The Sleeping God

by Violette Malan

  But now the humans around him were crying out, some were striking their fellows, others falling to the ground weeping, tearing at their own skin and faces. He retreated again to the man whose eyes he used, resting a heartbeat or so before gathering his strength for the leap back to his host, the shape in which his essence now dwelt.

  As he leaped, he saw again the gold flame, and he took one heartbeat more to look closer, to fix the flame’s human shape and human coloring.

  There.

  She was the one he sought.

  By the time Parno stepped off the windowsill, landing neatly at her side, others in the crowd had begun to help douse the flames. The Finder’s house couldn’t be saved, Dhulyn thought, nor could the smaller structure to the south of it-attempts to put out the fire had started too late for that-and even now, less than two thirds of the people still in the small square were helping to douse the flames. Automatically, she shifted the angle of her sword and settled her feet firmly in a new position.

  “Parno,” she said, and felt him move to her left side.

  What’s wrong with them?” he whispered.

  She shook her head, voice freezing in her throat. The people not helping to put out the fire seemed confused, many as if they did not know where they were. Some were rolling on the ground slapping at themselves as if attacked by bees, others fought each other, clawing at each other’s faces with stiffened fingers, seemingly unaware of the knives at their belts. Others were crying, rocking and holding themselves. One poor woman wandered as if blind, blood dripping from her nose and ears.

  Some few of the unaffected were leaving the water brigade and going to the aid of one or another of the afflicted, and some of those were calming down, a few looking around them, as if trying to remember where, and perhaps who, they were.

  “Should we do anything?” Dhulyn said, her sword still raised.

  “Leave,” Parno said. “There’s a Jaldean here. He’ll see to them.”

  Dhulyn nodded, even as she pressed her lips together. Which was stranger, she wondered, the behavior that was even now dissipating like smoke blown away by a breeze, or that the Jaldean priest-bewildered looking but otherwise sane-was only now coming to help?

  Parno was putting the older girl up on his horse, and passing the smallest child up to her when what could only be the Finder and his wife in identical dark green headgear came pushing through the line of people passing buckets. A few people muttered and pointed, and one man made as if to approach them, but Dhulyn discouraged him with a hard look.

  “Why haven’t you gone to the shrine, then?” the man called out, but he turned away, jaw and fists clenched, when Dhulyn jerked her head at him to be gone.

  The wife went immediately to her children, but the Finder himself, after staring openmouthed, began to question those of his neighbors he found among the people passing the water. Dhulyn pulled him to one side and spoke, pitching her voice so only he could hear.

  “Have you someplace else to go, Finder?”

  The man focused his shocked gaze on her, responding to the touch of Dhulyn’s hand on his arm much like a nervous horse responds to the trusted touch of its handler, calming automatically and without thought.

  “I don’t understand,” he said to her, a countryman’s accent under the polish of the Guild. “Why would they do this to me? I’ve always done my best to Find.”

  “You didn’t Find my Jolda!” came a voice from a woman nearby.

  Even in the uncertain light of the dying fire, Dhulyn could see that the Finder had gone pale. His lips moved, but in the suddenly increased noise she missed what he said. A stone came flying out of the crowd, and Dhulyn deflected it without a glance, stepping in front of the Finder, sword still raised. His wife took him by his arm and pulled him into the shelter of the horses, where Parno stood with the children.

  “We can go to the shop,” the woman whispered to Dhulyn. Dhulyn nodded and backed away, her sword still held out in front of her.

  “Let the Brothers take them,” someone else called out. “They’ll know how to deal with them.”

  Dhulyn silently blessed the quick thinking of that particular person. So the Finder and his family had at least one friend in the mob. The slower wits in the crowd were happy enough to believe that she and Parno were taking the Finders under duress, and to let them leave with only jeers and sharp glances to send them on their way.

  The Finder’s shop was a small but comfortable space within easy walking distance of the house. Dhulyn settled Grenwen Finder into what was obviously his own chair behind a neat worktable while his wife, Mirandeth, took the children into a small kitchen room and set the older girl to making hot drinks for everyone before rejoining her husband. She made the Mercenaries take the clients’ chairs and perched one hip on the edge of her husband’s table.

  Parno leaned forward, elbows on his knees. “Are you sure there’s nothing…?”

  “Nothing, good Mercenary, I swear. I’ve always given full value, never charged more than the Guild recommends. And I’ve done all I can to follow the new restrictions,” he said, rubbing his face with trembling hands. “The curfew was one thing,” he said. “And the dress code.” His gesture took in their headresses. “That was bad enough, but this…”

  “What was that the woman said about Jolda?” Dhulyn asked.

  Mirandeth shook her head. “That was a sad thing, but a thing no one could have helped. And it’s more than a year ago now. Mistress Fisher’s child. Everyone thought the willful little thing was just hiding herself as usual after an argument with her sister. She’d done it before, and this time the parents-the Fishers, as I said, they own three boats and the salting sheds down by the point-thought they’d let the stubborn little mite sulk and come home on her own when she got hungry instead of chasing after her as they usually did.”

  “And so?” Parno asked when the wife fell silent.

  “And so,” Grenwen Finder said, “the child choked on a bit of fruit she’d had in her pocket, and by the time they came to me to Find her she was long dead. The Fishers didn’t blame me-at least not then. How could they? I knew nothing of it ’fore they sent for me.” The Finder pressed his lips together before continuing. “I Found the body.”

  “They didn’t blame us then, as you say,” Mirandeth said. “But it wasn’t more than two moons later that Mistress Fisher didn’t return my greeting in the market, and the stall holder told me that the Fishers were saying Grenwen hadn’t really tried to Find the poor child until it was too late.”

  “Grief does strange things to people,” Dhulyn said. The daughter came out of the kitchen area carrying a round wooden tray with two glasses and two clay mugs. The way she handed the tray to the Mercenaries made it clear they were meant to take the more expensive glasses. Dhulyn breathed in the rich scent of ganje. She could use a stimulant, she thought, and so could the Finders. “They’ll blame themselves most of all, you see,” she told them. “It’s a hard day when an act of sensible discipline has the bad luck to result in such a tragedy, but they’d go mad if they blame themselves. Easier to blame you.”

  “But to set fire to my home?”

  “The Fishers didn’t fire the house, and you know it.” Mirandeth put her mug down on the table. “At least not by themselves.”

  “Who then?” Parno said. “The Watch will want to know.”

  “The Watch? What point in telling the Watch? Where was the Watch when my own neighbors…” Mirandeth took a deep, steadying breath before going on. “You hear things, and you think ‘well, away in Imrion, anything can happen.’ But when my own friends and neighbors set fire to my house with my children inside. No,” she turned to her husband, “you know who put the idea into Mistress Fisher’s head that you were to blame for poor little Jolda, and who made sure the Watch knew nothing about the fire.”

  “Tell us, then, and we’ll all know,” said Dhulyn.

  The husband and wife exchanged a look that was equal parts fear and determination. Finally, the
Finder nodded.

  “This has all been since the New Believers came out of Imrion last year, spreading their teachings. Did anyone see? Was there a Jaldean in the crowd?” he said.

  Dhulyn was sure only she noticed the muscles in Parno’s forearms twitch. His lips parted, but he closed them without saying a word.

  “There was,” Dhulyn said when it was clear Parno would not speak. “But what do the priests of the Sleeping God have to do with this?”

  “Everything,” Mirandeth said, nodding. “The New Believers have been preaching against the Marked for months now, and after the earthquake last summer, and the bad harvest…

  Dhulyn nodded, considering. The Marked had always made certain people nervous-those who were afraid of what they didn’t understand and couldn’t do themselves. In bad times, foolish talk in taverns wasn’t unusual. But since when would sober, reasonable, law-abiding citizens turn against someone who could Heal or Find or Mend?

  “What’s different now?” she asked. “We’ve heard nothing of this, we’ve been away in the west, beyond Semlor, training with the armies of the Great King. The world’s a different place out there.”

  “The world’s a different place right here, Dhulyn Wolfshead, let me tell you.” Mirandeth pressed her lips together and turned her head to the side, blinking.

  “It seems it started,” the Finder took up the tale, patting his wife on her hand, “when the Jaldeans found a new artifact of the Sleeping God. I don’t know that anyone thought much of it. I certainly did not. They’ve found these things in the past, and for a while it makes people think a bit, reminds them the old gods are still with us, don’t you know, for all that many are heeding the teachings coming from the west.” The man swung his head from side to side. “When I first heard, I thought it a way to help the Jaldeans recruit more monks, to be honest. No harm in it.”

  “Then they started calling themselves the New Believers,” Mirandeth said. “Started preaching on street corners instead of keeping to themselves in their hermitages and shrines in the old way. They came predicting danger and giving warning.”

  Dhulyn raised her eyebrows. There was a way to catch the attention, no doubt about it. But Mirandeth hadn’t finished.

  “They say the Marked are trying to awaken the Sleeping God before his time, and he’ll destroy the world.”

  Parno fell back into his chair, his movement causing the ganje in his glass to slop out onto his knee. He didn’t seem to notice.

  “I don’t understand,” Dhulyn said. “Wouldn’t the Marked be destroying themselves then?” None of the religions of townsfolk made any sense to her. There were three or four different sects that, as far as she could tell, called the same gods by different names-and she had respect for them all as often providing excellent reasons for war.

  This time it was Parno who answered her. “The Marked have always been thought to have a special connection with the Sleeping God, maybe that’s supposed to save them.” He shook his head, “But-the Sleeping God’s supposed to awaken, and come to our aid if he’s needed. As indeed he’s done in the past, according to the Jaldeans themselves.”

  “According to the Old Believers, yes,” Grenwen Finder said.“But now that’s all accounted heresy, and it’s more than your life is worth to say so in public, whatever you might think to yourself in the safety of your own home.”

  The silence that fell lasted so long the Finders’ daughter came to the door of the back room where she’d been distracting her brothers. Dhulyn knew what they were all thinking. The Finders’ home had not turned out to be so very safe.

  “Even so easily can people be turned against each other,” she said.

  “But they aren’t…” Parno’s voice trailed away, whatever argument he was marshaling collapsing unspoken.

  “People believe what bad harvests and earthquakes tell them to believe,” Dhulyn pointed out.

  “They’ll allow as how we might be innocent enough by intent,” Grenwen said. “At least some will. But that changes nothing. Somehow we’ve perverted the gifts the god gave us, and our actions are awakening him.”

  “So why did that man say you should go to the shrine?” Dhulyn asked.

  “We’re supposed to go and be blessed by the Jaldeans, any of us who wish to keep our homes and livelihoods.”

  “Willam Healer went, and no one’s seen him since,” Mirandeth said. “His family have sold off everything and disappeared, though I heard they have kin in Voyagin.”

  Grenwen’s nod was slow and heavy. “I often helped him with his cases, Finding bad growths and infections for him, but now… I think Willam was one of the lucky ones. Of the few who’ve returned to their families, they’re no longer…” the man swallowed, “they aren’t Marked any longer.”

  Dhulyn thought of the blank faces she’d seen in the square.

  “That’s why the Watch didn’t come,” she said.

  The Finder nodded. “I’ll lodge a complaint, of course. And they’ll listen to me, for now, even if they do nothing. There’s still plenty that don’t hold by the new beliefs. But many of them are starting to look the other way. It’s only a matter of time, until they’ll do more than that.” He blinked slowly, his brow furrowed as if an idea had just come to him. “I was contracted to Find a new salt deposit before winter set in, and the project was postponed. It’s past the time I should have heard, but surely they wouldn’t-” he looked up at the Mercenaries. “The good of the town…”

  Dhulyn glanced at Parno and looked away. Surely they would, and both she and her Partner knew it. Common sense and the good of the town flew out the window when what a god wanted came in the door.

  “And Zendra Mender’s gone-took ship for Berdana last week before the port closed to us-so you won’t be inspecting the aqueduct together as you always did. It wasn’t so bad before the Marked started coming here from Imrion, drawing attention to us-and I can’t believe I just said that.” Mirandeth covered her eyes with her hands. “We’re all Marked, there’s no Imrion and no Navra in this.” She let her hands fall to her lap. “But it does mean the Prince has closed the port to us, as a favor to Imrion. The last of many favors.” Her hand went up to touch her dark green headdress.

  “So what then?” Parno asked. “Have you no other recourse? What says your Guild?”

  Grenwen Finder shook his head. “There’s been no word from the Guildhall since the passes closed.”

  The silence around the table acknowledged what they all knew. The Guildhall of the Marked was in Gotterang, Imrion’s capital.

  “There’s always the Cloud People.” The daughter’s voice made her parents jump; she’d been quiet so long they’d forgotten she was still there. “The Clouds don’t believe any of this nonsense. They value the Marked.”

  Dhulyn exchanged another look with her Partner. Normally, the Finders would be considered safe enough with the Clouds. Neither the Tarkins of Imrion nor the Princes of Navra had found any profit in trying to pull the Clouds out of the mountain range that lay between the two countries, and that the Cloud People considered their home. But when religious fanatics became part of the game, sensible policies were often thrown from the board.

  Mirandeth was shaking her head. “Child. Can we go to live in a cave in the mountains like a pack of wolves or Outlanders? No offense, Dhulyn Wolfshead.”

  “None taken,” Dhulyn said, carefully not smiling. “But if you don’t mind a bit of advice from an Outlander, consider what your daughter has said. Better to be a valued member of the wolf pack than the target and prey of civilized men.”

  The Finder nodded. “There’s sense in that.” His face showing more color now, he turned to his wife. “My bowl, Mira, if you please.”

  Mirandeth, a new light shining in her eyes, sprang to her feet and excused herself, returning from the kitchen in a moment with a small porcelain bowl. As wide as her two hands, its glaze was so pure a white that it seemed to glow in the fading light of the workroom. Grenwen Finder leaned back in his chair and
allowed her to place the bowl directly in front of him on the tabletop. The daughter came close behind her mother, a pitcher of water in her hands. Fresh spring water, Dhulyn knew, poured three times through clean silk. She cocked an eyebrow at Parno and leaned forward in interest. Grenwen Finder was a skilled Mark, indeed, if he could Find something as abstract as a safe place for his family.

  The Finder poured a small amount of water into the bowl, handed the jug back to his daughter, and placed his hands so that his fingers rested lightly on the bowl’s edge. Back straight, he sat forward enough to be able to look directly into the depth of white porcelain. His breathing almost immediately became deep and steady, and the room grew so silent Dhulyn could hear the footsteps of a passerby in the street and the blood beating in her own ears. Then she could not hear even that, and it seemed that the world and everything in it had fallen still, stopped in its dance.

  The Finder raised his head, and the world resumed.

  “There is sanctuary,” he said, his voice a whisper as if the Finding had taken all his strength. “It is in the mountains. But the passes-”

  “Should be clear enough for determined people on horseback,” Parno cut in. “And empty of everyone else. Have you beasts? Then fetch them and begin packing,” he added when Grenwen Finder nodded.

  Dhulyn stood, placed her empty glass carefully on the table. “The first thing you should do,” she said, “is take those headdresses off.”

  Without a word, Mirandeth reached up and unfastened the pin in the carefully folded dark green cloth around her head. She pulled the headdress off and revealed her hairless and tattooed scalp.

  Two

  PARNO WATCHED AS DHULYN carried two cups of steaming ganje back to their table close to the fire at the Hoofbeat Inn. No one could tell by looking at her face, or watching the smooth way she moved, that they’d been up most of the night, sneaking the Finders out of Navra by an old way Parno remembered. The Hoofbeat hadn’t changed much since he’d seen it last. There were a few more cracks in the dark ceramic tiles of the floor, and the small bricks making up the ceilings that arched between stubby pillars were more worn and crumbling than he recalled, but the pillars themselves, and the walls for that matter, were solid and had been recently whitewashed.