The River of Shadows

by Robert V. S. Redick

  Then, like a bursting boil, the thought: He might have more cigarettes.

  Isiq ran, fleeing the temptation more than the evidence of his deed. His elbow warm and sticky, his fingers cut trying to close the stiletto, his knee wrenched anew. Behind him, someone began to scream.

  Go back. There’s still time. Go back and search his pockets.

  Where was that mucking theater? Had they taken down the sign? He blundered on, limping, trying to keep to the shadows. People everywhere. The nearest recoiled, murmuring at his back. Already winded, he forced himself to run on. A second turn, a third. Why were there no empty streets?

  Deathsmoke.

  Put it out of your—

  Deathsmoke.

  He stopped, weak and wheezing, soaked with frigid sweat. If another addict passed him he would fight for the drug. Eyes on him everywhere. A shadow in a window, a mongrel dog across the street.

  Isiq shuffled backward, collided with a rubbish bin. There were rats, probably, rats before him and behind. They would remember him from the dungeon. They would smell the blood.

  Look, look! the street was sighing. The decorated soldier! The leader of men! The one who thinks he can stop the war!

  “Admiral?”

  The voice was soft and circumspect.

  “This way, sir, quickly.”

  Precious Pitfire, it was the dog.

  Isiq stumbled across the street. “Don’t stare, please,” said the dirty, shaggy creature.

  “You’re real?”

  “Very much so. And we have a mutual friend.”

  “I know you. Of course. You’re the dog.”

  “I suppose I can’t argue with that.” The dog was looking left and right. “The bird lost you in that tunnel; someone should have told him what to expect. Well, we can’t stay here. Follow now, but not too close. And whatever you do, don’t stare. It’s your eyes that give us away to other men.”

  He darted off down the street. The admiral drew a deep breath. Somehow the craving was gone. Strange allies, he thought. A street dog, a little tailor bird, a King. And one other, the strangest of all, perhaps, if only he made it to her door.

  The dog, fortunately, had no wish to be discovered. He led Isiq through abandoned buildings, gaps in fences, grassy lots. The admiral’s knee was on fire, but he kept moving, and the woken animal never left his sight. The row houses gave way to old, careworn cottages, and the sea-smell grew. Then suddenly they were passing through a gate into a dusty garden. Facing him was a little shoe box of a cottage with peeling paint. The door was shut and the window curtained, but from between them a spear of lamplight stabbed at the yard.

  “Eberzam Isiq.”

  The witch! He hadn’t seen her, standing there in the darkness by the garden wall. Now she came toward him, until the spear of light touched her face. The bird was perfectly right: she was not ugly, not bent and shriveled like Lady Oggosk. She was tall, and her eyes were dark and wild, and her voice had a resonance that tickled the ear. Dark hair cascaded to her elbows. A pretty witch: imagine that. All the same he knew the moment was terribly fragile. She had spoken his name with fury.

  “If we have met before you must forgive me,” he said. “I have been ill. My memories were lost for months, and they are only slowly returning.”

  “You would remember me,” said the woman. “And never, ever tell me what I must forgive.”

  “Very well,” said Isiq, standing his ground. “All the same, I’ve heard the name Suthinia before, somewhere. And your face is vaguely familiar.”

  The woman stared at him, unblinking. He could feel her rage like a flameless fire, a pit of live coals. Then she moved closer and he saw that she too carried a knife. It was naked in her hand.

  “The face you know is my son’s,” she said.

  “Your son, madam? Did he serve in the navy?”

  She took another step, and now he knew she was in striking range. “He served your bloodsucking Empire,” she said, “after your marines burned our city to the ground. My son’s an Ormali. So was I, for two decades.”

  “No you weren’t, my dear.”

  Isiq whirled. A man ten years his junior stood behind him, just inside the gate. His face in shadow. His hand twirling a club.

  “You tried, Suthee. Rin knows, you did try. Pitfire, one year you even canned fruit with the neighbors! But they never did let you forget you were foreign.”

  “It wasn’t the neighbors who ruined us,” said the woman. “It was this one. Because of him, and his damn Dr. Chadfallow, my boy and my daughter are on the far side of the world. They’re doing my job, hunting the sorcerer I was sent here to kill. They’ve gone to my home, and I’m stranded here in what’s left of theirs. My name is Suthinia Sadralin Pathkendle.”

  “Oh, come now, darlin’.” The man laughed softly. “You don’t have to keep the family name for my sake.”

  “Gods below,” said Isiq. “Pathkendle! It’s you! Captain Gregory Path—”

  The club moved so fast he never saw it. Isiq was down, flat, deafened in one ear. And the woman was kneeling, pinning his head between her knees, pressing the knife-point to his chest.

  The dog gave a furious bark. “Stop, stop!” it cried. “You didn’t mucking tell me you planned to kill him!”

  “War’s a dirty business, dog,” said Captain Gregory Pathkendle.

  “You cut him, witch, and I’ll bring every spy in Simjalla to your door. I’m not a killer, damn you!”

  “I understand,” said the woman to the admiral, “that you had Pazel flogged for his cheekiness. For calling the invasion an invasion, to your face. I hear his back was torn to ribbons.”

  “Yes,” said Isiq.

  “He admits it,” said Captain Gregory. “Incredible.”

  “I didn’t order the flogging,” said Isiq. “You’re wrong about that. But I could have stopped it, yes. Rose would have done me that favor.”

  “And Pazel’s ejection from the ship?”

  “My fault. My fault.”

  “You sat in your stateroom, and let him be sold to the Flikkermen.”

  “That’s right.”

  “You never thought about it.”

  “My best friend was dying. And I was drugged.”

  “Oh, drugged,” laughed Captain Gregory. “With what, old man? Platinum brandy from the Westfirth?”

  “With deathsmoke!” said the dog, padding in circles around the three of them. “The Syrarys woman put it in his tea. The bird told me all about it.”

  “Deathsmoke, is it?” said Gregory. He marched out of Isiq’s sight and returned bearing a lamp, which he placed painfully close to Isiq’s face. Then he took hold of Isiq’s lower lip and pinched it outward, beneath a callused thumb. He squinted; then his face grew very still.

  “He’s an addict, Suthee, it’s no lie.” He released Isiq’s lip and stood up. “The note said so, too. Perhaps it really did come from King Oshiram.”

  “Of course it did, you clown,” snapped the woman. But the knife was still pressed to Isiq’s chest. “We are safer without him, no matter what he means to the monarch of Simja.”

  “Safer, but weaker,” said Captain Gregory. “We need him on that boat tomorrow. You know that.”

  “How many Arquali betrayals do you have to see?” hissed Suthinia. “Why wouldn’t they use Isiq? How else could they ever dream of getting close to her?”

  “To whom?” said Isiq.

  “Shut up,” said the witch. “Trust Admiral Isiq? Six years after the invasion, and still dripping blood? He could doom us in a heartbeat. He could be working for Sandor Ott.”

  At the sound of Ott’s name Isiq lost all control. He lashed out, one steel-knuckled hand smacking the knife away from his chest, the other catching Gregory Pathkendle in the jaw. The woman fought him but he was not to be stopped. Before he knew it he was on his feet again, standing over them, his own knife drawn and raised.

  “You dare,” he said, “after that man killed my two angels, my darling Thasha, my wife
.”

  Suthinia and Gregory looked up at him sharply.

  “I know it was Arunis!” roared Isiq. “But it was Ott who built the trap called the Great Peace—built it around them, required them to die! And you dare suggest I serve him! I would sooner serve the maggot-haired hags in the Ninth Pit of Damnation! As for you two—”

  “Isiq, Isiq!” cried Captain Gregory, his tone suddenly changed. They were both gesturing, pleading. “We had to know,” said Suthinia.

  “Know what, damn you? That I did not serve that fiend of a spymaster, that creature who calls himself a patriot?”

  “You were a patriot, too,” said Gregory, “a famous one, same as I used to be. That’s right, man, we had to be sure, before we told you they’re alive.”

  Isiq looked from one to the other. “Who?” he whispered. “Who are they?”

  Suddenly the tailor bird appeared. He whirled about them, shrilling: “Get inside, inside! A posse of men is approaching! They’re at the corner of the street!”

  Seconds later Isiq found himself crouched in the cottage, the door barred and the lamp extinguished, the bird hopping ecstatically about on his shoulders, the dog still as stone beside his boots. Footsteps rang in the alley; gruff voices murmured. Isiq’s knee was in agony but he did not make a sound.

  Then he felt the witch’s hand. Gently, it found his throbbing knee and remained there, cool and almost weightless. And to Isiq’s amazement the pain began to subside.

  The footsteps faded, the voices trailed away. Finally a match flared in the darkness. Captain Gregory was lighting a pipe.

  “Have a pull, Admiral?”

  Isiq shook his head firmly.

  “Relax, man, it’s only tobacco. Etherhorde greenleaf, the smuggler’s friend.”

  “Do be quiet, Gregory,” said Suthinia. Isiq looked up and met her great dark eyes.

  “They,” she said, “are two women who will change this world. The first is your Empress, Maisa of Arqual, the one to whom you swore allegiance long before Ott put the usurper Magad the Fifth upon the throne. We will go to her tomorrow, and together we will try to stop this idiot’s war.”

  “Maisa? Maisa lives? Gods below, where is she?”

  “A place no Empress should be caught dead in,” chuckled Gregory.

  “The other woman,” said Suthinia, “is the one I’ve been waiting for, all these years. When she came at last I did not know her, but I know her now. She is the hope of Alifros, and the one my boy, it seems, can’t live without. I’m speaking of your daughter, Admiral. Thasha Isiq is alive.”

  The tears struck faster than Gregory’s club. He choked, and sat down hard, and the witch’s arm went around his shoulders. They were arguing (husband, wife, dog) about how Suthinia had broken the news, how she might have done it better. Isiq scarcely noticed. Before his eyes the tailor bird was flitting in the darkness, Don’t cry Isiq, she’ll find you, she’ll fly home somehow, the young are very strong. He wept, and felt the call to arms within him, and the warmth of a woman’s touch, and the swish, swish of angels’ wings against his face.

  On the Hunt

  6 Modobrin 941

  235th day from Etherhorde

  The terrible choice, stay or go, haunted many in what remained of the night. For some, deciding was the whole struggle; others reached a decision but had to argue, plead, even fight with their fists to defend it. There were the needs of the Chathrand to consider, the calculations of her officers and spies, the doubt as to whether anyone who left the ship would ever see her again and the ability of a panicked Masalym to find steeds, saddles, boots. Against all of that, a mystery: the threat to the world posed by one mage and one small black sphere. When the Upper Gate of the city opened at last and the party rode out upon the still-dark plain, its composition was a surprise to just about everyone.

  Lord Taliktrum was no exception. From atop the gate’s stone arch he watched them emerging: three Turachs, eight dlömic warriors, the latter on the cat-like sicuñas rather than horses. Lean, swift dogs spilling about them, visibly eager for the hunt to begin. Next came the allies: Pazel and Neeps sharing one horse, Thasha and Hercól on mounts of their own. The youths looked exhausted already, as though they had never gone to sleep. Big Skip Sunderling bounced along awkwardly behind them, a sailor on horseback. The shock on his face made it clear that no one had foreseen his inclusion less than Big Skip himself.

  Two pack horses, then Ibjen and Bolutu. And what was this? The sfvantskors, Pazel’s sister and her two comrades—prisoners no longer, but still under the Arqualis’ watchful gaze.

  The young lord tasted bile at the sight of the next rider: Alyash. He wore a look of foul displeasure. Sandor Ott’s curious weapon, the thing called a pistol, was strapped to his leg. Beside him rode the elder tarboy, Dastu. Ott’s servants, both, mused Taliktrum. He didn’t dare leave the Chathrand, but he’s wise enough to realize that the Nilstone, even from here, could threaten his beloved Arqual. He’s forced them to go in his stead. They’ll hate him for that, if they’ve any wisdom of their own.

  There were yet two more in the party, though they might easily have been overlooked. They rode on the withers of the pack animals, holding tight, facing forward: Ensyl—Taliktrum should have expected to see her among the giants, but also—

  “Skies of fire!”

  Myett. Taliktrum’s hands tightened to fists. What possible excuse? Had she been hounded out by worshippers, by vicious expectation?

  An outrage, that’s what it was. Ride away with the humans, to the Pits with the clan. And he could only watch them go. The woman who had loved his aunt, and the woman who had loved him. Indeed the only such woman, apart from the mother who had died in his infancy—and the aunt herself.

  They were forty feet gone, then sixty, then as far as a giant could throw a stone. Something overcame him, and he dived on his swallow-wings and flew with all his strength, needing to touch her, command her, speak some word of fury or desire.

  With five yards to go he swerved away. Coward, weakling! Who was he to question Myett? On what authority? Moral, rational, the law of the clan? He was nothing, he was far less than nothing. He was an ixchel alone.

  “No sign of the great Captain Rose,” grumbled Neeps. “After all his rage and noise and don’t-you-be-lates. I wonder if he meant a single word.”

  Pazel answered with stuporous grunt.

  “Even this morning he acted like he was getting ready to come with us,” Neeps went on. “And it didn’t seem like a lie. Maybe he couldn’t bear to leave Oggosk, in the end. Do you think she really could be his mother?”

  Pazel shrugged.

  “You’re not going to speak to me all the way to the mountain, are you?” said Neeps.

  “Doubt it,” muttered Pazel.

  They were still in darkness, though the tops of the mountains had begun to glow. The “highway” that ran through Masalym’s Inner Dominion, from the city to the mountain pass, was really no more than a wide footpath, hugging the left bank of the meandering Maî. Fog blanketed the river, snagged on the reeds where birds were chattering, spilled here and there over the path, so that the horse’s legs became stirring spoons. Already the city lay an hour behind.

  “You heard what I told Marila,” said Neeps. “I said I’d stay behind. Credek, Pazel, I tried all night to convince her.”

  Pazel waved a beetle from the horse’s neck. He was glad he was riding in front, where there was no need to look Neeps in the eye.

  “She wouldn’t let me stay,” Neeps pleaded.

  “Did you ever make her believe you wanted to?”

  That shut him up. Pazel felt a twinge of guilt for not wanting to hear Neeps talk anymore. But why should he, after a whole night lying awake, suffering for both of them, furious that they’d let it happen now.

  “When was it, Neeps?” he said at last, trying and failing to keep the bitterness from his voice. “That night you almost killed Thasha, while I was on Bramian?”

  “Yes,” said Neeps. “That
was the first time.”

  “The first time. Pitfire. Were there many?”

  “We tried to be careful,” said Neeps.

  Pazel bit his tongue. He was thinking how easily a jab with either elbow would knock his friend to the ground.

  “Those storms on the Ruling Sea,” Neeps was saying. “We really thought we were going to die. And the mutiny, the rats … and then we woke up in the ixchel’s blary pen.”

  “Why didn’t you just tell me?”

  “What, from in there? Shouting through the window? Or afterward, you mean? ‘Listen, mate, I’m sorry Thasha’s taken up with that grinning bastard Fulbreech, but you’ll be glad to know that I’m—’ No, we couldn’t have done that to you. And by then it was too late. Probably.”

  “But Gods damn it, you’re stupid! Both of you.”

  He’d spoken too loudly; Thasha’s glance shamed them both into silence. For at least half a minute.

  “You know what I think?” said Neeps.

  “I never have yet.”

  “I think it could have happened to you and Thasha.”

  Half a dozen retorts occurred to Pazel instantly—and melted on his tongue, one after another. “Let’s say that were true,” he managed at last. “So what?”

  “So try thanking your stars,” said Neeps, “instead of going on like Mother Modesty about the two of us.”

  This time the silence lasted a good mile as they trotted down the dusty trail, past the fisherfolk’s mud huts, the trees with their limbs dangling low over the water. Pazel thought he smelled lemon trees. But he had yet to see a lemon or anything like it in the South.

  “Neeps,” he said at last, “I’m sorry. You’re right.”

  After a moment, Neeps said, “So are you.”

  “What did you say to Marila, just before we left the ship? When you took her hand and ran off toward the Silver Stair?”

  “You mean Thasha hasn’t told you?”

  “Told me what?”

  Neeps actually managed a laugh. “Pazel, Marila and I had already talked right through the blary night. We didn’t leave the stateroom to talk. We went straight to Captain Rose and asked him to marry us. And he did.”