Ligen looked up at Jerdan and smiled. "The Master has created another Storm and a fine one. He got Krus before we could restrain him."
Jerdan followed the Novice Advisor's glance to a nearby pallet and the still form lying across it. The boy was dark of hair and face and small. There was bluish bruises on his throat, his tongue protruded beyond his teeth. His brown eyes were wide open and staring.
"One of the Sulidun converts," observed Jerdan with a touch of regret. "So atypical of his race... I had hopes for him."
"The Master is wise," Ligen replied. There was a touch of reproof in his voice.
"Certainly, Ligen. I didn't say otherwise. Now then... This one obviously has great potential as a Storm of Malitus. What is his name?"
"Aketyr."
"Let it be entered in the Roll. Give him weapons and release him some distance from here. And make sure all the Brothers are warned. I don't want a repeat of the last time."
"Brother Polcyn was rather surprised, wasn't he? Or at least look surprised when we found him. Still, I think Malitus enjoyed the joke."
Jerdan hadn't become Brother of the Order by missing opportunities. "You presume to speak for the God of Ending, Novice Adviser?" Jerdan asked, his voice all honey and bile.
"Of—of course not. I merely—"
Jerdan held up his hand. "Don't let it worry you... unless of course you think of going to the Master with wild tales about my questioning his judgment."
Ligen bowed low. "Brother Jerdan, how could you think such a thing?"
Jerdan smiled. "Then we won't speak of it again. I'll leave you to see to the details; I have much work to do." He allowed himself a moment to savor the whipped look on Ligen's face, but only a moment. Too much pleasure in anything was a blow to piety. Still, one did have to remind the others who was Brother of the Order, and why. As much a duty as any other, and if it gave pleasure, well, that was the price of it. It certainly wouldn't do to let Ligen know that the Master, the Echo of Malitus, had given him no warning that he was about to make another Storm. Strange...
I shall pray tonight...
*
Ghost followed Meleay's directions, found the break in the ceiling, and the new-made steps. He climbed through the opening and out on the roof into the early morning sunlight.
It's a garden.
It was smaller now, less of it in useful cultivation than had once been the case—Ghost saw the places where the weakened roof had fallen away, saw other places carefully repaired and covered with vegetation. Dwarf cedars grew at seemingly random places around the low wall surrounding the roof, and to anyone on the streets or lower buildings nearby the effect was that the old temple gardens had run riot. Most of it had done just that: vines surrounded a small fountain, now apparently used as a rainwater cistern. In the middle of the thickest tangles of ivy and bramble, smaller plots were laid out, paths hacked through the undergrowth for access. Ghost entered and studied the nearest—delicate herbs that needed secret shade for best growth. A little further along he found a conventional garden plot with turnips and peas, and near to that several neat rows of onion, potatoes, and cabbage.
"We tried corn one season. Stalks grew so high you could see them from the street; we had to cut them down before the ears were full. Made me sick."
Ghost turned and found Daycia seated on a small stone bench shaded by a bramble thicket. She was methodically stripping the leaves from a fern-like plant with a yellow spotted stem.
"By rights," Ghost said, "you should be dead now."
Daycia smiled at him. "Step closer and look again."
He did and saw what he had missed at first glance. "Red veins on the leaves... Otherwise it looks just like Deadly Trias."
"A close relative. The leaves steeped in hot water make a tea good for the croup. Which little Calit woke with this morning, poor thing."
"You said you wished to speak with me."
"I do, but first I want to ask how you slept. And since I have a good idea of the answer, I'd suggest you tell the truth."
"Very well... and very badly."
"Why?"
"Because when others dream what I do has little to distinguish it from not existing at all. When I sleep I die, Lady, and in the morning I rise again. Sometimes, in the gray hours before sleeping and waking, I get a glimpse of the void that swallows me every night, and on some days I wonder if the void ever really lets me go. It's cold where I am, Daycia, and all the little deaths drive the hoarfrost a bit closer to my heart every night. I don't accept sleep gracefully."
Daycia's hands never stopped their work, but did falter once or twice. "I did ask, though I'm not sure I was ready to hear. It's a terrible burden you carry, and I can't help you with it. Musa seemed to think Joslyn might. I hope she's right."
"But you are a Dreamer, aren't you? Were you of the Temple?"
Daycia cast one skeletal stem aside and reached for another. "What I was or was not no longer matters, and no one is a Dreamer in Darsa these days." Her voice was flat—admitting nothing, denying nothing. She continued, "Joslyn has asked Kessa to guide her around the city."
"Why would she do that?"
"I was hoping you could tell me."
Ghost shook his head. "Darsa doesn't seem the place for two young girls to be wandering."
Daycia gathered her leaves into a wicker basket and stood up. "Kessa hasn't been young for a long time—in the sense you mean. It's part of her value to me. They'll be as safe as anyone is hereabouts, but I did want you to be aware of it. Joslyn wouldn't have told you."
Ghost sighed. "To have met her so recently you know Joslyn quite well."
*
Joslyn and Kessa entered the central chamber together, found most of the others ahead of them. Ghost and Daycia conversed in low tones; Ghost glanced once in Joslyn's direction but for the most part ignored them both. Tolas amused the unhappy Calit by pulling pebbles from his ears and making coins vanish while Meleay prepared breakfast. She was aided by someone Joslyn hadn't seen before, a ragged little girl with frizzled red hair and a narrow, pale face.
No doubt how Kessa started, Joslyn thought. She knew how Kessa was much like herself, how much they shared, how they once had lived, how much they owed to the timely intervention of others. Joslyn saw something of the same unfolding with this new girl—it was clear that Daycia took new folk into her fold from time to time, but the moments were few and carefully weighed. No doubt the child's value—potential or immediate—had been carefully noted in Daycia's scheme of things, and allowances made.
Kessa and Joslyn sat together in a sort of conspiratorial solidarity. Daycia finally consented to notice them. "Sleep well?"
The question seemed aimed at Joslyn, and she nodded. "Quite well, thank you."
Daycia smiled and slipped back into her conversation. Joslyn caught Ghost looking at her just once, and there was an expression on his face she couldn't read at all.
The girl served them breakfast, her face very serious and solemn. Joslyn fought back a smile and thanked her with equal seriousness. Kessa accepted her bowl of spiced porridge silently and began to eat, expressionless. Joslyn found herself looking for some clue from her—a smile, a glance in Tolas's direction, anything—but the Kessa Joslyn had met in dream had withdrawn behind an impassive face and hooded eyes. It was Tolas whose glance strayed, whose face tried to soften a little behind the mask.
He knows.
Joslyn was surprised—as a rule men were fairly thick where such things were concerned. For instance, Dyaros...
Dyaros nothing. Dyaros is dead and I should know—I killed him. Joslyn glared at Tolas, fortunately while he wasn't looking. She regained control and turned away. Damn him anyway! If he knows, why doesn't he do something about it?!
The cooler element in Joslyn's mind wanted to discuss it. MAYBE HE DOESN'T CARE FOR HER.
Joslyn remembered Tolas's look. Maybe the Street of Sighs is a hotbed of virginity. He does care, but somehow I don't think that solves the problem.
When breakfast was over, no one seemed to notice the two girls slip off together. Joslyn followed Kessa up the stairway, through a gap in the masonry, up a rubble-strewn ramp, and into the crack that was Kessa's hallway.
The room itself had little of decay and ruin about it—the ceiling was high and braced with stout oaken beams; two cut-glass windows let in the sun. Most of the furnishings were what Joslyn expected: a rack of throwing knives, two arbalests with full quivers, and a pair of crossed javelins displayed on the wall over the bed. Something else caught her by surprise. It was a doll in a faded dress of scrap cloth carefully arranged on the pillow. Its face was a pitiful thing of wood and yarn and stiff, painted smile.
Kessa caught her looking. "My mother made it for me, and when she died it was all that was left of her. I've kept it."
"You needn't explain to me."
"I know that!" Kessa snapped. "So will you please explain why I have this incredible urge to do so?"
"Maybe you just want to tell someone, and a stranger is best. Doesn't matter what we think."
Kessa shrugged. "Maybe... or maybe it's because I think you can find out anything about me you wish, and if I tell you freely it'll feel a little less like rape."
"I never thought of it that way."
"Has anyone ever spied on your dreams?"
"Yes, though not in a long time." You can't spy on what doesn't exist.
"Well," Kessa sighed, "try to remember how it felt now and again and you'll understand what I mean."
Joslyn knew better, but she asked the question anyway. "Then that's what we're doing to Tolas?"
Kessa reddened but stood firm. "If that's what it takes—yes."
They dropped the matter by silent agreement. Kessa opened a wooden chest at the foot of her bed and began strewing garments casually left and right. "You can't go out like that... here, try this."
Joslyn was somewhat taller than Kessa, but she fit well enough into the breeks, and high, soft leather boots covered the gap at her ankles. A brown tunic, a dark cloth over her hair, and Joslyn was set. She tucked Deverea's knife into her belt and studied the effect in a mirror. "Seems practical."
Kessa, one of the arbalests now slung on her back, looked Joslyn up and down. "Not bad. Here..." She hooked the strap of the other crossbow around Joslyn's neck and shoulder.
"But I don't know how to use it!"
"They won't know that," Kessa pointed out, "and before the day is over, I might get a chance to show you."
Somehow Joslyn didn't think she meant target practice. Joslyn took a deep breath and gave her knife a reassuring pat. "I'm ready."
*
Ghost didn't usually speak without another voice to prompt him, and of course Tolas didn't speak at all, so the only sound was the wet, gritty rhythm of their footfalls, puny things that faded and died against the damp, cool stone on either side of the alley. All in all, not a good day for echoes.
Ghost frowned. Why am I so aware of the silence?
It was strange—a good part of his self was silent, silent in the way that only pure, chilling emptiness can be. And yet now it disturbed him. He glanced at Tolas, who paced steadily ahead, intent on the way Kessa and Joslyn had taken. No answers there.
Ghost had tried to thank Daycia for sending Tolas as guide, but she brushed it aside. "I'd be sending him anyway; I want to know what this is about, and I don't think asking would settle it."
"If you don't want them to go—"
"I don't. But my Kessa is like your Joslyn in many ways. So I do what I can. But a warning—Tolas will kill you to keep you out of the hands of the Watchers, to protect us."
"Thank you," Ghost had said, "that's very kind."
Ghost remembered Daycia's frown, and it occurred to him that she thought he was being sarcastic. He couldn't remember what sarcasm felt like, but he remembered the idea of it, and that made him smile. Ghost knew that, if he was ever made whole again, one of the first things he would do was be sarcastic about something. Anything.
Tolas brought him back to the here and now. The mute had picked up the pace, and he seemed agitated.
"What is it?"
Tolas shot him a venomous glance and kept moving; Ghost almost had to trot to keep up. All the while, Tolas's hands moved in odd rhythms: opening, closing, waving certain fingers, repeating.
All that anger and nowhere to go.
Ghost thought of it bottled up inside Tolas, and wondered what that was like, too. Anger was difficult, harder than most of the other emotions. He wasn't quite sure what it meant anymore, but he saw what it could do—for instance, make a voiceless man mutter to himself in the only way possible...
Of course.
It should have occurred to him before. Somehow Daycia had signalled Tolas when they were being brought into the ruined temple and passed on very detailed instructions. Ghost studied the signs, and it wasn't long before he recognized the basic pattern—the Brotherhood of Sleep. Another monastic offshoot of the Temple of Somna but, unlike the Travelers, they believed in the revelatory nature of dream alone, and so did nothing to interfere with it. They chose rather to study their own dreams in intense sessions that could last for days. The signs evolved out of the need to conduct monastery business without disturbing the brothers who were in 'meditation.' A very extensive vocabulary had evolved around the sign language, and Ghost wasn't terribly fluent. Still, he did make out one phrase:
KILL HIM THIS TIME.
Ghost drew Tolas aside, held out his hand when Tolas glared at him and signed "Kill who?"
The grammar was wrong, but Tolas understood. He grinned, and made his next signs slowly and distinctly.
THE MAN WHO WANTS TO DIE.
*
Kessa approached the bend in the alley with rapid strides, and Joslyn hurried to catch her. When they had first entered the alley, Joslyn had kept her eyes fixed straight ahead, but now shadowed doorways appeared on either side of them, and she tried to watch them, too. It was making her a little dizzy. "Are you sure this is a good idea?"
"Never said it was," Kessa said without looking back, "but you wanted to see—"
"No! I mean coming this way."
Kessa shrugged. "No worse than the street. Better, in a way. No witnesses."
Joslyn didn't understand that. She was about to ask when they turned the corner and found the man. He might have been young; Joslyn couldn't tell. His clothes looked lived in—but he didn't look quite alive. Joslyn thought of a dead man propped up on frozen joints. He leaned against the post of an open doorway, unmoving, eyes fixed on nothing or eternity. And then, like a statue discovering life, he spoke.
"It's today, Kessa girl. I mean it."
"I'm in a hurry, Phian. No time to play now." She started to walk past him, but he caught her arm.
"Now." He reached into his sleeve.
"Look out!" Joslyn shouted the warning when she saw the shine of steel, reaching for her own knife and knowing it would be too late to help Kessa.
Kessa didn't need any help. Phian's attack had all the brutal speed of a lame snail. Kessa merely stood there as the knife got closer and closer. And slower. And slower. About five inches from her throat, it stopped altogether.
The man's arms fell to his sides in disgust. "Damn it, girl, don't you know when you're being attacked?"
The unreality of it all left Joslyn standing bewildered on the cobblestones, watching Kessa hold up her end of the lunacy.
"I told you I have no time. If you want to die today why don't you go play with the Enders?"
"Enders!" Phian snorted. "You think that didn't occur to me before now? It almost worked, that first time... but then some genius among them realized I wanted death, and of course they wouldn't touch me after that. They greet me with little bows and big smirks, these days... Swine!"
For all the passion in the madman's words, his voice was as flat as old ale. He leaned back against his door frame, muttering. Kessa stepped past him and waved for Joslyn to follow. She did, but w
ithout once taking her eyes off Phian until he was hidden by another turn of the alley. She needn't have bothered; he seemed to have lost all interest in them.
"A friend of yours?" Joslyn asked, finally.
"We've met before," Kessa said. "I nearly did kill him the first time. He's not a threat to anyone, or even himself, for all his talk."
"Why does he want to die?"
"Lunacy, unhappy love... who knows? And don't ask me why he doesn't just kill himself. I don't know that, either."
Joslyn thought a moment. "Those 'Enders' you spoke of. Who are they?"
Kessa stopped so suddenly she looked as if she'd hit an invisible wall. "If that was meant as a joke it wasn't a good one."
Joslyn shook her head. "I didn't mean to offend you. I just wondered."
Kessa stared at her. "You really don't know, do you?"
"I never heard of them before I came to Darsa."
Kessa shivered. "Live with an evil long enough and you can't imagine life free of it... I envy your ignorance, girl of Ly Ossia. I really do." Kessa started walking again.
Joslyn stepped in behind her, annoyed. "I don't want your envy. I want to know about the Enders."
"Easy—they are maggots in an open wound, is what they are," Kessa hissed. "What they do... well, come along Joslyn. I did promise to show you the city."
*
Phian was dimly aware of the two men approaching him until he noticed that the younger one had a knife. He perked up a bit.
I'll give the world this much, Phian thought, it's full of possibilities.
"I'm going to kill you both," he said, trying to sound as if he meant it. He started to get up, but the younger one shoved him back against the door frame. A sharp pain stung his elbow and his arm went numb. The numbness was like a comfortable old boot; he ignored it. The pain, on the other hand, was delicious. And the aggressive young man was approaching with his knife. Better and better.
"Tolas, no!"
The older man stepped between them. Phian was almost frustrated, but there wasn't time to savor the almost-emotion. "Tolas, yes! Don't you realize the danger you're in? Strike!"
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