The River of Shadows cv-3

by Robert V. S. Redick

  “I do hope you take to her, Isiq. She’s the best thing to happen to me in years. I was beginning to think my reign was cursed, you know. After your brave Thasha’s death and the collapse of the Peace, some of the other lords of the Crownless Lands turned their backs, called me Arqual’s fool. Then came the death of Pacu Lapadolma, those furious letters from the Mzithrin Kings, that Gods-awful plague of rats. I should have gone mad without my darling girl. Watching her dance, one can believe that beauty still has a place in Alifros.”

  Isiq nodded, smiling to please the King. “B-beauty,” he made himself say.

  “Ha!” laughed Oshiram. “Carry on, Isiq. Perhaps in a day or two we shall be watching her dance together-or just listening to her sing. Did I mention that she sings?”

  An enraptured look came over the King’s face. He raised his eyebrows, the corners of his lips, and was suddenly womanish, crooning in soft falsetto: Look for me by starlight, lover, seek me in that glade. I’ll bring you all the treasures of the world our love has made He broke off. Isiq was lurching backward, mouth wide open, flailing. Before the King could reach him the big man fell hard upon the chest of drawers, knocking it back against the mirror, which jumped from its peg and shattered on Isiq’s bald head.

  “Rin’s eyes, Admiral!” The King experienced a rare kind of panic: Isiq was bleeding, the doctor was elsewhere, he could not shout for aid. He went down on his knees and plucked sickles of glass from the admiral’s clothes. No danger, no danger, only scratches on that bedknob cranium of his. “What in Pitfire happened to you?” he demanded. “Oh, keep still, shut your mouth before you get glass in it.”

  Isiq thought his mind would burst. The song was hers. She had sung it to him countless times, early in the mornings, in the garden cottage, bringing him his cigar-aboard the Chathrand, in bed, with Thasha in the outer stateroom practicing her wedding vows. Oshiram had even managed a fair imitation of her voice.

  The King was scolding, but Isiq could barely hear. Time slowed to a crawl. There were shards of mirror in his hands and lap. In every sliver, a memory, bright and perfect. There was his daughter, murdered in her bridal dress. There were the four men bearing her body to the Chathrand. And Sandor Ott. And the Nilstone, throbbing.

  “Don’t handle them, you daft old-”

  And here in this largest shard, so cruelly, cleverly shaped (the King tried to remove it; the admiral fiercely gripped his hand) was that unequaled beauty, his Syrarys, with her arms around a lover-not Isiq, of course, and not the spymaster, nor even this good, deluded King. Mesmerizing, this clarity, after so much blindness. And yet Isiq was certain. No one else could have made his consort so dangerous. The one in her arms was the one who had always been there, invisibly. The one who’d slain Thasha, and cheated death. The one whose hands moved all the strings “Arunis.”

  The King froze. “What did you just say?”

  Isiq’s gaze had wandered for months; now it focused sharp as daggers on the King. “You’re in danger, Oshiram,” he whispered.

  “A complete sentence!” cried the bird suddenly from the window, forgetting himself entirely.

  The King whirled, gaping; the bird was already gone. “What is happening here, Isiq? Have you been feigning this illness? Where did that bird come from? And why in Rin’s name did you mention the sorcerer?”

  Isiq stared up at him: glass in his eyebrows, rivulets of blood on his cheeks. “We must trust each other, Majesty,” he whispered, “and somehow we must be cleverer than they. By the Night Gods, I remember it all.”

  From the new journal of G. Starling Fiffengurt, Quartermaster

  Thursday, 26 Ilbrin 941

  Where, by the Blessed Tree, to begin? With the dead men? With the blessing of the goat? Or with the fact that Heaven’s Tree doesn’t even hang over us here, so help me Rin?^ 7

  No: I shall start with Pathkendle, since I have just seen him amp; the lad’s misery is fresh in my mind. I had just taken my turn in the rigging, same as nearly everyone aboard. The dlomu were still staring at us, but their numbers were dwindling. Perhaps they were moved by the doomsday-babble of that screaming hag. Perhaps we misspoke, somehow, hurt their feelings. However that may be, we soon concluded that we weren’t to be fed, or even greeted with more than fear amp; superstition, before daybreak. They hemmed us in with cables to stop our drift amp; placed guards at the ends of the walkway amp; left us to stew in our own sinking ship.

  A few men exploded, cursing them. Others begged loudly for food. The dlomu, however, did not look back amp; when they were gone from sight even the timid hands joined in until the whole topdeck was bellowing insults, fish-eyes, black bastards, cold-hearted freaks amp; then someone gave an embarrassed little, “Ahh, umm,” amp; we saw that one of the cables was moving like a trawling-line amp; dangling upon it were bundle after canvas bundle. Wisps of steam escaped them amp; the smell when we hauled them in brought a low moan of ecstasy from the nearest men. Ibjen had shamed them, apparently. Ghosts or no ghosts, we wouldn’t be starved.

  Inside were warm rolls amp; slabs of fresh cheese amp; smoked fish, the river clams Bolutu had gone on about for days, and cloth packages filled with strange little pyramid-shaped confections, a bit smaller than oranges amp; coated with sugar and hard little seeds. We nibbled: they were salty-sweet amp; chewy as whale blubber. “Mul!” Bolutu cried at the sight of them. “Ah, Fiffengurt, you’ll find nothing more authentically dlomic than mul! They’ve been the salvation of many a sea-voyage, or forced march through the mountains.” But what were they? “Nutritious!” said Bolutu, amp; quickly changed the subject.

  There was dark bread, too; amp; as I live amp; breathe, many bundles of what we took for fat white worms. A dozen of these fell to the deck when we tore open the first basket amp; wriggled away like lightning for fifty feet or so amp; then lay still. Bolutu snatched one up, peeled off its skin like a blary banana amp; ate it: the things are fruits-pirithas, he calls ’em: “snake-beans.” They fall from a parent tree amp; squirm away, seeking new places to grow. “If it doesn’t wriggle it’s not worth eating,” he said.

  I was about to brave one of these dainties myself (having already wolfed down bread amp; cheese amp; fish the latter stained green whatever they touched amp; made us all look frightfully murthish about the mouth) when Lady Thasha appeared with a platter heaped with all the aforementioned. “Will you take this to Pazel?” she asked me.

  “We can do better than that,” I told her. “It’s well past midnight, ain’t it? That’s three days. Let’s get ’im out of the brig, my dear! You come along.”

  But Thasha shook her head. “You do it, Mr. Fiffengurt. And see that he eats, will you? There’s enough food for the sfvantskors, too.”

  Considerate, that was: the food would be gone in minutes. But the compliment I thought to pay her died on my lips when she turned amp; walked back to Greysan Fulbreech. Old Smiley fed her a piece of bread amp; she grinned through the mouthful at him amp; suddenly I was enraged. A nonsense reaction, of course: young hearts are fickle amp; Thasha’s has clearly left Pathkendle in favor of this youth from Simja. Why does the sight of them fill me with such indignation? Perhaps I merely hoped the girl had better taste.

  I ducked down the Holy Stair, bickered with the crawlies at the checkpoint amp; was finally escorted (how the word sticks in my throat) onto the mercy deck amp; aft to the brig. The four Turachs (two for each sfvantskor, none for Pathkendle) were licking clean plates of their own; they turned spiteful when they realized I wasn’t bringing second helpings. At the far end of the row of cells the two sfvantskors watched me with bright wolf eyes.

  I unlocked Pathkendle’s cell; he walked out, slow amp; dignified amp; hurt. Some spark in his eye was gone. I might never have become of aware of its existence, that lad’s blary spark (what do I mean, spark? Here’s my old dad’s answer: If you have to ask you ain’t never goin’ to know) but for its absence then.

  “Chin up, Pathkendle,” says I, much heartier than I feel. “The ship’s out
of danger amp; you’re out of jail. Try a wiggler. I happen to know they’re fresh.”

  “Go on,” said a grinning, green-lipped Turach, “they only look like big maggots.”

  Pazel stared insolently at him amp; bit into a piece of bread. “I want,” he said, chewing, “to finish telling Neda my dream.”

  Under the soldiers’ eyes we took food to the sfvantskors. Pazel sat facing them, cross-legged on the floor. They ate. To fill the silence I talked about the waterfalls, the incredible way we rose into the city. Pazel sat there slipping snake-beans into his mouth amp; gazing at his sister through the iron bars. His sister, a Black Rag priestess: the thought chilled my blood. This was the girl they’d been looking for, those countrymen of mine, during the Ormali siege. They’d beaten Pazel himself into a coma, that day, when he refused to guide them to his sister’s hiding place. He’d lain there ready to die for her. Could anything-time, training, religion-challenge a bond like that?

  “Thasha painted me with mud,” Pathkendle was saying. “Head to toe. Bright red mud that she’d heated in a pot. It felt”-he glanced at me, coloring a little-“really good. The beach was windy; the mud was smooth amp; warm. I told you already what happened next.”

  “She pushing you,” said Neda. Her attempt at Arquali was for my benefit, I suppose.

  “Into a coffin,” said Pazel. “A fancy coffin, trimmed with gold. She slammed the lid amp; nailed it shut amp; I kicked amp; pounded from the inside. When she was done she dragged the coffin into the surf.”

  “And pushed you out to sea,” said the older one, Vispek. He raised his head amp; looked at me. “The mud, the gilded coffin in the waves. Those are Arquali funeral rites, are they not?”

  “Only for kings amp; nobles, these days,” I said, startled at his knowledge of us. “It’s a high honor, that sort of burial.”

  “And the one who paints the body?”

  “The King’s favorite girly. His whatsit, his courtesan.”

  “Neda thinks the dream’s important,” said Pazel.

  Her eyes flickered over me coldly. “Dreams are warning,” she said. “We not listen, then we getting die.”

  “Is that a fact.”

  She said something quick amp; cross in the Sizzy tongue amp; her master grunted in agreement. “The Isiq girl wants to be rid of him,” he said, “although once she pretended to love him. Like an expensive whore.”

  “Now just you shut your mouth,” I said, rising to my feet. But Vispek went right on talking.

  “She wished to seem as though she revered him, saw him as her equal. Never mind that she’s from one of the most powerful families in Arqual, and the boy is nothing: a peasant from a country her father destroyed. So she honors him, buries him like a king.”

  “But is lie,” said Neda, wolfing cheese. “No honor if he put in water alive. Only after he getting die.”

  “The girl’s touch was pleasurable, in this dream?” asked Vispek.

  Pazel nodded uncomfortably. “Well then,” said Vispek, “all the better to catch you off-guard in the moment of betrayal.”

  “That’s enough,” I said. “You’re a slimy beast, Vispek. You’re trying to divide us, and using Pazel’s sister to do it. By the Tree, you’re carrying on the old war, ain’t you? Right here in Chathrand’s brig, ten thousand miles from home.”

  Vispek kept his eyes on Pazel. “Neda is correct,” he said. “Dreams are warnings, and must not be ignored. The next time you feel that caressing hand, you can be sure a knife will follow. Watch your step.”

  “I will, Cayer Vispek,” said Pazel.

  “Damn it, Pathkendle!” I sputtered. “This is Thasha you’re talking about!”

  The tarboy looked up at me, chewing. “Thasha,” he said. “Thasha Isiq.” As if the last name changed something for him.

  A few minutes later we left the brig, with ixchel scurrying ahead amp; behind. I was aghast at the whole exchange. What kind of horrid nonsense had Pazel been listening to, in that black cell for three hopeless days? What ideas had those Sizzies stuffed him with? I grew frantic, amp; as soon as we cleared the checkpoint I dragged him from the ladderway amp; pressed him up against a wall.

  “Flimflam!” I said. “Mule dung! A man will dream anything when his heart’s broken. That don’t make it true!”

  “You don’t understand,” he said. “My sister’s special. Wise. They both are, as a matter of fact.”

  It was worse than I feared. “Pathkendle,” I implored. “My dear, sarcastic, sharp-tongued tarboy. Religion’s a fine thing, a truly noble thing-except for the believing part. Trust me, please. It’s worse than what a girl can do to you.”

  “Nothing is.”

  I groaned aloud. “Pitfire, that’s true, of course. But so is what I’m telling you. Listen to me, for the love of Rin-”

  He met my eyes at that. “For the love of who, Mr. Fiffengurt?”

  I stood up straight. “That’s a different matter, the Rinfaith. It’s part of society. And it ain’t so extreme, like. You know what I’m saying. Barbaric.”

  He frowned a little at that. “I just wanted to talk to my sister,” he said, “and that Vispek bloke won’t let her talk except about grim and serious things.” Then he smiled at me, with his old sly look. “Maybe he hoped she’d win me over to the Old Faith. Not a chance. Neda’s never been able to talk me into anything.” He laughed. “But it sure kept them talking. And I must have done a good enough job, if I fooled you too.”

  I could have smacked the little bastard. Or kissed him. I was that relieved.

  “What was all that about her being special?” I asked.

  “Oh, she is,” he said. “Mother cast a spell on Neda, too. All these years I thought it hadn’t worked, hadn’t done anything to her, but it did. It gave her perfect memory. You wouldn’t believe it, Mr. Fiffengurt. I wrote a six-foot string of numbers in the dust amp; read them to her aloud. She recited them all back to me in perfect order. She didn’t even have to try.”

  I just stared at him. What could I possibly say? “You’re from a witching family,” I managed at last. “But does she have mind-fits, like you?”

  “Sort of,” he replied. “She told me her memory can be like a horse that runs away with its rider. It just gallops off amp; she’s trapped, remembering more amp; more, faster amp; faster, even if what she’s remembering is terrible. I told her that sort of thing happened to me on Bramian, when the eguar made me look into Sandor Ott’s mind, and learn about his life. Neda said, ‘Imagine if at the end of that vision you couldn’t escape, because the mind you were looking into was your own.’ ”

  The eguar. He’d never spoken to me of it before, but I’d heard him telling Undrabust about the creature. Like a crocodile, but demonic amp; huge, amp; surrounded by a burning haze. “What did that monster do to you, Pathkendle?” I asked him now.

  Before he could make any answer, we heard the scream. It came from away aft, one or two decks below. A blood-curdler, if ever I heard one: a great man’s howl of pain, a warrior’s howl that twisted for an instant into a high womanish screech amp; was then cut off as if the throat that uttered it had just ceased to exist.

  We ran back to the Silver Stair. The ixchel shrilled amp; threatened but we barreled past ’em. I already had an idea where we were going. Turach voices were exclaiming: “Oh no, no! Ruthane, you mad mucking-”

  Seconds later we were there, in the manger. There was an unspeakable stench. The Turachs were clumped around the Shaggat, moaning; one of them had staggered away amp; vomited all the food he’d been allotted. But I knew that wasn’t what I’d smelled. It had happened again. Someone had touched the Nilstone.

  I made myself draw nearer. There he was. Or wasn’t. Then I saw the armor, lying in that heap of bone-dust. Sweet Rin above, he was a Turach.

  “He cut the sack with his knife,” said another of the marines. “He just reached up amp; cut a hole amp; put in his hand. What for, what for?”

  Turachs do not cry, but this one was as close as
I ever hope to see. Then he noticed Pathkendle. “You! Witch-boy! Was this another of your tricks? If you made him do it I’ll muckin’ break you in half!”

  “I didn’t,” said Pazel, looking a bit ill himself, “and I couldn’t anyway, I swear it.”

  “And he ain’t a killer, either,” I said.

  “No, he ain’t,” said another. “He’s a good lad, even if he is a witch-boy. He’s proved that much.”

  The soldier who’d snapped at Pazel looked at him now amp; nodded curtly. But his face was in a crazy rage. He looked down at the jumble of metal, teeth amp; bones that had been his friend. “Aw, Ruthane,” he said. Then his hands became fists. “By the Nine Pits, we know who can do this sort of devilry. Arunis! That’s right, Muketch, ain’t it?”

  Pazel nodded. “Yes, sir. I believe it is.”

  “Arunis!” howled the Turach at the top of his lungs. He drew his sword amp; held it on high. “You’re dead! You’re a Turach trophy! Can you hear me, you burst boil on the arse of a graveyard bitch? We’re going to snap your bones amp; suck the marrow. We’ll pull out your guts with our teeth, do you hear me? You’re mucking dead!”

  And then, as if a startling thought had just occurred to him, the man spun around amp; thrust his hand into the hole in the sack his friend Ruthane had opened-and the Nilstone’s killing power ran down his body, fast as a flame takes a scrap of paper, and he was gone.

  The pandemonium, the terror, the mourning beside those piles of ghastly remains: it went on through the night. I am at last back in my cabin, scribbling, unable to sleep. This is how Thursday begins.

  [19 hours later]

  No further attacks yet- amp; no sign of the sorcerer, though Rose has ordered the blary vessel torn apart from the berth deck up, amp; the ixchel swear on their ancestors’ souls that he’s not to be found on the lower decks. All the same it’s been a frightful time. Last night I saw Pathkendle back to Bolutu’s vacated cabin, inside the magic wall. I secured his oath not to stir before daylight, no matter what, even if he should be subjected to the misery of hearing Thasha amp; Fulbreech together in the stateroom. I gave my last report to the duty officer, looked up once more at the crowd on the walkway above (some of the dlomu have not tired of staring yet) amp; staggered back to my room. I had just closed my eyes when the door swung open, amp; who should slip into my cabin but Hercol. The Tholjassan raised a hand, warning me to be silent. Then he crouched by my bed amp; whispered: