Burying the Shadow (18 page)

‘Glad eve to
you, madam,’ I said in Middle Khalt, which most people could at
least speak a few words of. ‘I am a traveller from Atruriey. Do you
know of anywhere I could lodge for the night?’ I thought the
Yflings would be familiar with travellers, given their
wide-spreading trade.

The woman put
her hands on her hips, which were generously- proportioned to say
the least, and cocked her head on one side. She wore a thick
woollen shawl with dangling fringes, which I would have given
anything to wrap myself up in at that moment. ‘Buying, are you?’
she asked. It was neither welcoming nor antagonistic, just a
question. I wondered whether it would be easier to lie. Sometimes,
stating my profession meant a few long minutes of explanation would
be required.

‘In a way. I
took a detour in my travels to purchase a gift for my mother here
in Yf.’

The woman
laughed, tucking a few straggly fronds of pale hair back into the
untidy knot behind her head. ‘You purchasing a house for her,
then?’

‘No, a
sepulchral plaque. Alas, she is recently dead. The work of Yf is
renowned. I want nothing less than the best for her.’

The woman had
assumed a pitying expression. ‘Sympathies, madam. Excuse me. Well,
there’ll be no obsequy-smiths trading at this hour. You’ll have to
wait until morning.’

What an astute
conclusion! I nodded. ‘As I mentioned, I seek accommodation for the
night.’

‘You can pay,
of course.’

‘Truscan zehs.
Will that pass for currency here?’

She nodded.
‘We take all here, long as it’s money somewhere. I have a couch you
can use, if you like.’ She stood aside. ‘Come inside, out of that
rain.’

The cottage
was spacious; long and low, with a large central room that doubled
as kitchen and daily living space. My hostess had an extensive
family of brats, sticky-mouthed and staring, who were huddled
around a delightfully huge fire. ‘Such a sudden end to the sun,’ my
hostess observed as she bent to stir her cooking-pot over the
fire.

I agreed,
unstrapping my carryback with chilled fingers and gratefully
relieving myself of its weight.

‘No weather
for travelling on foot,’ the woman added, looking me up and down.
Perhaps she was wondering how I could afford to pay for a plaque if
I had no animal transport.

‘I couldn’t
agree more,’ I said, pulling off my hat and scratching my damp
head, ‘but I always travel this way. Keeps me fit.’

‘Oh. Yes,’ she
replied vaguely and barked a few shrill orders at her brood, who
moved aside to let me sit down on a stool and steam among them.

After asking
my name, she told me her own was Annec and that her husband was a
master cutter, presently working away from home at a quarry, north
of Yf. ‘He supervises,’ she said importantly. ‘No cutting now for
him! He marks the stone, of course, and tells the youngsters where
to ply. If you knock in the right place, a block comes out of the
mother cliff the size of this room!’

‘Really!’

‘Oh yes.
Princes of the Delta Lands come here to buy their stone, you know.’
She peered at me. ‘Forgive my importunity, but I was wondering,
from your skin, do you claim Deltan blood?’

I smiled. ‘I
have more than a few drops of it, as it happens.’

She nodded.
‘Thought so. The mountains are very fertile hereabouts, you know.
We can supply any need, no matter how great or how particular. We
have a temple made all of quartz.’

‘Indeed? I
must visit it while I’m here.’ Thinking me Deltan, poor Annec
thought she smelled money, and was attempting to ply the local
trade with me.

‘Yes, you must
take a look at it,’ she said. ‘Now, take yourself a seat at the
table, Mistress Rayojini, and I’ll dollop you a potful of these
boilings.’

I had
stripped, or rather peeled, off my soaking topcoat and, as I sat,
Annec draped a welcome shawl around my body. She pinched the bones
of my shoulders and made a fussing comment about how I could use
more than just one of her meals. Eyeing the trough she had set down
before me, I doubted whether my naturally spare frame could bear
that.

Annec set
about mixing us both a hot rye drink, and then sat down beside me
to gossip. ‘I’m expecting again. It’ll be my seventh. Father says,
when they’re grown, we’ll have our own cutting team! Won’t that be
grand!’

‘Mmm.’ I
smiled round my food. ‘You don’t know how grateful I am for
this.’

She beamed
back at me, pleased, in a motherly fashion. I thanked all the
spirits that such creatures as Annec existed, whose apparent sole
function was the nurturing of others, and that it gave them such
pleasure. All you had to do was be weakly grateful for their
ministrations, and they puffed up with maternal urges like a sail
full of wind. I anticipated a comfortable stopover in Yf.

‘So Rayojini,
where do you hark from? Living in Atruriey, are you?’ She must have
been trying to translate my clothes, which I kept eclectic to
confuse such analyses. I saw no reason to hedge now.

‘I was born on
Taparak,’ I said, watching her carefully. Her face lit up.

‘You are a
soulscaper! Of course!’ She slapped her thighs in
self-congratulation. ‘I should have realised from the first!
Walking in all weathers, and such a long way! A soulscaper! Do you
plan to work here?’

‘I am here to
purchase a plaque, remember?’ I smiled, feeling my face fold into a
now perfect copy of my late mother’s wry expression.

Annec made a
gesture to indicate her stupidity. ‘Of course! Still...’ She
paused. ‘There might be work if you’re willing.’

‘Oh?’

‘Yes. Our town
steward, Mouraf, has sent to Taparak for help, as it happens. And
now you turn up! If it wasn’t too soon to be a response to his
petition, I’d say you were fooling me now, and had come to see
Mouraf after all.’

‘I’m not here
to see Mouraf but, naturally, if I can be of help, I shall assist
in any way...’

‘Tomorrow, I
will introduce you,’ she said. ‘Mouraf will be pleased!’

By that, I
deduced he would be pleased with her; I could see Annec enjoyed
people being pleased with her. Still, for all her simplicity, she
was a well-meaning soul. She exclaimed over my feet when I eased
them out of the remains of my boots and not only treated me to an
aromatic-salve rub but, after we’d ascertained that, happily, our
feet were of a similar size, gave me a pair of her own boots,
telling me her husband had recently equipped her with two new
pairs. I was not sure whether to believe that but, despite my
protestations, she would accept no payment for her gift. I slept
like a babe, as I’m sure she desired, upon her plump, enveloping
couch, smothered in thick blankets, with a cat stretched over my
toes for extra warmth, and woke feeling much refreshed.

As an echo of
my tranquil, contented mood, the skies had cleared somewhat
outside. There was no sunlight, but neither was there any rain. I
hoped these were conditions that would keep up after I left the
town.

Annec stuffed
me with breakfast, which I consumed amid a babble of fractious
child-noise. Later, accompanied by two of her younger children,
muffled up in thick winter coats, she escorted me to the residence
of Mouraf. The mud-streets of Yf were full of people hauling stone
up and down in carts. I imagined the air must be very dusty in
summer; even the fruit on the shop-stalls we passed was spattered
with thick droplets of mud. The Yflings were an affable community,
perhaps because so many foreigners passed through, and were totally
devoid of the usual suspicious wariness found in Khalt. Recognising
me for a stranger, even the cart-boys would pause from their
hauling and paw my sleeve, so they could show me what they were
transporting to the workshops. All the blocks were carefully
wrapped in waterproof cloth, and would be reverently unveiled for
my appraisal, as if they were the most precious of jewels. I was so
charmed by this behaviour that I nearly bought a cut of rose
marble, thinking how much a Lannish friend of mine would have liked
its colour. She was the wife of a fairly successful merchant, and
liked to commission sculptures. Her sitting room had rose-quartz
walls, and I knew she would love to have an ornament cut from this
exquisite stone to match them. Luckily, common sense interrupted my
benevolent thoughts, and reminded me it would be rather a problem
lugging a block of marble around with me until the next time I was
in Lansaal.

Mouraf’s abode
had the distinction of being called a hall, although its size was
modest in comparison to what was generally considered hall-like.
Mouraf himself was a dwarf, uncannily similar in appearance to the
local god-form, but with a handsome face framed in thick black
beard and well-groomed hair. After Annec had pulled a bell-rope and
announced herself to a servant of some kind, Mouraf had come to the
door to meet us. He stood pugnaciously on the threshold, thumbs in
belt, while Annec explained who and what I was. Then, he cocked
back his head and treated me to a blistering inspection, from brow
to toe.

‘Perhaps you
could tell me how I may help you,’ I said, inclining my head.

Mouraf did not
smile. He glanced sternly at Annec, before turning and marching
smartly back into his hall, calling over his shoulder, ‘Well,
follow then.’

We did so,
brats trailing, one beginning to grizzle.

Mouraf had a
winsome wife named Tarelyn. She was only a young girl, of comely
and homely appearance; clearly a second marriage. Mouraf’s son,
Harof, (who was of what I hesitate to describe as normal
proportions, but will do, for the sake of illustration), was very
sick. I guessed there was not that much of an age difference
between the wife and son. Annec, her brood, and I were taken to a
bedchamber where the wife sat feeding the ailing son. I immediately
warmed to the tableau, sensing the strong family bonding, the
loyalty and affection, which were soaked into the walls themselves.
Mouraf was tetchy because he was worried. It was also obvious that
his son would not have lasted until help could come from Taparak.
What lay on the bed was a person very near the end of existence in
this lifescape. I walked to the bed, smiled warmly at the girl, and
bent to inspect the boy’s eyes. He gazed back unblinking; a
handsome youth, despite his damp pallidness, who had inherited his
father’s features, if not his small stature. I could see the Fear
very strong inside him, looking out through his eyes like a sly
beast. But it was more than that, I felt.

‘Tell me the
history of this illness,’ I said.

‘He cannot
speak,’ Tarelyn said quickly. ‘He cannot walk, and sometimes he is
sick after food. You see, he is wasting.’ She indicated the bed
earnestly.

I turned to
Mouraf. ‘Fever? Or injuries?’

The steward
shook his head. ‘Strangely - neither. Not that we know of. He
simply came in from the yard one eve, after littering the chickens,
wandered in here and lay down. He has not risen since.’

‘I see. And
your healer - what is their opinion?’ I took it for granted they
would have had a healer to the house.

Mouraf
shrugged helplessly. ‘Foxed, she is. Herbs aplenty, needles to the
pulse-points, assuaging fumes; all are useless. Which led me to
believe it was a soulscape malady.’

I nodded.
‘Perhaps. Perhaps.’ I sat down upon the bed and lifted the boy’s
hand. It was heavy and lifeless; damp and cold to the touch. I
shuddered, my flesh acrawl with memory. If anything, the appearance
of poor Harof reminded me strongly of Salyon Tricante, when my
mother had healed him all those years ago. As she had predicted, I
had come across the odd similar case during my travels, and I had
also picked up whispers from my colleagues about cases of their own
that shared the same symptoms. It was more than the Fear, it was a
condition I had coined the non-death. However, I knew appearances
could be deceptive; I would not know for sure what ailed the boy
until I had inspected his soulscape.

Requesting a
lighted coal, I unpacked some fume-grains from my bag. ‘I need to
work alone,’ I said. ‘Would you mind leaving the room?’

Tarelyn began
to protest, but the steward waved her objection aside. ‘Whatever
you wish. How long will this take?’

I noticed a
sand-timer beside the bed, turned it over to begin the flow and
handed it to Mouraf. ‘Precisely this measure,’ I replied.

They left
me.

For a few
moments, I paused to collect myself, sprinkling a pinch of the
grains on the lighted coal, and inhaling deeply of the smoke. The
boy was still staring at me, but I knew he could not see me; I was
not looking forward to discovering what it was he
could
see.

The
reddish-grey smoke of the fume grains began to fill the room. I
removed the pillow from beneath the boy’s head and arranged his
limbs straight in the bed. As a matter of routine, I quickly
checked the body for signs of injury. There was no sign of great
trauma, only the usual array of scratches and minor knocks a boy of
that age would collect from day to day. I smiled when I discovered
the bruise of a love-flower on his neck - quite a large one, in
fact. It was one of those poignantly sad moments; whoever had given
him that vigorous caress would never do so again. The inspection
completed, I composed myself on the floor, legs crossed, palms
upward, and breathed deeply of the scaping-fume.

I heard a small moan
escape the lips of the boy on the bed; it suggested the fume was
beginning to take effect and that, in his dazed state, he was
encountering the boundaries of my own mindscape. His own appeared
to me as a murk of poisonous smoke; a barrier. I could feel his
consciousness trying, so desperately hard, to break through into my
mindscape. He was in a state of flight. Quite harshly, I pushed him
back and followed his wailing essence into the murk. It was
terrible. All that was left of him was a thread, a dim spark.
Usually, the scape of an individual is a panorama of colour;
thoughts blooming like flowers into what are seen as concrete
forms; great spreading vistas, bizarre constructions like cities,
which when approached might only be a honeycomb or a cloud. All of
a person’s thoughts, memories of the past, ideas for the future,
emotions and intuitions exist in the soulscape. It is also the home
of those symbols and ideas generated by the racial soulscape; the
home of gods and demons. As a contrast, the shallower mindscape is
conscious thought; a geometric territory, functioning like a
machine. Sometimes I have to work in that territory but, with
Harof, it was only the soulscape I sought. I found it to be a
depressingly barren place. There was little light, although there
was manifestation of a rudimentary landscape. The horizon was an
image of crumpled stone while, above it, luminous-edged clouds fled
in streaks across a sky of dark grey. Even as I watched, the
panorama was dimming and decomposing. There was no life in that
place; if anything, it resembled the soulscape of someone recently
deceased - a place that may be entered, though I would not
recommend it. As bodily functions wind down, it is possible to
glimpse how the inner landscapes decompose - a necessary part of
departing the flesh - for they are only of use to the incarnate
being. As to what comes after incarnation, no soulscaper had been
able to report back to the living about it. We did not believe in
ghosts, but for those that could be explained away as projected
thought forms from living minds.