‘Greetings. It is I, Eth’en. May I enter?’
Dancer swung his feet down. It was dark and desert-chill now; he draped his single blanket over his shoulders. ‘Come in.’
The hanging cloth was brushed aside and the old fellow from the tunnels stepped through. ‘Good evening. Pardon this intrusion. I was wondering if I might examine your friend?’
Dancer could not see why not. ‘Go ahead. You know what you’re looking at?’
‘Indeed I do. I am of the Tano. A Spiritwalker – does this mean anything to you?’
Dancer shrugged. ‘No.’
A wry smile touched the elder’s lips. ‘Thank you. You are a rebuke to the vain. You are quite right. There is no reason at all why you should know what it means.’
He turned his attention to Kellanved and Dancer saw his face change; his brows rose, surprised, and he withdrew his outstretched hand, as if wary. He raised his gaze and Dancer saw wonder in his yellowed bloodshot eyes. ‘Please tell me … what were the circumstances of your friend’s, ah, arrival here?’
Dancer explained.
Eth’en nodded. ‘Yes. And this Warren – Rashan, I should guess?’
‘No. Meanas.’
The Tano actually appeared shocked. He said, after a time, ‘The Broken Realm. That is very unusual. So, he was walking you in through Shadow.’
Dancer considered, then shook his head. ‘Not … really. We passed through a gate in Shadow.’
The Spiritwalker hissed out a breath and sat on one of the stone ledges. ‘A third Realm? Describe it, please.’
Dancer shrugged again. ‘It was dark and lifeless. Fields of ash – as if some sort of firestorm had passed through consuming everything.’
The elder pressed a hand to his forehead. ‘The Moaning Plains?’ he murmured wonderingly. He regarded Kellanved for a time. ‘So … his spirit was stretched out across three Realms: ours, Shadow, and what some name the Scar. And then the Otataral took him…’
Eth’en sat back, raised his gaze to Dancer. ‘There is a ritual we have among us Tano – a deadly test. If one is willing to risk one’s essence, one’s mind, one may walk out into the Otataral Desert and sing – summoning our version of the Warrens – and embrace the transformative powers of this ore. It is near suicide. But those few who return … they return changed. Able to do things none other can…’ He looked away, his gaze far off. ‘It lies at the root of our powers, you know. Our Spiritwalking.’ He inclined his head to Kellanved. ‘They say delving into Meanas drives one insane. If your friend had already hardened his mind against its peculiarities, then when the Otataral struck … there is a chance.’ He spread his hands.
‘I see. Thank you.’
The elder rose, grunting, lifted the hanging, and turned. ‘Do not abandon him. Even if you think him dead. There is a chance.’
Dancer nodded. He sat and stretched out his legs as if settling in for a long wait. ‘We’ll see.’
* * *
Horst Grethall, caravan-master, and merchant out of Ryns, of Itko Kan lands, was uncharacteristically optimistic this day as he watched the congregation of wagons and carts take shape at a traditional assembling field south of Li Heng.
Now that that city was once again open for business, goods from the west, specifically finer Quon and Tali products, were trickling in. And this was excellent for business, as the southern markets were screaming for Talian leatherwork, filigreed silver, and Quon liquors. So if all the pieces came together in their proper time, his might be one of the first of the larger caravans to arrive in Itko Kan bearing a supply of these oh so desirable goods.
And not only this; he also had reason to be optimistic regarding his security during the month-long journey south – regardless of rumoured bands of renegades from the dead king Chulalorn’s shattered and beaten army, and opportunistic border raiders from Dal Hon – for he had acquired the services of the most sought-after caravanserai guard and fighting champion. She was a strange one, everyone agreed, but her reputation and skills were unimpeachable.
So he was in an almost cheerful mood as he walked the borders of the assembling field, seeking out old acquaintances and answering queries from his sons regarding marching orders, complaints, and disputes over fees. Veterans of his earlier crossings north and south across Kan lands wondered at this vision of a cheerful, near-carefree Horst, and they hoped he had not taken up smoking rustleaf, or d’bayang poppy.
It was near the end of the day when his youngest son came to him with a report of one last wagon petitioning to join the caravan.
Horst waved the boy away. ‘We’re fat enough. That’s why we’re leaving tomorrow.’
‘This fellow is quite insistent … and he looks like a competent swordsman.’
Horst shook his head. ‘I have guards enough. I’m not running a charity for out of work soldiers.’
Sevall opened his hands. ‘Well – he said he’ll just follow along anyway…’
Horst stopped his walking inspection of the line, turned to his son and set his fists on his hips. He felt the heat of temper pushing up from his stomach. ‘For the love of…’ Then he reconsidered. He’d turned away three extended families hoping to travel south under the protection of his caravan: pale some of them had been, sweaty, with obvious fevers among the kids. Plague.
He knew they’d be quarantined before being allowed entry to Kan, but there was no sense inviting the damned sickness into the caravan before it even started. He and his were safe – he carried a poultice round his neck blessed at the waters of the Temple of Poliel – but strong hands were needed to lead all the wagons. He sighed. ‘Fine. Let’s have a look.’ Sevall led him to the rear.
It was a garish red and gold oversized cart pulled by two horses – both of which looked healthy and well cared for, which was encouraging.
A single fellow stood before it in plain linen trousers and a long hanging shirt, his massed black hair unbound and loose, a long-sword at his side. And he was Dal Hon, or at least half so; this was not encouraging to Horst, who was only used to seeing Dal Honese at the opposite end of their hook-swords. He crossed his arms and looked the young fellow up and down.
‘You wish to join?’
The youth inclined his head in a measured nod. ‘I do.’
Horst gestured to the painted cart. ‘What’s this? The smallest bordello on the continent?’
‘It is my grandmother. She intended a pilgrimage, but age has caught up with her and it is her last wish to be buried with her lineage on Malaz.’
Horst grunted at that; he’d seen many such aunts and dowagers on the pilgrimage trails. He pointed to the north. ‘Why not take a riverboat? It’s far quicker.’
The fellow shook his head. ‘She has a dread of water.’
Now Horst frowned. ‘Well … I’m sorry to be the one to give you the news, but Malaz is an island.’
A slight rise and fall of the fellow’s enviably wide and muscular shoulders. ‘A flagon of wine might be the answer to that.’
‘It’s the answer to all kinds of things,’ Horst muttered. He nodded. ‘Fine. But even if you can fight you still have to pay the shared protection fee – understood?’
‘Agreed.’
‘And my security chief has the last say.’ He turned to Sevall. ‘Get Shear.’
Sevall ran to summon her.
They waited. When Shear drew close Horst did not have to turn to look for it was obvious in the surprised expression and fixed attention of the newcomer. When he felt her at his side he turned to look up her slim lean figure to her tightly braided auburn hair, and of course the strange affectation of the brightly painted half-mask that covered her eyes.
Those eyes, mostly hidden behind the mask, were fixed upon the lad. Horst gestured to him. ‘This fellow wishes to join his cart to the line. You demand approval of all additions. What do you say?’