by Sam Sykes
And the shadows asked him to turn away. They remembered what happened. They told him he would not want to see again.
But he went up, regardless. The stairs knew him, offering the same creak of complaint they had offered him for years. He paused beside them, staring at a barren spot upon the wall where the shade was a tad lighter than the rest of the decay. A holy symbol had hung there once, the great cresting wave of Zamanthras, the Sea Mother, as a ward against the woes of life and an invitation for the goddess’ boon.
He remembered that symbol. He remembered when he had hung it up. He remembered when he had taken it down. He remembered when he had screamed questions at it, demanded answers and received nothing. He remembered when he had hurled it into a dying fire. He had forgotten to stoke it that night. Someone else usually did that.
But there had been no one else left that night.
He glanced back to the door, frowning. A lesson learned, he told himself; he knew that the Gods were impotent and did not care. Surely, nothing more could be gained from venturing farther upward.
Nothing …
But he went, anyway. The shadows lamented his return and told him of the long hallway he had once paced back and forth across. They warned him against going to the room at the far end. But he went, anyway.
And he saw the shadows in a small, decrepit room. And he saw the shadows of a small, decrepit cot. It had been a tiny thing, one that he had built hastily when the girl who lay in it grew too big for her crib.
He smiled. The shadows did not have to remind him of when he sat beside that cot and told stories. He remembered them all on his own: the Kraken and the Swan, Old King Gnash, How Zamanthras Stained Toha’s Sand Blue. He remembered the promises made beside it: how the girl who lay in it and he would go to Toha one day and she would see the blue sand, how she would one day captain a ship that would dwarf his little fishing skiff, how he would build her a bigger bed in a few months, at the rate she was growing.
But it was only a few days later that the girl who lay in it stopped growing altogether.
The shadows didn’t have to tell him that. He remembered it all on his own.
But the shadows were not silent. The shadows spoke of the healer who had knelt beside the little cot. The shadows spoke of heads that shook, eyes that closed, condolences offered and arrangements advised. The shadows spoke of threats, of pleas, of prayers he had offered to the healer, to their Talanas, to his Zamanthras, to anyone who would listen.
No one answered. No one ever answered.
The shadows spoke of the day when that little cot lay empty. The shadows spoke of the day when he sat beside it and cradled his head in hands. The shadows spoke of the day when he pressed his hands against his ears to drown out the sound of the waves. The waves that the girl lay in.
That was where their memory stopped. That was where his stopped. That was where he was no longer neighbour, no longer father, no longer slave to the Gods.
He narrowed his eyes; that was the day when, in the silence, he had heard the voice of Mother Deep. That was the day when he forgot his name. That was the day the Mouth had left the shadows and the wood and the city behind entirely, swearing he would not return until he could change the world.
And now, he had. And now, he could.
He stared down at the vial of Mother’s Milk, narrowing his eyes. This was what it had come to. This was how the world would be changed. The Mother would be free. But for Her to reign properly, to guide mankind from their blind darkness, She would need a consort.
The Father must be freed.
And this was the key, this was what would draw Daga-Mer from the prison he had been so cruelly cast into. This was what would call to Mother Deep, to free Her from the Gate, to let Her guide her children and through them mortalkind. And this would all happen … through him.
He knew where Daga-Mer’s prison lay; he heard the Father’s call, he heard the distant beating of his heart as he slumbered. He closed his eyes, let the memories slip from his mind, let the sound of the heartbeat, the sound of change waiting to happen, fill his thoughts.
And all he heard was a door slamming shut, feet across the floor.
Fool, he scolded himself. They know. They’re coming for you. You wasted too much time. Run! In his other hand, the weight of a bone dagger made itself known. No … no, you can’t run. If anyone knows you’re here, they must be eliminated. They can’t tell anyone you were here. They can’t know … not yet.
With the blade in his hand, he crept to the stairs, narrowed his eyes. He was unrepentant as he searched for the life he would snuff out; change was violent, after all. He saw the intruder now: a mess of wild black hair atop a thin body clad in a poor person’s linens. A spy, maybe? A beggar, probably. No matter; he was going to die, regardless. This was no sin. If one had to die so that the others might live, then that was just …
His thoughts were interrupted by the deafening sound of the stairs offering their familiar creak.
The intruder’s head snapped up. Wide, brown eyes took him in. A thin, dark-skinned face went slack with fear at the sight of him. And he could feel his own face go slack, his own eyes go wide, his own lips speak words.
‘A … girl?’
‘I’m not doing anything!’ she spoke up. ‘No one’s lived here for years.’
‘I used to,’ he replied without thinking.
And her response was to turn swiftly and bolt, the door swinging in her wake.
He was leaping over the railings in a moment, following after her. It was only after a hundred paces that he realised he had dropped the knife back in the house. It was only after a hundred fifty that he realised he didn’t mind. He didn’t want to kill her. He just wanted to …
To what, he asked himself. Look at her? Think of duty! Think of change!
But he could think of nothing else, he realised, but her face. Her thin face, her wide eyes. He had to see her again. He had to look into her face again.
He saw the back of her head as she twisted through the alleys, trying to lose him. His cloak flew wide open as he pursued, trying not to be lost. His body, pale white and fingers webbed, was plainly visible. He did not belong amongst these dark-skinned island people. They would know him. They would call him monster. His mission would be over. Change would never come.
But he had to see her.
‘Wait! Wait!’ he called after her. ‘I’m not angry! I just want to talk!’
She said nothing. She twisted down an alley, disappeared. He followed, twisting down the same alley and coming to a sudden halt as he slammed into a broad, leather-bound chest.
He looked up. Fierce, dark eyes looked down. He saw himself reflected: ghostly white, black-eyed, hairless. He panicked, turned about and fled down the alley.
And Bralston stared after him.
‘Does Port Yonder have a habit of degenerates running unrestricted through the streets without a care for whom they collide with?’ he asked his guide.
‘Port Yonder, of late, is no longer a city of habits.’
Mesri was his name, priest of Zamanthras and speaker for the tiny abode. He had met Bralston at the docks, he had explained, out of custom. Bralston gave him a quick glance: portly, robes that had once been nice now frayed at the hem, a thick dark moustache and a bright, cresting wave medallion hanging about his neck. All in all, he looked like the type of man that a fishing city would send to meet a man who arrived on a giant, three-masted ship.
‘Granted, we used to be,’ Mesri explained. ‘But since the fish have stopped coming around, the sight of people running in and out of the back alleys have become more common.’
Bralston glanced up, surveying the decaying, crumbling buildings that rose up around them.
‘And these?’
‘Have always been here,’ Mesri replied. ‘Long ago, someone discovered that the fish migrated through these waters. Yonder was founded shortly after and enjoyed a brief time of ostentatiousness, back when we had a lord-admiral of our own.’
He chuckled, smoothing out his robes. ‘Said lord-admiral gave these fine robes to me, in fact. But the fish caught wise and the merchants shortly thereafter. These homes were abandoned, but most of us get by … well, I mean, not lately, but we did.’
‘You no longer have a lord-admiral?’ Bralston quirked a brow. ‘Then the Toha Navy does not govern this city?’
‘Not actively, no. A patrol ship still comes around every month, if you’re concerned about our capacity to deal with the prisoner you’ve come to speak with.’
‘I am.’
‘What? You don’t trust a tiny, impoverished shell of a city commandeered mostly by women, children and men with pointy sticks to take care of a titanic, bearded Cragsman?’ Mesri chuckled. ‘I suppose wizards have their reputations for a reason, don’t they?’
Bralston simply stared at the man, stern-faced. Mesri cleared his throat, looking down. A distinct lack of a sense of humour was another reputation wizards had earned, one that Bralston did absolutely everything in his power to nurture. The priest shuffled his feet, waving for the Librarian to follow as he continued down the winding streets of the abandoned section of the city.
‘Truth be told, it was our pleasure to take the Cragsman,’ he said. ‘If only to keep him away from decent society.’ Mesri looked thoughtful. ‘Further truth, he’s been remarkably docile, considering his reputation. I like to think we might have encouraged that. We did what we could for his wounds, but—’
‘Wounds?’
Mesri paused, giving no indication that he had even heard the Librarian. A shudder, small and clearly not intended to be seen, coursed through his body. After a moment, he resumed his pace, Bralston keeping up.
‘What manner of wounds?’
‘You’re going to see him,’ Mesri muttered. ‘See for yourself. Perhaps it’s more common in the cities. But cities have Talanites to deal with it. I’m a Zamanthran. I can deliver children and tell where the fish are going. Not handle …’ He sighed, rubbing his eyes. ‘Any of this.’
Bralston did not inquire; he did not have to. Even for a city half-abandoned, he had noticed the scanty population of Port Yonder. Most accredited it to poor fish harvests, though few could explain the lapse in the seasonally bustling migrations. Some explained it as most of the population being ill from some manner of disease, a very select few raving about shicts being behind the whole thing.
Those not ill or in exceeding poverty were doing well enough, Bralston had been told, but his concerns were not for this city and its people. He had a duty that went beyond poor fish harvests, illnesses or anything that a priest might claim to be able to cure.
They emerged from the abandoned district, setting foot on sand. Undeveloped beach, marred only by scrub grass and two small buildings stretched as far as the cliffs where the island ended entirely. Apparently, when development of Yonder had stopped, it had stopped swiftly.
‘The prisoner is in the warehouse,’ Mesri said, pointing to the closer of the two buildings. ‘I guess it’s a prison now? We had to move a few spare skiffs and a crate or two … or three. He’s an immense man. Ask the two boys we assigned to guard him if you require protection.’
‘It will not be necessary,’ Bralston said. He glanced to the more distant of the buildings, a crumbling work of stones and pillars to which a small, beaten path of haphazardly laid stones led. ‘What’s that, then?’
‘That?’ Mesri followed his gaze and sighed. ‘That is our temple.’
In that instant, as much as he might have loathed to admit it to himself, Bralston knew he liked the man. As far as priests went, it was difficult to find fault with him beyond the obvious. He was a man who clearly cared about his people; that much was obvious by the many delays they had suffered on their trip through the city, Mesri insisting on stopping to hear every problem and plea. He had considered them all carefully and offered each one, from a sick child to a broken net, a clear and logical answer. Never once had the man even uttered, ‘The will of the Gods.’
Bralston had suffered each delay, each problem, in silence, no matter how trivial he had considered it. But it was only now, now that he saw the crumbling, run-down temple, barely any more noticeable than the buildings of the decayed abandoned district, that he deigned to look at the man with admiration.
‘Is it not an insult to your gods that it remains in such a shape?’ he asked.
‘I wager They’d be more insulted if I used the few coins it would have taken to feed one of Their starving followers on a new rug.’
Bralston clenched his teeth behind his lips, looking thoughtful. After a moment, as if in defeat, he sighed.
‘The Venarium has a policy of paying stipends for research purposes,’ he said. ‘If we are forced to repurpose a settlement without its own standing government for our means of research’ – he paused, coughing – ‘such as studying the cause for a change in fish migrations … we are bound to offer a stipend.’
‘Such as one that might put food in hungry bellies and blankets over cold shoulders,’ Mesri replied, a smile curling beneath his moustache. ‘The offer is appreciated, Librarian.’
‘We do, of course, insist on a policy of extreme secularism,’ Bralston said, eyeing the decaying temple. ‘Given the general laxity of upkeep, though, I don’t foresee this as being too objectionable an—’
‘It is,’ Mesri answered, swift and stern. ‘The offer was appreciated, Librarian, but I must decline. I cannot ask the people to part with their matron.’
‘It’s a simple request,’ Bralston muttered, heat creeping into his voice. ‘Worship in your own homes, if you must. Simply keep it out of sight of the Venarium and no one needs to know. It’s a generous offer.’
‘It is, sir,’ Mesri said. ‘But I must decline, all the same. We are men of Yonder. Men of Yonder are followers of Zamanthras. She is a part of the city and us.’
‘Faith cannot feed the hungry.’
‘Money cannot define a man.’
‘So you say,’ Bralston sneered. ‘I will never understand your profession, Mesri – you or the priest who guided me here.’
‘No one mentioned a priest.’ Mesri’s brows furrowed. ‘Who was he?’
‘Evenhands. Miron Evenhands. Lord Emissary, so-called, of the Church of Talanas.’
‘Evenhands?’ Mesri’s face nearly burrowed back into his skull, so fiercely did it screw up. ‘How is that—’
‘Mesri! Mesri!’
The priest’s attentions were seized by the young, dark-skinned man that came barrelling out of the poor district. He did not even look at Bralston as he rushed up to the priest.
‘Another fell ill,’ the young man panted. ‘Swears it was shicts.’
‘Of course,’ Mesri sighed. ‘It’s always shicts … or ghosts … or whatever fell spirit has been thought up.’ He turned to Bralston. ‘Sir Librarian, please—’
‘Time is limited,’ the Librarian replied curtly, shoving past young man and priest alike. ‘Those endeavours that cannot be pursued must settle behind those that can.’
Mesri was calling something after him, he realised, as he walked toward the warehouse. But he shut his ears to the sound, all the same. It was foolish to have offered; a stipend would require paperwork, endorsements, evaluations. He had a job to do.
One that led him into a dark, dank place.
Twenty
THE SOUND OF SICKNESS
Shicts were created from Riffid, the Huntress. Shicts had been birthed from Her blood, given Her voice in their ears and nothing more. Shicts were created. Shicts were born. Shicts were meant to be here on this world.
This was fact.
Naxiaw knew this.
Humans were born from no gods, despite the misguided fanaticism they tried to justify their infectious presence with. Humans, instead, began as monkeys that learned how to pick up swords. Humans adapted. Humans evolved. Humans did not belong here on this world.
This was fact.
Naxiaw was convinced of it now.
&nb
sp; From their humble origins when the first monkey stabbed his brother and called himself human, the round-ears had shed their body hair, built houses over stone and birthed the corruptions of politics and gold and found more productive uses for their feces. They had evolved.
Logical, Naxiaw told himself. Sickness is a predator. It mutates, learns to resist medicine and bypass immunities to spread its infection. That the human disease should learn to become more efficient at killing and destroying should be no surprise.
And truthfully, he admitted, when he had been brought amongst the longfaces and witnessed their brutal devastation, their efficient destruction, their utterly gleeful murder, he had not been surprised.
Shocked, of course.
Horrified, naturally.
And, he thought as he peered through the bars of his cage, ever more curious …
From high atop the crumbling stone ruins upon the sandy ridge that overlooked the valley in which they crawled, he watched them. For the past six days, he had studied them as they crushed the earth beneath their iron-shod feet, as they blackened the sky with their forges, as they broke their scaly, green servants with whip and blade.
Horror and repulsion for the purple-skinned brutes had long ago faded. He scolded himself now for wasting time on indulgent loathing. What he was watching was no longer something disgusting, something vicious and cruel to be loathed. What he was watching was something ominous, something miraculous, something wholly terrifying.
He had thought them to be one more aberration on an already-tainted world, one more threat for the shicts to destroy, one more disease to cure. But as he continued to watch them, to study their cruelty and monitor their rapaciousness, he realised they were no new illness. They were merely one strain of the same sickness he had been attempting to purge since he could first carry his Spokesman stick.
They might have been purple instead of pink, thicker of bone and harder of flesh, long of face and white of eye, but he recognised them all too swiftly. And the more he watched them as they spread across the island, purple patches of disease contaminating a pure and pristine land, the less ridiculous it seemed.