No Return

by Zachary Jernigan

  “I know, but hear me out. I hadn’t considered Danoor a possibility, either, but everything just fell into place.” He paused to take a drink. “I looked at the bracket structure, and the odds are good—better than good, Churli. After that I concentrated on finding suitable travel companions. Of course, I can’t guarantee anything.”

  “You never could. No one can call a fight that large. And shit, Gorum, you know I don’t like being set up. No, shut up. I don’t want to hear about them yet. Before I consider anything, and I’m not saying I’m going to, I need to know what’s at stake. How much will this tournament win me?”

  “There’s two hundred and fifty pounds of pure-grade bonedust in it for you if you make it to the winners’ bracket, not to mention your cuts from the preceding fights.”

  Churls shook her head. “Holy hell. What’s the winner get?”

  Gorum smiled. “One thousand—drawn on the royal reserve bank of whichever government you choose. And this is separate from the Adrashi and Anadrashi bullshit. They compete against each other for only two days, white against black. I don’t even think they’re fighting for dust. The real fun starts on the first day of the new year.” He held up a finger. “But because the sects are hosting the whole thing, it’s their rules.”

  “What does that mean?”

  The smile broadened. “The eight fighters who make it to the winners’ circle may opt out with their cuts.”

  Churls felt mildly insulted. “Are you saying I can’t win?”

  “Yes.” His hand fell over hers. “The gambling houses are going mad with the news. Berun registered before leaving Golna. Even at your peak, you couldn’t have taken him.”

  She felt more insulted, but knew he spoke the truth. “How, then,” she asked, “do you know I won’t be matched against him in the lower rounds?”

  Gorum shrugged. “I don’t, obviously. The odds, though, are in your favor. One in eight isn’t bad, and they’re trying to organize the groups geographically.”

  That kind of bracketing would not work out well, Churls reasoned, because more than a few fighters from Dareth Hlum would have dropped out when they heard Berun was fighting. Still, she could count on many people using Gorum’s rationale, hoping to avoid Berun and drop out once they made it to the winners’ circle. Adrashi fighters with backers, especially—men who could afford to travel across the continent in luxurious wagon trains, assured of their safe passage through Nos Ulom—would still find a way to attend.

  “Still,” she said. “How do I get there? Nos Ulom’s not the friendliest place in the world, and I sure as shit won’t go through any part of Toma.”

  “The people I want you to travel with aren’t taking that route.”

  Churls looked at him, hand raised to signal another round. “What other route is there?” It dawned on her. “Lake Ten? I suppose that solves a problem, but it’ll cost going through Tansot. And Bitsan isn’t the friendliest city in the world, either. You stopped that fight with Hoetz just because his people had scheduled it there, remember—even though I had arranged for a...” She curled her upper lip. “Chaperon.”

  “Regardless, that’s where you’ll sail from. Oh, and one other thing. Neither of your companions are trackers. Somehow, you must convince or fool them into going over the Steps.”

  This was too much. Churls slapped the table. “That’s five hundred miles out of the fucking way! What kind of fool would travel over the Steps when they could walk in a straight line through Stol?”

  Gorum looked torn between wanting to grin and wanting to duck his head under the table.

  “Your kind,” he said. “Now let me explain.”

  ‡

  Even with all the money at stake, it took some time to convince her. The young men of the badlands waited as long as they could, eventually shuffling out with wistful glances in her direction. The bartender upended the rickety chairs and stools, and then poured himself a drink, seemingly content to sit and listen to Gorum and Churls talk.

  It was after midnight when they stumbled into her hostel bedroom. They unclothed each other clumsily and made love on blankets she would not have touched sober.

  For Churls, it was like walking into her apartment in West Onsa, smelling the faint mildew rot everything took on near the ocean, stretching out in her favorite chair. She missed the city, of course. She had spent most of her life away from it, fighting in some form, but she had always known in which direction home lay.

  Sleep would not come. She sat in the room’s only chair, flipping a throwing knife in her hand and watching Gorum sleeping. Finally, she retrieved her sword and polished the blade with spit and a pinch of bonedust.

  He shook her shoulder. “I gotta go.”

  Her blade lay naked across her thighs. She did not remember falling asleep, yet the details of their conversation the night before had crystallized in her mind. She blinked away a map of Knoori marked with the planned route he had told her they would use.

  Ridiculous. Sailing across Lake Ten. Craziness, traveling so far with strangers. She reminded herself that returning home without the money to pay off her debts was not an option. Neither, if she valued her sanity, was the prospect of remaining in the badlands. She could only kill so many untried boys before her soul withered inside her, or left of its own accord.

  “Okay,” she said. “You gotta go. Ten percent?”

  “Yes.” He pulled her out of the chair and embraced her, crushing her arms against her sides. “Ten percent. I’ve tried my damnedest to give you a chance at success. I wouldn’t travel this far for anybody else. You know that, right?”

  She pressed her cheek against his. Brief contact, a last reminder of home. He still smelled of garlic. His wife was from northern Nos Ulom, where they put garlic in everything. To keep the dead away, he had once told Churls.

  He let go. “How much dust do you have? Do you have enough for your sword?”

  She raised an eyebrow. “I always have enough for my sword.”

  “Good. And for money?”

  “That depends. What’s the interest?”

  “Fuck you,” he said, reaching into his pocket. He counted out waxpaper packets of dust, and handed her five of the larger ones. “There. That should be enough for travel.”

  She weighed them. An ounce of high grade. Should be enough.

  “Thanks, Gorum. Any other advice?”

  He stopped at the door, turned back. “As always, it’s best to reign in that murderous instinct of yours. You never know when the tables will turn and you’ll find yourself on the other end of the blade. A little compassion could save your life. Don’t roll your eyes at me—it’s true. Mostly, though, my advice is just to watch out for Berun. You’ve seen him fight, I take it? Back when he lived in Onsa?”

  She nodded. “You took me. The fight lasted all of half a minute.”

  “Then you know not to expect any pity from him.”

  She smirked. “Contradictions, contradictions. And the Black Suit, Vedas? How reliable is this source of yours? How do you know he can be trusted?”

  “I already told you: I don’t. I’ve given you all the information I have. You’ll be their guide—it’s up to you to create trust.”

  “I’ll be lying to them, Gorum, delaying them by weeks.”

  “You’ll be saving their lives by changing their course. Listen, you can’t afford not to do this. The gambling houses will send someone after you eventually. Probably several someones. Not strongarms. Dangerous people. This is the only way to dig yourself out.” He opened the door. “And I went to a lot of trouble to get here.”

  Churls considered her response. Possibly, she would never see him again. If she died, he would eventually find out—mostly to discover the fate of his dust, maybe a little because together they had once been something.

  “Thanks,” she said.

  ‡

  Churls did not leave that day. The old men of Basec had agreed to pay for two fights, and as much as she loathed the idea of killing an
other inexperienced boy she could not turn down the money.

  Gorum had arranged a live horse for her, an extravagance he had condoned only because time was pressing. On horseback, she could expect to arrive at the designated gate into Dareth Hlum two days before her traveling companions. There, she would need lodging. She would need to bribe entry officials to inform her the moment Berun came through. With any luck, she need not touch Gorum’s money until they were well underway to Danoor.

  She spent the afternoon practicing in a roofless abandoned building. For the first time in days, the sun cleared above her. She thrust and parried, swinging her dull, heavy sword in tight arcs, footwork kicking up a fine cloud of dust around her. A light sheen of sweat highlighted the flow of hard muscles under the freckled skin of her shoulders and arms.

  Finished, she stood, breathing easily. She retrieved the pail of water she had brought from the hostel, disrobed, and washed the grime from her body as best she could. The air and water were cold, but the sun warmed her.

  She enjoyed dinner—not so much the taste but the weight in her stomach—and tried not to think of the commitment she had made. Relying on others had never been her strong suit, but facts were facts. A lone traveler was a target.

  Night had already fallen when she left the hostel. She walked the treeless path to the theater alone. The boy’s body had been removed. The ground had been raked and the torches lit.

  Soon, the old men began to arrive. As they topped the hillock and descended into the stands, not one paused to stare at the Needle extending across the sky above their heads. Neither did they gaze at the moon, which sat massively on the razor-backed hills directly before them. The men of the badlands were not dreamers, Churls knew. They woke before sunrise to graze their goats on paperweed and thorny sage, and died defending the animals. No mystery, no mysticism in that. If Adrash chose to destroy the world, they could do nothing to stop it.

  Likewise, life would go on just the same if Adrash chose to redeem it. Though Churls did not like the people of the badlands, she felt an odd communion with them. They understood that fate could not be bargained with. It held a person like a mother holds her child, lovingly or with revulsion. One did not get to choose.

  The boy Churls was meant to kill stepped into the circle of firelight. He sneered at her disdainfully, but failed to hide the underlying fear. She saw it in the set of his shoulders, the hesitation in his steps.

  Looking away, she caught movement before her in the stands. It did not surprise her. She had almost expected it.

  A small white figure stood on the hillock, staring into the sky.

  EBN BON MARI

  THE 16th OF THE MONTH OF SOLDIERS, 12499 MD

  THE CITY OF TANSOT, KINGDOM OF STOL

  They commenced a light breakfast on Ebn’s balcony when the sun was a finger’s breadth above the horizon. Light fare, Ebn had told Pol. Nothing fancy.

  A lie. In truth, she had woken two hours before dawn to oversee the preparations.

  Blood warm orange and kiwi juices. Rashl eggs and sheep tripe, scrambled with dandelion greens, scallions, and bitter basil. Earling potato and pigskin fritters with hot mustard aioli for dipping. Pomegranate juice cooled with carbonated rosewater ice cubes. Rapeseed oil and mint-filled pastries. Unleavened anisebread topped with crumbled goat cheese, smoked tigerfish, and shaved horseradish. Black wine from the A’Cas Valley. Finally, lefas bean and lemon zest sorbet she herself had made the night before.

  Neither spoke while eating. Pol picked at the fritters and pastries, which saddened Ebn, but his obvious enjoyment of the pomegranate juice and anisebread nearly made up for it. Being so easily swayed by his moods annoyed her, but after seven years together there were reactions she had learned to accept.

  She tried not to stare at him as they sipped the wine. This, too, she had expected.

  He is not so beautiful, she had tried to tell herself many times. He was not the ideal elderman, certainly: too thickly built, too coarsely featured, and all that white hair. On a darkened street, an observer might mistake him for pure human, not a halfbreed at all. In close quarters, of course, one could not fail to notice that his skin was not a shade of brown, but purple. One would not miss his double-irised eyes, which shined as though they had been plucked straight from an elder corpse—a rare trait even among hybrids.

  Such distinctions meant little to him. Even on the coldest of days, he wore little clothing, clearly unembarrassed by the two closed fists raised in relief on his pectoral muscles, a mutation which made it appear as if a man were trying to push his fists through Pol’s body. Of course, mutations were not rare among eldermen, but few chose to display them. Most, like Ebn, had been encouraged since childhood not to broadcast their unnatural heritage. Amongst their own, they till sought to hide who they were.

  Pol had been sixteen when she first saw him. Her hearts had leapt against her sternum to see those fists on display. His pride had bewitched her.

  This morning, she kept herself from staring by forcing her gaze outward, over the terracotta roofs of lesser structures. Positioned three-quarters of the way up the purple-bricked Esoteric Arts building, her apartment announced her status to the city. From the balcony one could count the brightly stained sails of His Majesty’s Inland Navy, as well as measure the depths of Lake Ten by the varying hues of its bluegreen water.

  The view bored and somewhat frightened her, but she pretended interest in order to busy her eyes. Eighty-seven years old, acting like a love-starved youth.

  Pol sipped his wine unhurriedly, and Ebn’s eyes drifted to the moon. Bonepale, it sat in the lower quadrant of the quickly brightening sky, unwilling to set for another several hours. Nearly half of the Needle had descended below the horizon. The second largest sphere seemed to rest atop her companion’s head. She squinted, trying for the fifth or sixth time that morning to determine if it spun faster than it had the day before.

  It did not appear so, at least not to the naked eye. A relief. She hated the days when a change was obvious. She hated the flutter of fear in her veins as she greeted the sky every morning.

  Pol set his empty wine glass on the table. “Thank you for that,” he said.

  She smiled. “There is one more thing.” She raised her hand, summoning a servant for the sorbet.

  Pol frowned after his first spoonful. “Is this lemon?”

  “Yes,” Ebn said, cursing mentally. The man could be so finicky.

  He pushed the brass goblet forward with his index clawtip, as if it contained something poisonous.

  She shrugged. “No matter.” She waved the servant forward again.

  Pol reclined in his chair, legs stretched out under the table. The side of his foot brushed Ebn’s ankle briefly. Like a fool, she inched her calf over until their skins touched lightly. He would not notice, she knew. He was the most preoccupied person she had ever met. Also the most private. His life outside the confines of the Royal Sciences Academy was a complete mystery. Had he friends in the city? He did not seem the type. A lover? Despite their years together, he had never discussed intimacies with her.

  He yawned. “I was somewhat disappointed to receive your note yesterday. I was slated for an ascension this morning. Measurements, nothing exciting, but nonetheless... You know the feeling, Ebn. A week without looking down upon the world feels like a week wasted.”

  “Yes, I know the feeling,” she said. Outbound mages were loath to miss even one orbital ascension. There were only so many years in their lives, after all. “My apologies for the interruption of your schedule, but I desire your counsel on something. Recently, the changes in the Needle have caused the telescopists some consternation. We have not—”

  “What is recently?” he interrupted.

  “Several weeks,” she lied automatically. It had in fact been over a year of increasingly erratic changes, but he need not know that. “We have not seen variations of this frequency before, both in the speed and direction of the spheres.”

  “Yes,” he sa
id. “I have heard rumors.”

  She suspected he had. In fact, he probably knew a great deal more than he let on.

  “The fact will be announced to the general academy later today,” she said.

  He smirked and gestured to encompass the campus. “You think they will have an answer to the riddle?”

  She smiled wanly but did not rise to the jibe. “We cannot keep this to ourselves.”

  “Of course we can. We own the telescopes. All information about the Needle is filtered through us. Everything else is myth and foreign hearsay, so easily discounted by the academy. There is no advantage in opening the discussion up. Clearly, the changes reflect a shift in Adrash himself, and finding someone who can explain the god’s mind is not possible. We will have as much luck listening to seers proclaim doom in Vaces Square as we will have listening to the responses of the general academy.”

  She fought the temptation to concede the point. Perhaps unavoidably, he had absorbed a great deal of her cynicism. At the same time, he had not yet come to grasp the reality of academy politics: Concessions had to be made in order to achieve one’s goals.

  “We need funding for further research,” she said. “And the best way to acquire funds is to reveal a problem that must be solved.”

  “If you have already decided, why am I here?”

  She touched his hand lightly. “I agree with you that Adrash’s will cannot be known unless he himself announces it. I also do not want to assume the changes reflect hostility, but we must assume they do. Thus, the only thing we can change is our approach to Adrash. Before the noise of the academy’s panic fills my head, I want to discuss this fact. Speak freely.”

  A smile just touched the corners of Pol’s mouth. He had always spoken freely.

  “We must be more aggressive in our supplication.”

  She waited, but he had said all he intended to say.