Broken Shadow

by Jaine Fenn

  “And you need to get up.”

  She obeyed reluctantly while Francin scribbled a short note. He left it on his bed with some coins then said, “We have to leave. Now.”

  The duke’s tone did not brook any argument. She rolled up her still-wet clothes and shoved them into her satchel. The third militiaman, Captain Grithim, returned with Sorne. He had a bruise blossoming on his temple. Everyone left the room in silence. It was still early, with few guests about. Those they met appeared puzzled but not inclined to get in their way. Rhia did whisper, as they came out into the courtyard, “There was talk of horses…”

  “The inn only had two to spare,” muttered Francin. “And now, I suspect, it only has one.”

  They strode out onto the road with as much confidence as their situation allowed. When the inn had receded behind them, Rhia turned to Francin. “What did your note say?”

  He gave a bitter laugh. “Something like the truth. That our companion had gone mad and killed one of our number, then fled. That we were going after her. The authorities will want to talk to us, but it isn’t as though we gave our real names, and leaving even a token explanation may make immediate pursuit less likely.”

  “So now we walk to Mirror?”

  “Yes, cousin. Now we walk to Mirror.”

  They continued in silence for some time, Sorne going ahead and Grithim and Deviock acting as a nominal rear-guard to their depleted party. At one point Sorne said he heard horses, and they got off the road and hid in a ditch. So much for staying clean. It was just a couple of noble types, out for a ride. They got up and carried on, still without a word.

  Finally Rhia’s curiosity overcame the miseries of the road and she asked, “Francin, did you really believe Alharet would cooperate?”

  “To an extent yes, because she had no choice. And because she was looking for a way to use me in return. Unfortunately there were a couple of factors I had failed to consider.”

  “Such as?”

  “Firstly, I do not think she was as sedated as she appeared to be. She always was a good actor. Her food had been seasoned with a little poppy milk ever since her confinement and I increased the dose when we left Shen, but it appears the drug’s effects lessen with protracted use. You probably have a treatise on that somewhere.”

  “Had.”

  “Um, yes. I’m afraid the other factor was probably down to those thin walls back at the inn. Just straw and mud, they looked like.”

  “I… oh.” She got his meaning. “You mean she overheard me when I mentioned Mekteph.”

  “Loudly and by name, yes.”

  “So this was my fault?”

  “Perhaps, in part. But we are beyond blame. Now, we are just salvaging what we can.”

  CHAPTER 57

  Sadakh handed over the bowl of chocatl. “And just what is the mood at the palace right now?”

  His visitor took the drink, acknowledging with a nod how Sadakh honoured him by preparing it himself. Rather than answer at once, Fidekh took a sip, beaming to discover the chocatl had been sweetened perfectly to his taste.

  Sadakh made himself wait. For the keeper of the lamps to visit him at the priory showed how much the eunuchs needed his support. Still, direct questioning while they were observing the formalities verged on impoliteness, however desperate he was for reliable information. Sadakh picked up his own drink and took a sip. Small pleasures, his ghost commented, can keep us sane when the world goes mad.

  Something had to. It had been a full day since Prince Mekteph’s death and Sadakh had heard nothing from the palace.

  Fidekh lowered his drinking-bowl. “The mood is… strained.” The eunuch smiled to indicate what an understatement this was. “To be honest I was glad to get away.” They were in Sadakh’s private reception room; he found its sumptuous furnishings ostentatious but this visitor merited such hospitality.

  “And I am honoured to provide you with some respite.”

  “I hope you will forgive me, but while I’m here I do have to ask some delicate questions.”

  Of course he does. His ghost sounded at once amused and disdainful. Sadakh put his drink down on the low table and spread his hands. “Ask away.”

  “You were on the barge directly behind the caliarch’s. What precisely did you see?”

  “Very little.” Which was true enough. Mekteph, paranoid in a way Numak never was, had stationed guards on the ceremonial barges. “As soon as the prince fell, the militia closed ranks.” The procession had taken the fastest route back to the Eternal Isle, but the barges were cumbersome and slow. By the time Sadakh had disembarked from the Order’s barge and gone to tend the royal party the prince had died from a surprisingly small chest wound – something vital must have been hit, or poison involved – and the boy caliarch had been removed to safety by the eunuchs.

  “And before the prince fell. Did you witness anything odd?”

  Sadakh had asked himself that question too. “I did not. There were crowds everywhere, but nothing to arouse suspicions. May I ask what exactly killed the prince?”

  “You may.” Fidekh’s voice was even but his eyes had narrowed. “A short, pointed-ended cylinder of ironwood. Presumably some sort of projectile, given the only people near enough to stab him were his son and the militia.”

  “Who are all above suspicion.” Sadakh kept his voice equally even.

  “No one is above suspicion, but unless everyone on the barge was a traitor, they could hardly expect to get away with it.”

  “Quite so. A projectile, you say?”

  “So we surmise. I do not suppose you have ever come across a weapon capable of firing such a, hmm, bolt?”

  He has no idea what you’ve come across. “I have not, no.”

  “I hope this next question does not cause offence but… did you have ill-intent towards Mekteph? I believe relations remained… imperfect.”

  Sadakh composed his answer with care. “I made overtures to the prince, as advisor Eneph suggested, but found his demands unreasonable, not least his desire that I appoint one of his own people as my successor. Had I complied I would become of no further use to him and would presumably have suffered a fate not unlike his own.”

  “Yet you did not bring about his fate.”

  Sadakh made sure he met the eunuch’s gaze when he spoke. “If you’re asking whether I am behind the prince’s death then I can assure you, on my post as eparch and with the First as my witness, that I am not.”

  Fidekh nodded, once. “I believe you.” His expression darkened. “However, not everyone is willing to give you the benefit of the doubt, not least because you are right; the prince had plans in place to have you killed once you were no longer of use to him.”

  “I wish I could say I was surprised. Are you able to share details of these plans?”

  “Not really. I can say that whilst one plot was thwarted, others may lie undiscovered. You may wish to remain in the priory for the foreseeable future.”

  Sadakh considered, briefly, whether he was being frightened into staying away from the palace; kept deliberately ignorant, powerless and distant. But the keeper of the lamps was a reformist by nature, and as close to a friend as Sadakh had amongst the immortal advisors. This was a friendly warning, not a devious ploy. “Thank you. I don’t suppose you have any theories you can share regarding who might have killed the prince?”

  “Theories, rumours and accusations are flying round the Eternal Isle like leaves in a gale.”

  “I imagine they are.” You didn’t really expect a straight answer. No, he had not. “Is there anything I can do, to diffuse tensions or help in some other way?”

  “Spread calm and show strength; in short, continue your good work here. When and if there is something more we will let you know.”

  Which was all he could hope for. The prince’s death was the answer to some of his prayers, but brought plenty of problems in itself.

  As though there had not been enough death, Hekmat passed away that afternoon. Sadakh ini
tiated the process to replace him at once, summoning the other poliarchs and making it clear that the final choice was down to them. And he needed to think which one of them might be his own replacement when the time came. He had increased their responsibilities but not their powers, arrogantly assuming that, as an eternal leader, he would need only minions, not successors. But if his quest for the serum had failed then in order for his spiritual work to survive him he needed to trust others to continue it.

  One person not under consideration as a new poliarch was Sholrew. The prince’s man had gone to ground, with not even a rumour to place him. If he had any sense, he would have left Mirror.

  “Holiness?”

  “What is it?” Sadakh sat up in the dark, grim possibilities crowding in.

  “Someone’s here to see you.” Dalent’s voice; Sadakh had posted an overnight guard on his chambers after the attack at the launderer’s house. Such precautions spread apprehension amongst his flock, but even the most spiritually-minded acolyte knew these were troubled times. Light flared as Dalent lit a lamp. “I’ve put him in your study.”

  “Who is it?”

  “That skykin seer with the missing eye.” Dalent did not sound any happier than Sadakh was at the unexpected arrival.

  Sadakh pulled on yesterday’s tunic and went to find his visitor.

  The clanless seer wore a voluminous cloak, though he had thrown back the hood. He held out a hand before Sadakh could speak. “I know you said not to come here but the house isn’t secure.”

  “I know that.” He had been a little busy to worry about the launderer’s house. “But even so, you had better have a damn good reason for coming to my priory.”

  “Oh,” said the broken seer, “I think I do.”

  CHAPTER 58

  When the clanless had finally taken the sack off her head to feed her – with nothing like enough food – Dej made the mistake of saying that Cal’s missing eye improved his looks. A petty insult, just the fear talking. He’d raised his hand to hit her and muttered about putting the sack back on as soon as she’d eaten.

  He didn’t hit her. Or touch her. Which was good. If he ever touched her again he’d be losing the other eye.

  The other clanless was stolid, stupid Ryt, Mar’s surviving boy. He’d treated her like some disobedient pet, dragging her along on a rope through the night and finally chivvying her, still blindfolded by the sack, into a cart. She had no idea what they’d been doing at the stash-site near the umbral, though presumably it was theirs. She tried not to get angry at herself for letting hunger overcome caution, for getting caught so easily.

  When they put her on the cart Ryt mentioned “getting her to him as fast as possible” but Cal shushed him. She looked for chances for escape, but she was permanently hooded, her bonds checked regularly.

  She was in a shadowland; she could tell that from the weakness of the Sun on her skin where she lay trussed up in the bottom of the cart, and the glimpse of green fields at the brief rest-stops. Two days lying in a cart, with nothing to see – or smell – but the sack, which’d had recently contained rotten apples. Then her limited worldview darkened with another night, and they stopped again.

  This time they manhandled her onto a wooden surface somewhere chilly and dark. There was an odd noise in the background; it almost sounded like the sea. She reached out her senses and, sure enough, they were taking her out over water. She tensed, but they lowered her into some kind of floating cart – boat, her seer-given knowledge supplied.

  This water felt different to the sea. And there were people nearby. Lots of people.

  Out of the boat and onto ground that gave oddly underfoot. Then to a house. She knew it was a house because Cal and Ryt discussed how the “safe house” wasn’t so safe any more, so one of them would have to keep watch. Though she was already bound hand and foot they lashed her, sitting up, to something wooden and solid.

  Then left her, for what seemed like half the night.

  She spoke to her girl to keep their spirits up, telling her everything would be all right, although she couldn’t see how this could end well. She was being taken – sold – to someone the clanless worked for. And any day now, her daughter would be coming into the world.

  Finally Cal and Ryt returned and got her to climb into a wooden crate; she had to lie on her side, back pressed against the wood, to fit her belly in. The crate had a lid. She tried not to whimper when they shut her in, because that wouldn’t help. They put the crate, with her in it, onto a boat.

  When the boat bumped land Cal spoke directly to her for the first time in two days. “If you know what’s good for you, you’ll stay completely still and silent in there.”

  She had an idiotic urge to agree then apologise for not staying silent but her tongue had stuck to the roof of her mouth. She really needed a drink.

  The crate was lifted out of the boat; Cal and Ryt were carrying it, Ryt whining about how heavy she was.

  They went indoors again; she sensed enclosure, though no people. The clanless carried her up a flight of stairs; she had to brace against the crate’s walls to stop herself sliding around.

  They carried her a bit further and then a gruff woman’s voice said, “In here.” The crate was set down. A pause, then someone pulled the lid off. She tensed, though she wasn’t sure what she’d be able to do.

  Bright lamplight, even brighter as the sack was removed. She saw a wooden ceiling overhead.

  A man said, “First’s sake! Let’s get those ropes off!” He had an odd accent and sounded like he was used to being obeyed.

  Hands reached in and a face blocked out the light. Someone cut the ropes off her legs then said, “Should we leave her hands tied?” This was another man, more rough-sounding. She was definitely outnumbered.

  “No. I doubt she’s a threat but maybe you had best stay for now.”

  The man who’d untied her lifted her to sit up.

  The crate was on the floor of a small room with shelf-lined walls; the shelves were crammed with boxes and bundles. There were two shadowkin men here, and no sign of either clanless. Then she smelled food, and suddenly nothing else mattered. A low table, just out of reach, was laden with bowls and plates.

  She half clambered, half fell out of the crate and crawled over to the table. She should be paying attention to her captors, but she didn’t care.

  No one stopped her so she picked up a cup of water and drained it in one. Then she dug her hands into a bowl of warm white stuff – rice – and shovelled it into her mouth. The initial frenzy abated when enough food had hit her stomach. She looked around.

  One of the men stood by the door. He wore a leather jerkin but nothing on his legs and the way he looked at her – attentive and unsmiling – reminded her of the militia. Ah yes, he had a short-stave at his belt. The other man was kneeling on the floor off to one side, watching her. He was older, also bare-legged, and he wore a long white linen shirt cut in an odd, fancy-looking style. He had a short beard but long hair, black, curled and smelling like rosemary and honeysuckle. Seeing he had her attention he said, “I am sorry for the way you’ve been treated, Dej.”

  He knew who she was. Of course: Cal would’ve told him. She rubbed her raw wrists. “Really? Who are you anyway? And what do you want with me?”

  “My name is Sadakh and I am eparch, that is head, of the Church in Zekt.”

  Which was what she’d suspected. Etyan had said this Sadakh was a great man. But Etyan also said he’d probably caused the change in him. And her suspicions that he’d originally hired the clanless to get Etyan back were already confirmed by what’d just happened to her. “And I’m here because…?”

  “I think you may have some idea about that.”

  He was a shadowkin: he couldn’t sense lies. But something about him said that playing games wouldn’t work. “You want to know about Etyan.”

  “Lord Harlyn, yes.”

  “And if I tell you what I know, you’ll let me go?”

  He looked pained. �
��You’re not my prisoner, Dej.”

  “You could’ve fooled me.” She looked over at the guard by the door. “So I could just walk out and he wouldn’t stop me.”

  “I would really rather you didn’t. And in your current state, I’m not sure wandering a strange city would be wise.”

  He had a point. “So what do you want to know then?” It wasn’t like she owed Etyan anything.

  “Mainly, where he is.”

  “I have no idea.”

  “But you are lovers.” Sadakh’s gaze travelled to her swollen belly. “You carry his child.”

  “He fathered her, yes. But we’re not together anymore.” Which meant, she realised, that she had nothing to trade for her freedom.

  The eparch considered for a few moments. “Can you tell me when and where you last saw him?”

  Why not? “About four, maybe five, months ago. We were at…” She was about to give away a Shenese state secret; she settled on “…out in the skyland, a fair way southwest of here.”

  “At the duke of Shen’s camp.”

  “You know about that?”

  Sadakh nodded. “You seem a little vague on when you were there.”

  “Keeping time is for shadowkin.”

  His lips kinked. There was something weird about this man. “So you have not seen Lord Harlyn, or had any news of him, since you left the duke’s camp.”

  His accent made it hard to be sure if this was a question. “Nope.”

  “I would be interested to know what you’ve been up to, Dej.”

  “Me? Wandering. Thinking. Avoiding getting eaten.”

  “And where you’ve been.”

  She had no idea why he cared but she may as well tell him. “North mainly.” And she pointed, due north.

  An odd expression flitted across Sadakh’s face. Perhaps she shouldn’t be showing off her pathfinder skills. “So you came back to Zekt to give birth.”

  “I did, yes.”

  “I am interested in your baby, Dej.”

  “Interested, how?” She didn’t like the sound of that.

  “Given Lord Harlyn is out of my reach I would like to, shall we say, study, his offspring.”