The River of Shadows cv-3

by Robert V. S. Redick

  Thasha’s whole face had brightened at the mention of Ramachni. Suddenly she gripped the prince’s hand, startling him. “I’d hoped from the beginning that you were allies,” she said. “I’ve been praying you’d help us find him, or help him return to us. Now I’m certain you’re going to do just that.”

  Olik gazed at Thasha: a humble glance, such as Pazel would scarcely have thought possible on the face of royalty. Just like Bolutu, he thought. They hang on her every word. They know, blast it. They know the truth about her. And he resolved to corner Bolutu at the next opportunity, to wring it out of him. Arunis was gone; no one was spying on his thoughts. What possible excuse for secrets was there now?

  Suddenly all the dogs barked in unison: the signal, said Olik, that they were nearing the palace. Rows of soldiers flashed by. Olik signaled them with a wave, then looked at Thasha again.

  “Yes, I still hope, lady,” said Olik, “but that hope has been sorely tested. One reason is personal. Do you recall what I told you of the Karyskans, and why they pursued me?”

  “You said they mistook you for someone else in the royal family,” said Thasha, “for the one who wanted to attack them.”

  “Yes,” said Olik, “and I cannot blame them for the mistake. I sailed openly into their waters, and at first they welcomed me. But Karysk has certain spies in Bali Adro, and as I was making ready to depart these spies returned, and declared that they had seen my face in Orbilesc, pressing rabidly for the launch of the armada. Today the Issar’s message has confirmed my worst suspicion: that rabid warmonger is my grandson. We are alike as two peas in a pod.”

  The others stared a moment. Then Pazel gasped. “The Red Storm,” he said. “You sailed away and left a son, and he-”

  “Had a son as well, in time. When I returned I found my own son a frail old man, and his child grown to manhood. We have the same features, the same name-and thanks to the Red Storm, very nearly the same age. But Olik the Ninth hates this Olik the Seventh. He is a Plazic warlord; like Vadu he carries the stump of a Blade. I am sure he thinks of me as some sort of maukslarin, a demon made in his image, sent from Elsewhere to oppose him. There are days when I fancy he’s correct.

  “The other blow to my hope is more serious-but only because the hope itself burned so brightly. For at long last, the horror of the Plazic Blades is ending. They are corroding, melting into nothingness. It seems the very act of removing the bones from the Grave-Pits began the process of decay, and in our greed we removed them all. In another year or two the Blades will have entirely decayed, and perhaps my people will be free of the Platazcra madness forever.”

  “And now you bring the Nilstone!” said Ibjen.

  “Yes,” said Olik, “the Nilstone. A thing more powerful and ruinous than all the Plazic Blades together. And who should come with it-and steal it before one week is out-but Arunis himself, old ally of the fiends who fashioned the Blades, and perhaps the vilest mind in Alifros? I do not despair, Lady Thasha, but I fear greatly for this world.”

  “We’ll get it back,” said Thasha.

  At that moment the sunlight disappeared. All about them were massive columns of red stone: they had driven right under the palace. There were shouts and echoes, the roars of sicunas, the rumble of gates. The carriages ground to a halt.

  Before they could alight someone threw the door wide. It was a servant, but he had not opened it for them. A dlomic man of middle years, round-stomached, with a nervous pucker to his lips, was scurrying in their direction. A plain gray cloak was tied around his ample form; it appeared to have been hastily thrown over finer clothing. Servants bearing chests and sacks followed in his wake.

  “Step down, get out!” he said. “Won’t you hurry, Sire? Do you know how long I have waited for a coach?”

  The riders in both carriages descended. “Your pardon, Tayathu,” said Olik. “We had some difficulty locating the city’s… guests.”

  “That’s enough about that!” snapped the man, bounding into the coach. When he was seated he leaned out again, facing Olik. To Pazel’s amazement he cupped his hands around his eyes, as though protecting himself from the sight of the humans. “My lord and prince,” he said, with some slight derision, “you have given me your word, you know. You absolutely must be gone before they… you understand the importance, surely-”

  For the first time since Pazel laid eyes on the prince, he looked angry. “When Olik gives his word he keeps it, Tayathu, son of Tay.”

  The man recoiled, waving his hand in agitation. “All so terrible, so ghastly! I wish you had never come to Masalym, and I hope we never, ever meet again! Of course we will not! You’re going to be jailed, or hunted, penniless, shoeless-Oh, get in, you creeping sloths, do you want to be left behind?”

  The servants hoisted the last of their burdens onto the carriages’ roofs and crawled inside. The man in the gray robe slammed the door with a little shudder of nervousness. Olik whistled; the dogs rose and bore the carriages away.

  “Who was that blary bounder?” said Druffle, walking forward.

  “That,” said Olik, “was His Excellency the Issar.”

  10. Olik’s assertion has mythological undertones. Dlomic legend identifies the nuhzat (literally, “night path”) as one of the Four Gifts chosen for the race when they descended from the stars (perhaps in proto-dlomic form?). The gifts, from certain obscure supernatural beings, were meant to help the newcomers become native to the world of Alifros, and hence survive there. Two other gifts were the “friendship of water” and the seed of the loloda tree. The fourth gift was capriciously withheld, by a spiteful being who did not welcome the arrival of the race. Its identity remains a mystery, and many dramas and moral parables refer to this possibly fatal hollow in the dlomic character. -EDITOR.

  The Choice

  5 Modobrin 941

  The Honorable Captain Theimat Rose

  Northbeck Abbey

  Mereldin Isle, South Quezans Dear Sir, I will not be astonished, Father, if this proves our last communique. You have always made plain your intention to disown any son who failed the test of obedience, no matter at what stage of life. I hardly think that death will have altered your opinion; nothing alters your opinion. But there are those on this ship (those you pressed me to slay, for their own disobedience) who hold that the possibility of change is not for us to deny. We must believe it can happen in the heart of the basest wretch, they would say, no matter to what epic depravity he has pledged his life. You will observe that I do not choose to continue our long charade with Lady Oggosk. I know full well that you are dead. This very evening I went to the witch and demanded the truth, and she had no choice but to provide it. Dead may technically be inaccurate for one who dwells in the twilight of Agaroth. But you are in sight of the Last Domain, and it is long since fitting that you be released from the Border-Kingdom and allowed to go your way. You, and the one who dwells there at your side, the one I have called Mother hitherto. All I ask before I release you is the truth. You won the three sisters at cards: I know this. You kept them as servants and concubines, and you did not care how many brats you sired on them. Such trifling issues were easily resolved, no doubt, once the Flikkermen developed a market for infants, and the slave-school on Nurth realized what returns were possible on an investment of eight or nine years. How many of my brothers and sisters (half brothers, half sisters) did you scatter to the winds? Are any of them known to you by name? Those are the first questions I should like addressed. But there is another, more vital by far: which sister gave birth to me? Is it the one who followed you to the Border-Kingdom? Or the one who simply vanished from our household, one evening of my fourteenth year? Or the third sister, Oggosk herself? All my life I have taken your side against her: never would I recognize her as family, and only in these letters have I named her Aunt. But is she my mother’s sister, or my mother? You could always strike a bargain, sir, so let us bargain away this inefficiency: tell me the truth about myself, and I will hold you and your companion in Agaroth no l
onger. As ever, I shall bargain in good faith. You have always demanded a full accounting of my captaincy, and this I am willing to provide. I am back aboard the Chathrand now, and my crew is for the most part reassembled-only some twenty fools broke out of the Masalym Tournament Grounds, and are hiding yet in the vast warren of the Lower City. They may end up dwelling permanently among these black-skinned, coin-eyed creatures, for we are preparing for an emergency launch, and nothing whatsoever may delay it. Not even prudence: I have given my most reluctant consent to a launch at dusk tomorrow, before the wares we are taking aboard can be secured or balanced, knowing full well (you need not remind me, sir) of the great peril involved. Any sizable swell may roll us, sink us; but such odds are better than the certainty of seizure if we remain here an hour too long. In any case we shall have thirty miles in the gulf to prepare for the open sea. Except for those few deserters, the men all but stampeded back to the Chathrand when the gate was opened at the Tournament Grounds. Days of rest and feasting had given way to fear about the dlomu’s intentions. Now they are relieved (and amazed) to have been restored to their ship, even though we sail once more into danger. They have not yet grasped the nature of the Red Storm that lies between us and home, and though rumors circulate, they are considered too outlandish to be true. I have forbidden the officers, and Pathkendle’s gang, to speak of the Red Storm to anyone. The men feel lost enough as it is, without the terror of becoming lost in time. For the moment their good spirits hold, and they are laboring with a will. So, for that matter, are the dlomu, whose orders now are clearly to see us gone with all possible haste. But they will no longer step aboard the ship, or even pass supplies directly into our hands. What is not loaded by cargo crane they carry to the center of the gangway. We must wait for them to withdraw onto the quay before retrieving it ourselves. All of this because one of them went mad and began to sing upon the quarterdeck. When we set sail at nightfall tomorrow, there are yet a few others who will not be among us. You may think it good fortune, and for most of this voyage I have wished for nothing more ardently. Now I think their absence may prove disaster. Or perhaps I misstate the case: perhaps it is my own absence from their number that haunts me now as a looming, possibly fatal, mistake. I know of course what you will say, Father, but do restrain yourself. I will welcome no advice at this juncture; the shades of Chathrand’s old skippers inflict quite enough as it is.

  Thasha raised her eyes from the scribbled vellum. Crowded around her, Pazel, Neeps and Marila continued to read. Oggosk was leaning on her stick by the palace window in the bright evening sun, watching them. She had appeared suddenly in the palace, and been escorted to their waiting chambers by a pair of dlomic chamber maids. “What do you want us to do with this?” Thasha asked.

  The old woman walked stiffly to them and snatched the page back. “I want you to bear it in mind,” she said. “Nilus faces a terrible decision-probably the greatest in his life. And how you speak to him next may make all the difference.”

  “What’s this about ‘a few others not among us’?” asked Pazel. “Who’s he talking about?”

  “You’re about to find out,” said Oggosk, glancing at the door.

  “Where’s the rest of the letter?” asked Marila.

  “Right here,” said the witch, pulling two more sheets from inside her cloak. Placing the three sheets together, she ripped them in quarters. Then, walking to the hearth-it was chilly in the palace, despite the warmth outside-she tossed the pieces onto the bed of glowing coals.

  “Again!” cried Neeps. “I’ve never understood why you do that. Such a blary waste of time.”

  Oggosk looked at him over her shoulder, contemptuous. “Scrawny little ape. When did you ever understand a thing?” She crouched before the fire and blew. The vellum smoldered, then burst suddenly into flames. Oggosk stood with a groan and turned to face the youths.

  “The letters I burn, he watches forming in a fireplace, beneath the dying coals. When the last ember goes out he brushes off the ash and there they are, waiting to be read. I speak of Theimat, of course, the captain’s father. He is a prisoner in Agaroth, on the doorstep of death, a shade without the rest that every shade must long for. Until Nilus chooses to let him go.”

  “And Rose keeps him there,” said Pazel, “because he wants to know which of you is his real mother?”

  “You can see that much plainly,” snapped the witch. “Now listen to me: you will keep the family matters to yourselves, am I clear? Nilus will go mad if he learns I’ve made you privy to the worst secret of his childhood.”

  “Why did you?” asked Thasha.

  Oggosk hesitated, and the wrinkles tightened around her milky-blue eyes. “Perhaps for no good reason,” she said. “In any case we will know in a matter of hours.”

  The door of the chamber banged open. It was Prince Olik’s footman. “His Highness asks his honored guests to join him on the Dais of Masalym.”

  “He’s back!” cried Pazel. “Is Hercol with him? Is there any sign of Arunis?”

  The man did not answer at first; like most of the dlomu he seemed caught between wonder and fear when in their presence. “I am to take you quickly,” he said at last.

  They followed him, Thasha’s dogs padding at her side; Oggosk struggling irritably, leaning on both her stick and Pazel’s arm. Out of the splendid drawing room they walked, through a portrait gallery where they had tried to glean clues about Bali Adro history (and where Druffle now stood transfixed before a dlomic nude), across the dining chamber where Rain and Uskins sat earnestly masticating mul. How could they possibly be hungry, Thasha wondered, when two hours ago they had all been treated to such a staggering meal?

  What they had not been treated to was information. They had climbed a broad stair from beneath the pillar to these chambers, where Alyash, Dastu and Sandor Ott were waiting already, and twenty servants (and twice as many guards) attended them, in that same abashed and fearful style. Olik and Bolutu had returned at once to the Lower City, and the frantic search. Ibjen had stayed to dote on them-carrying tea-trays, measuring their feet for new shoes when the tailor’s hands shook too much for the task. It was good luck, Thasha realized, that they had landed first in a village too small and isolated to trade in the fanciful, terrifying gossip that had swept Masalym. Ibjen had had time to realize they were simply people, before anyone declared them something else.

  From the dining chamber they walked down a short corridor, then climbed a steep and narrow staircase. Then another, and another. Only after the fifth staircase did the footman speak again, announcing, “The Dais of Masalym,” and throwing open a door.

  Sunlight and wind: the door let onto a small, roofless space with another staircase, very short, leading up to what Thasha saw instantly must be the roof of the entire palace, the cut-off apex of the pyramid.

  “There you are! Come, hurry!” came the prince’s voice, faintly.

  Up they climbed, into the last hour of daylight. The roof was flat, featureless, immense, a great courtyard thrust up into the sky, with no railing, no shelter of any kind. Here at the center they could see nothing of the city, only the snowy peaks in the south and west, and on the other side the spire of Narybir Tower, hazy across the gulf. Olik and Hercol stood close to this edge-and beside them, tiny in that enormous space, were two figures that made Thasha’s heart leap with joy.

  “Ensyl! Felthrup!”

  The dogs bounded forward, skidding to a halt before their beloved rat. Thasha saw that Hercol was holding Ildraquin naked in his hand. “You found it!” she cried.

  “It was never lost,” said Ensyl, “though in removing it from Vadu’s reach I made it appear so, alas. Dear friends! I wondered if I should ever see you again.”

  “Felthrup, you’re a hero,” said Thasha, dropping to her knees beside him.

  The black rat scurried into her arms, shivering with pleasure. “I am nothing of the kind,” he said. “What sort of hero sleeps through a fight, and awakens when it has ended?”

 
“It has not ended,” said Oggosk, wrapping her cloak tighter against the wind.

  “Quite right, Duchess,” said Prince Olik. “Listen well, you four. A great deal has changed since this morning.”

  “You know where Fulbreech is, don’t you?” said Marila to Hercol.

  The Tholjassan drew a deep breath. “I know,” he said. “Ildraquin has told me.” He stepped back, closing his eyes and straightening his sword-arm. At first he appeared to be pointing down at someplace in the city, but then his arm swung slowly to the right, and upward, until it was pointing southwest, at a place in the mountains between two peaks. It was a saddle, a pass, but still a very high and distant spot. The mountain peaks were white all around it; the slopes looked harsh and dry.

  “There?” asked Neeps, disbelieving.

  “At the Chalice of the Mai,” said Prince Olik, “where the river that flows past our feet has its source in cold Ilvaspar, the glacier lake. Yet I must doubt you, friend Hercol. Arunis stood in this very spot just twenty hours ago, with Fulbreech at his side, and the tol-chenni he took from the Conservatory, too-his ‘idiot,’ as he calls the creature. Many servants, and the Issar as well, confirmed that they were here. And even on the swiftest steed, they could not yet have reached the Chalice. It takes that long to cross our Inner Dominion, the high country that begins here, at the Upper Gate of the Upper City, and runs to the mountain’s foot. And another twelve to climb to the Chalice, and Ilvaspar’s frigid shores.”

  “Yet Fulbreech is there all the same,” said Hercol. “Alone or with the sorcerer? That I cannot guess. But Ildraquin has never led me astray when we follow a blood scent.”

  Olik sighed. “Then perhaps they did not use the highway at all, but some magic that let them ride the very wind. As you say, however, we have no proof that Arunis has kept the boy by his side.”

  “It could well be a trick,” said Ensyl. “Arunis might have sent him to the mountains alone, to throw us off.”