Fire and Dust

by James Gardner

The wight hissed with glee. The river was only inches behind me; one more push and I'd be swimming… at least for a second or two, before the memory-stealing waters wiped out all knowledge of how to keep myself afloat. The wight's arms flexed, ready for the final thrust…

  …and then he stopped and turned around, an expression of polite curiosity on his face.

  Behind him Hezekiah held my sword, both hands on the pommel. The boy had taken a swing at the wight, perhaps trying to whack off the creature's head with a single mighty blow. However, he'd scarcely made a mark; he had botched the angle of attack and delivered a glancing strike with the flat of the blade. To the wight, it was no more than a shaving nick. The creature curled his lip in something approaching a grin and reached out toward the boy, close enough to crush Hezekiah's head like a wineskin.

  That's when I shoved on the boat with all my strength and caught the wight at the back of his knees.

  The skiff was the perfect height for buckling the monster's legs. He jerked backward, trying to keep his balance; and at the same time, Hezekiah had the presence of mind to jab forward with the rapier. It didn't actually pierce the wight's chest – the boy hadn't kept his wrists straight as he thrust out – but the tip of the blade banged against the creature's breastbone, giving him some extra momentum for falling. As the wight began to topple backward, I reached up and helped him along, grabbing a handful of his ripped clothes and yanking with all my strength.

  For a moment, the wight's arms flailed. His rotting face loomed close to mine, his pointed teeth gnashing, his hot breath hissing rankly against my cheeks. Then he was spearing down headfirst into the black water, his body collapsing into globules of greasy pus the moment he hit the surface.

  I froze. He hadn't made much of a splash as he went under, but a small shower of droplets had spattered over my clothing. Should any of that wetness soak through to touch my skin… so I didn't move, didn't breathe, didn't blink an eyelash. If I lost my memory now, I'd have to start experiencing life all over again from the very beginning. I might even have to eat another swineberry.

  Seconds passed. The only dampness on my flesh was sweat, pouring out in gushers. Thank all the friendly powers, the day had been cool and I was wearing my jacket; it had given me that extra bit of protection against the splash. At last I let out a shuddering breath and struggled to my feet.

  «That was exciting, wasn't it?» I said to Hezekiah.

  He nodded. «I can hardly wait to tell Miriam.»

  «Wonderful. Give me my sword.»

  «Could I practice a little with it?»

  «No. Give me my sword.»

  «Yes, Britlin.»

  * * *

  No other wights showed their decaying faces before lunch. Over the meal, however, the six of us met and agreed it was only a matter of time before we received more undead company. Rivi must have brought the Glass Spider back to an even keel, then sent wights through the portal to search for us. When that ugly basher from the riverside didn't report back to Rivi's base, she would eventually muster other wights to find us. Dangers like the Tooth-Storm bushes might slow her forces down, but I doubted the nasty wee albino would be completely stymied by such nuisances. To someone as vicious as Rivi, the swamps of Othrys might look as congenial as a backyard garden.

  The news was not good from Wheezle and Kiripao either. For the umbrals, negotiations were a process of «becoming one mind»… a process that consisted of long silences, punctuated by grisly stories of life among the fiends. «The stories are bad,» Wheezle murmured, «and the silences are worse. They press in on one's brain…» He shook his head and refused to say more; but his face looked more haggard than it had through all the trials of the Glass Spider.

  After lunch, the others accompanied me back to the Styx, keeping watch as I continued painting the boat. I welcomed their presence as a way to steer my mind away from morbid brooding; the face of that man on the bow looked less like my father while Miriam was telling about a drunk who walked into a tavern of centaurs and called it a «hay bar».

  So the afternoon passed with inconsequential conversation. By the time Garou returned to view the work, my stomach was growling for supper… which just goes to show what addle-coves stomachs can be, since I was not looking forward to forcing down more bulrushes and beetles. The boatman looked over my shoulder for a few moments, gave a soft sigh, and said, «I suppose it will do.»

  «It's an exact copy,» Yasmin offered on my behalf.

  «Close enough,» Garou replied. I recognized the voice of a customer who doesn't want to sound too enthusiastic for fear the price goes up. «Have you decided where you want to go when the job is done?»

  «Do any of us know anything about the gate-towns?» I asked the others.

  «I know people in Plague-Mort,» Miriam answered. «I've been there a couple of times.»

  «What's a Plague-Mort?» Hezekiah asked.

  «Gate-town on the edge of the Abyss,» Yasmin replied. «From what I've heard, it's a depraved and violent place to spend your time.»

  «No worse than a lot of neighborhoods in Sigil,» Miriam protested. «And it has some first-rate taverns.»

  «Dens of iniquity?» Hezekiah asked hopefully.

  «Dens, yes,» Miriam said, «but I wouldn't use big words like iniquity there, unless you want your teeth shoved down your bone-box. A bunch of us from the Glass Spider had some fine nights in Plague-Mort.»

  «From the Glass Spider?» I choked.

  «Sure,» she replied. «One of the Spider's portals led straight to a Plague-Mort butcher shop.»

  «It seems to me,» Yasmin said, «if there's a direct portal from the Spider to Plague-Mort, we should head someplace else. We don't want to make it easy for Rivi to find us.»

  «Rivi's looking for us here,» Hezekiah piped up, coming to Miriam's defense. «This Plague place is several planes away, right? She won't suspect we've gone there.»

  «True,» Yasmin admitted.

  «And I know the lay of the town,» Miriam said. «I also met someone there, claimed she knew a portal from Plague-Mort to Sigil.»

  «Was this someone you could trust?» I asked.

  «Depends what you mean by trust,» Miriam replied. «Her name was November. Would I let her hold my jink-bag for a few days? No. But if I gave her a handful of gold, would she stay bought an hour or two? I think so. She showed me a license from the Arch-Lector authorizing her to 'arrange divers services' for visitors to town… which probably means she knows who to bribe to get things done. I know how bloods like November work – they peel your pennies every chance they get, but they won't try to do you a slice-job.»

  I had to admit I'd met the same sort of person, in Sigil and most other places I'd visited in the universe. If you wanted a room or a meal or some lamp oil, she'd escort you to an establishment that overcharged and slipped her a kickback under the table; but in exchange for wringing your purse dry, she'd honestly take good care of you. Then again, I'd met some not-so-honorable «city guides» too – the kind who smiled with helpfulness till nightfall, then led you straight into ambush. Usually, there was no way to distinguish the two types.

  «We should go to the Plague place,» Hezekiah said with surprising firmness. «Anywhere else would be worse, right?»

  Yasmin looked at me. I shrugged. «From everything I've heard, all the Lower Plane gate-towns are bad. If Miriam knows Plague-Mort and can find us a quick way back home… Garou, I assume you can ferry us to Plague-Mort?»

  «The Styx does not touch on the Outlands anywhere near Plague-Mort,» the marraenoloth replied, «but I can take you to a portal which jumps to the town.»

  «And you can supply us with a key to that portal?» Yasmin asked.

  Garou smiled. I've never liked the sight of a smile on a fleshless face – it's all in the mouth, without touching the eyes. «As it happens,» the boatman said, «the key to that particular portal is an open bleeding wound. I would be happy to supply you with an appropriate gash; but I suspect you'll be spoilsports about
that.»

  A bleeding wound: just what you'd expect to open a portal in the Lower Planes. I shuddered and kept on painting.

  * * *

  The light never changed, the clouds never varied… but night fell.

  Wheezle and Brother Kiripao emerged from the hut where they had been «negotiating». They looked exhausted, and were deliberately vague about what had happened in the most recent discussions. «We learned how the umbrals think,» Kiripao said. «I have never… pondered such subjects before.» He refused to say anything else.

  Wheezle looked worse and said nothing for the first few minutes in our company. After a while, he chose a moment when the others were engaged with trifling conversation and dragged himself close to me. His still-useless legs trailed along behind him through the mud.

  «Honored Cavendish…» he murmured.

  «Yes?»

  «The umbrals have undeniable powers of persuasion.» He mopped his brow with the hem of his sleeve. «I told you they want us all to become 'of one mind'. Do you know what that means?»

  «Tell me.»

  «We talk of ourselves… they talk, Kiripao and I talk. All together in a single hut. It becomes hard to breathe; their bodies take on a peculiar smell; the room darkens almost to blackness…»

  «In other words,» I said, «there's magic at work.»

  «Perhaps.» The thought seemed new to him. «Perhaps magic. Perhaps the power of their thoughts. But there were times… times I felt I was losing myself. Becoming one of them.»

  «Maybe that's why they spend so much time over negotiations like this,» I suggested. «After all, how long does it take to agree on a simple selling price? But if this bargaining process is actually some kind of assimilation that takes three days to complete…»

  «It could be,» Wheezle nodded. «I do not think I can withstand another day in that hut. By the end, I would be an umbral… mentally, if not physically.»

  «Not to worry,» I assured him. «We're getting out tonight: Garou will help us escape to Plague-Mort. Of course, Plague-Mort has risks of its own —»

  «Please,» the gnome interrupted, holding up his hand. «I do not wish to hear about risks, honored Cavendish. If you believe this is our wisest course of action, so be it. As long as we leave tonight.»

  I patted him on the shoulder. «We're just waiting for the umbrals to go to sleep.»

  But the umbrals showed no sign of sleeping. There were always a few of them sliding silently through the streets, though they had long ago abandoned their daytime activities of sculpting and harvesting beetles from the marsh. Even when I couldn't see the fiends amidst the shadows under the trees, I could still feel their hollow eyes gazing at us from the pockets of darkness.

  At last Miriam whispered the words that must have been on everyone's mind. «Something's up tonight. Maybe they suspect we're trying to give them the laugh.»

  «Impossible,» Kiripao answered immediately. «They cannot know our thoughts.»

  I looked at him and wondered why he used that turn of phrase. Know our thoughts. Kiripao and Wheezle had been cloistered with the fiends most of the day, with the purpose of becoming one mind. Perhaps our monastic companion was steadfastly trying to deny something he secretly feared was true: that as umbral thoughts invaded his brain, some of his own thoughts bled into the fiends. They might have caught enough psychic vibrations to know we were jumping their cage tonight… which was why they now kept a peery eye on us.

  Hezekiah turned to Garou, who was sitting watching me paint. I had already explained I would not finish the job until we'd reached some sort of safety; the marraenoloth was not pleased, but he wasn't surprised either. «So little trust in the world,» he had sighed. Now he looked at Hezekiah and said, «What do you want?»

  «Do you know what the umbrals are up to?» the boy asked.

  «I believe they will hold a revel – in honor of negotiations with your group. They will dance, they will sing, they will play the pipes… all to make you feel at home, of course.»

  He cracked a wicked smile at Kiripao and Wheezle. The elf quickly spun away to face the Styx, but the gnome simply stared, his face slowly turning ashen. In a strained voice, he finally said, «I do not think I can tolerate any sort of carousal. It might… overwhelm me.»

  I knew piking well what he meant. If he and Kiripao were in danger of being assimilated, the last thing they needed was an umbral orgy getting under their skins. Music, dance, perhaps debauchery… even in the absence of magic, those were powerful forces for establishing communal unity; and there would be magic at work too, I didn't doubt that.

  In the heart of the village, fire blazed to life in the flame-pit: a fire that burned as scarlet as blood. «Isn't that interesting,» Hezekiah said. «The wood here must have strange alchemical properties to burn such an odd color of red. Uncle Toby would be interested in —»

  «Hush!» Wheezle snapped, the sharpest I'd ever heard him speak. That didn't bode well; the strain was already showing on his face.

  And then the pipes began to play.

  I couldn't see the pipers, let alone the pipes – the flame-pit was fifty paces away, too far to distinguish unmoving umbrals from normal shadows – but my ears were keen enough to identify the instruments as simple unreeded flutes, made from some wood like bamboo or rattan. A trio of the flutes played, weaving together three separate melody lines with a subtle dissonance that made my flesh crawl. Wheezle clapped his hands over his ears and began to whine softly. Kiripao just listened slack-jawed, as if he had lost the ability to move.

  «We have to get out of here,» Yasmin whispered to me.

  «Don't rush your painting,» Garou snapped. «I'll be very upset at a slapdash job.»

  «I'm just about done,» I told him, then turned to Hezekiah. «Can you teleport yet?»

  «Sure, I just needed some sleep,» he replied. «What did you have in mind?»

  «Jump from here to our hut, gather everyone's packs, then teleport back here.»

  «On my way,» he nodded, but Yasmin stopped him with a hand on his arm.

  «Is it safe for him to teleport?» she asked me. «Remember the white dust.»

  «The dust doesn't affect psionics,» I reminded her. «That's why Rivi wanted the grinders in the first place – the dust stops other people's magic but Rivi's own powers stay intact. Get going, Hezekiah.»

  The boy furrowed his brow, then winked out of existence without a sound. «I'll have to learn that someday,» Miriam muttered.

  Wheezle began panting. Yasmin wrapped her arms around him and tossed a meaningful look in my direction. I knew what that look meant: finish the painting fast.

  Fortunately, I was close to the end. In fact, I'd been dragging things out over the past hour, waiting for the umbrals to slink off to bed. Three minutes would be enough to finish as much as I wanted to; I just hoped we had that much time.

  Up at the flame-pit, someone started playing a drum: a soft pattering beat, like raindrops. Wheezle groaned. I dipped my brush into the paint and concentrated on not making mistakes.

  * * *

  Two minutes later, Hezekiah returned with our gear. By then, Yasmin was rocking Wheezle like an infant, while he whimpered, «No… no…» A few paces away, Miriam stood beside Kiripao, ready to wrestle him to the ground if he took one step toward the center of the village; but the elf had not budged, simply blinking at the distant fire and swaying in time with the flutes.

  «All right,» I said with a last swipe of the brush, «I'm done. Let's go, Garou.»

  «Are you mad?» the boatman asked. «We can't put into the river till the paint dries.»

  «The paint is more than a foot above the waterline,» I told him. «It will be perfectly all right if you keep the splashes to a minimum.»

  «I shall not be the one to splash,» Garou replied. «Your companions, however, may choose to rock the boat.»

  «Miriam,» I said without looking at her, «can you safety-proof our friend Kiripao?»

  , «Oof!», , «Oof!», .r />
  «He'll be quiet as a lamb now,» Miriam announced. She and Kiripao would no doubt debate the ethics of sucker-punches when the elf woke up, but that could wait.

  «Put him in the boat,» I told her, «and let's get out of here.»

  Under Garou's supervision, Hezekiah and Miriam eased the boat into the water, while Yasmin held Wheezle and I packed equipment. «Peel it away,» Wheezle muttered. «Peel away the shell.»

  «What's he talking about?» I said.

  «Look,» Yasmin replied, nodding toward the fire in the center of the village.

  The umbrals had begun to caper around the flames, a dance with slip-sliding shuffles and extravagant leaps through the blood-red fire itself. Back-lit by flames, one fiend stood motionless at the center of the dance, hissing the same words as Wheezle: «Peel it away. Peel away the shell.» Then the umbral reached up to its face, dug its talons into the skin of its cheeks, and raked down with all its strength.

  The flesh fell away: ribbons of it, sloughing off in tatters. Beneath was something darker – pure shadow, the blackness that had been visible in the umbrals' hollow eyes. Faster and faster the creature slashed at its skin, ripping away the dross and letting it pile up on the ground. Naked darkness emerged… still shaped like an umbral, but much harder to see, even silhouetted against the flames. The figure seemed to flicker with every move of the fire, blending into the shadows cast by the other dancers.

  «Peel it away,» hissed a second umbral. «The shell, the shell…» And its claws sank into its face up to the quick.

  «Sod me,» I thought; I was seeing the umbrals' true form for the first time. The bodies they had previously worn were conveniences, garb for everyday. Now they had revealed their genuine selves: shadows of profane blackness, the stuff of nightmares.

  «Peel it away,» Wheezle giggled. «Peel away the shell.»

  His fat little hands reached up toward his face. I barely caught them in time; a moment later, and he would have raked out his eyes. «We have to get to the boat,» Yasmin shuddered. «Maybe if he can't hear the music…»

  It was awkward getting into the skiff, with Yasmin holding Wheezle, and me holding the gnome's hands. The boat rocked precipitously on the greasy waters of the Styx; then Garou plunged his punting pole down to the river bottom to hold the craft steady. «If you've damaged my paint job…» he growled.