by Dorian Hart
They decided to give Candle one more day, just in case. Everyone seemed anxious and adrift at the same time. It had been easy to stay focused when the goal—reaching Djaw—had been straightforward. Now that their trail of bread crumbs had grown sparse, morale was visibly low. Tor moped even with Aravia recovering; it was downright unnatural to see him so reluctant to talk. Grey Wolf had that world-hates-him look he got when things weren’t going well and was obviously unhappy to have had another “gut-churner,” as he called them. Ernie was as nervous as ever, and Morningstar was increasingly distracted by her overnight training sessions.
Kibi fell asleep that night to the sound of Grey Wolf snoring, and for the first time in many nights he dreamt of the earth and its pain. Stone surrounded him; he was once again embedded, wrapped tightly in the embrace of the world, rock pressed everywhere against his skin. But in the midst of that solidity he saw two sparks of light, impossible as that was.
I am in pain. There is a splinter in my heart, black and deadly. You must remove it, Kibilhathur.
The glowing pinpricks grew brighter and became colored. One was green, the other purple.
When the world is wrong and the time is right, return our brother to us.
“I don’t understand!” He flung his frustration into the stone, into Spira, but there came no answer to satisfy it.
He was woken by a knocking on the door and Dranko’s rough voice. “Breakfast-time, sleepyheads! And Morningstar has some news.”
The others were already sitting around a large table in the corner, drinking out of small ceramic mugs. From the aroma, Kibi could tell the mugs were filled with a traditional Djawish breakfast drink called “keffa,” said to improve the mood and increase alertness. It smelled nice but tasted like ashes.
Outside, a hard rain drummed against the shingles of the Jeweled Crow. When Kibi glanced up, the innkeeper Hammered Iron chuckled. “Djaw does not get much rain, but when it does come down, it falls with authority.”
“Food’s on the way,” said Dranko, sliding onto the end of a bench next to Tor.
Grey Wolf set down his mug. “Now that we’re all here, Morningstar, what have you learned?”
“Abernathy finally visited Eddings at the Greenhouse, and Eddings relayed a brief message through Previa.”
“Did Abernathy say how much time we have left?” asked Grey Wolf.
“Not precisely,” said Morningstar. “And the news is both good and bad. The good news is that we may have more time than we feared. Abernathy thinks they could still hold out for two or three months, though they can’t know for sure. The archmagi have found some new method of shoring up the portal to Naradawk’s prison world. The bad news is, it’s draining their reserves faster than they anticipated. Abernathy says they are growing unaccountably tired. They already sleep very little and in shifts, but now something is interfering with what little rest they have time for. Each reports having unusual nightmares.”
Tor’s head was propped up on his fists, elbows on the table, but he looked up quickly. “Oh! That must be what Aktallian is doing and why you have to stop him.”
“Yes, that was the first thought that came to me when I heard from Previa. But I still worry I won’t have long enough to train them. My sisters are learning as quickly as they can, and there are a half-dozen of them now, but it is not going as smoothly as I had hoped. My best natural warriors tend to have difficulty adjusting reality, and my smartest sisters have no idea how to fight. Perhaps I need to change my approach.”
“Ernie and I can fight!” said Tor. “And Grey Wolf. Could we learn how to dream fight, too?”
Morningstar shook her head. “The avatar said it has to be Ellish sisters. We are naturally attuned to sleep and dreams in a way that is unique. It would take months to teach you what my sisters can learn in a day.”
Grey Wolf looked hard at Morningstar. “Did Abernathy say anything else? Did he have more to say about the Crosser’s Maze, or how we might find it?”
“No. Previa said that Eddings said that Abernathy was extremely relieved that we had made it this far. The other archmagi had been sure we wouldn’t even try going through the Kivian Arch until they returned, but Abernathy guessed we’d make an attempt without their help. And that was all Previa had to report.”
Hammered Iron brought them a splendid breakfast consisting of a half-dozen unfamiliar foods, along with a fresh loaf of crusty bread. Something looked and tasted more or less like eggs, except for being oddly large with purple yolks. There were more of the fruits that Burning Candle had ordered —nectarines, they were called. And to go with the bread were small bowls filled with strange multicolored sauces and dips. While delicious, they reminded Kibi of how far from home they were.
Slowly the food disappeared, mostly into Tor, whose appetite was still ferocious despite whatever had sunk his spirits. Kibi got the impression that he was trying hard not to look at Aravia. To hear Aravia tell the story, Tor and Pewter together had certainly saved her life, and she spoke glowingly of Tor’s bravery, so it was hard to say what the matter was.
There wasn’t much of a crowd in the common room; it was the sort of place that started to fill up in the afternoon and rollicked by dinnertime. Two local guests sipped their keffa at the far side of the room, casting occasional nervous glances their way. The only other folk present were Hammered Iron behind the bar and Sinuous Fox sweeping the floor.
The door opened, letting in both a louder sound of rain and a small bedraggled man wrapped in a dripping cloak. It took him only a second or two to spot Horn’s Company in the corner; he hurried right over.
“You!” Hammered Iron shouted. “Hang up the cloak before you soak the floor!”
The man ignored the innkeeper. Without a word he produced a large oilskin packet and tossed it on the table, then turned and hastened back to the door.
“What’s this?” called Dranko. But as soon as Dranko picked up the packet, the man shouldered the door open and slipped outside.
An awkward moment of silence followed while everyone stared at the folded oilskin in Dranko’s hand.
“What’s that?” asked Ernie.
“Not sure,” said Dranko. “I noticed it sitting on the table. Maybe Iron adjusted our bill?”
Grey Wolf looked suspiciously at Dranko. “Were you hiding it from us? We would have noticed it before now.”
Kibi scratched his beard. What were his friends talking about?
“We should open it,” said Tor.
“We can’t be certain it was meant for us,” said Morningstar.
“‘Course it was meant for us,” said Kibi. “That fellah brought it right over and hand-delivered it.”
The others looked at him curiously.
“What fellow?” asked Grey Wolf.
“That fellah in the cloak, drippin’ wet!”
“Kibi,” said Ernie. “No one’s come in for an hour.”
“But you all looked at ’im! Dranko, you even shouted at ’im. You sayin’ you don’t remember?”
His friends stared at him as if had grown a second head.
“You all are havin’ me on.”
“Pewter didn’t see anyone either,” said Aravia.
“Hey Iron!” shouted Dranko. “You see anyone walk in here just now?”
“Can’t say I have. Morning’s not the best time for business, and rain tends to keep away walk-ins.”
Kibi couldn’t understand it. “But…but the innkeeper told ’im to hang up his cloak ’cause it was drippin’, and you can see the water on the floor between our table and door.”
Grey Wolf glanced down at the wet planks and frowned. “Huh. Where did that come from?”
Aravia looked intently at Kibi. “Tell us exactly what you saw.”
“I already did! A man came in out of the rain, stood in the doorway a second, looked around, saw us sittin’ here, came over, tossed that there packet on the table, turned, and left. The innkeeper complained he was gettin’ the floor wet, and Dranko aske
d him what the thing was, but he never said a word. And now you all are actin’ like that parchment appeared out a’ thin air!”
“We didn’t see anything like what you describe,” said Aravia slowly, “but I think you’re telling the truth.”
“You do?”
“Yes, I do. I think the messenger used some kind of mind-fogging magic to make us forget we ever saw him. But we know from experience that magic doesn’t always affect you the way it should. The most logical explanation is that there was indeed a man, and only you remember that he was here.”
Tor pointed to the packet, still in Dranko’s hand. “So open it! What’s inside?”
“Should we?” asked Ernie. “Couldn’t it be a trap? Something sent by Lapis?”
Aravia did a quick bit of magic, twirling her hands and whispering. “There’s no enchantment on it.” She looked around at each of them and her eyes widened. “Oh, and it’s not relevant, but the magic of our ear-cuffs is astoundingly potent, and some of it is of a kind I’ve never encountered before.”
Dranko dropped the packet and looked at his hands. “No contact poison on the outside, but whatever’s inside could be a different story. Aravia, can you check for that?”
“No. If a spell exists that illuminates poisons, I’ve never seen it.”
Tor made a noise of exasperation and picked up the packet. “I’m going to see what’s inside.”
The boy opened the wrapper and tipped out a folded piece of thick parchment. Looking deliberately at Ernie, he used a cloth from beneath one of the serving bowls to unfold it without touching it; Dranko and Grey Wolf weighed down the corners with mugs.
Kibi leaned forward. Some words were scrawled at the top—“turquoise district,” “plaza of glory,” and “the pit”—and beneath those was a drawing of a square. In the center of the square was a smaller circle with a little arrow sticking out of its edge, and a second, larger arrow pointed to one side of the square.
“It must be a map to the shrine of Dr—to that place we need to go,” said Tor excitedly.
“Hey, Iron!” shouted Dranko. “Can you come over here? We need more keffa and some advice from a native.”
The innkeeper nipped into the kitchen and came out with a steaming pitcher. Dranko used a fork to tip the map closed as Iron approached.
“How may I be of assistance?”
Dranko smiled up at him. “Do you know where the turquoise district is?”
Iron thought a moment. “No, I don’t. I’ve not heard of it. That means it is likely either in the South or West Wedge, for only the neighborhoods of the outer rings are named for semiprecious stones, and I am familiar with the North and East Wedges.”
“How about the Plaza of Glory?”
“No, I’m sorry.”
“I have a question,” said Tor. “Do you know anything about a person who nobody remembers after they see him?”
Hammered Iron stiffened; his pleasant smile fell like a dropped brick. “No.”
Tor blundered ahead. “Because someone like that was just in here. You even yelled at him.”
Grey Wolf sighed.
Iron dragged a chair over to their table and sat down in a hurry. “How…how do you know that?”
Tor glanced guiltily at Kibi. “Er…”
The innkeeper’s voice was low and serious. “What have you done to bring one of the Vanishing into my inn?”
Tor turned red, seeming to realize that maybe he shouldn’t have asked the question.
“Who are the Vanishing?” asked Dranko. “Remember, we’re from out of town.”
Iron leaned in, his voice an agitated whisper. “They are criminals. Thieves, assassins, spies. The black god Vinceris grants them an unholy power, that they cannot be remembered if they do not wish it. It is said that only the Falcons can recall them, and even then not always.”
Dranko slipped off his ear-cuff just long enough to mutter in Chargish, “These people have some truly crappy gods.”
“I have not heard of the Vanishing operating in the East Wedge of Djaw for many years,” continued Iron. “They are always content to restrict their business to the…less prosperous neighborhoods. If it should get out that one of them was in my establishment…”
“Your secret’s safe with us,” said Ernie. “You’ve been so good to us, the last thing we want is to bring you any trouble.”
Iron noticed the parchment spread out on the table. “Did the Vanishing man bring you that? They are said to be harbingers of treachery. Their gifts are poison.”
“It wasn’t a gift,” said Dranko. “We paid ten miracs for it. Speaking of which.” He fished out a small handful of small silver coins. “If your friend Burning Candle comes back, these are for her. If a month goes by and she doesn’t stop in, keep it for yourself. We’ll be checking out first thing tomorrow.”
* * *
Hammered Iron had said that Djaw was the pinnacle of culture and civilization in Kivia, the greatest city that ever was or ever would be, and Kibi didn’t doubt it—but that didn’t mean it was free of squalor, of poverty and filth and ruin. He’d have felt a right bit safer if Tor and the rest had their weapons, but they’d just have to take care.
They had spent all day wandering, asking questions, making wrong turns, and growing increasingly nervous about their surroundings. At first Djaw had dazzled them with its grandeur, with its wide, clean boulevards and painstakingly manicured parks, its chaotic markets full of mysterious goods and unfamiliar smells, its soaring architecture, and especially its variety of inhabitants. Though the bronze-skinned locals appeared in the greatest numbers, the diversity of clothing styles, facial hair, heights, builds, skin tones, and jewelry was staggering. Tal Hae had seemed a grand city when Abernathy had summoned him, but set beside Djaw it now felt to Kibi like a quaint little backwater full of sameness and routine.
But they had long since left the prosperous East Wedge behind, and now wandered the doubtful streets of the outer ring of the West Wedge—an area they had been warned away from by everyone they’d asked about it.
Djaw was carved up by walls, the tallest and thickest of which separated the city into four quadrants, the “Wedges” as they were known. The East Wedge was considered the most prosperous and cosmopolitan, a bright face shown to visitors coming in through the busiest gate. The North Wedge was said to be even wealthier though less busy; there the nobles enjoyed the privacy of their walled estates, and the merchants of luxury goods maintained their businesses. The South Wedge, through which they had meandered for hours, was home to a lively mix of market squares, trade halls, taverns, churches, and more people than Kibi would have dreamed could exist side by side in peace.
From nearly everywhere one could catch looks at the majestic white limestone palace of Empress Shining Mirror, glittering on Djaw’s central hill like something right out of a fairytale. Everywhere the streets and buildings had been laid out to maximize the sightlines upward and inward to that glorious edifice, but here in the outer ring of the West Wedge, the views of the distant palace took on a different aspect. The home of the Empress was like a beautiful painting hung on the wall of a seedy alehouse, a mockery of wealth and fortune rubbed in the faces of the downtrodden.
In the inner rings of the West Wedge there was at least an air of hope, as though a life of plenty were more than just a bitter dream. It was also the home to hundreds of palace workers, whose drudgery at least let them brush their shoulders against the rich folk. But here in the Turquoise District, the lousiest neighborhood of the poorest quarter of Djaw, hope was replaced by stink. Vagrants and drunkards trudged and swayed and muttered down narrow lanes. Street lamps were few, most were shattered, and none were lit. This was a place made for folks like themselves to be robbed or worse, and Kibi was more than glad to be in a group of friends that included the likes of Tor, Ernie, and Grey Wolf, not to mention Aravia with her magic. But if they were set upon by an armed group like the one that had found them in Trev-Lyndyn, they were dead as stumps. T
he Falcon Guard, so numerous in the East Wedge, were less so in the South Wedge, and Kibi hadn’t seen a single one here in the Turquoise District.
A pile of stained clothes beneath a tattered awning turned out to be an old woman missing half her teeth; she sat up as the company approached, watching them warily.
“Excuse me, ma’am,” said Ernie. “We are looking for a place called the Plaza of Glory, or perhaps ‘the Pit.’ Could you help us?”
The woman shook, a wheezing shudder that might have been laughter.
“It’s very important,” added Ernie.
“If you want to die,” croaked the woman, “why not cut your throats here, and leave your bones for me to pick?”
Kibi shuddered, but Dranko wasn’t fazed.
“So you know the place,” said Dranko. “Look, lady, we’re short on time, and you look like the sort of person who could use some coins.” He held out two iron rounds, which Kibi had gathered were more or less the equivalent of chits back in Charagan. “You can have these now, and if your directions are good, we’ll leave a few more on our return trip.”
The old woman lunged with astonishing quickness, grabbing the rounds from Dranko. “You go into the Pit, don’t figure on a return trip,” she said. “You’ll get eaten, is what you’ll do.”
Dranko scoffed. “Eaten?”
“Or murdered. Or both. Follow the outer wall another few minutes til you can’t go no further, then turn left and inward. Five minutes after that you’ll be in the Pit. Plaza of Glory’s got an angel in it. Now hurry along. I’ll be waiting for your coins on the off chance you come back.”
They followed her directions. Once she was out of sight, Kibi turned to the others.
“You remember that old woman?”
“Yeah,” said Dranko. “Mouth full of holes. Gave us directions.”
“Right. Good.”
After they had left the more populous sections of Djaw, Aravia had suggested that Kibi ask about each person they saw, to try ferreting out any Vanishing types who might be shadowing them. It seemed prudent, since those people knew exactly where the company was heading, and a derelict neighborhood with no Falcon Guards was a perfect place to stage an ambush. Not that their precautions would necessarily prevent it, but what else could they do besides not come at all?
