by Mike Brooks
However, the anomaly is the Foretellings, or Prophecies. This work, phrased erratically and with a much poorer grasp of written language than all others attributed to Tolkar, also has notably shaky handwriting. And yet, the copy present in the Royal Library at Idramar is the sole text believed to be an original, surviving example of the Last Sorcerer’s own work.
In it, the author outlines events he claims will foreshadow the next ascension of the Divine Nari in His own flesh, rather than through His bloodline, and should be taken as an indication that He has been reborn. These vary from statements so vague as to be essentially meaningless (a reference to “masks falling from faces”, with no indication as to whether this should be interpreted literally or as metaphor, or “death and life standing together”) to the confusing (such as a mention of a period of extended darkness, which of course happens every year at midwinter in the far south, beyond even the Black Coast) to the truly alarming yet thankfully unlikely (the very earth erupting in flame, a plague of dragons, the ocean swallowing cities). Some have argued this last may have actually been fulfilled by the town of Bayecliff falling into the sea in 582GK when the cliffs upon which it was built collapsed, but a careful reading of the text shows it refers to the ocean rising, and presumably in a manner far beyond that seen even at a double moon…
Extract from ‘A Study of the Life of the Last Sorcerer, the man Tolkar’ by Omriel Kinnel, written in the five-hundred and ninety-eighth year of the God-King
ZHANNA
ZHANNA AWOKE TO stillness, and silence.
She’d woken to the ever-present sounds of the sea, and the motion of the Krayk’s Teeth beneath her, ever since she’d left Koszal. Sometimes it had been the cry of a bird, or the barely audible splashing of water beneath the deck’s timbers. Sometimes it had been the howl of a southern gale, and the deck beneath her tilting to spill her across the floor of the deckhouse with other sleepers and anything not lashed down. Even in the longhouse she’d shared with her mother, the whisper of waves on shingle had been near-constant, save for those rare, dead days when the wind stilled and the water rested.
In the stronghouse of Black Keep, behind high walls of stone a mile from the shore, the silence was so loud Zhanna thought for a moment that she’d gone deaf. It was only when she rolled over and heard the crackle of the bed beneath her that she realised she was simply missing something that had been virtually ever-present, and which had certainly been inescapable over the last two short moons.
She sat up, swung her feet out from under the thick woollen blankets and onto the floor. It would’ve been dirt in a longhouse, trodden down firm, but here it was wooden boards. They’d been fitted together with no gaps, long and straight and even, and were as smooth as polished blackstone. She’d slept in her shirt, but she pulled on her leggings, furs and sealskin boots before she padded to the northern window and unlatched the artfully carved wooden shutter.
Morning light flooded in, although most of the view was the white-painted wall of another part of the building. Zhanna turned and surveyed the room behind her, of which she’d seen little the night before.
The charcoal fire in the central pit had burned down to crumbly white ash, but she could still detect a hint of heat when she held her hand close. Otherwise the room held a desk and chair as richly carved as the chieftain’s seat her mother had left back at Koszal; and the bed, which was by far the strangest thing to her eyes. In Koszal, beds were chests of stone filled with bracken, then covered with furs. Here, the bed frame was carved wood, raised off the floor on legs like a chair, and the soft part was a wrapping of fabric around a filling of… something, possibly reeds. Whatever it was, it had been comfortable.
The room’s entrance was covered by a thick curtain, and when Zhanna pulled it aside she found herself in a living space. She’d walked through it the previous night, but the light the Naridan servants had been using hadn’t been strong. She now realised it was larger than her mother’s entire longhouse, and looked just as unused as the bedchamber.
A low table—little more than a polished block of wood, in fact—waited immediately in front of her. On it were arrayed a loaf of dark bread roughly the size of her hand, a small bowl of nuts and a wooden cup of what proved to be a watery version of the ale that had been served the previous evening.
A little while later, still chewing the last of the nuts (which tasted like they’d been dipped in honey), Zhanna ventured outside and descended the wooden steps leading down from the door of the building, and saw for the first time exactly how much space the Flatlanders had.
She was within the third walled court of the castle, she’d known that much. Now, in daylight, she could properly see the rich grass through which ran paths of gravel, a stand of trees—tall, dark pines she knew from Kainkoruuk, but also slender, silver-barked strangers—and even a small part of the river, diverted through the grounds. A stream emerged from the trees and formed a deep pool, spanned by a wooden bridge, then ran on and eventually disappeared under a small arch in the boundary wall to rejoin its parent.
Then, forming part of the wall bordering the river, was the looming monstrosity of the Black Keep itself.
It was built on a rampart of stone that alone was higher than Zhanna’s head, up which ran a flight of steep steps to the only door. It looked like three buildings stacked on top of each other, each slightly smaller than the one below, and with a flared skirt of red tiles that splayed out around its lower edge. The windows on the lowest level were covered with metal bars to prevent attackers from gaining entry to them, the crest of its roof was higher than a yolgu’s mast, and the whole thing had been stained dark, which presumably gave it its name.
However, of most immediate interest to Zhanna were the two massive skulls that flanked the door. Even from this distance she could tell they must have been as long as her outstretched arms, but they weren’t the flat, broad shape of a krayk.
Dragons.
The sound of footsteps on gravel alerted her to company, and she turned to see the old Naridan man Osred approaching. He was trailed by a girl, little more than a child, who peered curiously and somewhat fearfully at Zhanna from behind her elder.
“Good morning,” Osred said in his language, stopping a few paces away and bowing very slightly. Zhanna looked around. The sky was fairly clear, and although the day was not warm, she was nowhere near as cold as she’d been on the voyage here.
“Yes,” she replied, feeling some response was required.
“Tirtza brought word you had risen,” Osred said, and Zhanna narrowed her eyes. Had the girl been spying on her? For her part, Tirtza ducked slightly farther behind Osred. “Lord Daimon asked this steward to speak with you when you awoke.”
Zhanna frowned. Did all Naridans tell you they were going to speak to you before they spoke to you? She didn’t recall Nalon doing that.
“Yes?” she said, trying to help him along.
“You cannot leave the grounds,” Osred said. “If you try, the guards are instructed to stop you. You may not enter the keep, or the Lord’s chambers.” He gestured behind him, and Zhanna saw for the first time that there were more buildings, beyond the stand of trees.
“Who live here?” she asked, pointing to the door she’d just walked out of.
“These are the women’s quarters,” Osred replied. “Lord Bla— that is, Lord Asrel’s wife is no longer alive, and he had no sisters or daughters, so they have been empty for some time. Lord Daimon was gracious enough to set one suite aside for your use.”
Zhanna frowned. “Women not live with men?” Truly, these Flatlanders were strange!
Osred’s expression was hard to read. “Not the nobles, no. For the lowborn, yes.”
Even stranger! Still, it suited her, so she changed the subject. “What this warrior do here?”
Osred frowned. “Do you mean, how will you spend your time?”
Zhanna grunted. She’d thought the question was a straightforward one.
“How would you spen
d your time at your home?” the steward asked.
Zhanna shrugged. What kind of a question was that? “Fish. Plant. Cook. Cut wood.” She neglected to mention practicing with her weapons, since she hadn’t got them here, and didn’t think the Flatlanders would like to be reminded of it.
Osred seemed taken aback. Perhaps he’d assumed Zhanna and her mother lived like his Lord Blackcreek did, with people to do things for him. “You may fish in the river, of course.” He looked around as if for inspiration, then brightened and seized the girl behind him by the shoulder. “This steward has tasks he must complete. Tirtza, show…” He paused, and glanced at Zhanna uncomfortably. “Your name?”
“Zhanna.”
“Tirtza, show Zhanna where she can go in the stronghouse.” He bowed slightly again, then walked hurriedly away with the air of a man who’d just discharged an unpleasant responsibility and had no intention of waiting around to see if he was required further.
Zhanna eyed the girl. Show her where she can go? Yes, and spy on her while doing so, she had no doubt.
Tirtza, clearly just as uncertain how to behave towards Zhanna as Osred had been, took refuge in what she knew. She bowed, smoothing her skirts over her knees, and looked up expectantly.
“What can this servant show you?”
Zhanna didn’t even have to stop to think. She smiled broadly.
“Dragons.”
TILA
TILA HAD DECIDED virtually immediately that the docks of the Naridan Quarter of East Harbour weren’t much different to the docks of Idramar in any respect other than the pervasiveness of the smells. Something about the incredible humidity meant the stink of rotting seaweed, dead fish, tar, unwashed bodies and general water scum took you by the throat and settled. No wonder there were so many taverns; anyone working here must always be searching for a way to get rid of the taste.
“Your man is going to sound stupid,” Barach began, as they walked along the dock front. The surface was paved with slabs of stone, which was just as well; the torrential Alaban rain would leave the ground as slick mud otherwise.
“You’re wondering why this lady came ashore to find a Shark?” Tila asked with a smile. She’d bought a local contraption to keep the rain off—a cunningly-designed affair of waxed canvas—and was enjoying the relief of not having water constantly in her eyes.
“Your man is,” Barach admitted.
“This lady wasn’t referring to an actual shark,” Tila told him gently. “The Sharks of Grand Mahewa are the gang bosses, and they’ll each have their own turf or business. This lady has influence here, probably more than they realise, but these are still their waters, as they’d say. A Naridan woman trying to hire local knives won’t go unnoticed. Best to do these things openly.”
“You’re going to… ask permission?” Barach asked, surprised.
“If an Alaban came to Idramar and arranged for a family to be killed, in her city, this lady would take offence,” Tila pointed out. “She might even decide to make an example of them. She wouldn’t wish to be on the other end of that.” She peered past the canopy of her rain-roof and saw what she’d been searching for: a door with a quill pen painted above it, at one end of a tavern. “Ah, we’re here.”
“A scribe?” Barach asked, wrinkling his wet brow.
“Who better to keep this lady appraised of events in a foreign city?” Tila said. She nudged the door inwards, causing a bell above the jamb to tinkle merrily, then folded down her rain-roof and stepped inside.
A narrow staircase rose steeply, closed in on both sides by wooden walls and illuminated by the light from an unshuttered window. Tila could see another door at the top, propped open, leading to the space above the tavern.
A voice called a question in Alaban from above, an enquiry about identity.
“Is this the house of Skhetul the scribe?” Tila shouted back, in Naridan.
“… Who asks?”
“It’s the right place,” Tila muttered to Barach. He began to climb the stairs, the wood creaking under his weight, and Tila followed him up.
“This man says again; who asks?” the voice demanded, although with a slightly querulous tone. Tila wasn’t surprised. Barach’s heavy tread would surely sound ominous to a man who listened to his customers ascend and descend, and could likely judge their size accordingly.
“Someone who doesn’t wish to announce herself loudly,” Tila replied. “Fear not, we mean no harm.”
Barach reached the top of the stairs and ducked through the door, which was quite low, since it was set on one side of the sloping roof. Tila followed him a moment later, and found herself in a long, low room with wooden skylights above, although the shutters were closed against the rain. The two other windows were open, providing a view of the tavern’s vegetable garden, but it seemed the cloud-covered sky outside didn’t give enough light for the room’s occupant, who’d lit an oil lamp on the large desk behind which he was sat.
Skhetul was short and stocky, with hairless cheeks, and wore the hair on his head so short it must have been shaved with a wet blade. He was frozen in mid-movement, his quill halfway to the inkwell on his desk with what looked to be a bill of lading stretched out in front of him.
“Does this man know you?” he asked. Skhetul wore loose clothes in the Alaban style, and his Naridan was accented, but his features and colouring spoke of his ancestry.
“Only through our correspondence,” Tila told him. “This lady is Livnya of Idramar.”
Skhetul went very still for a moment, then calmly laid his quill down and bowed in his seat. “High Lady. To what does your man owe this pleasure?”
Tila felt Barach inhale beside her. She could guess what he was about to say, and cut him off with two fingers on his wrist.
“The family of which you spoke in your most recent message,” she said to Skhetul. “Which of the Sharks should this lady speak to, to ensure they can be removed?”
“Re-removed?” Skhetul stuttered. “As in…”
“As in blades, and flesh, and the application of one to the other,” Tila said calmly. “You write of the Sharks, so this lady knows you have at least some awareness of their names and natures.”
“High Lady, many people call upon this scribe to record things for them,” Skhetul said quietly. “He makes guesses and fills in blanks from what he hears, but—”
“Skhetul,” Tila cut him off. “If you’re willing to make bold claims when this lady is many miles distant, yet hesitant about them when she stands in front of you, she must ask herself how valuable you truly are as a source of information.”
Skhetul bowed his head again. There was a faint sheen of perspiration on his brow, which Tila was certain had not been there when she’d entered the room.
“High Lady, this scribe suggests you attend the blue warehouse on Fourth Channel, three evenings hence. You’ll be asked your business at the door, and should say you’re there to buy Morlithian silks. Take money to gamble; it’s a night of personal combat where wagers are staked by the spectators, and those who don’t wager are soon removed. The Hierarchs and the Watch don’t approve of it, so you must be discreet.”
“And must this lady speak those code words in Alaban?” Tila asked.
“Naridan should suffice,” Skhetul replied. “Once inside, this scribe believes you should seek out a person named Kurumaya. If this scribe has guessed correctly, Kurumaya is a Shark, and the one most likely to have resources in matters pertaining to violence.”
Tila nodded. “Thank you, Skhetul. This lady knew her faith in you wasn’t misplaced.” She turned for the door.
“High Lady,” Skhetul said from behind her. “If you’re asked how you came to know these names… If you should mention this scribe, it’s not likely he’ll be able assist you further. Kurumaya is not, he thinks, someone who’d appreciate being exposed in such a manner.”
“This lady understands, Skhetul,” Tila told him. “Come, Barach. Let’s leave our friend in peace.”
They we
re down the stairs and out of the door, and Tila had raised her rain-roof once more, by the time Barach found his voice.
“That was a wom—”
“Skhetul is a man, Barach,” Tila cut him off quickly.
“But she called hers—”
“He called himself ‘he’,” Tila corrected him. “We’re in Alaba, and you shouldn’t assume anyone is a man or a woman until they say so. Once they have, you should respect what they say, even if your eyes tell you different.” She sighed. “This lady’s seen knife fights between Alaban sailors where, between attempting to kill each other, they’ve used the foulest terms for each other their language can devise, yet not once did they refer to their opponent in such a manner. It’s beyond an insult, here.”
“It’s confusing, is what it is,” Barach muttered.
“Perhaps,” Tila said. “But given where we’re going three nights hence, this lady suggests you learn to guard your tongue. Lest the knives we seek end up aimed at us.”
DAIMON
RISTJAAN THE CLEAVER was to be given to the waves.
Daimon hadn’t seen details of the preparations, which had been done overnight. All he knew was that when he’d risen and come to pay his respects to his fallen foe, he’d found half of the man’s body had been painted in whorls of blue. The apparent artist was a dour-faced woman of middle years in a hooded robe, which was also dark blue. Her fingers were stained with whatever she’d used to prepare the corpse, and Daimon realised that it was the first time he’d seen any Tjakorshi wearing the colour. He also noticed there was a discreet distance between the woman and the score or so of other Tjakorshi gathered around Ristjaan’s body, laid out on a makeshift bier made from a sledge.