He stilled, then, noticing that the chill wind was no longer blowing in off the bay, but luffing his shirt from the front. He peered up, puzzled, and was surprised to see thick dark clouds massing over the island. A blaze of sheet lightning made him flinch and blink and he rose, peering to the south. The deep purple night sky was clear there, which was odd, given that most storms rolled over them out of the south.
A thick mist was now even rising off the icy waters and climbing the wharves. He backed away to the cargo hatch and called down, ‘Hawl. Better get up here.’
Their mage was already on her way up the steep stairs. She went straight to the side and peered up the shore into town.
‘What is it?’ Cartheron asked.
She turned to him, frowning her worry. ‘Shadow…’
‘Truly?’ He eyed the mist-shrouded streets. ‘You think, maybe … it’s our boy?’
A curse of alarm sounded from below and a short hairy shape burst from the companionway, swung over the side, and went loping up the pier to disappear into the swirling fog.
Hawl merely raised a brow in comment and Cartheron nodded. ‘We have to warn Surly. I’ll go.’
‘Not alone.’ Hawl leaned over the cargo hatch. ‘Urko! You still down there?’
‘Yeah?’ came an answering bellow.
She pointed a warning finger at Cartheron. ‘You take your brother.’
* * *
Grinner, Nedurian found, played a mean game of troughs. They sat before one of the two ground floor windows of Smiley’s. Nedurian had played a lifetime, campaigning all across Quon east to west, and now in the unlikely figure of this burly, scarred knife-fighter he’d found a fellow adherent as steeped in the game’s strategy as he.
He rolled again and considered his moves while Grinner chewed a thumbnail and eyed the board. When he hadn’t moved for some time the Napan peered up at him, frowning. ‘What is it?’
But Nedurian wasn’t listening. For some time a vague worry had been tugging at him despite his submersion in the game, and only now had it finally surfaced in a prickling all up and down his arms and the stirring of the small hairs of his neck.
He rose from the table, jostling it and upsetting the stones. Grinner pulled away, his hands going to the yellowed horn knife grips standing from his vest. ‘What is it?’
Mist shrouded the street outside beneath dark bunched clouds. Even as Nedurian watched, touching his Warren, shadows cast across the shrouds of fog seemed to shift and twist all of their own accord. He went for the door.
‘What is it?’ Grinner repeated.
Nedurian paused. ‘Some sort of magery.’ Pointing at Grinner, he warned him, ‘Stay indoors!’ and rushed out. He made for Agayla’s; if anyone would be familiar with such a manifestation it would be she.
Oddly enough, though the woman’s shop was only a few streets away, he almost became lost amid cobbled ways he didn’t recognize. He stopped to strengthen his touch upon Rashan. Immediately, the town seemed to snap back into place all about him. He raced on.
Eventually, after a number of turns that proved inexplicably wrong, he stumbled upon her shop only to find her out in the street already, a silk shawl about her shoulders, glowering at the overcast night sky.
‘Is it one of the island’s Shadow Moons?’ he asked, a touch out of breath.
‘No. It resembles a Shadow Moon, but none has been presaged for years yet. This is worse. Some fool is opening a gateway between Shadow and here. And I think I know who.’
‘Ah. Our peculiar visitor.’
‘Yes. And he is a greater fool than I suspected. Doesn’t he understand that anything can come through?’
This gave Nedurian pause. ‘Anything?’ he repeated, almost in disbelief.
She nodded, furious. ‘Anything. We must be ready to defend the city.’
Nedurian ran a hand over his unshaven cheeks. Ye gods, this was not what he’d signed up for.
Civilians were crowding the street now, peering about in wonderment. Agayla waved them away. ‘Hide indoors. It is a … a Shadow Storm. Lock your doors!’ She imperiously waved him away as well. ‘Send everyone indoors.’
He inclined his head in acquiescence – as one could only do when Agayla used that tone – and jogged off, shouting as he went, ‘Lock your doors! A Shadow Storm!’
* * *
High above Malaz City, Tattersail sat at table with Mock and a few of his favourite captains. Untan distilled grain liquor had flowed freely and the captains were trading banter and jokes with the admiral while Tattersail played with her knife and napkin.
Mock laughed roguishly at the jokes, sending winks to her across the table, but she was not amused by what she saw as these followers’ transparent efforts at ingratiation and toadying. Mock, of course, was enjoying all the attention.
‘Still no word from your sources on Nap?’ Captain Hess asked, hooking an arm over the back of his tall chair.
‘None,’ Mock answered. ‘Do not worry. They were savaged just as badly.’ He eyed Tattersail directly across the full length of the table. ‘Some warn of a follow-up invasion or attack, but I discount it utterly.’
Tattersail looked away, her grip on the silver knife tightening.
‘Who will be the new flank admiral, then, Mock?’ another asked, rather drunkenly.
The admiral raised his brows in exaggeration. ‘This is true. We’ve lost Casson, haven’t we?’
‘Who, then?’ the captain, Renish, pressed on, and Tattersail saw in his narrowed gaze that perhaps the man was not so drunk as he pretended.
Mock just smiled in his carefree manner, and, leaning forward conspiratorially, answered, ‘Oh, someone at this table, no doubt.’
The seven captains eyed one another then, leaning away from their neighbours and glowering into their cups. Tattersail looked to the soot-blackened rafters far above. Gods! So predictable. Mock playing them against each other. As he had for years.
Her gaze chanced upon Agayla’s dark tapestry and she dropped her knife with a loud clang. So dark!
The captains all stopped talking, eyeing her. Mock lifted his brows. ‘Are you all right, dearest? Too much to drink, perhaps?’ He elbowed Hess on his right, and all seven captains chuckled on cue.
She passed a shaky hand across her face, swallowing to calm herself. ‘I’m fine. Something … something has disagreed with me. I think I will take some air.’
Mock half rose from his seat, bowing. ‘Of course, dearest. Do take care, though. It looks like rain.’
She stood from the table and all the captains rose as well, bowing. She returned the civility and made for the main terrace, where she slammed the heavy iron-bound door behind her and stared out over the city, a hand going to her throat. Ancient Ones! No wonder I’ve been so jittery.
There, low over the city, a massive cyclone of energy gyred amid churning midnight clouds and flitting shadows. Meanas! But who? How?
She ran for Rampart Way – the nearest route down to the city below. Soon, however, she had to hike up the long dress Mock had asked her to put on for dinner. She cursed it, finally tearing off its lowest section and continuing on.
The dry, dusty words of one of the texts on Warren magics regarding such manifestations marched through her mind as she went:
Clouds, mists, or storms are a common by-product of the massive differentials in pressures, humidities, and temperatures when sufficiently large portals or gates between Realms are generated. Should such a differential prove large enough, the energies generated may induce a storm as destructive as any legendary Maelstrom.
Agayla would know what to do.
* * *
She had spent her time on the south coast facing the cold grey waters of the Strait of Storms. These entities known as the Stormriders were an interesting phenomenon. One she’d never had the inclination or opportunity to investigate before. Clearly, they represented a lingering ancient intrusion into the region. But just from where, she couldn’t say. It would take generations of observation to know for certain, of course, but it appeared to her that their presence was slowly fading upon the world, grafting of an alien order as it was.