The River of Shadows (67 page)

“I have heard you out,” said Hercól, “and you, Vadu, have sworn to abide by my decisions. I gave you a warning then, and I repeat it now.”

“I am no child, and need no warnings,” said Vadu.

“No?” said Hercól. “Did you place your hand on the knife-hilt, Counselor? Or did the knife call it there, as it has called the tune before?”

Vadu started, and jerked his hand away from the Plazic Blade, wincing as he did so as if the gesture caused him pain. He was breathing hard, and his men backed a little away from him. “Do as you will, then,” he said, “but I am not responsible.”

“Only for yourself,” said Hercól, watching him steadily.

The party retreated into the trees and found a level spot to rest. “I think we must light no fire,” said Jalantri.

“How about a candle?” said Big Skip. “The ixchel are cold and wet.”

Ensyl and Myett protested, but Hercól at once gathered stones into a ring and thrust four candles into the ground within them. Pazel looked at the two women, warming themselves amply by the little flames, shaking their short hair dry.
We’re finally in the same boat
, he thought,
cut off from our own kind, in a world that knows nothing about us
. But it wasn’t the same, not really. The humans numbered thirteen, not two; and they had not been raised in a clan that honored the whole above the parts, the House above the self. And they were not eight inches tall.

The humans and the dogs settled down to wait out the day, posting watches on the Black Tongue. Pazel fell asleep almost instantly, and dreamed of Chadfallow. He was lecturing Pazel in his old professorial way, but the subject, oddly, was how to trim a foresail brace-line. “Up, in, down to the pin!” Chadfallow kept repeating, watching Pazel struggle with rope and cleat. And as his frustration grew, Pazel realized that Chadfallow wore a captain’s uniform. “No good, boy, no good,” he said. “It’s that hand of yours. Too fishy by far.” Pazel looked at his left hand and saw nothing unusual, just the leathery scar he’d borne for months. “Not
that
one,” said Ignus crossly, and raised Pazel’s other hand by force. It was black and half webbed.

Dawn came, and with it Pazel’s watch. He was paired with Ibjen; they lay low at the edge of the trees, listening to the chatter of unseen birds, and watching the flames spout and sputter on the Tongue. The nearest fumarole was only about a hundred yards from where they lay, but the big ones—wide enough for something man-sized to crawl from them—were much farther down the lava flow. Sounds issued from them: soft piping like stone flutes, low surging moans. With every noise Pazel half expected to see a troll crawl out into the daylight. Ibjen, however, seemed more worried about Vadu and his Plazic Blade. Hercól, he said, should have driven the man off while he could.

“I thought so too,” Pazel admitted. “But Hercól’s thought carefully about it, and I trust him.”

“He hardly sleeps,” said Ibjen. “That cannot continue, you know. Unless he too draws his strength from some unnatural source.”

“Ildraquin isn’t cursed,” said Pazel, “and Hercól is strong without help from any blade.”

“Pazel,” said Ibjen, “is it true that you can cast spells?”

“What?” said Pazel, startled. “No, it isn’t. Or … just one. And Ramachni says it’s not even right to call it a spell. It’s a Master-Word. He gave me three of them, but I’ve spoken the other two, used them, and that erases them from my mind.”

“How are they different from spells?”

Pazel thought back. “He said that a Master-Word is like black powder—gunpowder, you understand?—without the cannon to control the explosion. He said the key thing about spells is that control. Otherwise you can’t stop them from doing what you
don’t
want to do.”

“Like turning men into dumb animals,” said Ibjen, “when your goal is to make animals think like men.”

Pazel sighed. “I suppose Erithusmé didn’t have much control either, when she cast the Waking Spell. But that spell drew its power from the Nilstone, and it ruins everything it touches, I think. And I wonder, Ibjen: what’s going to happen to woken animals, if we succeed? I’m afraid for Felthrup. For all of them, really.”

He gazed out at the Tongue, the sudden plumes of flame that came and went like harbor-signals. Ibjen was quiet so long that Pazel glanced at him, wondering if he’d nodded off. But the silver eyes were wide, and staring at him with concern.

“I must add to your fears, Pazel,” he said. “I’m sorry. It’s Neeps.”

Pazel gave a violent start. “Neeps? What about him? What’s the blary fool done this time?”

“I wasn’t sure at first, because the stench from the Black Tongue was so strong. But it’s there, all right.”

“What’s there?”

“The smell of lemons. I know that smell, Pazel: my father tamed
tol-chenni
on the Sandwall, you know. Once you’re used to it there’s no mistaking it for anything else.”

When he finally understood, Pazel felt as though his own death had just been handed to him, as if he’d thrown back a drink only to learn it was poison. “No,” he muttered, shaking his head, looking away from the dlömic boy.

“Father always claimed it was the sure sign,” said Ibjen gently, “back in the days when humans were changing.”

“It isn’t true, Ibjen, it’s not happening, you’re crazy.”

But even as he spoke Pazel remembered Olik’s words in the stateroom. Rage was one warning sign, he’d told them, along with
a sharp smell of lemon in one’s sweat
. And what had Neeps said, when they were sitting beside the signal-fire?
There are times when my mind just seems to vanish
. Panic, deep terror, welled up inside him. Ibjen’s hand was on his arm. “How long does it take?” Pazel heard himself ask.

“Five or six weeks,” said Ibjen. “I think that’s what Father used to say. Pazel, are you crying?”

Pazel pinched his eyes shut. Images from the Conservatory assaulted him. The mindlessness, the filth. He would not let Neeps become a
tol-chenni
. He turned to Ibjen and gripped his hand in turn. “Don’t say a word about this,” he begged. “The plague doesn’t spread from person to person anyway. Your father told us that.”

“I know,” said Ibjen, “and I won’t tell anyone. You’re right, it would only make things worse. The others might drive him away.”

“We’re going to stop it,” whispered Pazel, “before he changes. We will, Ibjen. We have to.”

Ibjen said nothing for a time. Then he asked, “What does it do, your Master-Word? The one you haven’t spoken yet?”

“I don’t know,” said Pazel. “Ramachni told me it would
blind to give new sight
. What that means even he couldn’t guess.”

“Blindness?” said Ibjen. “Blindness, from a kind of magic that you say runs out of control?” The dlömic boy looked terrified. “You must never speak that word, Pazel. Try to forget it, and soon, before you utter it one day in your sleep.”

Pazel shook his head. He trusted Ramachni. His two previous words had shaken the fabric of the world around him, but done no lasting damage. Ramachni had assured him of that, just before repeating his promise to return. But in his mind Pazel still heard Arunis back at Bramian, gloating, saying that the mage had abandoned them, vanished into the safety of his own world. And now Neeps—

“Look there!” whispered Ibjen, pointing. “Something does live on the Tongue. Or dares to crawl on it, anyway.” Far down the black slope, Pazel caught a glimpse of reddish fur, vanishing behind a bulge in the lava. “A marmot, or a weasel,” said Ibjen. “I suppose trolls don’t bother with weasels.”

Their hour was over. They crept away from the edge of the lava flow, then stood and walked back toward the clearing. But as they drew near Pazel felt a sudden, horrible sensation in his mind: the same sensation, in fact, as two days before: the power of the eguar was being summoned again.

He dashed to the clearing. Everyone was awake, afoot, rigid with alarm. Counselor Vadu had drawn his knife. His head was twitching almost uncontrollably; his soldiers had massed behind him, steeled for a fight. Ildraquin in hand, Hercól glared at the counselor. Vadu’s own face was screwed up in a strange mixture of bravado and pain.

Floating in the air before him were Ensyl and Myett. The two women’s backs were together; they revolved slowly as though hanging from a thread. Vadu’s free hand was raised, his fingers cupped as though squeezing something tight between them.

“No!” Pazel cried.

Vadu whirled and the women cried out in pain, in the ixchel voices only Pazel himself could hear. “Stay where you are, Pathkendle!” cried the counselor. “And you, Hercól Stanapeth: where are your lectures now? Have you realized that you should have left them on the far side of the Nelluroq? Or will you try again to order us about in our own country?”

Hercól gestured for Pazel to be still.

“You should have taken this Blade when you mastered me on the plain,” said Vadu, his voice made staccato by the twitches of his head. “It called out to you; it would have abandoned me, and served you in my stead.”

“That Blade serves no one,” said Hercól, “except perhaps the beast from whose corpse it was fashioned.”

“Be that as it may, I am now in command,” said Vadu, “and I will not let this mission fail through cowardice. Don’t you realize that I can fight off the trolls, if they should come?”

“Are you sure?” asked Cayer Vispek. “There is almost nothing left of that knife. Look at it, Counselor: it has shrunk in a matter of days.”

“We will cross the Black Tongue now,” said Vadu, as though the other had not said a word, “and overtake the mage before he reaches his goal, and slay him, and then the Nilstone shall be ours.”

“Ours,” said Bolutu, “or yours? Vadu, Vadu, you are not the man who came to us on the plain! That man understood the very dangers you are surrendering to!”

“The only danger is inaction,” said Vadu. “We will go, in prudent silence. These two I will hold until we reach the shores of the Ansyndra; and then we shall see.”

“Fight him!”

The voice was Ensyl’s, and it was torn from her throat. Vadu bared his teeth and the ixchel women cried out again. Pazel saw that Neda was looking Hercól in the eye.

“We can kill this fool,” she said in Mzithrini. “We have him on three sides, and those little seizures will not help his fighting. Whatever his power, we will be too quick for him to stop.”

“Do nothing, I beg you,” replied Hercól in the same tongue. “We could kill him, yes, but not before he kills his prisoners.”

“There’s no other way,” said Jalantri. “They’re warriors. They’re prepared.”

“
I
am not prepared!” shouted Hercól. And looking at his tortured face Pazel knew he was remembering another moment, another ixchel woman facing death and urging him not to give in.

Staring hard at Vadu, Hercól sheathed his sword. “I would pity you, if you would but speak the truth, as you did when I briefly set you free. Indeed, I should have taken the knife—for your sake. Lead on, man of the
Platazcra
. But harm those women and no blade will protect you.”

“They will be harmed only if you are foolish,” said Vadu.

Fighting his twitches, he reached out and closed his hand around the waists of the ixchel women. Quietly the party moved down the path. At length they came to the edge of the black, smooth lava flow. Hercól stopped and pointed to the right.

In a low murmur, he said, “The eastern part of the Tongue is still shadowed by the mountain. Will you at least permit us to walk there, and not in the bright sun?”

Vadu nodded impatiently. “Yes, yes, if it will strengthen your spine. Only say nothing, and plant your feet lightly, and make no sound until we are well among the trees on the far side.”

Hercól looked at the others. “Check all that you carry. You soldiers especially: do not let your scabbards knock against the ground.”

“I was about to say as much,” said Vadu.

“If we should have to run,” asked Hercól, “what will happen to Ensyl and Myett?”

“I will not run,” said Vadu.

Hercól’s look was withering. Then he stepped out onto the lava. Vadu came second, his prisoners against his chest. The rest of the party followed gingerly. Within the first few steps Pazel knew that the going would be harder than he had supposed. Though smooth, the surface was anything but even. It was like a candle melted down the side of jug, one liquid trail hardened atop another. And twisting through them all were the shafts of the fumaroles. Was it better to walk, or crouch down and creep? Many times he was tempted to jump, as he would from stone to stone at a river crossing. But he dared not risk making a noise.

The flames were sudden and unpredictable: one moment there would be a black, dark fumarole, the next a geyser of twisting flames. Gas, searingly hot and reeking of sulphur, issued from others in bursts and wheezes. There was absolutely nothing one might call a trail.

Yet the going grew easier the farther they went. It did help to be able to see, Pazel reflected, although he supposed Hercól would have waited for the moonlight. So far no one had made a sound. Even the dogs, marvels of perception that they were, understood what was required, and crept along with mincing steps.

The sky was beautiful, cloudless. Far overhead, a few vultures drifted. On the lava bed they were the only things that moved.

The shadow of the mountain was shrinking toward them, but they could always, Pazel supposed, move closer to the mountain.

Thasha and Neeps were descending on his left; Neda and her brother
sfvantskor
s on his right. All of them watching the ground; it was the only safe way to proceed. And yet, Pazel thought, and yet—

He raised his eyes—and fought down the urge to cry aloud. About three yards from Neeps, a tiny face was watching them from a hole in the lava. It was hideous, part human, buck-toothed, squinting, red. The face was attached to a hairy body about the size and shape of a gopher. The creature had hair everywhere except on that face, and the hands—they were
hands
, not paws—that gripped the edges of the scalding rock.

It vanished down the tube. Pazel was so shocked that he nearly missed a step. The others looked at him in alarm. No one else had seen the creature. He pointed at the hole, then gestured wildly (squinting eyes, fingers for teeth). Was it the same sort of creature he and Ibjen had glimpsed? Was it dangerous, or did its silence mean that it, too, had learned to remain unnoticed by the trolls?