Melissa McShane (6 page)

“I
guess
he’ll do all right,” she said. “But I bet you’re the more frightening one.”

Gerrard winked at her. “You figured it out. I follow her around so she can protect me.”

“You’re not as dumb as you look,” Nacalia retorted, then danced away as Gerrard sputtered in mock rage and amusement.

“You’re sure we need the whelp?” Gerrard asked Zerafine, who was trying not to laugh.

“Fairly sure, yes. I think she has a crush on you.”

“Me? No, it’s you she wants to hero-worship. I’m the inconvenient lunk hiding behind your robes who trips over his own feet and probably eats too much.”

“You may be reading too much into her attitude. Anyway, you do eat a lot.”

“I need to regain my strength from tripping over my feet all the time.”

Nacalia led them through the vast central plaza and past the temple of Kalindi, queen of the gods, with its bright golden roof and pillars of rose-colored marble. It was the only building in the plaza that hadn’t been damaged in the fires. At least one hundred steps led up the side of a manmade hill to the temple portico, but a steady procession of worshippers made the journey nonetheless. Other temples clustered around: the pillared block of Endelion, the ornately carved and painted pavilion of Marenda, Sintha’s unadorned but elegant temple, its spire challenging the heavens, surrounded by offertory boxes of coins mixed with luck tokens. Another wide street led south from the plaza, and Nacalia went that way.

They passed the grand amphitheater famed for its races and wrestling matches and soon

found themselves in a much less grand part of town. The road continued to be well maintained, but the buildings showed signs of age and wear. Five- and six-story apartment buildings leaned into one another for support, as though their weathered wood and mortared stone weren’t enough to hold them up. Women called to each other from open balconies, shaking out laundry or

preparing food. Zerafine saw someone dump a chamber pot out of a third-story window. “I

thought Portena had indoor plumbing,” she said.

“Most places, yes, but they ha’nt got around to everywhere, and it’s the poorest places get things last of all,” Nacalia said. “We got ours last Sukmor and mam’s so grateful she could cry, if she ever done cry over things.”

The temple to Hanu and Kanu stood in a cleared-out space within sight of the dock gates. Its stone façade gleamed with newness; Zerafine estimated its age at no more than forty years, more post-plague construction. The relief carving over the doorway picked out in bright colors depicted the twin gods wrestling, neither winning, neither relenting.

“You want to go in?” asked Gerrard.

Zerafine shook her head. “The
thelos
of Sukman said this was one of the loci for so-called ghost appearances. I want to see more of them--with luck, one that lasts for more than a minute.”

“We’re just going to stand here and stare at people?”

“Do you have a better idea?”

“You there!” a strident voice exclaimed. “You need to move on!” A skinny, gray-haired

man dressed in the blue and brown robes of a
thelos
of Hanu, or possibly Kanu, was waving at them from the doorway to the temple. Zerafine asked, “Is something wrong?”

“Is something—Young lady, we can’t have
theloi
of the god of Death hovering near the entrance to this temple like...like
gore-crows,
or the like. Take your walking mountain and the imp and be about your business.”

Zerafine felt her temper begin to rise and had to sit on it, hard. “Actually, you may be able to help me with my business,” she said as politely as her anger would allow. “I’m looking for one of the apparitions that have been plaguing Portena. Do you know where I might find one?

Perhaps an area around here where they’re common?”

“Young lady, I have no idea what you’re talking about. I’ve never seen one of those

delusions and I don’t care to. Ask at one of Sukman’s houses if you’re so interested.”

“The
thelos
of Sukman directed me to this district. If you haven’t heard anything, could you possibly direct me—”

“Young lady—”

“
Thelos
,” Zerafine said, her voice low and cut with ice, “if you call me that again I swear by my god I will call down a curse upon you the likes of which your gods have never dreamed. I have been polite and respectful to you and I demand the same respect in return. Now, one last time and I’ll remove my objectionable presence from your doorstep. I am looking for an

apparition. You give a good impression of stupidity, but I doubt even you are so insulated from reality that you don’t know what I’m talking about. There is an area here where many of those presences have been seen. Tell me where it is, or who can give me that information, and I’ll be on my way.”

The
thelos
had turned as gray as his hair. “
Thelis
,” he said, “I apologize. I truly don’t know where you can find what you seek. But if you ask the dock master, I believe she will be able to help you.”

“Thank you. Atenas’s blessing be far from you,” Zerafine said, giving him the most cursory salute and turning away without waiting for his response. “Dock master?” she said to Nacalia, whose mouth was hanging open and eyes were wide as dinner plates. “Go on, we’re running

short on time.” Nacalia nodded and trotted away, almost too fast for Zerafine and Gerrard to keep up.

“I think you scared the kid,” Gerrard said.

“Good. I don’t think she takes me seriously. I mean me as a
thelis
of Atenas. She needs to be clear on what it is I do.”

“Make threats you can’t deliver on? Or does Atenas now curse people for simple rudeness?”

“I know. I shouldn’t have lost my temper. Or lied to him about the curse.” It had been a

small lie, more of a threat than a lie, but it still tasted bitter in her mouth. She adjusted her hood.

The
seicorum
lining made the outer wool layer even heavier, and the mid-morning sun promised to burn as hotly as ever. She was already beginning to sweat through her undershift and into her ankle-length sleeveless linen tunic.

The southern gate was wider even than the one they’d entered by the previous night. Its

massive, brass-sheathed doors lay flush with the wall and were only closed in time of war; traffic passed through Portena’s harbor day and night. Near the gate, it was obvious that this was an area that catered to sailors and travelers. Even at this hour of the day, the taverns were bustling, and scantily clad women leaned out of upper windows, beckoning to all passersby, male and female. Gerrard waved at a busty, horse-faced redhead who whistled at him and then called to someone behind her to “take a look at the big one there.” Zerafine nudged him. “Stop

encouraging them,” she said. The redhead called out something about Gerrard’s size that had nothing to do with his visible attributes. Zerafine thought his sunburn deepened for a moment and grinned at him. “Told you,” she said.

Outside the gate, warehouses lined the city walls, great flat-roofed buildings with doors broad enough to admit two oxcarts abreast. The dock master’s house, its boards painted a

weather-beaten blue, lay directly opposite the gate at the edge of the docks. All the traffic that came through Portena’s harbor had to pass by it. Zerafine led the way up the steps to the door and knocked. After a moment, a plump woman threw open the door, said “I told you—” and then gasped. She made a quick sign of warding, and Zerafine heard Gerrard make a noise deep in his throat that was just this side of being a growl. Zerafine didn’t take offense at people’s superstitions, but Gerrard had never gotten used to having warding gestures flicked in their direction.

“Are you the dock master? I was told you might be able to help me,” Zerafine said. The

woman recovered herself, blushed, and thrust her hands behind her back.

“I thought you were my husband,” she said. “Please come in,
thelis
. You must be the emissary. It’s good to know someone’s taking our problem seriously.”

They entered the warm, stuffy dimness of the house, and took seats in the tiny front room.

The woman started to sit behind her desk, thought better of it, and came around to lean against it.

Nacalia sat on the floor, arms wrapped around her knees, next to Gerrard’s feet. She reminded Zerafine of a cat they’d had in the dormitories at Atenar—small, independent, but quick to seek shelter with the biggest person around.

“I’m Solina, madama
thelis
,” the woman said. “You’re here about Baz?”

“I don’t know a Baz,” Zerafine replied. “I’m looking for some of these apparitions and I was told I could find one here.”

“That’s Baz,” Solina said. She sounded relieved. “We’ve seen other apparitions, but he’s the only one that’s come back again and again. I know what the
theloi
of Sukman say, but it’s
not
madness; Baz never hurt anyone, and we all know it’s his ghost.”

Zerafine bit back a sharp reply. Instead, she said, “Baz was a friend of yours?”

Solina laughed. “Not so much a friend as a lovable pain in my ass. He was a sailor off the
Bouncing Biancha
who spent his pay faster than he could earn it whenever he came into port.

Hard worker, when he was sober, and treated the women nice. He fell overboard when the ship was at sea and drowned. We all knew about it, had a little service for him at the temple, and then four weeks ago people started seeing him around the docks. Figured it was just drunken foolery at first, but then
I
saw him on the first of Ailausor, right by warehouse twenty, acting like he was toting a load just like always. And I don’t drink, madama.” She poked the air in Zerafine’s direction for emphasis. “We’ve asked for
tokthelos
Genedirou to come, but he’s too busy to pay any mind to our part of the city. And
tokthelos
or no, madama, I’m not best thrilled at being told I’m suffering from a temporary madness. My wits are as good as the next man’s. What else

could it be but some new kind of ghost?”

Zerafine was impressed by the woman’s emphatic speech even as she totted up the flaws in

her argument. Ghosts couldn’t travel over water; if Baz had left a ghost, it would have appeared on the ship immediately, not waited until it had returned to port. And the plain fact was that there
were
no other kinds of ghosts. Ghosts were fragments of memory desperate to regain a body, not immaterial illusions of people. Was Genedirou telling people that the “ghosts” were a form of traveling madness?

“I’d like to see Baz, if possible,” she said.

Solina nodded. “He’s usually at pier 7 around this time of day. We might have to wait a

while,” she warned.

They walked down the docks to pier 7, which was empty of ship and ghost alike. Zerafine

pushed back her hood and let her hair fan across her back. In all directions, sailors scrambled up and down rigging, bare-chested men hauled loads into waiting carts, and drovers guided their wagons through warehouse doors or the gate to the city. The briny odor of seawater mixed with the bite of hot tar and the stink of animal waste. No one seemed to be paying attention to them, or if they were, they were unusually discreet about it. It was nice to feel anonymous for a few minutes.

Zerafine turned her attention out to sea and was startled to find a stranger had joined their party. He was bald, with a tremendous mustache drooping down both sides of his mouth, and wore ragged trousers and a stained linen shirt. He seemed not to notice them, but sat down on the edge of the pier and kicked his bare heels above the water.

Solina clutched Zerafine’s arm. Her earlier fear of the
thelis
had vanished. “That’s Baz,” she whispered. She sounded excited and terrified at the same time.

Zerafine exchanged glances with Gerrard, who gave a typical shrug. “He wasn’t there one

second and he was the next,” he said in a low voice. “No fading in, no noise or flashing lights or...I don’t know what else you might expect. Just standing there.” Nacalia peered out from behind Gerrard, her eyes wide.

Zerafine knelt down beside the apparition. He seemed more solid than the woman they’d

seen in the market, but there was still a translucency to him that made it clear he wasn’t human.

She waved her hand in front of his face and got no reaction. She sat down beside him and said,

“Hello, Baz.” The man ignored her. He pursed his lips and began to whistle soundlessly, his feet waving, his hands propped behind his back. Zerafine thought for a moment, then, before she could talk herself out of it, swung herself to sit on Baz’s lap.

She looked down and saw her own body overlaid with Baz’s suddenly more transparent one.

Other than that, she felt nothing. Baz seemed nothing more than an image, but she couldn’t help feeling that if she could just—

--and Baz disappeared, and Zerafine inhabited her body alone. She felt no different, felt no lingering effects from Baz’s presence. She scrambled up to face Gerrard, his face crimson, who shouted, “What in Atenas’s name were you thinking? That thing could have killed you, or

scrambled your brains, or worse!”

“I didn’t think of that,” she admitted. “It just occurred to me that if it were a ghost, I should be able to communicate with it. It’s not a ghost,” she added.

Solina’s face fell. “So what is it?”

“I don’t know. Not a ghost. Not some kind of madness. An illusion, maybe. And you’re not

going crazy, Solina. Baz hasn’t hurt anyone, has he?” Solina shook her head. “Then I think you should just try to ignore him—yes, I know it’s going to be hard, but I don’t know what else to tell you. I can promise you, though, that I will figure it out.”

“That’s a risky promise,” Gerrard said as they walked back toward the central plaza. “Last I heard, you have no power over figments.”

“It’s not a mere figment, Gerrard,” Zerafine said. “But I didn’t have time to fully open

myself to perceive it. I felt as though, if I could just get the right angle on it, I would understand what it was. We really need to talk to Genedirou. If he’s capable of banishing these things, that might give us something to go on.”