Broken Shadow

by Jaine Fenn

  “Uh, yes.” She had her satchel with her, as usual.

  Francin took a closer look at the building he’d been pointing out when she interrupted him. He had thought it might be a manor, but viewed through the sightglass it turned out to be a barn. Prendor assured him they would still find a way to get fresh supplies.

  Rhia interrupted. “How near are we to the caravan route?”

  “I’m sorry,” said Prendor, “but how is that relevant?”

  “The caravans have way-stations in the umbral run by traders who, frankly, will sell anything to anyone.”

  “Good idea,” said Francin, then frowned. “Our map obviously didn’t show such later additions but I wonder if road parallels the tunnel. Worth sending men out I think.”

  The general nodded. “I’ll organise a couple of small parties, out of uniform.”

  “Good. I know I can trust you to keep a low profile. Well, I’ll leave the camp in your hands. Lord Crethen will assist.”

  From the look Crethen gave her he was less than delighted at losing his place in the diplomatic party. Francin left the two men making arrangements.

  Rhia kept pace with him. “Right. So, we’re going to Mirror. What happens then?” Other than considerable surprise and consternation amongst those in charge, she imagined.

  “If all goes to plan then the new caliarch will have just had a fatal mishap.”

  “The new caliarch? What happened to the old one?” She had an idea Numak, or whatever his name was, had been aged and infirm.

  “He died, just before Between. I believe the new, rather younger, one is being crowned, well, today. Sadly his reign will be cut short by an unknown assassin.”

  “Your assassin.”

  “Not traceably. And the eunuchs will have cause to suspect his father.”

  “Mekteph, you mean?”

  “The very individual.”

  “Would he really kill his own son?” What she knew of Mekteph made her gladder than ever she had not been forced to marry him, but that did not mean he would murder his kin.

  “Some in Zekt say he does not love his children, perhaps even that he wished they had a different mother. More importantly, he wants the throne for himself, not just as regent for his boy. Now as it happens the prince also has a daughter, and she is of age with Temlain.”

  “You plan to marry your son to Mekteph’s daughter?” Once again, Francin had surprised her.

  “Betroth, at this stage. They’re still children. But yes, that was always the plan, eventually. Unfortunately things had to be brought forward due to… unforeseen circumstances.”

  “What about Mekteph? Will he agree to this match?”

  “The return of his sister will be most persuasive.”

  Rhia was sure Francin wasn’t telling her everything, but decided not to push him. She had enough to process.

  “Now,” said Francin, “anything you can tell me about Zekt would be of use. Obviously I have my sources, but you’ve been there in person relatively recently.”

  “I never got to the palace.”

  “Which was probably for the best.”

  “Yes.” Mekteph had almost certainly wanted her brother as a political hostage, what seemed an age ago. Thinking of Etyan now, she realised that despite his self-absorption and bruised heart, his current situation was arguably better than hers. Better than anyone else’s in Shen, like poor Markave. But remembering events at the priory reminded her of something else. “I, er, do know the eparch. You might even say we’ve become friends.”

  “Really?” She had actually managed to surprise her cousin in turn.

  “Yes, really.”

  Francin clapped his hands. “Having the eparch’s support would be immensely useful, Rhia. Would you be able to speak to him directly?”

  Rhia considered Francin’s request. “I see no reason why not. What was the other reason we have to hurry?”

  “I’m sorry?”

  “You said we need to get to Mirror quickly because of the, ah, tricky political situation there. Was there another reason?”

  Francin’s face fell. “Yes. What we left behind. My people are alone in the ruins of my shadowland, with no idea what is going on. They are dying. We have to negotiate a way for them to come here, to live here, as fast as possible; it’s their only chance of survival.”

  She nodded again. She couldn’t argue with that. But when the discomforts of the tunnel let her she had been thinking more deeply on what had happened – and would happen. “Francin, I think I have some idea of what we’re dealing with now.”

  “And can the effect be reversed?” Brief hope showed in his voice.

  Which she must quash. “No. The shade-swarm is way beyond our reach. And I’m afraid I have more bad news…”

  After she had explained her new theory, and what it meant for all the shadowlands, Rhia saw surprise on her cousin’s face for the second time that morning. But unlike her revelation about the eparch, this was not an expression of pleasant realisation, but of profound shock.

  CHAPTER 55

  Just the boy.

  Sorne stared at the note. He should really have destroyed it, along with the others he’d burnt last night. He’d had this paper, with its three-word instruction, for months now, and he knew what it meant. But he needed the black-and-white reminder of his duty, in the duke’s own hand.

  He’d practised assembling the weapon a dozen times while Sharrey was out, and no longer needed the duke’s diagram and instructions. He’d had to oil the iron components, which had developed a rough red coating, something the duke had warned him might happen in Mirror’s damp air. Practising firing it had been trickier, and had involved some clandestine night-time trips ashore, but it turned out to be easier to use than an ordinary bow.

  Looking at the handbow now, where it sat on the low table next to the note, he wondered who had come up with this nearheretical, lethal device. It was an object of dark and compelling beauty. It was a shame it would end up in the bottom of the lake when its work was done.

  Outside, someone was singing; another voice joined them in the anthem praising the eternal caliarch which he’d heard Sharrey singing under her breath around the house. A quick glance out the window showed that the grand channel itself remained clear. However, the edges of this isle and the one opposite, and most windows in sight, were full of people. More joined in the song by the moment. Everyone was looking left, towards the Eternal Isle, trying to catch a glimpse of their newly-crowned ruler. If anyone did look his way they would only see a fellow Zekti, sat a little way back from the window.

  He’d been worried that the owners of this house would return to Mirror for the coronation, so yesterday evening he’d played the tourist and taken a punt past the house for one last check. The ground floor windows were still shuttered and he’d seen no lights. Later that night, after his last bridges had been burned, he’d put on his new Zekti disguise in an alley two islets down, then returned and levered off a shutter on a side window. Once inside he found evidence of the earlier break-in – fabric strewn over a workroom, drawers pulled open, and a broken pot – but no signs of recent activity. The family dispute really had put everything on hold, thank the First.

  He’d still checked out every room before allowing himself a couple of hours’ sleep in this upper bedroom.

  The song was getting louder, and he could hear distant cheers now. He shook his head, trying to clear the sudden image of Sharrey singing that song, furtively but tunefully.

  She’d caught him burning the duke’s notes last night, just as he’d expected she would. The smoke had woken her and she’d rushed from the bedroom with a face full of fear. Fear turned to anger when she saw that her house wasn’t on fire, just that her apparently-drunk partner was setting fire to random papers. She’d snapped at him, asked what he thought he was doing.

  He’d shouted back that it was none of her business. She’d lowered her voice to say it was. He ignored her. She’d raised her voice, asked again
what he was doing. And he’d finally let the beast out, become his father’s son. He’d straightened, and slapped her.

  They’d paused then, the two of them, while the duke’s papers crackled and shrivelled on the stone hearth. Then her shoulders had dropped, and she’d turned away.

  Even hitting her hadn’t been enough to break their bond. So he’d strode over to her dresser, and swept the plates off first one shelf, then the next, then the next. Some broke; some didn’t. He stamped on them, kept stamping, and then finally looked up and there, there was the hurt in her face, the sign he’d driven her too far.

  His face twisted in disgust – at her, and at himself – he’d walked out without a word.

  He hoped and prayed the poor cow would one day find a man who treated her the way she deserved rather than the way she expected. But he doubted it.

  The row would have woken Tamak up. He should’ve gone into the boy’s room to say goodbye before he burnt the papers. Tamak was ailing; he’d be dead before the year was out.

  And now he had to think about a different boy. Or rather, try not to think.

  The cheers were getting closer.

  He picked up the short ironwood bolt from the table, careful of its glistening tip. Next to it was his paring-knife, sharp enough that a single slash would open his throat if necessary. Zekti torturers had a reputation for extracting truths from even the most stubborn prisoner.

  The water below was rippling; a high bow eased into view. Sorne dropped the bolt into place and picked up the handbow.

  The royal barge was decked in flowers and foliage, and an honour guard lined the side railings. They were armed, although dressed in their finest and standing still as statues. At the front, under the gold and black canopy, the newly crowned caliarch sat on his carved throne, there for all his subjects to see and adore.

  Sorne raised the handbow to brace it against his shoulder. His fingers found the firing-lever on its underside.

  The caliarch’s crown was a towering construction of, Sharrey had once informed him, five sacred woods covered in actual gold leaf. The boy looked tiny beneath the absurd mass of carved and shining filigree.

  Tiny, but an easy target. Sorne sighted along the spine of the bow. It only took a small motion, a flick of a fingertip

  So tiny, and so terrified.

  His finger froze.

  I can’t do it.

  He willed his finger to move. This was why he was here. This was why he’d given up two years of his life, deserted his friends, hurt an innocent woman; lied and stolen and killed. So many shameful deeds, because the end would justify the means. He had to follow through.

  But he couldn’t. He hadn’t saved his two sons. He couldn’t save Tamak. But this boy, stranger though he was, didn’t have to die at his hand.

  The barge was passing.

  He jerked his gaze up.

  The young caliarch wasn’t alone at the prow of the royal barge. His massive throne had half hidden the figure standing on the far side, one hand on his son’s shoulder, his expression triumphant. Some of the rumours Sorne had heard about Prince Mekteph…

  The duke had entrusted him with this mission. He had to follow orders.

  But the duke wasn’t here, had no way of knowing how things were now, in this land so distant from his own.

  Someone in Ramek’s had said that once the prince became regent, he’d have no further use for his son – who, given the way the Zekti royals were, might not be his son anyway. One day soon the boy would suffer an “accident”, they said, and Prince Mekteph would finally get what he’d always wanted, and become caliarch.

  Sorne raised his aim, and fired.

  CHAPTER 56

  It was amazing how simple pleasures could lift the spirits. Rhia sighed and lowered herself into the water, running her fingers through her hair to dislodge the muck and dried sweat and massaging her shoulder where her satchel had chafed. The first time she had visited this inn she had not had a bath because its bathhouses were communal. Now, by keeping her shift on and not making eye contact with the other women in here, she’d conquered her embarrassment at public ablutions.

  She had asked Alharet if she wanted to join her. The duchess had said nothing on the long, hard walk from the umbral to the inn. None of them had, to any degree. Though Rhia had had her share of unusual experiences, it was especially surreal to be trudging on blistered feet through a foreign land towards an uncertain future with the duke and duchess of Shen.

  Alharet’s response to the offer had been to blink and shake her head. Rhia had thought that was it until the duchess said, in a small voice, “I doubt it would be permitted.” As she spoke she had looked across at the silent guard shadowing her. They had three militiamen with them, including Captain Deviock, all in civilian clothes.

  They attracted more attention than on that first visit. They had arrived this afternoon after spending most of the preceding day trying to locate the road, and the preceding night sleeping in a beanfield. They looked awful. And though they were obviously Shenese, the caravan from Shen was not due for several days. Francin muttered vaguely about trading opportunities when anyone showed an interest and didn’t demur when they were offered a pair of dormitory rooms rather than private facilities.

  Now, as she approached the room she was sharing with the duke and Captain Deviock, Rhia started. A stranger stood outside it, a man in Shenese clothing. Even as she realised it was not a stranger, the door opened and he entered. Rhia rushed in after him. Captain Deviock, who had been about to close the door, jumped back as she ran through.

  Inside, Francin was just standing up to greet the new arrival. Before anyone could speak Rhia said, “Captain Sorne? It is you, isn’t it?”

  The man turned. Paler and with hair both longer and greyer, but still the militia captain she had persuaded to take her to Zekt over two years ago – and who had abandoned her at the umbral. His eyes widened at the sight of her, his surprise possibly compounded at finding her damp, wearing men’s clothes and carrying her dripping shift and kirtle like some washerwoman. He regained his composure, inclined his head and said, “It is, Countess.”

  Francin cleared his throat. “I had wondered if we might encounter you on the road.”

  Sorne turned his attention from Rhia and bowed. “Yes, Your Grace. I just arrived. I planned to stay here before travelling back to Shen with the caravan, but the commons is full of talk of Shenese visitors…” His voice, if not his words, showed his puzzlement at finding the duke here, now.

  “Did you complete your mission?”

  “I…” Sorne dropped to one knee. “I am sorry Your Grace, I have failed you.”

  Francin’s voice was soft. “In what way?”

  “The boy… I couldn’t do it.”

  “So, let us be clear: the new caliarch still lives?”

  Sorne nodded. Then he said, “But his father does not.”

  Rhia had been half-mesmerised by the conversation. Now everything came together in her head, and she exclaimed, “You’ve killed Mekteph!”

  The duke winced at her raised voice. She bit her lip.

  Sorne murmured, “I did. Your Grace, I will accept whatever punishment you deem fit.”

  The duke’s face clouded, then cleared. Finally he spoke, “Well, this certainly complicates matters.”

  “What would you have me do now, Your Grace?” Sorne sounded miserable.

  “Go back to the commons. Do not admit to knowing who we are, obviously. Then be my eyes and ears for the rest of the evening. I need to think.”

  After the captain had gone, Rhia stayed where she was. The insulating shroud was back, keeping the full impact of their awful situation at bay like some mental version of the shades that had once protected her home.

  Francin sighed and said, “Cousin, please find somewhere to hang those wet clothes. I believe you brought some of your papers?”

  Rhia nodded; each had brought only what they could carry on a long walk – Francin had left his dog in
the umbral – so she had only a small subset of the writings she had brought from Shen, chosen in haste and crammed into her satchel with her spare clothes.

  “I am sure you are quite capable of losing yourself in them for a while. I recommend you stay here and do just that.”

  She did not disagree.

  “Your Grace!”

  Rhia started awake. Morning light streamed in through the window. She was lying in a bed. An actual bed. It felt wonderful.

  She focused on Captain Deviock, standing at the foot of Francin’s bed. The duke cleared his throat and levered himself onto his elbows. “What is it?”

  “Your Grace, I’m sorry, but the duchess is gone!”

  The duke pushed himself upright, half falling out of bed before staggering to his feet, his expression dark. “What? How?”

  “She must have climbed out the window.” Francin had instructed one of the two guards in Alharet’s room to sleep across the doorway.

  “And no one stopped her?” The other guard was meant to stay awake and keep watch.

  “Captain Grithim was hit over the head; he is dazed but recovering.”

  “And Hislain?”

  “Captain Hislain is dead.”

  “Dead? How?”

  “The duchess got hold of an ironwood handbow bolt from somewhere. She must have taken him unawares. She stabbed him in the eye.”

  “Let me get dressed then show me.” He looked over to Rhia. “Stay here!”

  Rhia nodded woozily. She was happy to, though less to avoid the horror of her former best friend having committed murder – very little horrified her now – than because of the immediate physical pleasure of lying in bed. It occurred to her that Francin might have put her in this room, rather than with Alharet, in case something like this happened. Clever Francin.

  The duke was not gone long. When he returned he was shaking his head as though to clear it. “Captain Deviock, kindly fetch Captain Sorne.” He focused on her. “Cousin, I assume you have paper and pen. I need to write a note.”

  “Of course.” Though she was not sure what, in this case, writing notes might achieve.