by Karen Miller
Sprawled on the boat's deck, the witch-man Sun-dao stirred and whispered something in the Tzhung tongue. “Emperor Han great,” he added in Ethrean. “Emperor Han in the wind.”
Zandakar frowned. Was that the same as being in the god's eye? Aieee, tcha, life was simpler in Mijak. In Mijak there was one god, it was the god, there was no thought of other gods. Out in the world every man had his own god, and the god of Mijak was nowhere. It was wrong, it was confusing. Vortka could explain.
Vortka.
Not answering the witch-man, he looked across the water to the lights of Jatharuj. Vortka was there, in that sleeping place. Aieee, god, to see him again. To see Dmitrak, and Yuma.
His heart pounded, shaking him.
If I see them, will I die? I did not come here to die, I am come to save Mijak. Am I in your eye, god? Will you see me save Mijak?
The god did not answer.
Slowly he let his body drop to the deck, till he was no longer kneeling but sitting. Pulling one knee to his chest he rested his elbow on it and pressed a hand to his face. In that darkness of his own making he felt Dexterity's hand come to rest on his shoulder, felt the toymaker's warm regard like sunlight.
“Oh dear,” said the toymaker, his voice gentle. “Yes, it is all rather overwhelming, isn't it? But…it's all right to be frightened, Zandakar. Rollin knows I am.”
“ Wei frightened,” he whispered, and knew it for a lie. “Thinking, to find Vortka. Save Mijak. Save Ethrea.”
“Do you truly think that's possible?” In the darkness Dexterity sounded so sad, without hope. “Tell me honestly, Zandakar.”
Slowly he lowered his hand from his face, met Dexterity's anxious gaze without flinching. “ Wei know. Must try.”
“Yes. You must try,” said Dexterity, sighing heavily. “But if you fail, what then? If you fail and you're taken, you know you'll be killed. If you fail and we somehow escape Icthia, if we by some miracle get home to Kingseat, then what? Will you fight your family, Zandakar? Will you pick up a sword and try to kill your mother? Your brother? I know you're a blooded warrior, Zandakar, but could you really do that?”
Yuma. Dimmi. Both deaf to the god, both blind in its eye though they could not see that. I can see it, the god has shown me, how can I show them? Can I show them? Must they die? Must Vortka die if I cannot make him see?
He was oathsworn to Ethrea, he would do what he must. He looked at Dexterity and nodded, slowly. “For Rhian? Zho .”
“Oh, Zandakar,” said Dexterity, and took away his warm hand. “I don't know whether to be relieved or sorry.”
Neither did he. “Find oars, Dexterity.”
“And if there aren't any?”
He snorted. “You know swim, Dexterity? I wei swim. Wei oars, you swim with me to Jatharuj.”
Dexterity's mouth dropped open in horror. “ What ? Oh no, I don't think so. Just you wait. I'll find the oars.”
The Tzhung boat rocked without purpose on the water's gentle swell. So much water, they were small in the god's eye beneath the endless sky. The night was warm and peaceful, silent except for the ocean's soft song. Once in the strange journey here, when Sun-dao was again forced to drop them out of the otherness they travelled through so he might recapture his strength, they returned to a world lashed by a towering storm. Great walls of water. Lumps of ice. Howling wind. Dexterity was nearly washed right over the side to die.
Sun-dao, his head cut and bleeding, his eyes alive with a dreadful black flame, had called on the wind's strength to fill him with power. Into the living air he had risen, arms spread wide, black eyes burning. An anguished scream was ripped from his mouth. He seemed to grow bigger, to spread thin on the wind. A light had shone in him, he glowed in the storm ridden darkness like Dexterity.
And in a blink, in a heartbeat, they disappeared from that place.
That was two leaping whirlwinds ago. Now Sun-dao looked emptied, a tired old man wrapped in yellow skin and black silk. Looking at him, Zandakar felt his belly clutch tight. Did the witch-man have the strength to return them to Ethrea?
The god see him in its eye and give him that strength. The wind blow in his bones, make him strong in his power.
Was it wicked and sinning, to call on the wind?
Let Vortka tell me when I see him again.
Across the dark water the lights of Jatharuj flickered. Closer now, for the swelling ocean carried them towards land. Closer to Vortka, to Dimmi, to Yuma. Closer to the warhost, to the warriors he once had known and loved, taught and tamed and cherished and chastised.
Closer to the life he had left so far behind.
“Zandakar! I've found them!”
Startled, and startled to be caught by surprise, he turned to look at Dexterity. “Oars?”
“Yes,” said the toymaker, his hands full of wood. “And do you know, I'm remembering something. An old smuggler's tale. Something about muffling the sound of oars in the water…” Dexterity frowned, unsteady on his feet as the small boat rolled on the waves. “We need to wrap the oar blades with sacking and tie it on, so they don't splash so loudly. At least, I think that's how they did it. I don't suppose it can hurt, either way.”
Sacking? Was there sacking? What was sacking? He thought some kind of material. The Tzhung boat that had carried them here was mostly empty. The witch-man Sun-dao had told them it must be so, or he could not move it so far in the wind. Small, cramped, so very uncomfortable, it had not been a pleasant journey from Kingseat to Jatharuj.
“Is there sacking, Dexterity?”
“No,” said the toymaker, sounding fretful. “I'd say use our blankets, but they're shredded to pieces after all that travelling in the wind. I suppose we could rip down the sail, but I don't think that's a good idea.”
Zandakar looked at Sun-dao, listless on the deck. “He has clothes, we take them.”
“Take them?” said Dexterity. “Strip him, you mean? Should we do that?”
His answer was to pull the silk tunic and trousers from Sun-dao's flaccid body. Beneath them the witch-man wore a loincloth, he could keep it.
“Zandakar, what if he catches cold?” said Dexterity. “Do we really want a witch-man like Sun-dao cross with us?”
He looked up. “You want Mijak warrior cross with us?”
Dexterity winced. His face bristled with hair, his rust-red and grey beard grown back unchecked. In the lamplight his eyes were tired, he was a very tired man. “Give his clothes here. I'll do my best to tie them onto the oars.”
Sun-dao's eyes were half closed, he did not seem to notice he was almost naked. His skin beneath his black silk was covered in tattoos, red and black and green and blue, as though he wore a second skin made of ink. Some were pictures: wide-winged birds, snarling striped cats, strange beasts with talons and tails and scales. Words too, Tzhung writing, the letters were strange. Zandakar felt his skin crawl, to see them.
Dexterity finished his task and handed over one silk-wrapped oar. “There you are. If we pull together I'm sure we'll reach the port.” He rubbed a hand across his eyes, he did not sound sure. “I suppose we should douse the lamp. We don't want anyone seeing us. Best get the oars put in place first, though.” He pointed to holes cut into each side of the boat. “These slots. That's where they go.”
Zandakar hefted his oar. “ Zho .”
With the oars fitted he shifted to douse the lamp, but Dexterity grabbed his arm. “No. Wait. Zandakar – what if dousing the lamp's not enough? Even with the oars muffled we're going to make noise. There are bound to be sentries at the harbour. If they hear us…”
If a warrior found them, they would be dead. Dexterity's eyes were wide with worry.
“Han said Sun-dao could hide us in the wind . But Sun-dao looks three-quarters dead to me. What shall we do?”
Zandakar looked at the witch-man. It was true, he hardly seemed to breathe. He leaned over Sun-dao, pinched the witch-man's earlobe hard until the witch-man moaned and opened his eyes.
“Oh, be careful, Zandakar
!” said Dexterity. “Don't hurt him.”
Tcha, Dexterity. Soft, kind man. “Sun-dao,” he said. “You wake. You hide us in wind.”
So slowly, making little noises of pain, Sun-dao sat up, looked around at the boat, the water, the distant harbour's lights. At the great, spreading shadow that must be the warship fleet of Mijak. “Icthia?”
“Yes. Jatharuj,” said Dexterity. “Don't you remember?”
Sun-dao was shivering, he was a sick man. “Yes.”
“Sun-dao, we don't dare go into the harbour unless we're sure we won't be seen,” said Dexterity. “Can you do what the emperor said? Can you hide us in the wind?”
The witch-man took a deep breath and nodded. “Yes.”
“And when we want to be seen? How does that work?”
“Touch,” said Sun-dao. His teeth were chattering.
“All right,” said Dexterity. “Then you'd best do it, quickly. I want this nonsense over and done with so we can get home to Ethrea.”
Sun-dao's eyes narrowed, and he hissed. “Respect Han's witch-man!”
Dexterity snorted. “I see you're feeling well enough to scold.”
“ Tcha ,” said Zandakar. “Sun-dao. You hide .”
The shivering witch-man closed his eyes, he tipped his head back and spread his naked arms wide. He sang in a harsh voice, he called on the wind. It seemed to Zandakar the witch-man's tattooed skin was writhing, his tattoos were living, they crawled like living things upon his flesh. He heard Dexterity's choked gasp and knew the toymaker saw it too. In the boat's meagre lamplight they saw Sun-dao's tattoos come to life.
A teasing, swirling breeze sprang up, it rattled the boat's sail and tugged at their clothing. The boat rocked on the water, waves slapped and splashed its hull. The warm night air chilled, it grew suddenly cold.
Then the world disappeared.
“Oh!” cried Dexterity. “Zandakar, I'm—”
In a blink, a heartbeat, the vanished world returned.
Dexterity was gasping. “Rollin's mercy. What was that?”
The boat's lamp still burned. In its weak light, Sun-dao shuddered. His tattoos had died, his skin was unmoving, his witch-man power slept.
“Han,” he said, his eyes wide, his stare blank. “Han – I must – I must—”
With a rattling exhalation he slumped to the deck.
“Oh, no,” said Dexterity. “Zandakar, is he—”
Hand pressed to the witch-man's chest, he shook his head. “ Wei . He lives.”
But Sun-dao's heartbeat was feeble. He did not say that to Dexterity. The toymaker was already nervous enough.
“Thank God,” Dexterity whispered. “We might still get home.” In the lamplight his tired eyes were bright. “Oh, Zandakar. Are we really here? Is this really happening?”
Puzzled, he nodded. “ Zho .”
Dexterity smoothed a shaking hand over his beard. “It's just…this isn't supposed to be my life, you see. I'm a plain, ordinary man. I'm a toymaker . Yet here I am, in a boat on the ocean with a sorcerer and a heathen warrior, about to row into an enemy port. And if that's not bad enough, after that I'll be walking right into the lion's den! I'm mad. I must be.”
Walking? Walking where? “Dexterity, you wei walking. You in boat with Sun-dao.”
Dexterity shook his head. “Don't be silly. I'm coming with you.”
Into Jatharuj? To see Vortka? Maybe to see Yuma and Dmitrak after? “ Wei. Wei . You stay in boat.”
“I can't,” said Dexterity, staring. “Weren't you listening, back in Kingseat? I'm responsible for you, I can't let you go traipsing off alone. Besides, when we get home I have to be able to say I saw with my own eyes what happened here. Nobody's going to take your word for it, Zandakar. Someone like that Gutten will call you a liar and that'll be that.”
He did not want Dexterity in Jatharuj, it was too dangerous, Dexterity was his friend. He looked at the witch-man. “Sun-dao can come.”
“Don't be ridiculous. Sun-dao's unconscious! And even if we could wake him, he needs to stay in the boat and rest if we're to have any hope of getting home. Anyway, he's Emperor Han's witch-man. The ambassadors won't believe him any more than they'll believe you. But I'm Mister Jones, the burning man of Ethrea. They've seen me and my miracles. They won't dare call me a liar.”
Dexterity sounded bitter, he did not sound pleased to be a miracle man. He was in his god's eye, he did not want to be there.
“Dexterity—”
“ Wei ,” said the toymaker. “I'm going with you and that's final. I can tell you it's what Hettie would want. And Rhian.”
Hettie and Rhian, there was no arguing with both of them. Zandakar sighed and pressed his fingers to his face. A small pain pulsed behind his eyes. “Tcha, Dexterity. Zho . You come.” He doused the lamp. “We row.”
They rowed, not smoothly, too much splashing at first. Zandakar had to work hard to match his pull with Dexterity's, the older man was slower, he did not have the same reach. They entered the harbour, it was crowded with warships, crowded so close it was hard to row between them. Zandakar felt his beating heart falter. There were warships enough here to carry the largest warhost in Mijak's history.
If I fail in Jatharuj they will sail to Ethrea, they will sail into Kingseat, the kingdom will fall.
The words were like a tasking, he felt beaten by his thoughts.
I am one man, I am Zandakar, I am outcast from my kind. How can I stop them? How can I make Vortka listen to me?
He did not know, the god must see him. It must see him in its helping eye.
See me, god, see me save Mijak for you and for Yuma. See me save it for Vortka and for Dimmi. For me.
They reached the dock. There were torches burning, showing spaces between the ships, wide enough for the small Tzhung boat's passage. Zandakar rowed looking over his shoulder, with hisses and grunts he told Dexterity how to row. At last, with a gentle thud, a kiss of wood on wood, the Tzhung boat struck an empty sliver of pier between two looming Mijaki warships.
They had reached Jatharuj.
It was an awkward scramble to get out of the Tzhung boat, there were no steps, they banged their knees and scraped their fingers. They stood on the pier and stared down at Sun-dao in the boat. The witchman did not stir, his chest barely moved with breathing.
“He looks dreadful,” whispered Dexterity. “As good as dead. Are you sure it's safe to leave him?”
Safe? What was safe? They were in Mijak where every warrior wanted to kill them. He was a warrior with no snakeblade at his side.
“We must, zho ?” he said, shrugging.
Dexterity sighed. “ Zho . We must.”
They turned their backs on silent Sun-dao and walked along the empty pier towards the streets of Jatharuj.
There were warriors at the gates guarding Jatharuj harbour. Zandakar felt Dexterity falter, heard his uneven breath as they came upon the torchlight and the warriors standing guard in the night. He took the toymaker's wrist in a warning grasp, fingers tight. In the spreading torchlight Dexterity's eyes were wide with fear.
“Trust Sun-dao,” he whispered. “These warriors wei see us.”
Lips tight, Dexterity nodded. There was sweat on his forehead. They walked past the guards as though the warriors were blind, or dead. Looking at their faces, Zandakar did not know them.
These are Dmitrak's warriors, they do not belong to me.
They left the harbour behind and made their way like mist along the dark winding street that led to the township. As they drifted silent and unseen in the night, Dexterity sniffed.
“What's that smell? It's not the harbour, or the ocean. It's something else. Something…”
Zandakar breathed deeply, he felt his old life stir. He knew what it was, he did not want to say.
“It's blood !” said Dexterity, he sounded horrified. He stood still. “I can smell blood , Zandakar. It's not fresh, it's old, as though the stink of it has soaked into the air itself.” His fingertips touched the stonewor
k beside him. “Into the streets and the walls of the buildings.”
“It is Mijak, Dexterity,” he replied, his voice low, stopping also. “We are in Mijak, Mijak smells of blood.”
So many godmoons in a strange place, so long since he had breathed Mijak's blood-touched air. He let his head fall back, he breathed in his home, he breathed it out. Memories surged and swirled, with his eyes closed this could be Et-Raklion.
But Et-Raklion does not smell of salt also, there is only blood there. In Et-Raklion I did not hide in the wind, I rode the streets in the god's eye, as its warlord, I feared nothing and no-one, I did not wear shadows. I was the god's hammer there, I wore its gauntlet of power. Aieee, god, so much has changed. I have changed, I am a stranger.
“Zandakar,” said Dexterity, and tugged at his sleeve. “Zandakar, what's the matter?”
He opened his eyes. “Nothing.”
“It's so silent, this place,” said Dexterity, voice hushed. “As though the township's deserted. Kingseat's never this quiet, even in the small hours. There's always something going on.” He looked around them. “Silent, practically pitch black. There's not a soul stirring, Zandakar. Can this be right, or has something gone amiss?”
Zandakar shook his head. “ Wei . This is chalava-takrazik .” Dexterity stared at him, not understanding. He could not think of Ethrean words to explain the quiet time. “Men sleep. Chalava in the world. Sunrise come, men in the world.”
Dexterity was frowning. “You mean it's a kind of curfew?”
Curfew. He did not know that word. He shrugged. “ Zho . Maybe.”
“Well, if everyone's indoors, Zandakar, if no-one's out and about, how do you think we're supposed to find this Vortka of yours?”
He shrugged. “ Chalava .”
“Of course,” muttered Dexterity, pulling a face. “ Chalava . Silly question, Jones.”
Zandakar started walking again, and Dexterity walked with him. They walked to the end of the narrow, crooked street where it joined a wider street that sloped up from the harbour, leading towards the main township of Jatharuj.