What Was Forgotten (17 page)

And he waited.

The wind was only the first breath of the storm. By late afternoon, no one was working in the harbour, and any ships that were not already moored turned out of the harbour and anchored further away. Despite this, two ships collided and a third capsized. Osmun could only gauge the length of time he had waited by his growing hunger. When had he last eaten? If he spent much more time this way, he would not just resemble a beggar; he would only need to extend his hands.

The dock workers began to disperse as it became clear the storm would not soon relent, and the beginning of rainfall seemed to welcome their departure. Osmun fixed his attention on one, watched him, and moved around the warehouse to get ahead of him. The man was tall and imposing, with tattoos covering his forearms. Osmun wasn’t sure why he thought this man might know, but compared to the rest, he looked the least pious; the tattoos, as far as he could tell, were not religious in their imagery.

Osmun cut through one alley to come out onto a narrow street a block ahead of the man. The worker was walking swiftly, his shoulders slightly hunched as the rain continued to fall.

“Excuse me,” Osmun said as he approached the man, his hands clasped together in a beggar’s fashion. “Can I trouble you with a question, sir?”

The worker nodded but said nothing.

“I noticed you work on the pier, and I wondered if you’ve ever come across someone shipping a, uh… you see, I have trouble sleeping, and there is said to be a root from Ivesia that might help someone like myself. I can’t remember the name of the thing, but I remember it was said to be from Ivesia.” Osmun added a cough to the end of his plea in case some pity helped his cause.

The worker shook his head. “Don’t know nothing of it,” he said. He began walking again, but Osmun stepped in front of him.

“Of course, of course, but do you know someone that might?”

“No.”

“Perhaps you have worked with an Ivesian before?”

“No.”

“Or know someone who has?”

“Move aside.”

“Do you know a girl named Nasiri?”

The punch to the gut winded Osmun instantly. He dropped to his knees and the worker walked off, uttering a considerable string of curses at him. If he had eaten earlier that day, he may have vomited. An odd mercy, then, that he hadn’t.

A voice spoke from beside him. “Are you alright?” Osmun felt a hand underneath his arm pulling him back to his feet. “Those dock workers are normally a patient lot, but you seem to’ve picked the prickliest of the bunch.”

“Thank you,” Osmun said as he brushed the dirt and mud from his knees. “I’ll be fine now, I think.” The man beside him was young, perhaps even younger than Osmun. He had curly brown hair and dimples that made him seem even younger than he was. His face did not look clean-shaven, but rather that he never had the cause to shave before.

“You don’t seem like a beggar to me,” the man said.

“Why do you say that?”

“Well, you look like a beggar, certainly. But a beggar is usually more concerned with food and drink and not how well he sleeps.”

“You heard that?”

“I did. Also, if you know of the root you’re asking after, you know that it isn’t inexpensive.”

Osmun stood up straight, shaking off his beggar’s stance. “And how is it you know this?”

“I’m a merchant. Well, a merchant of a sort. What’s important is that I can find what you’re looking for.”

Osmun felt the touch of Xidius involved in this somehow. Maybe it was simple luck, random and blind, but he was not about to consider himself lucky. If he could find the Ivesian root, he might find some Ivesians, and someone who might know Nasiri.

“How quickly?”

“I can take you to it now. Unless you’d prefer to trouble some more of the pier workers, though I’d not recommend it.”

The kind stranger led Osmun through twisting back alleys to a small storehouse that, by the smell of it, was mostly crates of salted fish. “Pardon the aroma,” he said. “It helps repel burglars and the city watch. Down the stairs on your right.” He had introduced himself as Myron Petral, and he carried himself with the entitlement of a noble and the confidence of a streetwise criminal. Myron carefully shut the door behind them as they entered, and he noticed Osmun eying him with curiosity. “Pay me no mind. It’s a heavy door and slams shut if you aren’t careful. I didn’t want to start you with the noise, or to announce to the entire block of my comings and goings.”

Only when he reached the basement did Osmun think that he had not been led there, but rather he had been guided there; Myron had walked behind him the entire way. Odd, but Osmun would not blame him for being cautious.

“This seems a bit elaborate for a root,” Osmun said.

“I agree,” Myron said. “You and I know that it’s just a root, but the law says it is banned because it is used in Ivesian shamanism.”

Halfway down the stairs, Osmun looked over his shoulder. “Is it?” Of course it was.

Myron shrugged. “If I ever meet an Ivesian shaman, I’ll ask.”

The cellar was dark. There was only one torch lit, and its flame had nearly gone out. All around the small room were wooden crates stacked haphazardly on top of one another, some only still upright from leaning against others. There were a few chairs that looked dramatically out of place; the polished wood gleamed even in the dimness of the room, and as Osmun approached them he could smell the richness of the leather. The room was as much a mixture of peculiarities as Myron himself.

“Go ahead and take a seat,” Myron said as he walked to a door on the far side of the room. “You look like you could use a rest.” Osmun sat, and the sensation reminded him of standing in the warmth of the fire of Tumanger’s shop. He would remember to procure chairs of this kind when he became a cleric.

Myron came back a few moments later with two cups of tea. “You look like you could use this,” Myron said as he handed a cup to Osmun and sat in a chair facing him. “Are you hungry?”

“You are awfully charitable to a man you don’t think is a beggar.” The tea smelled sweet and inviting. He took a few sips and found it surprisingly nourishing.

Myron sipped at his own drink. “Well, we’ve already established that you aren’t. But that’s no reason for me to be a rude host.”

Osmun was uncertain how to direct the conversation. He had no use for the root – he needed to find someone who did have use for it, an Ivesian, preferably. An Ivesian who might know Nasiri.

“Should we discuss the… the…” Osmun trailed off. The combination of the tea and the chair had relaxed him to a state he had not felt since before the trial. “I must be more tired than I thought.”

Myron laughed and sipped his tea as he watched Osmun. He looked amused.

“I think… I think…”

“That was faster than I thought,” Myron said. He stood and took the cup from Osmun’s feeble grasp.

What was this? Osmun looked around the room, but even his vision was clouding. He expected to see the shadow lurking somewhere. This had to be its trickery.

Myron grabbed Osmun’s face in one hand and shook his head from side to side. “Are you nice and comfortable?” Osmun could not respond. He could barely even move his eyes and he felt himself being crushed under the immense weight of his own powerlessness. “Good,” Myron said.

Every form in his vision was dissolving into a muddled blur, but Osmun could sense another figure had joined them in the room. He could not see a face, only a skulking darkness steadily approaching him.

Feelings returned slowly. His arms and legs tingled with numbness. He tried to stir them from what felt like a long hibernation, but they hardly obeyed. Though his head was swimming, sight and sound returned gradually as well, and before long he could tell he was in a basement somewhere, seated in a chair.

He was tied to it.

He moved his head from side to side and felt a wave of nausea. Where was he? His memory was a wall of fog, and trying to recall what had led him to this place, wherever it was, was like trying to remember the details of a vague dream. He looked around the room but his vision was blurry and he could hardly discern any details of his surroundings at all. The door creaked open as if to answer, and two figures entered the room.

“I think he is awake.” It was a woman’s voice.

“We might do well to wait a while longer,” a man said. Osmun recognized the voice, but… could not place how. “He may still be somewhat useless.”

“We cannot wait longer. Ask him now.”

A pause. “Fine.”

There was tension there, Osmun noticed. He blinked and squinted as he tried to focus on them, to no effect. The man walked over and stood in front of the chair, arms folded.

“Who are you after?”

“Who are you?” Osmun asked as he struggled against his restraints. “Are you Ardent? Why am I tied up?

“Ah, I should’ve expected this. I’m Myron, do you remember me from earlier? You were asking after an Ivesian root and you were having a tough time of it. You came back here and had tea, and there was black bear’s root in it, which makes you sleep like the dead. Unfortunately it also makes you forget the last few hours or more, depending on how much you have. Now, I consider myself something of a risk-taker, so I’m going to make a wild guess that you are not actually after the black bear’s root, were you? You are after
someone
, yes?”

“No, no one. I was looking for the root.” He felt the sharp edge of a blade against his hand.
“I don’t want to cut your fingers off, but I want to be lied to even less. Now tell me who you’re after.”

“An Ivesian,” Osmun said, thinking he could get through this using partial truths.

Another pause. Myron glanced over his shoulder before he asked the next question.

“Are there any other Ardent who know where you are?”

Osmun laughed, Myron put pressure on the blade.

“Will you be laughing when I start to cut?”

“I might, I can’t feel my hands.”

“Let’s find out.”

“I’m not Ardent!” Osmun shouted. He sounded like a drunk, but it preempted Myron from slicing into his hand. “You really thought I was one of them?”

“Who else would be asking for an outlawed substance in such clumsy manner?”

“You thought I was one of them, and you brought me right here to your hiding spot. What a stupid thing to do.”

“You’ve been looking for us for months.” There was less confidence in his voice.

“Maybe they have. I haven’t. But at least this works in your favour. When you do come across any of them, keep your idiot mouth quiet.”

“I
told
you,” said the other voice.

“We needed to find out how many of them were looking for us,” Myron replied.

“He’s not one of them. He’s not Ardent.”

“He’s lying! Of course he is. Why else would he be asking for you?”

Osmun held his breath. He thought he misheard. But she stepped forward into focus and bent over to be face to face with him. He was uncertain at first; it had been years since he had seen her, but he saw her father’s features on her. She was skinny and tall with rounded cheekbones and large, brown eyes. Her long brown hair was tied in a complex braid and hung over her right shoulder. There was a faint scar that ran from her left temple down to her jaw. It was her, unmistakably. He wondered, with such striking features, how she could have remained hidden for so long.

“If you are not Ardent, then who are you?” Nasiri asked.

Even though this was who he had come to find, Osmun still could not immediately bring himself to explain all the things that had happened. They still seemed surreal to him, even then.

“I am…
was
a priest,” Osmun said. Hearing the words out loud gave them a new authority. No longer a priest… only temporarily, he reassured himself. “I need your skill. A skill that I hope you have. If you don’t, then……” Then there was nowhere to turn next. No one left to help him. “Then I suppose you can do what you will with me, though I have no interest in turning you over to the Ardent. In truth, I think they’re after me by now, too.”

“What skill?” Nasiri asked.

“I have divine sight. I can commune with spirits and I can send them from this world. But there is one… one spirit that will not go. It came through a rift that we created, and now it stalks me and others in the city. As though this is its home. It is beyond my control. I need to know how to create a rift that I might send it back.”

“What makes you think that if you make a rift, your stalker will go through?”

“I will make it.” There was no doubt in Osmun’s voice. “Do you have this skill, and will you teach me?”

Nasiri moved her jaw from side to side as she stared at Osmun. “I will not help you for nothing,” she said. “There is something I want. After you get it, I will help you banish this… stalker.”

“Have you heard of such a thing before?” Myron cut in.

“No,” Nasiri shook her head. “But it followed him here.”

It was hours later when Nasiri undid the ropes holding Osmun to the chair. Myron had been gone for a time but had come back.