The River of Shadows

Masters and Slaves

5 Modobrin 941

“Gone out?” said Ignus Chadfallow. “What under Heaven’s Tree do you mean?”

“Be quiet,” said Pazel, “you’ll wake the others.”

It was still very dark, though a pale husk of morning light wrapped the sky to the east. “Gone out,” repeated the doctor. “For a stroll, is it? Did the birdwatchers lend them a key?”

“They went over the wall. Ott escaped the pavilion some time ago, or maybe he hid and was never captured at all.”

“And Hercol and Thasha went off with that monster? Just like that?”

“They didn’t want to, Ignus,” said Pazel. “But Pitfire, how else are we going to get out of here? And they made Ott leave the rope behind.” He gestured at the corner of the wall, then waved desperately at the doctor. “Quiet! The blary birdwatchers are going to learn all about it if you can’t keep your voice down.”

Chadfallow said no more, but he could not stop himself from pacing, and his footsteps rang out clearly on the stones around the ruined fountain. Marila was awake now, too; standing silent and fearful, hugging herself against the chill.

Neeps looked at Pazel and whispered, “The sun’s coming up. Twenty minutes, thirty at the most, and there won’t be any darkness left to hide in.”

“You think we should go over the wall?” Pazel gazed at it, desperate. “Just climb out and run, all of us?”

“I think that’s better than waiting for them to notice that two of us disappeared in the night. But I’m worried about the dog.”

The guard animal lay curled on its platform, looking rather cold. Pazel could not tell if it was awake or asleep.

There came a soft noise from above. Thank the Gods, thought Pazel. It was Thasha, sliding down the rope. And after her, a far less welcome sight, came Dastu. They rushed across the courtyard, and Thasha squeezed Pazel’s hand.

“No sign of Hercol?” she asked.

“Haven’t you seen him?”

“They missed the rendezvous,” said Dastu. “Blast! Some turmoil has erupted near the shipyard-and it’s spreading faster than fire. Even here in the Middle City the streets are waking. Something is very wrong. And I’d swear Arunis is behind it.”

“Ott’s other little helper turned out to be working for Arunis,” said Pazel coldly. “How do we know you’re not?”

“Judge for yourself, Muketch,” said Dastu with equal venom. “As for me, I’d gladly leave you here. But alas, Sandor Ott is my master, and he commands otherwise.”

“For now,” said Thasha, “all we need to think about is getting out of here. We didn’t find a way out of Masalym, but we learned one thing: if we don’t want to be captured again immediately, we have to make for the Lower City. It’s dangerous, but at least there are hiding places. Here in the Middle City there are dlomu everywhere.” She stiffened. “Aya Rin, he’s seen us.”

The dog was sitting up and watching them. Its eyes fixed on Dastu, as though quite aware that he didn’t belong. But it did not make a sound.

Suddenly Pazel noticed how well he could see the dog’s face. Night was over, and daylight was growing by the minute. “Right,” he said, “if we’re going, we have to go now. But let’s not wake Uskins and Rain until some of us are up on that wall. They’re too unpredictable. They might make any sort of commotion.”

“There’s plenty of flat roof to stand on,” said Thasha. “We can get everyone up, then choose our moment to slip down to the street and make a run for it.”

“Whatever you do, make it fast,” said Dastu. He walked to the dangling rope, planted his feet against the wall and pulled himself swiftly to the rooftop. The others glanced apprehensively at the dog, but the animal sat silent on its platform, alert but motionless. “Something strange about that animal,” muttered Chadfallow.

Thasha climbed next. Crouching beside Dastu on the roof, she beckoned Marila. “Come on, you’re light, you can help us pull from up here.”

Marila seized the rope, and Thasha and Dastu hauled her upward. Again Thasha tossed down the rope. Pazel caught it, passed it to Neeps. “Same reasoning, mate,” he said. “For Rin’s sake, don’t argue with me.”

“I won’t,” said Neeps, “but you’d better start waking the others now.”

As Neeps climbed and Chadfallow steadied the rope, Pazel went to rouse the three remaining men. Uskins had bedded down in his patch of weeds; he gave a bewildered snort when Pazel shook him, and his eyes seemed reluctant to open. Druffle was instantly alert, and rose to his feet as though he had been waiting all night for a signal. That’s a smuggler for you, Pazel thought. Dr. Rain muttered to himself, frail and disoriented.

“I’ll hurry the doctor along,” said Druffle. “Get old Chadfallow up that wall if you can manage it.”

But “old Chadfallow,” as Pazel knew, was strapping for his age, and climbed with ease. The trouble came from Uskins, who looked frightened by the whole procedure. As Pazel steadied the rope for Chadfallow, the first mate stared at him, lips a-tremble. “Muketch,” he said at last, “I have no desire to return to the ship.”

Pazel turned his head, astonished. “Mr. Uskins,” he said, “we don’t know where we’re going yet. The important thing is to get out of here, while we can.”

Softly, the dog began to whine.

“Not important to me,” said Uskins. “I’ll follow orders, thank you very much.”

“Orders? Who ordered you to sit in a blary asylum?”

“Sir,” corrected Uskins.

“Sir,” repeated Pazel, increasingly confused. “Listen, you don’t want to stay here. They could lock you up forever, or experiment on you, bury you alive-anything. Don’t you realize who’s in charge in this city? Arunis and his gang, that’s who.”

At the mention of the sorcerer, Uskins recoiled, as though Pazel had struck him in the face. “You scoundrel!” he exploded. “You’ve had it in for me from the start! I told Rose to put you off the ship back in Etherhorde, that day you tormented the augrongs. And now you’ve provoked the sorcerer!”

“Mr. Uskins-”

“You’re insolent and clever, and you won’t stop until we’re dead. This is what Arqual’s coming to-you, you’re the face of the future. I can’t bear it. To think that you’ve served on Chathrand herself. In my grandfather’s day you’d not have been allowed to speak to a gentleman sailor, let alone serve under him.”

The dog whined louder, and even began to paw at the glass. “A gentleman sailor,” said Pazel, seething now. “Mr. Uskins-Pitfire, that’s not even your real name. You’re Stukey Somebody, or Somebody Stukey, from a guano-scraping village west of Etherhorde, and the only reason I’m trying to save your damned pig-ignorant hide is because I think you’re ill, actually ill, and I feel a bit-Oh credek, never mind, just get up the blary wall, for the love of Rin. Now, sir.”

Uskins froze, clearly shocked by the tarboy’s vehemence. Pazel thrust the rope into his hand. Slowly a look of understanding crept into Uskins’ eyes, and with it came a new, sharper fear. He put his feet against the wall and began to climb.

The dog gave an anxious yip. Pazel looked at it: the creature was dancing on its pedestal, turning in circles. On an impulse, Pazel dashed across the courtyard to stand before it. “Hush!” he whispered. The dog glanced down the corridor and cocked its head. Then it looked Pazel in the eye, whining pitifully. Its breath clouded the glass.

“Shhhh,” said Pazel, “good dog, good dog.”

Suddenly the dog pressed its nose to the fogged-over glass between them. It moved sideways, dragging its nose, struggling for balance. “Mr. Druffle,” said Pazel aloud, “I think this dog is awake. I mean woken. Because, Gods below, it’s… writing.”

The dog was writing. With its nose. One scrawled and desperate word.

RUN.

Pazel jumped. And then he heard it, soft but certain: the rumble of angry voices. Many voices, shouting, and growing nearer by the second.

He backed away. The dog wiped out the word with its forehead. Mystified, Pazel raised his hand, a gesture of thanks.

“Deserters! Faithless deserters!”

Pazel whirled about again. It was Dr. Rain, in the doorway of the bedchamber. He was staring at the figures on the rooftop, his shouting like crockery hurled at a wall. “Leave your shipmates, leave an old man behind in this human zoo! Villains! Backstabbers! Cold, mean, monstrous-”

Pazel had to hand it to Mr. Druffle: the freebooter did exactly what was called for. He silenced the doctor with one humane, swift thump to the stomach, then lifted him and ran to where Pazel stood clutching the rope.

“Under the arms, lad! Tie him quickly!”

Shouts echoed from somewhere down the corridor-many voices, loud and even menacing. They’re in the north wing! Get that door open! Which of you has the key?

The dog raced back and forth. “Haul him up!” begged Pazel, and the others complied. Rain kicked and struggled; the poor man simply had no idea what was being done to him.

The next two minutes were agonizing, as Thasha tore at the knot around Rain’s chest, and the doctor batted her in confusion. At last she gave up, seized Dastu’s knife and slashed off the rope above the knot. She hurled the shortened rope down to Pazel and Druffle. There were a few awful moments of paralysis, as each begged the other to climb first, and the voices grew louder, nearer. At last Druffle relented, and scurried up the wall like a monkey.

“Tell them to lie down!” said Pazel, “flat and quiet, and away from the edge. Hurry, Mr. Druffle, please!” He looked back anxiously at the glass wall and the doorway. The dog had vanished; from some distance away he heard it barking. He heard Druffle grunt as he rolled over the edge. Thasha tossed him the end of the rope. Even as he caught hold of it a door smashed open. Pazel climbed, wishing he had Thasha’s strength, as the others hauled him upward. “Faster!” hissed Thasha through her teeth. Pazel gasped, pulling, swaying as feet pounded down the corridor. He hooked a leg over the roof, and Chadfallow seized his shirt and wrenched him up with one great effort. Pazel caught a glimpse of torchlight through the glass. He rolled away from the edge, and those still standing threw themselves down. No one moved.

Angry voices, men’s and women’s both, sounded from just outside the glass wall. “They’re in the bedchambers! Open the door, open the door!” Keys jangled, hinges gave a rusty shriek, and a mob forced its way in, shouting, raging. “Don’t let them bite you,” a male dlomu cried. “And don’t get their blood on you, either. Turn your faces away before you cut them down.”

Pazel felt the hair rise on the back of his neck. It was the voice of the man who had led the mob the day before. The one who had promised to come back and kill them.

The cries changed abruptly: “Not here, Kudan! The place is empty! This brainless dog’s guarding an empty cage!”

“But I heard something.”

“They were here, it’s been lived in. Maybe they were moved to the south wing.”

“Spoons, cups, plates. Earth’s blood, they were treated just like men. And so much food!”

“Some of it’s mine,” said Rain aloud. Neeps pounced on him, covering his mouth. Fortunately the old doctor was still catching his breath, and his voice did not reach the dlomu.

“We’ll have to burn all the food,” one of them was saying, “and the mattresses too. Just the same as their bodies. Fire for the cursed, as they say.”

“Best do it well outside the city. Somewhere too far away for the curse to come back. The Black Tongue, maybe.”

“The Black Tongue! Surely we don’t need to go that far, Kudan.”

“We still have to catch the humans,” said their leader. “Come, it’s time to talk with those physicians again.” Some nervous laughter, then: “Get along there, dog! No treat for the likes of you.”

The voices faded. For several minutes no one moved. Pazel found himself shaking from head to foot. “Don’t move, anybody,” he whispered. “They’re still looking for us, remember.”

For nearly ten minutes they lay silent; even Dr. Rain seemed to have comprehended the situation at last. Pazel gazed past his own feet: above them rose more mountains, more city, more waterfalls. He had the strange sensation of looking at the same picture through a smaller window: Masalym was still looming above them, as it had from the deck of the Chathrand, but now he was inside the Middle City, peering between its domes and towers and solitary trees, at what was surely the Upper City, the highest level, where the mountains came close to one another, and the river squeezed through to fall over one more cliff, in one more white mass of foam.

Cautiously, they sat up. “What now?” whispered Thasha.

No one appeared to have an answer. Pazel turned his gaze left and right. The Conservatory was a larger complex than he’d realized: eight or nine whitewashed buildings, connected by arches and covered breezeways. There were three other spacious courtyards like the one they had just escaped, and a grand approach with white marble stairs and flowers blazing red and yellow. The whole place might have been mistaken for the mansion of some eccentric lord, except for the walled-in enclosures on the eastern side, where the tol-chenni huddled in frightened packs.

“We know what we have to do,” said Neeps. He pointed north to the cliff. “Sneak over there, climb that fence, tie off the rope and slip down into the Lower City. Right?”

“Impossible,” said Dastu. He gestured at a squat stone building half a mile away, constructed right up against the cliff. “That’s a barracks. It’s full of men keeping watch on the Lower City. See, there’s another beyond it. They’re all along the cliff.”

“The Middle City’s on guard against the Lower?” said Neeps.

“Don’t you understand?” said Dastu. “The Middle City is for richer sorts. The ones down there are nearly starving. These people don’t want them swarming up here, making life difficult, begging for work or food. Anyway, we don’t stand a chance of slipping down the cliff by daylight. Besides, the rope is too short. Even dangling from the end of it we’d have a forty-foot drop.”

“How did you and Thasha get down?” asked Pazel.

“We ran a mile nearer the mountain, where the cliff’s not so high,” Thasha answered. “But Dastu’s right, we’d never get away with it by daylight.”

Mr. Druffle, who had moved nearer to the street, crawled back to them on his belly, scowling. “It’s even worse than you think,” he said. “Those ruffians are all over the streets, looking for us. And there’s more of them than before. A few hundred, I’d say.”

“Well, that decides it,” said Pazel. “We’re not going anywhere soon. Maybe they’ll give up by nightfall.”

“Nightfall,” scoffed Uskins. “We will never make it to nightfall! All those towers. Someone is going to notice us, and then we’ll die. You were a fool to bring us up here, Muketch.”

“Call him a fool,” said Marila. “We’d be dead already if we’d stayed down there, like you wanted to. And the only tower near us is that giant thing straight ahead, and it looks abandoned to me.”

The first mate sniffed. “Twenty minutes, at the very outside. That’s how long I give us. Assuming that quack can keep from howling again.”

They lay down, as far from the edges of the roof as they could, as the Middle City went about its bustling, grumbling, early-morning routine. Now and then they heard dlomic men in the street, asking about them, sometimes with open suspicion. Once a nearby voice erupted in rage: “Harmless? Harmless? Sister, they’re devils! Haven’t you heard what went on at the port? They’ve brought the nuhzat back among us! They’re reviving old curses, inventing new ones. We went to them humbly, we asked how we could make amends. They wouldn’t answer.”

“Maybe they couldn’t,” replied a dlomic woman, “because they didn’t know what you were asking.”

“They knew!” shouted the man. “It’s not justice they want, sister, it’s revenge! This day was foreseen!”

After the two dlomu moved on, the angry voices sounded less frequently, and with more discouragement. But when the humans peeked down from the roof they saw that the streets were still crowded. There was no means of escape.

Twenty minutes passed, then twenty more. Pazel, Thasha, Neeps and Marila lay on their backs, a bit apart from the others, with their heads close together and their legs sticking out like the spokes of a wheel. Pazel realized, almost with shock, that he was comfortable. The sun was bright, the roof warm against his back. He looked at Thasha and thought he had never seen a more beautiful face, but what he said was, “You could use a good scrub.”

Thasha gave him a pained sort of grin. She needed to laugh, he thought, but how could she, after those terrible hints and guesses about where she came from? Hercol might believe what Admiral Isiq had claimed: that his wife Clorisuela had finally succeeded in bearing a child, after four miscarriages. But Thasha didn’t. And Pazel could find little reason why she should.

It was not that he believed a word Arunis had spoken. But Neeps’ ideas were another matter. Thasha had done some extraordinary things, in the Red Storm, and in the battle with the rats. She controlled the invisible wall. She’d been watched over her whole life by Ramachni. And who else could Thasha have meant when she said, I’ll never let her come back?

But old Isiq, making secret love to a mage? That was unthinkable. Pazel had witnessed the admiral’s shock at everything that had happened to Thasha. No, Isiq was no insider, with a hand in these intrigues. He was just another tool.

Pazel smiled back at her, to hide the blackness of his thoughts. Even a tool could father a girl on his concubine, and then feel shame, and invent a lie about his wife’s miraculous pregnancy. She really might be the child of Syrarys. Aya Rin, don’t let that be true.

Thasha returned her gaze to the sky. “What do you three want to do when this is over?” she whispered. “I mean, when it’s all over, and we’re back in the North, safe and sound?”

She wasn’t fooling herself; Pazel could tell she knew just how unlikely it was that they’d ever face such a choice. No one answered at first. Then Marila said, “I want to go to school. And then, when I know something, I want to start one. A school for deaf people. Half the sponge-divers in Tholjassa lose their hearing sooner or later.”

Neeps turned over and planted an awkward kiss on her cheek.

“You can’t come,” Marila told him.

“What do you want to do, Neeps?” Pazel asked quickly, before they could start to argue.

Neeps shook his head. “Get away from the blary ocean, that’s what. I know we islanders are supposed to love it, and sometimes I do. But credek, enough is enough. I’ve been at sea since I was nine. I’m tired of imagining all the ways I could drown.”

After a brief pause, he added, “I’ve never been atop a mountain in my life. Not one. And I’ve never touched snow. I want to pick up a handful, and learn what that feels like. Maybe it’s foolish, but I dream about these things.”

Thasha touched Pazel’s leg. “Your turn.”

Pazel hesitated. Why was it such an unsettling question? Thasha was not even looking at him, and yet he felt as though she had backed him into a corner. He tried to picture the two of them, married, settled in the Orch’dury or her mansion in Etherhorde. Thirty years from now. Fifty. He recalled the vision he’d had at Bramian, he and Thasha joining some forest tribe, retreating from the world into the heart of that giant island. What was he thinking? What did fantasies, or love for that matter, have to do with saving this world from a beast like Arunis? He touched the shell that Klyst had placed beneath his skin at the collarbone. It used to burn him when Klyst was jealous; now it was just an ordinary shell. The thought left him briefly desolate.

“Well?” said Neeps.

Pazel groped for a truthful answer. He thought, I don’t want to want anything. I couldn’t stand it, if Ormael was dead, or dying, or two hundred years older. To go there, dreaming of something that will never come back…

“I can’t seem to decide,” he said, pathetically.

Suddenly there was a great commotion from the others. Pazel thought for a moment that they’d been eavesdropping, and were leaping up to vent their disgust at his indecision. But then he saw something that made him forget all that: Ibjen and Prince Olik, walking across the roof toward them, both smiling broadly. And emerging last from the trapdoor that none of them had seen beneath the leaf-litter, Hercol. He was smiling broadly.

“Eight lizards, basking in the sun,” he said. “Come down before you burn.”

“So that is how things stand,” said the prince, stalking almost at a run down the corridor. “He has the Stone, and we must get it back before that ship arrives-and more important, before he manages to do something hideous, irreparable.”

The humans were bunched around him, keeping pace. “How do we know he hasn’t mastered the Stone already, Sire?” asked Neeps.

“By the fact that we yet breathe, Mr. Undrabust,” said the prince.

He reached the end of the corridor. Without stopping, he leaned into a pair of big double-doors, spreading them wide, and charged into the main entrance hall of the Conservatory. His personal servants and guards were waiting there, along with most of the birdwatchers, who seemed caught between relief and disappointment at the sight of the departing humans. One tried to hand a sheet of parchment to Mr. Druffle.

“A simple questionnaire, it will take just a minute-”

“It’ll take less than that,” snarled Druffle, crushing the sheet in his fist.

They passed through the outer doors and found themselves in dazzling sunshine. They were on the portico, facing the marble stairs and wide gardens that fronted the Conservatory. Thasha gave a cry of joy: Jorl and Suzyt were waiting there, untethered. They leaped on her, ecstatic and squealing. “They are clever dogs,” said the prince. “You have trained them almost to dlomic standards, and that is high praise.”

“How did you get them to obey you?” said Thasha, hugging both mastiffs at once.

“They did nothing of the kind,” laughed the prince. “But they listened to Felthrup, right enough. And he convinced them I was a friend. Hurry, now, let’s be gone from here.”

“Yes!” shouted Dr. Rain, shuffling quickly down the stairs. “Out, out, out!”

“The doctor disapproves of our facility,” said Olik, “but in fact you were lucky to have been locked up here. There are not many flat-roofed buildings in the Middle City, although there are plenty of flat heads. One or the other kept your would-be executioners from seeking you in the most obvious of hiding places.”

“How did you get rid of them?” asked Uskins, who was having a lucid moment.

“I left that to Vadu,” said the prince. “He was rather startled to find me alive, and rather terrified to imagine how many people might already have learned what he put me through last night. Suffice it to say that our relations are off to a fresh start.”

Beyond the gardens that fronted the Conservatory waited three fine, gilded coaches. Their teams were not made up of horses but dogs: twelve massive, square-shouldered dogs apiece, waiting silently but with eager eyes. There were no drivers that Pazel could see. But a crowd of onlookers had appeared, held at a distance by well-armed Masalym soldiers.

“Prince Olik! Prince Olik!” cried the onlookers. “What happened at the shipyard? Was it really the nuhzat?”

“It was,” said the prince. “I saw the man’s darkened eyes. But you must trust your grandfathers when they tell you that the nuhzat is not madness. At its worst it is a trance, at its best transcendence. If it comes back to us as a people we must call ourselves blessed.”

“Your cousin the Emperor-will he think us blessed?” shouted an old woman.

The prince smiled ruefully. “No, he will not.”

The mob grumbled as Olik ushered the humans into the coaches. “I can give you honesty, my people, as I always have-or I can give you words to make you smile. Sometimes one cannot do both. Step lively, Dr. Chadfallow, in you go. Jorl and Suzyt can run alongside the pack.”

“They have names,” said someone.

“Of course they do,” said Pazel. “Don’t you name your dogs?”

His reply caused an uneasy stir-and Pazel realized suddenly that the speaker had not been referring to the dogs. A tall dlomic man pointed at them between the soldiers. “What are they really, prince?” he cried. “Demons sent to punish us? Tol-chenni cured by magecraft?”

“Don’t you know?” said Olik, swinging into the coach. “They’re our albino brothers, of course. From the Magnificent Court of the Lilac.” He closed the door with a bang.

Each coach had seating for six. Pazel was squeezed in between Thasha and the prince, facing Ibjen, Hercol and Chadfallow. “Home!” shouted one of the prince’s aides. The dogs yipped and whined; the carriage jerked once, then started to roll. Thasha called to Jorl and Suzyt, who fell in beside them, barking. The open space around the Conservatory gave way to narrow streets. Brightly painted homes, shops, taverns closed them in.

“You’re surprised by the dog teams,” said Olik. “They have always been preferred in the Middle City. The distances are not great here, and the beasts are versatile. A full pack like this one can be broken up into smaller teams, for smaller coaches, or even sent on errands alone, following routes they learn by heart. The city would be lost without its dogs, I assure you.”

“Are we going back to the Chathrand, Sire?” Thasha asked him.

“I certainly hope that some of you are,” said the prince. “But ride with me to the Upper City first. At the moment there is no safer place.”

They rattled across a bridge over the foaming Mai, then up a winding hill. Dlomic faces turned their way, staring. Flower vendors, holding out bouquets and calling prices, dropped their arms and gaped at the sight of human faces.

Life was clearly better in the Middle City. The roads were less potholed, the gardens less choked with weeds. No abandoned homes met Pazel’s eye, though here and there a broken window gazed forlorn upon the street, or a crumbling wall looked more patched than repaired. But such blemishes were slight after the wreckage of the Lower City.

“It truly is another world,” said Chadfallow, stooping to peer through the window. “I see almost no malnutrition-but would I recognize it in a dlomu’s face, I wonder?”

The prince gazed wistfully at Chadfallow. “A hungry child looks quite the same, whether human or dlomu,” he said. “As for the Middle City: yes, it is another world. This is the core that Masalym has shrunk to-but I fear it will shrink further still. There is food here, just enough. And there is safety from outside attack, so long as the river flows, and the guards keep up appearances on the wall. But there is no contentment anywhere in Masalym, no peace. Most dwellers in the Middle City have but one ambition: to gain a foothold in the Upper, to join its small, rich ranks. Events like a sudden outbreak of nuhzat only make them want it more desperately. And the ambition of those who already dwell in the Upper City is to forget the lower levels.”

“Forget them, Sire?” said Hercol.

“They would forget the Middle City except as a place the cook is sent for cabbages, or the butler for a wet nurse,” said Olik. “The Lower City they would forget altogether. It is not considered quite proper even to mention it, especially in front of children, or during a meal.”

“I don’t understand,” said Thasha. “They can’t not think about it. It’s sitting on their laps.”

“Their laps are hidden under a table of plenty,” said Olik.

Ibjen looked away, embarrassed.

Dr. Chadfallow frowned. “How can such an arrangement possibly continue?” he asked.

“How indeed,” said the prince. He drew the curtains over the carriage window. “Felthrup has done a great deed in warning us about that ship,” he said. “If we live through the next few days we have him to thank.” He smiled at Pazel. “Along with all the others in that nocturnal chain.”

“Your Highness,” said Pazel, “how is it that everyone is obeying you now? It can’t be just Vadu’s fear of the law that protects your family.”

“Quite right,” said Olik. “The Family Law should keep Vadu to heel-I have a witness to his attempt on my life, after all-but there is a deeper reason, too. It is very simple: when the Ravens arrive in Masalym, they will have either the Nilstone, or the heads of everyone who was guarding it. For Vadu there is no choice: he must catch Arunis, or spend the rest of his days in flight from Macadra.

“There is also the danger of panic. The city is afraid of you, and of the nuhzat, and behind both of these lurks madness, our people’s ultimate fear. I confronted the Issar this morning, and he needed all my help to overcome his own terror enough to look facts in the face. When at last he did, he named me Defender of the Walls, which is to say that I am now Vadu’s superior officer. I promptly removed him and his senior officers from the shipyard. I also demanded a look at those orders from the capital. They came last night, by courier osprey, and they confirm Felthrup’s warning: the Kirisang is en route to Masalym.”

“The Kirisang,” said Thasha, eyes lighting with recognition. “I read about her. She’s a Segral-class ship like the Chathrand. She’s one of the Great Ships that crossed the Nelluroq and never returned.”

“She is twice the age of the Chathrand,” said Olik, “but make no mistake: she is both sound and formidable. And she has been part of the Platazcra, Bali Adro’s great orgy of conquest, and will be outfitted for war in a most terrible fashion. But there is worse: Macadra herself is aboard that ship. Macadra, who has not left Bali Adro City in thirty years, except on astral journeys-Macadra who detests the sea. There can be but one reason for the journey: she intends to claim the Nilstone for herself. That would also explain why Arunis moved when he did. Better to abandon the Chathrand and the Shaggat Ness than to lose the Nilstone forever.

“Only one part of the message did I welcome: the fact that the bird was released, apparently, from Fanduerel Edge, which would mean that the Kirisang is still six days from here.”

“Thank the Watchers above,” said Ibjen.

But Olik raised a warning hand. “The sorceress may well have lied-especially if she hopes to catch Arunis off his guard. Moreover, the enchanted current may still be flowing, and speed them faster than any wind. And what if both are true? To be sure of escape, I fear you must leave by dusk tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow!” cried the others.

“But that is amazing!” said Chadfallow. “How did you convince the Issar to agree to our departure at all? Why would he compound his loss of the Nilstone with the loss of the Great Ship?”

“Because he is cornered,” said Olik. “To displease Macadra even in a small matter is quite enough to seal his fate. I have offered him one hope of survival, and he is jumping at the chance. As for the ship, her repairs are essentially complete. The larger problem is supplies. Vadu’s men had not begun to lay in food or water, cordage or cloth. Except for the casks from Narybir, her hold is largely empty. Nor will we have time to load her properly, or to assemble enough preserved food for months at sea. It will be hard enough to get your crew marched back from the Tournament Grounds to the ship, and set them to work on the rigging. You will have to balance the cargo while under way, I fear.”

“But we can’t just sail off and leave the Nilstone with Arunis!” said Thasha.

“I very much hope that you will not have to,” said Olik. “We have already begun a house-to-house search of the Lower City. It is a daunting task: Masalym’s army is small, and the panic caused by the nuhzat has led to desertions. Nonetheless, if Arunis remains in the Lower City, we will find him.”

“We’ll help you, Sire,” said Pazel.

“Don’t be a fool,” said Chadfallow. “You heard what Hercol said about the terror at the port. Our faces would only add to the chaos, and make it that much easier for Arunis to know we were coming.”

“The doctor is quite correct,” said Olik. “But once we have Arunis cornered it will be another matter. I would welcome your help if it comes to a fight.”

“It will come to a fight,” said Hercol, “now or later. But Sire: both search and fight could be more easily won if I had Ildraquin. You must question Vadu again. I told you how I raced ahead of his men before we were imprisoned, and placed the sword just inside the magic wall. But this morning it is gone, and as you know, there is a jagged hole in the wall.”

“Vadu makes no secret of having carved that hole with his own blade,” said Olik. “He is proud of the deed.”

“As well he should be, if he has plucked Ildraquin through the wounded wall,” said Hercol. “I saw no sign of it about the stateroom, or in any of the cabins. Felthrup never saw the sword at all, and though he spoke with Ensyl and another ixchel woman, I saw neither them nor any of their people. Whatever the truth, I must regain Ildraquin, for it was entrusted to me by Maisa, rightful Empress of Arqual.”

“And yet it was forged here, in Dafvni-Under-the-Earth,” said the prince. “Yet another sign that the sundering of our two worlds is nearing its end.”

“Why would Ildraquin make the search any easier?” asked Thasha.

“The sword will make it effortless,” said Hercol, “so long as Arunis keeps Fulbreech at his side. I never managed to wound the mage, but I did cut Fulbreech on his chin. And here is something I have never told you, Thasha: Ildraquin leads me, like a compass needle, toward any foe whose blood it has drawn.”

“Ah,” said the prince, “then it is a seeking sword as well. I did not know any were left, after the burning of the Ibon forge. We must find it, clearly.”

“And pray that Arunis has kept Fulbreech at his side,” said Chadfallow. “What a shame that you did not at least nick the sorcerer’s little finger, Hercol.”

Pazel thought of the fight on the lower gun deck, how he had set Arunis free by attacking him, and felt himself burning with shame. All of this because of me. People may die because of me.

Suddenly he realized that they were nearing a waterfall: its deep thunder had in fact been growing for some time. Olik spread the curtains and whistled once. The carriage rumbled to a halt.

They climbed out, and Pazel saw that they had reached the base of yet another cliff. It was narrower than the others, and only some eighty feet high. The Mai poured down in a torrent just beside them. A gust of wind bathed them in cool, delicious spray.

The cascade fell into a lake edged with chiseled stone and surrounded by gnarled fir trees; to their left the Mai flowed out of the lake to continue its winding descent to the sea. Pazel’s heart skipped a beat when he saw a dlomic boy no taller than his knee fling himself into the churning water. Then he thought: The boy can swim, of course he can, and saw that the lake was full of boys, and girls too, and that none of them feared the river in the least.

But when they saw the humans the children began to scream.

“No time for a swim, Mr. Pathkendle,” said Olik. “This way, if you please.”

The street entered a tunnel in the cliff wall, heavily guarded and sealed with an iron gate. But the prince was marching toward the pool, and now Pazel saw that a narrow walkway ran between it and the cliff, very close to the waterfall itself. One of the guards ran ahead of Olik and unlocked a small door set into the cliff.

The guard opened the door and held it wide. “Plenty of lift today, Sire.”

Olik nodded and led them (mastiffs and humans alike) into the passage. It was short, and not as dark as Pazel expected, for there were light-shafts cut into the stone. At the end of the passage were two round steel platforms, each about the size of a small patio. These platforms were attached to the passage wall at two points by thick beams that vanished into slots, and before each was a large metal wheel mounted on the stone. The prince stepped quickly onto one of these, and beckoned his companions to do the same. When they had all crowded onto the platform, Olik nodded to the waiting guard. The man spun the wheel, and a clattering and jangling of chains began somewhere above. Pazel looked up: a straight shaft rose through the stone, cut to the exact shape of the platform.

“Mind the dogs’ feet, Thasha,” said the prince, and then the platform began to rise.

“Water, again,” said Hercol.

“Of course,” said the prince. “Ratchets, pulleys, a wheel behind the falls. Most citizens use the tunnel; these lifts are for royalty and other invalids.”

The ascent was rapid; before Pazel knew it daylight struck him full in the face. The platform was rising straight out of the ground. When their feet cleared the top of the shaft it stopped with a clang.

“Welcome to the Upper City,” said the prince.

Under the bright sun Pazel felt himself shiver with awe. They were in a gazebo-like structure at the center of a grand plaza, built around a curve in the Mai. Slender trees with feathery crowns swayed in the wind. Beds of white and purple flowers surrounded them, bees and hummingbirds competing for their nectar.

Beyond the gardens, the Upper City spread before them like a box of jewels. Pazel had never seen Maj Hill, the famous Etherhorde district where Thasha grew up, but he wondered if even its fabulous wealth could compare. Every building here was tall, with slender windows that glittered like sugar frosting and spires that reached for the sky. There were four- and even five-story mansions, with great marble columns and imposing gates. There were soaring crystal temples, and bridges over the surging Mai, and other bridges that leaped from one building to the next. Right at their feet began a splendid boulevard, paved with ceramic tiles of a deep russet-red. Straight through the Upper City it ran, like a carpet-and ended, some three miles from where they stood, at a breathtaking building. It was a pyramid, but flat at the summit, as though the apex had been cut away with a knife. Except for the long rows of windows at various levels, the whole building appeared to be made of brass. The side that faced the sun was nearly blinding.

“Masalym Palace,” said Prince Olik, “where I hoped you would be received with dignity by the Issar. Very little, alas, has gone as I hoped. But that may change today.”

Another set of carriages awaited them at the edge of the gardens. A crowd stood about them: wealthy dlomu with servants and children in tow, watching the lift with frank curiosity. But already a strange reaction was spreading among the watchers. At first sight of the humans’ pale skin (and Thasha’s golden hair) they were turning away, and soon all of them were rushing from the plaza. Pazel saw one or two begin to glance back and check themselves, as if to preserve the appearance of having seen nothing at all.

“They are even more fearful than those below,” said Chadfallow.

“They are better educated, after a fashion,” said the prince. “They know what it means to be associated with anything to which the Ravens might object. And they know full well that my power in Masalym is a fleeting thing, no matter how I work to help them while it lasts.”

“The pyramid is raised!” said Hercol suddenly. Pazel looked again. It was true: the huge building rested on low, thick columns of stone.

“Family tradition,” said Olik. “ ‘Your kings are not bound to earth like other men,’ we tell our subjects. ‘The winds pass under us; we are creatures of the sky.’ Even our country homes are raised a little off the ground. It makes for cold floors.”

They boarded the carriages, and soon they were moving down the red road at a fast clip, the dogs pulling eagerly, the mansions flashing by.

“Sire,” said Thasha, “suppose you track down Arunis-what then? Do you think that you can defeat him?”

“You know full well what a terrible opponent he is,” said the prince, “and yet we do stand a chance. He may be more vulnerable now than ever, for until he masters the Stone it will be more weight than weapon. And though he has great powers of his own, he is still reliant on that human body of his-that mortal shell. He will not be able to defy the warriors of Masalym, and all the enemies he has made on the Chathrand-and his newest enemy, Vadu, bearer of a Plazic Blade.”

“Fashioned from the bone of an eguar,” said Hercol, looking at Pazel and Thasha. “You were right.”

“So you guessed, did you?” said Olik. “Ah, but then you, Pazel, have confronted an eguar in the flesh. I doubt, however, that you can have imagined anything so terrible as what actually befell us. We reached for power, and attained it; but that power has been a curse. Should we recover from it-and that is not certain at all-it will be as a chastened country, wounded and poor, and certainly no longer an Empire.”

“Did the eguar themselves curse you, Sire?” asked Chadfallow.

“In a sense,” said Olik. “As you know they live for thousands of years, and when death finally approaches they make a last pilgrimage, to one of the deep and terrible Grave-Pits of their ancestors. In such pits they end their lives, so that their flesh may decay atop the bones of past generations. They shed their skins in these places as well, once every five or six centuries. If anything these are acts of kindness on the monsters’ part, for the remains of an eguar, steeped in poison and black magic, are as dangerous as the living beast.

“There were many Grave-Pits in the youth of Alifros, but today we know of just one: deep in the hills of central Chaldryl, forty days from the coast. Despite its remoteness there were some who made the journey and explored the pit, for the place fairly reeked of ancient magic, and the lure of power was great.”

He looked out at the bright mansions, the stately trees. “I was your age, Pazel and Thasha, when my father remarked over breakfast that certain alchemists in a far corner of the Empire had devised a method for carving eguar bones into tools. I said, ‘How interesting, Father,’ and wished that he would hurry and carve the cake. I was an eager youth: in those days no shadow lay upon my heart.

“But the rumor proved true. Already the alchemists had placed seven eguar blades at the feet of the Emperor. He kept one, and gave the rest to his generals. At first they seemed mere curiosities, but later something woke in the blades, and they began to whisper: Let me in, let me into your soul and I will perfect it. That at least is how the Emperor recounted the sensation to my father, on his deathbed.

“The blades gave our generals power in battle such as had not been seen since the time of the Fell Princes. But that taste of power awoke an insatiable hunger in the blade-keepers. The Emperor demanded further weapons, darker tools. Of course he was not all-powerful, then. The Great Assembly of the Dlomu opposed him, as did the Council of Bali Adro Mages. Even his own family sensed the danger, and urged him to stop. But he did not stop. Instead he found secret partners, criminal partners, with the riches and the will to work in the shadows. I mean the Ravens, of course.”

Pazel sat back with a sigh. “The Ravens. Is that how they came to power?”

Olik nodded. “They were all but defeated, after sending Arunis away to seek the Nilstone. But they rose to the Emperor’s task. More blades were delivered, more power seized, and soon our lust for power swept all cautions aside. The Grave-Pit was quarried out. The bones and teeth of the eguar were carried by the ton to the War Forges, where the foulest blades of all were smithed. Plazic Blades, we called them: conquering blades. They made us invincible, for a time. Our armies spread over neighboring lands in a flood. Platazcra, Infinite Conquest, became both our motto and our aim.

“Is it any wonder that we failed to notice how we ourselves were being conquered? The Ravens, and above all Macadra, had become indispensable to the Crown. Little by little they came out into the light. Murder by stealthy murder, they removed those who stood in their way.”

“But that is not the worst of it,” said Ibjen. “Sire, you must tell them about human beings.”

“Yes,” said Hercol, “I should like to know what part we played in this tale.”

“A great one, as it happens,” said Olik. “The human mind-plague was only beginning, in tiny outbreaks we chose to ignore. But no humans, Nemmocians, atrungs or selk were ever trusted with Plazic Blades. Only dlomu. And because dlomic hands alone grasped the power, it was easy, and tempting, to push the races further apart. We were the mighty, the feared. They were leaner and shabbier, and their famished eyes made it hard to enjoy our plunder.

“Because humans were the most numerous, they made us the most uneasy. We began to live apart, more and more, and to restrict humans to the labor we disdained: the hard labor, that is. We compelled them to build our ships, forge our armor, march behind us as vassals in our war-trains. It was not long before this servitude decayed into outright slavery.”

“So we were slaves before we were animals,” said Chadfallow. “Is that what our would-be killers meant by the Old Sins?”

“They go by that name, yes,” said the prince. “Slavery, and later the denial of the plague. For all this time the tol-chenni affliction was spreading: a blighted village here, a swirl of panic there. And we dlomu, drunk on conquest as we were, could not make ourselves pay attention.

“But human beings did, of course. The first uprisings were on the borders of the slave-lands, and they were brutally repressed-townships razed, prisoners driven over cliffs at spear-point. And still we were afraid. We imagined that all humans wished us death, even those who swore their loyalty. This terror was magnified by new losses on the battlefield. The Plazic Blades had begun to disintegrate, to rot away. Their owners became irrationally suspicious, accusing one another of tricks, curses, theft. They slew one another over the blades, one man coveting another’s, especially if it seemed less corrupted. A few even fell to our enemies: the commander of the Karyskans who attacked your ship had a Plazic Knife. I expect he used it to strengthen his men.”

“How many were there, the keepers of these blades?” asked Pazel.

“A few hundred in all the Empire,” said Olik. “Some were minor figures, like Counselor Vadu. Others really did walk the earth like Gods-mad Gods, blinded and diseased. They could not rest. They bled the Imperial coffers dry. The War Forges blazed day and night; some were consumed by their own flames or exploded, and whole regions of Bali Adro were laid waste.

“Then, very suddenly it seemed, we woke to find our slaves stolen from us. It took but three decades for the plague to destroy every human mind in Bali Adro. And without them our Empire was crippled. The Blades gave us the power to destroy, not to build or nurture. Without human labor, we were titans of straw. We could not even feed ourselves.

“We lashed out. Karysk and Nemmoc remained to be conquered, as did some mountain regions, like the interior of this great peninsula. Enemies surrounded us, we thought, and if they were not killed, we would be. In growing delirium, our generals drove their armies to superhuman feats: marching them six hundred miles in as many days-only to see them collapse on the eve of battle, victims of a starvation the magic had disguised. Such blindness! All our worst wounds have been self-inflicted. The armada may destroy the realm of Karysk, but it will do nothing to save Bali Adro from itself.”

“You sound as though you’ve lost all hope,” said Thasha.

“Do I?” said Olik. “Then I must beg your pardon. I have not lost hope. Perhaps that is because I did not have to witness all these horrors unfolding. Ten years after that breakfast with my father I sailed into the Nelluroq on my doomed expedition, and the time-shift robbed me of eight decades. When I left Bali Adro I was still a thoughtless young man. The Platazcra was well under way, but our fortunes had not yet turned. I had a son of nine years and had wearied of raising him-and of his mother, truth be told. I thought a year or two away might help me tolerate them better. And though troubled by the Empire’s wars, I still accepted the verdict of my elders, who gave the name of Glory to all that murder, greed and gobbling.

“When I returned, our nation’s back was broken. Human beings were almost extinct; the other races were scattered; woken animals were no more to be seen. Laughter was cruel, poets mad or silent, temples were converted to armories and barracks, schools to prisons, and the old world, my world, was a thing forgotten. That was despair, Lady Thasha, and I barely survived it. Yet from that blackest pit strange gifts have come to me. Like Mr. Bolutu, I am a window on a vanished world, a spokesman of sorts for Alifros-that-was. When I accepted that bitter truth, I found my life’s purpose. I became a Spider Teller, and in time a chasmamancer, and there has been more joy in the fellowship of those impoverished wizards than ever I knew in palace or keep. I fell in love with learning, and out of love with the family cult. I met Ramachni, and his wisdom strengthened me in my resolve. ‘You are a fine mage, Olik,’ he said at our last meeting, ‘but you are also a warrior. You will fight less often with your hands than with your mind and heart, but you will fight ceaselessly, I think. A wiser path for all Alifros-that shall be what you fight for. That, and the extinction of madness and greed.’ Thus he spoke, and thus it has proved to this day.”

Thasha’s whole face had brightened at the mention of Ramachni. Suddenly she gripped the prince’s hand, startling him. “I’d hoped from the beginning that you were allies,” she said. “I’ve been praying you’d help us find him, or help him return to us. Now I’m certain you’re going to do just that.”

Olik gazed at Thasha: a humble glance, such as Pazel would scarcely have thought possible on the face of royalty. Just like Bolutu, he thought. They hang on her every word. They know, blast it. They know the truth about her. And he resolved to corner Bolutu at the next opportunity, to wring it out of him. Arunis was gone; no one was spying on his thoughts. What possible excuse for secrets was there now?

Suddenly all the dogs barked in unison: the signal, said Olik, that they were nearing the palace. Rows of soldiers flashed by. Olik signaled them with a wave, then looked at Thasha again.

“Yes, I still hope, lady,” said Olik, “but that hope has been sorely tested. One reason is personal. Do you recall what I told you of the Karyskans, and why they pursued me?”

“You said they mistook you for someone else in the royal family,” said Thasha, “for the one who wanted to attack them.”

“Yes,” said Olik, “and I cannot blame them for the mistake. I sailed openly into their waters, and at first they welcomed me. But Karysk has certain spies in Bali Adro, and as I was making ready to depart these spies returned, and declared that they had seen my face in Orbilesc, pressing rabidly for the launch of the armada. Today the Issar’s message has confirmed my worst suspicion: that rabid warmonger is my grandson. We are alike as two peas in a pod.”

The others stared a moment. Then Pazel gasped. “The Red Storm,” he said. “You sailed away and left a son, and he-”

“Had a son as well, in time. When I returned I found my own son a frail old man, and his child grown to manhood. We have the same features, the same name-and thanks to the Red Storm, very nearly the same age. But Olik the Ninth hates this Olik the Seventh. He is a Plazic warlord; like Vadu he carries the stump of a Blade. I am sure he thinks of me as some sort of maukslarin, a demon made in his image, sent from Elsewhere to oppose him. There are days when I fancy he’s correct.

“The other blow to my hope is more serious-but only because the hope itself burned so brightly. For at long last, the horror of the Plazic Blades is ending. They are corroding, melting into nothingness. It seems the very act of removing the bones from the Grave-Pits began the process of decay, and in our greed we removed them all. In another year or two the Blades will have entirely decayed, and perhaps my people will be free of the Platazcra madness forever.”

“And now you bring the Nilstone!” said Ibjen.

“Yes,” said Olik, “the Nilstone. A thing more powerful and ruinous than all the Plazic Blades together. And who should come with it-and steal it before one week is out-but Arunis himself, old ally of the fiends who fashioned the Blades, and perhaps the vilest mind in Alifros? I do not despair, Lady Thasha, but I fear greatly for this world.”

“We’ll get it back,” said Thasha.

At that moment the sunlight disappeared. All about them were massive columns of red stone: they had driven right under the palace. There were shouts and echoes, the roars of sicunas, the rumble of gates. The carriages ground to a halt.

Before they could alight someone threw the door wide. It was a servant, but he had not opened it for them. A dlomic man of middle years, round-stomached, with a nervous pucker to his lips, was scurrying in their direction. A plain gray cloak was tied around his ample form; it appeared to have been hastily thrown over finer clothing. Servants bearing chests and sacks followed in his wake.

“Step down, get out!” he said. “Won’t you hurry, Sire? Do you know how long I have waited for a coach?”

The riders in both carriages descended. “Your pardon, Tayathu,” said Olik. “We had some difficulty locating the city’s… guests.”

“That’s enough about that!” snapped the man, bounding into the coach. When he was seated he leaned out again, facing Olik. To Pazel’s amazement he cupped his hands around his eyes, as though protecting himself from the sight of the humans. “My lord and prince,” he said, with some slight derision, “you have given me your word, you know. You absolutely must be gone before they… you understand the importance, surely-”

For the first time since Pazel laid eyes on the prince, he looked angry. “When Olik gives his word he keeps it, Tayathu, son of Tay.”

The man recoiled, waving his hand in agitation. “All so terrible, so ghastly! I wish you had never come to Masalym, and I hope we never, ever meet again! Of course we will not! You’re going to be jailed, or hunted, penniless, shoeless-Oh, get in, you creeping sloths, do you want to be left behind?”

The servants hoisted the last of their burdens onto the carriages’ roofs and crawled inside. The man in the gray robe slammed the door with a little shudder of nervousness. Olik whistled; the dogs rose and bore the carriages away.

“Who was that blary bounder?” said Druffle, walking forward.

“That,” said Olik, “was His Excellency the Issar.”

10. Olik’s assertion has mythological undertones. Dlomic legend identifies the nuhzat (literally, “night path”) as one of the Four Gifts chosen for the race when they descended from the stars (perhaps in proto-dlomic form?). The gifts, from certain obscure supernatural beings, were meant to help the newcomers become native to the world of Alifros, and hence survive there. Two other gifts were the “friendship of water” and the seed of the loloda tree. The fourth gift was capriciously withheld, by a spiteful being who did not welcome the arrival of the race. Its identity remains a mystery, and many dramas and moral parables refer to this possibly fatal hollow in the dlomic character. -EDITOR.