The River of Shadows cv-3

by Robert V. S. Redick

  This, surely, was the place Ibjen’s father had spoken of, where Bali Adro had tried and failed to cure the degenerating humans. But what was its purpose today? Were they locked in a prison, a hospital? A zoo?

  “The dlomu are moving in the next wing,” said Hercol, from his listening post near the glass wall. “Be ready-our chance may come at any time.”

  Thasha sighed. He had been talking that way since their imprisonment began. She drifted into the chamber she shared with Marila and looked down from the barred window at the world outside their prison. She had spent hours here, entranced.

  The Conservatory was built on a bluff over the river, near the cliff that divided one part of Masalym from the next. They were in the Middle City, but a stone’s throw from the window the land fell away into Lower Masalym, vast and largely abandoned. Oh, there were people-two thousand, she guessed, or maybe three. But the homes! There must have been fifty thousand or more. The Lower City by itself was the size of Etherhorde, and yet it was very nearly a ghost-town. Countless streets lay empty. Yesterday smoke had risen in the distance: a blaze had consumed three houses, unmolested by any fire brigade. The ruins were smoldering yet.

  And there were stranger things: hulking buildings of iron and glass, and monstrous stone temples that looked as old as the surrounding peaks. But like the tower of Narybir these giant structures lay closed and dark.

  By daylight she saw the dlomu scurrying about their lives, carting vegetables, mending windows and fences, gathering scrap wood into bundles. They met at street corners, talked briefly, anxiously, scanning the empty streets. A mother marched her child down a sunlit avenue, clearly afraid. A face appeared at an upper window, through moldering curtains, vanished again. Four times a day, a dlomu in a white robe climbed the steps of a half-ruined tower to strike a brass gong, and the lonely noise lingered in the air. His coal-black face, framed by the white hood, turned sometimes in her direction, thoughtfully. At dusk, animals crept from the abandoned homes: foxes, feral dogs, a shambling creature the size of a small bear but quilled like a porcupine.

  There were also soldiers, of course, servants of the Issar. She could pick them out here and there. At the port, they surrounded the Chathrand: the Great Ship was plainly visible from her window. Along the road they had followed two nights before, a few troops came and went. And on the outer wall there were soldiers, milling, marching, tending the great cannon that pointed down into the Jaws of Masalym.

  But for all the busy movement along the wall, the number of men there was not very large. There were far more guns than men to use them. By night, they lit lamps at sentry posts where no actual sentries stood guard. By day they appeared at pains to keep every man on duty out of the turrets and walking the battlements in plain sight. It’s a facade, she thought. They’re hiding behind those cannon, these cliffs. They’re mounting a guard around an empty shell.

  All this was strange enough. But even stranger, beside the windswept emptiness below was the bustle and noise of this higher part of Masalym, this Middle City. Thasha could see only a few blocks of it, but the curve of the cliff told her that the Middle City was a fraction of the size of the Lower. And yet the Middle City was alive. Its streets were crowded, its shops abuzz by early morning and aglow half the night. There were musicians playing somewhere; there were dlomic men with water pipes seated on rugs outside doorways; there was a fruit market that appeared as if by magic at dawn and disappeared by noon; there were dlomic children walking to school in daisy chains.

  “It’s two cities, isn’t it?”

  Pazel had stepped into the chamber. She reached for his hand and drew him near.

  “Three, probably,” she said. “There’s the Upper City, somewhere. But I don’t know if we’ll be going there after all.”

  “Not if the Issar’s as afraid of madness as everyone else.”

  “And not if Arunis is as tight with him as he seems,” she said.

  They stood in silence a moment. A bird cried shrilly. They looked at each other and smiled. “Uskins wasn’t dreaming,” she said. “That’s an eagle, or some other bird of prey.”

  “Look,” he said, “the crew’s out exercising again.”

  He pointed to the Tournament Grounds, three miles away in the Lower City, at the end of the broad avenue that led to the port. Thasha could just see the pale humans in the courtyard of the pavilion, a huge and crumbling mansion that might once have been rather splendid.

  “I wonder,” she said, “if any of those people are going home.”

  “Well, we blary are,” said Neeps. He and Marila had stepped into the room.

  Marila threw herself down on the straw-stuffed bed. “I said I wanted a nap. Tell me you’re not going to start babbling about plans again.”

  “Not exactly,” said Neeps. He was looking strangely at Thasha. “I want to talk to you,” he said. “By yourself, maybe. If you don’t mind.”

  His request turned heads. “By herself?” said Pazel, knitting his eyebrows. “What do you have to tell her that you can’t tell us?”

  “It’s not like that, mate,” said Neeps, “it’s just something I need to… bring up.”

  “Something about what happened to her in the wagon?” Pazel demanded.

  “What do you know about that?” asked Neeps, startled. “You couldn’t understand her words; you were in the middle of your own fit. You were screaming and covering your ears.”

  “I haven’t forgotten, believe it or not,” said Pazel. “But I could still see. I know she was in trouble. What did she say?”

  “Was it something awful, Neeps?” asked Thasha, studying him. “Is that what you want to tell me?”

  Neeps glanced at Marila. “What does awful mean, really? You heard her. Would you call that awful?” When Marila only rolled onto her stomach and sighed, he turned back helplessly to Thasha. “Maybe,” he said, “we could forget the whole thing?”

  Thasha closed her eyes. “You sound like a perfect fool.”

  “Half right,” said Marila. “He’s far from perfect. And he won’t quit until he gets his way. Go and listen to him. Then you can tell us yourself, if you want to.”

  But Thasha shook her head firmly. “No more secrets,” she said. “Not from you three. Not ever.”

  She looked at Pazel, hoping he understood. What she’d had to do with Fulbreech, what she’d had to do to him: that had been the last straw. She turned to Neeps and snatched his hand. “You come here, and listen. I was there the night you talked about your brother. The night you almost killed me. I was on the same mucking divan with the two of you.”

  Marila blushed; Neeps looked mortified. Pazel felt himself ambushed by a smirk.

  “You’ve seen Pazel go crazy with fits,” Thasha went on. “You saw me pretending to be Fulbreech’s little… whore. And you heard what Arunis said. It might be true, even though he said it to hurt me. Syrarys might really be my mother and… Sandor Ott-”

  She could not bring the words out. Pazel stepped behind her and held her shoulders, and Thasha felt some measure of calm returning.

  “We’ve shared all that,” she said, “and a lot more besides. So don’t tell me to start keeping secrets from you now. I don’t want any. I want friends who know who I am.”

  All four youths were quiet. Suddenly Marila leaned forward and put her arms around Thasha’s waist, hugging her tightly. Thasha was speechless; but a moment later Marila released her with a mumbled apology, and quickly wiped her eyes.

  Everyone looked at Neeps, waiting. The small boy sat down, ran his hands through his dusty hair, puffed out his cheeks.

  “Right. Now don’t yell, anybody, unless you feel like sharing secrets with the rest of ’em out there. I don’t think your mother was Syrarys or Clorisuela. I think she was Erithusme, Thasha. I think they’re hiding the fact that you’re the daughter of a mage.”

  Even with his warning, the other three struggled to contain themselves. “Where in the sweet Tree’s shade did you get that daft idea?” said P
azel.

  “From Felthrup, that’s where. He helped you read the Polylex, Thasha-for weeks and weeks, when touching the book used to make you so ill.”

  “He saved me a lot of pain,” said Thasha.

  “He was also delirious,” said Marila.

  “Only because he was afraid to close his eyes,” said Pazel. “Arunis was attacking him in his dreams.”

  “I know all that.” Neeps waved a hand dismissively. “The point is, he talked a lot. To us, the dogs, the blary curtains. And you two must have read a lot about Erithusme.”

  “We did, when we could find anything in that book.”

  “One night,” Neeps continued, “I woke up late and heard him talking to you, Thasha. I think you must have been asleep, because you never answered. ‘If you inherit her power, will you be any different, dear one?’ he said. ‘Will her burden pass to you as well? To run with the Stone eternally, from land to land, hounded by evil, seeking a resting place that does not exist? Or will you grow into something mightier than the seed from which you came?’ ”

  Thasha grew pale.

  “He chattered on for a while,” said Neeps, “about a ‘plan’ for you, and how Ramachni was essential to it, and the Lorg School as well.”

  “The Lorg!” hissed Thasha.

  “But Thasha,” said Neeps, “Felthrup didn’t make it sound as though Ramachni had made the plan. The way Felthrup talked, he was just there to help. The plan was hers.”

  “Erithusme’s?”

  Neeps nodded. “I think so, yes.”

  “Well, I think you’re cracked,” said Pazel. “All this because Felthrup babbled to himself one night? He wasn’t just being attacked by Arunis then, you know. He was suffering from the fleas that the Nilstone had cursed. You’re putting a lot of faith in one hysterical rat.”

  “But it fits, don’t you understand?” said Neeps. “Why else would she be the only one in this blary world who can put her hand on the Nilstone and live? And what about the other night in the wagon?”

  Thasha blinked at him, frightened now. “You still haven’t told us what I said.”

  “It wasn’t your voice,” said Neeps.

  “Tell me,” said Thasha. “I’m ready.”

  Neeps and Marila looked at each other. “You shouted a few curses,” said Marila, “with words like Maukslar and Droth in them, words I’ve never heard before. But then you said, He is going to steal it and loose the Swarm. What are you waiting for? When will you let me strike? That was all. You howled a bit after that, and then you dropped back into your chair and slept until we got here, soaked with rain. You broke the wagon cover.”

  “And you tossed Hercol aside with one hand,” put in Neeps. “You know what I think, Thasha? I think Erithusme was speaking through you for a moment. I think, somewhere, your mother is still alive.”

  “Of course she is.”

  They all whirled. Straight across the enclosure, gazing in through the wall of crystal, stood Arunis, laughing. Counselor Vadu stood beside him, along with half a dozen birdwatchers-and Greysan Fulbreech. How Arunis had managed to hear them from such a distance was unclear, but he had replied by shouting at the top of his lungs.

  The four youths rushed from the sleeping chamber. The others were on their feet, facing the glass: all save Mr. Uskins, who shrank down into the shrubbery and wrapped his arms about his head.

  “Yes, Thasha, your mother Syrarys is very much alive,” said the mage. “She’s in the house of King Oshiram even now-his house, and his bed-making certain the upstart does not cause any trouble in the Crownless Lands, before our glorious return. Another safety precaution on the part of Sandor Ott. And Syrarys herself? Why, she is another tool the spymaster thinks he owns, like Fulbreech here. When in fact I had only loaned them to him, for as long as it profited me to do so. Listen, Thasha: Isiq’s wife was barren. She could no more have children than she could walk through walls. Syrarys gave birth to you, and tolerated you with effort, for ten long years. She told me a great deal about that effort. She dreamed of the day it would be over: with Admiral Isiq handed to Ott for torture, and you in the Mzithrinis’ hands, awaiting death.”

  “Your own death grows more certain with every word you speak,” said Hercol.

  Arunis turned to Vadu and raised his hands, as if presenting evidence of something they had already discussed. Vadu frowned at Hercol, and his head bobbed up and down. “That was an unwise remark,” he said. “I cannot release anyone whose stated intention is to commit murder. Especially when the declared victim is a guest of the city.”

  “I thought we were guests of the city,” said Chadfallow.

  “You’re here because you’re ill, Doctor,” said Fulbreech, smiling his handsome smile.

  “Correct,” said Vadu. “I suggest you all work in good faith with our specialists. If anyone can help you, it is they. Be glad you were brought here. Your shipmates”-he faltered, looking troubled-“may well come to envy you.”

  “Counselor,” said Hercol, “you are deceived. This sorcerer is the enemy not only of all the men of the Chathrand, but all men, all people in Alifros. Help him no more-for however it may seem, he is not helping you. Very soon he will attempt to steal the Nilstone. You must prevent that at all costs.”

  “Steal the Nilstone!” laughed Fulbreech. “Do you know why he says that, Counselor Vadu? Because that girl went mad and screamed it, on the way to this asylum. Steal that little bauble, the Shaggat’s toy-”

  Arunis shot an angry glance at Fulbreech. The youth drew back a step, clearly frightened.

  “He has no need to resort to theft,” said Vadu. “We have an understanding, Arunis and I. Come, sorcerer, you can see that they are well looked after. Let us go.”

  “Not without my idiot,” said the mage.

  Even as he spoke a door opened at the end of the hall, and several more birdwatchers appeared, this time leading a docile figure in chains. Thasha gasped: the figure was human. He was dressed, and of a rough, solid build like a farm laborer. He was also quite clearly deranged. His eyes fixed on nothing; his lips flexed and squirmed aimlessly. Both arms dangled at his sides, but his left hand twitched repeatedly, a sharp motion like the leap of a frog.

  “Are you certain you want it?” said Vadu. “Look at it, mage. It’s useless.”

  “Oh, I want him-it,” said Arunis. “If it is truly as they describe.”

  “We told you the truth,” said one of the birdwatchers, frightened and angry at once. “This one’s a special case, and needs special handling to keep it from harm. It walks upright, and lets itself be dressed. But it’s blind to danger. You’ll find it a burden, sir, you should leave it with us. It will swallow rocks, nails even. And it doesn’t see what’s in front of its nose. It sees something else. It would walk off a cliff, or into a fireplace. It lives in the mist, in the fog-and we’re attached to it, you see. It’s been here so long.”

  “Perfect,” said Arunis.

  “Twenty-eight years,” said another of the birdwatchers, his voice sour and upset. He was the only one of the dlomu who struck Thasha as cruel: a look somehow heightened by the bright gold tooth in his upper jaw. He gestured at the tarboys. “It was younger than them when we caught it. We raised it.”

  “With loving care, no doubt.” Fulbreech snickered.

  “It’s not fair to prance in here and snatch it,” the dlomu went on. “We’ve written books about this tol-chenni, Counselor. Why doesn’t he take one of the newer ones, they’re just as healthy, and-”

  “I will have this one, Vadu,” said Arunis. “Rid me of its handlers. Quickly.”

  As Vadu ushered the unhappy technicians from the corridor, Arunis stepped close to the glass. He glanced briefly at Druffle, his former slave; and at Uskins, who cowered deeper into the bushes when the mage caught his eye. His gaze rested longer on Hercol, and longer still on Pazel and Thasha. His eyes did not gloat. Despite the hunger that was always part of him, he appeared almost serene.

  “We haven’t really talk
ed,” he said, “for months. Since that day on the bowsprit, Pathkendle-you recall? After that there were so few opportunities. I admit I wanted for conversation. I had Felthrup, of course-and you too, Uskins, after the captain assigned you to wait on me, and keep me under observation. You’re not likely to forget those chats, are you, Stukey?”

  “I didn’t do anything,” said Uskins in a whimper. “I was good.”

  “You may be here a long time,” said Arunis to the others. “For as long as Bali Adro continues to pay for this institution, this relic of its former glory. I do not think that we shall meet again; not in any form that you would recognize. So I wish to thank you. Of course, you will not understand it when I say so, but you were… necessary. This long, long struggle was necessary.”

  “You say that,” said Chadfallow, “and you mean necessary to some end you have dreamed up. Something violent and fantastically selfish.”

  “Yes,” said Arunis, clearly pleased. “So you do understand, a little. You think you have been fighting me, but it is not so. You have been fighting for me, as slaves fight in the ring for the glory of the gladiator. And so it has always been. These centuries of battle, of searching for the way the task could be done, of racing the others to the finishing line. Battling you and your ancestors, battling Dunarad and Suric Roquin, the Amber Kings, the Becturians, the selk. Battling Ramachni and Erithusme the Great. All for my benefit, my distinction. And now the final step is come, and I am grateful.”

  The nine humans could only stare. Thasha knew that the driving lunacy of the being before her had reached some new and hideous threshold. He wasn’t lying, wasn’t playing a trick. He really was saying goodbye to something-to them, and something he had decided they stood for.

  “It’s not going to happen,” she said. “Do you hear me? What you think is going to happen-it won’t. No one is with you, except out of fear. You can’t turn your back without fear that someone will stab it. But we’re stronger. We have each other. You’re alone.”

  If Arunis heard her, he showed no sign. He raised his hands before his face as though framing a picture.