by Neil McGarry
There was much to watch, for the Narrows were a hive, and they were not abandoned. She could not make out individuals, but every once in a while there would be a flicker in the corner of her eye—someone passing through a door she hadn’t noticed, or climbing upwards along a rickety ladder. She spied the occasional light—a candle, a lantern, a campfire—deep inside the warren, and sometimes faces; men and women and children, the most destitute of the city, worse off than even those in the Deeps. She looked up; what little light there was flickered through platforms connected by a makeshift system of ladders, ropes, pulleys. The Narrows were not just inside the Deeps, she realized; they grew up from them like a living thing, leaving the unfortunates that dwelt within it in darkness.
“How far does it go?” she muttered. “How many people live here?”
Lysander squeezed her hand. “Hundreds. Thousands. No one knows.” He looked as uneasy as she felt. “Let’s just get through it. If I remember right, there’s a big opening up ahead, so we can get outside for a breath of air.”
She’d known of these places all her life, but she’d heard the tales her brother and father had told while safe and warm in her own home. She’d known of these people’s hardship as just another story in her father’s library.
But these were people. This was not a tale of pain and difficulty, but the real thing. These were their lives.
Finn had come down here, she suddenly remembered, delivering weapons for Amabilis and Adam Whitehall to what were known as the worst of the worst—the gangs that fought like animals over scraps of worthless territory. The gangs that had risen up to swallow the upper city when her father had bribed Uncle Cornelius with his diaries.
It was one thing to read of those things, it was another to be in them. And she would never truly know the Narrows, she realized. For if this went as she hoped, she and Lysander and Castor would all get to leave this place. She had fallen down the hill in her time, but she had never fallen so far as to have to call a place like this home.
They rounded another turn—she’d long since lost track of the way they’d taken—and she marveled at the scope of the Narrows. Were they close to the city walls? How far was Broken Gate? She glanced back to see if Castor was as thunderstruck and saw he was no longer right behind her. He’d stopped at the last turn and was looking around the corner. She tugged Lysander to a halt as Castor hurried to rejoin them. “We’re being followed,” he said, without preamble.
Lysander paled. “For how long?”
“Since before we came to that last fork. There were maybe two then, but there are more of them now, at least five.” Duchess strained to listen, but could hear nothing more than the ever-present shifting and movement that was the heartbeat of the Narrows.
Lysander’s hand tightened on his staff. “If they’re closing in, they mean to make a fight of it. And down here that means they’ll be ready to kill.”
“What do we do?” she asked, trying to keep calm though her legs felt as though they were made of water.
Castor did not hesitate. “We run.”
They tore off along the passage, Castor behind her and Lysander ahead, kicking up rocks and small pieces of rotted wood as they went. There was motion ahead of them as well, and above. Their flight had attracted attention, and in response doors closed and platforms were lifted. Like Lysander, the locals knew a fight was coming and they wanted no part of it. The lane turned this way and that, and before long, she saw that the passage was slowly widening. Around them echoed the pounding of feet, and for a moment it seemed as though the Narrows itself was angrily awakening. They descended a steep slope and emerged into a wide space carved into the hill like a bowl, with high walls on every side.
On every side. “Oh gods,” she muttered, looking around for an escape that was not there. “We’re trapped.”
Lysander looked as close to panic as she’d ever seen him. “I thought it was the other way,” he panted. “We have to try to climb out—”
Castor shook his head. “The walls are too high even at the lowest point, and if they catch us halfway up we’re dead.” He surveyed the area with his hard gray eyes. “We take cover, there, behind that rubble. Go!” Duchess needed no further prompting. She and Lysander broke for a clump of piled rock and debris, with Castor close behind. They crouched there and tried to catch their breath.
“What do we do?” Duchess asked, cold with terror.
Castor looked them both over as if measuring their resolve. “We fight,” he said shortly. “We’re better with our weapons than they are with theirs, and they’re probably carrying rocks and clubs against our steel.”
“Unless they’re one of the gangs Amabilis armed,” Lysander pointed out.
Castor gestured impatiently. “It takes more than a sword to make a swordsman.” He glanced over at the passage they’d left. “They’ll be on us in a moment so I’ll say this quickly. The only thing they have on us is numbers, and if we stick together they’ll use that advantage. Spread out and don’t let them. Keep moving so they get in each other’s way, and for Ventaris’ sake when your moment comes don’t hesitate. Strike hard and move on.” He gave them each a long look. “You’re ready for this. You can do this. Keep your heads and we’ll get out of this alive.”
From the passage came the sound of footsteps, followed by the squeak of a pulley as a platform above was lowered towards the ground. Lysander glanced around the rocks that sheltered them, then drew back, despair clear on his features. “It’s the Silent,” he breathed. Castor glanced at him. “No tongues. Part of their initiation. They’re not here to rob us. They’ll murder the lot of us without a thought.”
Castor put a hand on his shoulder. “Not today.” Then he stood, blade at the ready. Shaking but resolved, Duchess joined him, daggers out, and then Lysander, his staff held in both hands.
There were ten of them, she counted, ragged and dirty. They were massed near the entranceway, blocking the way out. In addition to sticks and rocks, one of them had a short sword pitted with rust, another a large ax with a double-bladed head, and a third carried two daggers of his own. Against Castor they seemed a pitiful lot, yet they were ten and he was one. Uncowed, the Silent gripped their weapons more tightly and stalked in.
Castor moved to confront them. “Remember, stay apart and don’t hesitate.” Then the men were charging and he seemed to notice nothing but the fight. The first man to reach him took a slash that opened his leg from knee to hip, and he fell wordlessly screaming as Castor checked a blow from the ax-man and spun away.
Duchess gave Lysander a push. “Go!” He ran out into the open and three men moved to intercept him, and before Duchess turned away she saw his staff flick out like lightning, taking one in the face. The man staggered back, his mouth a bloody ruin, and Lysander was away with the other two in pursuit.
Two men, one with a long club and the other with the sword, came after Duchess and she dodged to the right, remembering Castor’s warning and keeping them in front of her. The stick came whistling towards her head and she ducked under and then around to put that opponent between her and the swordsman. The swordsman circled around to get at her, but slipped on a pile of loose stone and went to one knee. Before the stick man could press forward, Duchess sent one of her daggers flashing through the air, but her aim was not as good as it had been in the forest and her foe dodged aside. Still, the attack put him off-balance, and she snatched up a rock and sent that after the knife. This time the man was not so quick, and the stone bounced off his forehead, red with blood when it hit the ground. He staggered gracelessly back and sat down hard, dropping his stick as he fell.
Then the swordsman was on her again, and she had only one blade to stop him, and his was longer. Still, she’d trained with Castor long enough to know what to do. She kept an eye on his belt as he came at her, hearing in her head Castor’s warning that a man went nowhere without his hips. Sure enough, she read his clumsy feint to the right, and instead of moving to defend that side, she instea
d left it open, driving forward with her dagger to draw a bright line of blood along his left forearm. He recoiled, hissing horribly, and with his mouth open Duchess saw that Lysander was right—the man had no tongue.
She pressed forward, driving him backwards across the rubble-strewn ground. He tried clumsily to knock the dagger from her hand, but in her days of pushing the bread cart she’d dealt with thieves who’d tried the same. She easily avoided the blow and answered with a slash that laid open his knuckles. He made a horrible sound in the back of his throat and the sword tumbled from his hand. She kicked it away and stepped inside his guard, bringing them eye to eye, with her blade to his neck.
He was a young man, she saw, with blue eyes bright with terror. They stared into hers, and in them she saw the naked fear of death. Her hand twitched for the kill but something held her back—just long enough for him to recover. His uninjured hand swung in a clumsy roundhouse that took her in the side of the head and sent her reeling. Her dagger was gone and the world spun around her as she tried to regain her focus. Lysander was nowhere to be seen, but through a fog she saw Castor bury his blade in the head of the axeman, then spin and send his own knife spinning through the air to take another foe in the belly. Then thoughts of him and everything else were driven from her mind as the swordsman crashed into her, knocking her to the ground.
He straddled her in an obscene parody of a lover’s embrace. He had scooped up her own dagger in his good hand and now he pressed it towards her throat. She seized his forearm with both hands and pressed back, but he was larger and heavier, and he leaned down with all his weight. Her arms quivered with the strain of holding him back, and she knew she could not win this battle of strength. As the blade dipped slowly lower, she cursed herself for having hesitated. She should have listened to Castor. She would die here now because of that one mistake—
The swordsman’s head jerked suddenly to the right, hard, and the pressure on her arms slackened. He fell to one side, groaning, and the sight of him was replaced by gray Rodaasi sky. Then that too was blocked out by a woman’s face, framed in a dark hood and seamed with age.
“Get up, honey,” the woman said. “We’ll take care of the rest.” Then she was gone and Duchess was rolling back to her feet and looking around as women, perhaps as many as a score, flooded the area from above and behind, armed with knives, iron-tipped clubs, and spears. Two men were holding Lysander by the arms, forcing him to the ground, but a young woman with red hair screamed and sent her spear into the knee of the one on the right. He fell away, clutching at his leg and screaming wordlessly. The other man released Lysander and stepped back, but four more women were on him at once, knocking him to the ground and swarming over him. Knives rose and fell, rose and fell, growing redder and redder each time.
Castor still faced three opponents, but he stepped back as the horde of women fell upon them, stabbing and slashing. A tall woman with long brown hair skewered her opponent with a sure spear thrust, but before he could hit the ground two of her sisters fell upon him with clubs. The second man tried to fight them, and his thrown rock took one woman in the neck and sent her to the ground, choking. Then five more women were on him and he vanished beneath the press. The third man turned to run, but the women were faster, and they tripped him up and soon had him face down on the ground, pummeling him into submission.
Duchess saw the dagger she had dropped lying nearby, and she snatched it up. The swordsman was lying on the ground, making awful noises, his hands pressed to his head. She felt a rush of pure hatred as she looked at him. She kicked him hard in the side and felt something break. She stifled a sob, then kicked him again.
She felt a hand on her arm and turned to see the woman who had saved her, with frizzy gray hair, deep brown eyes and a club in one fist. “It’s over, honey,” the woman said in a tired voice. “It’s over.” Duchess looked around to see Lysander and Castor standing together, eyeing the women uncertainly. They in turn were standing guard over the men who had survived the battle, and tending to the one of their own number who’d been hit with the rock.
“Who are you?” Duchess asked, pushing back a hank of hair matted with dirt.
“Adori?” Lysander said, as if in answer. “Is that you?”
The woman squinted at Lysander and then smiled. “Goodness boy, it’s been a while. Heard you’d moved up in the world.”
Lysander shook his head, baffled. “And you moved down. What are you doing in the Narrows?”
She guffawed. “Saving your ass, among other things.”
Duchess recovered her wits. “They call me Duchess,” she said, sheathing her blade, “and this is Castor, a man in my service. Lysander you already know. We’re grateful for your help, although I’m curious how you knew we needed it.”
Adori shrugged. “Word passes quickly down here. Strangers headed down from up-hill aren’t common, and those who can pass the Rifts without breaking a leg are even rarer. Seems you caught the eyes of the Silent, as well.” She looked around at the men who had survived the battle groaning on the ground. “No matter how many of ‘em we kill, there are always more.” She shrugged. “So, do I get to hear what you three are doing on our doorstep? Lysander hasn’t lived down this way for years and nobody who gets out of the Deeps comes back willingly. You and—Castor, was his name?—are downright curious.”
Duchess glanced at Lysander, who nodded slightly. That decided her. “We’re looking for someone,” Duchess said. “Perhaps you can help us find him. His name is Morel.”
Adori’s gaze sharpened, but before she could speak the spearwoman said, “That’s Keeper Morel to you.”
“Of the True Gardens of Mayu,” a woman beside her added, to the general agreement of the others.
If Adori was offended she gave no sign. “Why do you want him?”
“I have a message,” Duchess replied, wondering just how much she should reveal here, before so many people. She looked at Adori, who gazed at her blandly, giving away nothing. Duchess sighed and dived in. “From First Keeper Jadis.”
The women exchanged glances, and Adori seemed to consider for a moment, fingering her club. Finally, she shrugged. “If the First Keeper has a message it’s not for me to say Morel can’t hear it. It’s time we were getting back, anyway.” She gestured. “My sisters and I will take you down to the Gardens, and we won’t have to worry about any more of the Silent. They know they’re no match for the Moon Flowers.”
“The Moon Flowers?” Castor asked, finally speaking.
“The forgotten flowers that bloom in the dark,” replied one woman.
“The blossoms of the night,” said another.
“The bounty of the True Gardens of Mayu,” said the other women in unison, all except Adori.
Adori sighed. “Aye, that’s us.” She looked around at them all. “It’s getting late, and this one”—she indicated Duchess—“has a message to deliver. Let’s get on. Joree, Sasha, Erin, and both Beths are with me. Navlea and the rest of you, gather the prisoners and come along as you can.”
Duchess moved to join Lysander and Castor. “What about them?” she asked, indicating the surviving Silent.
Adori’s eyes were like chips of flint. “They’ll have to face justice, and that’s not mine to mete out, nor yours neither. My sisters will see to them.” She turned and started up the slope towards the passage without looking back. “Come along.”
Chapter Eighteen: The prophet's motive
They wended their way once more through the narrow lanes and cramped passages of the Narrows, escorted by a contingent of Moon Flowers. The women surrounded them on all sides, each with an eye out and a hand on her weapon. Castor, for his part, did the same, seeming to distrust both the Narrows and the Flowers equally.
The Narrows were a strange and forbidding place, but when Joree and the others broke into a paean in praise of Mayu, they became almost surreal. The loud and joyful song was so alien to the furtive silence that Duchess almost flinched. It echoed brightly against the
walls, making itself heard in all directions.
Duchess pulled near Adori, who had not joined in the song. “Is it a good idea to announce our passage this way?”
Adori shrugged. “We’ve naught to fear this close to home.” She made a grim smile. “And it puts the fear of Mayu in anyone thinking of trouble.”
And so the song accompanied them through the Narrows’ seemingly endless twists and turns, its rhythm and strange harmonies seeping into each footstep, right up until they reached the final bend. The singers went silent and she heard Lysander, who was ahead of her, say, “No way. There’s just no way.” Then the line moved forward and she saw where the walls of the Narrows fell away and Mayu’s dominion began.
Morel’s camp was a nearly a village, right in the shadow of the Narrows. His followers had scavenged boards and stones and constructed tidy cabins, using old blankets and pieces of canvas as coverings for doors and windows. Loose debris had been swept away, and neatly kept paths, lined with broken chunks of stone, linked one building to another. There was no refuse to be seen, and the outhouses were set well away from the homes and looked as clean as any the Shallows could boast. Among the buildings moved men and women—mostly women, she noticed—carrying bundled wood, buckets of water, and tools. Others were patrolling the perimeter of the encampment with spears, staffs and other weapons. There were children as well, running and shouting and laughing. All seemed well fed, and all gave Duchess and her companions curious and sometimes suspicious glances as they passed.
As impressive at it was, the village was nothing compared to what the Moon Flowers had called the True Gardens: a wide and sunken square, perhaps two hundred feet on a side, filled with black earth and supporting a wide variety of fruits and vegetables. Even from where she stood, Duchess saw lettuce, tomatoes, peppers, the wispy tops of carrots, eggplants, and, amazingly, a few apple trees—small, but clearly grown larger than saplings. In the midst of all this moved more of Morel’s people, weeding, watering, and pruning.
