Robert Redick - The River of Shadows

He clapped Isiq on the shoulder. “You’re talking. That’s exquisite progress, and quite enough for today.”

Isiq’s expression was thoughtful, as though he might venture to disagree. Oshiram looked encouraged by the alertness in the face before him.

“It’s a real pleasure, watching you heal,” he said. “By the Tree, I think I shall bring her to see you after all. I’ll tell her your story this evening. We must tell someone about you, mustn’t we, if you’re ever to resume a normal life?

“I do hope you take to her, Isiq. She’s the best thing to happen to me in years. I was beginning to think my reign was cursed, you know. After your brave Thasha’s death and the collapse of the Peace, some of the other lords of the Crownless Lands turned their backs, called me Arqual’s fool. Then came the death of Pacu Lapadolma, those furious letters from the Mzithrin Kings, that Gods-awful plague of rats. I should have gone mad without my darling girl. Watching her dance, one can believe that beauty still has a place in Alifros.”

Isiq nodded, smiling to please the King. “B-beauty,” he made himself say.

“Ha!” laughed Oshiram. “Carry on, Isiq. Perhaps in a day or two we shall be watching her dance together-or just listening to her sing. Did I mention that she sings?”

An enraptured look came over the King’s face. He raised his eyebrows, the corners of his lips, and was suddenly womanish, crooning in soft falsetto: Look for me by starlight, lover, seek me in that glade. I’ll bring you all the treasures of the world our love has made He broke off. Isiq was lurching backward, mouth wide open, flailing. Before the King could reach him the big man fell hard upon the chest of drawers, knocking it back against the mirror, which jumped from its peg and shattered on Isiq’s bald head.

“Rin’s eyes, Admiral!” The King experienced a rare kind of panic: Isiq was bleeding, the doctor was elsewhere, he could not shout for aid. He went down on his knees and plucked sickles of glass from the admiral’s clothes. No danger, no danger, only scratches on that bedknob cranium of his. “What in Pitfire happened to you?” he demanded. “Oh, keep still, shut your mouth before you get glass in it.”

Isiq thought his mind would burst. The song was hers. She had sung it to him countless times, early in the mornings, in the garden cottage, bringing him his cigar-aboard the Chathrand, in bed, with Thasha in the outer stateroom practicing her wedding vows. Oshiram had even managed a fair imitation of her voice.

The King was scolding, but Isiq could barely hear. Time slowed to a crawl. There were shards of mirror in his hands and lap. In every sliver, a memory, bright and perfect. There was his daughter, murdered in her bridal dress. There were the four men bearing her body to the Chathrand. And Sandor Ott. And the Nilstone, throbbing.

“Don’t handle them, you daft old-”

And here in this largest shard, so cruelly, cleverly shaped (the King tried to remove it; the admiral fiercely gripped his hand) was that unequaled beauty, his Syrarys, with her arms around a lover-not Isiq, of course, and not the spymaster, nor even this good, deluded King. Mesmerizing, this clarity, after so much blindness. And yet Isiq was certain. No one else could have made his consort so dangerous. The one in her arms was the one who had always been there, invisibly. The one who’d slain Thasha, and cheated death. The one whose hands moved all the strings “Arunis.”

The King froze. “What did you just say?”

Isiq’s gaze had wandered for months; now it focused sharp as daggers on the King. “You’re in danger, Oshiram,” he whispered.

“A complete sentence!” cried the bird suddenly from the window, forgetting himself entirely.

The King whirled, gaping; the bird was already gone. “What is happening here, Isiq? Have you been feigning this illness? Where did that bird come from? And why in Rin’s name did you mention the sorcerer?”

Isiq stared up at him: glass in his eyebrows, rivulets of blood on his cheeks. “We must trust each other, Majesty,” he whispered, “and somehow we must be cleverer than they. By the Night Gods, I remember it all.”

Thursday, 26 Ilbrin 941

Where, by the Blessed Tree, to begin? With the dead men? With the blessing of the goat? Or with the fact that Heaven’s Tree doesn’t even hang over us here, so help me Rin?^ 7

No: I shall start with Pathkendle, since I have just seen him amp; the lad’s misery is fresh in my mind. I had just taken my turn in the rigging, same as nearly everyone aboard. The dlomu were still staring at us, but their numbers were dwindling. Perhaps they were moved by the doomsday-babble of that screaming hag. Perhaps we misspoke, somehow, hurt their feelings. However that may be, we soon concluded that we weren’t to be fed, or even greeted with more than fear amp; superstition, before daybreak. They hemmed us in with cables to stop our drift amp; placed guards at the ends of the walkway amp; left us to stew in our own sinking ship.

A few men exploded, cursing them. Others begged loudly for food. The dlomu, however, did not look back amp; when they were gone from sight even the timid hands joined in until the whole topdeck was bellowing insults, fish-eyes, black bastards, cold-hearted freaks amp; then someone gave an embarrassed little, “Ahh, umm,” amp; we saw that one of the cables was moving like a trawling-line amp; dangling upon it were bundle after canvas bundle. Wisps of steam escaped them amp; the smell when we hauled them in brought a low moan of ecstasy from the nearest men. Ibjen had shamed them, apparently. Ghosts or no ghosts, we wouldn’t be starved.

Inside were warm rolls amp; slabs of fresh cheese amp; smoked fish, the river clams Bolutu had gone on about for days, and cloth packages filled with strange little pyramid-shaped confections, a bit smaller than oranges amp; coated with sugar and hard little seeds. We nibbled: they were salty-sweet amp; chewy as whale blubber. “Mul!” Bolutu cried at the sight of them. “Ah, Fiffengurt, you’ll find nothing more authentically dlomic than mul! They’ve been the salvation of many a sea-voyage, or forced march through the mountains.” But what were they? “Nutritious!” said Bolutu, amp; quickly changed the subject.

There was dark bread, too; amp; as I live amp; breathe, many bundles of what we took for fat white worms. A dozen of these fell to the deck when we tore open the first basket amp; wriggled away like lightning for fifty feet or so amp; then lay still. Bolutu snatched one up, peeled off its skin like a blary banana amp; ate it: the things are fruits-pirithas, he calls ’em: “snake-beans.” They fall from a parent tree amp; squirm away, seeking new places to grow. “If it doesn’t wriggle it’s not worth eating,” he said.

I was about to brave one of these dainties myself (having already wolfed down bread amp; cheese amp; fish the latter stained green whatever they touched amp; made us all look frightfully murthish about the mouth) when Lady Thasha appeared with a platter heaped with all the aforementioned. “Will you take this to Pazel?” she asked me.

“We can do better than that,” I told her. “It’s well past midnight, ain’t it? That’s three days. Let’s get ’im out of the brig, my dear! You come along.”

But Thasha shook her head. “You do it, Mr. Fiffengurt. And see that he eats, will you? There’s enough food for the sfvantskors, too.”

Considerate, that was: the food would be gone in minutes. But the compliment I thought to pay her died on my lips when she turned amp; walked back to Greysan Fulbreech. Old Smiley fed her a piece of bread amp; she grinned through the mouthful at him amp; suddenly I was enraged. A nonsense reaction, of course: young hearts are fickle amp; Thasha’s has clearly left Pathkendle in favor of this youth from Simja. Why does the sight of them fill me with such indignation? Perhaps I merely hoped the girl had better taste.