Dreaming Death

by J. Kathleen Cheney

  “If I need this, I’ll be in more trouble than I can handle.” She took the knife, inspecting it with her fingers before slipping it under her own sash.

  “I’d still rather you had some way to protect yourself. It’s better than being a pressed flower.”

  CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

  The cab slowed suddenly, the driver applying the brake. If Mikael hadn’t had his foot braced where it was, he’d have been on the floor. He threw open the door and glanced out at the riverside, eerie under the falling darkness. He’d been to Miller’s Point before, so the terrain was moderately familiar. Mikael jumped down, caught Shironne as she came to the door, and set her on the ground beside him. He kept a firm grasp on one of her hands as he snagged the rifle’s strap and slung it over his shoulder.

  The cab driver, spooked by their surroundings, refused to remain behind. Mikael didn’t have any more credit markers, so he tossed his hooded overcoat up to the man instead. He told him to take it to the fortress for his pay, giving him a string of instructions for the sentries at the fortress gates as well. The driver turned the cab in a wide circle, heading away from the quiet riverside.

  The moon shone through breaks in the low clouds that had drifted in. Mikael didn’t trust the illusion of emptiness. Tall grasses and reeds grew out in the shallows, so there were numerous places to hide. Much wider here than it was in the pinched confines of the city, the river flowed slow and shallow.

  Shironne stripped off one of her gloves and shoved it into the pocket of her jacket.

  “Which way?” Mikael asked. “River’s in front of us.”

  “Downstream, I think. Can you try to be quieter?” she asked. “You’re drowning him out.”

  Mikael turned away from her, frustrated. The last of the twilight was fading. He suspected that in a quarter hour he wouldn’t be able to see at all. If the clouds obscured the moon, they had no chance of catching the man. Mikael closed his eyes, praying for time as quietly as he knew how.

  “Definitely this way,” Shironne said.

  Shironne pointed downstream, toward the city. Mikael took her gloved hand and drew her to a pathway that followed the river’s bank. Shironne tripped over a stone, but Mikael kept her moving.

  They crossed a rocky patch and she stopped, forcing him to halt as well. Her fingers wrapped around a handful of grass growing higher than her head. “Wait. Someone was just here.” She led him off the pathway into the grass, stumbling as she headed for the river.

  Harvesters had cut the reeds there down to stiff woody clumps no higher than Mikael’s knees. In the absence of the reeds, the men would have few places to conceal themselves along the riverbank, only the trees growing twisted among the rocks.

  They hit a shallow eddy and Mikael cut straight across, ignoring the water. He dragged Shironne through the reed stumps, his boots squelching in the soggy earth. When they hit a patch of dry ground, Mikael ran, hauling her along through the saw grass there. The moon had come out again, showing him a curve in the river ahead.

  “Farther down,” Shironne said breathlessly. Suddenly she yelped and her hand jerked away from his.

  Mikael skidded to a stop in the gravelly soil and spun back. He didn’t see her. She’d tumbled down into the tall grass, hidden from him. He could sense her frustration, coupled with her firm resolve not to panic.

  “I’m caught on something,” she yelled. “Go! You’re running out of time.”

  Judging her urgency, Mikael ran on. The saw grass gave way to bare silt again. He turned the bend of the river and spotted figures poised on the bank under a willow.

  Two lanterns cast a glow around where they held Elisabet on her knees under the naked branches of the tree. They’d stripped her to the waist, her skin a pale blur. One man held her arms behind her, keeping her immobilized. A second man crouched before her—the one who’d held a knife to Shironne’s neck. His blade flashed as he traced letters already written in scars across her skin.

  A third man stood at the river’s edge, arms folded over his chest, chin thrust out and arms folded as he watched the other two work. Ramanet, just as Shironne had noted, letting the others do his work for him.

  The man’s dark eyes lifted, too far away for Mikael to make out his expression. Mikael yanked his pistol from his sash and fired even as the man moved, diving toward the river’s surface. Ramanet disappeared under the water.

  Mikael ran for a tree near the pathway. He’d lost his advantage; the two other men were moving. The one who’d held Elisabet’s arms let her go, and she slumped facedown into the water. Jerking the rifle from his shoulder, Mikael crouched behind the tree, pulled back both hammers, and aimed.

  He chose the man who’d wielded the knife, squinting to make out the man’s dark face. He fired and the man dropped to the dirt. The second man hid behind the tree now, but not well enough. Mikael fired the second barrel. The man lurched away from the tree and collapsed.

  Mikael tossed the rifle away and ran to pull Elisabet out of the water, drawing her pistol from his sash as he went.

  The first man managed to rise, one hand held to his side. He caught sight of Mikael then and set a foot on Elisabet’s bare back, forcing her head under the water.

  Mikael dropped to a knee and took his third shot. He scrambled back up when the man fell to the ground and ran the last few yards to Elisabet’s side. She lay facedown in the water, unmoving. Terrified, Mikael grabbed a handful of braids and hauled her out. Elisabet gasped, her eyes unfocused.

  Relieved, Mikael dragged her back from the water’s edge. He laid her next to the tree’s trunk and, deciding she could wait for a moment, checked the two men he’d shot.

  The first was dead, shot through the cheek. The second lay on his side on the bank, blood bubbling out of his mouth. Mikael turned him over onto his back, reckoning that the man didn’t have long to live. Satisfied that neither posed a threat, Mikael returned to where Elisabet lay.

  Blood from her right shoulder washed across her chest but didn’t obscure the scars. The knife man had gotten through only the first four letters of his epitaph, matching the new cuts to old scars stretched by time. A jagged scar ran across the width of her chest beneath her breasts. No wonder she’d always moved a little stiffly.

  “Too stubborn to die, aren’t you?” he said, amazed an eleven-year-old could have survived such injuries. Mikael untied the ropes binding her hands.

  “You’re a lousy shot,” she mumbled and then coughed.

  He propped her up so that she leaned back against the tree. Elisabet didn’t seem to be drugged—Ramanet must not have had another dose with him—but Mikael suspected she had a concussion. She must have given them a fight once they got out of reach of Kai. Her shirt, vest, and jacket lay among the tree’s gnarled roots. Mikael grabbed up her shirt, folded it into a pad, and held it against the new wounds.

  He lifted her left hand to the makeshift bandage. “You’ve got to hold this. The two here aren’t a threat.”

  “Where’s Kai?” she said, grabbing at his hand with bloodied fingers.

  “Sent him back to the fortress. It’s up to Deborah now.” He grabbed her jacket and draped it over her shoulders. He reloaded her pistol and placed it in her other hand. She lifted it into her lap.

  “Now I need to find that priest,” he told her.

  She nodded wearily. “Go on.”

  • • •

  Shironne cursed the wires holding her foot hostage, some sort of bizarre contraption left on the shore just for someone who couldn’t see to step into. She worked at the wires with her hands and finally got the foot free, cutting her leg in the process. Blood smeared her fingers, but her leg didn’t hurt too badly, whatever she’d done.

  Once her own frustration bled away, Mikael’s anxiousness swelled back through her consciousness to replace it. He’d found Elisabet and had her safe. Two men down, he thought very lo
udly in relief, one to go.

  I’m coming for you, Mikael thought in her direction. I need you to help me find Ramanet.

  He’d never be able to see her where she sat. She called back and struggled to her feet, his anxiety making her heart pound. She listened to the river. She’d gotten turned around when she rose. She sensed him off to the right. Instead, she’d shouted in the wrong direction.

  She turned carefully to keep her feet away from the wire snare. “Mikael,” she yelled. Her own breathing sounded harsh in her ears, and overly loud.

  • • •

  Mikael heard Shironne call his name. He headed that way, but something pale blurred into his sight as another man appeared from behind the same tree he’d used as a shield moments before. The man moved to block Mikael’s path, a long, slender knife in his hand.

  It wasn’t the priest—too young and too big.

  The man lumbered closer and swung the knife in a wide, unpracticed arc. Mikael suddenly realized who he was. He’d forgotten to count the coach’s driver among the priest’s followers.

  “I don’t have time for this,” he yelled at the man, who kept coming closer anyway. Mikael reached for his knife only to find nothing there. He’d given it to Shironne.

  Seeing his moment of confusion, the big man charged.

  Mikael jumped back and away, anxiousness flowing through him. He spotted Elisabet’s rifle lying where he’d dropped it in the grass just past the tree. He scrambled in that direction, the driver coming after him.

  Mikael dove, grabbed the barrel of the rifle, and swung it about, staying low. The rifle’s butt hit the man midstride, catching him on the shin. The driver stumbled back, yowling in pain.

  Mikael moved his grip to the rifle’s locks and shoved the butt into the driver’s face. It connected with a satisfying crunch. The man dropped his knife, his hands going to cover his eyes. He sobbed like a child and hunched away, blood streaming from a broken nose.

  Mikael swore under his breath. He didn’t have the time to be fighting a driver. He stepped up and swung the rifle once more, hitting the back of the man’s head.

  The driver dropped like a rock.

  • • •

  Shironne called Mikael’s name again but he didn’t answer. She could hear the river to her left. She took a hesitant step in his direction, and then another. A few more and she squelched into the chilly water. It ran into her boots. She didn’t dare move quickly to escape it or she might misjudge and fall into the river, so she paused there, trying to decide what to do.

  At a distance, she heard the sounds that reminded her of the melee she’d seen when she was a child—Mikael was fighting with someone. His mind was busy, thoughts locked away, but an aggressive eagerness ran through him, sweeping into her mind as well.

  Her hands clenched into fists. Her breath came short and blood pounded in her ears. Sweat trickled down her spine. Then the sounds of struggle ceased.

  “Shironne?” Mikael called after a second, worried again.

  Someone grabbed her jacket and jerked her toward the river. She lost her footing and fell to her knees in the water, gasping as her bared hand rubbed against the not-quite-dried blood on her trouser legs.

  Shironne screamed in fury, Mikael’s ferocity still running through her veins like fire. She knew who held her. Ramanet had his hands on her. He was stronger than she was, dragging her away from the bank. With one arm, he pinned her to his chest.

  She kicked at him, screaming. She jabbed an elbow toward his solar plexus like Hanna Kassannan had taught her, but she didn’t know what she hit. His grip loosened for an instant, though. She plunged back into the water, and it closed over her head.

  All sensation stilled in an undefined, icy world that dragged and pulled at her. Terror pounded through her. She didn’t know which way was up. She held her breath, knowing she couldn’t do it forever.

  • • •

  Only a few feet from the bank, Mikael saw the priest turn Shironne loose. The man stood chest-deep in the river—more than deep enough for the current to carry her downstream.

  Mikael dropped Elisabet’s bloodied rifle and ran into the water, following his sense of her panic. Several yards away, her head broke the surface of the water.

  “Put your feet down,” he yelled at her.

  One arm flailed out of the water, her fear unabated.

  I can’t calm her down, not when I’m terrified myself. Mikael dove into the deeper water and managed to grab one of her legs. Her other boot caught him on the jaw, but without force. He yanked her back to him, trying to get his feet under him at the same time.

  Shironne’s arms wrapped around his neck. Mikael worked an arm about her waist and levered himself up. She coughed wretchedly against his neck, shivering.

  The priest stood only a couple of feet away, a gun in his hand. He leveled it at Mikael and reached for Shironne’s sleeve, rattling off a command in his own tongue. Mikael understood the word girl but nothing else.

  “Let him take me,” she whispered and then coughed again.

  “Absolutely not.” Mikael took a step back, wishing reassurance at her now. “Don’t worry.”

  Shironne had been right about the man. Ramanet always had others do things for him. He’d pulled the gun from below the waterline. His cartridges would surely be ruined now.

  Mikael held Shironne close, fumbling at her waist with his free hand. She still wore his knife in her sash. He wrenched it free and began edging toward the bank.

  Baring his teeth, the priest pulled the trigger.

  Nothing happened.

  “You’re not going to get your prize.” Mikael carried Shironne toward the bank, keeping an eye on the priest the whole time. At this distance and in the dark, he didn’t think he could throw the knife with enough accuracy to guarantee a kill. He would have to go after Ramanet again and make sure the man died this time.

  The priest grimaced and leveled the gun at him again.

  Ignoring him, Mikael set Shironne on the bank. “Stay right here,” he ordered.

  A shot sounded and a bullet whizzed past his ear. Mikael dropped to the sand, covering Shironne’s body with his own.

  CHAPTER FORTY-THREE

  Mikael sprang up and turned to face the priest, but the man was gone again. The river flowed by in its hurry to get down into the city, carrying Ramanet away.

  “I was waiting for you to get out of my way, Mr. Lee.” A dozen feet back from the shore, Elisabet rose from a crouch, her pistol in her hand. She had managed to don her jacket somehow and had it almost completely buttoned. She dug a cartridge out of a pocket and calmly reloaded. “The body, Mr. Lee,” she said. “I’ll watch the girl.”

  Under her guard, Mikael stood and surveyed the river. Already yards downstream, a pale shape floated on the surface of the water. It was only a matter of time until the air buoying the body escaped and it sank.

  Mikael ran along the bank until he could see the body more clearly. It snagged on something under the water and stalled in its passage. Mikael waded out and grabbed an arm.

  He hauled the body out of the water and turned it over on the bank. Ramanet’s dark eyes gazed up at the cloudy sky, all his elegance gone. His mouth hung slackly open. A small hole, almost centered on his forehead, oozed dark blood. Another bullet had torn through his shoulder. Mikael guessed that was his own lousy shot.

  Mikael stared at the dead man for a second, thinking that Ramanet had been right in a way. Everything they’d attempted had failed because of Elisabet. Despite everything he had done, all the bloodshed, now he was just another corpse on the bank of the river.

  He checked one last time to make certain the man was dead, hoisted the body over one shoulder, and carried it up to the path where Elisabet and Shironne waited for him. He wasn’t certain which of the two was holding the other up.

  He laid Ramane
t’s body on the ground at Elisabet’s feet. Shironne slipped out of Elisabet’s grasp and knelt next to the body. Realizing what she intended, Mikael squatted across from her. “Are you sure you want to do this?”

  “The longer I wait, the more the memories will fade. I didn’t think to look for it before.” She caught her lower lip between her teeth, looking exhausted. “If he knows how to save Kai . . .”

  Mikael took her hand and laid it against the dead man’s cheek.

  • • •

  Shironne felt herself falling through Ramanet’s mind, as if the shelves that had held everything in place had failed, falling haphazardly about like a ruined library. This was death, the loss of control of everything that made up one’s mind.

  But she found what she was looking for, the years-ago memory of Gajaya Ramanet watching his father sacrificing on the bank of the river. The centenary sacrifices—a hundred dead, one for every promised year of power. And then the shooting started. He’d seen his uncles, his cousins, cut down by an unseen army. When his father fell, he knew they’d failed, and he fled back across the river.

  After that failure, he needed something special to catapult him into a position of power. Nothing came until the day he was asked to question a Larossan spy, and he found that elusive lever. The spy had seen scars whose pattern Gajaya remembered all too well.

  And the woman who bore them could only be one who’d escaped the death his clan had spread along the border. She was a marksman, with an old rifle. That woman was why his father had died in shame on the bank of the Sorianas River.

  Shironne sat down among the disordered books, searching through them for the truth of why Ramanet had pursued this path of death. She found a thousand motives written in those pages, some strong and others pallid, a maze of self-deceit and frustration that led back to the simple fact that his family name had been ruined, and this was his way of trying to mend it.

  And finding a missing Ramanet girl—one who had to be descended from Nyassa, his cousin who’d shirked her duty and fled across the river to escape an unwanted marriage—that had to be a sign that his god approved.