Water Sleeps

53

I took my turn on watch. I discovered that I was not the only one with problem dreams. Everyone slept poorly, including Narayan. Iqbal’s baby never stopped whimpering. The goats and donkeys, though not allowed inside, also bleated and snorted and whimpered all night long.

The Grove of Doom is just plain a Bad Place. No way around that. Some things are black and white.

Morning was not much more pleasant than night had been. And even before breakfast, Narayan tried to sneak away. Riverwalker showed remarkable restraint in bringing him back still able to walk.

“You were going to run out on me now?” I demanded. I had a good idea what he really had in mind but did not want him to suspect I knew what had become of the friends he had expected to rescue him. “I thought you wanted that book back.”

He shrugged.

“I had a dream last night. And it wasn’t a good dream. It took me places I didn’t want to go, with beings I didn’t want to see. But it was a true dream. I came away with the certainty that neither of us has any chance of getting what we want if we don’t fulfill our ends of our bargain. So I’m here to tell you I’m playing it straight up, the Book of the Dead for the Key.”

Narayan betrayed a flicker of annoyance at my mention of a dream. No doubt he had hoped for divine guidance and had failed to receive it last night. “I just wanted to look for something I left here last time I visited.”

“The Key?”

“No. A personal trinket.” He squatted beside the cook fire, where Mother Gota and Suruvhija were preparing rice. The Radisha, to the amazement of all, was trying to help. Or, better put, was trying to learn what was being done so she could help at another time. Neither woman offered the Princess’s status any special respect. Gota snarled and complained at the Radisha exactly as she would have done with the rest of us.

I watched Narayan eat. He used chopsticks. I had not noticed that before. Paranoid me, I searched my memory, trying to remember if Singh had used the customary wooden spoon in the past. Uncle Doj, like all Nyueng Bao, used chopsticks. And he claimed they constituted some of his deadliest weapons.

I was going to go crazy if I did not get Narayan out of my life for a while.

He smiled as though he was reading my mind. I think maybe he put too much faith in my word on behalf of the Company. “Show me the book, Annalist.”

I looked around. “Doj?”

The man appeared in the temple doorway. What was he up to in there? “Yes?”

“The Master Deceiver wishes to see the Book of the Dead.”

“As you wish.” He descended the leaf-strewn outer steps, rummaged through one of the donkey packs, came up with the oilskin package we had retrieved from the Shad-owlander tomb. He presented it to the Deceiver with a bow and a flourish, stepped back and crossed his arms. I noted that in some mystic manner, Ash Wand had found its way onto his back. I recalled that Doj’s adopted family bore

Narayan Singh and the Strangler cult an abiding grudge. Deceivers had murdered To Tan, the son of Sahra’s brother Thai Dei. Thai Dei lay buried beneath glittering stone with the Captured.

Uncle Doj had offered no promises to Narayan Singh.

I wondered if Singh knew all that. Most of it, probably, though the subject never arose in his presence.

I noted, also, that without plan or signal, my other companions had placed themselves so that we were surrounded by armed men. Only Swan seemed unsure of his role. “Settle and have some rice,” I told him.

“I hate rice, Sleepy.”

“We’re going places where there’ll be a little more variety. I hope. I’ve eaten rice till it’s coming out my ears, too.”

Narayan opened the oilskins reverently, set them aside one by one, ready to be reused. The book he revealed was big and ugly but not much distinguished it from volumes I saw every day when I was Dorabee Dey Banerjae. Nothing branded it the most holy, most sacred text of the darkest cult in the world.

Narayan opened it. The writing inside was completely inelegant, erratic, disorganized and sloppy. The Daughter of Night had begun inscribing it when she was four. As Narayan turned the pages I saw that the girl was a fast learner. Her hand improved rapidly. I saw, too, that she had written in the same script used to record the first volume of the Annals. Were both in the same language?

Where was Master Santaraksita when I needed him?

Out on the Naghir with Sahra and One-Eye. No doubt complaining about the accommodations and the lack of fine dining. Too bad, old man. I have the same problems here.

“Satisfied that it’s genuine?” I asked.

Narayan could not deny it.

“So I’ve lived up to my half of the bargain. I have, in fact, made every effort to facilitate it. The game is back to you now.”

“You have nothing to lose, Annalist. I still wonder how I would get away from here alive.”

“I won’t do anything to keep you from leaving. If revenge is absolutely necessary, it’ll be that much sweeter down the road.” Narayan tried to read my true intentions. He was incapable of accepting anything at face value. “On the other hand, there’s no way you’ll go anywhere if you don’t produce the Key. And we’ll know if you try to pass off a substitute.” I looked at Doj.

Narayan did the same. Then he settled into an attitude of prayer and sealed his eyes.

Kina may have responded. The grove did turn icy cold. A sudden breeze brought a ghost of the odor from the place of the bones.

Singh shuddered, opened his eyes. “I have to go into the temple. Alone.”

“Wouldn’t be a back way out of there, would there?”

Singh smiled softly. “Would it do me any good if there were?”

“Not this time. Your only way out of here is not to be a Deceiver.”

“So be it. There’ll be no Year of the Skulls if I don’t take a chance.”

“Let him go,” I told Doj, who stood between Narayan and the temple. River and Runmust, I noted, now had bamboo in hand, in case the little man made a break.

“He’s been in there a long time,” River complained.

“But he’s still there,” Doj assured us. “The Key must be well hidden.”

Or not there anymore, I did not say. “What’re we looking at here?” I asked Doj. “I’m not clear on what this Key is. Is it another lance head?” The Lance of Passion had opened the plain to Croaker, then had ushered the Captured to their doom.

“I’ve only heard it described. It’s a strangely shaped hammer. He’s about to come out.”

Narayan appeared. He seemed changed, invigorated, frightened. Riverwalker gestured with his bamboo. Run-must raised his slowly. Singh knew what those poles could do. He had no chance if he tried to run now.

He carried what looked like a cast-iron war hammer, old, rusty, and ugly, with the head all chipped and cracked. Narayan made it seem heavier than it looked.

“Doj?” I asked. “What do you think?”

“Fits the description, Annalist. Except for the head being all cracked.”

Singh said, “I dropped it. It cracked when it hit the temple floor.”

“Feel it, Doj. If there’s any power there, you ought to be able to tell.”

Doj did as I said once Singh surrendered the hammer. The Nyueng Bao seemed startled by its weight. “This must be it, Annalist.”

“Take your book and start running, Deceiver. Before temptation makes me forget my promises.”

Narayan clutched the book but did not move. He stared at Suruvhija and the baby.

Suruvhija was using a red silk scarf to dab spit-up off the infant’s chin.

Fools! Idiots!