His uncle’s shabby apartment was two stories up a dilapidated building. Sherwin’s feet found the rusty fire escape. He hurried down it with frenzied, silent speed. His bedroom door flew open above. Heavy footsteps crushed crackling paper. The remnants of a dictionary flew out his window.
“SHEERWIN. Get back up now, BOY!”
Sherwin reached the ground of the alley between the apartment building and a dirty little café. He wandered further into the darkness to find his usual bed of rubbish. His uncle never followed him here. Sometimes Sherwin did this as often as four times a week. He didn’t even mind tonight. His brain was feverish, and the cool night air was perfect. Inwardly, he resolved to find the boy with the phoenix feather tomorrow. He had waited for this for years. He couldn’t lose his nerve now.
*
Rafen stirred. Someone rummaged amid the slick black sacks and metal barrels around him. He sat up silently. To his left, Ahain raised his head and snarled.
The someone jumped nervously and cowered, their skinny figure black against the deeper darkness.
“Geh out, stray dog,” they quavered. “Stray dog. Yeh don’t belong.”
Ahain barked, his white teeth snapping in the darkness. The someone backed into some metal barrels with a resonant clatter.
“Ra tc, Ahain,” Rafen said in Mio Urmeea. Be quiet.
“’ey! I know yer,” the visitor said. At the same time, Rafen recognized the voice. It was Sherwin. Groaning, Rafen looked away. He tried to make himself more comfortable against the wall. Zion must have sent this poor fool to test his patience.
It had taken Rafen twenty minutes to reach Southwark that afternoon. The metal carriages abounded here. This particular road, labeled with a streaked sign as Walworth, was filled with all kinds of frantic traffic, including pedestrians that pelted across the busy road in droves before the metal carriages. Like regular carriages, these carried people too, but they traveled faster, with more sound and smell. Rafen had seen more outlandish clothes and more strange kesmal: flashing lights on signs outside buildings, people holding little rectangles on which moving pictures appeared, and a very old man in some sort of moving cart that made a beeping noise.
Initially, Rafen had tried grabbing people and hissing, “Where am I?”
Some people had merely told him he was on Walworth Street. Many had acted like he was out of his mind, and one man tried to smash a glass bottle over his head. Rafen had given him a black eye for his trouble, before retiring into this alley and huddling near the wall, shaking. He had never seen a place as strange as this one. Thank Zion he intended to return to his own country tomorrow. His wolf senses had alerted him to some form of food, and he had rummaged through the metal cans and found himself some hideous tasting scraps.
He still had trouble breathing, and he had a terrible headache from the stench the metal carriages made, along with the stench people made with what looked like tiny cigars. The weather here was very warm, partially with pollution, Rafen thought. And now Sherwin had arrived. Rafen hoped to Zion he wasn’t planning to spend the night here.
“Are yer sleeping here?” Sherwin asked.
Rafen started. Sherwin had crept closer to him while he was thinking. He sat directly alongside Rafen, probably because he wanted someone between him and Ahain.
“Yes,” Rafen said between clenched teeth.
“So am I. I’d like yer company. We can exchange spooky stories. Right?”
Rafen didn’t know what spooky was, but he didn’t want anything spooky if he had to exchange it with Sherwin. Taking a deep rasping breath, he pursed his lips.
“Yer don’t sound too good.”
“This place stinks.”
“Oh, yeah. Tha’s Walworth for yer. Too much traffic.”
There was a short silence Rafen greatly appreciated. Sherwin broke it.
“Yer don’t ’ave a home?”
“No.”
“I live up there.”
Sherwin pointed at a lit window some stories above on the wall across from them. Crashes and inarticulate groaning emanated from the window.
“My uncle’s ’ome. I don’t much like to be around ’im when ’e comes back from the pubs.”
“He’s drunk?”
“Yeah.”
“Oh.”
“I live with me uncle, see. Me mother died when I was young. She was a druggie.” He smiled awkwardly. “Then Dad went away to America. Didn’t want me. He’s got a boomin’ car business over there. Very rich, me dad. Me uncle’s dirt poor, yer know. I earn money for ’im all the time, and ’e spends it on baccy and apple, yer know, beer.”
His eyes narrowed and turned a venomous blue as he spoke. Rafen inhaled a shaky breath and, to show Sherwin things could be worse, said pointedly, “Both my parents are dead.”
“Does anyone take care of yer?”
“Yes.”
“Who?”
“Me.”
Sherwin laughed. Rafen didn’t.
“Well,” Sherwin said, and Rafen knew he was smiling, “it’s better than living with an alcoholic, innit?”
Rafen didn’t answer.
“Where do yer come from?” Sherwin asked. “Yeh’ve got a funny accent. Similar to British, though rounded like Canadian.”
“I’m from Siana,” Rafen said, licking his dry lips. He thought with regret about the stream he had discovered on his way here. The water had been too bad to drink.
“Siana.” Sherwin whistled. “Tha’s a way from ’ere, innit?”
“Yes. What country is this?”
“England.”
“In what world?”
Again, Sherwin wasn’t at all disturbed by the question. This surprised Rafen, because he had tried it on five pedestrians earlier, and they had looked at him as if he were a lunatic.
“Yer on Earth,” Sherwin said coolly.
“Earth?”
“Tha’s the name fer this world.”
“That’s the name for dirt.”
Stunned silence.
“Naw, I didn’t mean it like that,” Sherwin said quickly. “Tha’s the real name.”
“The real name for dirt.”
“Well, not really.”
“It is. Why do you have a world named after dirt?”
“It’s not like that, yer know.” Before Rafen replied, he said hurriedly: “What’s yer world called?”
Sherwin’s instinct and belief forced Rafen to be impressed. Admittedly, Rafen dressed strangely compared to everyone here. The fact he wore a sword at his belt had almost got him arrested by a man wearing blue. When Rafen had drawn his sword, the man, who reminded Rafen of a Tarhian, jumped in a metal carriage and drove away looking for reinforcements. He never returned.
Rafen dragged his mind back to Sherwin’s question. “It’s the Mio Pilamùr,” he answered.
“Wha’s that?” Sherwin said, starting to laugh. “My pile o’manure?”
“No,” Rafen said indignantly, yet Sherwin’s comment forced him to hear how the Mio Urmeean – or Phoenix Tongue – pronunciation actually sounded.
Sherwin was roaring with laughter by now. “Yer thought yer had me good with that dirt! Ha ha!”
Rafen gritted his teeth. Sherwin calmed down eventually.
“So,” he said, “where did yer say yer live in this world?”
“Siana.”
“Nice place?”
“Yes.”
“What brings yer here?”
“An accident,” Rafen said, staring at the wall across from them.
“Oh. An’ wha’s yer name?”
“It doesn’t concern you,” Rafen said, in the same tone Queen Arlene might have used on an odious stranger. Lost in sudden memories, he fell silent.
Sherwin sniffed and mimicked him in snobbish voice, “It doesn’t concern yer. Well, I’m interested. See, I’ll tell yer my name. Sherwin Philip Junior Prime. Me Dad’s a Philip. So I’m a junior. And Prime is spelt p-r-i-m-e, yer know, but it rhymes with ‘cream’.”
Sherwin looked startled. At Rafen’s gaze, he ducked his head and said, “Yeah. Yer know a Philip?”
“I did.”
“Hope ’e was a lot nicer than me Dad.”
“He was. He cared for me in Tarhia.”
“Where’s that?”
“In my world.”
Rafen couldn’t bring himself to say “Mio Pilamùr” again.
“So why do yer have a wolf with yer?”
“He followed me.”
“Nice. Good to ’ave a big cherry ’og with yer on a night like this.”
He paused to listen to some drunken men outside the alley yelling and thumping each other over the head. Rafen struggled to interpret what Sherwin had said.
“Well,” Sherwin said, “I’m pretty tired, yer know. Might try to get a wink or two.”
“A wink?” Rafen said.
“Yeah, yer know, some bo-peep.”
“But - but why?”
“Because I’m tired.”
Sherwin lay back against the wall while Rafen tried to figure out what “a wink or two” and “bo-peep” meant. Gradually, his thoughts made less and less sense. And then… he was asleep.
Chapter Ten
Searching
for Erasmus
When Sherwin woke in the dimly lit alley the next morning, his friend was gone. He shoved aside bags of rubbish and trash cans, searching for a sign of the boy with the phoenix feather and his wolf. All that remained were muddy footprints and paw prints.
Sherwin kicked a trash can, its lid spinning on the ground. The clattering gratified him. Perhaps even now the boy was returning to his own world. Well, Sherwin wasn’t going to let this go. He knew he would go crazy if he stayed here.
Studying the footprints on the ground, he started following them out of the alleyway to the busy, smelly road of Walworth.
*
Lord Arrot cringed against the wall of Rusem’s great hall. He was alone; the Lashki had dismissed all his men and the Tarhian guards from the near vicinity.
The freedom the Lashki now had was remarkable. Though once he would have had to glide through the air unseen, shedding his body momentarily, now he could walk through the gates of Rusem openly. All the peasants cowered and the children cried. They were animals; they meant nothing. This man meant nothing. He was merely a tool, one of the many Erasmus had given him to find Rafen.
The Lashki stood in the center of the misty glass floor, the black table before him the only thing between him and Lord Arrot. Lord Arrot was fumbling with the hilt of his sword, his unprotected hands visibly shaking.
The peasant had talked eventually. The Lashki had tortured him within a hairsbreadth of his life, blasting him against a wall with kesmal and then using his supreme control to pinch particular nerves until he knew every fiber of the peasant’s body was screaming with agony. Though the man vibrated, his jaw clenched, he would not speak. It was only when the Lashki moved to the optic nerves that he broke down and sobbed like an infant.
Then the information had come out. Yes, Rafen had been with him that day, even though he had denied it hundreds of times. Yes, he had been training him to fight; yes, he wanted him for the battle to win back Siana. Where had he gone? There were several places and several people the peasant named. He could have taken shelter in Parith with Lord Cyril Earl. Perhaps he had transported himself with kesmal to Rusem, to Lord Arrot, the ruler of that huge city. Maybe he was with the ruler of Darnsdale instead. Or he was in Fritz’s Harbor. Perhaps if he was not with a lord or ruler, he would be in another forest.
This information had been extracted from the peasant with such pain that the Lashki was certain of its veracity. He knew it was only in moments of agony like those that a Sianian would give up his lords. Any fool knew that if the lords of Siana could be turned from partnership with the Tarhians, they would secretly provide huge material help for revolutionaries. Besides which, the peasant’s information coincided with his estimation of the boy.
After breaking the peasant, the Lashki handed him over to Talmon. There had been rumors about some Sianian Wolf, who might form a rallying point for the people. It was better those rumors should die with Erasmus.
Lord Arrot’s eyes were fixed on the Lashki as he moved closer, stepping smoothly past the edge of the table, leaving tracks like those of a huge snail on the floor.
“Come, Arrot,” the Lashki said. “You said at the start you were for us. You promised you would serve me.” He lowered the quaking rod and placed a hand under the white-faced lord’s clean-shaven chin. Arrot whimpered.
“Nothing has changed, then,” the Lashki said, “has it?”
“No, no, Sire,” the lord choked.
“Then why,” the Lashki said, his grip tightening, “have I heard that you consented to take in the Fledgling?”
He pointed the copper rod at Arrot’s heart, and the tip glowed blue.
“No!” Arrot cried, and the Lashki smiled to himself.
“Sire, master, my lord, no!” Arrot gasped as the Lashki’s fingers slipped to his neck. “I did not – never would have – the Fledgling is dead!”
“Liar,” the Lashki said, his fingers squeezing.
Arrot gurgled deep in his throat, twitching frantically. “I did not hear – I did not know -” he wheezed, his hands scrabbling at the Lashki’s moist one.
The Lashki softened his grip momentarily. “What did you not know?”
“I did not know that he was alive,” Arrot panted. “Please. I would never do it. I would give him up to you. I swear it!” He raised imploring pale eyes to the Lashki’s.
The Lashki stared at him and saw a spineless man. He released the lord thoughtfully, and the man fell to his knees, massaging his sticky neck.
Though it would require under two weeks for the Lashki to visit the other lords, it could take up to a month to search all the nearby forests.
And Nazt was calling.
*
After perhaps the most discouraging day of his life, Rafen at last saw silver flames leaping from the ground in a country field forty minutes’ walk from Southwark. He had spent the whole day attempting to retrace his steps to where he had appeared in this horrible world, hoping that finding the exact spot would guarantee his escape.
He had been wrong. Going in circles, he had wandered for an unsuccessful morning. All the while, high-speed metal carriages shot along the black road, crowding the atmosphere with fumes. In the end, Rafen had flopped down beneath a pine tree to rest. His hand on his phoenix feather, he whispered, “Zion, please. Let me go home.”
A moment later, he straightened to see the little silver flames flickering at his feet.
“Yes,” he said, rising.
Leaping to his paws, Ahain barked excitedly at Rafen’s side.
Rafen didn’t care how terrible the journey to this world – Earth – had been. His heart beat fast with exhilaration. He was going home. Anything was better than this place.
He took as deep a breath as he could manage in the polluted environment and stepped into the flames, Ahain beside him.
Silver dots punctuated the blackness around him as he was sucked up through the black tube. The same vacuum he had felt earlier tore the air from him, and Rafen closed his eyes, willing this to happen. Once again, the desperate sensation of no breath, a strange, laughing lightness as if he had no head, and then –
Thud. Rafen lay starfish-like on his front on hard ground, his eyes still closed, his heart thundering. He gulped down the fresh, clean air that told him his journey had been successful. He was back on the Mio Pilamùr. Ahain thumped to the ground beside him. Whining, he lay there momentarily. However, he recovered faster than Rafen, and was soon on his paws, licking Rafen’s face with a long pink tongue.
“You were made for this kind of travel,” Rafen told him shakily. Rolling onto his back, he opened his eyes, sta
ring at the cupola of green leaves above. He seemed to have arrived back in the Cursed Woods. For a terrible second, he had wondered if he was going to appear somewhere obscure, ridiculous, like a beach on Ruya. But Zion had directed him.
Rafen slowly got to his feet. Reeling, he lurched into a boxelder and found himself on his knees again. An alarmed armadillo scuttled away from a heap of twigs. Rafen rubbed his forehead.
He glanced about himself, making sure the Lashki wasn’t there. The air was even colder than when he had left, despite the fact that it was light enough to be midday. Tiny white dots floated through the air. Time had certainly elapsed, and he was alone.
Rising again, Rafen staggered forward. He had to find Erasmus. Then he would search for the Selsons.
He wanted to tell his mentor about this latest incident. Perhaps he was messing with kesmal again. Something inside told him it was not wise to go searching for the Selsons anyway, for if the Lashki was nearby, he was bound to follow Rafen. Rafen crushed the thought. He would visit Erasmus briefly, if he could remember the way to his house, and then he would continue his search.
It was only fair to give Erasmus a chance to apologize.
*
It took Rafen an hour to find Erasmus’ house. He was grateful of the coat now; the wind tried to tear holes in him. He sighted the little log construction with relief. Looking suspiciously left and right in case anyone should see him break out of the red cedars, Rafen ran to the house door and burst through it. Painted bruntings flew into the air behind him, twittering.
By the hearth, a dirty heap of rags raised itself from the floor. Wynne’s tangled yellow hair fell over her face. She held a cauldron to her torso, her fingers white around its belly. She glared at him wildly.
“Sorry,” Rafen said. “I didn’t mean to scare you.”
Ahain’s paws padded on the floor behind him.
Wynne’s filth-streaked cheeks flushed. “Get out of here,” she said. Her cracked voice was scarcely recognizable.
Rafen stared at her. “Is something wrong?”
His heartbeat quickened as he looked desperately around the room for some trace of Erasmus. His sword wasn’t hanging on the wall beside the door as it usually did. The table in the center of the room lay sideways on the floor, one leg missing. Light stole through a fist-sized hole in the thatched roof above.
The Sianian Wolf Page 9
