Shadow Games

by Glen Cook

  “Looks like a supernatural miracle to me, Ott.”

  “Be sarcastic, you guys.”

  “I mean it,” Otto said. “You do look good. If you had a little rug to cover where your hairline is running back toward your butt...”

  He did mean it. “Well, then,” I mumbled, uncomfortable. I changed the subject. “I meant what I said. Keep those two in line.” In town only four days and already I’d bailed Goblin and One-Eye out of trouble twice. There was a limit to what even a legate could cover, hush, and smooth over.

  “There’s only three of us, Croaker,” Hagop protested. “What do you want? They don’t want to be kept in line.”

  “I know you guys. You’ll think of something. While you’re at it, get this junk packed up. It has to go down to the ship.”

  “Yes sir, your grand legateship, sir.”

  I was about to deliver one of my fiery, witty, withering rejoinders when Murgen stuck his head into the room and said, “The coach is ready, Croaker.”

  And Hagop wondered aloud, “How do we keep them in line when we don’t even know where they are? Nobody’s seen them since lunchtime.”

  I went out to the coach hoping I would not get an ulcer before I got out of the empire.

  We roared through Opal’s streets, my escort of Horse Guards, my black stallions, my ringing black iron coach, and I. Sparks flew around the horses’ hooves and the coach’s steel wheels. Dramatic, but riding in that metal monster was like being locked inside a steel box that was being enthusiastically pounded by vandalistic giants.

  We swept up to the Gardens’ understated gate, scattering gawkers. I stepped down, stood more stiffly erect than was my wont, made an effete gesture of dismissal copied from some prince seen somewhere along life’s twisted way. I strode through the gate, thrown open in haste.

  I marched back to the Camelia Grotto, hoping ancient memory would not betray me. Gardens employees yapped at my heels. I ignored them.

  My way took me past a pond so smooth and silvery its surface formed a mirror. I halted, mouth dropping open.

  I did, indeed, cut an imposing figure, cleaned up and dressed up. But were my eyes two eggs of fire, and my open mouth a glowing furnace? “I’ll strangle those two in their sleep,” I murmured.

  Worse than the fire, I had a shadow, a barely perceptible specter, behind me. It hinted that the legate was but an illusion cast by something darker.

  Damn those two and their practical jokes.

  When I resumed moving I noted that the Gardens were packed but silent. The guests all watched me.

  I had heard that the Gardens were not as popular as once they had been.

  They were there to see me. Of course. The new general. The unknown legate out of the dark tower. The wolves wanted a look at the tiger.

  I should have expected it. The escort. They had had four days to tell tales around town.

  I turned on all the outward arrogance I could muster. And inside I echoed to the whimper of a kid with stage fright.

  I settled in in the Camelia Grotto, out of sight of the crowd. Shadows played about me. The staff came to enquire after my needs. They were revolting in their obsequiousness.

  A disgusting little part of me gobbled it up. A part just big enough to show why some men lust after power. But not for me, thank you. I am too lazy. And I am, I fear, the unfortunate victim of a sense of responsibility. Put me in charge and I try to accomplish the ends to which the office was allegedly created. I guess I suffer from an impoverishment of the sociopathic spirit necessary to go big time.

  How do you do the show, with the multiple-course meal, when you are accustomed to patronizing places where you take whatever is in the pot or starve? Craft. Take advantage of the covey hovering about, fearful I might devour them if not pleased. Ask this, ask that, use a physician’s habitual intuition for the hinted and implied, and I had it whipped. I sent them to the kitchens with instructions to be in no haste, for a companion might join me later.

  Not that I expected Lady. I was going through the motions. I meant to keep my date without its other half.

  Other guests kept finding excuses to pass by and look at the new man. I began to wish I had brought my escort along.

  There was a rolling rumble like the sound of distant thunder, then a hammerclap close at hand. A wave of chatter ran through the Gardens, followed by grave-dead silence. Then the silence gave way to the rhythm of steel-tapped heels falling in unison.

  I did not believe it. Even as I rose to greet her, I did not believe it.

  Tower Guards hove into view, halted, parted. Goblin came hup-two-threeing between them, strutting like a drum major, looking like his namesake freshly scrounged from some especially fiery Hell. He glowed. He trailed a fiery mist which evaporated a few yards behind him. He stepped down into the Grotto and gave the place the fish-eye, and me a wink. He then marched up the far side steps and posted himself facing outward.

  What the hell were they up to now? Expanding on their already overburdened practical joke?

  Then Lady appeared, as fell and as radiant as fantasy, as beautiful as a dream. I clicked my heels and bowed. She descended to join me. She was a vision. She extended a hand. My manners did not desert me, despite all the hard years.

  Wouldn’t this give Opal fuel for gossip?

  One-Eye followed Lady down, wreathed in dark mists through which crawled shadows with eyes. He inspected the Grotto, too.

  As he turned to go back the way he had come, I said, “I’m going to incinerate that hat.” Tricked out like a lord, he was, but still wearing his ragpicker’s hat.

  He grinned, assumed his post.

  “Have you ordered?” Lady asked.

  “Yes. But only for one.”

  A small horde of staff tumbled past One-Eye, terrified. The master of the Gardens himself drove them. If they had been fawning with me, they were downright disgusting with Lady. I have never been that impressed with anyone in any position of power.

  It was a long, slow meal, undertaken mostly in silence, with me sending unanswered puzzled glances across the table. A memorable dining experience for me, though Lady hinted that she had known better.

  The problem was, we were too much on stage to take any real enjoyment from it. Not only for the crowd, but for one another.

  Along the way I admitted I had not expected her to appear, and she said my storming out of the Tower made her realize that if she did not just drop everything and go she would not shake the tentacles of imperial responsibility till someone freed her by murdering her.

  “So you just walked? The place will be coming apart.”

  “No. I left certain safeguards in place. I delegated powers to people whose judgment I trust, in such fashion that the empire will acrete to them gradually, and become theirs solidly before they realize that I’ve deserted.”

  “I hope so.” I am a charter member of that philosophical school which believes that if anything can go sour, it will.

  “It won’t matter to us, will it? We’ll be well out of range.”

  “Morally, it matters, if half a continent is thrown into civil war.”

  “I think I have made sufficient moral sacrifice.” A cold wind overswept me. Why can’t I keep my big damned mouth shut?

  “Sorry,” I said. “You’re right. I didn’t think.”

  “Apology accepted. I must confess something. I’ve taken a liberty with your plans.”

  “Eh?” One of my more intellectual moments.

  “I cancelled your passage aboard that merchantman.”

  “What? Why?”

  “It wouldn’t be seemly for a legate of the empire to travel aboard a broken-down grain barge. You are too cheap, Croaker. The quinquireme Soulcatcher built, The Dark Wings, is in port. I ordered her readied for the crossing to Beryl.”

  My gods. The very doomship that brought us north. “We aren’t well loved in Beryl.”

  “Beryl is an imperial province these days. The frontier lies three hundred miles beyond t
he sea now. Have you forgotten your part in what made that possible?”

  I only wanted to. “No. But my attention has been elsewhere the past few decades.” If the frontier had drifted that far, then imperial boots tramped the asphalted avenues of my own home city. It never occurred to me that the southern proconsuls might expand the borders beyond the maritime city-states. Only the Jewel Cities themselves were of any strategic value.

  “Now who’s being bitter?”

  “Who? Me? You’re right. Let’s enjoy the civilized moment. We’ll have few enough of them.” Our gazes locked. For a moment there were sparks of challenge in hers. I looked away. “How did you manage to enlist those two clowns in your charade?”

  “A donative.”

  I laughed. Of course. Anything for money. “And how soon will The Dark Wings be ready to sail?”

  “Two days. Three at the most. And no, I won’t be handling any imperial business while I’m here.”

  “Uhm. Good. I’m stuffed to the gills and ripe for roasting. We ought to go walk this off, or something. Is there a reasonably safe place we could go?”

  “You probably know Opal better than I do, Croaker. I’ve never been here before.”

  I suppose I looked surprised.

  “I can’t be everywhere. There was a time when I was preoccupied in the north and east. A time when I was preoccupied with putting my husband down. A time when I was preoccupied with catching you. There never was a time when I was free for broadening travel.”

  “Thank the stars.”

  “What?”

  “Meant to be a compliment. On your youthful figure.”

  She gave me a calculating look. “I won’t say anything to that. You’ll stick it all in your Annals.”

  I grinned. Threads of smoke snaked between my teeth.

  I swore I’d get them.

  Chapter Seven: SMOKE AND THE WOMAN

  Willow figured you could pick Smoke for what he was in any crowd. He was a wrinkled, skinny little geek that looked like somebody tried to do him in black walnut husk stain, only they missed some spots. There were spatters of pink on the backs of his hands, one arm, and one side of his face. Like maybe somebody threw acid at him and it killed the color where it hit him.

  Smoke had not done anything to Willow. Not yet. But Willow did not like him. Blade did not care one way or another. Blade didn’t care much about anybody. Cordy Mather said he was reserving judgment. Willow kept his dislike back out of sight, because Smoke was what he was and because he hung out with the Woman.

  The Woman was waiting for them, too. She was browner than Smoke and most anyone else in town, as far as Willow knew. She had a mean face that made it hard to look at her. She was about average size for Taglian women, which was not very big by Swan’s standards. Except for her attitude of “I am the boss” she would not have stood out much. She did not dress better than old women Willow saw in the streets. Black crows, Cordy called them. Always wrapped up in black, like old peasant women they saw when they were headed down through the territories of the Jewel Cities.

  They had not been able to find out who the Woman was, but they knew she was somebody. She had connections in the Prahbrindrah’s palace, right up at the top. Smoke worked for her. Fishwives didn’t have wizards on the payroll. Anyway, both of them acted like officials trying not to look official. Like they did not know how to be regular people.

  The place they met was somebody’s house. Somebody important, but Willow had not yet figured who. The class lines and heirarchies did not make sense in Taglios. Everything was always screwed up by religious affiliation.

  He entered the room where they waited, helped himself to a chair. Had to show them he wasn’t some boy to run and fetch at their beck. Cordy and Blade were more circumspect. Cordy winced as Willow said, “Blade says you guys want to kick it up’bout Smoke’s nightmares. Maybe pipe dreams?”

  “You have a very good idea why you interest us, Mr. Swan. Taglios and its dependencies have been pacifistic for centuries. War is a forgotten art. It’s been unnecessary. Our neighbors were equally traumatized by the passage —”

  Willow asked Smoke, “She talking Taglian?”

  “As you wish, Mr. Swan.” Willow caught a hint of mischief in the Woman’s eye. “When the Free Companies came through they kicked ass so damned bad that for three hundred years anybody who even looked at a sword got so scared he puked his guts up.”

  “Yeah.” Swan chuckled. “That’s right. We can talk. Tell us.”

  “We want help, Mr. Swan.”

  Willow mused, “Let’s see, the way I hear, around seventy-five, a hundred years ago people finally started playing games. Archery shoots, whatnot. But never anything man to man. Then here come the Shadowmasters to take over Tragevec and Kiaulune and change the names to Shadowlight and Shadowcatch.”

  “Kiaulune means Shadow Gate,” Smoke said. His voice was like his skin, splotched with oddities. Squeaks, sort of. They made Willow bristle. “Not much change. Yes. They came. And like Kina in the legend they set free the wicked knowledge. In this case, how to make war.”

  “And right away they started carving them an empire and if they hadn’t had that trouble at Shadowcatch and hadn’t got so busy fighting each other they would’ve been here fifteen years ago. I know. I been asking around ever since you guys started hustling us.”

  “And?”

  “So for fifteen years you knew they was coming someday. And for fifteen years you ain’t done squat about it. Now when you all of a sudden know the day, you want to grab three guys off the street and con them into thinking they can work some kind of miracle. Sorry, sister. Willow Swan ain’t buying. There’s your conjure man. Get old Smoke to pull pigeons out of his hat.”

  “We aren’t looking for miracles, Mr. Swan. The miracle has happened. Smoke dreamed it. We’re looking for time for the miracle to take effect.”

  Willow snorted.

  “We have a realistic appreciation of how desperate our situation is, Mr. Swan. We have had since the Shadowmasters appeared. We have not been playing ostrich. We have been doing what seems most practical, given the cultural context. We have encouraged the masses to accept the notion that it would be a great and glorious thing to repel the onslaught when it comes.”

  “You sold them that much,” Blade said. “They ready to go die.”

  “And that’s all they would do,” Swan said. “Die.”

  “Why?” the Woman asked.

  “No organization,” said Cordy. The thoughtful one. “But organization wouldn’t be possible. No one from any of the major cult families would take orders from somebody from another one.”

  “Exactly. Religious conflicts make it impossible to raise an army. Three armies, maybe. But then the high priests might be tempted to use them to settle scores here at home.”

  Blade snorted. “They ought to burn the temples and strangle the priests.”

  “Sentiments my brother often expresses,” the Woman said. “Smoke and I feel they might follow outsiders of proven skill who aren’t beholden to any faction.”

  “What? You going to make me a general?”

  Cordy laughed. “Willow, if the gods thought half as much of you as you think of yourself, you’d be king of the world. You figure you’re the miracle Smoke saw in his dream? They’re not going to make you a general. Not really. Unless maybe for show, while they stall.”

  “What?”

  “Who’s the guy keeps saying he only spent two months in the army and never even learned to keep step?”

  “Oh.” Willow thought for a minute. “I think I see.”

  “Actually, you will be generals,” the Woman said. “And we’ll have to rely heavily on Mr. Mather’s practical experience. But Smoke will have the final say.”

  “We have to buy time,” the wizard echoed. “A lot of time. Someday soon Moonshadow will send a combined force of five thousand to invade Taglios. We have to keep from being beaten. If there’s any way possible, we have to beat the force sent a
gainst us.”

  “Nothing like wishing.”

  “Are you willing to pay the price?” Cordy asked. Like he thought it could be done.

  “The price will be paid,” the Woman said. “Whatever it may be.”

  Willow looked at her till he could no longer keep his teeth clamped on the big question. “Just who the hell are you, lady? Making your promises and plans.”

  “I am the Radisha Drah, Mr. Swan.”

  “Holy shit,” Swan muttered. “The prince’s big sister.” The one some people said was the real boss bull in those parts. “I knew you was somebody, but...” He was rattled right down to his toenails. But he would not have been Willow Swan if he had not leaned back, folded his hands on his belly, put on a big grin, and asked, “What’s in it for us?”

  Chapter Eight: OPAL: CROWS

  Though the empire retained a surface appearance of cohesion, a failure of the old discipline snaked through the deeps beneath. When you wandered the streets of Opal you sensed the laxness. There was flip talk about the new crop of overlords. One-Eye spoke of an increase in black marketeering, a subject on which he had been expert for a century. I overheard talk of crimes committed that were not officially sanctioned.

  Lady seemed unconcerned. “The empire is seeking normalcy. The wars are over. There’s no need for the strictures of the past.”

  “You saying it’s time to relax?”

  “Why not? You’d be the first to scream about what a price we paid for peace.”

  “Yeah. But the comparative order, the enforcement of public safety laws... I admired that part.”

  “You sweetheart, Croaker. You’re saying we weren’t all bad.”

  She knew damned well I’d claimed that all along. “You know I don’t believe there’s any such thing as pure evil.”

  “Yes there is. It’s festering up north in a silver spike your friends drove into the trunk of a sapling that’s the son of a god.”

  “Even the Dominator may have had some redeeming quality sometime. Maybe he was good to his mother.”

  “He probably ripped her heart out and ate it. Raw.”