by Greg Keyes
“They called us shez. Shez are demons who bring disease. This is not an ordinary sort of insult.”
“Oh.” Perkar watched Ngangata kneel by the side of the injured man. The warrior was still alive, though breathing shallowly. Perkar walked back toward the stream, searching for deadwood, trying to keep his feelings from crowding out reason. What could Karak—or Blackgod, or whatever his true name might be—what could he offer to “set everything right”? The Raven was glib and clever, had a way of making the absurd seem reasonable. Yet one thing he said rang powerfully true to Perkar. Why would Karak care about him? Karak had changed his whole destiny—or at least given him the means to change his own destiny and follow a certain path. Why would a god take such an intimate interest in him?
He glanced back, to see that the Raven was leading his mount to where Ngangata still knelt over the injured man. Perkar pushed a little farther into the thin trees, trying to remember what he could about Karak while also searching for firewood.
Ngangata had reminded him that Karak was an aspect of the Forest Lord. The Forest Lord had other aspects—the Huntress, for instance, and the great one-eyed beast who had carried on the actual negotiations with the Kapaka—but Karak seemed to be the most deviant, the most free-willed of those avatars. And Karak himself was said to be of ambiguous nature, the Crow and the Raven. The Crow was greedy, spiteful, a trickster who took pleasure in causing pain. Raven—the songs spoke of Raven as a loftier god, one who went about in the beginning times shaping the world into its present form. Some said that he had actually drawn the original mud from beneath the waters to create the world. Others claimed that he stole the sun from a mighty demon and brought it to light the heavens. Perkar had paid little attention to such stories; the faraway doings of gods distant in both time and space had never been as important to his people as the gods they knew, the ones who lived in pasture, field, forest—and, of course, stream.
Now he was camping with a god said to have created the world, and he could not remember which stories about him were supposed to be true and which were told merely to entertain children on dark winter evenings.
“Tell me about Karak, Harka,” he said.
“About Karak or about the Blackgod?”
“They are the same, are they not?”
“Mostly. But different names always make a difference.”
“Did he really create the world?”
“I wasn’t there.”
“Don’t evade.”
“No one created the world. But I think the Raven may well have created dry land.”
“I can’t believe that.”
“Why is it important? What does this have to do with the present?”
Perkar sighed. “I don’t know. I just… what does he want with me?”
“I think that he will tell you, soon enough,” Harka replied. “Just keep your wits about you. Listen to everything he says, so that you can go over and over it later. The Raven gets things done. He is the Forest Lord’s wit, his cunning, his hand. He goes about making things and unmaking them. The Crow always tries to twist around what the Forest Lord commands, make it into something different, and even when the Crow and Raven are in accord, the Crow works through treachery, deceit, and chicanery. Still, they say, if you pay close attention—very close attention—you can hear the Raven telling you how to defeat the Crow.”
“That doesn’t make sense.”
“It makes perfect sense. You’ve done it yourself—made excuses for doing things you knew you shouldn’t do. Planning to check on the cattle because your father wanted you to, but finding just enough other things to keep you busy so that you didn’t have time to.”
“That doesn’t seem like the same thing,” Perkar answered doubtfully. “But I will think on it.”
By now he had an armload of deadwood and so, with many misgivings, turned back toward Ngangata and Karak.
He got the fire started in silence, as Ngangata erected the tent. The Mang warrior had regained consciousness and regarded them with a mixture of bleary resignation and hostility. Karak merely sat, silent, watching them. Perkar decided that if the god was going to speak, it would be in his own time; he would not beg him to talk, certainly.
“What are you called?” he asked the warrior instead.
The man narrowed his eyes. “You are not my friend, and you are not kin to me.”
“I didn’t ask for your name,” Perkar persisted. “Just something to call you.”
The man regarded him sullenly for a moment more. “Give me a drink of water,” he finally said, “and I will give you something to call me.”
Wordlessly Perkar handed him a water skin. The warrior drank deeply.
“Does your leg hurt?” Perkar asked.
“It hurts.” He took another drink of water, then threw the skin back at Perkar, who caught it deftly. “You may call me Good Thief.”
“Good Thief,” Perkar repeated. “Fine. Good Thief, why did you attack us?”
“To kill you.” The warrior sneered. Across the fire, the Blackgod chuckled in appreciation.
“Well, you failed in that,” Perkar apprised him lightly.
“Yes. Because we did not believe,” the man retorted bitterly. “We thought the gaan was exaggerating.”
“A shaman?”
“He saw you in a vision. He said you were a disease upon the land. He said you brought the war with the Cattle People.”
Perkar stared. “What?”
“Yes, but he said you were also demons, that only by singing and drumming could you be killed. Only by fighting you with gods.” He turned to gaze at his companion’s corpse, at the messy ruin of the horse. “We should have listened, but we wanted your skins. We were fools.”
“You came after us, specifically after us?” Perkar pressed, frowning, poking at the fire with a branch, unwilling to meet the Mang’s accusing eyes.
“The Brush-Man and the Cattle-Man, traveling together at the stream. The gaan saw you in a vision.”
“Saw us in a vision,” Perkar echoed dully.
The Blackgod sidled up to the fire, sat closer. Ngangata, finished with the tent, joined them, as well.
“You see,” Blackgod said. “You have many enemies, Perkar. Enemies you don’t even know about. You need my advice.”
“What do you know about this?” Perkar demanded.
“In the west, there is a Mang shaman. He has been given a vision and seeks your death.”
“Given a vision by whom? By what god? You?” Perkar snapped.
“Oh, no,” Raven answered. “Sent by another friend of yours, the Changeling.”
“The Changeling,” Ngangata interjected placidly, “is not so sentient.”
“Oh, well, certainly you know more about gods than I do. Certainly you know the Changeling better than I, his brother.” Raven grinned evilly. “Listen to me. All you know is altered, for the years have moved. Once the Changeling was the most cunning of us all. Once he was stupider than a beast. Now—well, now he has awakened sufficiently to send dreams to a shaman. To do other things, as well.”
“Why? And why does he provoke them to kill Ngangata and me?”
“That is simple enough,” the Blackgod said, his voice laden with dark glee. “He knows that you have the means to destroy him.”
VI
Old Friends
Ghe stopped outside of the library door and fingered his neck again, felt the ridge of flesh beneath the high collar, hoping no one would find it suspicious. High collars came in and out of fashion in the palace. They were currently out, but then, he was supposed to be Yen, a merchant’s boy who joined the engineer corps of the priesthood. Merchants’ sons were known for ambitious but uninformed fashion sense.
He fingered through his memory, as well, retracing his fictional life as Yen, trying to remember all that he had done and said. It would be both embarrassing and dangerous if Ghan were to catch him in a lie. Fortunately, he had rarely spoken directly to Ghan, but instead to Hezhi. Wha
t he didn’t know was how much Hezhi had told Ghan about Yen.
And so he continued to hesitate near the arching entrance to the library, peering around the dark places in his mind, recreating Yen. Soft updock accent, each syllable of each word carefully pronounced. Different from his own Southtown accent with its clipped words and clattery consonants, but familiar enough to him, easy to imitate. His father was supposed to be an up-River trader, himself a lover of the exotic. The trace of a smile lightened his brooding features as he remembered the little Mang statuette he had given Hezhi, the story he fabricated about how his “father” obtained it. Hezhi had loved it—how well he recalled that. Surrounded by a palace full of riches and servants, her eyes had genuinely flown wide in delight at a stone’s-weight of brass cast in the form of a horse with a woman’s upper body. How would she have felt had she known he took it from the shelf of a petty noble from the Swamp Kingdoms, just after ending the man’s overly ambitious career?
The hallway was beginning to become crowded as midmorning absolutions approached. Gaudily clad nobles, prim maidservants, bodyguards, and austere counselors all mingled through the arteries of the palace. Elsewhere they were pooling in fountain rooms, praying to the River where he erupted into the palace itself.
He should leave the hall, he knew. It would not do for someone—from the priesthood, for instance—to recognize him. Especially not now, when the Ahw’en arm of the priesthood—those who investigated mysterious goings-on—must surely be active, searching for some trace of a certain vanished nobleman—the man whose clothes Ghe was currently wearing. The Ahw’en were often Jik, like himself. No, best he avoid crowds.
Thus, although not certain he was prepared, he stepped into the library, where few in the palace ventured.
It was, as he remembered, daunting. Mahogany shelves suffused the illumination from thick-paned skylights, swirled it about the room like cream stirred into coffee. Ghe was struck by the illusion that walls were hung with tapestries woven from the bodies of enormous millipedes, each segment of their bony armor the spine of a book. Most of the books were black and brown, enhancing this impression. The few that stood out—here a deep yellow, burgundy, indigo—these only suggested, somehow, that the great worms were poisonous. The books curled thus around a carpeted area in which several low tables stood, surrounded by cushions for sitting. Beyond, the shelves wandered back into the deep, narrow labyrinth Hezhi had named the Tangle. He remembered how effortlessly Hezhi had glided through the endless shelves of books, selecting first this, then that one for “Yen.” At first he had only pretended to pay attention to her talk of the “index” and the manner in which books were filed. Eventually, however, her enthusiasm proved infectious; knowledge was a weapon, and Hezhi had an arsenal at her command, one she seemed willing to share. He wondered now, belatedly, if she hadn’t used that arsenal to defeat him; certainly she had used it to escape the city. But had she somehow found the pale stranger with his supernatural weapon in the pages of these books? Had she conjured him, like a demon, from some tome?
Ghan’s desk was set apart, and behind it sat the old man himself, copying or annotating a bulky volume. He wore an umber robe, and his skin gleamed a peculiar parchment yellow, so that he seemed as much a part of the room as the ancient documents that filled it. His features were sharp—jagged, almost—harsh frown lines etched permanently in his flesh. Not a pleasant man, Ghe remembered. He had dreamed, on first meeting him, of slipping a knife into his heart. Later he had come to think of the scholar as brave—but he had never learned to like him.
Though Ghe was the only other visible person in the room, Ghan never raised his eyes to acknowledge him.
He approached Ghan timidly, as “Yen” might. The old man continued writing, obscure and beautiful characters licking from his pen onto the paper with astonishing speed. Ghe cleared his throat.
Ghan did look up then, his eyes hard pinpricks of annoyance beneath the wrapped black cloth that obscured his bald head.
“Yes?” he inquired testily.
“Ah,” said Ghe, suddenly not certain that his reluctance was entirely feigned. “Master Ghan, you might remember me. I am—”
“I know who you are,” Ghan snapped.
For a frozen instant, Ghe felt a stab of something like fear. Ghan’s gaze seemed to tear away the brocaded collar and reveal his throat, his true nature. He was acutely aware of all of the things he had forgotten. Had Ghan ever known him to be a Jik?
“I’m sure you remember how to find your books on arches and sewers,” Ghan went on. “There is no need to bother me.”
Relief rushed from his feet, through his gut, up to the top of his head. Ghan was merely being himself, impatient and unhelpful. He still believed him to be Yen, the architect.
“Master Ghan,” he rushed out as the old man threatened to return to his work. “It has been some time since I have been in the library.”
“A few months,” Ghan replied. “A fraction of a year. Is your head not capable of holding information longer than that?”
Ghe shifted uncomfortably. “Yes, Master Ghan, it is. I…”
“Don’t waste my time,” Ghan cautioned.
Ghe lowered his voice, willed his face into lines of distress.
Inwardly he felt relief; he was now in complete control of the mask he wore, his worry evaporated into the stale air of the library. “Master Ghan,” he whispered almost inaudibly. “Master Ghan, I have come to ask you about Hezhi.”
Ghan stared at him for a moment, and something flashed behind his flat countenance, was mastered, and vanished. Ghe appreciated that; Ghan had a very well crafted mask, as well.
“Hezhinata,” Ghan corrected, adding the suffix to denote someone a ghost.
“Hezhi,” Ghe insisted softly.
Ghan trembled for an instant, and then the trembling reached his face and transfigured it, tightened it into fury.
“Darken your mouth!” he barked. “Don’t speak of such things.”
Ghe persisted, though adding even more reluctance to his manner. “I believe you cared for her,” he said cautiously. “She was your student, and your pride in her was obvious. Master Ghan, I cared for her, too. We… she cared for me. Now she has gone, and everyone says she is a ghost. But I know better, do you understand? I have heard the rumors the priests whisper. I know she escaped the city, fled with her bodyguard.”
Ghan ticked his pen against the white page; Ghe noticed that the heretofore flawless document now had several irregular splotches of ink upon it. He knows! Ghe thought exuberantly. He knows where she has gone!
Ghan glanced away and then stared back up at Ghe.
“Young man, I can only caution you against repeating such things,” he said softly. “I know you cared for her. It was evident. But she is dead, do you understand? I’m sorry for you, but it is true. I myself am still in grief—I will be until the day I die. But Hezhinata is dead. She was laid in state with her ancestors in the vaults beneath the Water Temple.”
He glanced down at the ruined page and crinkled his eyes in exasperation. “If you need to use the library,” he said, “I will help you, as she would have. I will do that for her. If you do not want to use the library, then you must leave. I will call the guard if need be, and you will be embarrassed before your order. Do you understand?”
Ghan’s eyes were mild now, but they were also inflexible. Ghe could think of no reply that might draw out more information.
“As you say,” he finally relented. And then, defiantly: “But I know.”
“Get out,” Ghan said, his voice as brittle and dangerous as broken glass.
Ghe nodded, bowed in respect, and left the library.
He retraced his steps through the narrow corridors, eyes alert, brow furrowed. Ghan was more obstinate than he had imagined; winning his help would be no easy task—and he needed Ghan’s help.
It had, at least, been good to speak to someone, to further prove to himself that he was indeed alive. He had been living in t
he palace for two days now, but furtively, observing and trying not to be seen. His only real encounter with a person up until now had been—well, less than cordial.
His first day had been spent trying to find a place to stay; that had been, actually, his easiest task. The old wing of the palace had many uninhabited sections, and beneath that were the even less frequented spaces of the earlier palace that the present one was built upon. Hezhi had spent much time in those abandoned places, and Ghe had followed her, now and then, exploring them himself at other times. Finding a place where the guards never went was far from impossible, and he had done so rather easily.
Finding clothes to replace his own ruined ones had been more difficult and more dangerous. Worse, he had discovered something unpleasant about himself. The apartment he entered for the purpose of stealing garments was that of a young man attached to minor nobility. Ghe had chosen him from a number of drunken revelers in the Red Blossom Courtyard, favored by the young for its remoteness. The fellow had the right build, no bodyguard, and was so inebriated he would likely never notice Ghe’s entry into his apartment. Nor did he; and yet when Ghe saw him, unconscious on his bed, hunger suddenly replaced his desire for clothing. Feeding on a monster beneath the city was one thing; killing a man in the palace who would be missed was another. Nevertheless, almost without his own knowledge, he had torn apart the strands of life in the sleeping man and devoured them, leaving a body as cold and bereft of life as a stone. It had seemed incautious to leave the body where it lay—the Ahw’en might have some method of determining how he died—and so now it rested beneath the palace, returning its substance to the River.
He wondered how often he would have to feed like that.
Indirect afternoon sunlight dazzled from stuccoed white walls as he stepped from the dark hall into a courtyard. He brushed past the fronds of a tree fern, savored the smell of bread baking and garlicky lamb singeing on skewers. The old woman cooking gave him a glance and then returned to her work, uninterested. Above, a second woman clucked something from her third-story window down to the cook, who merely waved indifferently up at her. He swept on through the small plaza, relieved when he gained the near darkness of the next hall, lit only obscurely by the blue patterns seeping through bricks of colored glass set in the roof.