“And tougher if you betray him,” said Nikko.
“I have no intention of it. Bartolo’s red iron may be important to me, but there is nothing I hate worse than the Siheldi. I would like to put an end to all this before it gets out of hand, if you’ll have me. I would simply like to help.”
“Very well,” Nikko shrugged. “If he is willing to trust you, then I suppose I am, too. We can leave tonight.”
“Why wait that long?” Megrithe said.
“You must take your medicine first,” Nikko told her. “Remember?”
“Oh. Oh, no. You don’t mean that awful stuff, do you? It made me so sick.”
“What made you sick?” asked Jairus, picking up on her distress at the thought of drinking ychauyad again.
Nikko just smiled, a shade of his usual self returning at the prospect of enjoying his friends’ discomfort. “Let’s go find out, shall we?”
CHAPTER EIGHT
The Warden sat quietly with his hands stretched out in front of him, palms flat on his desk. There was an itch above his eye – a tiny fly had been buzzing around for half an hour, brushing up against his skin – but he didn’t reach up to scratch it. Instead, he ignored the sensation the best he could, letting himself float free of his familiar surroundings and upwards towards the city that trundled obliviously over his head.
“Damn and blast it,” he muttered eventually, raising one of his hands to erase the annoyance with the edge of his fingernail, sighing at the unconquerable weakness of the flesh.
His own master, two High Wardens prior, had always beaten him over the head with a switch when he broke his meditations in such a way. It was supposed to instill good discipline, but he had found that the new bruises and petulant disgruntlement of his soul only added to the likelihood that he would fail to concentrate. That had never stopped him from doing the same thing to his students now, however, and they would do the same to theirs, in time – if the Divided continued to exist beyond his rule.
There was a serious risk that they wouldn’t. Bartolo’s meddling had sent the Warden’s delicately balanced plans careening wildly off course. The thought of that fool and his arrogant dabbling made the Warden remove his hands from the table once and for all. His contemplations, and the far-ranging sight that came with them, would have to wait. He was too anxious, and there were plenty of other things he could be doing instead.
The Siheldi needed baiting again. A little leather curricle had floated free of some boat in the harbor and ended up on the craggy beach beneath his caverns. The curved timber joints and iron bolts would make a nice little puzzle for the spirits, who seemed to enjoy dismantling human engineering almost as much as they liked taking apart the humans themselves.
Not only did engaging them with such toys and games secure their good will, such as it was, but they also gave the Warden the chance to observe their intelligence, so different from that of their prey.
They were fascinating creatures. They squabbled over their worthless prizes like children, or perhaps like feral dogs, competing for brightly colored objects that both attracted and repulsed them. Light was their enemy, and for the most part it could not be borne, yet smoothly polished silver or colored glass were trophies of the highest value, to be clutched tight and hidden away and marveled over when they thought no one else was looking. It appeared that they took a certain pleasure in the pain of the forbidden, and in that sense they were no different from humans at all.
The Warden picked up a small bell on his desk and shook it back and forth to call for Guthrin.
“I am going to the island,” he said. “I want to bring that boat. Fill it with something that will please them.”
“At once, sir.”
“Has there been any news from the surface?”
“Some. Jairus has joined with the Guild woman and her friends. He is going with them to try to find the mountain.”
“Excellent,” the Warden nodded. “I’m sure he will make certain they will arrive safely, and then he will no longer be my concern. I want you to follow their progress and send word immediately when they have reached Sind Heofonne.”
“Yes, sir.”
“And get someone else to ferret out a few more Guild contacts and kill them the neneckt way,” the Warden added. “Paro and Briggs, perhaps. Make a scene. The city is taking too long to crack itself open. And Liment should gather some men outside the palace and cause as much of a fuss as they can. I want Tiaraku to know we’re serious.”
“Immediately, sir,” Guthrin said, his respectful bow failing to hide his wolfish smile. The Warden nodded. This was exactly the sort of charade that the old man loved.
Tiaraku had largely ignored the riot that had swept through the city of Niheba after the death of Agnise. The fervor had settled down again once it was clear there would be no results, but he didn’t want the neneckt king to feel like he could dismiss his unhappy residents forever.
The Divided would continue to fan the flames of human discontent as long as necessary to make Tiaraku start feeling truly uncomfortable. As soon as he reacted against the humans’ concerns, the city would explode into a violence that would be impossible to control.
That would give the Warden the opening he had been looking for. Ruling the island was not exactly in the cult’s original charter, but survival in difficult circumstances demanded new tactics. Niheba was a golden peach ripe for the picking – the perfect fortress from which the Warden could act at will to conquer his main concerns.
Tiaraku would have to work harder if he wanted to keep hold of his kingdom. The neneckt king had pinned his hopes on having the Siheldi Queen to help him, but he did not know that the Divided had been taming the spirits, slowly but surely, for close to a thousand years. Tiaraku’s first mistake had been trusting to Bartolo’s half-baked schemes. Underestimating the reach and ambitions of the Divided would surely be his last.
There was a meeting spot on an unmarked, rocky atoll a few miles off shore, where the Siheldi flocked like eager gulls when plied with baubles. There was nothing pleasant about the little knob of jagged basalt that stuck up from the ocean like the raw end of a giant’s nose. There was hardly even a landing site worth approaching consistently, so the boatman judged the best location based on the winds and tides, often leaving the Warden with wet feet and skinned knuckles as he dashed across the unforgiving stones.
The waters were relatively calm this time, and he was able to get ashore with little trouble. The curricle followed, handed up to him along with several small sacks of various goods. The boatman then backed his vessel away from the speck of land to take refuge in safer waters, promising to return as soon as the Warden called.
“I bring gifts,” he said loudly to the empty, windswept knoll. He opened up the first of the sacks to feel what his men had provided for him. “Copper and slate,” he said, sifting through some broken bits of roof tile and green, corroded gutter fittings. “Wood and iron,” he continued, opening another bag that contained short planks with old nails of various sizes driven through at random, “and good strong cowhide,” he finished, gesturing to the round boat next to him.
The Warden was used to having to wait in these situations. The Siheldi didn’t congregate on the little stump of land, and only came when they sensed the warm blood of a potential meal. It could take some time for that to happen, especially if they were distracted, and he knew for certain that their attention was much taken up with Swinn and the neneckt slave.
He had seen the prisoners curled up in the bottom of a ditch lined with bezhaka stone. He had seen them where no others could direct their sight. Tiaraku was blind to what happened underneath the ocean’s floor, but the Divided’s gifts had unlocked many secrets the sea people had yet to learn.
The Warden hadn’t told anyone that he had seen Arran Swinn alive, nor that he had traced Faidal’s movements back to the surface, into the slums of Niheba and through the door of an oughon known as a healer. He had kept to himself that he was familiar wit
h the strange properties of the medicine Faidal had given his friend, and how quickly the dying man recovered after drinking it. He had watched in silence as the Siheldi lured the neneckt from its safety, and as Arran groped helplessly in the dark for his fallen companion while the Queen stirred from her rest, tasting the tang of his blood in the air.
“I bring gifts,” he called again after nearly an hour had passed, repeating his litany to entice the spirits to show themselves, and shaking the metal pieces in their sack like the bell on his desk to summon them.
Eventually, as the boatman made several wide circles around the island and the sun crept slowly across the sky, making the Warden break out in a sticky sweat, he felt the first stirrings of another presence. It was a Siheldi: a single spirit braving the harsh daylight for a glimpse of the Warden’s presents, trying to snatch the best items for itself before the day cooled enough to attract any rivals.
“Greetings, my friend,” the Warden said, taking a step back from the heap of objects. He may be intrigued by the demons’ behavior, but he had no desire to be touched by one.
The Siheldi ignored him. It was true that not all of them wasted their energy on human speech, especially when the sun was glaring and they needed to conserve all their strength just to survive. It would exhaust itself by carrying even the smallest trinket back to its lair, but apparently it felt like the effort was worth it.
“I can offer you shade,” he said, when the spirit barely shifted around a few of the pieces on display, unable to do much more. He lifted the curricle and propped up one edge with a length of scrap wood, forming a shelter that he would have been happy to occupy himself. “Please, take your rest and speak with me.”
It was dark and cooler under the boat, and the Warden felt the Siheldi hiss in relief as it scuttled into the shade.
I want it, the Siheldi said after some time.
“What do you desire, friend?”
It sparkles.
The Warden made a slight noise of displeasure. For all his foresight that allowed him to glimpse the workings of the world, past, present, and future, he couldn’t see what the Siheldi wanted even though it was no more than two feet away from him. “The metal?”
Golden, the Siheldi whispered, and the Warden nodded.
There must be a piece of copper that wasn’t covered in dull green scale. He could feel out the difference, and he could talk while he was doing it.
“Your brethren are busy underground,” he said, getting down on his knees to sift through the gutter parts. “I have not seen any of you for some days.”
They are preparing.
“That is good. When will they be ready?”
Soon.
The Warden kept groping through the scrap metal, grimacing at the grit and dirt that was coating his hands. “Soon?”
When our Queen is strong enough to take the iron from him. Soon.
The Warden nodded again. That was the problem that they couldn’t solve. But the Siheldi hadn’t been out hunting for days – he wondered how the Queen planned to prepare for the difficult task without feeding herself first.
“Does the Queen require food? I can arrange for some. She would not have to distract herself.”
The Siheldi spat at him. She has fed. She does not need your aid, it sneered.
“Indeed not,” the Warden agreed, reminding himself to check the ship registries to see which vessel never made it to shore. “Golden,” he said, finally closing his fingers on a smooth piece of metal, offering it to the spirit by placing it very close to the limits of the circle of shade. “For you.”
He heard the object, a short, slim piece of piping, roll slowly under the curricle. It was not a heavy thing that would be unduly burdensome even to a spirit parched by the sharp, sucking heat, and the Warden half expected the Siheldi to flit off with the object within a few moments.
But it stayed there, pushing the pipe back and forth along a little depression in the stone, listening to the noise it made. Perhaps it wasn’t finished talking, the Warden thought. Perhaps this one would give him more than he had expected.
“It has been a troublesome process, but it will surely lead you to glory,” he said eventually.
You know nothing of either.
“Oh, I know trouble. The man you have in your possession certainly fits the description. I wouldn’t mind meeting him, in fact. It would be such a great honor to witness the Queen’s triumph.”
To steal triumph for yourself, scoffed the Siheldi.
“To help,” the Warden countered. “I have never been anything but a faithful friend, and I have the most fervent desire to continue to serve you. Please, if there is any way I can aid you, I beg you to allow me the privilege. After all, you would not have either of them without me.”
Leave this place, the voice said after a long pause during which the pipe kept shifting back and forth, back and forth, the copper ringing dully. Train your sight upon the Queen when you arrive at your home. Your reward for your friendship will be to witness her victory.
“And a better reward I could never imagine,” the Warden said, smiling broadly and bowing to the darkness under the boat. “Thank you.”
The Siheldi made no reply. The sound of the rolling metal stopped suddenly, and the Warden felt the spirit withdraw, the curricle collapsing to the ground as it went.
“Perfect,” he said to no one in particular, then started to walk around the island, waving his arms, trying to attract the attention of the boatman, wherever he was in his circuit.
It didn’t take long for the skiff to come inshore, and the Warden gratefully accepted a skin of water, pouring some out into his hand to wipe on his face after he had quenched his thirst. The gifts could stay, to be collected that night by the more timid members of the tribe. They were of no value anymore. The piece of copper pipe, which had cost less than a shilling, had bought him everything that he could possibly need.
The journey home was far too long for his liking, and he kept urging the boatman to greater speeds despite the fact that the wind was barely sighing past the sail and there was nothing more either of them could do about it.
It took ages – there wasn’t even any room on the tight deck to pace out his anxiety – but eventually they fell under the shadow of the cliffs. He didn’t mind getting his feet wet this time as he leapt onto the pebbly beach before the sailor even had a chance to tie up.
He practically ran back to his rooms, restraining himself only when passing one of his subordinates in the hall. The High Warden couldn’t be seen to skip towards his quarters like a schoolboy at the start of his holidays, no matter how much he felt like one.
“I am not to be disturbed for any reason, Guthrin,” he commanded sternly to the old man who was waiting to tell him how his preparations in the city had gotten on. “For any reason whatsoever.”
He slammed the door in Guthrin’s face before he could say a word, turning the key in the lock and dashing over to his desk. He would have to concentrate this time, excitement or no. Laying his hands flat on the surface again, he pressed down as hard as he could to stop the tiny tremor in his fingers from spreading.
“No,” he whispered, jumping up again and moving over to a bookshelf, where a heavy volume was laid crosswise on top of shorter tomes, their thick bindings marked with embossed characters that he could feel with his fingers. He had commissioned the books from the engravers in Paderborn, gathering the expensive collection one and two at a time to indulge his interest in the sciences, undimmed even after he had relinquished his sight.
But he wasn’t trying to read about the movements of the stars or tides in the large book, which didn’t want to dislodge itself. He had to struggle to get a grip on its edges before it tumbled free, sending him staggering backward half a step before he recovered himself enough to open it up. Instead of carefully printed letters on sturdy vellum, traced over backwards with a blunt awl to produce raised letters, there was nothing but a hollow carved from a few dozen pages: a secret s
pot where he kept a polished nacre box.
He held the container close to his ear as he delicately pushed the edges of a series of miniscule wheels upward with his finger, waiting until he heard the tiniest of clicks before moving on to the next.
When the last tumbler slotted into place, he lifted the lid, running his fingers along the bottom of the case. There was water inside. He scooped the pair of gemstones from the liquid, patting them dry with the corner of his robe before closing the box again and stowing it back into its compartment.
He would always cherish being able to call Bartolo a fool to his face, but the priggish little upstart would never know how stupid he truly was. There were more treasures in the world than such a narrow man could ever hope to learn about, and the Warden had two of them clutched tightly in his hands.
Bartolo had been operating under the assumption that there had only ever been two of the gemstones, but he was wrong. They had been created by the Siheldi out of a special type of bezhaka stone with a magic lost to the secrets of eternity, and cherished by the night spirits until the ancestors of the neneckt stole them away.
The stones had been fought over, recovered, lost again, taken into hiding, separated, forgotten, and disguised for thousands of years. Some of them had faded into legend; others had been destroyed; many of them had been burned up during dark rituals, made as hollow and useless as glass when their power had been drained dry.
The Warden had spent many years tracking down the two he held, and just as much time ensuring that he could account for any others still in existence, even if they were in rival hands. It would not be work wasted as he pursued the unearthing of what had been buried under the sea, so very long ago before the first neneckt broke apart into feuding clans and petty kingships, diminishing themselves with pointless conflicts when they could have had everything within their grasp.
Dark the Dreamer's Shadow Page 18