A Shadow on the Glass

by Ian Irvine

  Llian wrenched out his knife and for a mad instant contemplated throwing himself after them, but the opportunity had passed before he was really aware of it and he crouched in his bushes in impotent fury as the last bearer disappeared from view.

  Crouching low, Llian dashed across the open space to his previous vantage point. The two stretchers were laid side by side, the first gently, the second less so, in the front of the boat. Each of the five took up an oar while the woman untied the bow rope, then the stern, and sat down at the rudder. The vessel began to drift, eased away from the bank with an oar. Directly below Llian it passed, the starlight picking out the projection at the bow, a figurehead in the shape of a chacalot, a voracious water reptile, all teeth and serrated tail. He saw one last time Karan’s staring eyes, then the oarsmen took to their oars, the boat shot out into the full strength of the current and soon was a speck disappearing into the night.

  Later, much later, he roused himself. The Chain of the Tychid had sunk behind the forest and the sky was lit only by a bright planet climbing over the eastern horizon beyond Name. The sky in that direction was streaked with veil-like banners and the rising orb alternately dimmed and shone out brightly as it crept from one gauzy strip to another. Now it was above and in the open, touching patches of foam on the river to an opaline translucency, now skipping little reflections off the ripples caught up by the breeze that had begun to blow from the south. He watched dreamily, the self-reproach that had plagued him washed away in the wind. A curious lassitude took Llian, an acceptance of what had happened. What else could he have done? If things were re versed, would she have done more? But there was no comfort in that thought.

  They were Whelm, no doubt of it, though not the ones that had followed them from Tullin. How had they found Karan so quickly? Not by any potency of the Mirror, else they would have found it too.

  The questions were unanswerable. Several things were certain though, he mused, ticking them off on his fingers. One: the Aachim were near. Two: the Whelm must hope to keep her capture a secret, at least until they could find where the Mirror was hidden. Three: he had left sign of himself back at the campsite. Soon the attention of both must turn to him. He shivered, trying to avoid the inescapable, but it was forced upon him—it was up to him now. He, alone, unarmed, unskilled, must free Karan and get her away. But how? He had no strength to resist them, and where was there to hide? Nowhere nearer than Thurkad, many days, perhaps weeks away, through lands he hardly knew.

  Where had they taken her? Fiz Gorgo was also a journey of weeks. Surely for Yggur, revenge on the thief would come a poor second to getting the Mirror back, as quickly as possible. That meant an answer now. They would go no further than Name.

  Llian made his way back along the river bank in the darkness. At first it was easy going in the undulating, cleared land along the shoreline. Then he came on a series of steep gullies, bare and rocky at the top, covered with almost impenetrable wet forest at the bottom. After struggling down into two of these and back up again, and being confronted by a third, Llian realized that it was useless. The night was wearing away; he was tired beyond belief. The way was too dark, too steep and too slippery, and he recalled that this gullied country extended downstream almost to the ferry, for he had looked down on it the previous morning from the high ridge.

  While he was walking a thick overcast had blown down from the south and now light rain began falling again. He suddenly lost the will to go further. He huddled in his cloak against the steep edge of the gully, cold, wet and miserable, dozing fitfully until the dawn.

  On waking, Llian found himself in a thicket halfway up a ridge. Earlier it had been raining heavily but the rain ceased with the dawn, replaced by a cold mist that crept imperceptibly out of the river. He ate a miserable breakfast standing up, then set out up the ridge. The crest was steep and slippery but the going was easier than in the thick forest, and he realized that he had but to continue along the ridge and he must come on the path to the ferry.

  The sun rose at last but the fog only thickened. Llian trudged on up the slope, the mist condensing in small beads on his hair and eyebrows and trickling down his face. The damp had seeped into his bones: however vigorously he stamped his feet and waved his arms it did not warm him. Hours later he came to a narrow path and stood there, hesitating, unable to tell if it was the way to Name or not.

  He walked slowly on. In the fog the path was hard to follow and he strayed continually, one time walking for half an hour on a track that petered out against a moss-covered out crop. Back he trudged. Now his imagination began to trouble him. Each group of bushes that loomed out of the fog became a squad of the enemy. Llian turned and a dark figure stood silently beside him. He sprang out of reach, but it was only a small tree with one branch thrust out over the path.

  The fog grew thicker, so that he could see only one or two paces, and now he realized that he had wandered off the path and had no idea where it was. A fragment of the Lay of Lame came into his mind, the ballad that told of treachery, the slaughter of the innocents, and the princess heir carried into exile across the sea. It was on a day such as this, with fog in the forest, that the massacre had occurred. The back of his neck crawled.

  Llian began to hear noises: rustling and tapping sounds like the wind in the branches—only there was no wind. A sound like footsteps came from behind. He whirled, eyes straining to pierce the fog. There was nothing to be seen, but still the noise continued for a few seconds before dying away. Then a groan, a deep, creaking groan such as an ancient tree might make when twisted by a high wind. Was it only his imagination, or were they trying to make him reveal himself?

  He forced himself to calmness, seeking around for a place to hide, to think. It began to rain again and the leaf mold gave off a rich earthy smell. Before him was a large old tree, long dead and broken off halfway up. At the base it was cracked and hollow, the opening screened by a straggling bush. He crawled inside gratefully, onto a mound of decaying wood. The space was cramped and home to many crawling things, but it was dry.

  He ate some bread and tried to work out a plan. Impossible to find his way in this fog. Anyway, they would be hunting him by now. How hard it all was without Karan; she al ways seemed to know what to do. He was too tired to decide, even to think, and in the end, after dozing, waking, dozing again, and the fog as thick as ever, the daylight began to fade.

  Only then did he think of the Mirror. So long had he dreamed about it, puzzled over it, longed to look at it and touch it. Now all day it had lain neglected in his pocket. He took it out, staring at it in the gloom, tracing the silvery glyphs around the border with his fingers. The symbol in the top right corner was like three spheres grown together, surrounded by red crescent moons. Was there some meaning in that? Such a fine thing, so perfectly made. Did it hold the answer to his questions? If only he could make it speak.

  He touched the symbol in various ways, but nothing happened. Many ways of unlocking were recorded in the Histories, and he spoke all that he could remember, but the Mirror showed only his face.

  That night the fog disappeared with a shift in the wind, and is soon as it began to grow light, the fifth day since their escape from the tunnels, Llian made his way to the ferry landing. There he collected his pack, concealed himself in the trees and waited.

  As the sun rose from a sea of mist the ferry emerged silently from the gloom, disgorging a crowd: farm laborers, travelers, a pedlar and others whose purpose seemed innocent enough. The laborers shouldered their tools and headed p the path at once. The others waited on the jetty while an assortment of boxes, bags, trunks and other packages was unloaded. Then the group that had been waiting silently to board the ferry pushed forward, only to be beaten back by he crewman who stood astride the single gangplank. Eventually order was established and the passengers began to file in.

  It was at this point that Llian noticed a tall, lean, sharp-faced fellow standing beside the ferry, watching. Finally the embarkation was complete, the pla
nk was drawn on board and the ferry slipped away. The watcher stood on the wharf until the vessel disappeared into the mist that still hung about the middle of the river, then walked slowly back to the shore and stood looking around idly.

  Llian retreated into his cover. Several hours went by. Every so often the watcher walked a little way along the path, first upstream, then downstream, then came back and resumed his station. After the last such walk he returned hurriedly, slipping into the trees on the downstream side of the path. The next ferry was coming.

  The sentry made his way past. Llian reached down and picked up a knobbly stick. A mutter came from the road. Several clots of people were making their way down the path.

  Taking advantage of the moment, Llian picked up a thin dry stick and snapped it with a crack. The man turned sharply, looked around, then back to the people moving down the path. Llian flicked the broken stick so that it landed a few paces to his left with a soft rustle—the oldest trick in the world, but his quarry was taken in. He crept to ward the sound, dagger in hand. Llian could hear his breathing. From his features he could have been one of the stretcher-bearers of the previous night.

  He parted the bushes to one side of Llian with his knife. Llian gripped his stick, hesitated, then the sentry reached out to the bush that separated them. Suddenly there came a shout from the wharf and running feet. The ferry had arrived. The sentry slipped his knife back into its sheath and turned away.

  Now! thought Llian. He slid out between the bush and the tree and dealt the sentry a clumsy blow to the side of the head. The man fell to his hands and knees, tried to get up, then Llian leapt on his back and knocked him down. He tied him up with strips cut from the sentry’s shirt, gagged him with a piece of his shirt, threw his weapons and money in the river and raced up the plank just as the ferry was leaving. He paid the fare with coppers and sat down inside, head down and hood low over his face.

  The journey of half a league across the great river took the best part of an hour as the ferry slowly ground its way along the cable. On the other side Llian made his way unhurriedly along the wharf in the midst of a crowd of travelers and so out into the streets of Name.

  Name was the largest town in the area, and a trading port of some importance. It was a place of perhaps ten thousand people, but had been greater in the past, and now many of the buildings were empty and ruinous. The waterfront was covered in wharves, boat yards and warehouses. In the middle of the town was an oval-shaped park, with large old trees and a moss-covered stone temple in the center. Surrounding the park the old public buildings were of stone, but away from the center the plan failed and Name quickly degenerated into a tangle of narrow, unpaved streets crammed with tall wooden apartment buildings, terraced houses and ruins.

  Llian made his way to a grimy part of town near the river and there found an inn. He paid extra for a room all to him self, extra for hot water, and lay in the bath until the mud of the past days was washed away. Then he barricaded the door and slept until dark.

  That evening he spent in the taverns of Name, cautiously listening to the conversations of drinkers, occasionally asking an oblique question, but he gleaned nothing. It was clear that he was not the only one asking questions in Name, though; people spoke of prying strangers that could only have been Aachim, and Llian realized how conspicuous he was, with his shaggy brown hair, among these close-cropped, black-haired people. When shortly the looks of the townsfolk became unfriendly he walked out into the night and strolled down toward the waterfront. He was not made to be a spy; he would have to find another way.

  At the river Llian turned right and walked slowly down stream. Beside the ferry landing was a series of wharves, built out into the river on timber piles that were tarry, rotting and encrusted with weed and small black mussels. The warehouses, like most buildings in Name, were long rectangular structures built of unpainted planks. Most were raised above flood level on poles. The roofs were shingled. The waterfront was quiet, except at the second warehouse, where through the open doorway a group of laborers was manhandling a bale from a tall stack onto a trolley.

  He stood outside for a while, watching the operation. The bale was large and heavy, and at the crucial moment one of the laborers slipped. He lost his grip, the bale plummeted to the ground and burst open like a fan, sending raw wool across the floor and scattering the workers. An overseer snatched his lamp out of the way, cursing the offender roundly. Llian moved hastily away from the doorway, as though he might be blamed for the incident.

  Beyond the last of the warehouses was a straggle of dingy cottages, also made of planks, several with small boats drawn up on the bank beside them. He examined each carefully then walked back the other way. At the wool ware house the mess had been cleaned away and the workers were busy with another bale. Past the ferry jetty the ware houses extended just as far in the other direction. Llian came to a set of slipways, on the farthest of which a man was hauling up a boat, similar in design to the one Llian had seen the previous night, with a winch. Many other boats were tethered fore and aft to piles driven into the river.

  He walked the length of the boat-mooring area, then back again slowly, examining each boat. He did not see the vessel he was looking for. He turned upstream once more and there it was, near the end of the row, partly covered in a can vas sheet: the figurehead of a chacalot. Llian stared at the boat, sure that it was the one, wondering what to do now that he had found it.

  Abruptly a voice from behind him growled, “What’re you doing, sneaking round my boat, eh?”

  Llian turned. The speaker was a plump man who spoke with a nasal accent. His face was in darkness. Llian had his story ready.

  “My name is Garntor,” he said boldly, using the family name of his grandmother. “I’m looking for a friend, a young woman with red hair. I saw her in your boat, one night past. Do you know where she is?” Then he said softly, “I’ll pay well if you can help me.”

  The man took a step backwards. The light from a street lamp fell on his unshaven face. He appeared taken aback.

  “Don’t know what you’re talking about,” he muttered. The accent made everything he said into a whine. “Boat’s been here this last week. No work for me, that’s what Kids’ re starving, eh!”

  You certainly aren’t, you fat pig, Llian thought. “Look,” he said, “I don’t want any trouble. I just want to find my friend. I’ll pay well,” he repeated, jingling the coins in his pocket.

  Fear and avarice fought each other on the man’s face. Avarice won. “Hardly paid nothing,” he whined. “Promised a lot, but paid nothing. Few coppers, that’s all, and took me boat for two nights. And expect me to say nothing, eh!”

  Llian found the man’s habit of ending his sentences with a nasal “eh!” irritating, but he merely smiled and jingled the coins in his pocket again. The man licked his lips.

  “I’ll give you a silver tar if you will tell me who hired your boat, and where I can find them,” said Llian.

  The man’s eyes gleamed in the lamplight; he licked his lips again and said, “Not enough. They’ll come for me. Have to go away, won’t I? Five silver tars, that’s what it’ll take, no less.”

  Llian frowned, then turned away, making a play of counting the money in his pocket. He turned back.

  “Three silver tars and two coppers, that’s all I have.”

  The other held out his hand, but Llian took a step back wards. “First the story.”

  But he took Llian’s shoulder and hissed, “Not out here. Come behind the boat” Llian removed the grubby hand but did not budge.

  “There’s no one coming. Tell me here.”

  The man grew agitated. “Not here. Keep your tars!” he said, and turned away.

  “All right,” said Llian, and reluctantly allowed himself to be drawn behind the boat. The darkness was intense.

  “Seven there were,” the man began. “Two women and five men. The tall woman was the leader, eh! ‘I want your boat,’ she said. ‘One night, maybe two. I pay good
money. No one must know. You must not come near.’”

  “When was this?” asked Llian.

  “Rode in, in a great hurry, three nights ago. All seven went in the boat. Back before dawn, just her and two others. Upriver they’d been. Night before last they go again, eight o’clock. Hard pull for two, eh! Back after midnight: three in the morning maybe. Six of them, the other on a stretcher. And a girl with red hair. Dead, she looked. Can’t hide from old Pender. Too late; in with the worms by now she’ll be, eh! Pity.”

  He held out his hand. “There, that’s worth three tars.”

  “Where did they take her,” Llian demanded coldly, ignoring the hand.

  “Don’t know,” mumbled Pender.

  “Of course you do,” said Llian, following his intuition. “You followed them. They were easy to follow, for one as clever as you, and they took the girl somewhere nearby, did they not?”

  “Not nearby,” Pender said, then stopped, flustered. “Well, course I followed them. Had to know what they did,” he continued, with ill humor. ‘Took her to a big house in the old town, three from the end of Mill Street. Has a spire at the front, falling down. That’s all I know. Give me my money,” he said surlily.

  Llian counted three silver tars and two coppers into the hand. Pender slipped the money into a rear pocket and waddled off. Llian stood looking after him, unsure that he had done the right thing. He pulled out his knife. “Pender!” he called. Pender came back reluctantly.

  “I trust that I can rely on your silence,” he said, holding the knife up so that it caught the light. Pender stopped dead. Llian stepped forward and grasped him by the shirt. He squirmed; stitching popped. “You’ve already betrayed them. Give me a reason why you won’t me.”

  Pender’s eyes bulged. “Choking me, master,” he gurgled. “I know I look bad, but I give service when paid. The woman, she promised, but she still hasn’t paid. I owe her nothing.”