Robert Redick - The River of Shadows

Macadra laughed aloud. “You have not changed either, Arunis Wytterscorm. Still working with puppets, are you? Painting in their faces, tying your invisible strings.”

“Shall I tell you something, madam?” said Orfuin suddenly, looking up from his tea. “Life is finite. That is to say, it ends. Why not spend it pleasantly? There’s gingerbread fresh from the oven. Leave off this scheming and be my guests. Hear the music. Warm your feet.”

His gaze was mild and friendly. The newcomers stared at him as if unsure what sort of creature he was. Then Arunis went on, as if Orfuin had never spoken:

“I have been splendid, Macadra-that you cannot deny. I took a harmless madman and built him into the Shaggat Ness, a slaughtering messiah, a knife upon which both Arqual and the Mzithrin are preparing to throw themselves. And I managed to let the Arqualis believe the entire affair was in their interests-indeed, that they had devised the plot, alone. What general with legions at his fingertips ever accomplished so much? Either Northern power could mount a fight to try the strength of Bali Adro-together, they might even have bested you. Instead they think only of killing one another, and will soon begin to do so with more determination than you have ever seen.”

“Your Shaggat is dead!” screamed the woman with the daggers. “A peasant boy turned him into a lump of stone!”

“The Pathkendle boy may have started life as a peasant,” said Arunis, “but he is now a Smythidor, magic-altered, blood and bone. The great Ramachni entrusted him with Master-Words, and one of these he used against the Shaggat. But Ramachni’s gamble was a losing one, for in so arming Pathkendle he exhausted himself, and had to abandon his friends. And for what? They wish to kill me; they cannot. They seek a new and safer resting place for the Nilstone; they will not find one. And the Shaggat-he is not dead, merely enchanted. He will breathe again, mark my words.”

“Suppose he does,” said Macadra. “Suppose you complete this journey, hand him back to his faithful on Gurishal. Suppose we help you to that end.”

Arunis bowed his head, as though to say he would not spurn such aid.

“What will we gain for our efforts? All I see ahead is the self-destruction of the Mzithrin in a civil war. And afterward, the total victory of the Arqualis. You will leave us with one giant foe in the North, rather than the smaller pair we face today.”

“Not if you do as I suggest,” said Arunis.

Macadra smiled. “I saw that coming ere our feet touched the ground. Show it to me, wizard. I have waited long enough.”

When Arunis said nothing, Macadra swept toward the doorway of the club, never glancing once at the proprietor. She gazed into the warm firelight. A hush fell over the patrons; the musicians ceased to play.

“Where is it?” she demanded. “Is someone holding it for you at one of the tables?” She turned him a searching look. “Is it on your person?”

“My dear lady,” said Arunis, “we must have words about the Nilstone.”

“Are you saying that you have come here without it?”

“How could I do otherwise? You offer me no assurance that you speak for the Ravens. I do not even have proof that yours is the same Order that dispatched me to the North so long ago.”

“But how dare you leave it unguarded! What possible excuse-”

She broke off, a new thought writing itself in a frown upon her colorless face. With a sharp sound of rage she drove both hands, nails first, into Arunis’ chest. Her fingers sank to the first digits; then she ripped her hands apart. The mage’s flesh vanished briefly, obscured by a sudden haze. Arunis stepped back, and the woman’s fingers emerged unbloodied.

“I told you!” said the woman with the daggers. “We make the dark journey in person; he sends a dream-shell, a mirage! He’ll never give up the Nilstone! He means to use it, Macadra, to use it against us all!”

“As you have just observed,” said Arunis, “I could not very well leave the Stone unguarded aboard the Chathrand. And why not come in trance to the Orfuin Club, this place where all worlds meet so easily-even the worlds of our dreams?”

“You should have come in the flesh to hand over the Stone,” growled the stocky woman, “as you swore to do two centuries ago.”

The black man looked at Arunis with contempt. “If you do not track this mage to his ship and kill him, Macadra,” he said, “you are the greatest fool who ever lived.”

“We would not be talking at all if he had already mastered the Stone,” said Macadra. “Say it, monster. What is it you want from the Ravens?”

Arunis walked to the table and took the parchment from beneath the paperweight. “You are quite right,” he said. “I cannot yet use the Nilstone, any more than you or Ramachni or any other since the time of Erithusme. But you have misunderstood my purpose. I have never wished to make it mine. No, I seek only to finish what I have begun, what you sent me to accomplish so long ago-the ruin of Arqual and the Mzithrin, so that when Bali Adro’s ships next assault the Nelluroq, they will find the whole of the Northern world hobbled and broken, and ready for their conquest. And you Ravens, the true power behind Bali Adro-why, you shall shape this world to your liking. One rule, one law, one Empire spanning both shores of the Ruling Sea, and you at its apex. I am making your dream a reality, Macadra. But to complete it I need the Chathrand awhile longer-and the Nilstone.”

Macadra smiled, venomous. “Of course you do.”

Arunis held up the parchment. “This is no mirage,” he said. “Take it, read it.”

The black man leaned forward. “That’s a Carsa Carsuria. An Imperial decree.”

“Give me a new crew for the Great Ship,” said Arunis. “A dlomic crew, with a dlomic captain. The humans nearly destroyed her on the first crossing. They allowed her to be infested with rats and ixchel. They let a lone Mzithrini gunship come close to sinking her. They should never have been trusted with such a vessel. Take this to Bali Adro City. Make your slave-Emperor sign it, and dispatch a crew to Masalym with all possible haste.”

“Don’t, Macadra!” hissed the stocky woman. “He’ll just slip away again! Don’t let him!”

Arunis closed his eyes a moment. “Your servants prattle like children. I have no desire to slip away. Indeed I hoped to persuade you to sail with me. You could be of great help with the Red Storm-I know how intensely you have studied it, Macadra-and besides, you could keep your eye on the Stone.”

The black man laughed. “Sail with him on the Chathrand. Just walk aboard that spell-ridden hulk, straight into his lair.”

“With a crew that answers to your Emperor,” said Arunis. “As for the humans: simply hold them in Masalym until the charm breaks and the Shaggat returns to life. After that they are of no consequence.”

Still Macadra did not reach for the parchment. “We help you cross the Ruling Sea again,” she said. “We guide you through the time-trap of the Storm, and let you take your Shaggat to Gurishal. He rallies his worshippers, leads them into a doomed but damaging civil war inside the Mzithrin. And when the Mzithrin stands gasping and wounded over the corpse of the Shaggat’s rebellion, their old foe Arqual strikes them from behind, presumably-”

“Unquestionably,” said Arunis. “Their monarch dreams of it night and day.”

“As well he should!” shouted Macadra. “That is where your plan collapses. It will take us two decades to build a fleet that could brave the Nelluroq and seize the Northern world. How do you propose to keep the Arqualis from using that time to make a fortress of those lands?”

For a moment Arunis looked at her in silence. Then he took her arm and drew her toward the tavern door, not far from where Orfuin sat glumly, the little animal flickering in and out of sight beside his feet. Looking back to make sure the others had not followed, Arunis murmured into her ear.