The River of Shadows

by Robert V. S. Redick

  “Later we’ll have to be quiet,” she said, and sat astride him.

  She used her mouth as she never had in any previous kiss. She heard him gasping, felt his hands on her thighs, his legs moving beneath her. She sat back trembling. The struggle was almost over.

  “You don’t know who you’re dealing with,” she said.

  “No?”

  “I was raised by Syrarys as much as my father. She came out of the slave-school on Nurth. She was trained in love. I spied on them for years. How she moved, what she said. I saw how she … made him happy.”

  “You can’t have known what you were seeing.”

  “I was at the Lorg School, too.”

  “Learning to be a wife?”

  Thasha didn’t answer. Slowly, watching him, she unbuttoned her shirt.

  Fulbreech was motionless. Thasha’s lips were parted, her face almost stern. When his own hands moved at last she put her head back and closed her eyes. Do not think. That is crucial. Do not let it be real.

  He was atop her; she lay back and put a hand in his hair. When his kisses became more urgent she squeezed her left hand into a fist. The wolf-scar on her palm, self-inflicted years ago, felt suddenly raw and unhealed.

  Voices in the outer stateroom. Greysan froze, cat-like, his chin an inch above her breast. “It’s Hercól,” she whispered. “Damn him, damn him. Why can’t he just stay away?”

  “Bolutu as well,” he said, frustration in his voice. “Thasha darling, we can be careful—”

  “No!” she whispered. “I can’t, I’m sorry, if they heard me, I’d—”

  Fulbreech could not catch his breath. He began again, and she stopped him instantly, her hand tight on his wrist.

  “They don’t know you’re in here,” she said. “Just stay with me, Greysan, stay right here and hold me. And later, when they’re asleep—”

  He looked at her. For a moment she thought he’d gone beyond the reach of words. Then a sigh of anticipation passed through him, and he settled by her side.

  In the bread room, Neeps was pounding on the door. “Fiffengurt! You’ve blown your gaskets! Open this blary door!”

  “Not possible, Undrabust,” came Fiffengurt’s voice. From the sound of it he was seated with his back to the sturdy, tin-plated door. They had already heard him telling puzzled sailors to mind their own business.

  “What in Pitfire did we do?” shouted Neeps.

  “You didn’t do anything. Just calm down, now, save your breath. And speaking of breath, you’d better snuff those lanterns. That’s an airtight room.”

  Neeps turned his back and began mule-kicking the door. “Why—why—why—why?”

  “Ouch! Stop that! Screaming will do you no good.”

  Pazel sat in the center of the chamber, in the flour and the dust. The entire room—walls, floor, door, ceiling—was lined with tin, as a protection against nibbling mice. Their lanternlight reflected dimly from the walls.

  Fiffengurt had caught them easily: told them to clear away the stacked and empty bread-racks, since “that red monster’s got to be lurking in one of the corners,” then slipped out as soon as the work began to throw the deadbolts. Neeps had exploded, but Pazel had not said a word. Everything that had happened since Thasha stalked away from the tonnage hatch was suspicious. But he could not for an instant believe that Fiffengurt would betray them. Nor would Thasha, for that matter. Something else was going on.

  “Liar!” spat Neeps at the door. “You made all that up, about Sniraga!”

  “ ’Course I did,” said Fiffengurt. “Now just sit tight like Pazel’s doing, there’s a good lad. I’m not doing this for fun, you know.”

  Neeps was working himself into a lather. “You’re a lunatic! Let us out! Pazel, why don’t you mucking do something?”

  “I am doing something,” said Pazel. “Be quiet. Let me think.”

  “You’re a daft white-whiskered fat old pig, Fiffengurt!” bellowed Neeps. “What have you done with Marila?”

  “Oh come off it, Undrabust,” said Fiffengurt. “How should I know where Marila went? Back to the stateroom, I imagine. Ah no—fancy that!—here she is in the flesh.”

  “Hello, Mr. Fiffengurt. Hello, Neeps.”

  Marila’s voice was oddly circumspect, but Neeps paid no heed to her tone. “About time!” he shouted. “Get around that old pig, Marila, and slide those bolts!”

  “I can’t, Neeps.”

  “Then run and tell Hercól that Fiffengurt’s a lying, sneaky, sell-’im-cheap-to-the-sausage-grinder fat old pig.”

  “Neeps,” said Marila, “try to be like Pazel for once.”

  “Listen to your lady, Undrabust,” said Fiffengurt. “Sit down and relax.”

  Neeps threw his body against the door. He staggered, bruised, and backed up for another run. Pazel shook his head. It was never a good idea to tell Neeps to relax.

  Thasha, for her part, was already unconscious. She lay holding Fulbreech, her long hair pooled around them, her breath deep and even. Fulbreech touched her with his fingertips. He, of course, remained wide awake. Sandor Ott would murder him if he fell asleep on the job.

  Bolutu was gone at last, but Hercól remained in the outer stateroom, reading; Fulbreech could hear the scratch of turning pages. The girl was right, sound carried; it would have been madness to pleasure himself on her until the Tholjassan retired. She had saved him from a grave mistake. A human mistake, as his master would have said with scorn.

  But his hunger for this girl: that was human too. He saw no reason why he should not have her when the man departed. He could allow himself that much. So many months of waiting, performing, drawing her in but never seeming to, never arousing her suspicion. Even Ott would agree that the timing was right. And yet he’d held back, let her own hunger flourish, her curiosity. Let her worry in her girl’s foolishness about him “escaping her.” Yes, it was very well done. If she was ready to give her body she’d give anything. The Polylex, whenever he wished to take it. The truth about Pathkendle’s Gift, the whereabouts of Ramachni, the secrets of that lovely clock.

  But how close he had come to ruin, merely through the weakness of the flesh! Ah, but you didn’t, Fulbreech: and hasn’t your whole life been a gamble for the highest of stakes? For that was what he was: a gambler, possessed of exceptional instincts, and addicted to the dare. Some gamblers played with caution, and hoarded what they feared to lose; others raised their bluffs without a backward glance.

  Thasha Isiq, of course, was a trifle. His master might arrange for him to keep her, but if not—well, for a chancellor of a new world power, there would be as many women as nights to fill them. And for the moment, in any case, the girl was his. Fulbreech lay there, savoring the image of her fingers freeing buttons, her brief abandon, that foretaste of the meal to come.

  Then Bolutu returned. The youth’s anger flared: did they plan to come and go all night? But the dlömu was now in a very different state of mind. His boots pounded across the floor, and quite audibly, he said, “It’s happening! They’re taking him! Tomorrow at dawn!”

  Fulbreech held his breath.

  “Tomorrow?” said Hercól, incredulous. “Are you certain?”

  “Prince Olik himself will lead the team,” said Bolutu, “with sixty handpicked warriors at his side. His man just handed me a note over the gunwale. I went straight to Rose, of course, and the captain promised once again to cooperate. What else can we do, he said to me, with that sorcerer killing left and right?”

  “Those may be the sanest words Rose ever uttered,” said Hercól.

  “Haddismal was present as well, and he concurs: ‘Let them have it,’ he said, ‘the sooner the better.’ He was quite relieved, I think: the Nilstone is not an enemy he knows how to fight.”

  “But they could kill the Shaggat trying to extract the Stone from his grip,” said Hercól. “Haddismal must not understand the risk.”

  “He understands perfectly,” said Bolutu. “He’s simply come to see what we always hoped he wo
uld: that armed with the Nilstone, the sorcerer threatens Arqual itself. ‘My oath is to the Ametrine Throne,’ he said, ‘not any one order that comes down from it. His Supremacy didn’t know about the Nilstone when he sent us off to deliver the Shaggat. If he orders me to prune his garden and I see killers climbing over the wall, do I go on snipping roses? Is that how I prove I’m a loyal subject?’ ” Bolutu laughed. “For all his talk, though, I think he holds out hope that they will manage to take the Stone without destroying the Shaggat altogether. The prince, apparently, told Rose that they would spare no effort to do just that.”

  Fulbreech lay petrified. Rose, Haddismal and these traitors, collaborating? The Shaggat and the Nilstone, removed? This was all wrong. His master had assured him nothing would happen for a week.

  Hercól too sounded suspicious. “How did Olik convince the Issár to go along with this plan?” he demanded.

  “I know nothing of that,” said Bolutu. “I am only glad that he succeeded. Think of it: six hours from now, that accursed Stone will be off the Chathrand.”

  “And beyond the mage’s grasp,” said Hercól. “Belesar, can it really be true?”

  “It is true, friend. Our oath will be fulfilled at last—for neither Arunis nor any other power will be able to wrest the Nilstone from that guardianship. With the sunrise, Erithusmé’s long task will be over—and the worst part of ours as well.”

  What were they doing, embracing? Yes, by the sound of it they were hugging each other and laughing. “Over,” said Hercól, as though savoring the word. “The horror, the decades of treachery, the slow strangulation of two Empires.”

  “Three,” said Bolutu. “You cannot forget what Arunis did to these lands of mine.”

  “I will never forget his crimes,” said the swordsman, “and his ultimate punishment I will deliver with this sword, Rin willing. But first things first. Ah, Belesar! Tomorrow will be a bright day for Alifros—for the world as a whole, not these splintered tribes we call nations, which greed and villainy have made mad. Come, let us go to Oggosk at once.”

  Oggosk! Fulbreech’s amazement boiled over into a twitch. He froze: Thasha mumbled in her sleep, pressing closer to his side.

  “The duchess awaits us even now,” Bolutu was saying. “But where are Pazel and Neeps? For that matter, where are the young ladies?”

  “All abed,” said Hercól. “Come, snuff that lamp for me; we shall go at once. I’ll wake Thasha and the tarboys when I return. They will want to be up and watching when this nightmare comes to an end.”

  Moments later the outer door closed behind them. Fulbreech found that he was drenched in sweat. His master had been deceived! The youth was outraged, and very frightened. The wondrous future that had opened before him was about to be snatched away.

  But his training under Sandor Ott had never failed him, and it did not fail him now. Terror manifests in a sphere of inaction; make your choice and it falls away, mud from the runner’s feet. Calm returned. Dawn was still hours off. With consummate patience, Fulbreech slid from Thasha’s embrace, untangling one limb and then another, soothing her with kisses when she stirred, for to this girl his presence was safety and his kisses a drug; and because he would never have her now (uncoerced, at any rate) he bent to graze her breast with the lips that had lied to her since Treaty Day, and then he was out of her bed and easing open the cabin door.

  The dogs watched him emerge. They had never taken to him, never licked his hand; indeed their eyes chilled him slightly, as though the brutes knew better than their mistress what he was about. Still, he had Thasha’s protection, and he passed unhindered between their hulking shapes. Like a mother hen, Suzyt crouched atop what could only have been Felthrup, precocious little dreamer, another whose death could not come soon enough.9

  He pressed his ear to the stateroom door. Not a sound from the corridor. He smiled, turned the handle and stepped out into the hall. No light in the passage: better still. He moved down it, soundless, congratulating himself already. Even after this night she might trust him, he realized suddenly. Why not? They came and went for hours, darling; surely it was best that I stole away?

  But what was he thinking? After tonight there would be no more games with Thasha Isiq. His master would have other tasks for his clever, his irreplaceable aide.

  Seconds later Fulbreech passed through the magic wall. He felt nothing, but Thasha did. Her eyes snapped open. She pressed a hand against her mouth. She rose and groped beneath the bed for the wide bowl she’d placed there for such a moment.

  Somewhere in Etherhorde the Mother Prohibitor was smiling: So you were paying attention after all, child? Never forget who taught you, who made you what you are. Thasha’s stomach heaved. The food they’d shared burst out of her, an acrid pulp. It was the first good feeling in days.

  Of course she’d not slept an instant—but feigning sleep had been, by far, the easiest part of the act. She buttoned her shirt. It was her father’s but all the same she would burn it. She ran to the washroom and plunged her face into a bucket of salt water. Don’t blame us, Thasha Isiq. You hated us, spat on our tutelage, pretended you’d never need such skills. We gave them to you anyway. Are you still too proud to thank us?

  A growl, murderous, bestial, wanted to tear itself from her throat.

  No time for that. Back in the stateroom she donned her sword, knife, gauntlets. She called her dogs: they rose like dark lions, eager to hunt. Out through the stateroom door they went, then down the passage, through the magic wall and the Money Gate.

  “They’re waiting for you, Thasha,” came a voice from the wall.

  “Thank you,” she said. “And remember, Ensyl—you promised.”

  “When we give our word, Thasha, we do not forget. Listen for me; I will come.”

  Thasha raced up the ladderway, swift and soundless. Let it be me, Rin, only me who deals with Fulbreech. I’ve earned that much, haven’t I?

  On the topdeck the night shift was still at repairs. It was very windy; the lanterns sputtered, and the torches of the dlömic guard writhed fitful and low. Thasha’s bare feet were cold on the dew-spattered planks. But just ahead of her the door to Rose’s cabin beneath the quarterdeck creaked open an inch, and there was Rose himself, scowling, beckoning. “What took you so long?” he whispered, tugging her in.

  Pazel stared at the lamp before him. Fiffengurt was right: it would have to be extinguished. Already the bread room was filling up with fumes.

  Outside the door there was an ominous silence. Marila had not spoken again, and Fiffengurt had stopped answering questions. But there were new sounds, creaks and cleared throats and footfalls, and they didn’t belong to the quartermaster and Marila alone.

  Neeps was still pacing, raging, coughing on the smoke. In time he heard the new voices as well. Staggering over to Pazel, he whispered, “They’ve brought reinforcements. Good show, mate, sitting there like that. When things get rough, drop on your bum and brood, I always say.”

  Pazel caught him by the arm. “Be quiet. Please.”

  “Quiet? Quiet? You’ll be saying that when Arunis grabs the Stone and fries us like a skillet of clams!”

  Pazel closed his eyes. In the depths of his brain an idea was fighting for air (as he himself was, with growing difficulty). No matter how he struggled it slipped away, just out of reach. Neeps went back to the door, coughing and shouting for Marila.

  At last Pazel had it. He opened his eyes and turned to face a cluttered corner. The very corner where he had briefly crouched, looking for Sniraga. He crawled forward, shouldering the bread boxes to one side.

  Neeps saw him and hurried back to his side. “What is it? You have a scheme, don’t you? Tell me!”

  “The floor,” whispered Pazel. “Look at it, right there.” He pointed at a spot some three feet out from the wall. Neeps stepped closer, squinting: almost imperceptibly, the tin floor sagged.

  “My knee did that,” said Pazel. “I put my weight there, and felt it bend. I’d nearly forgotten—it happened j
ust as Fiffengurt was locking us in.”

  “A weak spot?” said Neeps.

  “Something even better,” said Pazel. “A bare spot is what I’m guessing: a place with no planks beneath the tin.”

  “What on earth makes you say that?”

  “Think about it,” said Pazel. “This is the orlop, and we’re two compartments forward of the Holy Stair.”

  “So?”

  “Neeps, that’s damn near dead center above the spot where the ixchel set their trap.”

  “The charge, you mean? The black-powder charge that nearly blew Ott to pieces?”

  “Right,” said Pazel. “Uskins was talking about it only yesterday—in the middle of his rant about finding and killing the remaining ‘crawlies,’ remember?”

  Neeps’ eyes gleamed suddenly. “Pazel, you’re a wonder! He said the blast tore up the ceiling, didn’t he?”

  “Right again,” said Pazel. “Now give me a hand.”

  He turned and began shoving the bread boxes closer to the door. Neeps pitched in at once, asking no further questions. The fumes were by now very strong; when they stood up they could hardly breathe at all. Somehow they managed to push the majority of the boxes close to the door; then they hurried back to the corner.

  “Hold this,” said Pazel, passing Neeps the lamp.

  By its dim light Pazel crawled toward the low spot in the floor, pounding experimentally with the heel of his hand. At first the tin rang dully against solid wood: the low solid planks of the underlying floor. But as he neared the spot, it changed. It sounded hollow, and his blows caused the metal to shake. He rose to his feet and jumped. From beneath him, faintly, came the sound of falling debris. “We’re getting out of here,” he said.

  “Don’t be … too sure,” Neeps replied between coughs. “The metal’s nothing sturdy, I know. But we’d still need … tin shears, or a hacksaw maybe. I’m sorry … you know I want out of here as badly as—Pitfire, watch it! What do you think you’re doing?”

  Pazel had kept one of the bread boxes near at hand. Now he was raising it with difficulty above his head. He pointed one sharp metal corner at the floor. “Stay back,” he said, and brought it down with all his might.