Shadowrise (52 page)

“Enough.” Barrick didn’t want to think about it—it was too unnatural. “And what will happen when we get to Sleep? Your master’s dying—we both know that. What will happen to you . . . and to me, for that matter? ”

“We will . . . be safe, I’m certain.” The man called Pick said this as though he had never actually thought of it before this moment. “Master was always good to me. And there are the
wimmuai
—he has always taken care of them as well. He lets them die of old age!”

“Wimmy-aye? What are those? Some kind of animal?”

Pick ducked his head. “They are . . . they are men like you and I. Bred and raised in Sleep, offspring of folk captured over the years at the Shadowline. Master usually has a dozen of them at one time.”

Slaves, in other words. Human slaves. But that was no real surprise—Barrick had never for an instant supposed that mortals would enjoy the same privileges in Sleep as the Dreamless themselves.

Qu’arus spoke in his sleep, a murmured gabble that had the sound of words in it but was no more intelligible to Barrick than the sighing of the wind.

“However did you come to serve such a creature?” Barrick asked.

Pick looked up, his face tight with suffering. “I was . . . I was lost. He found me. He showed me kindness and took me into his service.”

“Kindness? This . . . thing? I cannot believe that.”

The other gaped. “But he was . . . he is . . . !”

Barrick shrugged. “If you say it is so.” His memories of the other Dreamless, Ueni’ssoh, were of a heartless monster. Could this creature really be so different, or might the man named Pick simply be addled by his experiences behind the Shadowline?

“Hungry,” Skurn said suddenly. The raven launched himself from the stern of the boat, then flapped heavily away over the rushes lining the river and toward the forest.

What ails that bird?
Barrick wondered.
He has not said a word before that since I can’t remember when. On most days I cannot have a moment’s peace from his yammering.

 

It became clear as Barrick’s time on the river stretched into what must have been days that Skurn was not just being quiet but actively avoiding company: he spent much of his time in the air, but even when he returned from his solitary flights he tended to perch atop the stern, a curving piece of black-stained wood taller than Barrick, and silently watch the river and bank sliding past.

Perhaps it’s the blemmy that he doesn’t like,
Barrick thought.
The gods can testify it’s ugly enough to frighten anyone.

The blemmy was indeed ugly, but also very strong, accommodating sudden changes in the river current or avoiding rocks with little more than a flick of an oar. Barrick could only imagine the difference when two of the headless things were rowing together—it must be a very swift craft indeed.

In a rough part of the river, as the blemmy steered the boat between two large rocks visible only by the foam they made on the water’s surface, Barrick almost lost Gyir’s mirror. As he leaned with the boat’s sudden change of direction the leather pouch fell out of his shirt and bounced off the bench. His left hand, his once-crippled hand, shot out and snatched it from the air like a hawk taking a sparrow.

For long moments he stared at it, amazed by what his wounded arm could now do, but also chilled by the idea of what had almost happened. He was a fool to be so careless with the mirror—it was his purpose now. He scoured the boat until he found a spare loop of the surprisingly slender anchor cord and sawed off a piece with his broken spear. He poked a hole in the pouch big enough to accommodate the cord, pushed it through and knotted it, then looped it around his neck before hiding it in his shirt again.

Other boats soon began to appear on the river, mostly small fishing skiffs manned by one or two ragged Dreamless. Barrick saw a few houses and even some small settlements begin to appear along the banks, presumably owned by these same gray-skinned folk. But some craft were a good bit bigger than their own, barges with wide, bruise-purple sails or even long galleys rowed by half a dozen blemmies or more.

“Are we close to Sleep?” he asked Pick after one such craft had surged past them, leaving them rolling in its high wake.

“A day away—no, a little more,” the tattered man said distractedly. His master was still alive, but only barely, and Pick almost never left his side.

Later that long, gray afternoon Qu’arus swam up from his slumbers again, but this time once his gleaming eyes opened they stayed that way, watching everything, although his body remained limp.

“Here, Master, have some water,” the patchwork man said, squeezing his cloth over Qu’arus’ mouth.

“Pikkhh,” the gray man rasped, using the sunlander tongue for the first time; his harsh accent made him hard to understand. “I not see you . . . !”

“But I’m here, Master.”

“I feel . . . my home . . .”

“Yes. We are close, Master,” Beck told him. “We will reach your house soon. Stay strong!”

“The end comes soon now, little Pikkhh,” the Dreamless whispered, a fleck of pinkish spittle at each corner of his ashen mouth.

“Don’t fear, Master, you will survive to see your home.”

“Not the end . . . for
me,
” Qu’arus breathed, so quietly that even Barrick bent down to hear better. “I care . . . little that. The end for all things. I feel it . . . feel it comes closer. Like cold wind.” He sighed and his eyes fluttered shut, but he spoke one last time before sleep took him again. “Like wind from land of dead.”

Qu’arus woke several more times as the day passed, but Pick said his words were almost all nonsense. He did not move much of anything besides his mouth and his eyes: the dying Dreamless seemed to watch them both with a kind of frightened yearning, as though waiting for them to cure or kill him. Barrick could not help thinking of the head of the Trigonate oracle Brennas, which was said to have remained alive and speaking for three years in a box after the Xandians had executed him.

After a while Barrick made his way past the giant blemmy, who was grinding away at the oars with his usual silent determination, and clambered up into the front of the boat to look for Skurn. He hung onto the high prow to keep his balance as he scoured the distance for some sign of the raven. Something dark was indeed on the horizon, but it was far bigger than Skurn.

“What is that—a storm?” he asked Pick. It seemed to hang too close to the earth, a great blob of darkness spread across the river, thick and black at the bottom but growing fainter higher up until it blended into the twilight sky like a puddle of ink leaching into a blotter.

Pick shook his head. “That’s Sleep,” he said.

“The city? Truly? But it’s black—like thunderclouds!”

“Ah! Those are the darklights. The people of Sleep do not like the brightness of this twilight world under the Mantle. The darklights make a night for them to live in.”

Barrick stared at the blotch on the horizon, which seemed to wait for him like a spider squatting grimly in its web. “They make
more
darkness? This gods-cursed forever twilight isn’t gloomy enough for them?”

“The Dreamless love the dark,” Pick told him seriously. “They can never have enough.”

 

The raven finally returned. He landed on the railing of the small boat and stood silently, grooming his mottled pinfeathers in a disinterested way.

“Do you see that up ahead? ” Barrick asked him. “Pick says it’s Sleep.”

“Aye, us seed it.” The raven picked at something invisible. “Us flew there.”

“Is it a city or just a town? How big?”

“Oh, a city, it be. Fearful big. Fearful dark.” Skurn tipped his head sideways to stare at Barrick. “Didn’t listen to us, did you? Now you and us both goes there.” The raven let out a whistle of disgust, then hopped away down the rail toward the stern. “It be a bad place, that Night Man city,” he called back. “Good thing us has got wings. Too bad some others here hasn’t.”

—from “A Treatise on the Fairy Peoples of Eion and Xand”

 

 

“ I
HAVE CHOSEN what gifts seemed best.” Dawet still wore his traveling cloak, as though he had only clambered down from his horse a few moments ago. He and Briony had met in the River Garden this time, whose damp air made it one of Broadhall Palace’s less visited spots. “The wars to the north and south mean that many things are in short supply, especially for such unusual folk. I’m afraid it cost more than a few crabs, as the saying goes.”

“I hope I gave you enough.” Briony had now spent almost all the money Eneas had loaned her.

“It sufficed, but I have none left over to give back.”

She sighed. “I cannot thank you enough, Master dan-Faar. So many people owed me allegiance but failed me . . . or were taken from me. Now here I stand with only one friend left.” She smiled. “Who would ever have guessed it would be you?”

He smiled back, but it was not the most cheerful expression she had ever seen him wear. “Friend, yes, Princess—but your only one? I doubt that. You have many friends and allies in Southmarch who would speak for you—aye, and do more than speak—if you were there.”

She frowned. “They must know by now that I live. Word must have spread, at least a little. I have been living here openly for months.”

Dawet nodded. “Yes, Highness, but it is one thing to know your sovereign lives, another to risk your life for her in her absence. How can even your most loyal supporters know whether you are coming back? Distance makes things uncertain. Get yourself safely to Southmarch and I daresay you will find more than a few partisans.”

She nodded, then offered him her gloved hand. “I have no money left to pay you, Master dan-Faar,” she said sadly. “How long can I keep relying on your friendship when I cannot repay it?”

He kissed the back of her hand, but kept his brown eyes fixed on her as he did so. “You may rely on the friendship no matter what, my lady, but do not assume that I am the worse for the current imbalance. Tell yourself that I am simply gambling—something I am well known for—by performing a task here, a small chore there, none at more than slight disadvantage to myself, but each carrying the possibility of great remuneration later on.” He let go of her hand and made a mocking bow. “Yes, I think that would be the best way to look at our admittedly . . . complicated . . . relationship.”

His smile had much of the tiger grin she remembered from the old days, and for a moment Briony found herself quite breathless.

“That said,” he continued as he straightened up, “you will find your tribute in a room above this tavern near Underbridge—“ he handed her a scrap of parchment—“along with two discreet men who will transport it for you.” He bowed. “I hope that serves your needs, my princess. To be honest, following your adventures is nearly payment enough. Can you tell me why the Kallikans?”

“It is the gods’ will.”

“If you truly do not wish to tell me . . .”

“That is not a polite evasion, Master dan-Faar. A goddess spoke to me in a dream—well, a demigoddess . . .” He was smiling at her. “You do not believe me.”

“On the contrary, my lady,” he said, “I believe that things are happening that are without precedent since the days of the gods. You and your family are clearly in the midst of them. Beyond that, I reserve my secret heart even from you, Lady.”

“That is fairly spoken.”

“And with that I must leave you.” He brushed a few flecks of night-dew off his breeches. His scabbard thumped against the bench. “I do not know when we will meet next, Highness. Other duties call me.”

“You are . . . you are leaving the city?” The moment of panic this brought caught her by surprise.

“I am afraid I am leaving Syan entirely, Princess.”

“But you . . . you are my only real ally, Dawet. Where are you going?”

“I cannot tell you,” he said. “I beg your pardon for my secrecy, but a lady’s good name is at stake. Still, be assured this is not the last time we will see each other, Princess. I do not need to believe in anything very strange to feel certain of
that
.” He took her hand as she stood, suddenly full of confusion and discomfort. “My thoughts will be with you, Briony Eddon. Never doubt yourself. You have a destiny and it is far from fulfilled. That you may trust when you can trust nothing else.”

He raised her hand to his lips and kissed it for the second time; a moment later he had turned and slipped away into the shadows of the garden path.

 

“I still do not quite understand what you are doing, Princess Briony,” said Eneas as they made their way along a narrow road that ran parallel to Lantern Broad. So far they had attracted much less attention than they would have on the great thoroughfare, which was certainly what Briony wanted. Still, it was impossible to go out into Tessis with the heir to the throne, his guards, and a pair of oxcarts without drawing a crowd.

“Then you do me the greatest possible compliment by trusting me.” As soon as she had said it, Briony worried that she sounded like she was trying to charm him.
He is a good man, after all—I owe him something more than just the ordinary round of courtly pleasantries.
“In truth, I’ve told you all I can. If I say any more you’ll no longer fear I might be mad—you will be convinced of it!”

Eneas laughed. “I swear there is no such thing as a workaday conversation with you, Briony Eddon! Because of that alone I would have been happy to accompany you anywhere. As it is, I have only been asked to go to a part of my own city that I confess I do not know well. Underbridge has long had a name for its strange folk and stranger happenings.”