Dreams of the Compass Rose (19 page)

H
oney waves of sunset flowed outside the window.

Ahiroon put down the tome of riddles and ancient mysteries, and lifted her wan gaze to see him enter her bedchamber.

“
You!” she said.

Seert stood silently before her, his eyes ghosts, and his whole demeanor not much different from that of the Hag.

“
I suppose I should thank you,” she said. “Idiot that you are. You’ve bought me precious time.”

“
Ahiroon . . .” he whispered, his voice hoarse like the desert. “I think I’ve won. . . . I’ve outrun her, you know. For you, Ahiroon. . . .”

She looked at him blankly, strangely. “Where is it?”

“
The scythe? I still bear it. I’ll bear it for you always.”

“
Give it to me.”

“
What?”

“
I said, give it to me!”

He stared at her in sudden horrible grief. “But—” he said, “If you touch it, you will die, my love!”

“
I’ll do no such thing, and I’m not your love! Now, give it to me.”

“
But—”

“
If you truly care for me, for once, do this one thing right, Seert! It’s the only thing I’ve ever asked of you!”

And Seert stared at her, tears pooling in the corners of his eyes, muttering, “I looked at the scythe, and things seemed so clear to me then. I thought, if I came back, you’d feel differently. . . . After all that I’ve done for you, after all that came to pass. I conquered death itself! And for what?”

“
Good question,” said the emaciated young woman.

And he saw the pale metal of the crescent shimmering in his hands again, and the glaze of her eyes.

“
Take it!” he said, while the shimmering came to permeate him. “Take it then, and damn you!”

He reached out to her, and placed the gleaming pale thing right in her lap. It rested there, colors swimming against the pale cotton coverlet next to a book with an old tattered spine. And he turned around then, and was on his way out.

“
Thank you, Seert. . . .” Her voice came shadow-soft from behind. “Maybe you do love me, after all. That, I will not forget now.”

Hope surged in him, like a sudden waterfall. He turned, eyes igniting, was about to speak, implore once again—

But she lifted her thin bony wrist, and stopped him with one undeniable weakling gesture. “No, no more. Go, gentle heart. Go to your own well deserved peace.”

And he knew it was to be thus, at last.

“
I
s that all?” asked a thoroughly drunk tradesman, hiccuping loudly. “So, did she die in the end, Mist—hic—Mistress Digh?”

“
Now, now. . . . I believe I’ll tell you more of this tale another day, good folk,” said Belta, seeing many other inebriated eyes, not to mention a goodly stink of belches. “The hour grows late, and I’ll be closing the bar now. Off to bed with you all!”

“
Oh, you gotta tell the rest, Mistress Digh—”

Their drunken clamor was incredible.

“
Closed! Off with you now!” roared Belta, striking the small copper closing bowl that hung on a string near the counter.

And that was that.

Everyone knew the sound of that bowl, and the powerful alto. In about five minutes, the drinking room was cleared, and thankfully no one had to be carried out tonight.

Belta helped a slightly staggering man to the door, the last of the poor idiots, and then shut and locked it firmly behind her.

She then blew out the candles near the window, leaving only the ones burning at the counter, and started to put away the dirty mugs and scrub the place down.

In the corner, a shadow moved.

Belta swung around, her apron splattered, a dish rag in her hand, and then, recognizing the shadow, let out a sigh of relief.

“
Ah, it’s only you, death. You scared me there for a moment. I almost pelted you! Thought you were old drunkard Givas, who often hides here around closing time. Or, worse, I thought it was the girl, here already. . . .”

“
Not yet,” said a voice like dusty cobwebs. “It is only I.”

“
Good,” said Belta, and handed death the dish rag. “Then start scrubbing. It’ll help you pass the time.”

“
I am worried . . .” whispered the shadow, taking the rag with possibly trembling silver fingers, and rolling up sleeves of darkness to expose pale wrists, arms and elbows.

“
Hrumph! Don’t be, I’ll take care of it, don’t worry,” said Belta as she proceeded to clean like she meant business.

Eventually, as they got the tavern in order, there was a knock on the door.

Death and Belta froze simultaneously.

The candles sputtered soft and golden in the silence.

“
You realize that I can’t lie?” said death. “I never could.”

“
But I can,” retorted Belta. “Now, go sit still, there in the corner.”

And she went to open the door.

Ahiroon, pale and staggering like a wraith, entered the tavern slowly. Her eyes burned with an unholy intensity, while her fingers clutched a shimmering blade of unknown silver metal.

“
Are you Mistress Belta Digh?” she said in a surprisingly

strong voice of passion. “I am here to make a deal with death. Is the sorry Hag here yet?”

“
Come in, girl,” said Belta, showing her customary robust smile. “Yes, death is here. There, over at that table. But never mind her, you’ll be dealing with me.”

“
Is that so? Then pour me a mug. I’ve discovered that I can neither die nor get drunk.”

After the brew was poured, and everyone settled at different ends of the long table, Belta cleared her throat and began to speak.

“
So,” she said. “It appears that you, death, and you, my dear Ahiroon, are at a quandary. And I was asked by both parties to mediate between you—glad to oblige, by the way.”

“
Go on,” said the young woman, never glancing at the shadow. “Tell Hag that I have the scythe, here in my hands. And I know its secret. This scythe in her hands will end my life. But in the name of Risei-Ailsan, in my own it will end
hers,
if she gets anywhere near me! That’s the real reason she’s so desperate to get it back!”

“
You can please talk to me directly, you know. . . .” said death, folding bony silver fingers together in front of her.

“
Silence!” snapped Ahiroon. “I choose to have my dealings through Belta.”

Silver fingers drummed on the table.

Belta Digh leaned back in her chair comfortably, and took a swig of her own brew. She looked back and forth from one to the other. And then she took another deep swallow, while they waited, death and the young woman, in nervous tense silence.

“
Technically speaking,” said Belta, “death has no life—no offense—that could be ended. But it does own up to an existence of sorts, will you agree?”

Death nodded, and Ahiroon snorted.

“
Then I propose a trade, a standard contract between the two of you. So that death can exist to do her necessary job on all of us—sooner or later, yes—and Ahiroon can go on living until she is old and gray, quite a bit more so than me.”

“
What?” said death. “You didn’t tell me that was part of it!”

“
And you promised I could have a go at her with the scythe!” said Ahiroon angrily. “I’d like to chase her down and give her a prick or two before I agree to anything! You promised!”

“
Now, now,” said Belta. “Simmer down before I box your ears, both of you. Or else, out you go from my tavern, and you can handle this yourselves!”

Silence came quick as anything.

“
Now then,” said Belta, leaning forward against the table. “There’s one thing that only I know about each of you. Death, despite what everyone thinks, is incapable of telling a lie. Hence she is incapable of making a false promise. And you, Ahiroon, my proud intense girl, are also incapable of lying—that’s why you were always honest with Seert, up to the very end. Now, knowing that about both of you, it’s quite safe for each to trust the other’s given word. After you make your mutual promises, Ahiroon will hand me the scythe, and I will pass it on to you, death. And then the two of you will never see each other again for at least forty years. After which you, death, may come to her at last, but gently, so that she’ll never know or feel the blade of silver against her neck. . . .”

And, saying that, Belta sat back again, and lifted her mug.

After a long silence, death spoke first. “I promise,” the shadow said, “to leave you alone, Ahiroon, until you read five hundred books.”

“
I read fast,” said Ahiroon, looking death boldly in the eyes.

“
Then maybe you should slow down and take time for long walks in the garden, and playful afternoons in the spring?” suggested Belta. “It’ll put color in your cheeks. Besides, that gives you at least a book a month.”

“
A thousand,” said Ahiroon.

“
You drive a bitter bargain. Done,” said death softly.

“
Well then. I too promise not to harm you, Hag, and to give up my scythe unto your keeping.”

And with those words Ahiroon took a big breath and fearlessly offered the curved shimmering blade to Belta Digh.

Looking from one to the other, Belta took the scythe.

Here it comes,
she thought,
the moment of truth. Now we’ll know for a fact whether death lies. And it’s a good thing to know.

The scythe was a cool rainbow of light in her large palm.

Taking a deep breath, and secretly invoking long-forgotten gods from her distant homeland, Belta reached out and placed the shimmering blade into death’s silver fingers.

There came a bright flash.

A shadow sigh. . . .

The candles sputtered and went out, while dark rushed in.

Ahiroon gave a small shriek. And Belta felt her own heart sink, then make a wild jump in her ample breast.

Silence.

After minutes of hammering temples and held breath, Belta finally moved. She got up and by touch only relit a candle.

Death was gone.

Instead, there was a loud hiccup. There she was, Ahiroon, pale as parchment, but grinning, calmly sipping her mug. The young woman was now as drunk, as mortal, and as free as anyone else in Belta’s tavern.

A
s I make my rounds each night, I admit I no longer see the two shadows, death and thief, racing through the midnight city.

Ah, I sigh, for in that velvet ebony hour, I miss them. There’s now one less good tale to tell at Belta Digh’s tavern. . . .

They say Belta’s tavern finally has a real name. Belta made it known one night, to the inebriated amusement of all.

“
Tsaveh Dahnem” she calls it, pronouncing those two foreign symbols that are painted on her sign. What does it mean? I think it means “I take your pain away.”

And so she does, our Belta. She can take care of it all, solve your problem, as she pours you a mug and calls you a fool.

Why, even death knows that.

Or, at least, death must surely speak and read her native tongue—all tongues for that matter—as it reads and knows the hour of our parting. Surely, it had recognized the meaning of those glyphs when it first paid its needy visit to Belta Digh’s tavern.

I
f you ever get lost, somewhere West of the Compass Rose, look for a city called No-Sleep.

The city is ancient yet young—as each new day is young. And it’s filled to the brim with miracles.

But the king here is old and mad like a mangy goat. They say his mind is broken; a fractured mirror, filled with disjointed, ever-changing images, which are his dreams. They reshape the fabric of the city every night.

The old madman spends his waking hours attempting to put together the shards of the mirror in order, and then sleeps erratically, during which time chaos returns to him. And the residents are known to keep themselves awake for as long as possible, so as to delay the inevitable changes, for they come only after sleep’s oblivion.

You are welcome to visit this place if you like, to marvel at the wonders.

Only, whatever you do, don’t fall asleep here. For, the next time you wake, the city will have rearranged itself.

* * *

I
erulann stood above the woman. The woman was prostrated at her feet, groveling, and her tears were watering Ierulann’s boots.

“
Please forgive me, Guard of Law, grant me mercy! I wouldn’t have been driving my wagon so fast if I’d realized I was on the King’s Road, for it wasn’t here yesterday! And my employer will pay me a pittance for tardiness! I must deliver these goods, or lose my job, and I have children to feed. I beg you not to judge me by the letter of the law! Mercy, just this once!”

“
It’s true, the King’s Road was to be found two and a half leagues to the South of here, last night. But so what? You should’ve known better than to be late in the first place,” said Ierulann impassively, holding her tablet, and about to mark down the woman’s name and today’s place of residence. Guards would be dispatched there in a hurry to collect the Fine before the King Dreamt and the city was rearranged overnight according to some new chaotic pattern that lived in His mind. A day later the woman’s residence might no longer exist, and her meager possessions that now belonged in full to the King wouldn’t be there to be collected and deposited in the Treasury. No doubt, these worthless items will likely disappear from that very Treasury again on the morrow—indeed, the woman herself may end up on the opposite side of the city, and her children who knew where else—but that was not the point. The Law was to be upheld.