* * *
"On the whole, we've failed," Cally said. "We've failed so thoroughly you'd think it was our express mission." Several members of the Council voiced objections. Cally just laughed from behind his chair at the table, hands clasped at his back. "Don't cry out against me. Look at the facts. Moddegan came down with demands that couldn't possibly be met. The norren have been pushed from sullen discontent into outright rebellion. The western counties have already sent their first musters to Setteven, whose standing troops have already been dispatched to the borders. All the while, we've stood back, hands washed, faces innocent."
"Not that innocent," Kav said.
"Yes, well, shit happens. At the very least, we didn't push as hard as we could. We made no counter-threats against Moddegan. No alternate treaties suggesting that Narashtovik be made steward of the Territories, for instance, or that the capital abolish slavery in exchange for the official registration and restriction of the clans. Instead, we operated through half-measures—and now we're left with a complete disaster."
Wint wrinkled his sharp nose. "Is this going where I think it's going?"
"I would hope so," Cally said. "Unless you're not half as clever as you or I believe."
"Can we move ahead already?" Tarkon said, hunching his bony shoulders. "At this rate, Dante's going to miss the birth of his own grandchildren."
A few of the Council laughed. A few more frowned or glanced away as if they'd just caught a whiff of an unexpected latrine.
"Then I'll cave to public opinion and keep this brief." Cally placed his palms on the table, long white hair spilling past his ears. "It's time we go to war, too."
"I knew it," Wint said, head wagging.
"Cally," Kav said in his modulate tones. "With all due honor to yourself and your office, I wonder if your motives aren't unfortunately confused."
Cally laughed, high and reedy. "Is that a very roundabout way to ask about Gabe?"
"If you'd rather put it that way."
"For those of you who haven't pried into my personal history, here's the short of it. When I was exiled by Samarand, I left for Mallon; in Mallon, I befriended a monk named Gabe. A norren. Thoughtful fellow, even by the standards of monks. We kept in contact through letters and the like. It was through his help that I was eventually able to reclaim my place here. In exchange, I promised I'd see what I could do for his people."
"That's what this is about?" Wint said. "Paying off your old debts to one forgotten friend?"
Cally impaled Wint on his green-eyed gaze. "My conscience isn't deep nor demanding. I could have bought it off with a sack of silver to a needy clan. But I looked, and I thought, and I tested. It turned out I liked the norren. I like the value they place on thought and craftsmanship and craftsmanship of thought. They are worth preserving. They are worth fighting for. There is no reason—no matter what the king has to say about debts of bondage and that the norren's ability to carry so much weight is proof of their place as our two-legged donkeys—for them to be enslaved and subjugated by the whim of the king."
"Except that he can make them," Somburr said, eyes darting around the table.
"There's no good reason. None that fits Arawn's scheme of justice."
"Now that's a curious evocation," Wint said. "I think one could rightly argue Arawn is all but unconcerned with Earthly justice."
"What are you talking about?" Dante said. "The parable of Arawn's mill isn't just the story of how a disturbance in the heavens made him grind nether instead of ether. It's an express metaphor for justice. Just as the heavens are flawed, so too is the earth. But while the nether may be flawed and unstable compared to the purity of ether, it's ours to shape—and so is our fate."
"And 'fate' will be the operative word," Kav said. "If we actively resist, Moddegan's second tour will take him to Narashtovik. The norren won't provide enough resistance to do more than slow him down. It's just a short march from their hills to our coast. We'd be lucky to make it through the winter."
Cally laughed humorlessly. "I see."
"Is this a joke to you?"
"Oh, I'm laughing at myself. It seems I've failed again." Cally replaced his hands on the table and leaned forward, spine crackling. "This time, I've failed to make myself clear. We're not here for a discussion and this isn't a vote."
Kav's brow crinkled. "Then just what is this about?"
"To tell you where we're going next: to war."
17
The ensuing discussion followed a predictable cycle of outraged revolt, exasperated skepticism, and bitter resignation. Dante sat back, allowing the combatants to exhaust themselves. Cally didn't need his support. Cally was the high priest of Arawn, the ultimate authority of both the Sealed Citadel and all Narashtovik. Barring violent revolt then and there in the Council's chambers, his word was law: Narashtovik would fight alongside the norren.
Not just yet, of course. Neither group had a proper fighting force, for one. For another, there remained the chance, however vanishing, that nothing would come of this at all, and that Moddegan and some norren high chieftain would glare at each other from across the field, fling down their swords, and rush to embrace each other, all misdeeds forgotten. Better to delay the formal announcement that Narashtovik was ready to make hate until after the other participants had committed themselves.
In the meantime, they would set the stage. Olivander would return east to muster the townships, then head to the mountains beyond to see if any of the free peoples cared to war against Gask in return for ongoing recognition of their independence from Narashtovik (which, if the norren prevailed, would declare independence of its own, creating a buffer state between Gask and the free tribes). Kav could harness his deep reservations toward their involvement by traveling to Setteven to petition the king and any other nobles who'd listen to cool down and seek a peaceful solution. Several council men and women would tour cathedrals and temples on both sides of the border, pressuring local priests to petition their own mayors and baronets to provide political opposition. Somburr still had links to a de facto spy network he'd belonged to earlier in life, and would leverage those for whatever they were worth. Most of the elderly members would remain in Narashtovik with Cally to maintain home rule.
And Dante, naturally enough, would travel to the Territories to conduct forward operations.
"Specifically, you're going to organize the tribes," Cally told him once the Council had hammered the major details flat (a process that wound up spilling over into the next day) and the last of the other members finally vacated the chambers. "Inasmuch as such a thing is possible, anyway. I recognize that bringing those squabbling bands together is like trying to fill a bucket with water scooped by hand when the bucket is also made out of water. But whatever hope we have at this point rests on uniting them, however temporarily."
Dante smiled. "Why do I always get the jobs that can't be done?"
"Because it's funny to watch you try. Furthermore, you not only have extensive experience with the clans, but with the method I plan to help unite them with."
"Loons?"
Cally looked up. "Precisely. I put together several more while you were gallivanting around the country. Not enough for all the clans, but it should be enough to spark a confederation."
"You're just going to hand them out."
"No," Cally said. "You are."
Dante twisted his sideburn between his fingers. "How are we going to keep them from falling into enemy hands? Right now they're about the only advantage we've got."
"Since I am so very clever, I have already solved that plan. For one thing, I have made them to resemble norren earrings. The sort of thing any Gaskan blueblood will dismiss as tribal bric-a-brac. Secondly, I'm only sending you with one of each pair. The others will stay with me. Even if one of the loons winds up in the hands of a sorcerer who recognizes artificery when he sees it, and even if he is then able to threaten, trick, or torture a norren chief into confessing what the loon is used for, he'll be navigating
with half a map."
"I see."
"You're not convinced?"
"We figured out how to make them easily enough, didn't we? The court has nethermancers of its own."
"Only the ones who couldn't hack it on the Council," Cally scoffed. "Anyway, if this is our lone advantage, logic demands we leverage it to the hilt. Start in the borderlands. Once the clans there are working in tandem, then you can see about hitching the inland clans to the team."
It was already mid-afternoon, but there was no time left to waste. Dante dispatched servants to ready horses and provisions. Blays received the news of their latest trip with a broad grin.
"Another ride into the wild, huh? Can't wait."
"What are you so happy about?" Dante said.
"We'll be out of the rain and killing Settevite bastards. What's not to be happy for?"
Dante alerted Lira and Mourn, then returned to Cally's to update his maps with the latest news of riots, raids, and skirmishes. There had been more fighting on the outskirts of Dollendun. He planned to head there, rendezvous with the clans who'd been making forays into the burning city, hand out some loons and offer whatever personal aid they could provide, and then continue south all the way to the fringes of Tantonnen, where they could enlist Waill and the Clan of the Golden Field to act as the centerpiece of the region.
That was the plan, anyway. If Moddegan gathered his troops slowly enough, they might even see it through.
Cally brought out a sack filled with carved bone earrings. Groomsmen brought around the horses. Mourn considered his thick-legged mount with his usual pensiveness. "I think I've traveled more in the last two months than I did in any year with the Nine Pines."
They rode out an hour before sunset. The city soon faded into the haze of rain. The rain took two more days to disappear, chased away by a blustery wind that blew itself out overnight, leading to a clear morning just this side of warm. They each had a spare horse and switched them out every few hours. At their pace, they would reach Dollendun in a couple more days.
They never made it.
That afternoon, smoke bloomed to the southwest. By the time they reached the town, the fires had burnt themselves out, but the film of smoke remained, seething up from the scorched shells of houses. Dante checked his map, but it made no mention of the town; by his reckoning, they were some ten or twenty miles from the border into human lands. Towering figures flung buckets of water on the smoldering coals. Cave-homes stared down from the hills. Dante and the other two humans drew dark looks on their way to the relatively untouched north end of town, but they were saved, perhaps, by the presence of Mourn—unbranded, unshackled, even armed with a sword and bow of his own.
Foot- and hoofprints dried in the muck of the streets. Sobs filtered through broken shutters. Arrows poked from the ground and the walls of unburnt homes. Blood crusted the stones of the main road. The first undamaged inn they passed was closed, but the second had its doors wide. Inside, a handful of norren sat in tired silence, soot griming their nails and ringing their eyes. Behind the bar, a dour woman watched them with open hostility. Her hair was drawn back in a bun so large and round it resembled a second head.
"What happened here?" Dante said.
She gave him one look. "Jainn must have left the stove on again."
"Oh yeah?" Blays said. "Cooking king's-soldiers-surprise again?"
The woman almost smiled. "It has a way of flaming up."
"Who resisted?" Dante said. "Townsfolk?"
"Wandering do-gooders."
"A clan? Which one?"
"Of them."
It took Dante a moment to realize that wasn't a foreign norren word. His temper flared. "It's critical we speak to the clan. We're here to help them fight back."
The woman glanced between the four of them. "Quite a host you've brought, too. The king will be running scared in no time."
Dante crossed his arms. While he composed himself, Mourn gave the woman a small smile and a smaller nod. "We'd like to speak to the chief. If that can be arranged, we'll be here in town for the next few days."
"No we won't," Dante said. "We can't waste time here when Dollendun's being overrun by—"
"Yes, we will." Mourn turned to him and bent down until their eyes were level. "We came here to answer need. Look at this town: is there any question that it is in need? If we leave without helping, haven't we declared there are some who aren't worth saving?"
Dante nodded jerkily. The woman watched them go, motionless as a grave-pillar. Mourn marched them back to the burnt-out rows of houses on the south side of town. The gazes of the locals were as cold as the sunset. Wails carried down a hoof-churned side street. Mourn led them to another inn where the tables had been piled along one wall. On the floor, norren lay head to toe, groaning and bleeding, some unconscious, tended to by silent men and women bearing bandages and rags. As Mourn stepped inside, the tallest norren Dante had ever seen arose from the wounded, detoured to the wall to pick up a chair, and stopped a few feet from the door, chair cocked back in one hand as easily as Dante would brandish a torch.
Mourn nodded at Dante. "This man is a healer."
"Step outside." The norren's voice was as low as a bear's. "Continue stepping until all you can see are the empty hills."
Mourn advanced a single step. "Take my head if he harms one soul."
The man drew back his head. A drop of blood slid from his hand and spattered the floor. "Kneel, then. Your face to the wall. And speak to Josun Joh if one word's been a lie."
Mourn turned and knelt along the wooden wall, eyes closed, hands folded behind his back. The towering norren grabbed Dante's neck with his free hand and half-carried him across the room to a norren whose brown hair was matted to her head by blood and sweat. Her face was ashen, twitching. The man crouched down and unwrapped a blood-soaked rag from around her middle. A rope of gray-pink intestines oozed from a gash in her stomach.
Dante inhaled with a hiss. The man's hand ground into the muscles of his neck. Dante reached for his knife; the hand clasped his throat, crushing it closed.
"I can help," Dante gasped. "Please."
The strangling pressure eased. Dante coughed, massaging his throat. Once his coughing had settled, he cut a quick line on his left arm. Shadows flocked to the gleaming blood. He balled them in his hands and lowered his palms to the woman's blood-slick belly.
"Water," Dante muttered.
Footsteps plodded between the moaning wounded. Dante pushed the loop of intestine back inside the woman's feverish body and held it in place with a firm hand. The nether flowed from him to her, seeking torn flesh, spurting veins. Dante took long breaths to fight the dizziness that still seized him when faced with the worst of wounds—particularly those of the gut and their hot, sour stink that threatened to close his throat as firmly as the norren man's grip. The woman barked in pain, head contorting to one side. Boots clumped across the floor. Dante's dizziness evaporated. Nether rushed alongside her rent belly, mending it like a pink zipper.
A jug thrust into Dante's view. He took it with one hand, other still clamped to the woman's stomach, and splashed water over her wound, rinsing loose scraps of flesh and pink water to the floor. He removed his hand from her body. The cleansing water revealed clean and unmarked skin.
The norren man sank to his knees and leaned forward to press his forehead against the woman's. He spoke her name, but she slept. He rose with tears dripping into his beard. "She's my wife."
Dante poured water over his grimy hands. "And she will be for years."
He nodded to the ranks of wounded. "Can you help the others?"
"A few. There are limits."
"I humbly ask you to exhaust them."
Dante nodded, stood, and shuffled to the next victim, a man so young his beard was still patchy. His right arm ended just above the elbow. A belt knotted it off in a tourniquet. A far easier fix: all Dante had to do was stop the bleeding.
He beckoned to the shadows. Mind half-submerged in hi
s work, he heard the tall man approach Mourn at the wall and bid him to rise. Dante ran his fingers along the severed arm, snagging bone. Scabs followed wherever he touched.
"We'll leave you here," Mourn said from beside him. "There is work elsewhere, too."
"Thank you," Dante said.
Mourn paused mid-step, as if puzzled, then thumped away. The door closed. Sunlight shrank from the windows. The unwounded norren lit candles, brought Dante water and stitches and cotton, which he turned to with increasing frequency as the nether grew stubborn and his head grew sluggish. Still, this work came easier than it ever had, as if the fickle shadows had decided, this once, that his work was their work as well. He helped heal a dozen villagers before he reached for the nether and found it wasn't there.
The tall man—his name was Soll—insisted Dante stay at his house, where he was fed seared beef and smoked salmon to "repay his body for its labors." He ate until he had to be helped to bed.
At breakfast, Mourn joined him. Soll had found the others last night fresh off digging a survivor out from beneath a collapsed barn. Today, they planned to continue to clean up wreckage and to patrol the outlying fields against any return of Gaskan soldiers. Dante accepted this without complaint. As much as he wanted to continue to Dollendun, he wanted to finish his work here first.
He spent the day at the makeshift hospital, tending to the lesser wounds he hadn't had the strength to mend the day before. Norren came and went to watch him work, moving on in silence. He napped through noon and woke halfway refreshed. At suppertime, he rose with Soll's help to move to the next patient and found none remained.
"Come," Soll said. "Farren wants to see you."
"That's nice," Dante said.
"The woman at the Inn of Three Fingers."
"The one who talks like her words cost a penny apiece?"
"That's her," Soll smiled. He walked Dante across town. Norren swung massive hammers into charred walls, bashing them to the ground. Others shoveled wreckage into wheelbarrows. At the Inn of Three Fingers, Farren offered Dante a single nod.
The Great Rift Page 38
