The River of Shadows

by Robert V. S. Redick

  “You are delusional,” said Vadu. “You speak of places that do not exist. It is a sad thing to witness, and I doubt you can be cured. Still, since the Empire’s leading facility is right here in Masalym, why not try?”

  Chadfallow narrowed his eyes. “What do you mean? What facility?”

  “All in good time,” said Vadu.

  “Where’s Prince Olik gone?” Thasha demanded. “He said we were to meet with the Issár.”

  “Prince Olik has been … called away,” said Vadu. Then, raising his voice, he said, “Enough! Will you come quietly, you five? Yes or no?”

  “No!” cried Swift, clinging to a table leg.

  “No,” said Thasha, loosening her hands for a fight.

  “Why,” said Pazel, controlling his fury with great effort, “won’t you even consider that we might be sane? Isn’t that a bit crazy in itself?”

  Vadu looked suddenly angry. His eyes shifted, as though Pazel had said something to embarrass him in front of his men. “I did not think that they would prove so vulgar,” he said. “I like them better without speech.”

  “You can plainly hear that I’m being reasonable,” said Pazel. “I’m not even raising my voice. I don’t mean to insult you, Counselor Vadu. I’m just pointing out how wrong you aarrg-whaaa oh Rin please not nolufnarrrrrr—”

  He covered his ears. The mind-fit, the assault of unbearable noises, dropped him shuddering to his knees. The soldiers backed against the walls; most looked ready to flee. Vadu screamed orders, waving his many-ringed hands at the humans. And before the fit blotted out his thoughts altogether, it occurred to Pazel that the argument had just been decided.

  The gangways had been quietly lowered: halberd-wielding dlömic soldiers had swarmed onto the Chathrand. The show of strength was overwhelming. Wagons had been swiftly pulled up along both sides of the quay, and scores of barbarous cannon were revealed when their canopies were dropped. Archers with huge tripod-mounted crossbows, each one a bouquet of steel-tipped bolts, had raced into position between the wagons. Foot soldiers poured over the gangway, and with them came riders on beasts that filled the humans with terror. They were more like cats than anything else, but their backs beneath the saddles were broad and flat, and they stood as tall as horses. They growled at first sight of the humans, and their dlömu had to shout reassurances, swearing that the sicuñas, as they were called, would not harm a soul without their riders’ permission.

  Sergeant Haddismal saw the choice before him at a glance: surrender, or death and defeat. He cursed, but in truth he had expected this moment from the moment he saw that first stone wall rumble into place, sealing in the ship. He bared his teeth at the victors, but that was as far as his defiance went: martyrdom (this martyrdom at least) was no way to serve the Empire. He ordered his men to lay down their arms. In a matter of minutes the Great Ship was taken.

  The dlömic forces were civil but firm. The ban on speaking to humans having been at least slightly relaxed, they demanded all weapons “larger than folding knives and smaller than cannon.” They also confiscated all sources of flame or combustion, from Mr. Teggatz’s stove-lighting matches to the explosives in the powder room. The humans themselves they split into groups: officers and soldiers on the topdeck, sailors, tarboys and steerage passengers below.

  Counselor Vadu, pleased to have met with no resistance, climbed back to the topdeck and addressed the officers. “Your captain has been invited to assist the Plazic Battalion with certain inquiries. He will be returned to you shortly, if all goes well. Meanwhile I charge you with maintaining discipline among your people. They will not be harmed; indeed we have prepared extensively for their comfort and relaxation, in the pavilion at the Masalym Tournament Grounds. There you will, I think, have few complaints. You will cook your own meals. Women and children will have private quarters, with beds. You officers will be provided the same, but the rest of the crew must bring hammocks. Take whatever clothes and cherished belongings you may desire. It will be some time before we return you to this ship.”

  The officers protested loudly. “What are you up to with her?” said Fiffengurt. “You’re fixing that crack in her hull, and we thank you for it. But that ship’s our home—our only home, now that we’ve crossed the Ruling Sea. You’ve got no right to poke around in her like something washed up on the beach.”

  Vadu replied that Masalym reserved the right to inspect any vessel that entered its waters, let alone its walls. But he had clearly not come to debate.

  “This is a time of war. I require you to bear that in mind. Chaos and disorder cannot be tolerated in a time of war. Your removal begins in ten minutes.” With those words he turned his back on the outraged officers, passed over the gangway, and descended into the city.

  The debarkation was an orderly affair. The humans were marched in single file over the gangways, checked for weapons a second time on the quayside, then led away in groups of forty and fifty, each contingent surrounded by twice as many dlömic soldiers. Their path led down a wide, windy, lightless avenue. From the platforms, the sailors still disembarking could see their shipmates moving away in dark masses, surrounded by the torch-bearing dlömu. More like pilgrims setting off into a wilderness, thought Mr. Fiffengurt, than men at the start of shore leave.

  The steerage passengers were offered assistance; the women handed woolen shawls against the wind, the oldest placed in litters, like royalty, and carried out on dlömic shoulders. Of all the humans, Neda came closest to provoking violence. She emerged onto the topdeck struggling and shouting, first in Mzithrini, then Arquali: “Where take my brother? He would be here, would be seeing me! You have him prisoner apart, yes? Where is my brother, monsters?”

  There were few other incidents. One of the Quezan tribals from the whaling ship had yet to see a dlömu, and panicked at the sight of what he took for demons of the Underworld. He was held at bay in the officers’ mess until he saw by their faces that demons too could grow bored; then he grinned, shrugged and joined the exodus. A midshipman tried to smuggle a dagger ashore inside his bedroll. He was taken aside, made to kneel, beaten thrice with a cane and helped to his feet.

  Outside the stateroom, Counselor Vadu’s expression reached a new extreme of shock as he leaned his hands against the magic wall. The utter surprise of encountering such magic was startling enough, although he knew quite well that charms and sorcery were leaking out everywhere these days: bleeding from the open sores of the South. And the largest sore of all was Bali Adro City, the capital he served (heretical thoughts, thoughts that could hang him; how fortunate that one’s mind was off-limits to investigators and spies).

  A door stood open at the end of the passage beyond the magic wall. He could see a corner of an elegant cabin or stateroom. But he was far more taken with the sword. A great black weapon, battered and stained but radiating (he thought) a subtle power, an authority. It lay just inside the wall, as though flung in great haste—or carried there, by someone with the power to pass through.

  He ordered the wall attacked with hammers, chisels, fire. He lowered men to the stateroom windows and tried to break them; but the glass when they struck it proved harder than any stone. The once-luxurious chamber could only be pierced with lamplight: inside, the dlömu saw a bearskin, a samovar, a table with the remains of a meal.

  Some hours later Vadu returned to the passage outside the stateroom. Half a dozen men were still attacking the wall. “Sir, it’s no good, we can’t even scratch it,” confessed his captain-at-arms.

  Vadu nodded. “I will try myself,” he said. And then, noting his men’s distress: “Yes, yes, you may all leave the compartment. Seal it behind you, in fact.”

  His soldiers fled with unseemly haste. Vadu filled his lungs, squared his shoulders and put his hand on the pommel of his knife.

  To draw the weapon required the whole strength of his arm. In the darkened passage a fell glow surrounded him, and the air began to shimmer. But in Vadu’s grip was little more than the handle of a knife: a hilt
, and an inch-long, corroded stump of a blade. Yet all the disturbance in the air flowed from this tiny splinter.

  Vadu felt as he always did when he drew the Plazic Blade: impervious and ruined, a titan of steel, ripped by dragons’ jaws. Above the hilt, a ghostly outline of a knife was forming, like a pale candleflame. He staggered forward and plunged it into the wall.

  (Two miles away, in a wagon clattering through the Middle City, Thasha Isiq cried out in pain. She shot to her feet, eyes wide, furious with the sudden violation.)

  The counselor felt the knife begin to cut. But the spell he was fighting was no simple one. After a moment, it became clear that it was the work of a greater wizard than he had ever faced. With a grunt of effort he managed to carve down through four inches of wall. Then he turned the knife to the left.

  (Thasha was thrashing. The guards marching to either side of the wagon looked in terror at a girl possessed. On the floor of the wagon, bound and weeping in the torments of his own fit, Pazel heard her screams and thought his mind would break.)

  Vadu cut a square out of the magic wall. He pulled the knife free, almost dropping it in the agony of lightning that danced up his arm. Then he sheathed it and put his arm through the gap. His fingers groped toward Ildraquin.

  (Thasha’s stitches tore; her side once more began to bleed. Hercól, Neeps and Marila begged her to say what was happening, but she did not hear them. “No,” she said, pressing fists against her temples, “no, I won’t let you. I won’t.”)

  Vadu screamed suddenly and wrenched his arm from the hole. His tunic was smoking, the sleeve burned through. He ripped the cloth away and saw a band of red skin around his upper arm, blistering already. Hmm! That’s a pity, he thought. Still, it could have been much worse.

  (Thasha whirled, flailed among her companions. When Hercól tried to seize her she knocked him aside like a doll. Then a voice came from her throat: a woman’s voice, but not her own: “Bihidra Maukslar! Bile of Droth! He is going to steal it, steal it and loose the Swarm! What are you waiting for? When will you let me strike?”)

  Vadu stumbled out of the compartment. “Never mind,” he told his men. “The sword can stay where it is; tomorrow we will try our luck with rod and reel, or something of the kind. Now show me to the manger.”

  They descended, passing among the few remaining humans, Vadu’s lieutenant supporting his arm. By the time they reached the manger he was recovered.

  “That Stone is not to be touched,” he told his captain-at-arms, pointing at the Nilstone. “Tomorrow you will reinforce this door with iron bands, and install a new lock, and deliver the key to my person. For tonight you must secure the door with padlocks and thirty-weight chain.”

  It was three in the morning when the last group of humans set off for the Tournament Grounds. The soldiers moved through the Chathrand in a dragnet, lanterns ablaze. They found two cobalt-blue dogs of great size on the lower gun deck, searching frantically for their mistress. They caught Lady Oggosk’s cat and nailed the beast up in a crate (“Take it to her before she deafens the whole pavilion,” said Vadu). They captured the augrongs after a hideous struggle and the deaths of six men, and led the beasts off together wrapped in anchor-chains. They heard the lowing of cattle but could not locate a single animal, nor the source of the noise. They saw two ixchel darting across a passage on the mercy deck, pounded after them, found no trace.

  The wind rose; and thunder growled in the mountains. Vadu cursed and ordered his men off the ship until morning, when the complete inventory would begin. Large detachments were left on both gangways, more around the perimeter of the berth. Before the counselor made it to his carriage a lashing rain had begun to fall.

  He slammed the door and slicked back his hair. “They are safe,” he said, “and tomorrow you may examine them. Are they really so precious to you?”

  On the seat beside him, Arunis shrugged. “They are but symbols. Not important in themselves, and quite worthless to anyone this side of the Nelluroq.”

  “I should say so. A hideous statue, and a magic bauble that one cannot even look at directly.”

  “Think of them like the birthig, your liege-animal. Outsiders see a grotesque little creature with tusks. But the honor of the city hinges on the birthig, does it not, when strangers come to call? So it is with that bauble, Counselor. The humans covet it, as they do so many things, but in truth they can do nothing with it at all. They might even hurt themselves.”

  “Are you saying it is dangerous?”

  “Not very. Let us say rather that it is best left to mages.” Arunis laughed. “Do you know, the humans played a joke on me tonight? They said Prince Olik was coming to seize that Stone, and the statue, too. They woke me from a pleasant slumber on that pretense.”

  “How irritating,” said Vadu. “Is that why you persuaded the Issár to send us in tonight? To turn the joke back on them?”

  “In a sense. They were … complicating my work. And they would only have been in the way, when my replacement crew arrives from the capital. So will Prince Olik, if he is not managed with skill. He seemed rather to warm to the humans, even after they took knives to his flesh. You do understand that he must learn nothing of our intentions, until the replacement crew is actually aboard the Chathrand?”

  “You made that quite clear, sorcerer. You expect them in a week’s time, you say?”

  “Perhaps sooner, if the winds are favorable. Where is Olik, incidentally?”

  “Never mind him,” said Vadu. “He is a dilettante, a lesser son of noble sires. You will find him meditating with his Spider Tellers, in a temple in the humblest corner of the Lower City.”

  “Olik, a Spider Teller?” said Arunis, his eyes wide with disbelief. “A prince of the ruling family, and that is the extent of his ambition?”

  “His blood is his license for eccentricity,” said the counselor. “But yes, he is a true philosopher, which is to say a buffoon. You think him fond of these … freaks? I thought him supremely indifferent. Yes, Rose appears guilty of drawing Bali Adro blood—and must therefore die, unless Emperor Nahundra himself issues a pardon. But the humans also saved the man from the Karyskans. They nearly lost the ship, protecting him. And yet he could not wait to abandon them—did not wait; he literally took to the stevedores’ tunnels as the ship was being raised. I shouldn’t wonder if he has forgotten all about them by now.”

  “You must forget them too, Counselor,” said Arunis. “I know you are not fond of killing—who is? But believe what I tell you: they are incurable. In short order they will all become tol-chenni. As will every human north of the Ruling Sea. Their time in Alifros is over; soon they will take their place alongside the fantastic creatures whose bones grace your museums.”

  “The doctor insisted that not one of them had yet been affected,” said Vadu.

  “Denial has always been part of the plague,” said Arunis. “Here, whole cities maintained that they were clean, lest the Emperor place them in quarantine. Householders swore up and down that all was well, even as they kept a gibbering ape or two locked in the cellar. Read your history, man.”

  “But there were no gibbering apes found on the Chathrand.”

  “Rose is no fool,” said Arunis. “He tossed them into the gulf before we came within sight of Masalym. Pity them, if you will. I certainly do. But don’t share in their illusions.”

  Vadu fell silent a moment. “If that is how things truly stand,” he sighed, “then I begin to grasp the terrible command that came tonight from my Emperor. You might as well know. We’re to select fifty specimens, in addition to the few in the Conservatory, and chain them in the hold for transport to Bali Adro. For study, I assume. The rest will be marched into the emptied basin, sealed inside. The floodgate lifts, the basin quickly fills. It was done before with tol-chenni. I do read history, sir—at least when it pertains to my job.”

  “I am relieved to hear it,” said the sorcerer.

  “All told it is a merciful system,” said Vadu. “When they are drow
ned we simply open the lower gate, and their bodies are carried over the falls and into the gulf.” The counselor glanced upward. “What about your servant?”

  “Fulbreech?” said Arunis. “I shall keep him, while his mind is whole.”

  “Of course you will. I only ask if you wish to bring him into the cab, since the rain has turned so cruel.”

  “By no means,” said Arunis. “He has worse ahead of him than a little soaking. And the wound he took in the battle tonight is nothing. I examined it because it was made with Ildraquin, that sword you failed to obtain.”

  “So it is a special blade?”

  Arunis nodded.

  “But not as special as my own.”

  “The difference, Vadu,” said Arunis, “is that Ildraquin has an owner, whereas the Plazic Arsenal, despite the conquering power it has granted Bali Adro, has slaves.”

  Vadu laughed, but when Arunis did not even smile, he checked himself. “I am a proud servant of the House of the Leopard, and ever shall be,” he said. “The Emperor knows my loyalty, and I know how he trusts in the Raven Society. Yet I myself am often baffled by your council’s ways.”

  Arunis raised a warning eyebrow.

  “Macadra,” said Vadu, “never setting foot outside the palace, though they say her word is law. Stoman the Builder, obsessed with growing the navy, when already we are the sea’s unchallenged masters. Ivrea, who would send her own mother to the gallows if she suspected her of disloyal thoughts.”

  “In a heartbeat,” said the mage.

  Vadu’s head gave a twitching bob. “And now you, Arunis Wytterscorm, returning like a legend aboard a ship of tol-chenni freaks.”

  “They are human, Vadu,” said Arunis. “Don’t make me repeat it. The North is rife with them.”

  Vadu looked thoughtful. “How many are there, really?”

  “They are more numerous than the crickets in the chúun-grass,” said Arunis. Then he raised his head and looked Vadu in the eye. “Before the burning season, that is.”