Heart of Shadows

by Martin Ash

  It was hard to make out much, so busy and crowded was the street, and she was being mercilessly heckled by some of her audience. Someone threw a rotten persimmon, which struck her on the breast, spilling its flesh and seeds.

  Sildemund was uncomfortable. He was being jostled, forced to move one way then the other. He gave up and moved on.

  He asked at shops and taverns for the whereabouts of Kemorlin, who he described in the way his father had done, as a man knowledgeable in rare stones, gems and ancient artifacts. At first he gained only blank looks and shakes of heads. Then a woman in a doorway of a cloth store nodded in recognition. She pointed to an alley, scarcely more than a crack between buildings, where a stony way twisted steeply upwards. She shouted something about ‘the square of the Martyrs’.

  The three entered the alley and climbed. They came to a shadowy passage over which ragged blankets were strung to form a canopy. Rickety walkways had been constructed, linking the buildings on each side. At ground level, water seeped between mouldering stones, a filthy brown colour, and a rank stench tainted the still air. They followed the passage, sometimes bending to avoid the canopies, stepping over drunks in doorways, avoiding groups of children who appeared out of nowhere, shrieking as they pushed past them and endeavoured to relieve them of their purses.

  Presently they broke out into bright sunlight on another teeming market street. Sildemund enquired again, was directed up the street. They pushed through the crowds and came to an intersection of six ways. A small crowd had gathered around a fellow garbed in white, wearing the badge of the Mabbuchai, the famed orator-poets of Darch. The man’s lips moved intermittently, though Sildemund could hear no sound. Sildemund looked about him for an indication of where the six ways might lead, but there were no signs.

  ‘This is hopeless,’ he exclaimed crossly, wiping sweat from his brow. ‘We’re lost and getting nowhere.’

  ‘They took refuge between the columns of a massive portico, and Gully beckoned to a half-naked boy standing nearby. He spoke to him briefly, then turned back to Sildemund. ‘For a few coins he’ll be our guide.’

  ‘Gladly.’ Sildemund addressed the boy. ‘Do you know the home of Kemorlin? Can you take us there?’

  The boy nodded and held out his hand.

  ‘When we get there,’ Sildemund said. The boy set off into the maze of side streets.

  In due course he brought them to a large, walled villa set in a secluded area just off the main thoroughfare of the souk. The villa had been painted in shades of pale orange. Bright bougainvillea tumbled over the walls, and oleander and other flowering shrubs brightened a gravel courtyard where water played from a fountain. A dog, pink and hairless, was stretched before the villa’s scrolled iron gate, its hide and ribs almost bare.

  ‘Is this Kemorlin’s home,’ Sildemund asked.

  The boy nodded vigorously, and grinned and held out his hand. Sildemund paid him and he ran off.

  There was bell-pull set into a recess on a pillar beside the gate. Sildemund gave it two good tugs and heard a distant tinkle from somewhere inside. A few moments passed and an elderly woman appeared in a doorway on the far side of the courtyard. She was big, grey-haired and brown-skinned, swathed in black. Her gait was slewed, as though to walk caused her pain. Sildemund noted swellings and dark lumpy veins around her ankles. She halted at the head of a short flight of orange stone steps and called shrilly, ‘What is it?’

  ‘I seek Master Kemorlin.’

  The woman half-raised a bulky hand and made a tired, dismissive motion. ‘He’s not here.’

  She turned as if to move away.

  ‘When will he be here? It’s important that I speak to him.’

  ‘Kemorlin? Who knows? Later, perhaps, or tomorrow. Kemorlin is Kemorlin. He comes, he goes.’

  ‘Can I make an appointment to see him?’

  ‘Only Kemorlin makes appointments to see Kemorlin.’

  ‘That’s a lot of help,’ Sildemund muttered, aside. ‘How does one make an appointment with a man who’s not available to make an appointment with?’ He tried again. ‘Can I call back?’

  The woman might have shrugged, but her shoulders seemed too heavy to lift. ‘It is your choice.’

  ‘I shall return after midday. Please tell Master Kemorlin that I called. Sildemund Frano, son of Atturio Frano, of Volm. I seek his advice on a rare item. I will pay. Please tell him that.’

  The old woman nodded. ‘As you will.’ She hauled herself back into the house.

  Sildemund gave a sigh. ‘Well, I have other names: tradesmen in the souk, a learned professor at the university. Let’s try them before returning here.’

  They made their way back to the souk. Gully found another fellow eager to act as guide. Indeed, there was no dearth of them. A substratum of the community survived, it appeared, by guiding visitors through the city’s chaotic muddle.

  At Sildemund’s request their new guide, a painfully thin youth with a filthy eyepatch, took them first to the premises of a lapidary in the souk. Sildemund went in, leaving Gully and Picadus to await him on the street. He had not revealed the nature of his business to them and, always mindful of his father’s words, had kept the red stone from their sight.

  The lapidary was fascinated. He spent long minutes examining the stone, only to profess himself clueless. The few hints he was able to provide matched approximately the information given to Master Atturio by the Volm lapidary, Jerg Lancor – though Sildemund knew nothing of this. With regard to provenance or value the fellow could not begin to guess, and Sildemund stepped disappointed back into the busy street.

  He had one other name, which he thought to try before returning to Kemorlin’s villa. The name was known to their guide, and he led them without hesitation through an impossible maze of grim alleys and covered ways, thrusting aside beggars and urchins who approached with bowls or open hands, to burst out eventually upon a flight of crooked steps where the shop Sildemund sought was located.

  Here Sildemund had an odd and unsettling experience.

  He entered the shop, a cramped chamber, dusty and dry, piled high with stones, crystals, vases, pots, vials, talismans, amulets, effectuaries and other paraphernalia. The man he had come to see was named Zakobar. He sat in one corner on a stool behind a wooden counter. He was thin, small of frame, old – perhaps ninety years – garbed in a long green gown. His hair was wispy white, falling to his shoulders. He had a narrow, slight-boned face with a long, uneven nose, upon which heavy spectacles perched. Nearby, another man, younger by some forty years, worked attentively with a file, shaping a piece of marble in a vice. His face and build bore some relation to Zakobar’s, and Sildemund took him to be his son.

  Zakobar was busy with a tall, twin-handled glazed vessel which rested on the counter before him. He was glueing a broken chip onto the vessel’s rim. He glanced up quickly as Sildemund approached, but maintained his concentration on his task.

  ‘Young man, there is something I can help you with? You wish to buy a gift for your sweetheart? I have precious stones and rare jewels, guaranteed to charm the heart of any girl. Or a talisman, perhaps, to ward off banes cast by jealous lovers?’

  ‘Neither, sir. I have come from my father, Master Atturio Frano of Volm, to seek your advice.’ Sildemund drew the red stone in its cloth binding from his satchel. He placed it carefully upon the counter and unbound the cloth. ‘Can you tell me anything of this?’

  Zakobar glanced at it, then glanced again. He ceased his work with the chipped vessel and leaned forward to stare intensely at the strange red stone.

  ‘Where did you get this?’

  Sildemund found himself staring down at the old man’s pate, with its sparse white hair and pink scalp flaked with yellowing skin.

  ‘My father brought it back… from a trading expedition to Thonce.’ For reasons he was not entirely clear of Sildemund was reluctant to reveal the truth of how the stone had been acquired.

  Zakobar’s thin, mottled fingers were exploring the stone
’s smooth surface. ‘Extraordinary…’ His voice was far away, as though he spoke solely to himself. ‘What a strange thing…’

  Quite suddenly Zakobar’s hands ceased their motion. He bent his torso forward over the counter, stiffly, supporting his weight on his elbows. His arms and thin shoulders trembled. He thrust himself back, groping for his stool. Sildemund stared in shock. Zakobar’s eyes bulged in their sockets. His breath came in short, laboured gasps and his cheeks were turning blue.

  His knees buckled and he crumpled with a crash to the floor, knocking over the stool.

  The younger man rushed across. ‘Father!’

  An elderly woman appeared from a back room, drawn by the sound of the falling stool. Seeing Zakobar, her hands flew to her mouth and she gave a cry of alarm.

  ‘Fetch the doctor!’ the younger man commanded. The woman rushed from the shop. Zakobar’s son found a cushion which he placed beneath his father’s head. Zakobar lay motionless, his eyes staring at the ceiling. His son looked up at Sildemund. ‘Do you know anything of medicine?’

  Sildemund shook his head.

  ‘Then I am sorry, I must ask you to leave. You understand…’

  ‘Of course.’ Sildemund quickly bound the stone and stuffed it back into his satchel. He was ushered to the door, which was closed and barred behind him as he stepped out into the street and rejoined his two companions.

  Unnerved, Sildemund instructed their guide to take them back to the house of Kemorlin, for although they had left it only recently they would never have found it again without assistance. The villa was as before, only the hairless dog had departed its sleepy station before the gate. Again the old woman brought herself out to the head of the steps.

  ‘He has gone,’ she replied flatly to Sildemund’s enquiry.

  ‘Kemorlin? Do you mean he has been here in our absence?’

  ‘Briefly, yes.’

  ‘And where is he now?’

  Again the shrug, which came more from a movement of her head than her shoulders. ‘He does not tell me.’

  ‘Do you know when he will be back?’

  ‘Sometime.’

  ‘Did you tell him that I called?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Did he say anything?’

  ‘Mm.’

  ‘Pardon?’

  ‘”Mm”. Kemorlin said, “Mm”.’

  Gully spoke quietly into Sildemund’s ear. ‘I think she finds this amusing.’

  Sildemund registered the wry twinkle in the old woman’s eye, though her face remained otherwise expressionless. ‘And he made no suggestion of an appointment?’

  She shook her head.

  ‘What should I do, then, if I wish to see him? It’s important.’

  ‘Wait. Come back.’

  ‘Do you have any idea how long I might have to wait?’

  ‘None.’

  ‘Thank you. You have been most helpful.’ Sildemund turned away. He spoke to the other two. ‘We’ll go to the university, if your guide can show us the way.’

  ‘I’ve had enough of this!’ said Picadus suddenly. ‘Traipse here, trudge there! For what? We’re getting nowhere!’

  ‘You don’t have to come, Pic,’ Sildemund replied. ‘You can return to our apartments in the palace, or remain in a tavern in the town, or do whatever you wish. I release you from any bond, for you are plainly unhappy accompanying me. For my part, I’m engaged upon my father’s work and I’ll go now to the university in the hope of furthering it.’

  Picadus clenched his jowls, smouldering, but said, ‘I’ll come.’

  The university was on the other side of the city, a journey that took almost an hour.

  They entered a wide, vaulted reception chamber in which half a dozen scribes and clerks sat at desks set between mighty stone columns, heads bent over ledgers and registers, quills scratching diligently. None acknowledged the arrival of the three. Grateful for the cool air of the chamber, Sildemund approached the nearest and waited politely.

  A minute passed. The clerk gave no indication of being aware of Sildemund’s presence. Sildemund cleared his throat. Then again. The clerk’s quill came to rest. He looked up, twisting his head and squinting, one eyebrow raised. His back and neck remained bent over his work. ‘What is it?’

  ‘I seek – ’ began Sildemund.

  ‘Wait over there,’ said the clerk, with a darting gesture at a bench set against the opposite wall. He returned to his work.

  Sildemund and his two companions crossed obediently to the bench and sat down and waited.

  And waited.

  After an age a new fellow entered the chamber through a door in the eastern wall. He carried thick black ledgers stacked to his chin. These he distributed to the workers at the desks.

  He was about to leave when the last clerk, the one Sildemund had spoken to, signalled to him and whispered something in his ear. The two looked across the chamber at the three. The new man straightened and approached Sildemund, Gully and Picadus. He appraised them over spectacles, his thin hands clasped over his abdomen.

  ‘You wish something?’

  Sildemund stood. The man took a small step backwards. ‘I would like to speak to one of your learned professors, Ractoban by name, I believe, whose expertise lies in the fields of Lore and Arcane Science.’

  ‘Professor Ractoban is unavailable.’

  Sildemund passed a hand across his brow. ‘Is it possible to make an appointment?’

  ‘In what connection?’

  ‘I am Sildemund, son of Master Atturio Frano of Volm. My father seeks the professor’s advice on an object that has come into his possession.’

  ‘Your name means nothing to me. The professor is a busy man.’

  ‘I realize that. Nevertheless, I would consider it a great honour and a boon if he would allow me a brief audience. I will, of course, offer suitable remuneration.’

  The clerk turned on his heel and walked stiff-backed to the desk of the scribe. He opened a drawer and took out a large, leather-bound book. He returned to Sildemund, scrutinizing the open pages of the book.

  ‘The earliest I can fit you in is the morning of the fourth day of next month. The hour of terce.’

  ‘Next month! But I’m only here for two days.’

  The clerk gave an emotionless smile. ‘Then I’m afraid I am unable to be of assistance. Good day.’

  His book made a dull slap as it was closed. He turned and was gone, returning the book to the desk then marching from the chamber via the door through which he had entered. Gully stood where he was, lost for words.

  Gully rose from the bench and moved up to his shoulder. ‘Come, Sil, it’s well past midday and my belly rumbles, as does yours. Let’s eat somewhere and ponder our difficulties.’

  They left the university and paid off their guide, confident that another could be easily hired as the need arose. Taking a carriage, they made their way back to the city centre and repaired to a taverna. They had not eaten since breakfast, and the sun was now well advanced in the afternoon sky. So they dined well and for a while took their minds off their frustrations with a pitcher of strong dark ale.

  Now it was that Picadus chose to make trouble. He had eaten little but drunk more than the other two put together. Raising the pitcher to refill his mug, he discovered it empty. Without a word he rose, pitcher in hand, and made for the bar.

  The taverna was doing good business. A couple of tables, which lay between Picadus and the bar, were attended by clientele from Darch and elsewhere. Choosing to ignore the fact that the tables created an obstacle in his course, Picadus simply stepped up, first onto one, then down onto the floor, and up onto the next.

  The customers at the tables gaped, dumbfounded, and gave cries of indignation. Picadus lurched on, oblivious, to the bar.

  Conversation at the bar was boisterous. Many of the customers were foreigners. A group of three, who Sildemund later discovered to be Khimmurians in the employ of a travelling merchant, stood directly in Picadus’s path. Picadus barg
ed into them, shouldering them aside, their drinks spilling to the floor. He lifted his pitcher and called to a serving wench.

  One of the Khimmurians seized Picadus by the shoulder, jerking him around, and demanded to know what he thought he was doing. Picadus gave him a blank stare, then shoved him forcefully in the chest. The man staggered backwards and fell over one of the tables.

  His two companions launched themselves at Picadus. He struggled like a man possessed, dropping the pitcher and lashing out with both fists.

  Gully and Sildemund rose, knowing they had little choice but to intervene. But Gully pushed Sildemund back into his seat, then leapt across the room. He grabbed one of the Khimmurians and threw him aside, crying out, ‘Stop! He means no harm! I will take him away!’

  The Khimmurian who Picadus had knocked across the table was back on his feet, charging furiously into the fray. Gully tried to wrestle him to the floor. A second man leapt on Gully’s back. Gully threw him, but now the taverna was in uproar. Strong as he was, Gully was forced to use his fists. Two or three men felt the sting of his blows before a space cleared around him.

  Gully grabbed Picadus by the scruff of the neck, red-faced and panting with exertion. He roared out, ‘He is sick! He means no harm! Please, let him be! I will take him away!’

  It might have made little difference, but the landlord was on the scene now, with three burly assistants hefting cudgels.

  ‘Sir, I apologize for my friend,’ breathed Gully. ‘He is feverish and cannot control himself.’

  The landlord, bulky and not a happy man, eyed the two. ‘And what of the damage? Look – a broken table, cracked mugs!’

  ‘I will pay!’ Sildemund stepped in. He tipped coins from his purse and held them out to the landlord. ‘Is this enough?’

  The landlord eyed the money and nodded. ‘Now, begone.’

  Sildemund spoke to the Khimmurians. ‘Here. We are not hooligans. I apologize on my friend’s behalf. Please, take this to pay for your drinks.’