Broken Shadow

by Jaine Fenn

  Sadakh was studying her with care, like some specimen. “Are you asking for my help in matters other than those of the intellect?”

  Had she got this wrong? She knew nothing of Sadakh’s political life, beyond his suspected antipathy towards Mekteph. As enquirers they might be in accord, but when it came to matters of state, they had very different experiences, and agendas. “Yes,” she managed, “I am.” But her confidence was faltering. Ironically, one reason Francin had suggested she visit the eparch while he went to the palace was that, should the worst happen to him, one of them at least would escape to send word back to what was left of Shen. But what if Sadakh saw Francin’s presence as an affront, and her as the duke’s agent?

  Evenly, he said, “You wish me to openly support the duke of Shen.”

  “I… If you can, without compromising your own position.”

  “Whilst you have my unconditional backing in your enquiries, when it comes to politics, I must be careful.”

  “I am sure, but we both know the importance of–”

  An incoherent shout from immediately outside cut her off. Sadakh began to scramble to his feet.

  The door burst open.

  CHAPTER 64

  We’ve upset the apple cart, thought Sorne, now see those rats run!

  The panic caused by the duke’s arrival on the Eternal Isle had been near-comical, with servants looking round like this was some joke or test, open-mouthed astonishment from passing courtiers, and a wave of hushed whispers following them through the painted corridors and terraced walkways. When their route brought them out into the open Sorne looked up to where the gyraptors circled the Isle’s summit; the sleek and featherless birds were flying low today. Perhaps the taste of Prince Mekteph disagreed with them.

  The duke’s party had been hurriedly shown to an audience chamber halfway up the steeply sloping island. Around the middle city, Sorne thought, if you saw this settlement on a hill as an analogy of Shen. Which it wasn’t, other than in form.

  The room had a table and low chairs; Sorne had almost forgotten what actual chairs looked like. Francin took the seat facing the door; Sorne stationed himself next to him; Captain Grithim stood near the window which, like far too many around here, gave onto a steep, manicured but eminently climbable slope.

  Then they waited.

  Sorne suspected the wait was more about panic than politics: the locals weren’t letting them stew, they were just trying to decide what to do about them. Finally a eunuch entered, scribe of the shallows or some such, his excessive embroidery and braid indicating he was someone of importance. He brought two guards: if it came to it, the odds were even. They moved to the sides of the room, allowing the soldiers to eye each other up from appropriate distances.

  Despite having thrown the palace into disarray, the meeting started with formalities, including a round of vile tea. The eunuch, advisor Eneph, expressed his insincere apologies that the caliarch could not receive them in person; he explained that His young Majesty was grieving for his father, so was to be spared “further shocks”. And also, Sorne imagined, under heavy guard right now, just in case. He tried not to dwell on what might be going on elsewhere in the palace in response to their arrival while the duke and the advisor traded pleasantries. He just needed to be ready to respond to it.

  When the eunuch asked how His Grace came to be here, the duke provided a short and selective account of their flight from Shen. No mention of Alharet of course. Hopefully his agent here had dealt with her. Advisor Eneph was predictably amazed at the disaster that had overtaken Shen and the existence of the tunnel and asked, “So you came through with a large, ahem, force?”

  “And more coming. I am sorry, advisor, but we have no other choice. I must trust the mercy and compassion of our friends in Zekt to provide us with succour and shelter.”

  “Our resources would be stretched thin by this…”

  “I fear so, yes, and I know this is a difficult time for you also.”

  “Our problems are minor in comparison to what you say has happened to Shen.”

  “But still a concern. When it comes to it, we will salvage what we can from our shadowland before we abandon it.”

  “So this is permanent then. The, ah, shade will not return.”

  “So I believe.” Francin looked pained. “In fact, I have it on good authority that the same fate is likely to befall other shadowlands in due course.”

  “No! That cannot be!”

  “Believe me, I wish it were not so at least as much as you do.”

  “But if what you say is true then there is no hope in the long run. For any of us.”

  “We will find new ways. The tunnels, for example.”

  “Tunnels? There are more of them?”

  “We found a map of sorts. More of a diagram. It shows all the tunnels, and indicates how to locate the entrances.” Sorne’s own map had been a paper copy of a fraction of the great engraving in the Shen tunnel’s entrance-hall.

  “But they were hidden with good reason.”

  Francin sagged, then straightened. “Advisor Eneph, I suspect you are a pious man, perhaps alarmed that these tunnels have the taint of ‘tech’, but we must face facts. Firstly, they were hidden but not destroyed, something which the First, in His wisdom, could easily have done at the time of the Separation. One of our forbearers left that diagram, indelibly etched and carefully detailed, for us to find. More importantly, I do not think our ancestors could have foreseen the changes we are on the verge of.”

  “I… suppose not. But the tunnels will not save us. Unless you suggest we move into them.”

  “We may have to make use of them but no, the tunnels will not save us. There is something which might but… we cannot know yet.” All Sorne knew was that the possible solution had something to do with Lord Harlyn. “We are at the beginning of great changes, Advisor Eneph. Each shadowland has survived divided, alone. But now the isolation of the shadowlands must end.”

  The eunuch nodded; Sorne wasn’t sure he was agreeing, but he was at least acknowledging the problem. “I need to speak to my fellow advisors, and brief the young caliarch. Will you remain as our guest, Your Grace?”

  “Your hospitality honours me. However, I must return to my people.”

  “So the men you came with are nearby.”

  “Not yet.”

  “Ah.”

  “But neither did I come alone.” Francin spread his hands. “I was not sure how safe I would be on the Eternal Isle.”

  The eunuch looked surprised at such a frank admission, but quickly regained his composure. “You are the caliarch’s guest, and none of my fellow advisors would consider harming the sovereign head of another shadowland.”

  “If only everyone in the palace was as honourable and openminded.”

  The eunuch dipped his head. “Perhaps you are right. We advisors have much to discuss. How should we, ah, get in contact?”

  “I will send a man back this time tomorrow.”

  Sorne had already volunteered for this unsavoury duty.

  That had gone as well as they could have expected. The duke appeared relieved. Not that either Sorne or Grithim would let their guard down until they were off the Isle. Grithim went a step ahead, while Sorne covered the duke’s back at the same distance.

  They had nearly reached safety when the attack came, in a narrow, enclosed corridor leading to the outside jetties. A perfect location for an ambush, so both he and Grithim had their hands on their weapons already; in the fuss they’d caused, no one had thought to disarm them.

  The first Sorne knew was when Grithim stopped and drew his sword in one motion. Sorne was going for his own weapon even before the two men burst out of a side entrance just ahead.

  Grithim timed it perfectly; his initial slash caught one man in the neck. The attacker reeled backwards, clutching his throat. As the other man clashed with Grithim’s backswing Sorne looked to the duke, assessing the situation in the immediate, timeless moment that preceded action.
Francin was stepping back, pressing himself against the wall. Good. Sorne considered edging past to assist his fellow militiaman but decided he was better deployed here, because if this was an ambush, it would be on two fronts.

  Decision made, he whirled on the spot.

  A figure was careening down the corridor towards them. Some part of Sorne’s mind acknowledged that this had always been a possibility but even so he started at the sight of the duchess running towards him, knife in hand. He’d seen anger before, and moments of madness due to fear or grief, but the sheer insane fury that contorted Alharet’s face froze his heart.

  His sword came up automatically, ready to meet her frenzied attack. But she wasn’t after him. She wanted Francin.

  He adjusted his stance, or tried to. The angle was wrong; she’d be inside his guard before he could get his arm round to land a blow. He stepped back and to the side, blocking the duke with his body. Alharet held her obsidian knife ineptly, pointed straight ahead like a tiny lance. It pierced his side just below the ribs. She drove him back into the duke, who grunted in surprise.

  Alharet howled, clawing past Sorne’s shoulder with her left hand. Sorne had caught her right hand in his as she released her grip on the knife. His sword arm was trapped, pinned across his body where she pressed close to him, trying to get to her husband. How odd, Sorne thought with the clarity of combat, that a battle affecting two nations should be played out like this: not even a duel, but a mere domestic tiff.

  But he was a solider, and absurd as the situation was, he looked for ways to secure victory, despite the incoherent screeching in his ear and the heaving warmth of the duchess’s body as she tried to press past. Pushing her backward would be the obvious move but her manic strength had made her his match, and he could feel a chill spreading from the blade in his side. Her blade. Yes, that was it.

  He unclenched his right hand, and dropped his sword. He closed his fingers around the hilt of the knife, slippery with his own blood.

  He took as deep a breath as he could – not very, it seemed – then pushed back with his left hand, where it grasped Alharet’s right, simultaneously pulling the knife from his side with his other hand.

  The gap he made was not great, but it was enough. He flicked his wrist round to drive Alharet’s own blade into her, up under her ribs in a killing blow.

  Her screech faltered and she convulsed, then fell backwards, away from him.

  But he was falling too.

  A terrible cold radiated from the wound in his side, racing up and down his body. It took his legs. He fell forward, onto his knees.

  Everything had gone quiet. From deafening shouts to deafening silence.

  The chill reached his chest. Each heartbeat fought against it. But he wasn’t going to fall, and fail, not while his master was in danger.

  The cold reached his neck, icy fingers stroking his face.

  Behind him, a voice, oddly distant. Grithim was asking someone whether they were unharmed. Francin said something; it was too far away to hear the words but the tone was calm and measured.

  Thank the First: the duke was safe. His duty was done.

  He could finish falling now.

  CHAPTER 65

  “Who is he?” Or rather, was he. Dej felt the life leaving the man lying across the corridor. Which was no surprise, given the rapidly spreading pool of blood he lay in.

  Etyan’s voice was panicked. “Captain Deviock. Our guard. We have to–”

  “You there!”

  She looked up. An elderly man accompanied by two youths stood in the intersection they had just run across, looking understandingly confused.

  “Run!” said Dej, and grabbed Etyan’s free hand. His other hand was still in his jerkin. Was he hurt?

  “We have to find Ree!”

  “What?”

  “She’s in danger. We have to help.”

  Less of a priority than getting back to the boat. But they were deep in the great building, and the alarm had been raised. For now, she’d settle on not getting caught.

  Up ahead, a woman carrying laundry saw the two strangers hurtling down the corridor and dropped the bundle of sheets she was carrying. She pressed herself back into the wall. Dej was about to run past, then skidded to a halt beside the quivering woman. “You,” she said, while Etyan pulled at her sleeve.

  “Where’s the reception room? The eparch’s reception room.”

  The woman pointed ahead. “Go round the next corner, take the first right, it’s the second door you come to.”

  Dej carried on.

  Beside her Etyan gasped, “What are you–”

  “Doing what you wanted. Helping your sister.”

  She rounded the corner, and took the first right turn.

  Ahead, two men in local clothes were going at each other, sword against stave, beside an open door. At least one other person had just gone in through that door, greeted by a man’s shout from inside.

  Etyan ran past her. He had a knife in his hand.

  “Etyan, no!”

  The pair in combat were intent on each other. Etyan dodged past them, into the room. Seeing no other option, Dej darted in after him.

  Rhia sat up straight, heart pounding. Sadakh, on his feet now, turned to face the two armed men who had just burst in. “What is this?” he shouted.

  One man advanced on him, sword drawn. He showed no inclination to answer the question. Sadakh stepped back.

  The other man was looking over the table at Rhia. He was smiling as though he didn’t see any problem here, because an unarmed woman was not going to put up much resistance.

  She grabbed the nearest large object from the table and threw it as hard as she could.

  The pitcher bounced off the man’s groin and he yelped, hands going to his privates. But he recovered quickly, and Rhia saw fury in his eyes.

  Behind him, someone ran through the door. Etyan!

  Her brother had one arm raised, knife in hand. He leapt straight onto her attacker’s back, stabbing downwards with a boyish shriek.

  Unarmed, gravid and out of breath, Dej’s options were limited. But instinct and training had taken over. The path to one opponent was blocked: go for the other. Two steps then a savage kick to the back of the man’s knee. He toppled towards the eparch, who stepped sharply aside.

  But the intruder knew what he was doing. While she was still looking round for a weapon he regained his footing and turned. He had a sword, held low, ready to come up and gut her.

  His surprise at seeing he was facing a skykin bought her a moment’s advantage. She used it to kick his sword arm. Her balance was off, but her foot connected with his wrist. The sword went flying.

  Now they were both unarmed. But he still had the advantage and he knew it: she could see that in the way he appraised her, deciding on the best approach.

  Behind her, someone screamed.

  Despite herself, she flinched. She knew that voice. The man lunged.

  Rhia saw her brother’s fate unfold like a nightmare. Trapped behind the table, with no idea what to do, she had no choice but to watch.

  His initial, clumsy attack hit home; the knife went into the intruder’s shoulder. But the man didn’t go down. He gave an explosive “oof!” then jabbed his elbow back into Etyan’s stomach.

  Etyan gave a corresponding gasp, and staggered backwards.

  The knife was still in the man’s back. That arm hung limp. But his sword was in his other hand, and his legs worked just fine. He advanced on Etyan.

  Her brother looked around, terror in his eyes. But he didn’t run. For a moment Rhia saw his gaze slide to the side, to where Dej faced her own opponent.

  His attacker used the distraction.

  The man brought his sword up, towards Etyan’s face. Etyan’s gaze caught the blade even as he tried to step back: too slow, too slow.

  The blow was a feint. The man stepped forward as the sword came round and across. It sliced into Etyan’s stomach, the obsidian edging ripping through cloth and s
kin and innards without stopping. Etyan screamed and toppled forward, clutching at his guts.

  Sudden movement behind her opponent. Before Dej’s eyes the man she’d been fighting transformed from a person to a pile of saffron-coloured cloth.

  What?

  Someone had flung a load of drapery over his head.

  “On the table!” The eparch’s cry, coming from behind the swaddled man, made little sense but his voice commanded respect and her gaze flicked to the table to see the man’s dark-bladed sword. She scooped it up, caught her balance against the weight of her belly, then thrust the weapon hard into the cloth-wrapped intruder. It caught bone; a rib, she suspected. The man grunted. Red blossomed across the pale fabric.

  She tugged at the blade, expecting resistance, but it came out cleanly.

  Out of the corner of her eye she saw her opponent fall but she was already turning.

  A sudden cramp seized her.

  She curled into herself, managing to turn, managing to keep hold of the sword, but not aware of much beyond the pain and the need to stay upright. Not now, girl!

  Someone coming up from the side. She straightened as fast as her aching, heavy body would allow. And another attacker coming in, from the other side. She was still off-guard.

  The dull thud of a parry.

  The cramp eased. She finished straightening. Overhead, a sword had been blocked by a heavy short-stave. The stave’s wielder stood next to her; a stranger, but on her side.

  Dej brought the sword round and slashed at the man in front of her. The blow wasn’t her best; she barely nicked his ribs. But he flinched back, attention going to her. Her new ally let his stave drop, parry coming round and in, defence becoming offence while his opponent was distracted. The stave crashed into the attacker’s neck; bone crunched. The man dropped like a felled ox.