Broken Shadow

by Jaine Fenn

She should’ve listened to her animus. The sickness came on quick and hard. She kept retching long after she was empty inside, then lay huddled amongst the rocks, the rain forming a damp curtain just beyond her nose.

  Everything was gone. The past. Etyan. Hope. The contents of her stomach. She laughed, or rather croaked and called the sound a laugh. When it’s gone it’s gone: doesn’t matter whether it’s a faithless lover or a rotten meal.

  The rain eased off. Clouds blew through. She watched night fall, lying on her sodden cloak, her mind as empty as her guts.

  As Whitemoon rose she wondered what might find her now, lying here helpless, and eat her. Somewhat to her irritation, nothing did.

  The rain returned the next day. Her stupid body demanded water. She half slithered, half pushed herself out of the cave far enough to get her head under the curtain of droplets cascading off the edge of the overhanging rock. She opened her mouth until enough liquid went in, then wriggled back inside. Night fell, and she dozed.

  The next day she awoke unexpectedly clear-headed.

  Picking at the thin scab that time had put over her love for Etyan hurt but she had to see things how they really were. Then she could die in peace.

  He’d never loved her. That was obvious now. He’d been intrigued by her, and she provided an ideal escape from the “problems” of his rich and privileged life. And he’d wanted her. Not for herself, obviously. But he’d wanted to fuck her. She must have been quite a novelty, even with his previous experience.

  The nausea was back, but with nothing inside to throw up it came as cramps that went on and on, blanking her mind and contorting her body.

  When the cramps passed it was dark again, and her body was a wan and distant thing. She just needed to face up to the full truth and she’d be done with the world, with life.

  Yes, love was illusion – or rather self-delusion. Even so, it had felt wonderful. She had enough distance to acknowledge that, to examine memories of perfect moments without being crippled by the pain: morning light on Etyan’s face as he slept; laughing together at the smallest thing; just sitting, holding his hand.

  Once I had that. But it wasn’t real. I have nothing now. I am nothing, now. So I’m ready to let go.

  The Sun was coming up.

  She’d barely noticed the night-time noises, the background whirrs and buzzes of skyland life, but with the new day came a surge of sound. One whirring call grew faster, more energetic, developing a secondary drone note, a complex hypnotic rhythm. Another lilting call started up some way off, like distant breathless chanting. Nearby, something started to purr softly, gentle as a contented cat.

  Now, as she was ready to leave it, the world was finally singing to her.

  Sunlight touched her hand, flung out the cave. Its warmth, sustaining and comforting, felt good.

  Having finally noticed, really noticed, the world, she felt herself expanding out into it. She’d let go yet remained conscious, and now experienced reality with an intensity she hadn’t imagined possible.

  She reached out a trembling finger to trace a line of white crystal embedded in the rock near her head. Her hand slipped, and her finger dipped into a tiny hollow at the base of the rock. She felt softness there, some hidden growth – her animus confirmed it was a plant, and harmless. Soft as duck down, a little warm to the touch. The faint scent of honey and summer roses. She smiled, cracking her dry lips.

  The world was glorious.

  Yet she’d seen so little of it! And, she realised, she wanted to. She’d been avoiding reality when she should have been embracing it. Having nothing meant having nothing to worry about. It meant just being.

  But making the most of being – just surviving at all – would take some effort.

  This was probably just her animus talking, trying to keep her alive so it could live. Well, they were stuck with each other. And the world would continue, with or without her. Them.

  She pulled herself over the damp, rocky ground to her discarded pack, half buried in the mud. Her arms trembled as she pulled at the flap. The food was well-wrapped in wax paper, and hadn’t spoiled. The first packet contained hard biscuits.

  She wormed an arm in deeper and found a compacted block of dried fruit. When she peeled off a strip and put it in her mouth she gagged, but she made herself suck, using what little saliva she had left. She had no idea what fruit it was, but when she mashed it against the roof of her mouth with her tongue something thick and sweet trickled down her throat. When it hit her belly it burned, and she braced herself. She would keep this down, despite the urge to retch; she needed to accept this tiny shred of nourishment. She ate another piece; it went down easier.

  “I listened to you,” she said, and tapped herself on the forehead with a knuckle, “all right?”

  It appeared she had decided to live.

  CHAPTER 21

  Sorne had lost the knack of waiting. He’d had his share of keeping watch back in the militia in Shen, but two years of ducking and diving in Zekt left him out of practice. Even sitting in a punt in a darkened waterway he was restless and on edge.

  Or perhaps it was just that he was waiting for his friends, or the nearest he had to friends here, to commit a crime.

  The house remained dark. Two storeys, six windows. Good view from those top windows.

  He’d dropped Jemulf and Breta off on the far side of Pahnec, and they’d made their way to the house’s “street entrance”, although with no carts or animals in the city Mirror didn’t have streets as such. Then he’d come here to wait. A dark face had appeared briefly at a bottom window, so he knew they’d got in safely; now it was up to them to keep checking whether he’d raised his lantern, usually the signal that a punt was available for hire but now their agreed sign that trouble was on the way.

  There was no one about, but if anyone did peg him as more than a puntsman waiting for a late-night fare, he’d be off. He liked Jemulf and Breta, and their friendship was useful, but he needed to keep his head down. He had, as the Zekti saying went, bigger fish to fry.

  Last time he’d done something like this it hadn’t ended well. They’d met resistance, then one of his own men had tried to take Countess Harlyn hostage. Which wouldn’t have happened had the damn woman not insisted on coming with them into the priory in the first place, but she wasn’t one to be told what to do.

  Tonight’s jaunt wouldn’t please the woman currently giving him grief. Not that Sharrey ever said anything when he stayed out late working for Jemulf. And she was happy enough to take the few extra marks he handed over. It was just that look she gave him when he did.

  Her own work at the paper-pressers barely kept up the rent on their rooms and put rice on the table. Jemulf said households that took in outsiders on Arec got paid a small stipend but Sharrey had expensive habits. He liked that she wanted to send her son to school but had no idea what she saw in those painted porcelain plates she collected.

  Paying the locals to take in foreigners made sense: keeping all the visitors together on one islet made it easier to keep an eye on people who’d had good reason to flee their original shadowland. Like Jemulf and Breta: Breta had been an arena-fighter; Faro was known for its women warriors. When she’d refused to throw an important match those who controlled the betting came for her. An enforcer had ended up dead. So they’d run.

  He scratched under his dark wig. It was rather threadbare, having been stuffed in the bottom of his pack while he was wandering the umbral then stashed at the lock-up with everything else Sharrey didn’t need to know about.

  Perhaps he shouldn’t worry about Sharrey. He knew the type: she didn’t want to know. When he’d bought her a commemorative regatta plate to remind her of her lovely day out with her friends she’d thanked him with a kiss, and not asked where he’d got the money from.

  Tonight was threeday, so not a usual late night for him – he still stayed out on the nights he’d been at the training-rooms, even though the rooms had closed – but when he said not to wait up she’
d just nodded, like she expected no better, then said not to wake Tamak when he got in. The boy’s aches and twinges made it hard for him to sleep through these days.

  A crash from inside the house. Sorne’s head shot up.

  No lights, no immediate commotion. Sounded like a dropped pot.

  The noise gave him the excuse for a more serious look around. A few upstairs lights still showed in some of the other houses along the waterfront. The Eternal Isle loomed close to one side, lit with lamps strung along the eaves. The only sound was the ever-present lap of water. No obvious reaction to the noise. One last glance around, then he lowered his head again.

  People were such fools. Himself included, of course. Sharrey was like his own mother, and like Dulima, the mother of his boys. He’d driven Dulima off after they lost their sons, because he wanted someone to blame, and she’d been conditioned to believe that it should be her. She was right to leave him, after he hit her, after he’d broken his promise to himself that he’d never become his father. Yes, fools one and all.

  But individual, foolish people made up nations. Little fools could still make something big and worthwhile. If he’d been born in Zekt perhaps he’d be comfortable with perpetual rain, ridiculous hairstyles and nothing decent to sit on, maybe even with slavery and crazy rulers. But he’d been lucky enough to be born in Shen, ruled by the smartest man he’d ever met, home to sensible clothes and proper furniture and wholesome food. What wouldn’t he give for a warm cob loaf…

  Movement: Breta’s face at a window. He raised his head and affected a stretch, catching her eye in passing. She nodded. He lifted the pole from the bottom of the punt, stood up with care, and pushed off.

  Jemulf and Breta were waiting where he’d dropped them off. They climbed into the punt without a word. Their backpacks were full; Breta’s clanked; sounded like she had some metal in there. They laid their haul in the bottom of the boat then sat opposite him, still without a word. Sorne pushed off.

  Round the first corner, they passed another punt. The couple in it were entwinned with each other, oblivious, but the puntsman gave Sorne an odd look, perhaps for his shaky pole technique, or for his obviously foreign passengers. Sorne made himself smile back as though nothing was amiss.

  Three days passed: time enough for the Faroese pair to start selling the scented oils, fine fabric and pair of valuable bronze knives they’d stolen. Perhaps he might even expect some money today. But then Jemulf failed to turn up at Ramek’s yard.

  He waited through lunch, nursing the same cup of cold tea to an equally cold stare from Ramek’s wife. When he couldn’t stand it any longer he went for a careful stroll past familiar haunts – the rice-dealer, speaker’s square, the empty rooms that had recently been the gym – to an enclosed court whose residents valued their privacy. He didn’t even get as far as the entrance. When someone grabbed his arm he tensed and turned. Then he saw Breta’s face peering out of the alley he was passing. She nodded, and he slid into the shadows beside her. The alley was so narrow they had to stand side-by-side to talk, but they were out of sight.

  “What happened?” muttered Sorne.

  “We were raided last night.”

  “The militia?” Sorne went cold. If the Zekti authorities got their hands on the duke’s letters he was screwed.

  Breta shook her head. “Locals. Woke up to a knife at my throat, damnit.” She’d hate being overpowered like that.

  “You all right?”

  “They didn’t hurt us. No point: they got what they wanted.”

  “The stash from the robbery?”

  “That’s what they came for. I told Jem that tip-off was too good!”

  “So these were Zekti criminals who got you to do their dirty work, then walked in and took the goods?”

  “Got it in one, my friend.”

  “And the lock-up?” In a city of baked brick and bundled reeds the reinforced strong room at the back of the Faroese couple’s digs was a valuable resource. It’d cost Sorne a large cut of the duke’s money to secure one of the ironwood-fronted lockers built into it.

  “Trashed that too. That’s why I stopped you. Been trying to let people know subtly. Not sure who else is watching.”

  Sorne’s chest felt tight. “My stuff. Is it… Did they take everything?”

  “You had some coin in there, yeah?”

  “I did.” Quite a lot. But money could be replaced. “There were some papers too…”

  “The cash they took. The papers ended up all over the floor.” She turned her head to look him in the eye. “Couldn’t help reading some of them.”

  Sorne made himself breathe. “I can’t blame you for that.” It felt like someone else’s voice speaking. “But I’d be interested to know what you thought.”

  “Well.” She pulled her near-hairless head back a little; this was an absurd, intimate meeting. But though they might be allies, they both had secrets. And they were both killers. “Interesting to see you’ve got a legit identity after all.”

  She meant the papers he’d used when he first entered the city. Given how he’d left, as far as the authorities were concerned the Shenese baker called Sorne was still living in Mirror. “I’m really not that person any more.”

  She inclined her head, acknowledging the necessary expedience. “The other papers were… odd.”

  The duke’s letters weren’t written in code. That would have been suspicious in itself. But they were sparse and lacking in specifics with places or events just alluded to – “the location you were looking for” or “the events of a decade ago” – and names reduced to a single letter. The duke trusted Sorne to work out what or who he meant. “They might seem that way to you, yes.” he offered.

  “And one had these weird pictures on. Some sort of diagram…”

  “What happened to them?”

  “Your papers? I gathered them up. Got them here.” She pulled a leather pouch from her tunic and handed it over. “We owe you that much for the inconvenience. But I’m afraid our arrangement is at an end.”

  “I see.” Sorne kept his tone even.

  “It’s been good knowing you, for all your secrets. Good to have someone around who understands discipline, and knows the joy of the fight. But the break-in, coming on the back of the troubles with the training-room. Me and Jem are taking the hint. We’re moving on, leaving Zekt.”

  “I’ll be sorry to see you go.” And he meant it, he realised. “Have you decided where to?”

  “Not yet. Xuin or Marn I guess. Might even be Shen. Heard it never rains there. That right?”

  “Hardly ever. You’d wouldn’t need to worry too much about getting mildew on your leathers.”

  “Of course this doesn’t have to be the end. You could come with us.”

  “To Shen?” He must be messed up: the thought of home made his heavy heart leap. But most of those he’d cared for in Shen were gone now, and all being well he’d be seeing his old home soon enough.

  “To wherever.”

  He made a show of sucking at his lip. “Tempting. But I’ve still got unfinished business here.”

  Breta grinned. “I’ll bet you do.”

  CHAPTER 22

  Sadakh put down his quill with a sigh. He had promised himself he would not neglect his flock. Being eparch was his destiny and if it became an eternal destiny, that would be an honour he would strive to live up to. But as the weeks passed his spiritual energy was being drained by other concerns. He just couldn’t summon the concentration to write a new restday sermon. Last night, the animus he had used to create the serum had finally died. It was not the disaster it could have been; he was already working on ways to replicate the serum without going back to the source. Not that there was much point until he had managed to prove it worked.

  The caliarch was ailing. His annual birthday regatta had gone off without a hitch, but out in the daylight Numak’s frailty had been evident to all. His end was not far off.

  If only the prince would respond. Even if that respons
e was just a dismissive note, at least he would know where he stood.

  If only his clanless agents would report back on, or better still, bring back the Shenese boy. Assuming they dared: they would never attack the encampment directly; whatever was going on in the red valley, the Duke of Shen valued it enough to guard it. But if the boy left the camp alone, or with a minimal escort, they could take him. Blood was the key to the serum, and that boy’s blood was as valuable as pure iron.

  Last but not least, if only Ereket would return. It had been nearly four weeks since he had sent her out to the umbral camp he maintained in the forests owned by the caliarch.

  He looked up at a knock on the door. “The day’s post, your Holiness.”

  “Bring it in.”

  He had hoped the bundle of correspondence his secretary handed over might contain something to address at least one of his concerns, but it looked like the usual letters from those seeking advice or potential initiation.

  Wait, what is that?

  At his ghost’s urging he reached into the loose pile spread across his desk. He had nearly missed the odd letter out, because it was just that: a letter. Most correspondence from the natural enquirers came as tight-wrapped packages containing multiple pages. He turned it over in his hand: vellum not parchment, and he recognised that writing. The timing fitted with the caravan to Shen too. He opened it with care, read the single-sided sheet, then sat back in his seat.

  The situation Observer of Shen found herself in was no surprise. He had only skimmed most of the papers she had sent his way before passing them on to enquirers further along the network; thanks to his other commitments, he barely had time to read and copy those treatises related to his own interests, let alone those dealing with other matters of enquiry. But he knew enough of her work to see how her theories might bring her into conflict with the Church in Shen. He had cause to be grateful to her: her writings on optics had led him to come up with his magnifier-frame. He also liked the idea of a woman in the network, given how many institutions failed to credit the female gender with proper critical faculties.