The Many Deaths of the Black Company (Chronicle of the Black Company) (108 page)

Each of the sixteen sectors centered on a Shadowgate. Each had its own weather, season and time of day, which became obscured and confused approaching the midway points between Shadowgates.

“It’s like looking at the rest of the universe from inside a crystal ball,” Murgen said.

“How come you never mentioned that it looks like this?”

“Because I never saw it like this. Maybe from the ghost realm you can’t see this.”

From up there color came to the plain. Never before had I seen so much color in the place of glittering stone.

Tobo and Shukrat shot past us, headed down, whooping with glee. I said, “Fun time is over.” Howler’s carpet had come into view, creeping along the line of the road down from our own world’s Shadowgate.

We entered the fortress through a hole in its roof. That seemed the only damage that never repaired itself. Maybe the guardian demon found a hole more useful than a dry floor. Certainly he had no cares about weather.

Although it was daytime outside, our agent on the scene, ancient Baladitya, was napping. These days he probably spent more time snoozing then he spent awake.

By the time Murgen and I set down, Shukrat was involved in a bitter argument with Nashun the Researcher and the First Father. She and the Voroshk sorcerers used their native tongue, of course, but exact words were of no consequence. At heart the squabble was as old as humanity itself, fug-headed antiques locking horns with omniscient youth.

“Smells in here,” Murgen observed.

It flat-out stank. Evidently the Voroshk were waiting for the serving staff to clean up after them. “Guess Shivetya doesn’t have a sense of smell. If I was him I’d stop feeding them till they learned to take care of their chores.” Baladitya, I noted, kept up his share of the housework despite tendencies toward absentmindedness and single-mindedness.

The racket raised by Shukrat and her relatives finally disrupted the copyist’s snores.

Baladitya was a hairy old scarecrow desperately in need of a change of clothing. His ragged apparel was all that he had ever worn in my experience. He was almost as bad as the Howler, although less densely wrapped.

A close encounter with scissors, comb and a tub of warm water would not have been amiss, either. Tangled wisps of fine white hair floated all around his head and face. I thought bits might begin floating away, like seeds from a dandelion.

The inside of the fortress was completely creepy. I never relaxed there. It rubbed me the same way Uncle Doj always had. Wrong. Suspiciously wrong. In a quiet, unobtrusive way. A way that left me incapable of relaxing. Baladitya zeroed in on Murgen, wanting to know all about how Sleepy was doing, about how his old friend Master Santaraksita was doing, about how Tobo was. He had the Annalist bug. Also, though he had chosen his life out here for the intellectual adventure, he did miss people.

I suspect the Voroshk were not excellent company. They probably whined constantly in a language he did not understand, making no effort to communicate other than by yelling louder and slower.

I glanced upward, wondering when the others would get around to showing up. Then I strolled away a few steps, to the outer fringe of the dome of sourceless light that illuminated Baladitya’s work area. I stared at the vast, indistinct bulk of the demon Shivetya.

The darkness around the devil was deeper than I recalled it, deeper than others had recorded it. The great wooden throne was equally ill-defined. The humanoid bulk nailed to the throne by means of silver daggers seemed less substantial than I remembered. I wondered if the golem became more ethereal as he gave of himself to sustain his guests.

Visitors have to eat. Shivetya sustains his guests and allies by exuding large, mushroomlike growths of manna. I recall the taste as slightly sweet and mildly spicy in that way that leaves you trying to figure out exactly what the spice might be. Just a few bites provide immense energy and boost your confidence dramatically. But nobody gets fat eating the stuff. In fact, it is a little repulsive and you do not touch it until you are hungry or hurting.

Obviously, Shivetya himself was not going to remain chubby forever, either.

I realized that big red eyes had opened. Shivetya was regarding me with more interest than I was regarding him.

The golem did not speak aloud. We believed that it could not. When it chose to communicate it did so by speaking directly inside your brain. Some found the experience no problem. I had not endured it myself, to my recollection, so cannot describe it. If Shivetya invaded my dreams during the half generation I lay enchanted in the caverns below I had no recollection of that, either. I have no memories whatsoever of that time.

Murgen and Lady do remember. Some. They will not discuss it. They prefer to let what made it into the Annals speak for itself.

It must not have been pleasant.

The shadows left Shivetya looking like he had a dog or jackal’s head, which sparked a momentary recollection of childhood idols. I guess he
was
a sort of lord of the underworld. He just did not do much recruiting.

One huge eye closed, then reopened. The demon of glittering stone showing off his sense of humor. Knowing that wink would obsess me for days.

Hands took hold of my arm. I glanced down. My sweetheart had arrived. And in this dim light she looked much younger and happier. I whispered, “You guys finally made it.”

“Howler is turning into a timid little old man. He’s got the idea that he might have a future.”

“Let’s stroll off that direction about half a mile and get lost for half an hour.”

“Well. I’m certainly tempted. But I’m wondering what’s gotten into you.”

I pinched her behind. She squeaked and swatted my arm. I said, “Whoops!”

Both of Shivetya’s eyes were turned our way now.

Lady said, “That sort of takes the edge off the moment, doesn’t it?”

It did. So did several pairs of eyes watching from where the rest of the crowd were gathered. The youngsters in particular were appalled.

“Oh, well. Life’s a bitch.”

88

Fortress with No Name: Recruiting Excitement

The squabbling amongst the Voroshk went on and on, seldom subsiding for long. I suspect there were several occasions when those two old men wanted to punish the rest of us but were held in check by Shivetya. Tobo paid them no mind. He remained busy communing with Baladitya or the golem. The latter seemed to be contributing to the boy’s already excessive arsenal of power.

Whenever it became too much for them, Arkana or Shukrat would retreat to wherever I happened to be, usually ending up seated on the floor, facing away from the family. “They’re afraid of you,” Arkana explained. “They think you’re the real terror and Tobo is all for show. They think you destroyed our world.”

“I didn’t destroy anything.” Curious. Her accent was not nearly as pronounced out here, when she wanted some protection.

“I know that. You know it. Even they probably know. But they don’t want it to be their fault. Inside, they’re almost as bad as Gromovol and Sedvod. For a couple of hundred years now to be Voroshk has meant to be perfect in every way. Without fault.”

“So how come all the arguing?”

“Because Shukrat wants to stay with you. Because Sedvod died without proper rites. Because they don’t want to believe that Gromovol did so many really stupid things, including getting Magadan killed. That’ll really cause terrible Family political trouble when the news gets back home. Magadan’s father is the First Father’s brother and they really hate each other.”

Evidently the surviving Voroshk preferred to pretend that their Family still ruled in a land not wasted by murderous shadows.

“And why are they yelling at you?”

Arkana sighed. She tucked her head down in between her knees, where I could not get a good look at her expression. “I guess because I really kind of said I don’t think I want to go home, either.”

Arkana really used the word “really” a real lot. “Despite what happened?”

“They don’t know that part yet. They don’t need to know about it.”

“They won’t hear about it from me. But Gromovol might…”

“Even Gromovol isn’t stupid enough to talk about it. There’s no way he can talk his way out of that being his fault. By the rules of our own people. If that came out even his own father would desert him.”

Wearing a somewhat dazed expression Shukrat retreated our way. Arkana moved over a few feet but otherwise did not acknowledge her existence. Neither did Shukrat deign to see Arkana. Shukrat settled on the stone floor, arms around her legs and chin upon her knees. There were tearstreaks on her cheeks.

“Well?” I said. “Do I need to go over there and spank somebody for being rude to my little girls?”

Shukrat laughed weakly. “You’d have to hit the other end. About ten thousand times. With a blacksmith’s hammer.”

“Just to get their attention,” Arkana said. Posed as they were now the family resemblance was clear. Only when they were up and moving under the direction of their divergent characters did they seem so different.

The girls had a point. Even the destruction of their world had not been enough to shake those two old boulders loose from their dry riverbed of fixed thought.

I asked, “Arkana, are you pulled together now? Want to come translate for me?” I could use the tongue of Juniper, of course, but this would give her a chance to feel like she was useful.

She thought about that for a moment. She exchanged glances with Shukrat. Both girls looked at me.

I promised, “I’ll only bully them a little.”

The older Voroshk were keeping their fangs sharp by gnawing on Gromovol. If the kid had not fucked up so badly I might have felt sorry for him. He did not have the option of returning to our world. He would have to take whatever those two chose to hand out.

“You’ve been a little hard on my girls,” I told the First Father. “Time to knock it off. Either one of you bothered to go back and see how things turned out at home?”

No response. Other than ugly looks.

“So you don’t really know how things stand.…” An epiphany. “Arkana, sweetie. They ran away. Coming after you kids was their excuse. And when they used it up they couldn’t go back. I’ll bet you Shivetya hasn’t been forcing them to stay here at all.” I recalled that once there had been three of them. Somebody must have gone. And maybe did not live to bring back news.

Those old men were cowards? It fit.

For the first time in generations the Voroshk faced something the Family could not overwhelm as easily as stamping a mouse. And the only way some of them could deal with that was to run away.

These two would not want to go back now in case there
were
survivors.

I said, “I’ll be right back.” I trotted over to Tobo, interrupted, gave him the short version. “How long are you going to be? Do I have time to take a run through the Khatovar gate with those old men so we can find out what the shadows really did do over there?”

The boy’s eyes went blank.

When I was about ready to slap him to get his attention back he refocused, told me, “Shivetya says that would be a huge health risk. Shivetya says you’re right about the Voroshk. They did run away. Shivetya says more courageous members of the clan are still active back there. A lot of shadows are active there, too. Shivetya says the gate is growing closed. With almost every surviving shadow on that side of it. Shivetya says leave it alone. Shivetya says go ahead with your scheme. Shivetya says not to worry about Khatovar. You can’t reach it. Trying will only get you killed. And it will still be there when everything else is done.”

Was that Tobo speaking or was the demon using his lips? “Shivetya, I fear, contains an awful lot of stinky brown stuff. For a guy who never eats.”

“You think it’s unreasonable, him being a little selfish about the order things get done? Considering the scale of his contributions?”

“Humbug.” I stamped back to Arkana. I wondered how anybody was supposed to murder a goddess—and survive it so the Goddess’s jailer could be hustled down the dark path right behind her. “Sweetheart, tell those old farts that I want them to fly out to your homeworld with me. That I want to see what’s happened there. And that I really do want to see what’s left of Khatovar.”

Arkana took several little sideways steps that moved her around in front of me, putting her back to Nashun and the First Father. “You really mean that?”

Softly, because that half-wit Gromovol seemed to have become interested in what was being said, I responded, “As far as they need to know, I do.”

The old men did not do much faking of any reason for avoiding a trip home for a fact-finding tour. They did make it clear that they would not go.

“What do you plan to do with your lives?” I asked. “Shivetya won’t let you loaf around here forever.”

They suspected they were about to be sucked into something. And they were right, of course. I added, “The Company always has room for a few good men.” Or bad men, as the case might be. I was not so sure about chickenshit and mediocre men—though having a couple extra sorcerers sounded worthwhile enough to make the try.

Trouble was, if I did seduce these two, how would I keep them under control?

That sounded like something Lady ought to ponder. It was the sort of question she had dealt with regularly before I stumbled into her life.

I could hear the clockwork kerchunking inside Voroshk craniums. Their thoughts were obvious. Tell Croaker anything. Tell Croaker what he wanted to hear. Get off this cruel and frightful plain. Run away. Find a place where they have not heard of the Voroshk, where they have no major wizards of their own. Set up shop there and slap together a whole new empire.

Just as the Shadowmasters had done before them.

“Tell them I’ll come back after they’ve had a day or two to think it over.”

As she retreated with me Arkana told me, “If they agree to join you they’ll give you more trouble than Gromovol did.”

“Really?” I chose a tone that was supposed to let her know I might not be as dumb as I looked. “How do you suppose we could keep them from doing that?”