Dark the Dreamer's Shadow (The Paderborn Chronicles Book 2)

by Jennifer Bresnick

  “Thank you for seeing me on such short notice, Warden,” he said, placing his hands together in front of him in the cult’s gesture of respect. The Warden couldn’t see it, but he nodded his approval and indicated that Bartolo should take a seat in front of his desk, a purposely haphazard collection of cobbled-together driftwood that always made Bartolo think of the most unflattering stereotypes of blind men.

  He had been told, as a boy, about the way that the Divided saw the world despite the fact that their mangled eyes had been burst by hot iron. It was like walking through a dream, one of his tutors had said, where objects could hazily appear and disappear without seeming to have any relationship to the laws of reality. The Divided existed half in that mercurial sphere of shifting reverie and half in the mundane world of their peers, carefully honing the foresight hidden in a mix of old memories and new senses, tumbled together with smells and fingertip touches and a sort of fluid awareness so highly developed that many of the brothers could defeat a trained, sighted man in a fight with hardly a second thought.

  Bartolo couldn’t beat anyone in a fight, blind or seeing, unless it was a contest of words. It seemed as if the Warden was up for the challenge as he steepled his hands in front of his chin and leaned forward slightly in his chair.

  “You expect me to me angry with you, and I certainly am,” the Warden said. “You have gone against my every wish, done everything wrong, and now you come to me to clean up your stinking filth. It does not please me to do so.”

  “I seek only your council, Warden. I am aware that I’m not entitled to anything else.”

  “Contrition doesn’t suit you,” the Warden replied, flicking his fingers in a gesture of dismissal. “Don’t think that you can toy with me.”

  “Very well. I have lost my man to the Siheldi and I need him back,” Bartolo said simply. “How do you propose I should accomplish this?”

  “You gave Swinn to them on a silver plate. Now you want him back? Make up your mind.”

  “That wasn’t how it was supposed to go,” Bartolo replied, feeling a flush of blood rising into his cheeks. “The eallawif interfered before Swinn could use the stones against the Queen. I didn’t expect him to try to take his own life. What sort of simpleton would do that when he had the keys to his freedom sitting in his hand?”

  “The sort of simpleton who can entirely outfox you, Bartolo. You completely underestimated him,” the Warden said. “And the eallawif, for that matter. Nor did you take Megrithe Prinsthorpe’s role into account.”

  “She is irrelevant. The eallawif took her away, but she was mostly dead already. It will be months before she even has the strength to sit up in her bed. And they will think her a raving madwoman if she so much as mentions what happened.”

  “That raving madwoman will be getting on a ship to Niheba tomorrow with a pair of dangerously mad men lured into her wake. And you are going to need her.”

  “For what?”

  “For everything,” the Warden told him.

  “I don’t understand.”

  “Of course you don’t. Do you think you are the only force at work here? If you do not use the Prinsthorpe woman to take the Guild in hand, someone else will. And I doubt they will be as sweet-tempered and forgiving as Tiaraku,” he added, standing up in an unmistakable signal that it was time for Bartolo to leave. “He is watching you closely, is he not? I suggest you find some quiet hole to burrow into while you wait for Megrithe to arrive.”

  “Can I –”

  “I didn’t mean here,” the Warden said, cutting him short. “I will not risk everything I have built just to save you from your own foolish games.”

  “Foolish games? I’ve gotten closer to Sind Heofonne than any of you have ever dreamed in the past five hundred years. I think I deserve –”

  “You deserve nothing,” the Warden snapped. “Do not confuse proximity with progress. You’ve as good as ruined our chances to do things right. Sending Swinn to the Queen before you were sure of his intentions? With a woman in his care to stir up his honor? I cannot think of anything more amateurish.

  “More shame on us that you ever left our halls as such an idiot. I would have you locked up and beaten every day if I thought anything could pound the least bit of sense into you.”

  “You just try it,” Bartolo said, balling his fists by his sides, but the Warden shook his head.

  “I don’t need any more attention from Tiaraku’s cutthroats at the moment. Go run and hide, Bartolo. The woman will come to Niheba. Even you will be able to figure out what to do then.”

  Guthrin was looking maddeningly smug as he showed Bartolo out again. He didn’t have to listen through the keyhole: the result of the conversation was written all over Bartolo’s face, and in his hissing breath, and under his stomping feet as he followed the old man back through the twisting passageways.

  He had been savaged, to be sure, and he would not be getting the aid he wanted. But the Warden had not demanded that Bartolo give up the matter to the Divided, which meant he still had the chance to rectify his errors and claim the credit when he succeeded. He was sure he would be grateful for the consolation at some point, but that didn’t prevent a certain measure of rage at the Warden’s scathing words from seething inside him.

  “Get out of my way, you clumsy oaf,” he nearly shouted at a younger man who had exited a doorway at the same time Bartolo was sweeping past.

  “I beg your pardon, sir,” the stranger said, nimbly stepping to the side before Bartolo could crash into him. “Aren’t you –?”

  “Aren’t I what?” Bartolo growled, happy enough to use the hapless fellow as a scratching post. “How would you have any idea what the devil I am? You can shove your assumptions right up your –”

  “Forgive me, sir,” the man said quickly. “I thought I recognized your voice, that’s all. Your brother Cederick and I are acquainted.”

  “My brother has more shiftless acquaintances than I care to count. Which one of them are you?” Bartolo asked, looking at the man a little more closely while Guthrin tapped his foot impatiently a short way down the corridor. The silvery film over his dark brown eyes made it clear that he could not see whom he was addressing, but he did not bear the mottled scars shared by his fellows.

  “My name is Jairus Lanque, sir. Cederick and I shared lodgings for a few months in Paderborn before I came here. The Warden arranged it.”

  “I seem to recall something of the sort,” Bartolo acknowledged gruffly.

  “Perhaps I could see him out, Guthrin,” Jairus called to the older man, who didn’t put up much resistance before continuing down the hallway and turning out of sight. “In a manner of speaking, of course,” he added with a little smile.

  “You don’t look like one of them,” Bartolo said, still feeling too irritated to be entirely polite as they continued towards the exit. “They didn’t blind you.”

  “No, sir,” Jairus said. “A sickness took me as a boy and I lost my sight. I never thought I’d be grateful for it until I learned what the Divided did to themselves to achieve the same ends.”

  “Rather distasteful, the lot of it,” Bartolo replied, clenching his hands again at the memory of the Warden’s words.

  “Yes, sir. But we seem to get on well enough.”

  “What do you do in this wretched place, then?” asked Bartolo after they had gone some way in silence.

  “Provisions, sir.”

  “What?”

  “I purchase and distribute provisions. The other humans on the island are somewhat wary of those of us with the more gruesome markings, but I don’t frighten them so much.”

  “How do you count your coins? Don’t they try to cheat you?”

  Jairus smiled again. “I won last year’s tourney, sir. And the one before that. No one tries to cheat me.”

  “Oh,” Bartolo said, and took a little half-step away, nearly brushing his shoulder against the sloping wall. The nameless tourney was an annual dockyard tradition, completely unsanctioned eithe
r by Tiaraku or the loose association of lawmen that kept the human residents of Niheba in order. But for a hundred years at least, the sailors, stevedores, and foolhardy men of the city regularly battled for supremacy with fists, knives, and staves, the winners of each battle contesting the others until a single champion arose.

  It was pure, bloody, often deadly violence, and the people loved it. If drunks and braggarts were going to fight anyway, they reasoned, it might as well be organized enough for the spectators to place some bets.

  “And I can still feel the heft of the gold in my hand, sir. I know what a good coin should weigh,” Jairus added as Bartolo considered exactly what it took to win such a competition two years running. Jairus showed little outward indication of any extraordinary strength or skill, aside from a bit of height and a broadness to his shoulders. He looked much more like the bookkeeping merchant he usually was than the twice-victor of a gory street war. But Barolo had dealt with neneckt for long enough to know that appearances were nearly always deceiving.

  “Yes, of course,” he said out loud. “Well done. You must have quite a reputation in the city.”

  “I try not to make too much of myself, sir. The Warden prefers that we don’t kick up a fuss.”

  “Still, maybe you know someone who has some properly available to let? I find myself in need of some new lodgings. Something small and discreet.”

  “As a matter of fact, I think I might. I’m not sure it would be up to your standards, however.”

  “That’s just what I need. Somewhere I wouldn’t be expected to settle.”

  “I could make an enquiry, sir, if you’re sure. I have a friend who owns quite a bit of property along the waterfront. He always seems to be looking for tenants to fill some new venture or another. No one will take any notice of another new face in the neighborhood, if that’s what you’re after.”

  “Can you do it today?” Bartolo asked, biting back a testy comment at the young man’s easy tone. Bartolo might not hold official rank within the order of the Divided, but he was still Jairus’ social superior, if nothing else. He shouldn’t presume to know what Bartolo was or wasn’t looking for. He should just do as he was told.

  “I should really speak to the Warden, sir, now that I think of it.”

  “Go on, then,” Bartolo said. “It was his idea,” he added when Jairus suddenly looked unsure. “Pop into his offices and ask.”

  Tourney champion or no, there was a bit of nervousness on Jairus’ face as he turned away, and Bartolo nodded in satisfaction. At least the boy wasn’t completely daft.

  He mused on daftness of all kinds, including his own, as he waited. Panic made people do such stupid things. It had to have been panic that caused Arran to try to take his own life instead of seizing the power of the Siheldi when given the chance. There was no other explanation for failing to see how vital it was to collar the Queen properly and place her under the control of wiser authorities like Tiaraku – like Bartolo himself. It was simple common sense.

  But perhaps he had been wrong to be so eager. If he was to be truly honest with himself, it had been that same fear and panic that had put Arran in a situation where he had the leeway to make the wrong choice. Bartolo didn’t like to admit that he had indeed been too hasty, but Tiaraku was not a patient master, and he did not reward caution like he rewarded results.

  Faidal was the only one who had had his wits about him, Bartolo conceded reluctantly. The neneckt had taken the only possible action to salvage the situation while Bartolo could do nothing but scream at a mirror from a hundred miles away. He did not enjoy the notion of being bested at anything by a bottom-feeding slave, but it did give him hope that Arran and the gemstones could yet be recovered. And when they were, Bartolo would not let anything cloud his judgment again.

  “Sir?” Jairus said for what must have been the second time. “The Warden says I may take you into the city, if you wish.”

  “Good,” Bartolo nodded. “Can we go by the overland route? I’ll be damned if I entrust my bones to that bloody drunkard of a boatman again.”

  ***

  Megrithe was not looking forward to her fourth interview of the day. The Guild Master’s disappointment, Lanning’s cutting inquiries, and the careful skepticism of Leofric and Nikko would seem as sweet as roses compared to what Elspeth Swinn was likely to say to her once Megrithe managed to make herself turn the corner into the dead end of Archer Lane.

  The last time she had come to the address, it had been in full pursuit of the woman’s son, with a glossy black Guild carriage underneath her and a pair of thugs at her back to ensure that Elspeth would do as she was bidden. Now Megrithe had nothing – and she had to tell the widow that she, too, had nothing anymore, since her son was lost to the world, perhaps for good.

  “What do you want?” Elspeth said flatly when she finally opened the door, a long minute after coming to the peephole.

  “Mrs. Swinn, I’m afraid I have some – some rather bad news.”

  “You are bad news, girl,” Elspeth said, but her shoulders sagged and she looked like she knew what was coming to her. She didn’t say another word before turning around and walking into the house, clutching her shawl to her shoulders. Megrithe took the open door as an invitation to follow her.

  “I would like to apologize if I frightened you the last time I was here, ma’am,” she said when she had settled onto a gently frayed sofa in the parlor, every movement watched by Elspeth’s hollow, glassy stare. “I was attempting to execute my duty in a hurry, and I may not have been very polite.”

  “If that is your news, Miss Prinsthorpe, it is already very stale. And if you are come here to tell me that you have captured my son, then you can take your arrogance elsewhere.”

  “That isn’t why I’m here,” she said. “I did find Arran in Niheba, but I didn’t arrest him.”

  “Niheba? What was he doing in that heathen place?”

  “Searching for something very important. But he couldn’t – we couldn’t find it. Or rather, we did find it, but it didn’t go exactly as planned. I’m sorry. I don’t know how to say this –”

  “Is he dead, Miss Printhorpe?” Elspeth asked with a near complete lack of emotion.

  “I don’t know,” Megrithe replied, slightly thrown off by the tone. “I don’t think so.”

  “Then quit your mumbling. Tell me where he is and what you plan to do about it.”

  It wasn’t easy for Megrithe to organize her thoughts in a manner that would be informative but not distressing. Part of the difficulty came from the fact that she couldn’t exactly tell what, if anything, was actually getting through to Elspeth, who sat and listened to Megrithe’s somewhat broken retelling without a single twitch, frown, or furrowed brow.

  Megrithe was the only one fighting the flow of tears when she had finished, and Elspeth’s seeming indifference was starting to get on her nerves. “He saved my life,” she concluded, watching closely for any sign of acknowledgement, “and I am so grateful to him for it. So grateful that I intend to return the favor, if I can manage it. I will be leaving for Niheba tomorrow morning. I just thought you ought to know.”

  Megrithe stood up and was about to go when the tiniest ghost of a sob escaped from Elspeth’s lips.

  “I don’t have a handkerchief,” Megrithe said apologetically when she saw a tear slipping down her cheek, looking around the parlor as if a substitute would somehow present itself.

  “It was all a mistake,” Elspeth whispered, taking one from her own pocket, but doing nothing more than twisting it in her hands as she silently wept.

  “He thought he was doing the right thing,” Megrithe said a little awkwardly. Being comforting was not a necessary skill in her line of work, and she was not very used to it. Usually when the crying started, it was because someone was about to tell Megrithe everything she wanted to know.

  “I never thought I was doing the right thing. Even if I told myself – even when I convinced myself it was worth it,” Elspeth said. “Even t
hat night, when I looked into his little face the first time. The poor child. It was never right.”

  “You couldn’t choose the time he would come into the world,” Megrithe said. “It was an accident. Even Bartolo said that being there was an accident.”

  “But it wasn’t,” Elspeth cried, then she clapped a hand over her mouth to stifle her own secrets.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Don’t tell him. You can never tell him,” Elspeth said, practically begging. “He will never forgive me. I have done enough to him, gods help me.”

  “I’m sure he forgives you,” she said, moving so she could sit next to Elspeth and hesitantly reach out to pat her hand. It was a lie, though. Megrithe had seen Arran’s face collapse into a crumple of misery and confusion during Bartolo’s recounting of his past, and she was certain that such a complicated knot of turmoil could not dissolve itself in anything short of a lifetime. “But…what exactly does he have to forgive you for?”

  “For choosing him,” his mother said softly. “For bargaining away his future just so I could have his life.”

  “Bargaining? Who did you bargain –” she started to ask, but her stomach dropped when the quiet throbbing of the black rose on her arm began. “Oh. Oh, no. You couldn’t have.”

  “I’m sorry,” Elspeth sobbed, now completely undone. “I didn’t know what she would take. I didn’t know she would take so much.”

  Megrithe stood up and started pacing across the small room without entirely realizing what she was doing. Elspeth hadn’t chosen the nighttime labor that had brought Giles Swinn to his death and Arran to the attention of the Siheldi. The eallawif had.

  It was a very dangerous thing to ask one of the deathless creatures for the gift of a child. The eallawif nearly always demanded the life of the supplicant, or someone of great worth to them, in exchange. But for the infertile or the unlucky, for women who had been taught since their own first days that their only reason for living was to give a husband a handful of heirs, there was no price too high to secure a healthy infant, especially a male.