Dark the Night Descending (The Paderborn Chronicles Book 1)

by Jennifer Bresnick

  The figures that strolled through the green spent various degrees of effort cloaking themselves in human form. Some looked as if they might well be land-dwelling men from the continent, but many more were half-formed: a lumpy type of scaly skin sticking out of ill-fitting clothing, the barest nod to the decency that seemed to be required when they left their true element.

  The children were even odder to look at than their caretakers. Instead of stubby legs and chubby baby faces, or the gawky, unfortunate proportions of an adolescent body that had not quite caught up with itself yet, the young neneckt simply looked like smaller adults. A child in its mother’s arms mimicked her exactly, just on a reduced scale, and the strangeness of seeing tiny people running about kept making her turn her head and look twice.

  Eventually, though, she felt it was time to secure lodgings for the night, and she left the park and its games behind without ever having been able to figure out the rules. She had no friends on the island, although seeking out Guild faces for support during her mission was certainly on her agenda, and her quest centered upon finding an inn that might be acceptable to her.

  Neneckt rarely stayed on land if they could help it, so the majority of the public houses catered to human visitors, and it didn’t take her too long to find a guest house advertising its vacancies for female patrons only.

  Megrithe smiled a little as the proprietress showed her through the hall and opened a door to a cozy chamber decorated with filmy cream lace and a deep blue coverlet on the bed. She had enjoyed her time at finishing school immensely, and the neat parlor with embroidered samplers lining the walls, occupied by a small group of young ladies carefully feeling each other out as they sipped at some mid-morning tea, reminded her of nothing so much as the dormitory where she had lived as she completed her education.

  “Good morning, ladies,” she said, sitting down on the edge of an unoccupied settee and smiling pleasantly. The group of women all turned towards her at once, and her cheerful expression faded a little as she realized that none of them were, in fact, human at all.

  They were a fair approximation, she had to admit. Clearly they had taken time to study the details of a realistic complexion and the shape and luster of good teeth. The majority of them were wearing very fine clothing, although one of the younger ones had a dress that looked almost exactly like a stylized maid’s uniform, rendered in expensive brown silk rather than the usual linen or cotton.

  That wasn’t the only thing that was a little off, she realized as they studied each other in silence. The buttons on their clothes were made of polished scallop shell instead of silver or pewter, and their hair seemed fixed in place by its very nature rather than by the cunning use of pins and combs, as if it had been carved from solid marble like a bust in a gallery. Where a lady like Megrithe might use whalebone underpinnings to emphasize her figure, pulling and tucking where necessary despite the reduced capacity for breathing, the neneckt imposters simply seemed shaped that way, with absurdly thin waists and wide, rounded hips that were not the product of any corsetry Megrithe could think of.

  “I say,” one of them exclaimed, peering very closely at her face. “That is a lovely chin. How do you make it so fine?”

  “I’m sorry?”

  “The line of your jaw. You wouldn’t mind if I tried to copy it, would you?”

  “I’m – no, I suppose not,” Megrithe replied, putting a hand to her face as the others started to inch closer and murmur between themselves as they examined her. “I can’t really take that much credit for it, though.”

  “Don’t be silly,” the woman laughed. “I’ve seen better eyes, if we’re being honest, and you must do something about your figure, but everything else looks simply wonderful. You must teach us your tricks.”

  “I’m afraid they aren’t tricks,” she said, smiling nervously. “I’m – I’m really made like this.”

  “Oh!” the woman laughed again, holding an ivory fan to her mouth to hide her amusement. “Oh, I do beg your pardon. You’re just a human, aren’t you. No wonder you haven’t been able to do anything about that skin. What a terrible mistake.”

  “My skin?”

  “Don’t worry, dear. You are perfectly welcome here. You can call me Alarice.”

  “I’m Megrithe,” she said, looking at her hands and trying to pull her cuffs down to cover them. “I didn’t know your people took residence in such places. I assumed I would only be intruding among my own kind.”

  “Nonsense,” Alarice said, waving the fan with a studied twist of her wrist. “Only savages live in holes under the water anymore. Anyone who’s anyone prefers to be seen.”

  “I’m afraid this is my first time in Niheba. I wasn’t aware.”

  “Where are you from?”

  “Paderborn,” she said.

  The declaration sparked a bit of a tizzy among the gaggle of women, who had clearly not had all that much first-hand experience with the culture that they tried so hard to emulate. The exaggerated curves of their bodily forms were based on the drawings of dressmakers and fabric traders, and even the pattern of their speech was ever so slightly hard to follow, as if they had learned to speak like an upper class debutante through watching stage productions or reading the monthly women’s magazines without ever truly understanding the realities of courtly fashion and manners.

  Megrithe didn’t know whether to laugh at them or feel sorry for them. They looked like a set of dolls made for children, but the eagerness in their perfectly sculpted faces when she mentioned the epicenter of all culture and grace was touching, in its way, and she spent the next half hour as the object of their undivided attention as she spoke of her home and the delights of human society that the poor puppets could hardly even imagine from just her words.

  “But your home seems just as fascinating,” she said eventually, trying to steer the conversation somewhere useful as their silvery stares started to unnerve her. “As I said, this is my first visit. You must tell me what I ought to do. I love a good outing to see all the sights.”

  “I’m afraid you’ll be so disappointed,” Alarice said. “Compared to Paderborn, we are nothing more than a quaint village.”

  “You are being too modest, surely. What about the orchards? They must be lovely. And the palace gardens are absolutely famous. And what about the ironworks?”

  “Ironworks?”

  “Yes,” Megrithe said innocently. “I’ve heard there is a vast center for metal working somewhere. I cannot remember the name of it.”

  “I’m not sure I know what you mean,” said Alarice. “Besides, such dirty places are hardly fit for a lady.”

  “On the contrary. In Paderborn, it’s practically essential for any truly cultured lady to understand how her bread reaches her table. I wouldn’t dream of leaving here without a tale of industry to tell Lady Rathbourne when I returned.”

  “You – you know Lady Rathbourne?” one of the other women piped up, unable to help herself. The infamous courtier was neither a titled lady nor really a Rathbourne, as far as the old noble family went, but recently she had been a source of much amusement at court for her various dalliances, watched almost like a racehorse and egged on to greater and greater heights by the newspaper men, her adventures culminating in a liaison with one or more of the King’s sons, if rumor could be believed.

  Her morals may be questionable, but her parties had become legendary, and even the most upstanding of the aristocracy had been drawn in to such a degree that her reputation as a sought-after hostess had spread much farther than her notoriety between the sheets.

  “Oh, yes,” Megrithe said airily. “We were at school together.” It wasn’t really a lie. They had been to the same school, just in different years. “She is absolutely enraptured by such things. I will certainly be telling her about all of you,” she added, and the girls practically melted on the spot.

  “I know about iron, miss,” the girl in the maid’s outfit volunteered shyly. “My father –”

  “Breget
te, no one cares about your father,” Alarice said a little harshly, and the girl instantly snapped her mouth shut. “I would be delighted to take you to the gardens tomorrow, Megrithe,” she continued in a smoother tone, covering up the comment with another flick of the fan. “They make for such a lovely day. Maybe you can tell me a little more about Lady Rathbourne as we have a nice stroll.”

  “That would be wonderful, thank you,” Megrithe replied, but it was the now silent Bregette, her head down as she tried to take her superior’s scolding in stride, who had most of her attention as the gaggle of women talked on and on.

  Megrithe took a rather long nap late that afternoon after extricating herself from the group, finally exhausted by all the recent hurry and bother. After salving her arm again and wrapping clean bandages around it, she told herself that she would be allowed half of an hour to rest and recuperate before tackling whatever Bregette might know.

  Three hours later, she woke up so refreshed and revived that she couldn’t even be angry at herself for sleeping much longer than she had anticipated.

  She wished she had brought more luggage, she thought as she stared at the ceiling, unable to will herself to leave her warm and soft cocoon just yet. A few gifts for the girls would have secured their good will indefinitely, and would have made a perfect way to strike up a conversation with her reticent target. She would have to rely on her natural charms, a thought that made her laugh as she propelled herself out of bed and splashed some water on her face.

  Those charms had been unable to secure her a husband, her mother’s voice snapped in her ear as she pressed a towel to her cheeks, and she felt the skin warm and redden under her fingers. There had been no greater disappointment on the earth to the woman, not even her own death, than her youngest daughter’s failure to follow in the respectable footsteps of her siblings.

  Her father had always supported her, though. He had been a Guild enforcer himself: big and a little slow and surprisingly gentle, doting on his daughters and roughing up his sons in good-natured battles that had set them all on paths towards quietly secure domestic bliss. Everyone had always known that Megrithe was his favorite – he had even worked extra hours for to pay for her extraordinary level of education – and she had returned the sentiment by idolizing him to the highest degree.

  His sudden death when she was eleven had broken her heart beyond all repair, and she had taken refuge from her grief among his friends at the Guild, desperate to cling on to any sense of him. They had spoiled her rotten and taken her in hand – she had made her first arrest at fourteen, balancing a heavy crossbow against her shoulder as the bolt’s point wobbled furiously with the effort, frightening the group of fleeing criminals so much that they had stopped their running to tell her to put it down before she killed someone, letting the real inspector catch up and do his duty.

  From that point on, her destiny had been fixed. She had tasted thrill and glory, and all of her hard work at her schooling had only had one intended purpose: to help her pass the inspector’s exam. She had done so handily, of course, and her mother had even come to her investiture, proud despite herself, as Megrithe began what had been a completely respectable if not incredibly remarkable career.

  That would all change if she had her way in the next few days, and she picked through her bag of cosmetics to see if there was anything she could spare to give Bregette as a bribe. After Alarice’s needling comments about her complexion, she wasn’t so sure there was anything she wanted to give up. But sacrifices would have to be made.

  “May I come in?” she asked after knocking on the door to Bregette’s room.

  “Yes, of course,” the girl replied eagerly. “Do you want anything? Some tea? Something to eat?”

  “No, thank you. Supper will be soon, I’m sure. I just wanted to tell you how fetching your dress is. I didn’t get a chance earlier. And I thought you might like to try some of this,” she said, holding out a flat disc of pressed powder in a tin that came with its own little sponge. “It would give you such a glow, and set off your eyes perfectly.”

  Bregette’s mouth fell open like she couldn’t believe that the offer was real. “Is this from the city?” she breathed as she twisted open the container and hesitantly touched her finger to the crumbly cake.

  “Yes, indeed. It doesn’t really do much for me, but I’d love for you to enjoy it.”

  “Don’t listen to what Alarice says,” the neneckt woman told her seriously as she closed the container again as reverently as if it held a saint’s relic. “You have a beautiful skin. I think she must just be jealous.”

  “I’m not worried about any of that,” Megrithe laughed. “I’ve had people say much worse. No, I was just concerned that she cut you off a little abruptly. I didn’t want you to think I was ignoring what you had to say. I really am quite interested.”

  “You are?”

  “Of course. I brought it up again, didn’t I? Let’s sit here for a moment and you can tell me all about your father and what he knows about iron.”

  ***

  Arran was fast asleep when the sentry started bellowing about seeing land poking over the horizon. He was looking forward to being able to stay awake during the day and take his rest at night like a respectable human being once his duties with Bomont were over, but it was with a snore and a vicious swipe at Simon, who tried to rouse him, that he greeted the first sight of his destination.

  He started awake when Simon hit him hard in the head with a pillow, and moaned as he realized he had to get up far before his usual time. “Go away,” he said. “I’m coming.”

  Yawning made him stumble as he felt his way up the ladder with his eyes closed, but the scent of greenery, immensely powerful after the clean and empty sea, woke him right up. There were no mountains or high points at all on Niheba, so the lookout hadn’t spotted its low dome until they were very close. Arran could almost see the individual trees that lined the cliffs of the shore before they turned to come around the south edge of the island, where the city and its calm harbor sloped down to the sea.

  “There’s nothing like home,” Faidal said, coming to stand beside him as the off-watches eagerly strained for a sight of the land, despite the fact that they had just left the continent two days ago.

  “Don’t get too attached. You’re coming south with me again, remember?”

  “I remember. But it’s been a long time since I could be happy about being here.”

  “How long?” Arran asked.

  “Since before Tiaraku was in power.”

  “But that was ages ago. How –”

  “How old am I? That is something you never ask a neneckt,” Faidal said, shaking his head in mock disapproval. “It’s very rude. We don’t live forever, but it’s longer than you. Maybe twice as much, if we don’t get killed.”

  “So you can be killed.”

  “Yes, indeed. But not as easily as you might think.”

  “No?”

  “It takes a lot more than a ruined skin or a head knocked in.”

  “Oh.”

  Faidal smiled as he turned back to look at the island again. “I knew a man once who tried to kill me,” he said, half to himself. “Poor sod didn’t know what would be coming to him.”

  “What happened to him?”

  “You’ll see for yourself,” he said solemnly, then laughed heartily at Arran’s alarmed expression. “A joke! It’s just a joke. You need to get more sleep.”

  “I know,” he replied, stifling a yawn again. “I can’t remember the last time I was on night watch. I must be getting old. Do you have your luggage? I want to get out of here as soon as we can.”

  “Right here,” Faidal said, lifting the bag he had placed at his feet. “Don’t you stay for the paying out?”

  “I paid him, remember? He doesn’t owe me anything, and I don’t think I’ll be getting a merit award.”

  “No, not likely.”

  It didn’t take long for the strengthening wind to push them inshore, and before
Arran could even lean against the mainmast and close his eyes to try to take a cat nap, the charmingly fresh smell of greenery had been replaced by the stench of rotten egg and refuse that marked even the cleanest and most well-kept wharfs.

  It wasn’t unwelcome. It was the smell of a journey safely completed, and there was no sailor with a head on his shoulders that would complain about reaching dry land in one piece, Arran least of all.

  “Where to?” he asked Faidal as they left the Celia behind.

  “A drink, if you like,” the neneckt replied. “There are some folk I wouldn’t mind catching up with.”

  Arran shrugged. “If you’re buying.”

  Faidal led him parallel to the shore for some time, threading along the harbor front past the merchant quays, the imposing and heavily guarded customs house, and the quiet, walled marina for the pleasure craft of the rich. They walked through endless blocks of tall warehouses, dodging carts pulled by lumbering draft horses and mules making their braying racket as they strained at their harnesses to deliver the island’s produce to eager patrons.

  Eventually, they ended up in a more or less residential district, peppered with the sort of shops where people with little money found their goods second or third hand. There a few tumbledown houses with yellow smoked glass in the upper windows, a sign to advertise ill repute to those who could pay for it, and even during the daylight, there were girls loitering on a selection of shaded corners, chattering with each other in between solicitous calls to promising passersby.

  Arran was a little surprised that there was such a seedy quarter to be found in the prosperous city, but the residents he saw were mostly human, and not of the sea. There always had to be laborers, he reminded himself, to tend to the groves and the farms, the portage and the grounds and houses of the wealthy. He wondered if the neneckt ever worked when they were above water, or if all the menial tasks were relegated to the second-class humans in a world that operated upside down.