”
Again Tarrant shrugged; the gesture was anything but casual. “I want them out of the human lands. If they die en route . . . so much the better.”
Damien hesitated; he felt as though he were balanced on the edge of a precipice, and anything—the wrong words, even the wrong thoughts—might send him over. But he knew why he had come here. What he had to do. He might not like it, but his dreams had made it clear.
“We’re here to kill them.”
Tarrant smiled indulgently. “I know.”
“My friends think you could help us.”
“And you don’t.”
This time it was Damien’s turn not to answer.
One corner of Tarrant’s mouth twitched slightly; a smile? “We do serve the same cause,” he observed. “If you won’t trust me, trust in that.”
“Should I trust you?”
“I would say. . . .” He smiled, and shook his head. “No. Not you.”
“But you’re willing to help us.”
“For as long as our paths coincide—and our purposes are compatible—yes.” He indicated the boat beside them, the caldera in the distance. “I thought I made that clear.”
Damien drew in a deep breath, tried to settle his unease. It was dangerous to let the man know their weakness—but if he was to help them, he would have to. There was no other way.
“We’ve lost the trail,” he said quietly. Watching Tarrant for his reaction. “We can’t Work the fae here.”
“Most can’t,” he agreed.
“The currents are—”
Tarrant waved him to silence.
For a moment the tall man just stood there, nostrils flared as if to test the air. Then he turned toward the shoreline. Casually, as if his only intention was to watch the waves break. He raised a hand—but made no gestures with it, nor did Damien hear a whispered key for Binding.
Minutes passed.
“They’re not here,” he said at last. “Not in Kale.” He stared southward a moment longer, then added quietly, “But this was their route. Without question.”
“You’re sure.”
“Their taint is unmistakable.” He turned back to the priest—and for a moment it seemed that his eyes were not gray but black, his gaze a measureless emptiness. “And besides, if they mean to go home, this is the only way to do it. Short of swimming—or climbing the Worldsend.”
“And how is it that you can Work the fae here?”
The stranger smiled; his perfect white teeth glinted in the moonlight. “Call it practice.”
“That’s all?”
“That’s enough. You’re too full of questions, priest. I don’t make a habit of explaining myself.”
“That’s too bad. I like to know who I’m traveling with.”
Tarrant seemed amused. “Is that an invitation?”
“We’ve just booked passage to Morgot. You’re welcome to join us ... unless you’d like to swim.”
“I prefer to leave that to the fish, thank you.—But yes, I’ll travel with you tomorrow. For as long as our paths coincide, you may count on me.”
He turned away as if to leave—and then looked back at Damien. “We don’t leave until dusk, of course. I prefer not to travel in sunlight. But you guessed that, didn’t you? You guessed so very much.” He smiled, and bowed his head ever so slightly. “Until tomorrow, Reverend Vryce.”
Speechless, Damien watched while Tarrant strode the length of the pier, disappearing at last into the shadows that lay along the shore. The priest’s hands clenched into fists slowly, then unclenched, then repeated the pattern. Trying to bleed off some of the tension, so that the night wouldn’t throw his own fears back at him. The last thing he needed now was a battle with brainless demonlings. He needed to think.
What’s done is done. You made your decision, and now you’ll have to live with the consequences. For better and for worse.
There was a stirring inside the boat’s small cabin, as if in response to the sudden silence without. After a moment the mariner peeked out; when he saw that Damien was still there, he began to withdraw.
&nb
sp; “He’s gone,” the priest said quickly. “But I do need to talk to you.”
The man hesitated, then came out onto the deck. “Mer?”
“The trip tomorrow.” He felt himself stiffen, fought to keep the tension out of his voice. “We won’t be able to leave until after dusk.”
The man just stared at him. “I figured,” he said at last. “You travel with that kind, those are the hours.”
He started to turn away, but Damien indicated with a gesture that he wasn’t done with him.
“Mer?”
“What was the medallion he showed you?” the priest asked tightly. “What did it mean?”
The man hesitated; for a minute, it looked like he wished he were somewhere else. Anywhere else. Damien just waited. And finally the man muttered, “The Forest. The Hunter. His servants wear that sigil.” He looked up at Damien; his expression was a warning. “We don’t anger that kind. I suggest you don’t either. Not in this region, anyway.” Maybe nowhere at all, his gaze seemed to say. “They take care of their own. Their enemies die. No exception.—You understand?”
“I understand,” Damien said quietly. Hearing his own thoughts echo within him, like that of a stranger.
Evil is what you make of it.
We use what tools we must.
“Damn it!” he hissed angrily, when the man was out of hearing.
It was a long while before he started back.
Twenty
The sun was still shining brightly when Tobi Zendel’s steam-driven boat approached the Morgot docks. With care, he brought it in safely at the far end of the harbor. There were few people about. Which meant few police and few inspectors. That was intentional. With the xandu on board—and a damned strange passenger to boot—he was anxious to avoid anyone in uniform.
“This is it,” he told her. He looped a mooring line over a convenient post, then leapt up onto the pier to secure it. The boat rubbed up gently against the cold, swollen wood. “Sorry I can’t take you closer in by boat, but . . . well, hey.” He offered her a hand to help her onto the pier but she looked right through him, as if it were beneath her pride to notice. After a moment his hand withdrew. She stepped up easily onto the boat’s polished edge, and from there continued without hesitation or slippage to step across the water to the more stable surface of the pier.
Black Sun Rising Page 18
