Blackdog (54 page)

“You were sick,” Teral said suddenly, wrinkling her nose. She scowled at the heap of clothing Elsinna had flung into a corner for Tsuzas to find, lucky him. “Elsinna, what happened?”

“Bloody Narva happened, I told you.”

“What? You mean—like Tsuzas? Oh, Elsinna, how horrible.”

“Funny no one ever says that about poor Tsu. Just listen. I'm leaving.” She grinned crookedly. “At last, as I've always threatened. Tell Tsuzas—or Attavaia, whichever you see first, tell them Narva says it's time and I've taken Sera home.”

“You've taken Sera home,” Teral repeated obediently. “Who's Sera?”

“Never mind.”

“You're making this up.”

“Great Gods, don't be such a fool.” She picked up the lump of sandstone, wrapped in a tattered shawl. What business had a mountain woman on the road to Serakallash? A man, maybe? Some Tamghati loved her and left her and she was looking for him in Serakallash? Or maybe she should say she had dyestuffs to trade? That was what Attavaia often used as her excuse on the road—a trader in mountain dyeworts.

“I'll need every bit of dye-herb you've collected, Teral,” she said. “Sorry.”

“We're out of bluewort,” Teral said, which wasn't actually an argument. “That wife of Tsuzas's took all I had when she was here last week. You were supposed to bring some.”

She could feel Narva like the pressure of a headache behind her eyes, pushing. “I have to go. Now.”

But Elsinna paused and hugged Teral in the doorway, kissed her mother and Auntie without a word in the main room. Odds were she wouldn't be coming back.

T
he wind muttered around the braided dunes, rattling grasses and the dry leaves of the pistachios.

Bad weather coming. There was a yellowish cast to the sky. To the south, the great serried towers of the Pillars of the Sky faded in and out of view, their blue and white heights swimming behind the haze. To the east there were curdled clouds. Dust and the setting sun tinged them red. Late summer, and not the season for storms in the Red Desert.

“Storm coming,” Mikki said, as if Moth might not have noticed. He sniffed the air, sneezed. “You doing this, wolf?”

“No.” She considered, feeling the wind herself, with other senses. The bone-horse pranced, foot to foot. She thumped his shoulder with her fist. “Stand. You're not afraid of storms, you're centuries dead, you foolish great beast. No, it's no natural weather. It's his.”

And it might be aimed at her, she could not say. Tamghiz had come tearing into his unfortunate daughter's dreams as she drifted there, delicately fishing for some hint as to what the young wizard meant to do to the avatar she had worked herself so close to, and Moth had flung him violently away before he could know her. She hoped. Hurt him. She hoped. She at least had the grace to creep gently, knowing herself a thief and a trespasser. Tamghiz pushed in and took over as though the child's—woman's—mind was his own bedchamber, leaving the scars of his tracks through all her thoughts, so that she carried the weight of him everywhere and cringed in her own mind, knowing herself dominated and broken to a master without ever being aware she knew.

Mikki made a noise that was all bear, a grumbling growl deep in his throat. “And the lake-goddess and the little wizard are gone into Serakelda.”

There was no native goddess in the spring at Serakelda—Serakallash, to give it its proper desert name. It was a hollow skull of a place, the living spirit gone. They had heard as much at the Landing, but it was strange to feel it. Nothing to defend the town against…whatever came. Including herself.

“Come.” She set foot in stirrup, swung herself to Storm's back. “There's little time.”

“For what?”

“To get as close to Serakallash as we can while you can still run fast enough to keep up.”

“Whose idea was it to travel so deep in the desert?”

“That would be us trying to stay out of reach of the Blackdog sniffing after us, remember?”

“Ah, was that it? And this morning was the last of the water?”

“Yes.”

“Any chance they brew ale in Serakelda?”

“Probably not.”

“And she expects me to gallop all the way there before sunset,” he remarked to the world in general. “Run, in all this fur.”

“I could shear you, like a sheep.”

“Great Gods, princess, just you try.” He was already loping away. “Anyhow,” he called back, “thought you were in a hurry.”

Moth gave Storm a dig of her heels.

Pakdhala curled sleeping like a child under a heap of coats and blankets in one of the many empty rooms of Master Mooshka's caravanserai, though it was early in the evening and Thekla had not yet called them to supper. Most of the gang had dispersed, anyway, to what gossip and good cheer were to be found in the anxious eating-houses of Serakallash. The merchants had seen their goods put under lock and key and had gone off with fellow Northrons who had taken a house, setting up as goldsmiths under the patronage of Ketsim, the Lake-Lord's governor of Serakallash. Ivah and Shaiveh were among those who had gone out, which was some comfort, because Holla-Sayan did not think he was going to be able to sleep quietly in the caravanserai. The dog paced at the back of his mind. Something was coming, running before the storm.

Let me sleep
, ‘Dhala told him, when he tried to shake her awake, to take her to Thekla, who would at least see the girl got some broth and sops down, if she could stomach nothing else.
I need rest, nothing else. Tomorrow…tomorrow we go to the mountains.

Tomorrow? You're not ready.
He sat back on his heels.
You can't do anything yet. We should wait another year.

Wait and wait and wait. I can't wait. He's hunting me, dog. He's coming closer and closer. He'll find me soon, and I can't wait for that and doom the gang. I have to face him, defeat him now or die trying, die forever and stop him taking the lake.

How? Tell me how you think we have any chance of defeating him.

Trust me.
That was all she would ever say. “I'm
sorry,”
she said aloud, opening her eyes. “I'm
sorry
, Holla-Sayan. You have to trust what I see.” Not Father. Not dog. “Go away, let me sleep.” She tried on a weak smile. “You know what it's like here. My bones have turned to stone and my muscles to porridge.”

She raised barriers between them even as she slid again into sleep, walling herself off from any effort the Blackdog might make to reach her mind. In all the long years, she had never cut herself off so, never shut the dog away as she had this spring and summer.

Fear? Secrets even the dog must not know? Holla-Sayan blew out the lamp and left her, shutting the door behind him, wishing he could lock it against whatever threat came. There were too many threats and the Blackdog could only be in one place at a time.

“Immerose.” He caught at the Marakander's sleeve. “Where's Bikkim?”

“Went up to the roof, I think.”

Holla nodded, headed for the stairs to the upper floor and the ladder to the roof.

“Hey, Holla, say thank you, you graceless ploughboy.”

He waved a hand over his shoulder.

“And anyway, you need to let the pair of them sort out their own problems…”

Bikkim, as he'd hoped, was alone, leaning on the parapet, looking down over the town.

“Storm's coming,” Holla said needlessly, joining him, and they both turned to the north, where the sky hung thick and brown. “Bikkim. I need to ask you something.”

“Do you?” Bikkim scratched his chin. “If this is about Pakdhala—”

“Yes.”

“I do mean to marry her, if she'll have me. She's not a little girl anymore, you have to—”

“Bikkim—don't. I don't care, I don't…it doesn't matter. Just
listen.
” He knew the gang was half-convinced he was sliding into madness; he knew he was starting to look it, the twins had cornered him to tell him so and Judeh had taken to standing over him to see he remembered to eat in the evenings. Even ‘Dhala, so withdrawn since her abrupt decision to return to Lissavakail, had ordered more than once, revenge for all his nagging over the years when her strength failed her in Serakallash:
Father, dog, eat. Sleep. Don't let the dog make you ill.
And,
There's nothing out there. You've been seeing shadows since At-Landi, but Kinsai would have warned us. And Ivah is harmless, don't start on about her again. I like her. You're letting the dog's worry about returning and its fear of wizards become an obsession.

“I'm listening.”

“Will you look after Pakdhala for me?”

“What? Great Gods, Holla—” Bikkim put a hand on his arm and he flinched. “You're not
that
ill. Are you?”

“Tonight.
Now. Guard her tonight.”

“Oh.” Bikkim hesitated. “Why? From what?”

“Ivah.”

“Holla, I don't think Ivah has that sort of interest in her. Shaiveh wouldn't stand for it, for one thing, and—”

Holla-Sayan seized him by the shoulder. “Shut up. Listen.” Sayan help him, he could hardly hear his own words over the drumming, rising need of the dog to be running, to be hunting that…whatever it was…the presence that stalked them, trailing all the way down from At-Landi, always out of reach, always vanishing, fading into grass and stone and sky like it was a demon of the wilds, which it was not, it was hot metal and cold stone, it was…he did not know, and the dog could not remember.

“Ivah lies, she lies in everything. She's a wizard, not some petty diviner, no matter what she claims. Wizardry made Gaguush take her on. She's fenced about with spells so I can't see beyond the surface of her, her or Shaiveh, and she has allies. There's something out there, in the desert, and it's coming closer. Now. This evening.”

“Holla…” Bikkim tried to pry clenched fingers out of his shoulder. “Holla-Sayan, let go, dammit, that hurts.”

Holla backed away, arms wrapped close against doing any more harm. “Just…guard her tonight. She's sleeping down in the west corner alcove, by the gate. Don't let them near her, the wizard and her shadow. Your word you will.”

“Yes, all right.”

“Trust you,” Holla said indistinctly. “It doesn't want to, but
I
do.” Great Gods, but he was making no sense and Bikkim was staring. “Stay with her. Now.”

“Yes.”

“Good.” He pushed past Bikkim, stumbling, hardly able to hold himself together, to keep the dog from hurling itself into the world. Almost fell down the ladder, headed out, blind to everything but the barred door in the gate. A woman stood there, between him and the door.
No
, he told the dog.
No threat, no harm, just Mistress Jerusha and she's opening the door.

“What is it? Who are you?” Jerusha Rostvadim demanded of whoever was beyond. A woman, a tired horse, he smelt that much. Smelt the mountains, high stone and swift water: she was clothed in yaks’ wool, dyed with mountain dyes. Smelt…the lingering touch of some god. The dog growled and he seized it back from the edge of the world.

“I'm a…a cousin of Sister Vakail's,” the woman outside said. “Are you Jerusha?”

“Might be. Sister Vakail has a lot of cousins. Which one are you?”

“Elsinna. From Narvabarkash. I've brought you the stone that wasn't buried with Enneas.”

“What?”

“Please, let me in, before someone sees me.”

He had known an Enneas once. Two little girls in trouble for filching honeycomb from the larder and his sister furious because he laughed and took them up to see the new calves as he had promised anyway, spoiling them when they should have been punished…

That was Otokas.

“What are you talking about?” But Jerusha was pulling the door open and a mountain woman, dressed like a man, or so they'd have said in the mountains, dragged in a brown pony. She grabbed for her knife, seeing him at Jerusha's back, and then her eyes widened. Holla shouldered past them both before she could say anything. The caravanserai master's daughter snatched at his sleeve.

“You—Holla-Sayan—there's a storm coming. Better stay in.” He shook his head mutely without turning around, but he could feel her scowl and exasperated shrug. “Then remember the damned curfew and get back before sunset. You don't want to end up in the gaol and your mistress'll tan your hide if she has to bail you out.”

She slammed the door behind him. The bar thudded home.

“Who
was
that?”
the mountain woman demanded. “His eyes—”

“His eyes? I suppose he's handsome enough, if you like that sort, which personally I don't. A mad caravaneer. All mercenaries are a bit mad, but sometimes that one's more than a bit. Leave the pony, I'll send someone to see to it. You'd better come into the house and explain what in the cold hells you're babbling about.”

There was no one in the street, no open gate in any of the blind walls of the caravanserais. The dog poured into the world and Holla let it run, tracking that scent that was not a scent, metal and stone and ancient fire, tracking an echo of a memory of ice.

He was losing his long fight with the dog. He had thought they had a truce, a balance, until this thing began to stalk them. Its presence woke him sweating in the night, seeing a bear-crested helmet livid with reflected flame and eyes burning that were no reflection at all. Now the dog would rise up, pulling him down, drowning him, so that man's thoughts and man's reason were swamped, as they had not been, not entirely, even in the times they had gone after bandits. There were nights now he remembered only brokenly, if at all. Their truce held insomuch as the dog was willing to let him back, in the end, when they did not find the thing it hunted.