Vispek kept his eyes on Pazel. “Neda is correct,” he said. “Dreams are warnings, and must not be ignored. The next time you feel that caressing hand, you can be sure a knife will follow. Watch your step.”
“I will, Cayer Vispek,” said Pazel.
“Damn it, Pathkendle!” I sputtered. “This is Thasha you’re talking about!”
The tarboy looked up at me, chewing. “Thasha,” he said. “Thasha Isiq.” As if the last name changed something for him.
A few minutes later we left the brig, with ixchel scurrying ahead & behind. I was aghast at the whole exchange. What kind of horrid nonsense had Pazel been listening to, in that black cell for three hopeless days? What ideas had those Sizzies stuffed him with? I grew frantic, & as soon as we cleared the checkpoint I dragged him from the ladderway & pressed him up against a wall.
“Flimflam!” I said. “Mule dung! A man will dream anything when his heart’s broken. That don’t make it true!”
“You don’t understand,” he said. “My sister’s special. Wise. They both are, as a matter of fact.”
It was worse than I feared. “Pathkendle,” I implored. “My dear, sarcastic, sharp-tongued tarboy. Religion’s a fine thing, a truly noble thing—except for the believing part. Trust me, please. It’s worse than what a girl can do to you.”
“Nothing is.”
I groaned aloud. “Pitfire, that’s true, of course. But so is what I’m telling you. Listen to me, for the love of Rin—”
He met my eyes at that. “For the love of who, Mr. Fiffengurt?”
I stood up straight. “That’s a different matter, the Rinfaith. It’s part of society. And it ain’t so extreme, like. You know what I’m saying. Barbaric.”
He frowned a little at that. “I just wanted to talk to my sister,” he said, “and that Vispek bloke won’t let her talk except about grim and serious things.” Then he smiled at me, with his old sly look. “Maybe he hoped she’d win me over to the Old Faith. Not a chance. Neda’s never been able to talk me into anything.” He laughed. “But it sure kept them talking. And I must have done a good enough job, if I fooled you too.”
I could have smacked the little bastard. Or kissed him. I was that relieved.
“What was all that about her being special?” I asked.
“Oh, she is,” he said. “Mother cast a spell on Neda, too. All these years I thought it hadn’t worked, hadn’t done anything to her, but it did. It gave her perfect memory. You wouldn’t believe it, Mr. Fiffengurt. I wrote a six-foot string of numbers in the dust & read them to her aloud. She recited them all back to me in perfect order. She didn’t even have to try.”
I just stared at him. What could I possibly say? “You’re from a witching family,” I managed at last. “But does she have mind-fits, like you?”
“Sort of,” he replied. “She told me her memory can be like a horse that runs away with its rider. It just gallops off & she’s trapped, remembering more & more, faster & faster, even if what she’s remembering is terrible. I told her that sort of thing happened to me on Bramian, when the eguar made me look into Sandor Ott’s mind, and learn about his life. Neda said, ‘Imagine if at the end of that vision you couldn’t escape, because the mind you were looking into was your own.’ ”
The eguar. He’d never spoken to me of it before, but I’d heard him telling Undrabust about the creature. Like a crocodile, but demonic & huge, & surrounded by a burning haze. “What did that monster do to you, Pathkendle?” I asked him now.
Before he could make any answer, we heard the scream. It came from away aft, one or two decks below. A blood-curdler, if ever I heard one: a great man’s howl of pain, a warrior’s howl that twisted for an instant into a high womanish screech & was then cut off as if the throat that uttered it had just ceased to exist.
We ran back to the Silver Stair. The ixchel shrilled & threatened but we barreled past ’em. I already had an idea where we were going. Turach voices were exclaiming: “Oh no, no! Ruthane, you mad mucking—”
Seconds later we were there, in the manger. There was an unspeakable stench. The Turachs were clumped around the Shaggat, moaning; one of them had staggered away & vomited all the food he’d been allotted. But I knew that wasn’t what I’d smelled. It had happened again. Someone had touched the Nilstone.
I made myself draw nearer. There he was. Or wasn’t. Then I saw the armor, lying in that heap of bone-dust. Sweet Rin above, he was a Turach.
“He cut the sack with his knife,” said another of the marines. “He just reached up & cut a hole & put in his hand. What for, what for?”
Turachs do not cry, but this one was as close as I ever hope to see. Then he noticed Pathkendle. “You! Witch-boy! Was this another of your tricks? If you made him do it I’ll muckin’ break you in half!”
“I didn’t,” said Pazel, looking a bit ill himself, “and I couldn’t anyway, I swear it.”
“And he ain’t a killer, either,” I said.
“No, he ain’t,” said another. “He’s a good lad, even if he is a witch-boy. He’s proved that much.”
The soldier who’d snapped at Pazel looked at him now & nodded curtly. But his face was in a crazy rage. He looked down at the jumble of metal, teeth & bones that had been his friend. “Aw, Ruthane,” he said. Then his hands became fists. “By the Nine Pits, we know who can do this sort of devilry. Arunis! That’s right, Muketch, ain’t it?”
Pazel nodded. “Yes, sir. I believe it is.”
“Arunis!” howled the Turach at the top of his lungs. He drew his sword & held it on high. “You’re dead! You’re a Turach trophy! Can you hear me, you burst boil on the arse of a graveyard bitch? We’re going to snap your bones & suck the marrow. We’ll pull out your guts with our teeth, do you hear me? You’re mucking dead!”
And then, as if a startling thought had just occurred to him, the man spun around & thrust his hand into the hole in the sack his friend Ruthane had opened—and the Nilstone’s killing power ran down his body, fast as a flame takes a scrap of paper, and he was gone.
The pandemonium, the terror, the mourning beside those piles of ghastly remains: it went on through the night. I am at last back in my cabin, scribbling, unable to sleep. This is how Thursday begins.
[19 hours later]
No further attacks yet—& no sign of the sorcerer, though Rose has ordered the blary vessel torn apart from the berth deck up, & the ixchel swear on their ancestors’ souls that he’s not to be found on the lower decks. All the same it’s been a frightful time. Last night I saw Pathkendle back to Bolutu’s vacated cabin, inside the magic wall. I secured his oath not to stir before daylight, no matter what, even if he should be subjected to the misery of hearing Thasha & Fulbreech together in the stateroom. I gave my last report to the duty officer, looked up once more at the crowd on the walkway above (some of the dlömu have not tired of staring yet) & staggered back to my room. I had just closed my eyes when the door swung open, & who should slip into my cabin but Hercól. The Tholjassan raised a hand, warning me to be silent. Then he crouched by my bed & whispered:
“You must not ask me any questions, nor think too long on what I am about to say. I have given you grounds to trust me, have I not?”
“Pitfire, Stanapeth, of course,” I said.
“Then hear me well: you released Pathkendle out of kindness, but in truth he was safer in the brig. A thing may happen soon that will tempt him to interfere—yet he must not. So I must enlist you, though I wished to involve no one else in this matter. If the time comes, you may have to restrain him by force. And Neeps as well. Neither of them will understand.”
“Those prize idiots. What have they got themselves mixed up with this time?”
“This time they are blameless, Graff. But I told you—no questions. Only be ready to take them far from the stateroom, and keep them there, under lock and key if necessary. Be ready to do it the instant you hear from me.”
“Lock and key?”
“Listen to me, you old bungler,” he
said, growing fierce. “You cannot fail in this. Lives are at stake, and not only the tarboys’. When the moment comes it will be too late to think of a story. Choose one now. I would hear you rehearse it before I go.”
“All right,” I said in surrender, thinking frantically. “The hag’s pet, Sniraga. Undrabust saw her last week. I’ll tell ’em I’ve got her trapped—in the bread room, say, and need help catching hold of her. There’s just one door, and it’s got double deadbolts.”
“Not brilliant,” said he, “but it should suffice. They trust you entirely.”
“They blary well won’t after I pull this trick! Stanapeth, why—”
He clamped his hand over my mouth. “Be ready, but do not dwell on what we have said. That is crucially important. You will understand when this is over, Graff. Let us hope it will be soon.”
With that he was gone, & I lay back stunned. I groped for my emergency bottle of brandy & nipped a mouthful. Remember, be ready, don’t think. How in the Nine Pits did one obey?
It occurred to me that I might yet salvage forty minutes’ sleep out of that hellish night. Once more I closed my eyes. Once more, as if the Gods had waited for me to do just that, the door flew open, this time with a bang.
Uskins blundered in, winded, looking even worse than I felt. “You loafer!” he croaked. “Still abed, and drinking, and everything falling to pieces!”
“You certainly are,” I said, taking in his wild red eyes & uncombed hair. “What’s happened to you, Stukey? Have you seen the doctor?”
“I’ve seen the surgeon’s mate.”
“What, Fulbreech? I know more about illness than that son of a Simjan mule. Go talk to Chadfallow if you’re poorly.”
He shook his head. “Mules have no sons. Nor daughters either.”
“What?”
“And Dr. Chadfallow is an enemy of the Crown.” He pointed with an unsteady finger. “So are you, for that matter.”
“You smell like bad meat, Uskins. Go see him.”
Uskins gave me a derisive smile. “And shout my troubles through the glass for all to hear. You’d like that, wouldn’t you?”
“Why are you here?”
The question recalled him to his purpose with a start. “Get up, get dressed! They’re coming aboard!” With those words he clawed his way out of my chamber & ran thumping away.
I pulled on my clothes & raced after him. Light poured down through the glass planks: it was well past sunrise. I came out topside into a cool crisp wind—& saw the city for the first time by daylight. It was even stranger than the night before: huge but empty-feeling; the numbers of people out on the cobble streets too few for so many homes. Some places looked cared for; most did not. Even as I glanced up, a flock of dark birds flowed like spilled ink from an upper window. Another house stood in a tangle of brush that might have once been plantings, but now half covered the door. On its way to becoming a ghost-town, I couldn’t help but think.
All this waste & decay, within the splendor of the city wall, the mighty halls & temples & towers, the river winding its grand path among those statues, the lovely bridges, the farther cliffs & waterfalls. And above & behind them, huddled giants, the mountains.
But how was I able to see so much? It became obvious the moment I lowered my gaze: we were no longer trapped in the shaft. Some water-gate had been closed in the night; we had risen those last thirty feet, & then some. The upper basin was almost full.
We were hemmed in once more by crisscrossed lines: nudged, I supposed, until we floated where they wanted us, which was alongside the bridge-like walkway jutting out into the basin. Our quarterdeck now floated level with the walkway’s rail.
And along that walkway was coming a procession.
It was headed by a small, weird animal. It was probably a goat, but it had tusks instead of horns & slobbery lips & it minced along like a well-trained dog. Behind it came two drummers, & these were even stranger beings: stocky, almost frog-like, nearly as wide as they were tall, with eyes like a bloodhound’s & huge fidgeting hands. They wore uniforms of dark red cloth with blue sequins & their bare feet flap-flap-flapped along the walkway. Their drums were big, mournful barrels strapped to their chests & they beat them very slowly, taking turns. The effect was like the ticking of some dismal clock.
Next came twenty or more dlömu. They were soldier types & terrifying to behold: hard of eye & huge of build, with murderous halberds, hatchets, spears. They’d seen battle, too: scars, old burns & gashes & puncture-wounds, marked their faces & limbs. Around me the Turachs grew wary & still.
In the thick of the soldiers, two figures stood out. The first was Olik, frowning & impatient, but dressed now like the prince he was: in a fitted jacket of cream-white leather that stood out smartly against his black skin, a sea-blue cloak, a crimson sash across his chest.
Beside Olik walked an even more extravagant person. Tall & pale for a dlömu, he wore a doublet of green leather & black iron rings, finished with a gold breastplate emblazoned with the Imperial leopard & sun. He was a warrior like the others & scarred to prove it. But what a face! His eyes jerked & darted; his lips were apart: he looked to be suffering permanent amazement. When he walked his head bobbed up & down like a hobby horse’s. The man’s webbed fingers, sparkling with dark purple jewels, caressed an ornate scroll case tied with a golden thread.
Captain Rose was rushing to assemble his officers. Some stood with him already; others, like myself, had to shove through the mob. We were all there: Alyash, Uskins, Byrd, Lapwing, Fegin, Coote, Tanner, even Old Gangrüne, looking musty & irritable. All of us hurried to Rose’s side. Most of the officers were in dress uniform; I felt the captain’s wrathful eye take in my dishevelment. At hapless Uskins he did not even glance.
We formed a line behind the captain. I saw Pathkendle & Undrabust & Marila standing nearby, & on the other side, quite apart, Lady Thasha, with pretty-boy Fulbreech at her side. Taliktrum was there too, balanced on the gunwale in his feather cloak, a fair swarm of ixchel around him.
The procession reached the end of the walkway, & the drumming ceased. For a moment we were on display again. Olik looked at his folded hands, wearing a sly little smile. The pale dlömu just stared at us in shock. But a moment later his eyes narrowed, & his mouth tightened to a line. He shouted something, & his soldiers drew apart. Quick as you like, the little tusken-faced goat-creature minced forward to the walkway’s edge. It stopped there & eyed us expectantly, waggling its ears.
Silence. Rose looked around for guidance. So did the goat. Then Bolutu squeezed through the crowd to Rose’s side. I didn’t catch his words, but the captain’s response was plain enough: “You’re joking!” & “I’ll be damned if I will!” & finally, “No, & no again. You’re barking mad—”
Gasps and hisses from the dlömu. Rose shut his mouth. He stared incredulous at Bolutu, who was still whispering, pleading. At last our captain, looking as though he were about to eat something noxious, stepped forward & bowed to the goat-thing.
The creature blinked, pawed the stone. Then it bent its forelegs & knelt.
A great sigh went up from the onlookers ashore. One of the guards lifted the animal & bore it quickly away.
“Well done,” said the prince, smiling down at us. “Old rites must be respected, friends. The birthig is the city’s liege-animal. When it kneels to visitors, it is granting leave to enter the city. Symbolically, of course.”
Alyash & I traded looks. What if it hadn’t blary knelt?
Then the amazed-looking dlömu with the rings stepped forward. No smiles from this bloke. “I am Vadu,” he said, “Commander of the Plazic Battalion of Masalym, & First Counselor to His Excellency the Issár. It is with regret that His Excellency does not greet you in person, but he looks forward to receiving you in the Upper City at his first opportunity.”
“That is very good of him,” said Rose. “And we thank His Excellency for his gift of food. Last night my people ate well.”
The dlömu’s head gave one of its
bobs. He looked a bit put out, & I noticed a sudden unease among the onlookers. They were drawing back, sharing urgent whispers. And all at once I thought to wonder just who had provided our meal.
Vadu held up his scroll case. He gazed at us severely, as if we should know quite well what it contained. Untying the golden thread, he pulled out the parchment & held it at arm’s length. One of the drum-wielding creatures waddled over & stood at his elbow.
I am used to odd & cumbersome ceremonies. The Merchant Service has its share. Anni’s family too, when it comes to prayer cycles & whatnot. But none of them could touch the strangeness of the next thirty minutes. Vadu began to read in a flowery dlömic, much less like Arquali than anything we’d heard to date. I’m sure I didn’t catch more than half of it—& this despite hearing every word twice. For each time Vadu paused, the drum-bearing creature at his side would inflate his deep chest, tilt his head straight upward, close his eyes & belly-scream the words to the edge of the city. We winced. The creature was shockingly loud; he set dogs barking far away up lonely streets.
What I did grasp of the message was this: that the Issár, something like the mayor or lord of Masalym, was deeply honored to preside over the city chosen for a visit by the people of the Magnificent Court of the Lilac (that phrase I’m sure about: it was too weird to get wrong). The Issár considered this “Court” a treasure of the world of Alifros, & the arrival of the ship a reason for boundless civic pride. There was a great deal next about the Emperor Nahundra, away in Bali Adro City, & his “welcoming embrace” of all people, everywhere. Mixed up with the “welcoming embrace” talk was quite a bit about the Plazic Legions of Bali Adro, which he also called the Dark Flame, & how their goodness & virtue had made them a fighting force none could stand against.
The proclamation went on to assure us that his people respected the solemnity of our visit, mindful as they were of its “celestial significance,” & that of course we deserved more than just the rite of the birthig-beast. For the Court of the Lilac, nothing but “the full and sacred ceremony” was enough—at this point Vadu gestured for some reason at the drummers. “Our mizralds will not disappoint you,” he said.
The River of Shadows Page 25
