The River of Shadows cv-3

by Robert V. S. Redick

  “I will reward you,” he said. “When all else is gone, burned beyond ashes, burned back to heat and light, I will retain the image of your faces as I see them now. My enemies, who almost killed me. My final collaborators. I will remember you in the life to come.”

  “And I will help you remember, Master, if you wish,” said Fulbreech suddenly. His voice was soft, but anxious nonetheless. “I will be there with you, just as you told me. I will keep helping you, with my cleverness, my skills. Won’t I, Master? I’ll help you all the way there, and beyond. Won’t I?”

  Arunis passed his eyes over Fulbreech, and said not a word. Taking the chain from Vadu, he led the tol-chenni down the corridor and out of sight. Fulbreech hurried after him. A door opened and closed.

  Vadu looked at the human prisoners. His head bobbed in agitation.

  “I should like to know why he insists on the company of lunatics,” he said.

  The sorcerer’s visit left them quiet. For Thasha the word collaborators had stirred some buried feeling, a blend of guilt and terror that her conscious mind could not explain. She had assumed that the mage and Syrarys were in league from the day her mother’s necklace, so long in Syrarys’ hands, had come to life and nearly strangled her. But it sickened and terrified her to think that both might have been involved with her family since before her birth.

  She was still mulling over these dismal thoughts when the dog sat up with a startled yip: the first sound it had made since its arrival. Voices followed: loud, angry dlomic voices, drawing nearer. Mr. Uskins squealed and darted for the bushes.

  Some argument or standoff was occurring within the Institute. Then all at once a crowd, almost a mob, burst into the corridor. The old birdwatchers were shoved aside as thirty or forty newcomers pressed up to the glass.

  They were rough-looking dlomu. Some carried clubs or staves; a few wore swords on their belts and one carried a burning torch. They stared and the humans stared back.

  “Very well, you’ve seen them,” said the leader of the birdwatchers, trying to reassert his authority. “Quite harmless, and under our care. It’s the Emperor’s will that this facility exists. You know that, citizens.”

  “The Emperor,” said one of the newcomers, “has no idea that they are here.”

  “And better that he never finds out,” said another. “We’d be pariahs, and you know it. They’d quarantine the city.”

  “Why should anyone wish to do that?” asked Hercol loudly.

  The dlomu showed extreme discomfort at the sound of his words. They drew back from the glass and fingered their weapons.

  “Men of Masalym,” said Chadfallow, “in my own country I have been an ambassador of sorts. I know how strange we seem to you, but you need not fear us. We are not tol-chenni. There are no tol-chenni where we come from-no dlomu either.” At this the mob grumbled in surprise and doubt. Chadfallow pressed on. “We’re simply people, like you. We’ve come from across the Ruling Sea, but we mean you no harm. All we wish is to go on our way again.”

  As on almost every occasion since the night of their arrival, his words were met with stony silence. But the frowns deepened. Some of the dlomu were looking at the iron door, as if to see how well it was secured.

  “Creatures!” shouted one of them suddenly, as if addressing very distant, or very stupid, listeners. “We know you do not come from the Court of the Lilac. We read history, and we read signs in the earthquakes. Tell us now: what is the price of forgiveness? Name it and be done.”

  “Forgiveness?” said Pazel. “For what?”

  “Name it I say,” the dlomu went on. “We will pay if we can. We are not a selfish people, and we do not deny the Old Sins, like some. You come when the world is dying, as we knew you would. But you cannot simply taunt us-we will not stand for that; we will send you back to the dark place; we will burn you and scatter you on the wind. Name the price of expiation. Name it, or beware.”

  Chadfallow moistened his lips. “Good people-”

  “A pay increase!” shouted Rain suddenly. “Fourteen percent is what I’m owed, I can prove it, I have records on the ship!” Druffle pulled the doctor away, whispering imprecations.

  The mob was not pleased by Rain’s outburst. The one who had spoken before pointed a finger through the glass. “Creatures!” he exclaimed again. “We will defend Masalym from all who come with curses. Think on that before you jest with us again.”

  Uskins popped up suddenly from the bushes, pointing at Dr. Rain. “Ignore him! Ignore him! He’s mad!” Then he bit his lips and squatted again.

  “We will come back and kill you,” said the dlomu quietly.

  They did not kill then and there, however: in fact, a dozen Masalym soldiers appeared moments later and drove them out, more cajoling than threatening. The birdwatchers stood in a nervous group, comparing notes and shaking their heads; then they too filed out, locking the outer door behind them. Only the dog remained.

  Thasha was terribly frustrated. If only they would talk-really talk, not just threaten and shout. Old sins? Whose sins, and why should they ask the first woken humans to come along in generations for forgiveness? The mysteries were too many, the answers too few.

  But there was one mystery she was not powerless to explore. She called her friends back into the sleeping chamber, and this time brought Hercol as well. Crowded as it was, she made them all sit on the beds. Once again she wished she had a door to close.

  “I told you I wanted no more secrets, and I meant it,” she said. “Hercol, you were friends for so long with my father. With the admiral, I mean.”

  “Admiral Isiq is your father, Thasha,” said Hercol, “and Clorisuela was your mother. Why would we lie about this?”

  Thasha considered him for a moment. “I don’t expect Chadfallow to level with me,” she said at last, “but I expect it of you, Hercol. I was born before you came to Etherhorde. I know that. But later, when you and Daddy became friends, did he ever say anything about Clorisuela… not being able to have children?”

  Hercol glared at Thasha. He looked tempted to stand and walk out of the room. But slowly his gaze softened, and at last he gave a heavy sigh. “Yes,” he said. “For several years, they tried for children in vain. Clorisuela would lose them quite early, along with a great deal of blood. Your father said it happened four times.”

  Thasha closed her eyes. “And then?”

  “They stopped trying, stopped daring to live as husband and wife.” Hercol drew a deep breath. “And yes, that was when he… obtained Syrarys.”

  “Bought her,” said Thasha.

  Hercol shook his head. “She was, as you were told, the Emperor’s gift. But that is not the end of the story, Thasha. Your mother knew nothing of Syrarys. But Clorisuela did come to Isiq once more, strangely hopeful. And even though the midwives had told her it would be dangerous, they tried again. You were the result.”

  “After four failures?” said Thasha, her eyes moist. “You believed him, when he told you that?”

  “I believe it to this day,” said Hercol.

  Everyone was still. Once again, Marila’s round cheeks were streaked with tears. Thasha swallowed. Finish this, she thought. Make him say it, while you can.

  “You told me what happened in the wagon. But there’s another moment I don’t remember. What did I say when we first stepped into that village? When we saw the tol-chenni, and learned what had happened to human beings?”

  “We were all in shock,” said Hercol quickly, “and we all said foolish things. I expect none of us recalls exactly what came out of your mouth.”

  “What does your nose tell you about that, Neeps?” said Thasha, smiling ruefully.

  Neeps fidgeted. “Sometimes I can’t tell.”

  “Well I can,” said Thasha. “You’re lying, Hercol. I think you remember exactly what I said.” She turned to Pazel. “And I’m certain you do. The last clear memory I have is how you stared at me. As if I’d just told you I’d killed a baby. I couldn’t very well demand honesty w
hen we were all playing charades with Arunis and Fulbreech. But that’s over, and I want to hear the truth.”

  “Thasha-”

  “Now.”

  The others exchanged glances. They had all discussed it; she could see the awareness in their eyes. At last Hercol cleared his throat.

  “Let me,” said Pazel suddenly. He stood up from the bed and rubbed his face with one hand. She thought suddenly how old he looked, how loss and danger had bled the child out of him, out of them all. He was young and old at once. He took her hands.

  “You said, I didn’t mean to. It was never supposed to happen. And then you asked if I believed you. That was all.”

  Thasha felt a coldness settle over her like sudden nightfall. She felt Pazel’s grip tighten, but the sensation was far away. Air, they were saying, give her air, take her to the window. She stumbled forward and leaned on the sill.

  For a moment she felt better-good enough to speak one of her father’s salty naval curses, and to hear them laugh with relief. Then she raised her eyes and looked out through the window.

  Masalym shimmered before her in the midday heat. But it was not the same place. The Lower City was bustling with life-humans, dlomu, smaller numbers of other beings she could not identify. Thousands went about their business, and the homes were solid and cheerful, flower boxes in the windows, fruit trees in the yards, carts pulled by dogs or donkeys rattling down the streets. Human children, dlomic children, milled together in a schoolyard. An old dlomic man sat by his old human wife, feeding birds in a square.

  Thasha blinked, and the shadows grew longer. Now the humans were pulling the carts: were chained to the carts, chained in work teams, chained to wooden posts in the square where the couple had sat a moment before. The dlomu’s faces were as hard as the leather whips they swung. A few humans were still well dressed: the ones carrying dlomic babies, or holding parasols over dlomic heads.

  Another blink, and it was midnight. The city was on fire. The dlomu ranged the streets in rival bands, charging one another, stabbing, slashing, cutting throats. Mobs raced from broken doorways with armfuls of stolen goods, prisoners at sword-point, dlomic girls in nightdresses, wailing. The humans scurried in terror, bent low to the earth. They wore rags, when they wore anything at all.

  Once more the scene changed. It was a bleak, ashen dawn. Masalym was a city nearly abandoned. The few dlomu to be seen were rebuilding as best they could. The human faces were gone entirely.

  “Never to return,” said Thasha aloud.

  “We might yet,” said Pazel, embracing her. “The ship’s nearly repaired. We might find a way.”

  “Never,” Thasha repeated. “I won’t let her. She had her chance, and look what she did with it. Look at that city, by the Blessed Tree. Are you looking?”

  “We see it,” said Hercol. “We’ve been looking at it for days.”

  “I won’t let her, Pazel,” said Thasha, trying hard to feel his arms around her. “I want you to stay with me. She can try whatever she wants, but this is me, this is my life, and I will never, ever let her come back.”

  Strange Couriers

  5 Modobrin 941

  234th day from Etherhorde

  PROFESSOR J. L. GARAPAT

  Odesh Hened Hulai

  Entreats Your Participation in a Gathering of

  Extraordinary Consequence for the Several Worlds

  Guest of Honor:

  Felthrup Stargraven of Pol Warren, Noonfirth, NW Alifros

  Tomorrow nightfall

  The old tap room, The Orfuin Club

  Admission by This Card Only

  Your Absolute Discretion Is Assumed

  The historians passed the card from hand to hand. They were sharp-eyed and earnest, and ready for a confrontation. It was not right for them to have been stopped at the door. “Extraordinary consequence be damned,” muttered the first of them. “How consequential can it be, Garapat, if your guest of honor never bothered to show?”

  “But of course Mr. Stargraven is here!” said Garapat, a tall, frail human with a serious voice and colossally thick glasses in bone frames dangling from his nose. He waved at the round table, which was cluttered with pipe-stands, cakes, gingerbread, mugs of cider and ale, someone’s fiddle, countless books, one black rat. The old leather chairs outnumbered their occupants, but the half dozen seated guests had the look of determined squatters, prepared to resist their eviction.

  “Where?” said the historians, jostling. “That animal, that rat? Felthrup Stargraven is the rat?”

  “Hello,” said Felthrup miserably.

  The historians wanted to squeeze into the room, but could not manage to do so without overtly shoving the old professor from the doorway. Most of the newcomers were humans or dlomu, but there was also a translucent Flikkerman; and the first historian, their leader, had the dusky olive skin and feathered eyes of a selk. It was to the latter that Garapat addressed himself.

  “He’s come with a ghastly dilemma,” whispered the professor, indicating Felthrup. “Night after night he’s braved the River of Shadows. He’s no mage, and has no travel allowance. He’s just leaped in and dreamed his way here, by grit and courage. And he’s up against-” The professor leaned close, and whispered in the first historian’s ear. The listener started, jerking his head back to look the professor in the eye.

  “A little rat,” he said, “has pitted himself against them?”

  “There are worlds at stake,” said Garapat. “Someone has to help him.”

  “And naturally that someone is you,” said another historian, who had blue ink-stains on the hand that gripped the door frame. “What’s the matter with you, Garapat? Why do you spend so much time in this club, picking up strays?”

  “Garapat’s a fool,” said someone at the back of the crowd.

  “He’s from a hell-planet,” said another. “It’s called Argentina. He leaves every chance he gets.”

  “Listen,” said Garapat, unperturbed by their slander, “this was terribly hard for me to arrange, and it’s been a washout, and the poor rat’s spirits are so low. Cibranath couldn’t travel, Ramachni’s nowhere to be found. And Felthrup can’t keep making this journey-indeed he doubts he will ever be able to come here again. Leave us a while longer, won’t you?”

  “You were supposed to vacate an hour ago,” said the first historian. He had managed to wedge his foot into the meeting room. “And you know perfectly well we can’t work in the common chamber. The tables are far too small. Besides, this is the only summoning room in the Orfuin Club. We can’t finish our work without Ziad, and we can only summon him here. Now, if you please-”

  Garapat made one more attempt, reminding them that Alifros was a magnificent world, that a number of their mutual friends called it home, and asking if they were truly willing to contribute to its destruction merely for the sake of a prearranged meeting to discuss the editing of a history text? But the last question doomed his case. Was the study of history some esoteric pastime, rather than a vital tool for understanding the present? The historians bristled at the notion. “I’m going to fetch the innkeeper,” said someone. “Rules are rules.”

  Garapat sighed and looked back toward the table. Felthrup had overheard the debate.

  “Let them in!” he squeaked, waving his paws. “You’ve done everything I could have hoped for, dear professor. The failure is mine. Enter, sirs, the room is yours of course. Do not trouble Master Orfuin. We will vacate now, and I will return to the ship in disgrace.”

  With a shake of his head, Garapat stepped aside, and the crowded room grew quickly more so. The professor’s invited guests-a hypnotist from Cbalu, the high priestess of Rappopolni, a world-skipping baron who had misplaced his physical body decades ago only to become far more contented as a shade, a radical Mzithrini philosopher-cursed and grumbled, and looked at Felthrup shamefaced. “We have done you no service,” said the priestess. “We have wasted your time.”

  “And ours,” said the historian with the ink-stains, droppin
g his own stack of books onto the table.

  “You are worse off than before,” the baron agreed sadly. “I felt certain more people would come tonight, Garapat. Mr. Stargraven’s cause is the best you’ve ever championed.”

  “They may still be trying to get here,” said the Mzithrini. “The astral paths are dark tonight, and the River turbulent.”

  “We managed, somehow,” said the first historian.

  “No squabbling!” Felthrup turned in circles on the table. “Scholars, friends. If I reduced you noble souls to fractiousness I should never forgive myself. I will go. I am beaten. I must serve my friends in this small rat’s body, since my mind has done them no good.”

  “Now he tries to play on our sympathies,” said the ink-stained man. “Very good: you have them, like the Kidnapped Souls’ Collective that was in here last month. Tragic, but the room’s still ours. Ask Orfuin to send a boy to clean the table, will you?”

  “That’s enough, Rusar,” said the selk. “Mr. Stargraven, if it is not safe for you to linger in the common room-”

  “It is not safe,” broke in Garapat. “The Raven Society sends members here almost nightly.”

  “-then you must trust these new friends of yours to carry on with the effort.”

  “Just so, kind stranger.” Felthrup sniffed as Garapat prepared to lift him from the table. “And may I say in passing that it is an honor to meet with members of the Tribe of Odesh, however briefly.”

  “You know something of Odesh, do you?” said the Flikkerman dubiously, as he settled into his chair.

  “I know you are pledged to defend knowledge above all else,” said Felthrup, “and that you have paid a great price for that dedication, through the centuries-not least when the Emerald King burned the archive at Valkenreed, and threw the librarians into the flames. I know how heroically you have labored since then-labored against forgetting, as your motto proclaims. It is a mission to which I aspire in my dreams, though I know full well that I am unsuitable. Why, I cannot even grasp a pen.”