by Greg Keyes
A member of the city guard appeared in the crowd and gaped at the dead men and at Perkar. He made as if to draw his sword and come forward, but Perkar shook his head, a silent no. That was apparently enough for the guard. He took his hand from his hilt and vanished up the street, surely seeking reinforcements.
“Hurry up with your girl, Giant,” he muttered.
The blood was soaking through Tsem’s makeshift bandage before they had crossed five streets, but Tsem seemed untroubled by his wound. He rushed ahead of Hezhi, and people scrambled from his path.
For her, the city was a series of broken patterns, faces, colors rushing by her. She had no time to comprehend it, to chart it out in some way she could understand. The newness was too steeped in blood, pain, fury, and fear. What should have been a moment of discovery was instead just another tunnel she was rushing down, seeking her life.
They ran, it seemed, forever, and the air changed as they went on, became thicker, scented with fish and truly unpleasant smells that chewed at the back of her brain.
“Almost,” Tsem said, triumph and worry both audible to her ear, so familiar with his voice. A crowd burst apart before them, as much from the force of Tsem’s presence as from his mass.
The scene revealed then was a strange one, and oddly enough, the first thing that Hezhi noticed, the thing that she would always remember, was the River, right there, lapping at a wooden walkway no more than ten steps away. Looking at him, from level ground and not from above, the River was somehow more awesome, a sheet of power that lay over every bit of the world but for that upon which she stood. Rivergulls complained above, fighting the wind forcing them from shore and whatever meals they might find there.
Next she saw the bodies, the blood, and, last of all, him. He was the man from her dream, there was never any question, though at the moment he looked absolutely unlike any image that had ever come to her. Spattered in blood, his face an odd, angry red, wearing some sort of peasant garb, he sat watching them and the crowd, looking across the bodies as if they were a field of grain he had just reaped, as if he were resting a bit before gathering it up, his sword a red sickle on his knee. It was he, though; she smelled a hard, sweet metallic smell that was not just blood but his blood, and she knew it, as if she had smelled it or even tasted it before. That was the River in her, she knew, recognizing him, not her eyes, not her nose.
What’s more, he knew her, too. His strange gray eyes flashed, and a weird little smile played across his lips.
The River, the bodies, the man—there was a stroke or two missing from the painting, she understood, and Tsem’s stunned grunt of consternation suggested what it might be. The gray-eyed man confirmed her guess, in a wintery voice.
“Our friend Zeq’ should be out in the channel about now,” he said. “Seems he didn’t care much for the elite guard’s attention.”
“How did they know?” Tsem bellowed. “Who told them?”
Hezhi was becoming aware of the crowd, a sea of faces staring at them, angry, curious, frightened.
“I don’t know,” Perkar said. “I only know we have to leave some other way, and quickly.” He frowned. “You’re hurt.”
“They caught us at the gate to the palace, too.”
The man stood and strode over to the two, so that they need not shout. “A city guardsman just came by,” he said. “He probably went for reinforcements.”
“Probably,” Tsem answered, glancing around at the carnage, at the man’s clearly hideous wounds.
Closer, he looked more like his dream image, though the dream image had been more boyish somehow, younger. Perhaps it was the blood that made him look older. His eyes focused on hers again, and then he dropped to one knee.
“Perkar Kar Barku,” he said. “I believe you summoned me, Princess.”
Hezhi opened her mouth—she did not know what her reply would have been—when there was a hoarse shout up the street.
“Guards coming!” someone in the crowd cried, and she couldn’t tell if she and her companions were being warned or whether the person was eager to see another slaughter.
“This way,” Tsem bellowed, and once more they were running, pounding over the cobblestone streets. Above them, the dark sheet of night was drawing over the sky, hastened by clouds flying in on some high, furious wind. She glanced now and then at Perkar, wanting to ask him so much, wondering how he could still be alive with such terrible wounds.
“The South Gate is our only chance,” Tsem gasped. “It will be least guarded. Perhaps the barbarian and I can fight our way through.”
South Gate? Something about the South Gate rattled memories, didn’t it? She tried desperately to think. They rounded a corner—Perkar was hanging back, trying to discourage the crowd—fully half of them were following the trio, clearly hoping to see more fighting. Tsem, ahead of her, nearly slipped in a puddle of some nameless gunk …
That jarred her memory. “Tsem!” she yelled. “Tsem, the sewers!”
“What?” He stopped and turned toward her, shuddering. She remembered that running was difficult for him.
“The new part of the city drainage—the one Yen is working on—it runs out past South Gate.”
“I don’t understand, Princess.”
“We can cross under the wall. Just help me find Caul Street.”
XI
The Changeling
After all that had happened that day it was the dank tunnels Perkar and his companions descended into that brought shivers to his spine. The closeness and the dark evoked memories he had no wish to recall.
“That grate up there is beneath Moon Street,” Hezhi called, gesturing at a cataract of light falling through from above.
Passing beneath it, Perkar glanced up, saw perhaps ten faces crowded against the fading light. They still had followers from the Riverside, it seemed. Which was unfortunate, since that would certainly attract the attention of soldiers, sooner or later.
“How much farther?” Tsem called.
“Not too far. They just began construction of the new section, so the outer grill should have been removed. It comes out a few hundred yards from the wall.”
“What if it’s guarded, too?” Perkar asked.
“I don’t know.”
“We might have done better at the gate,” he observed. “Fighting up a ladder will be real trouble.”
“They will have bows at the gate,” Tsem informed him.
“Ah.”
“Anyway,” the girl, Hezhi, put in, “we won’t have to climb up. The duct should open from a hillside.”
Perkar was curious as to why a princess should know the ins and outs of the sewers. For that matter, a part of him was fascinated by the very concept of these underground ditches built to drain the city of rain, floods, and Human waste. It was not something he would have ever thought of or searched for, that much was certain.
The three of them slogged on.
“The girl looks like a god,” Harka volunteered.
“What?” he whispered, low, so that the others would not think him insane.
“She is not a god, but she certainly resembles one. This is very odd.”
“Is she my enemy, Harka?” Perkar barely sighed. “Did the River send me to serve her or stop her?”
“Perhaps the River did not summon you at all. Perhaps it was always she.”
“You say she resembles a goddess. Is she more powerful than the River? Could she force her will upon him?”
Harka hesitated before answering. “No,” he said finally.
“Everyone who pursues her serves the River. The emperor’s guard, the priesthood. Yet she is of his blood.”
“A rebellious child?”
“Why should a barbarian be summoned from half a world away to kill a rebellious child?”
“Perhaps no one who serves the River can do it. Perhaps only an outlander.”
“Still, that feels wrong. In my dreams, she wanted me to help her. That means I should kill her.”
�
�Only if she is your enemy, and not the River. Remember what Brother Horse said, about a god so large his head doesn’t know what his feet are doing?”
“I wanted this to be simpler,” he muttered, somewhat more loudly than the rest of his conversation with his sword. Tsem sent him a sharp glance over his shoulder.
“You always do,” Harka said. “It is your chief character flaw.”
That should not have come as a shock to Perkar, but it did. “We’ll think about that later,” he muttered. He crinkled his nose, and then, in a louder voice, asked, “What’s that smell?”
“Sewage,” Tsem answered.
“No, no,” Hezhi gasped. “I smell it, too. Incense, or a priest’s broom.”
“Above us?” Tsem said hopefully. “At the gate?”
“We don’t pass beneath the gate,” she said. Her voice sounded choked, as if she were about to cry. Small wonder; a girl her age shouldn’t see this much killing, be caught up in so much terror. She was right, too. The smoke was coming from up the tunnel, not wafting down through one of the infrequent grills.
“What does this mean?” Perkar asked.
“Priests,” Tsem said grimly, “and probably soldiers, too.”
They hurried on regardless, Tsem in the lead, Perkar to the rear, Hezhi between them, protected by their bodies, hands, and sword.
Tsem slowed up after a moment, breathing heavily. Perkar didn’t think the Giant looked very well.
“There,” Tsem said. They could see the end of the tunnel, though it was faint due to the darkness outside of the city. It was just light enough to make out the figures silhouetted there. The smell of smoke was stronger.
Ghe slowed as his opponents did, rubbing his chin thoughtfully. He had caught up with them at last, though they had led him a merry chase. Of course Hezhi would remember these sewers—after all, he had brought them to her attention. He fingered the tip of his sword, to make certain the toxin smeared on it was still there. Satisfied that it was, he slipped on toward where the three stood. Clearly they were aware of the priests, were deciding what to do about them. Perhaps the girl would try to use her sorcerous powers, the ones she had used against the guards at the gate. If so, she would fail, for the priests were now thoroughly protected from such attacks. The same smoke that swept away ghosts and demons would contain her power, or so the priests assured him. No, Ghe was much more worried about the barbarian, the one who reportedly had killed eight of the king’s elite. He felt the elite were overrated, especially by themselves, but that was still an incredible feat, one that Ghe might be able to duplicate if he managed to strike first, before they were aware. As he would do now. He slipped closer still, until he could see the weave in the outlander’s shirt.
“Something,” Harka warned.
“What?”
“I don’t know. The smoke confuses me.”
Hezhi turned at Perkar’s muttered word. Was he talking to her? His gray eyes were staring, shocked. A bloody spike projected from his chest, right where his heart should be. He crumpled, and from behind him stepped a shadow in the shape of a man. She shrieked and leapt away as something swung out—a fist, she guessed later—and struck her in the mouth. Then the shadow leapt on toward Tsem. She reeled back crazily, trying to regain her balance; her mouth tasted coppery, and she realized with horror that it was filling with blood. She spat and fell into the water almost simultaneously.
Pushing up on the palms of her hands, she tried desperately to seize the images around her, force sense into them. The shadow was dancing around Tsem, and she saw the flicker of a blade. Anger surged up from her feet, through the thing in her, and she sent it to stab the black-clad man. He did stumble; but she felt the power drain out of her attack, as if the very air were sucking it up. The smoke, she thought. They sweep me as if I were a ghost.
Tsem was leaning heavily against the wall, how badly hurt she could not tell.
The shadow recovered, stood, walked toward her.
“Well, Princess,” he said. “The priests assured me that you would not be able to do even that much. I’m impressed. Best I kill you now, I think, before you can prove them wrong again.”
At that Tsem groaned in anguish, lurched toward them, and fell. The shadow-man laughed. “Strength and size don’t count for much,” he observed.
Chills prickled all over Hezhi. She knew his voice.
“Yen?” she gasped.
The shadow bowed. “My name is actually Ghe,” he confided. “But I was Yen to you. When I was assigned to watch you, in case you ascended early or disastrously. Becoming your acquaintance seemed the best way.”
“But …” Hezhi groped for words. How could this be Yen, so kind, who had given her the statuette? “Yen, no. I’m just leaving. I’m not ever coming back. Please, let us go.”
The man’s voice softened a bit. “Princess, I’m sorry, I truly am. I grew to like you, playing at Yen. But I am not Yen, not at all like that. I kill people; that is what I do. And the priests tell me to kill you.”
The priests were creeping closer, the smell of their smoke more overpowering. Desperately she launched another attack at Yen, but this time she felt it drowned in the smoke instantly. He didn’t even react.
“I am sorry. I’ll try to make it quick, and I’ll leave an offering for your ghost.”
“Leave an offering for your own,” another voice growled. Hezhi gaped. Perkar, the dead man, stood behind them, sword in hand. He did not look happy.
For a whole heartbeat, Ghe stared at the walking corpse. He recalled feeling the heart split, and even if he had missed, the toxin on his blade was known to paralyze and kill in less than fifty heartbeats. The blade had come out the front! An unaccustomed fear stabbed through Ghe, and he lashed out quickly, hoping to hamstring this demon. His blade met the other, his priest-blessed blade, and it shivered. Ghe knew that it had almost shattered, would have shattered if the impact had been oblique. Desperately he attacked with the wintsem, the net of steel, a combination of strokes that would end inevitably with his point in the man. The last stroke went too low, because Ghe was afraid to meet the strange weapon head on, and so his final lunge took his blade into the barbarian’s belly rather than some more immediately vital spot. Ghe yanked to withdraw his steel, had one look at the foreigner’s face, realized what he had done. The pale man’s blade was already descending toward his unprotected neck.
Li, think kindly of my ghost, he had time to think, before his head fell into the dirty water. Even then, for just a moment, he thought he saw something strange: a column of flame, leaping out of the muck, towering over Hezhi. Then something inexorable swallowed him up.
Hezhi saw the pillar of light draw up from the floor, from a glowing, iridescent stain floating on it. With dull surprise she understood that it was her blood, the blood from her mouth. She heard the gasps from the priests; saw Yen’s head parted from his body, still shrouded in its black hood. The flame took form, congealed, became a creature from a nightmare, tentacles, horn, many-colored plates. It shuddered, stretched wide its ten crablike legs, and, before she could draw another breath, turned to her.
A flaming broom struck the thing, slowed only slightly as it passed through, but the creature lost its form momentarily, flowed and then came back together. Soundlessly it glided toward the priests.
Hezhi sank down to her knees, held herself with both arms, moaning.
“A god,” Perkar breathed as the thing appeared. He lurched toward it, swayed back. The assassin had hurt him badly.
“Careful,” Harka warned. “It isn’t a god precisely, but it has many of the same qualities. And we only have three heartstrings left.”
“Is it like the girl?”
“Yes, somewhat. More like the ghost-fish in the River, but stronger.”
“Heartstrings?” He saw that he had a brief reprieve; the thing had turned on the priests, obviously annoyed by the silly burning broom one of them cast at it.
“No mortal heartstrings at all, no Ti to sever. I
t is a ghost!”
“Can we fight it?”
“It has seven immortal strands. We will probably lose.”
Terrible things were happening down the corridor. He stumbled over to the girl. “Are you all right? Can you run?”
“Tsem,” she muttered. “See to Tsem.”
He nodded and quickly crossed to the Giant. To his credit, Tsem was already struggling to his feet. A sword wound gaped in his abdomen.
“We have to get past that thing,” Perkar told him. “While it is killing the priests.”
Tsem nodded, leaned against the wall. “Come on, Princess,” he said. “Come let me carry you.”
She didn’t respond, other than to look at them, confused. Tsem bent down and lifted her up.
“I’m sorry to spoil your clothes, Princess,” Perkar heard him whisper.
They stepped over two dead priests, who appeared to have been boiled alive, and Perkar wondered how Harka could possibly protect him from that. The tiling was a shimmering presence, up in front of them.
“When it finishes the priests, I’ll take it, try to drive it from the tunnel,” Perkar told Tsem. “Then you run, do you understand? You have no hope against a creature like that.” Perkar realized that he had made his decision. Whatever murky purpose the River had proposed for him, he could not bring himself to slay Hezhi and her guardian. Tsem was too much like Ngangata. Harka was right—he always wanted things to be simple, and he did the simple things even when they did not feel right. Helping Hezhi and Tsem felt right. Helping the priests and their assassin did not. In its own way, that was simple enough for him.