The River of Shadows cv-3

by Robert V. S. Redick

  “Then let us amend that,” said Arunis, and leaped at him.

  “Ah-ah-ah!”

  The voice was Lady Oggosk’s. Arunis was suddenly floundering, as though he had collided with an invisible curtain, or a net. There was the old woman, hobbling around the edge of the tonnage hatch, leaning heavily on her walking stick. At her feet slithered the Red River cat, Sniraga, all her fur on end.

  “I warned you, sorcerer,” she said, “that if you boarded the Chathrand she would be your tomb. Do you remember that day, in the Straits of Simja? Do you remember how you laughed?”

  “I am laughing still,” said Arunis.

  “Liar,” she cackled, “you’re scared to death, and well you should be. I have done little witchcraft since we met-very little these past forty years, truth be told, and I’ll do little more in the time I’ve left. But I saved my strength for tonight, and that’s more than you can say. Your power’s been squandered of late, hasn’t it? Dream-journeys, thought-spying, healing the cracks in the Shaggat’s arm. Above all, burrowing like a ferret into weakened minds, and then throwing them at the Nilstone to see how fast it would kill them. What did those experiments teach you, eh? Were you going to claim the Stone at last?”

  Arunis let the mace fall from his hands. He struggled: it was as if cottony walls enclosed him, tightening the more he fought. “The witch’s web,” he sneered. “A charm for island pranksters, for tripping the town drunk when he steals eggs from your henhouse. The most primitive magic in Alifros!”

  “So primitive I doubt you’ve bothered to learn a counter-spell,” said Oggosk.

  “Witless hag. This charm will not hold me.”

  Oggosk kept her blue eyes fixed on the sorcerer. “Not for long, no,” she said. “But long enough. And when I wish to-”

  She pinched two fingers together. Arunis ducked his head and hissed, as though the walls had just closed tighter.

  “-I’ll bind your arms to your sides, for just half a minute, maybe: plenty of time for one of these men to step forward and harvest your head. Fight on, bastard! Give me a reason to do it now! Do you really need proof that I can?”

  “Old woman,” growled Arunis through clenched teeth, “I am going to roast you to slow death, over a pit of coals and fire-weirds. Release me. You do not know whom you are toying with.”

  “Neither do you.”

  This time the voice was Thasha’s, from the ladderway behind the spymaster. Out she stepped, armed and armored, and the hatred in her eyes made Ott himself look up with respect. Ensyl rode upon her shoulder. Behind her came Captain Rose.

  Fulbreech lifted his head to gaze at Thasha. A small sound of terror escaped him.

  “Yes, Greysan,” said Thasha, “I know who you are.”

  “But you’re wrong, girl,” said Arunis. For the first time a gleam of craftiness returned to his eye. “You see, I know all of you, quite well. But you still do not know one another.”

  He kicked at Fulbreech. “You, for instance, may have known what this worm had in mind for you from the start. But do you know what he did to your father?”

  Thasha’s hand tightened on her sword-hilt. She looked at Lady Oggosk. Now, her eyes seemed to say.

  “Do you know that your suitor here delivered him personally to Sandor Ott? And that this diseased old spy, this abomination, tortured your father to madness in a dungeon under Simjalla City?”

  “Kill him, Hercol,” said Thasha quietly.

  “And the noble Tholjassan!” cried Arunis. “The one you’ve always trusted, worshipped, adored. The first man whose touch you ever dreamed of, isn’t that so?”

  “Bind his tongue, witch!” said Rose. Oggosk glared at him sidelong, as if to say, How much do you think I can manage?

  “He told you how he served Ott for years, but did he ever elaborate? Did he mention how he doted on your father’s torturer, like every lackey in the Secret Fist, like Dastu and Fulbreech himself? Did he name the deeds that made him Ott’s right-hand man? Did he confess who really killed the children of Empress Maisa?”

  Rose, Bolutu and even Ensyl looked shocked. Hercol’s face was grim. Thasha’s, however, did not change. She merely stepped close to her old mentor and touched his arm. “Yes,” she said, “he told me. And I love him. Will you end this now, Hercol?”

  “Arunis,” said Hercol, his voice tight but steady, “you are defeated, and in seconds you will be dead. Once before I urged you to turn back to your true path-the path you swore to follow when your Gifts were bestowed. You responded by trying to kill us, yet again. Now there is but one thing you can do to save your life, and only if you do it this very moment, without delay or deceit.” Hercol looked at Bolutu. “Tell him,” he said.

  “You must cast the Spell of Abdication,” said Bolutu.

  “Ha!” cried Arunis. “To save my life! That is very droll. Cast the Final Charm, the Last Command, the spell that reduces mage to mortal, with no possibility of ever using magic again. Cripple myself, and then surrender! A kindly offer from a failed dlomic mage and a reformed assassin. How can I refuse?”

  “Very well,” said Hercol. “Madam.”

  Oggosk threw her scrawny arms upward. “Saikra!” she shrieked. The spell-word crackled through the deck. Arunis twisted backward one painful step toward the gunports. There he froze, arms flat against his chest, writhing only in face and fingertips. He appeared to be trying to speak, but his lips were clumsy, quivering. Oggosk, straining, gestured with one claw-like hand at Hercol.

  “Do it!” she snapped. “A swift, clean stroke!”

  Hercol raised Ildraquin and started forward.

  Arunis’ eyes swiveled to stare at Thasha. With immense effort, he said, “Y-your mother lives.”

  Thasha showed no response for an instant; then her calm shattered like a vase hurled at a wall. “Stop! Please!” she cried, leaping forward to grab Hercol’s arm.

  “Do not stop!” bellowed Rose. “The duchess is tiring! Kill him!”

  “Clorisuela is dead, Thasha Isiq,” said Ott. “I can guarantee that. I’m sorry.”

  “Clorisuela was b-barren,” said Arunis, leering now. “Ask Ch-ch-chadfallow.”

  “Chadfallow?” said Thasha.

  If Arunis was breaking free of Oggosk’s spell, it was happening from the head down: already he spoke more easily. “The d-doctor c-couldn’t help her. Isiq gave up, and w-went looking elsewhere. Can you guess who he found?”

  “Thasha,” said Hercol, “your mother’s name was Clorisuela Isiq.” But Thasha still held his sword-arm.

  “Your mother’s name is Syrarys,” said the mage. “Isiq began to bed her years before his wife was killed. Ott arranged everything. He needed Isiq to have a daughter, after all. For Treaty purposes.”

  “Lies, Thasha, lies,” said Hercol.

  “Isiq paid for her rooms in the banking district. He had her two or three times a week-as often as Ott himself could stay out of her bed.”

  Thasha was weeping. Ott shouted at Hercol: “Do it now, Stanapeth, or step aside.” He had pulled a box of matches from his coat.

  Hercol freed his sword-arm from Thasha’s grasp.

  “The whore was your mother, that’s a certainty,” said Arunis. “The question is, who was your father?”

  Then came a madman’s shout from beyond the ship. Like an apparition, Pazel flung himself in through the gunport. He knocked the sorcerer from his feet, landed on his chest and struck him a blow to the face that might have broken a weaker man’s jaw.

  “No! No! Idiot!” screamed Oggosk.

  Pain flashed through the mage’s contorted features-and then he gasped, and his limbs moved naturally, free from Oggosk’s spell.

  His first act was to shout a spell of his own: a terrible spell. The black mace rose and flew at Thasha. At the same time, two cannon swiveled on their frames like batons. The first blocked Hercol’s killing blow with Ildraquin. The second flailed at Sandor Ott. But the old spy was too quick: he leaped over the gun, pistol in one hand, a burning matc
h in the other, and as he came down there was a deafening noise (a cannon, raised three octaves), and Arunis screamed aloud.

  But the mage was far from slain. His second act was to throw Pazel upward, with such violence that nails popped in the ceiling-planks where he struck. Pazel thought his back must be broken, yet somehow he did not lose consciousness: his determination to kill Arunis, before he could strike again, with hands or spells or lies, was simply too great. But as he crashed to the floor Arunis shouted again, and darkness engulfed them all.

  It was a tangible darkness, like ink poured in water. Pazel vanished into it, and found himself in a bedlam of howling, whirling bodies. Fists and feet struck at random. He heard Rose shout, “I have him!” and felt several thunderous blows shake the deck. Then the captain roared in agony, and a body lunged near Pazel, and something crashed onto the boards of the scaffold outside. Even as Pazel groped in the direction of the noise there came two similar crashes. Then Pazel found the edge of the gunport and thrust his head out.

  The mage-darkness stopped at the window: beyond it, plain moonlight resumed. Pazel saw Hercol and Sandor Ott hurling themselves down the scaffolding like a pair of acrobats. Thirty feet below, something dangled over a rail: a body, it appeared, kicking feebly, perhaps even dying. When Pazel looked back into the ship the magical darkness was gone. Rose was supporting Oggosk; one of them was bleeding fast. But where was Thasha?

  “No!” cried Hercol suddenly. Pazel looked and saw him holding Arunis’ empty black coat. “Trickery, illusion! Find him before he escapes!”

  Pazel dived back into the ship. Rose, leaning heavily on a cannon, waved a bloody arm toward the center of the compartment. “That way! They’re chasing him! Run, run, damn your soul!”

  Pazel ran. In a moment he caught sight of Bolutu, rounding the capstan, sprinting with his sword drawn. Up ahead it was brighter: moonlight was flooding down the tonnage shaft. The great foremast timber still lay there, propped at an angle-and suddenly, as his eyes traveled its length, Pazel saw Thasha, scaling the timber as fast as she could. Above her, much higher, climbed Arunis.

  “Bolutu, this way!”

  Pazel put on a burst of speed. He reached the tonnage hatch and climbed out onto the scaffold and then the mast. Up he went, much faster than Thasha: climbing was perhaps the only physical activity in which he outdid her.

  Past the upper gun deck, the main deck, the topdeck where they had all stood and worked together a few short hours ago. Then cries rang out from the shore. Pazel glanced up-and thanked the Gods.

  Fifty or sixty dlomu, mostly fighting men in uniform, had just stormed onto the quay. They were arguing, some quite heatedly. Several were fitting arrows to bows.

  From the topdeck, Bolutu cried out: “Shoot him down, brothers! Shoot him, for the love of Alifros!” Seconds later Fiffengurt’s voice joined Bolutu’s, urging much the same.

  Then came a general shout of alarm. Pazel looked up and saw Arunis jump from the mast. He had reached a height where it extended well past the Chathrand’s rail toward the quay. The distance looked impossibly great: Arunis, he thought, was going to fall short of the quay, plummet some 150 feet and strike hard stone, close to where Pazel had crawled out through the hull.

  But it did not happen. Arunis cleared the gap with ease. The soldiers caught him, supported him-and then (Pazel felt a sudden, powerful urge to leap himself) stood back from him and raised their weapons in salute.

  The mage’s voice came from below, faint but clear: “Bring a horse, and send another rider ahead to announce me. I have business in the Upper City, and I do not wish to be stopped and questioned at the gates.”

  Someone darted away through the crowd. Arunis staggered over to one of the broken lampposts and leaned against it while the soldiers milled about him, offering him water, bread, someone’s coat. Arunis touched his leg, and the gaunt hand came away bloody. Then he felt his jaw, and winced. As if remembering, he turned and looked up at the mast where Pazel clung. Youth and sorcerer locked eyes for a moment. Then Arunis smiled, nodded to him almost cordially, and turned his back on the Chathrand.

  “Shameless, interfering, cow-headed dullard!”

  Lady Oggosk cracked her walking stick over Pazel’s back. Pazel, climbing over the tonnage hatch rail, took the pain as his due. Facing Hercol and Fiffengurt, as he did when he stood upright, hurt considerably more.

  “I’m sorry,” he said.

  “You sure as five-week fishcakes are,” said the quartermaster. “Why couldn’t you do as you were told, just once?”

  “That would not be Pazel Pathkendle, would it?” said Sandor Ott, who was studying his cracked-open pistol with some disappointment.

  “He didn’t know what was happening,” said Thasha, climbing over the rail in turn.

  “Be silent, you impious girl,” shrieked Oggosk. “Many who played their part did not know what was happening. The captain did not know, Sandor Ott did not know, Fiffengurt remained ignorant as a stump.”

  “That’s a tad overstated, Duchess,” said Fiffengurt.

  “Shut your mouth, you walking salt-dried carcass of a toad! Arunis escaped death because this boy defied you, and leaped on him before Stanapeth could strike. It’s true, my spell was a weakling’s charm. I held him not with iron but with thread, and I only managed that because I’d been spooling and hoarding my thread for thirteen years. Even so I knew the spell would break the instant anyone touched the mage. If not for this lovesick tarboy Stanapeth would have killed him with ease! We’d be standing around his corpse now, toasting our victory! Oh, damn you, damn your low Ormali blood-”

  “Leave him alone,” said Thasha, her voice suddenly dangerous. Oggosk, to general amazement, obeyed.

  Hercol turned to Sandor Ott. “I keep my promises,” he said, “even when no good can come of them.” With that he unbuckled Ott’s white knife from his belt and held it out, sheathed, to the spymaster.

  Ott’s eyes were locked on Hercol’s. He took the blade without looking down. “You did well to ferret out that snake,” he said. “He was a greater threat than I ever understood. But we’ve learned this much: he still has cause to fear a blade. At least, certain blades.”

  “And yet he bested us all,” said Hercol. “Rose had a good grip on his arm, but he lost two fingers when the mage produced a knife of his own. Lady Oggosk herself suffered blows-”

  “Pah,” spat the old woman.

  “And you, Thasha: let me see what that mace accomplished. Right away, if you please.”

  Thasha reluctantly lifted the edge of her shirt. On her ribs were a wide, blackening bruise and two gashes, left by the teeth of the sorcerer’s mace.

  “Fool!” said Hercol. “You climbed a spar with that? You might have lost consciousness and fallen to your death!”

  “But I didn’t, did I?” said Thasha.

  “Go to the surgery at once. Pathkendle, take her there, drag her. Chadfallow is already at work on the captain. Have him examine you, too, when he’s finished with Thasha. You may have a hard head-”

  “A gargoyle would envy it!” said Lady Oggosk.

  “-but I saw you strike those ceiling-planks. And there’s your fall into the hold as well. Go on.”

  “Hercol,” said Thasha, “was Arunis telling the truth? Did my father know Syrarys… years before?”

  “Nonsense!”

  “You weren’t in Etherhorde when I was born,” said Thasha. “You were still in hiding with Empress Maisa. You never saw Clorisuela with child.”

  “What of it? Go to surgery, I say, before you collapse.”

  “Is Syrarys my mother, Hercol?”

  “Thasha Isiq: as your martial tutor, I command you to seek treatment for that wound.”

  “Come on,” said Pazel, touching her arm.

  Thasha pulled her arm viciously away. She looked at Hercol for a long moment, and then moved slowly toward the hatch.

  Pazel walked at her side. They did not speak as they descended to the orlop. Thasha marched aft
with hands in fists. Ahead in surgery Rose gave a howl of pain. All at once Thasha stopped and turned to face Pazel, her eyes enraged and wet. A lock of her golden hair was pasted to her shoulder with someone’s blood.

  Pazel stammered: “You know, to me-I mean, I don’t care whose daughter you-”

  “Shut up.”

  He waited. Thasha steadied herself against the wall. It would take hours to spit all the curses from that mouth, and she was not speaking, not saying a word. He wondered how much blood she’d already lost.

  “I’ve ruined everything, haven’t I?” said Pazel.

  Thasha clamped a hand over his mouth. With that gesture they both grew still. Her hand tightened; she swayed closer to him. Then, not weeping but shaking from head to toe, and sighing with all that she had not said to him in weeks and could find no words for now, she was in his arms.

  9. What Fulbreech glimpsed was not Felthrup, who by that time slept only in his closet. In all likelihood it was Bolutu’s veterinary bag. If he had taken it, the youth would have been startled to find inside a notebook with the very words the dlomu and Hercol had just spoken-“a bright day for Alifros,” etc.-written out like a playscript in Bolutu’s hand. -EDITOR.

  THE EDITOR REFLECTS ON THE CONDUCT OF HIS HEROES

  They are, of course, too young.

  You know of what I speak. With the exposure of Greysan Fulbreech there can be no remaining (logical) impediment to a carnal encounter between Lady Thasha and Pazel Pathkendle. In dramatic terms such an encounter is almost obligatory. Neither youth is hormonally defective. Both have considered the possibility for months-and with unseemly specificity, in the case of Mr. Pathkendle. They show no signs of disease or contagion. And they have been supplied with a preposterous array of opportunities: a magic wall, no less, deflects all rival suitors from intruding on their presumably impending bliss.

  But I repeat: it cannot happen. Said bliss cannot, and therefore does not, impend. They are too young.