Beyond the gardens that fronted the Conservatory waited three fine, gilded coaches. Their teams were not made up of horses but dogs: twelve massive, square-shouldered dogs apiece, waiting silently but with eager eyes. There were no drivers that Pazel could see. But a crowd of onlookers had appeared, held at a distance by well-armed Masalym soldiers.
“Prince Olik! Prince Olik!” cried the onlookers. “What happened at the shipyard? Was it really the nuhzat?”
“It was,” said the prince. “I saw the man’s darkened eyes. But you must trust your grandfathers when they tell you that the nuhzat is not madness. At its worst it is a trance, at its best transcendence. If it comes back to us as a people we must call ourselves blessed.”10
“Your cousin the Emperor—will he think us blessed?” shouted an old woman.
The prince smiled ruefully. “No, he will not.”
The mob grumbled as Olik ushered the humans into the coaches. “I can give you honesty, my people, as I always have—or I can give you words to make you smile. Sometimes one cannot do both. Step lively, Dr. Chadfallow, in you go. Jorl and Suzyt can run alongside the pack.”
“They have names,” said someone.
“Of course they do,” said Pazel. “Don’t you name your dogs?”
His reply caused an uneasy stir—and Pazel realized suddenly that the speaker had not been referring to the dogs. A tall dlömic man pointed at them between the soldiers. “What are they really, prince?” he cried. “Demons sent to punish us? Tol-chenni cured by magecraft?”
“Don’t you know?” said Olik, swinging into the coach. “They’re our albino brothers, of course. From the Magnificent Court of the Lilac.” He closed the door with a bang.
Each coach had seating for six. Pazel was squeezed in between Thasha and the prince, facing Ibjen, Hercól and Chadfallow. “Home!” shouted one of the prince’s aides. The dogs yipped and whined; the carriage jerked once, then started to roll. Thasha called to Jorl and Suzyt, who fell in beside them, barking. The open space around the Conservatory gave way to narrow streets. Brightly painted homes, shops, taverns closed them in.
“You’re surprised by the dog teams,” said Olik. “They have always been preferred in the Middle City. The distances are not great here, and the beasts are versatile. A full pack like this one can be broken up into smaller teams, for smaller coaches, or even sent on errands alone, following routes they learn by heart. The city would be lost without its dogs, I assure you.”
“Are we going back to the Chathrand, Sire?” Thasha asked him.
“I certainly hope that some of you are,” said the prince. “But ride with me to the Upper City first. At the moment there is no safer place.”
They rattled across a bridge over the foaming Maî, then up a winding hill. Dlömic faces turned their way, staring. Flower vendors, holding out bouquets and calling prices, dropped their arms and gaped at the sight of human faces.
Life was clearly better in the Middle City. The roads were less potholed, the gardens less choked with weeds. No abandoned homes met Pazel’s eye, though here and there a broken window gazed forlorn upon the street, or a crumbling wall looked more patched than repaired. But such blemishes were slight after the wreckage of the Lower City.
“It truly is another world,” said Chadfallow, stooping to peer through the window. “I see almost no malnutrition—but would I recognize it in a dlömu’s face, I wonder?”
The prince gazed wistfully at Chadfallow. “A hungry child looks quite the same, whether human or dlömu,” he said. “As for the Middle City: yes, it is another world. This is the core that Masalym has shrunk to—but I fear it will shrink further still. There is food here, just enough. And there is safety from outside attack, so long as the river flows, and the guards keep up appearances on the wall. But there is no contentment anywhere in Masalym, no peace. Most dwellers in the Middle City have but one ambition: to gain a foothold in the Upper, to join its small, rich ranks. Events like a sudden outbreak of nuhzat only make them want it more desperately. And the ambition of those who already dwell in the Upper City is to forget the lower levels.”
“Forget them, Sire?” said Hercól.
“They would forget the Middle City except as a place the cook is sent for cabbages, or the butler for a wet nurse,” said Olik. “The Lower City they would forget altogether. It is not considered quite proper even to mention it, especially in front of children, or during a meal.”
“I don’t understand,” said Thasha. “They can’t not think about it. It’s sitting on their laps.”
“Their laps are hidden under a table of plenty,” said Olik.
Ibjen looked away, embarrassed.
Dr. Chadfallow frowned. “How can such an arrangement possibly continue?” he asked.
“How indeed,” said the prince. He drew the curtains over the carriage window. “Felthrup has done a great deed in warning us about that ship,” he said. “If we live through the next few days we have him to thank.” He smiled at Pazel. “Along with all the others in that nocturnal chain.”
“Your Highness,” said Pazel, “how is it that everyone is obeying you now? It can’t be just Vadu’s fear of the law that protects your family.”
“Quite right,” said Olik. “The Family Law should keep Vadu to heel—I have a witness to his attempt on my life, after all—but there is a deeper reason, too. It is very simple: when the Ravens arrive in Masalym, they will have either the Nilstone, or the heads of everyone who was guarding it. For Vadu there is no choice: he must catch Arunis, or spend the rest of his days in flight from Macadra.
“There is also the danger of panic. The city is afraid of you, and of the nuhzat, and behind both of these lurks madness, our people’s ultimate fear. I confronted the Issár this morning, and he needed all my help to overcome his own terror enough to look facts in the face. When at last he did, he named me Defender of the Walls, which is to say that I am now Vadu’s superior officer. I promptly removed him and his senior officers from the shipyard. I also demanded a look at those orders from the capital. They came last night, by courier osprey, and they confirm Felthrup’s warning: the Kirisang is en route to Masalym.”
“The Kirisang,” said Thasha, eyes lighting with recognition. “I read about her. She’s a Segral-class ship like the Chathrand. She’s one of the Great Ships that crossed the Nelluroq and never returned.”
“She is twice the age of the Chathrand,” said Olik, “but make no mistake: she is both sound and formidable. And she has been part of the Platazcra, Bali Adro’s great orgy of conquest, and will be outfitted for war in a most terrible fashion. But there is worse: Macadra herself is aboard that ship. Macadra, who has not left Bali Adro City in thirty years, except on astral journeys—Macadra who detests the sea. There can be but one reason for the journey: she intends to claim the Nilstone for herself. That would also explain why Arunis moved when he did. Better to abandon the Chathrand and the Shaggat Ness than to lose the Nilstone forever.
“Only one part of the message did I welcome: the fact that the bird was released, apparently, from Fanduerel Edge, which would mean that the Kirisang is still six days from here.”
“Thank the Watchers above,” said Ibjen.
But Olik raised a warning hand. “The sorceress may well have lied—especially if she hopes to catch Arunis off his guard. Moreover, the enchanted current may still be flowing, and speed them faster than any wind. And what if both are true? To be sure of escape, I fear you must leave by dusk tomorrow.”
“Tomorrow!” cried the others.
“But that is amazing!” said Chadfallow. “How did you convince the Issár to agree to our departure at all? Why would he compound his loss of the Nilstone with the loss of the Great Ship?”
“Because he is cornered,” said Olik. “To displease Macadra even in a small matter is quite enough to seal his fate. I have offered him one hope of survival, and he is jumping at the chance. As for the ship, her repairs are essentially complete. The larger problem is suppl
ies. Vadu’s men had not begun to lay in food or water, cordage or cloth. Except for the casks from Narybir, her hold is largely empty. Nor will we have time to load her properly, or to assemble enough preserved food for months at sea. It will be hard enough to get your crew marched back from the Tournament Grounds to the ship, and set them to work on the rigging. You will have to balance the cargo while under way, I fear.”
“But we can’t just sail off and leave the Nilstone with Arunis!” said Thasha.
“I very much hope that you will not have to,” said Olik. “We have already begun a house-to-house search of the Lower City. It is a daunting task: Masalym’s army is small, and the panic caused by the nuhzat has led to desertions. Nonetheless, if Arunis remains in the Lower City, we will find him.”
“We’ll help you, Sire,” said Pazel.
“Don’t be a fool,” said Chadfallow. “You heard what Hercól said about the terror at the port. Our faces would only add to the chaos, and make it that much easier for Arunis to know we were coming.”
“The doctor is quite correct,” said Olik. “But once we have Arunis cornered it will be another matter. I would welcome your help if it comes to a fight.”
“It will come to a fight,” said Hercól, “now or later. But Sire: both search and fight could be more easily won if I had Ildraquin. You must question Vadu again. I told you how I raced ahead of his men before we were imprisoned, and placed the sword just inside the magic wall. But this morning it is gone, and as you know, there is a jagged hole in the wall.”
“Vadu makes no secret of having carved that hole with his own blade,” said Olik. “He is proud of the deed.”
“As well he should be, if he has plucked Ildraquin through the wounded wall,” said Hercól. “I saw no sign of it about the stateroom, or in any of the cabins. Felthrup never saw the sword at all, and though he spoke with Ensyl and another ixchel woman, I saw neither them nor any of their people. Whatever the truth, I must regain Ildraquin, for it was entrusted to me by Maisa, rightful Empress of Arqual.”
“And yet it was forged here, in Dafvni-Under-the-Earth,” said the prince. “Yet another sign that the sundering of our two worlds is nearing its end.”
“Why would Ildraquin make the search any easier?” asked Thasha.
“The sword will make it effortless,” said Hercól, “so long as Arunis keeps Fulbreech at his side. I never managed to wound the mage, but I did cut Fulbreech on his chin. And here is something I have never told you, Thasha: Ildraquin leads me, like a compass needle, toward any foe whose blood it has drawn.”
“Ah,” said the prince, “then it is a seeking sword as well. I did not know any were left, after the burning of the Ibon forge. We must find it, clearly.”
“And pray that Arunis has kept Fulbreech at his side,” said Chadfallow. “What a shame that you did not at least nick the sorcerer’s little finger, Hercól.”
Pazel thought of the fight on the lower gun deck, how he had set Arunis free by attacking him, and felt himself burning with shame. All of this because of me. People may die because of me.
Suddenly he realized that they were nearing a waterfall: its deep thunder had in fact been growing for some time. Olik spread the curtains and whistled once. The carriage rumbled to a halt.
They climbed out, and Pazel saw that they had reached the base of yet another cliff. It was narrower than the others, and only some eighty feet high. The Maî poured down in a torrent just beside them. A gust of wind bathed them in cool, delicious spray.
The cascade fell into a lake edged with chiseled stone and surrounded by gnarled fir trees; to their left the Maî flowed out of the lake to continue its winding descent to the sea. Pazel’s heart skipped a beat when he saw a dlömic boy no taller than his knee fling himself into the churning water. Then he thought: The boy can swim, of course he can, and saw that the lake was full of boys, and girls too, and that none of them feared the river in the least.
But when they saw the humans the children began to scream.
“No time for a swim, Mr. Pathkendle,” said Olik. “This way, if you please.”
The street entered a tunnel in the cliff wall, heavily guarded and sealed with an iron gate. But the prince was marching toward the pool, and now Pazel saw that a narrow walkway ran between it and the cliff, very close to the waterfall itself. One of the guards ran ahead of Olik and unlocked a small door set into the cliff.
The guard opened the door and held it wide. “Plenty of lift today, Sire.”
Olik nodded and led them (mastiffs and humans alike) into the passage. It was short, and not as dark as Pazel expected, for there were light-shafts cut into the stone. At the end of the passage were two round steel platforms, each about the size of a small patio. These platforms were attached to the passage wall at two points by thick beams that vanished into slots, and before each was a large metal wheel mounted on the stone. The prince stepped quickly onto one of these, and beckoned his companions to do the same. When they had all crowded onto the platform, Olik nodded to the waiting guard. The man spun the wheel, and a clattering and jangling of chains began somewhere above. Pazel looked up: a straight shaft rose through the stone, cut to the exact shape of the platform.
“Mind the dogs’ feet, Thasha,” said the prince, and then the platform began to rise.
“Water, again,” said Hercól.
“Of course,” said the prince. “Ratchets, pulleys, a wheel behind the falls. Most citizens use the tunnel; these lifts are for royalty and other invalids.”
The ascent was rapid; before Pazel knew it daylight struck him full in the face. The platform was rising straight out of the ground. When their feet cleared the top of the shaft it stopped with a clang.
“Welcome to the Upper City,” said the prince.
Under the bright sun Pazel felt himself shiver with awe. They were in a gazebo-like structure at the center of a grand plaza, built around a curve in the Maî. Slender trees with feathery crowns swayed in the wind. Beds of white and purple flowers surrounded them, bees and hummingbirds competing for their nectar.
Beyond the gardens, the Upper City spread before them like a box of jewels. Pazel had never seen Maj Hill, the famous Etherhorde district where Thasha grew up, but he wondered if even its fabulous wealth could compare. Every building here was tall, with slender windows that glittered like sugar frosting and spires that reached for the sky. There were four- and even five-story mansions, with great marble columns and imposing gates. There were soaring crystal temples, and bridges over the surging Maî, and other bridges that leaped from one building to the next. Right at their feet began a splendid boulevard, paved with ceramic tiles of a deep russet-red. Straight through the Upper City it ran, like a carpet—and ended, some three miles from where they stood, at a breathtaking building. It was a pyramid, but flat at the summit, as though the apex had been cut away with a knife. Except for the long rows of windows at various levels, the whole building appeared to be made of brass. The side that faced the sun was nearly blinding.
“Masalym Palace,” said Prince Olik, “where I hoped you would be received with dignity by the Issár. Very little, alas, has gone as I hoped. But that may change today.”
Another set of carriages awaited them at the edge of the gardens. A crowd stood about them: wealthy dlömu with servants and children in tow, watching the lift with frank curiosity. But already a strange reaction was spreading among the watchers. At first sight of the humans’ pale skin (and Thasha’s golden hair) they were turning away, and soon all of them were rushing from the plaza. Pazel saw one or two begin to glance back and check themselves, as if to preserve the appearance of having seen nothing at all.
“They are even more fearful than those below,” said Chadfallow.
“They are better educated, after a fashion,” said the prince. “They know what it means to be associated with anything to which the Ravens might object. And they know full well that my power in Masalym is a fleeting thing, no matter how I work to help them while it
lasts.”
“The pyramid is raised!” said Hercól suddenly. Pazel looked again. It was true: the huge building rested on low, thick columns of stone.
“Family tradition,” said Olik. “ ‘Your kings are not bound to earth like other men,’ we tell our subjects. ‘The winds pass under us; we are creatures of the sky.’ Even our country homes are raised a little off the ground. It makes for cold floors.”
They boarded the carriages, and soon they were moving down the red road at a fast clip, the dogs pulling eagerly, the mansions flashing by.
“Sire,” said Thasha, “suppose you track down Arunis—what then? Do you think that you can defeat him?”
“You know full well what a terrible opponent he is,” said the prince, “and yet we do stand a chance. He may be more vulnerable now than ever, for until he masters the Stone it will be more weight than weapon. And though he has great powers of his own, he is still reliant on that human body of his—that mortal shell. He will not be able to defy the warriors of Masalym, and all the enemies he has made on the Chathrand—and his newest enemy, Vadu, bearer of a Plazic Blade.”
“Fashioned from the bone of an eguar,” said Hercól, looking at Pazel and Thasha. “You were right.”
“So you guessed, did you?” said Olik. “Ah, but then you, Pazel, have confronted an eguar in the flesh. I doubt, however, that you can have imagined anything so terrible as what actually befell us. We reached for power, and attained it; but that power has been a curse. Should we recover from it—and that is not certain at all—it will be as a chastened country, wounded and poor, and certainly no longer an Empire.”
“Did the eguar themselves curse you, Sire?” asked Chadfallow.
“In a sense,” said Olik. “As you know they live for thousands of years, and when death finally approaches they make a last pilgrimage, to one of the deep and terrible Grave-Pits of their ancestors. In such pits they end their lives, so that their flesh may decay atop the bones of past generations. They shed their skins in these places as well, once every five or six centuries. If anything these are acts of kindness on the monsters’ part, for the remains of an eguar, steeped in poison and black magic, are as dangerous as the living beast.
The River of Shadows Page 47
