Black Sun Rising (24 page)

Damien listened to what they had to say—silently, patiently, without interrupting even to question them further—and then answered simply, “I had the same problem. Which just means we won’t be able to track them by Working. Otherwise our plans stay the same.”

“Damien,” Senzei protested. “I don’t think you understand—”

“I do,” he said stiffly. Something in his manner—the set of his shoulders, the tone of his voice—bespoke a terrible tension. A struggle inside him that was only now breaking through to the surface. “I understand more than you’re even aware of.”

“If those things are right ahead of us—”

“Yes. That sound reasonable, doesn’t it? Only,
how do we know that
?” His hands had balled into angry fists by his sides; he looked about himself, as if searching for something to hit. “I’ll tell you how. Twenty-five words or less. We know it because
Gerald Tarrant told us
. That’s how we know.” He drew in a deep breath, let it out slowly. Fighting for control over the rage that seemed ready to consume him. “I’ve gone over it in my mind again and again since we left the dae this morning. And each time it comes to the same thing.
I trusted his word
. Not willingly—not even knowingly—but like an animal trusts its trainer. Like a laboratory rat trusts the men who feed it when it finally runs the way they want it to. Gerald Tarrant said that something had devoured the boy’s memory, and I accepted it. God knows, I had good reason not to test him then. If I’d let myself be drawn into his Working, there’s no telling what might have happened. So I didn’t. You understand what that means? I didn’t Know for myself. I took his word for it that what he said was the truth, when I should have Seen for myself—”

“You couldn’t have known,” Senzei said hurriedly. “Such power—”

“
Damn
the power!” His eyes blazed with fury—at Gerald Tarrant, at himself. “Don’t you understand? If he
wasn’t
telling the truth—if the boy’s memory
hadn’t
been taken—then what
did
attack him? What left him wounded like that, and then set up a Shielding so perfect that no one but Mer Tarrant could get through it? Ask yourself that!”

He took a deep breath. Then another. Trying to calm himself. It didn’t work. “I should have confirmed it,” he muttered. “If not then, later.
I should have checked
.”

Senzei hesitated—and then reached out and put a hand on the priest’s shoulder. Emotional support, without the pressure of a Working; after a moment Damien nodded, acknowledging the gesture.

“We can go back,” Senzei said gently. “If you need to Know—”

“We can’t go back. One, because we have a mission to complete—and the longer we delay here, the harder it will get. Two, because ... because....”

He turned away. Slipping out from under Senzei’s grasp so that he stood alone. His shoulders trembled.

“The boy is dead,” he said at last. “Tarrant killed him. You understand? He called it a mercy killing. Maybe it was. But damned convenient, don’t you think?

“God,” he whispered; his voice was shaking. “What have I been witness to?”

“What do you want to do?” Senzei asked quietly.

He turned back to face them; his eyes were red. “We go to Kale,” he told them. “Directly to Kale. If Tarrant was right and those things did attack the boy, then they’re nearly two days ahead of us; we won’t pass them without intending to. If he was wrong ... then they could be anywhere. Behind us, ahead of us, even back in the rakhlands by now. I couldn’t get a fix on them any more than you could, Zen. He’s right in that; such a Working has to be done at night. But in Kale. In the relative safety of a city’s confines. Not out here ... where camping outside the daes means setting ourselves up for God knows what.”

“You think he’s allied with them?” Ciani asked anxiously.

“I don’t know what he is—and I don’t want to know. He’s setting up some kind of game, maybe just for his amusement, maybe for some darker purpose. I say we don’t play by his rules. That means we go straight to Kale, like we planned. No detours, no delays, and above all else no forays out into the night. We tell the daes to keep their doors shut; if he wants the night that badly, let him stay in it. Agreed?”

“And if he really is hunting them?” Senzei asked.

“In that case,” he muttered, “more power to him. I hope he makes his kill.”

He looked out over the road ahead—northward, toward the Forest—and added, “May they take him with them, when he does.”

Tobi Zendel was securing the last of his nets when dusk fell, and because his attention was wholly fixed on the task before him he failed to notice the figure as it approached him, and did not hear it coming until the planks of the small pier finally creaked in warning.

“What the—” He turned about to see what had come up behind him; the anatomically complex profanity he had been about to spout forth withered on his lips, unvoiced. “What the hell?” he said softly—a socially acceptable substitute.

The figure that stood on the pier before him was that of a woman, oddly dressed. She was about his height, which was not tall; slender, and delicately boned; precisely made, with small, high breasts—although the latter were somewhat obscured by her clothing, so it was hard for him to judge their exact appeal. She was clothed in layers of tight cloth, which might have been actual garments but had more the appearance of wrappings. Gloves hid her hands, and a scarf which was tightly wrapped about her head and neck hid all the rest of her from view, except for her face. That was delicately sculpted, delicately colored—a clear golden brown that perfectly matched her garments—and oddly soft, as though he were viewing it through frosted glass.

“I’m sorry, Mes.” He breathed the words, as though somehow her presence demanded silence. “I didn’t see you coming, was all. Can I ... can I help you?”

She looked out across the Serpent, as if searching for something. After a few seconds her gaze fixed on a distant point, and she extended her arm toward it. A question; a command.

He looked over his shoulder, toward where she was pointing. And laughed, somewhat nervously. “Morgot? Lady, that’s out.” The fingers of her glove were split, he noticed; thin curving claws, like those of a cat, gleamed in the slits. “That’s upstraits, crosscurrent ... and bad luck, besides. You want that crossing, ferry over to Kale. They’ll take you, sure enough—if the price is right.”

She reached into a fold of fabric at her hip, brought out a small purse.

“Lady, it isn’t money. I value my neck. You understand? That’s a rough crossing. And I’m a coward.”

Slowly, she lowered her arm. And waited. He was about to speak again when he saw something move, up by the start of the pier. Not a person, this time. A ... a....

It was horse-sized, and roughly horse-shaped, but there the similarity ended. Thick fur gleamed along its limbs, tufting thickly about its five-toed feet. It was pearl-gray, for the most part, but a mane of thick white hair adorned its chest and shoulders, and small white tufts marked the points of its ears. Its head was slender and pointed, its large eyes positioned in a manner that could have served it as predator or prey. And its horns ... he had to fight not to reach out and touch them, not to put his hands on their cool, rainbow length and know for a fact that, yes, they were real. The creature was real. A true xandu, which mankind thought had been Worked into extinction, so many years ago....

He looked at the woman—dark, her eyes were so dark, you could see neither iris nor white in them, only pupil—and said, in a voice that shook slightly, “You’ll trade him? I’ll take you, for that. Take you over. There’ll be mounts there, you understand? You can buy a mount on Morgot. I mean, you know where to get a xandu, right? So it’s not like I’d be taking anything you couldn’t replace.” He was fighting to speak coherently, while greed and wonder conspired within to rob him of speech. “I mean ... I’d take the risk, for that.”

She looked at him—and at the xandu—and then back at him. Assessing. After a moment, she moved her head slightly. He thought it was a nod.

“We can go right now if you want.” He started to prepare to cast off, loosening the ropes he had only so recently tied. “It’s pretty safe, out on the water. Unless you’d rather wait for sunlight—”

Silently she stepped to the edge of the pier, her soft leather boots making no sound. For a moment he was close enough to see her face in detail—and it seemed that the golden surface was not skin, but close-lying fur. He shivered. Then she was past him, stepping into the boat. Tobi looked to where the xandu was waiting—and found it already beside him, ready to board. After a moment he stepped aside and let it do so.

Heart pounding—head spinning with thoughts of fame and wealth soon to come—he freed his boat from its mooring posts and set sail for the northern caldera.

Five days and nights now, in safety. Five daes that protected them from unknown demon-hunters—and from decisions.

Damien dreamed. At first only misty images, vignettes of dread mingled with bits of memory: a fear-mosaic. Then the dreams began to gain substance, and definition. Night after night he played the same saga out: their journey, their arrival, their final confrontation. And night after night, in every variation, he watched his companions die. And died himself, at the hands of a creature who squeezed the memories from him like pulpy juice from an overripe fruit, then cast the rind aside.

Again and again. With no hope of success. Because what they had wasn’t enough. They lacked the numbers they needed, and the knowledge. They lacked the
power
.

Evil is what you make of it
, the Prophet had written.
Bind it to a higher Purpose, and you will have altered its nature. And: We use what tools we must
.

Damien wondered if—and how—Gerald Tarrant could be bound.

The port called Kale was as unlike Jaggonath as any place could possibly be. The city’s plan was a veritable maze of narrow, twisting streets, flanked by houses that had been hurriedly built and, for the most part, poorly maintained. Rich and poor were quartered side by side, laborers’ hovels leaning against the thick stone walls of a rich merchant’s estate—barbed iron spikes adorning the top, to discourage the curiosity of strangers—which was flanked in turn by the mildewed shells of workhouses, the miserly confines of tenement flats, the iron-clad husks of massive storage sheds. The streets themselves might once have been paved with stones, and occasionally a flat slab of shallite—deep green, or slate gray, or midnight black—would peek out from beneath the layers of mud and debris and animal droppings which seemed to coat everything in sight. The whole place smelled: of damp, of dung, of decay. But there was commerce here, enough to support thousands. And where trade flourished, humankind inevitably congregated.

They arrived shortly before dusk and wasted the next hour getting themselves thoroughly lost. As the sun sank slowly behind mildewed walls, the maze of streets became stiflingly close. At last Senzei grabbed hold of a passing youngster—a mud-caked ten-year-old who clearly had more time on his hands than he knew what to do with—and offered him a few coins to serve as guide. The boy glanced once at the darkening western sky, as if to point out the danger involved in taking on business at such a late hour—but when no more money was offered he coughed and nodded, and led them through the maze of tangled streets to a somewhat more promising sector.