The Many Deaths of the Black Company

by Glen Cook

I felt the dread temple loom before us although I could not see it. Narayan’s sandals whispered as they scattered soggy leaves. I listened intently but heard nothing new until Willow Swan started muttering, nagging himself for having followed up on the one original idea he had ever had. If he had ignored it, he could be rocking beside a fireplace in his own home, listening to his own grandkids cry, instead of tramping through the blue miseries on yet one more mystery quest where the best he could look forward to was to stay alive longer than the people dragging him around. Then he asked me, “Sleepy, you ever consider throwing in with that little turd?”

  Somewhere, an owl screamed.

  “Which one? And why?”

  “Narayan. Bring on the Year of the Skulls. Then we could all finally sit back and relax and not have to slog around in the rain and shit anymore.”

  “No. I haven’t.”

  The owl screamed again. It sounded frustrated.

  What sounded like crow laughter answered it, taunting.

  “But that’s what the Company set out to do in the first place, isn’t it? To bring on the end of the world?”

  “A handful of the senior people did, apparently. But not the guys who actually had to do the work. There’s a chance they didn’t have any idea what it was all about. That they marched because staying home might be a less pleasant option.”

  “Some things never change. I know that story by heart. Careful. These steps are slicker than greased owl shit.”

  He had heard the birds conversing, too. That was a northern saying that lost something in translation.

  Rain or no, the goats and donkeys flat refused to move any nearer the Deceiver shrine, at least until a light took life inside the temple doorway. That came from a single feeble oil lamp, but in the darkness it seemed almost bright.

  Swan observed, “Narayan knows right where to look, don’t he?”

  “I’m watching him. Every minute.” For what good keeping a close eye on a Deceiver would do.

  To tell the truth, I was counting on Uncle Doj. Doj would be much harder to trick. He was an old trickster himself. As a trickmaster, I needed to stick to what I knew, which was designing wicked plots and writing about them after they ran their course.

  Something flapped overhead as I entered the temple. Owl or crow, I did not turn quickly enough to discover the truth. I did tell Runmust and Iqbal, “Keep a close watch while I check this out. Doj. Swan. Come with me. You know more about this place than anyone else.”

  Below, River and Gota swore vilely as they strove to keep the goats under control. Iqbal’s sons had fallen asleep where they stood, indifferent to the ongoing rain.

  Narayan blocked my advance just steps inside the temple. “Not until I complete the rituals of sanctification. Otherwise you’ll defile the holy place.”

  It was not my holy place. I did not care if I defiled it. In fact, that sounded like an amusement to be indulged—just before I had the place torn down yet again and this time plowed under. But I did have to get along. For the moment. “Doj. Keep an eye on him. Runmust. You, too.” He could pick the living saint off with his bamboo if the Deceiver tried to be clever.

  “We have an understanding,” Narayan reminded me. He seemed troubled. And not by me. He kept poking around like he was looking for something that was supposed to be there but just was not.

  “You make sure you hold up your end, little man.” I stepped back outside, into a drizzle that had become more of a heavy, falling mist.

  “Sleepy,” Iqbal whispered from the base of the steps. “Check what I found.”

  I barely heard him. The baby continued to crank. Long-suffering Suruvhija rocked her and hummed a lullaby. She was not much more than a girl herself and, I suspected, not very bright. I could not imagine any woman being happy with her life, but Suruvhija seemed content to go where Iqbal led. A breeze stirred the branches of the grove. “What?” Of course I could not see. I descended the temple steps into the damp, chilly darkness.

  “Here.” He shoved something into my hands.

  Pieces of cloth. Fine cloth, like silk, six or seven pieces, each with a weight in one corner.

  I smiled into the face of the night. I snickered. My faith in God was restored. The demon had betrayed her children again. Slink had gotten to the grove in time. Slink had been sneakier than any Deceiver. Slink had done his job. He was out there somewhere right now, covering us, ready to offer Narayan another horrible surprise. I felt much more confident when I went back inside and yelled at Narayan, “Get your skinny ass moving, Singh. We’ve got women and children freezing out here.”

  Narayan was not a happy living saint. Whatever he was looking for, under cover of fortifying the temple against the defiling presence of unbelievers, just was not there to be found.

  I was tempted to toss him the captured rumels. I forbore. That would only make him angry and tempt him to go back on his agreement. I did tell him, “You’ve had time enough to sanctify the whole darned woods against the presence of nonbelievers, don’t you think? You forget how miserable it is out here?”

  “You should cultivate patience, Annalist. It’s an extremely useful trait in both our chosen careers.” I forbore mentioning that we had been patient enough to get him tucked into our trick bag. Then his exasperation surfaced for a moment. He hurled something to the floor. He was not out of control by much but it was the first time I ever saw him less than perfectly composed when he was supposed to be the master of the situation. He whispered something as he beckoned me. I do believe he took his goddess’s name in vain.

  This new version of the temple was scarcely a shadow of what Croaker and Lady had survived. The present idol was wooden, not more than five feet tall and unfinished. The offerings before it were all old and feeble. The temple as a whole did not possess the sinister, grim air of a place where many lives had been sacrificed. These were lean times for Deceivers.

  Narayan persisted in his search. I could not bring myself to break his heart by telling him the friends he expected to meet must have fallen foul of the friends I’d hoped to meet. You need to keep a certain amount of mystery in any relationship.

  I said, “Tell me where it’s all right to spread out and where you’d rather we didn’t and I’ll see that we do our best to honor your wishes.”

  Narayan looked at me like I’d just sprouted an extra head. I told him, “I’ve been thinking a lot lately. We’re probably going to be working together for a while. It’d make things easier for everybody if we all made the effort to respect one another’s customs and philosophies.”

  Narayan scooted off. He began the process of laying a fire and of telling people where they could homestead. The temple was not that big inside. There would not be much room to spread out there.

  Singh would not turn his back on me.

  “You spooked him good,” Riverwalker told me. “He’ll spend the whole night with his back to the wall, trying to stay awake.”

  “I hope my snoring helps. Iqbal, don’t do that.” The fool had actually started helping Mother Gota set up to do some cooking. That old woman was a menace around a cook fire. She was already under a ban throughout the Company. She could boil water and give it a taste to gag you.

  Iqbal grinned a grin that told the world he needed to consult One-Eye about his teeth. “We’re setting this up for me.”

  “All right.” Much better. Much much better.

  After she finished helping Iqbal, the old woman helped milk the goats. Now I understood how Narayan felt. Maybe I should keep my back to a wall and watch my dozing, too.

  Gota was not even complaining.

  And Uncle Doj had stayed outside, presumably to enjoy the refreshing weather and cheerful woods.

  52

  It was dry in that wicked temple but it never got warm. I do not believe a brushfire could have routed the chill that inhabited that place, that gnawed into your bones and soul like an ancient and ugly spiritual rheumatism. Even Narayan Singh felt it. He hunched over the fire, twitching, a
s though he expected a blow from behind at any minute. He muttered something about his faith having been tested enough.

  I do not belong to an empathetic and compassionate brotherhood. Those who offend us must look forward to moments of extreme discomfort, should God in His magnanimity see fit to present us with the opportunity to provide it. And our antipathy toward Narayan Singh was so old it had become ritual. So it was not with any commiseration that I told him, “We’re prepared to make the exchange. Our First Book of the Dead for your Key.”

  His head came up. He stared at me directly, the true Narayan behind the masked Narayan considering me coldly. Wariness took life in the corners of his eyes. “How could—”

  “Never mind. We have it. A swap was the deal. And we’re ready to swap now.”

  Calculation began to replace caution. I would have bet a handsome sum he was assessing his chances of murdering us in our sleep so he would not have to keep his side of the bargain.

  “It would be, perhaps, a less elegant solution than mass murder, Narayan, but why not just do the deal the way we agreed?” I shivered. The temple seemed to be getting colder, if that was possible. “In fact, I’ll give you a bonus. Once you hand over the Key, you can go. Away. Free. As long as you vow not to screw with the Black Company anymore.” A vow he would make in an instant, I was sure, such vows being worth the bark they are written on when they spring from the mouths of Deceivers. Kina would not expect him to keep faith with an unbeliever.

  “A truly generous offer, Annalist,” Singh replied. Suspiciously. “Let me sleep on it.”

  “By all means.” I snapped my fingers. Iqbal and Runmust broke out the shackles. “Put the goatbells on him tonight, too.” We had several of those, to go with several goats. Once attached to Narayan’s shackles, they made a racket whenever he moved. He was a stealthmaster, but not master enough to keep the bells from betraying him. “But don’t be surprised if I don’t feel as generous when light and warmth return to the world. Darkness always comes, but the sun also rises.”

  I had my blanket around me already. I pulled it tighter and lay down, squirmed a little in a vain attempt to get comfortable, then fell into the sort of evil-haunted dreams apparently experienced by anyone who passes the night in the Grove of Doom.

  I was aware that I was dreaming. And I was familiar with the dreamscapes, though I had never visited them myself. Both Lady and Murgen had written about them. The visual elements did not trouble me terribly. But nothing had prepared me for the stench, which was the stink of thousand-week-old battlefields, worse than any stench I remembered from the siege of Jaicur. Countless crows had come to banquet there.

  After a while I began to feel another presence, far off but approaching, and I was afraid, not wanting to come face-to-face with Narayan’s dreadful goddess. I wanted to run but did not know how. Murgen had drawn upon years of experience when he eluded Kina.

  Then I realized I was not being stalked. This presence was not inimical. In fact, it was more aware of me than I of it. It was amused by my discomfort.

  Murgen?

  ’Tis I, my apprentice. I thought you’d dream here tonight. I was right. I like being right. It’s one of the joys of bachelorhood I had forgotten until I became a haunt.

  I don’t think Sahra would appreciate—

  Of course not. Forget that. I don’t have time. There’re things you should know and I won’t be able to reach you again directly until you enter the dark roads on the glittering plain. Listen.

  I “listened.”

  Life in Taglios was proceeding normally. The scandal at the royal library and disappearance of the chief librarian had been played into a major distraction by the Protector. Soulcatcher was more interested in consolidating her position than in rooting out remnants of the Black Company. After all these years she still did not take us as seriously as we wanted. Or she was completely confident that she could root us out and exterminate us any time she felt like bothering.

  That being a possibility, Murgen’s advice was sound. We should keep moving fast while that option was available.

  The best news was that Jaul Barundandi had shown an eager willingness to attach himself to the cause in hopes of avenging his wife. His initial assignment, to be carried out only if he was confident he could manage without getting caught or leaving evidence, was to penetrate the Protector’s quarters and steal, destroy, or somehow incapacitate the magical carpets she had stolen from the Howler. If those could be denied her, our position would improve dramatically. He was also to recruit allies—without telling them that he was helping the Black Company. The ancient hysterical prejudice remained potent.

  It sounded wonderful but I counted on nothing. Men driven solely by a need for revenge are flawed tools at best. If he let the obsession consume him, he would be lost to us before he could do any of the quiet, long-term things that make an inside man such a treasure.

  The bad news was bad indeed.

  The main party, traveling by water, had passed through the delta and was now ascending the Naghir River, meaning, it was way ahead of us in terms of time still needed to reach the Shadowgate.

  One-Eye had suffered a stroke two nights earlier, during a drunken knock-down-drag-out with his best friend Goblin.

  Death did not claim him. Goblin’s swift intercession had prevented that. But now he suffered from a mild paralysis and the sort of perplexing speech problems that sometimes come after a stroke. The latter made it difficult for One-Eye to communicate to Goblin what Goblin needed to know to cope with the problem. The words One-Eye wanted to say or write were not the words that came out.

  A problem that is maddening enough for the ordinary Annalist, coping only with time constraints and native stupidity.

  You cannot prepare yourself enough. The inevitable is always a shock when it lowers its evil wing.

  As if responding to a great joke, the circling crows rattled with dark, mocking laughter. The skulls in the bonefield grinned, enjoying the grand joke, too.

  There were more minor bits of news. Once Murgen exhausted his store, I asked, Can you reach Slink if he’s here? Can you put a thought into his empty head?

  Possibly.

  Try. With this.

  My idea amused Murgen. He hurried off to haunt Slink’s certain-to-be-strange dreams. The crows scattered, as though there was nothing interesting keeping them around anymore.

  I continued to people the place of nightmare, hoping I would not become a regular, as had befallen Lady and Murgen. I wondered if Lady still went there, making her interment that much more a session in hell.

  A crow landed high up in a barren tree, against the face of what passed for a sun in that place. I could not distinguish it but it seemed different from the other crows.

  Sister, sister. I am with you always.

  Terror reached down inside me and squeezed my heart with a fist of iron. I shot bolt upright. Panic and confusion swamped me as I grabbed for my weapons.

  Doj stared at me from beyond the fire. “Nightmares?”

  I shivered in the cold. “Yes.”

  “They’re the bad side of staying here. But you can learn to shut them out.”

  “I know what to do about them. Get away from this godforsaken place as soon as I can. Tomorrow. Early. Right after the Deceiver turns over the Key and you authenticate it.”

  I thought I heard faint crow laughter in the night outside.

  53

  I took my turn on watch. I discovered that I was not the only one with problem dreams. Everyone slept poorly, including Narayan. Iqbal’s baby never stopped whimpering. The goats and donkeys, though not allowed inside, also bleated and snorted and whimpered all night long.

  The Grove of Doom is just plain a Bad Place. No way around that. Some things are black and white.

  Morning was not much more pleasant than night had been. And even before breakfast, Narayan tried to sneak away. Riverwalker showed remarkable restraint in bringing him back still able to walk.

  “You w
ere going to run out on me now?” I demanded. I had a good idea what he really had in mind but did not want him to suspect I knew what had become of the friends he had expected to rescue him. “I thought you wanted that book back.”

  He shrugged.

  “I had a dream last night. And it wasn’t a good dream. It took me places I didn’t want to go, with beings I didn’t want to see. But it was a true dream. I came away with the certainty that neither of us has any chance of getting what we want if we don’t fulfill our ends of our bargain. So I’m here to tell you I’m playing it straight up, the Book of the Dead for the Key.”

  Narayan betrayed a flicker of annoyance at my mention of a dream. No doubt he had hoped for divine guidance and had failed to receive it last night. “I just wanted to look for something I left here last time I visited.”

  “The Key?”

  “No. A personal trinket.” He squatted beside the cook fire, where Mother Gota and Suruvhija were preparing rice. The Radisha, to the amazement of all, was trying to help. Or, better put, was trying to learn what was being done so she could help at another time. Neither woman offered the Princess’s status any special respect. Gota snarled and complained at the Radisha exactly as she would have done with the rest of us.

  I watched Narayan eat. He used chopsticks. I had not noticed that before. Paranoid me, I searched my memory, trying to remember if Singh had used the customary wooden spoon in the past. Uncle Doj, like all Nyueng Bao, used chopsticks. And he claimed they constituted some of his deadliest weapons.

  I was going to go crazy if I did not get Narayan out of my life for a while.

  He smiled as though he was reading my mind. I think maybe he put too much faith in my word on behalf of the Company. “Show me the book, Annalist.”

  I looked around. “Doj?”

  The man appeared in the temple doorway. What was he up to in there? “Yes?”

  “The Master Deceiver wishes to see the Book of the Dead.”

  “As you wish.” He descended the leaf-strewn outer steps, rummaged through one of the donkey packs, came up with the oilskin package we had retrieved from the Shadowlander tomb. He presented it to the Deceiver with a bow and a flourish, stepped back and crossed his arms. I noted that in some mystic manner, Ash Wand had found its way onto his back. I recalled that Doj’s adopted family bore Narayan Singh and the Strangler cult an abiding grudge. Deceivers had murdered To Tan, the son of Sahra’s brother Thai Dei. Thai Dei lay buried beneath glittering stone with the Captured.