The Many Deaths of the Black Company (Chronicle of the Black Company) (40 page)

*   *   *

The excitement was over. I had indulged in a decent meal. My attitude much improved, I took the opportunity to renew my acquaintance with Master Surendranath Santaraksita. “This life seems to agree with you,” I told him as I arrived. “You look better now than you did when we left the city.” And that was true.

“Dorabee? Lad, I thought you were dead. Despite their endless assurances.” He leaned closer and confided, “They aren’t all honest men, your comrades.”

“By some chance did Goblin and One-Eye offer to teach you to play tonk?”

The librarian managed to look a little sheepish.

“Not to play with them is a lesson everyone has to learn.”

Sheepishness transformed into impishness. “I think I taught them a little something, too. Card tricks were one of my hobbies when I was younger.”

I had to laugh at the idea of those two villains getting taken themselves. “Have you discovered anything that would be useful to me?”

“I’ve read every word in every book we brought along, including all of your company’s modern chronicles written in languages known to me. I found nothing remarkable. I have been amusing myself by trying to work backward into the chronicles I can’t read by comparing materials repeated in more than one language.”

Murgen had done a lot of that. He had had a thing about copying stuff over, in cleaner drafts, and one of his great projects had been to revise Lady’s and the Captain’s Annals for accuracy, based on evidence provided by other witnesses, while rendering them into modern Taglian. We have all done that to our predecessors, some, so that every recent volume of the Annals is really an unwilling collaboration.

I said, “We drag a lot of books around, don’t we?”

“Like snails, carrying your history on your back.”

“It’s who we are. Cute image, though. Doesn’t all that study get dull after a while?”

“The boy keeps me sharp.”

“Boy?”

“Tobo. He’s a brilliant student. Even more amazing than you were.”

“Tobo?”

“I know. Who would expect it of a Nyueng Bao? You’re destroying all my preconceptions, Dorabee.”

“Mine are taking a beating, too.” Tobo? Either Santaraksita had an unsuspected talent for inspiring students or Tobo had suffered an epiphany and had become miraculously motivated. “You sure it’s Tobo and not a changeling?”

The demon himself popped in. “Sleepy. Runmust and Riverwalker and them are on their way over. Good morning, Master Santaraksita.” Tobo actually seemed excited to be there. “I don’t have any other duties right now. Oh, Sleepy, Dad wants to talk to you.”

“Where?” Things had been happening too fast. There had been no chance to catch up with Murgen.

“Goblin’s tent. Everybody but Mom thought that would be the safest place to keep him.”

I had no trouble picturing Sahra being irritated about not being able to share the occasional private moment with her husband.

When I ducked out, the young man and the old were already settling with a book. I glared a warning at Santaraksita which, it developed, was both wasted and unnecessary.

*   *   *

Goblin was not home. Of course not. He was working his way through a long list of jobs bestowed upon him by me. Chuckle.

I found it hard to credit the possibility that one human being could make so huge a mess in a space so constricted. The inside of Goblin’s tent was barely wider than either of us was tall and twice as deep. At its peak it was tall enough for me to stand up with two inches to spare. What looked like a milkmaid’s stool, undoubtedly stolen, constituted the wizard’s entire suite of furniture. A ragged burrow of blankets betrayed where he slept. The rest of the space was occupied by a random jumble, mostly stuff that looked like it had been discarded by a procession of previous owners. There was no obvious theme to the collection.

It had to be stuff he had acquired since his arrival here. Sahra would never have allowed him space on a barge for such junk.

The mist projector stood at the head of Goblin’s smelly bedding, tilted precariously, leaking water. “If this is the safest place to keep that darned thing, then the whole Company is mad with delusions of adequacy.”

A whisper came from the mist projector. I got down close to it, which offered me an opportunity to become intimately aware of the aroma permanently associated with Goblin’s bedding, some pieces of which must have been with him since he was in diapers. “What?”

Murgen’s strongest effort was barely audible. “More water. You need to add more water or there won’t be any mist much longer.”

I started to drag the evidence out of the tent.

Anger gave Murgen a little more voice. “No, dammit! Bring the water to me, don’t take me to the water. If you suffer from a compulsion to drag me around, at least wait until after you water me. And don’t waste time. I’m going to lose my anchor here in a few minutes.”

Finding a gallon of water turned out to be a challenging experience.

*   *   *

“What took you so damned long?”

“Bit of an adventure coming up with the water. Seems it never occurred to any of these morons that we need to have some handy somewhere. Just in case the royal army decides to camp between us and the creek where we’ve been getting it, which is almost a mile away. I just unleashed several geniuses on the problem. How am I supposed to put this in here?”

“There’s a cork in the rear. It might be of some use to you to start doing readings from the Annals. Like they do in temples. The way I used to do sometimes. Pick something situationally appropriate. ‘In those days the Company was in service’ and so on, so they have examples of why it might be useful to haul water up the hill before you have to use it, and such like. These are grown men. You can’t just bully them into doing the right things. But if you start reading to them, they’ll have heard tell of other times when the Annalist did that and they’ll recall it was always right before the big shitstorm moved in. You’ll get their attention.”

“Tobo said you want to talk to me.”

“I need to catch you up on what’s going on elsewhere. And I want to make suggestions about your preparations for the plain, one of which is to listen to Willow Swan but the most critical of which is, you’re going to have to upgrade discipline. The plain is deadly. Even worse than the Plain of Fear, which you don’t remember. You can’t ignore the rules and stay alive there. One idea would be for you not to burn or bury the man who was killed by the shadow last night. Make every survivor look at him and think about what
will
happen to all of you if even one of you screws up up there. Read them the passages chronicling our adventures. Have Swan bear witness.”

“I could just bring a handful of reliables in to get you.”

“You could. But the rest of the world wouldn’t be very nice to the men you leave behind. Right now there’s a shadow heading north to tell Soulcatcher where you are. She may know enough already to figure out what you’re trying to do. She definitely doesn’t want her sister and Croaker on the loose and nursing a grudge. She’ll get here as fast as she can. And aside from Soulcatcher, there’s Narayan Singh. He retains Kina’s countenance, so he’s extremely hard to trace but I do catch glimpses occasionally. He’s on this side of the Dandha Presh and he’s probably not far away. He wants to recapture the Daughter of Night and reunite her with the book you traded for the Key. Which, by the way, you should take away from Uncle Doj before he becomes overly tempted to try something on his own. And so Goblin can study it.”

“Uhm?” He was a gush of information this morning, all of it carefully rehearsed.

“There’s more to the Key than you see right away. I have a feeling the Deceiver overlooked something. Doj keeps picking at it, trying to find out what’s inside the iron. We should find out more about it before we trust it. And we need to find out fast. It won’t be all that long before that shadow gets to Taglios.”

“River and Runmust are coming in. They’re halfway responsible people. I’ll turn some of the work over to them as soon as they’re rested up. Then I can worry about—”

“Worry about it now. Let Swan sergeant for you. He’s experienced and he’s got no choice but to throw in with us now. Catcher will never believe that he didn’t betray her.”

“I hadn’t thought of that.”

“You don’t have to do everything yourself, Sleepy. If you’re going to take charge, you need to learn to tell people what needs doing, then get out of the way and let them do it. You keep hanging over their shoulders nagging like somebody’s mother, you aren’t going to get much cooperation. You seduced that fat boy yet?”

“What?”

“That local-yokel captain. The one who couldn’t keep in step if you painted his feet different colors. You got him wrapped up yet?”

“You’re zigging when I’m zagging. You lost me completely.”

“Let me draw you a picture. You forget to tell him Catcher is going to stop by. You get him to make a deal. He keeps his job. He helps us out so he can get us out of his hair. When he isn’t looking, you fix him up so when the shitstorm starts, he don’t have no choice but to take his chances with us.”

“I have him wrapped up, then. Seventy percent.”

“Hey. Blow in his ear. Throw a liplock on his love muscle. Do whatever you have to. If Catcher loses him, she won’t ever trust anybody else down here, either.”

*   *   *

Goblin used almost the same language as Murgen had when I stopped to visit again. He found Murgen’s advice fully excellent. “Grab fat boy by his prong and never let go. Give him a little squeeze once in a while to keep him smiling.”

“I’ve probably said it before. You’re one cynical mud-sucker.”

“It’s all those years of watching out for One-Eye that done it to me. I was a sweet, innocent young thing when I joined this outfit. Not unlike yourself.”

“You were born wicked and cynical.”

Goblin chuckled. “How much stuff do you think you need to collect before we go up the hill? How long do you think it’ll take?”

“It won’t take forever if Suvrin cooperates.”

“Never, ever, forget that you don’t have long. I can’t emphasize that enough. Soulcatcher is coming. You’ve never seen her when she’s all worked up.”

“The Kiaulune wars don’t count?” He must have seen something extreme. He was determined to pound the point home.

“The Kiaulune wars don’t count. She was just entertaining herself with those.”

*   *   *

I forced myself to make the visit I had been avoiding.

The Daughter of Night wore ankle shackles. She resided inside an iron cage heavily impregnated with spells that caused ever-increasing agony as their victim moved farther away. She could escape but that would hurt. If she pushed it hard enough, she would die.

It appeared that every possible step had been taken to keep her under control. Except the lethal step reason urged me to take. I had no more motive for keeping her alive—except that I had given my word.

The men all took turns being exposed to her, in pairs, at mealtimes and such. Sahra had not been lax. She appreciated the danger the girl represented.

My first glimpse left me stricken with envy. Despite her disadvantages, she had kept herself beautiful, looking much like her mother in a fresher body. But something infinitely older and darker looked out through her pretty blue eyes. For a moment she struck me not as the Daughter of Night, but as the darkness itself.

She did have plenty of time to commune with her spiritual mother.

She smiled as though aware of the serpents of dark temptation slithering the black corridors of my mind. I wanted to bed her. I wanted to murder her. I wanted to run away, begging for mercy. It took an exercise of will to remind myself that Kina and her children were not evil in the sense that northerners or even my Vehdna co-religionists understood evil.

Nevertheless … she was the darkness.

I stepped back, tossed the tent flap open so my ally, daylight, could come inside. The girl lost her smile. She backed to the far side of her cage. I could think of nothing to say. There was really nothing we could say to one another. I had no inclination to gloat and little news of the world outside to report, which might motivate her to do something besides wait.

She had her spiritual mother’s patience, that was sure.

A blow from behind rocked me. I clawed at my stubby little sword.

White wings mussed my nattily arranged hair. Talons dug into my shoulder. The Daughter of Night stared at the white crow and revealed real emotion for the first time in a long time. Her confidence wavered. Fear leaked through. She pressed back against the bars behind her.

“Have you two met?” I asked.

The crow said something like, “Wawk! Wiranda!”

The girl began to shake. If possible, she became even paler. Her jaw seemed clenched so tight her teeth ought to be cracking. I made a mental note to discuss this with Murgen. He knew something about the crow.

What could rattle the girl so badly?

The crow laughed. It whispered, “Sister, sister,” and launched itself back into the sunlight, where it startled some passing brother into a fit of curses.

I stared at the girl, watched the inner steel reassert itself. Her gaze met mine. I felt the fear within her evaporate. I was nothing to her, less than an insect, certainly less than a stubbed toe at the beginning of her long trek across the ages.

Shuddering, I broke eye contact.

That was a scary kid.

66

Our days began before sunrise. They ended after sunset. They included a great deal of training and exercise of the sort that had been let slide for too long. Tobo worked with almost fanatic devotion to improve his skills as an illusionist. I insisted upon daily readings from the Annals in an effort to reinforce the depth and continuity of brotherhood that were so much the foundation of what the Company was. There was resistance at first, of course, but the message sank in at a pace not unrelated to a growing realization that we were going to go up onto the glittering plain—really!—or were going to die here in front of the Shadowgate when Soulcatcher chose to write our final chapter.