by D. P. Prior
‘Excellent, Divinity, thank you.’ It was the truth, but even if it hadn’t been, what else could he have said to the ruler of the Templum?
The Ipsissimus filled his own glass and then topped Shader up. ‘The crew.’ He raised his glass. ‘I remembered all their names, every single one of them, but then the mawgs attacked us and I can’t recall the names of the dead. How do you explain that?’
‘How many did you lose, Divinity?’ Shader’s mind was filled with the bloody faces of crewmen from the Aura Placida whose names he’d never known. He’d barely even acknowledged many of them. He sipped some wine and closed his eyes as his stomach knotted.
‘Fifty-three on this ship.’ The Ipsissimus’s voice was almost a whisper. They’re still counting the survivors on the others, but with the sunken ships, we must have lost close to a thous…’ The Ipsissimus took a long gulp of wine and gave a weak smile. ‘But you suffered losses too. Friends among them.’
Shader’s eyes brimmed with tears, but he didn’t look away.
The Ipsissimus reached over and held his hand. ‘There is more suffering to come. Much more.’
Shader nodded. How could it be otherwise? He could feel the walls of fate closing in around him, its cogs and wheels grinding inexorably, deaf to all appeals.
‘I am sorry, Deacon Shader,’ the Ipsissimus said, ‘but you are at the centre of what’s happening. Don’t ask me why, but Ain has placed you here for this very purpose.’
Shader’s eyes narrowed. ‘How do you know?’ He didn’t include the customary “Divinity”, but the Ipsissimus showed no sign that he was bothered.
‘Oh, there’s no mystical explanation.’ The Ipsissimus released Shader’s hand and took another sip of wine. ‘I was told some time ago, but I never paid it much notice. Now, however, after what I saw you achieve during the battle with the mawgs, I’m starting to realize they spoke the truth.’
‘Who?’ Shader gripped his glass so tight that he half expected it to shatter.
‘Aristodeus,’ the Ipsissimus said, ‘and…’
‘And me,’ Huntsman said as his spirit shimmered into view.
The Dreamer had the look of a vulture about him as his leathery face craned towards Shader on a spiny neck. At first it seemed as if he’d sprouted wings and drawn them about his sinewy body, but then Shader realized it was the cloak of feathers. Huntsman’s sharp eyes studied him, lids twitching, lips curling in the slightest hint of a sneer. Shader held his gaze, but had the uncomfortable feeling that, by doing so, he was giving far too much away. He felt the vein in his temple pulsating and pinched the bridge of his nose to relieve the tension building in his head.
Huntsman ruffled his feathers with a whiplash motion and swivelled his head to regard the Ipsissimus. Shader was on his feet in an instant, the gladius scraping and ringing as he drew it. Huntsman hissed and glared, a clawed hand emerging from beneath his cloak and making clutching movements in the air.
‘Sit down, Shader,’ the Ipsissimus said. ‘Sit down. He’s merely a spirit. And besides, he’s a friend.’
Shader obeyed without question, sliding the sword back into its scabbard and resuming his cross-legged position on the floor. His eyes remained fixed to the Dreamer’s, though, and he fancied that he saw a glint of triumph in Huntsman’s eyes. Huntsman’s hand withdrew beneath the cloak of feathers and he offered the Ipsissimus a thin-lipped smile.
This wasn’t right, Shader told himself. The Ipsissimus of the Templum and a heathen sorcerer in the same room together. What if Huntsman had ill intentions? No one should come so close to the Ipsissimus. Not even me, he realized.
‘Forgive him, my friend,’ the Ipsissimus said to Huntsman. ‘It’s how they’re trained.’
Huntsman bowed his acceptance. ‘My people train dogs same way.’
The Ipsissimus lowered his eyes and touched his fingertips together. ‘I have nothing but respect for my Elect,’ he said with careful clarity. ‘The sacrifice they make, the paradox they embody, allows the rest of us to live the ideal. Fighting for love is no simple matter of conditioning.’
Huntsman’s eyes widened with what might have been amusement and then he dropped into a crouch opposite the Ipsissimus.
‘You are wise my friend, but Sahul trembles; Eingana remembers. Once before, fate of all worlds was entrusted to such as he.’ Huntsman flicked his head in Shader’s direction. ‘Fallen one, Maldark, was first to betray goddess. His actions are cursed throughout Dreaming. It is told that even his own people have withdrawn below ground out of shame.
I no longer trust this philosopher’s plan. Much he does not tell us. His ways are not Sahul’s ways. They cannot help Eingana.’
Shader stiffened at the mention of Maldark. The dwarf had been afflicted with inconsolable guilt; whatever he’d done, he’d believed himself beyond redemption. Was that why he’d drawn the mawgs to himself? Had it been a despairing attempt at expiation? Shader couldn’t accept that theory. There’d been something about Maldark’s attack on the reavers, a purpose, a desperation to break through the mawg ships and to reach the Templum fleet. Whatever the motivation for Maldark’s last battle, it certainly hadn’t been suicide.
‘Maldark was no fool,’ Shader said, staring at the deck.
‘His actions in world of Dreaming were…’ Huntsman’s face contorted with the effort of finding the right word. ‘How do you say it?’ He looked at the Ipsissimus. ‘Desecration. Yes, his actions were a desecration. Shall I tell you what he did?’
‘Maldark was no fool,’ Shader repeated through clenched teeth.
The Ipsissimus touched the gilt Monas around his neck and looked from Shader to Huntsman. ‘Maldark?’
‘Fallen,’ Huntsman spat. ‘Betrayer of gods; blight of Dreaming.’
‘My friend,’ Shader said. ‘And I will not listen to another disparaging word about him. Understood?’
Huntsman glowered, but said no more. The Ipsissimus lifted his glass to his lips and took a sip of wine. ‘Tell me about him, Shader.’
Shader reached for his own glass. He half expected images to leap into mind, images of shared times, of camaraderie and laughter, but when he thought about Maldark, nothing came. The only recollections of the dwarf he had were of fighting: Maldark driving off the mawgs in the dilapidated house in Sarum; battling back to back against the undead knights of the Lost; standing shoulder to shoulder as the roiling horror of the Dweller burst into the Templum. Shader’s mind replayed the bloody savagery of the reavers’ attack and the moment of hope that had accompanied Maldark’s arrival. He searched in vain for some other memory, something to match the fondness he felt for the dwarf, something to compensate for his loss. His only reward was the vision of a sea of swirling blood and carrion birds swooping down to peck at his friend’s disgorged remains spilling out into the ocean.
‘He was,’ Shader started, but couldn’t find the words. ‘We were…’ The realization struck him like lightning, leaving Shader with a feeling of nakedness so absolute he was certain the Ipsissimus and Huntsman could see into the deepest recesses of his soul; could expose him for the fraud he was. ‘We are the same.’
‘Hah!’ Huntsman said with a sharp clap of his hands. ‘I told you so. Aristodeus cannot be trusted. His arrogance is bait for trap, and his ways are hateful to Sahul.’
The Ipsissimus held up his hand for silence and studied Shader with eyes the blue of the winter sky over Latia. A dewy film coated them, dulled and deepened them, evoking the image of a glacial sea.
‘This Maldark,’ the Ipsissimus’s voice was little more than the distant fracturing of ice. ‘He was the one in the boat that came to our aid?’
Shader nodded.
‘He wore a white cloak like the Elect, but it bore a cross rather than a Monas,’ the Ipsissimus said. ‘Was he a Nousian?’
Shader shook his head. ‘I don’t think so. I wanted to ask him about that, but there was never time. He mentioned—forgive me, Divinity— he mentioned God.’
The Ipsiss
imus closed his eyes, his brow creasing. ‘He was clearly a warrior, and akin to our Elect. How can this be? The cross indicates he could not be one of them, and besides he was…he was…’
‘Too small?’ Shader gulped down the last of his wine.
‘Well, uh…’ The Ipsissimus’s head was bobbing as he struggled for the right thing to say.
‘He was a dwarf of Dreaming,’ Huntsman said, as if that cleared things up.
Shader turned his eyes on the shaman. ‘How do you know this?’
Huntsman spread his arms and turned his palms upwards. ‘It is my business to know.’
‘It’s a place.’ the Ipsissimus uncrossed his legs and rubbed his knee. ‘The Dreaming. Aristodeus refers to it as Aethir. I used to think it was a visionary thing, like inscape or…or…’
‘A hallucination?’ Huntsman gave a sour look. ‘My friend, we Dreamers know how you civilized folk regard us, but it is no matter. Your self-deception safeguards our knowledge and we are thankful for that. Dreaming is real, though it is not like this world. It is home of my gods, though they are exiled from it. It is also home to dwarves and all other creatures of Sektis Gandaw.’
‘The Dreaming is Sektis Gandaw’s world?’ Shader said.
Huntsman shook his head. ‘Sektis Gandaw is from this world. It is said he fled to Dreaming long before flowering of Ancients’ civilization.’ Huntsman hawked and spat. ‘It is also said that he returned and made that accursed society. From his black mountain in Dead Lands of Dreaming, he sent out harvesters to bring back humans from Earth. He worked dark magic on them, joining them together, shaping them.’
‘To what end?’ the Ipsissimus asked.
‘My gods say he sought perfection. Each time he did not succeed, he cast out his failures and tried a new path. After much time, he gave up. Things of this world not good enough for him. He set about work of Unweaving instead, unmaking of all there is so he could begin again. To do so, he needed power beyond any that comes from this world. He needed Eingana.’
‘A being of the Supernal Realm,’ the Ipsissimus said. ‘One of the three who fell through the Void.’
‘Mother of dog-head,’ Huntsman said. ‘He who made Dreaming. Father of my gods.’
‘But Maldark.’ Shader rubbed his forehead and frowned. ‘His cloak, the red cross, his God. How—?’
‘Ain once had many names,’ the Ipsissimus said. ‘Just don’t tell Exemptus Silvanus I said that. If Sektis Gandaw was bringing people from Earth, their knowledge, their culture would find a footing in the Dreaming. Perhaps you should tell us about these dwarves, Huntsman. It may help us to—’
The air beside Huntsman rippled and a boy appeared. He was naked except for a loin cloth. His skin was streaked with ochre, his fair hair wound into dusty dreadlocks.
‘Sammy!’ Shader rocked back on his haunches and stood.
The boy looked at him askance and then addressed Huntsman. ‘I can’t find her. The ants say there’s no sign.’
Shader’s heart flew to his throat. ‘Find who? Sammy, who are you talking about?’
The boy turned on him, tears streaking his begrimed face. ‘Rhiannon. I can’t find Rhiannon.’
Shader’s hand covered his mouth and he reeled. How could he have forgotten her? He glared at Huntsman, recalling that it was the shaman’s machinations that had pulled them apart. His and Aristodeus’. ‘What’s happened?’ It was an accusation. ‘Where is she?’
Huntsman’s joints cracked as he regained his feet. ‘There was a battle in Sarum. Terrible battle. Dead walked. Many were killed.’
‘No!’ Sammy said. ‘She’s not dead. I know it.’
Huntsman placed a hand on the boy’s head. ‘And I believe you. Trust your feelings.’
‘Then why can’t I find her?’ Sammy asked.
Huntsman’s eyes flicked to Shader and then the Ipsissimus. ‘Some places Sahul cannot see. Blind spots. Things unnatural. Such was Sarum during plague. I return with you, Samuel. We look in web for empty spaces. Gain some knowledge.’
‘But…’ Shader started.
Huntsman took Sammy’s hand in his and the air began to shimmer. He turned to the Ipsissimus as their bodies began to fade.
‘Yours only piece not in enemy hands. It must not be lost. Our best hope is in unity. You must join with Hagalle and march to Homestead. With might of my gods it may be we can keep it from Sektis Gandaw and this necromancer.’
The boy and the shaman vanished.
Shader spun to stare at the golden Monas hanging around the Ipsissimus’s neck. Its single amber eye glinted and Shader slapped himself on the forehead. He should have known. It was identical to the Grey Abbot’s Monas—the one he’d failed to return.
‘You,’ he said. ‘Maldark was coming to aid you, to protect the Monas from the mawgs.’
The Ipsissimus held out a hand for Shader to help him up. ‘It does seem likely.’ He appeared to have aged again, his face now grey and haunted. ‘But enough speculation. We should make ready.’
Shader wanted to ask what for, but he already knew. You must be whole again, the Archon had said. The Ipsissimus is coming for the final battle and he will need you.
The Ipsissimus held the cabin door open. The salty spray from outside seemed suddenly like venom.
‘Nice name, by the way,’ the Ipsissimus said as Shader slipped past him.
‘Sorry?’
Ignatius Grymm was coming down the deck towards Shader, palms upturned to ask how it had gone. Shader’s mind was a confusion of emotions. The Ipsissimus’s bright eyes anchored him for an instant.
‘Rhiannon.’
The name struck Shader like a condemnation. His lips started to move in reply, but then the discipline of the confessional kicked in and he said nothing.
The Ipsissimus gave the slightest of nods and started to pull the door to. ‘Speaking of nice names,’ he said peeking through the crack, ‘did Investigator Shin catch up with you?’
Shader just looked at him, dumbfounded.
‘Bardol Shin?’ the Ipsissimus shook his head, ‘of the Templum Judiciary? No? Never mind. Doubt you’d remember even if he did, what with all this commotion. Ain be with you.’
‘And with your…’
But the door had already closed.
THE EMPEROR’S RULE
Hagalle stood with his back to the wall as the other men in Zara Gen’s office congregated around a globe drinks cabinet and pretended an interest in the map on its surface. Snippets of conversation reached his ears, but much of it was drowned out by the nagging voices within.
‘—no idea how it got here,’ Zara Gen was saying. ‘I’m sure I saw one just like it in Councillor Arkin’s office.’ Duke Farian guffawed and clapped him on the back. ‘Very good, Governor,’ he said. ‘Very good.’
‘I’m sorry?’ Zara Gen said.
‘Worth a bloody fortune, you old scoundrel.’ Farian gave the Governor a jab with his elbow. ‘And that’s without all the booze.’ The Duke stooped over the globe and ran his finger across the surface of a continent. ‘Do you know, I think this is an original Waldseemüller gore— either that or a bloody good copy. This would have been an antique for the Ancients. Look here—layers of printed paper, each meticulously prepared and pasted onto the sphere. Every gore,’ Farian droned on, ‘has a width of 30° of longitude—’
Master Frayn opened the lid and peered inside, eyes rolling like a glutted viper’s. ‘So, gentlemen,’ he said, as if he were their equal. ‘What’s your poison?’
Farian coughed and crossed his arms, rubbing his chin with his thumb and forefinger. ‘Must I remind you—’
Hagalle knew they were glancing in his direction. His lips felt dry and cracked, and there was no saliva in his mouth. His heart was sending little shudders through his chest and rippling his shirt. He saw Frayn close the globe and perch on the edge of Zara Gen’s desk. Farian whispered something in the Governor’s ear and Zara Gen nodded gravely. The Duke then pointedly moved the roll of maps he’d depo
sited on the desk away from Frayn’s backside.
It’s too darned hot in here, Hagalle thought, turning to open the curtain and then thinking better of it. He fanned his face with his hand, all the while watching the recesses of the office out of the corner of his eye. Too darned dark, too. He shot Farian a look. The Duke caught it and muttered something to Zara Gen, who then stooped to speak in Frayn’s ear.
The Sicarii slipped from his perch and crossed the room on the balls of his feet, treading as lightly as a dancer. Hagalle’s eyes followed the glint of steel from the ball-pommel of the dagger sheathed at his hip. Frayn fiddled with the valve on the lantern hanging from its elaborate stand beside the door. The circle of its orange light brightened, but still didn’t reach the corners.
Thump!
Hagalle started, his hand going to his chest.
Knock, knock.
He closed his eyes and took a deep breath. About time, too, he thought. Let’s get this over with and get these people out of my sight. By the gods, it’s stuffy in here.
Frayn got the door, standing behind it as it opened. General Starn bumbled his way into the office, puffing out his red cheeks. His eyes were bulging from his head as he made a show of wondering how the door had opened by itself. Frayn stepped into view when he shut the door and Starn raised a finger in mock admonition, grunting and coughing beneath his moustache.
Hagalle pushed away from the wall and Starn came to attention, clicking his boot heels and thumping his chest. He was as ramrod as he could be with such a curved spine and large gut. He looked like a comedy soldier, all stiff and starchy, but with a roly-poly edge to him. If he hadn’t known better, Hagalle would have retired the man as an embarrassment.
