(Shadowmarch #2) Shadowplay

by Tad Williams

  The voice of the Gatekeeper spoke again, slow as the slide of glaciers and just as deadeningly chill.

  You cannot. It is impertinence to try. His fate is between him and the gods—which is to say, between him and his own heart. And that is why you must go. You are a hindrance, however small, to What Should Be.

  Vansen quailed at the anger in that titan voice. I meant no harm! But he felt ashamed of himself for his fear. Even if it meant he must live here forever, eating clay and drinking dust with these sad shadows, he still did not need to crawl. I tried to help. Surely even the gods themselves cannot condemn that?

  There was a pause before the Gatekeeper spoke again. He did not seem to have heard what Vansen had said.

  Be grateful you did not hear the Earthfather’s voice. Even the murmur of his sleeping thought would send you mad. Instead, he permits you to leave—if you can cross the rivers and come safe out of this land once more. If not, then you will become one of his subjects earlier than you might have otherwise—but it is only a short time to lose, after all, the butterfly-life of your kind.

  But why can you speak to me? Why aren’t you asleep, like the Earthfather?

  Make no mistake. I also sleep, said the Gatekeeper. In fact, it could be that you and all these dead, and even the Earthfather himself, are part of my dream.

  The voice laughed then, and the world shook.

  Go now—return to the land of the living, if you can. You will not receive such a gift a second time.

  And then the great hall of madness, of sleep and earth and the deep song of the globe itself, was gone. The Gatekeeper was gone. Nothing remained in all the cosmos but Ferras Vansen, it seemed, standing in sudden alarm on an achingly narrow arc that stretched above a massive nothingness, a white stripe over an abyss. He could not see an end to the slender bridge in either direction, and the span was scarcely as wide as his own shoulders. There was nowhere to go but forward into the unknown or backward into quiet, undemanding death. His father’s shade was gone, left behind in the sunset city to face its own fate, and the living could mean nothing to Pedar Vansen anymore. His son had not been able either to save the old man or forgive him, but something had changed and his heart was lighter than it had been.

  “I am Ferras Vansen,��� he called as loudly as he could. There was no reply, not even an echo, but that did not matter: he was not speaking to anyone except himself. “I am a soldier. I love Briony Eddon, although she can never love me. I’m tired of being lost and I’m tired of dying, so I’m going to try something different this time.”

  He began to walk.

  40

  Offered to Nushash

  Crooked labored long for Moisture’s children, shaping their kingdom in all its greatest glory, making things of great craft for those who had destroyed his family—palaces and towers, Thunder’s irresistible hammer, Harvest’s basket that was always full, the deadly spear of Black Earth, and more.

  But in his heart he had become as crooked as his name, his song not just somber but sour. He plotted and he dreamed, but could see no way he could equal the power of the brothers, whose songs were at their mightiest. Then one day he thought of his grandmother Void, the only creature whose emptiness was like his own, and he went to her and learned all her craft. He learned to walk her roads, which no one else could see but which stretched anywhere and everywhere. He learned many other things, too, but for long he kept them hidden, waiting for his moment.

  —from One Hundred Considerations,

  out of the Qar’s Book of Regret

  THE STRANGER WHO HAD CAPTURED HER was working very hard to open the rusted lock, his bland face intent as he probed the slot in the gate with the strip of metal he had produced from the sleeve of his shirt. A little sweat had beaded on his lip. Qinnitan turned away as casually as she could, trying not to look directly at the troop of guards moving rubble at the base of the wall a hundred yards away. She and Pigeon and the stranger were crouched in the shadows of an aqueduct near the base of Citadel Hill.

  “You’re wondering whether you could call to those guards and get help,” said the stranger in his weirdly perfect Xixian, although he had not looked up from the lock. “Where I grew up in Sailmaker’s Row, near the docks, the fishermen could take an oyster out of its shell with their knives, flick it up in the air, then catch it on the blade, all with just one hand.” He opened the fingers of his free hand to slow her a small, curved blade nestled there. “If you move, I will show you the trick—but I will use the boy’s eye.”

  Pigeon clutched Qinnitan’s hand even more tightly.

  “You grew up in Xis?” If she could get the man talking some good might come of it. “How could that be? You look like a northerner.”

  He still did not look up, and this time his only answer was the rasp and click of the metal strip as he at last defeated the lock. The gate swung open and they passed under the stone arch, then the stranger dragged them to their feet and hurried them down a ramshackle stone staircase which hugged the side of the steep Citadel Hill. Qinnitan was tripped several times by the cord around her ankles. The air on the seaward side of them was dark with what she thought at first was fog, but then realized was smoke. In the distance cannons rumbled, but it seemed like thunder from far away, the bad weather of another country.

  The Harbor of Nektarios was in ruins, the water choked with floating wreckage from burned and shattered ships. Half the warehouse district was on fire and blazing uncontrollably, but just enough soldiers had been spared to fight the blaze to keep it from spreading upslope on either side to the temple complex atop Demian Grove or the wealthy houses on Sparrow Hill. Overwhelmed by their struggle with the flames, none of them paid much attention to the stranger and what doubtless seemed to be his two children. One smoke-stained guardsman hurrying past, the golden sea urchin on his tunic marking him part of the naval guard, shouted something to them Qinnitan couldn’t understand, but when their captor calmly waved his hand in acknowledgement the guard seemed satisfied and trotted on.

  Cannonfire crashed out from the seawall and was returned from the ocean beyond. Qinnitan could actually see one of the autarch’s massive dromons sliding past the mouth of the harbor, kept out only by a hundred yards of massive chain thicker than Qinnitan’s body, sagging across the mouth of the harbor that Magnate Nektarios had so famously and expensively built.

  They passed the entrance to Oniri Daneya Street, a wide thoroughfare lined with shops and markets and warehouses that led out from the harbor and ran east across the center of the old city. The famous street had been blocked off here at its harbor end with deserted wagons and the rubble of the bombardment, and seeing the usually thriving place so ruined and empty washed Qinnitan with a new wave of despair. No one would help them, she was increasingly certain—not with the city on fire and the autarch’s troops almost inside the walls. She reached down and took the boy’s hand. She had survived before, but this time she had Pigeon to care for, too.

  “We will go fast now,” the man said. “No talking. Follow me.”

  “Do you really have to bring the boy, too…?” Qinnitan began. A moment later she was on her knees, eyes full of tears, her face stinging. He had hit her so swiftly she had not even seen it.

  “I said no talking. Next time, there will be blood—that is, more blood than this.” The man’s hand shot out like a serpent’s strike. Pigeon shrieked in a way Qinnitan had never heard, a rasping yelp that made her want to vomit. The child grabbed at his face and his hands came away covered in blood. His ear had been sliced halfway through; part of it hung down like a rotting tapestry.

  “Bandage him.” The man threw her a rag from his pocket—the remnants of the old woman’s scarf he had worn as part of his disguise. “And don’t think either of you are safe just because I have to deliver you to the autarch. There are ways I can hurt you that even the Golden One’s surgeons won’t discover. Play another trick on me and I will show you some of my own—tricks that you’ll remember even when the b
est torturers of the Orchard Palace are hard at work on you.” He gestured for them to move forward along the length of the harbor front.

  Qinnitan held the bandage tight against Pigeon’s ear until he could hold it for himself. She walked when the man indicated, stopped when he stopped. Her heart, which had been beating so swiftly only a moment ago, now seemed as sluggish as a frog sitting in summer mud. There would be no escape for either of them.

  Near to the end of the long row of boats lay a set of narrow slips where smaller craft were tied next to each other like leaves on a tree branch. Here their captor found what he was seeking, a small rowboat with a tiny awning just big enough to keep the sun off one large person or two small ones. He had her lie down next to Pigeon under the awning, then rowed them out between bits of charred wreckage, ignoring the cries of the harbor guards as they headed for the open sea, where cannons rumbled like thunder and smoke drifted like evening fog. She watched the man as he rowed, the only strain to be seen the tense and release of the muscles in his pale neck.

  “What is the autarch giving you to do this?” she asked at last, risking another blow. “To kidnap two children who have never done you any harm?”

  He looked over his shoulder at her. “My life.” The corner of his mouth twitched, as though he had almost smiled. “It’s not much, but I’ve some use for it still.”

  The man would not be lured into speaking anymore. Qinnitan lay back and put her arm around Pigeon to comfort him, but she could not help thinking what it would feel like to roll over the water into the cool embrace of the ocean and a comparatively simple and swift death by drowning. If it had not been for the shivering child beside her she would have gone without hesitation. Anything would be better than looking into the autarch’s mad gaze again, feeling his gold-netted fingers scrape her flesh. Anything except the knowledge that she had left poor, mute Pigeon behind. But what if she wrapped the boy in her arms so they could go down into the peaceful green depths together? She could hold him while he struggled, then take a gulp to fill her own lungs. No, Pigeon wouldn’t struggle. He would understand…

  The man released the oars, letting them dangle in the oarlocks while he looped a length of cord around the bench on which they sat and tied one end to each of their ankles.

  “You shouldn’t think with your eyes, girl.” In the distance behind him she could see the stony strip of hills called the Finger and its occupied forts jutting from the water, silhouetted against the reddened evening sky, surrounded by ships bearing the autarch’s Flaming Eye of Nushash—an all too vivid reminder of what it was to face Sulepis’ own burning stare. “But it’s a bit late to learn now.”

  Vash did not want to go on another voyage. He had barely recovered from the last. What good was it to reach a venerable age and be one of the most powerful men in the world if you still could not stay choose to stay on dry land?

  He swallowed his irritation, since it would do no good, and steadied himself against the rocking of the anchored ship before stepping out of the passage into the autarch’s great cabin, a hall of wooden beams a hundred paces long that ran half the length of the ship and most of its width, and was hung with fine carpets to keep in the warmth even during the coldest sea storm. At its center, seated upon a smaller version of the Falcon Throne (tethered to the deck to protect the Golden One’s dignity during times of unsettled seas) was the man who could make Pinimmon Vash do such uncomfortable things.

  “Ah, Vash, there you are.” The autarch extended a lazy hand, gold glinting on his fingertips. Other than jewelry, Sulepis wore nothing but a linen kilt and a massive belt of woven gold. “You are just in time. That fat Favored whose name I never remember…” He waited so long that it was plain he wished the name supplied.

  “Bazilis, Golden One?” Outside, on the cliffs above them, one of the great crocodile-cannons boomed and the ship’s timbers creaked. Vash tried not to flinch.

  “Yes, Bazilis. He is bringing me my gift from Ludis. The god-on-earth is a happy god today, old man.” But Sulepis did not look happy: in fact, he appeared even more feverish and intent than usual, the muscles in his jaw twitching like those of a hound anticipating a meal. “We have waited and worked a long time for this.”

  “Yes, Golden One, we have. A very long time.”

  The autarch frowned. “Have you, too? Have you really, Vash? And have you gone without sleep for weeks on end to read the ancient texts? Have you wrestled with…things that live in darkness? Have you wagered your godhead against your success, knowing that simply hearing of the torments that await you if you fail would kill an ordinary man? Have you truly worked and waited as I have, Vash?”

  “N–no, no, of course not, my astonishing master! I did not mean ‘we’ in that way, not truly…” He could feel sweat budding on his old skin. “I meant that the rest of us, your servants, have waited anxiously for your success, but that success, that…mastery…will of course be all yours.” He cursed himself for a fool. An entire year serving this poisonous youth and he still had not learned to ponder every word before it left his mouth! “Please, Golden One, I meant nothing disrespectful…!”

  “Of course you didn’t, Vash. You are my trusted servant.” The autarch smiled suddenly, a flash of white as bereft of kindness as the bite-grimace of a canal shark. “You worry too much, old fellow. My gaze is everywhere. I am aware of how loyal my subjects are, and especially of what my closest servants do and think.”

  Vash swayed a little—too little to notice, he prayed—and wished he could sit down. The autarch was hinting at something again, surely. Was it the remark the new Leopard captain Marukh had made? But Vash had not agreed with him—in fact, surely he had upbraided the man! But it was also true that he had not gone straight to the autarch to report the man’s treasonous impertinence.

  If I denounced every man who chafes under our new autarch’s rule, he thought desperately, the autarch’s strangler would die of overwork and the Orchard Palace would be empty of anything except ghosts by year’s end.

  He bowed his head, waiting to find out if he would live another hour.

  The autarch lifted his hands before his eyes, frowned again as he examined his finger-stalls. “I am wondering if I should wear the ones made in the shape of a falcon’s talons,” he said. “In honor of the upcoming fall of Hierosol. What do you think, Vash?”

  The paramount minister let out a silent sigh of relief. Another hour, at least. “I think it would be a suitable honor to your ancestors, especially…” He paused, determined not to say anything troublesome, but could see no problem. “…Especially your great ancestor Xarpedon, who carried the Falcon all across Xand.”

  “Ah, Xarpedon. The greatest of us all—until now.” He looked up as a servant stepped silently through the curtained doorway and stood, head lowered, waiting to be recognized. “Yes?”

  “Favored Bazilis is here, Golden One.”

  “Good! You may step aside, Vash.”

  The paramount minister moved through the ring of attendants toward the cabin wall, and wound up standing next to the golden litter of the scotarch, a gilded conveyance only slightly smaller than the autarch’s own. Crippled Prusus peered out of the litter’s window like an anxious hermit crab. Vash nodded to him—a formality only, since everyone knew the scotarch was simpleminded and did not notice such things.

  Leaning back against his throne, Sulepis waved for the eunuch to be sent in. Bazilis entered a moment later, grave and immense in his robes; it took him some time and a great deal of rustling of fabric to abase himself at the autarch’s feet.

  “O Master of the Great Tent, blessed of Nushash…” he began, but was silenced by the stamp of Sulepis’ sandaled foot.

  “Shut your mouth. Where is he? Where is the prisoner?”

  “Out…outside, Golden One. I thought you would wish to hear of my…”

  The autarch kicked out. The eunuch whimpered and fell back. He crouched and looked up at his master in fear, his hand rising to his face where blood already
welled from his lip. “Get him,” the autarch said. “I am waiting for him, you fool, not you.”

  “Y–yes, Golden One, of course.” Bazilis backed out of the massive cabin, still on his hands and knees, his brightly-robed bottom waving in the air.

  Sulepis turned to Vash with the slightly prim expression of a tutor. “Out of courtesy to our guest, we will speak Hierosoline in his presence. How is yours, Vash?”

  “Good, good, Golden One, although I have not used it much of late…”

  “Then this will be an excellent chance for you to practice.” The autarch smiled like a kindly old uncle, although the man he was smiling at was more than three times his age. “After all, you never know when you might be called on to administer a continent where Hierosoline is the chief tongue!”

  While Vash pondered what sounded like a bizarre promise of advancement to viceroy of all Eion, the prisoner appeared.

  Vash could not help noticing that the man the eunuch and the guards marched into the cabin seemed like another kind of animal entirely in comparison to their master the autarch. Where Sulepis was young and tall and handsome, with golden, close-shaved skin and a high-boned, hawklike face, the northern king was startlingly ordinary, his brownish beard thick and not very well tended, his dark-ringed eyes emphasizing the pallor of his confinement. Only the way he stared back at the autarch betrayed that he was anything other than some petty merchant or craftsman: it was a calm, thoughtful gaze, measured and measuring. The only person Vash had ever seen look so unmoved in the autarch’s presence had been the murderous soldier, Daikonas Vo, but a smile that would never have been on Vo’s face flickered around the northern king’s eyes and lips. The more he thought about it, the more astonished Vash became that Olin’s expression of contemptuous amusement, subtle as it was, hadn’t driven the autarch into one of his sudden rages. Instead, Sulepis laughed.