Peering down at him, Kiska sighed. She pointed to the huge fish, its exposed ribs, saucer-sized eyes milky and half pecked out. The two midnight-black ravens had resettled on its back and now paced about searching for morsels. ‘It’s dead. Putrid. Useless. Drop the rope and come away.’
The old man gestured helplessly. ‘But I can’t.’
‘You can’t? You mean you won’t.’
He shook his head, bared his grey uneven teeth in what might have been meant as a cringe of embarrassment. ‘No, I mean I can’t. I can’t untie the rope. Could you… maybe…’
‘Oh, for the love of Burn!’ She turned the handle of her stave and its blade snicked free. She stabbed the rope, slitting it.
The old man sprang up. ‘I’m free! Free!’ And he giggled.
Kiska backed away, uneasy. It occurred to her that she might just have made a serious mistake. But then the old man threw himself down on the slimy putrescent carcass, hugging its jaws. ‘I don’t mean you, my lovely one. No, no, no. Not you! I won’t go far. I promise. There could never be another like you!’
The ravens cawed again, protesting.
Her stomach clenching and rising with bile, Kiska continued backing away. ‘Well… good luck.’
She rejoined Jheval, who’d been watching, arms crossed. As they walked he jerked a thumb backwards. ‘You see? What did I say? Crazy as a sun-stroked rat.’
Walking with her staff across her shoulders, arms draped over it, Kiska reflected that that may be so, but at least the crazy mage was free of the trap he’d made for himself. Not that he might not blunder into something worse, here in Shadow.
The track had become soft underfoot. The surface was brittle, dried in patterns of cracks; the wheel-tracks deep slit ruts. Ahead, the flat horizon was one dark front of churning black and grey clouds. Lightning glowed within.
‘You are looking for the lake?’
Kiska and Jheval jumped, spinning. It was the old man. Jheval glared at Kiska as if to say, Now look what you’ve done!
‘What are you doing?’ Kiska demanded.
He peered up at her, his beady yellow eyes narrowing. ‘I should think that’s obvious. I’m following you.’
‘Look,’ Jheval said. ‘What do you want?’
He tilted his head, considered the question for a time. ‘I want to be left alone.’
Jheval gaped, spread his arms to the vast emptiness around. ‘You want to be alone yet you follow us?’
A scowl of annoyance. ‘Not you two.’ He pointed to his head. ‘The voices. They won’t leave me alone. Do this. Do that. Give me this, give me that. Will they never stop?’ He dug his hands into his thin hair. ‘They’re driving me crazy!’
Jheval eyed Kiska then rolled his gaze to the sky. ‘Okay. The voices. Listen, I’ve heard that if you dig a hole in the ground and stick your head in it makes the voices go away.’
‘Jheval!’ Kiska cuffed his shoulder. She turned to the man. ‘What’s your name?’
His brows furrowed in thought. Kiska flinched away when a waft of fish-rot struck her. She glimpsed two dark shapes wheeling far overhead — the giant ravens?
‘Warbin al Blooth?’ the old man muttered. ‘No, no. Horos Spitten the Fifth? No. That’s not right. Crethin Spoogle?’ He yanked frantically at his hair again. ‘I can’t remember my name!’
Kiska held out her hands. ‘It’s all right. Never mind. But we have to call you something — just pick one.’
‘I can’t! You pick one.’
‘I have some suggestions,’ Jheval muttered.
Kiska waved Jheval onward. She tried to think of inoffensive names. ‘Okay. How about Grajath?’
‘No.’
‘Frecell?’
‘No.’
She clenched down on her irritation. ‘Warran?’
‘Warran,’ he echoed. As they walked along he repeated the name, trying it out. ‘Okay. I suppose that will do.’
And thank you too! She gestured ahead. ‘You came this way?’
‘No. Yes. Maybe. Once. Long ago.’
Jheval snorted, shaking his head.
‘And the lake?’
The old man shot her a narrowed glare. ‘Why? The fish?’ He pointed. ‘I knew it! You’re after an even bigger one! Well, you’re too late! It’s gone.’ He laughed hoarsely, cleared his throat, and spat something up.
‘Not the fish!’ Kiska snapped. ‘The Whorl — the Rift — the thing that drained the lake.’
Warran waved dismissively. ‘Oh, that. No fish there.’ He gestured aside. ‘Best to go that way.’
Now Jheval was eyeing the old man. ‘Why?’
‘Shorter. No crabs.’
‘Crabs?’
‘You think that fish was big? Wait till you see the crabs that eat them.’
‘Ah.’ They stopped. Jheval looked at Kiska. She squeezed her hands on her staff. She squinted to the storm on the horizon.
‘Is that it?’
Warran nodded. ‘Yes.’
‘You’ll show us the way round the lake?’
‘Yes — but then we’re through! No more favours! I mean, fair’s fair.’
She let out a long breath. ‘All right. Show us.’
He rubbed his chin, clearly taken aback. ‘Really? Okay. Ah, this way — I think.’
Jheval hung back next to Kiska, opened his mouth. ‘I know!’ she cut in. ‘I know. We’ll see. Time doesn’t seem to matter, does it? We’ll just backtrack if we must.’
He frowned, considering this, then shrugged. ‘Very well.’
After a time they came to a field of tall sand dunes. A miasmic wind hardly stirred them. Tufts of sharp brittle grass grew on their slopes and in the troughs between. Kiska found the going very tiring as her sandalled feet sank into the shifting sands. Occasionally she would peer around for the two dark shapes; eventually she would find two dark dots on a distant rise, or black angular shapes cruising far above. She almost spoke of them to Jheval but decided not to raise the subject in front of their companion.
‘After I caught my prize I was struck by many regrets,’ the odd fellow announced suddenly as they slogged up one slope.
‘That you didn’t have the strength to pull it?’ she offered.
‘Oh, no. I was making progress… slow… but progress. No, my biggest regret was in not thinking ahead.’
‘Oh?’ she said drily.
‘Yes. Because it is one thing to catch what you’ve always sought. After that it is quite another matter. The question really should be: what do you do with it once you’ve caught it?’
Kiska could only frown, uncertain. There seemed almost to be something there. It was almost as if it applied to her — a tangential lesson? Homey aphorism? Or insane babble? The problem was she had no idea how to take anything this crazy old man came out with.
CHAPTER VII
Be not too rigid,
For you will shatter;
Be not too yielding,
For you will be bowed.
Shell thought the strait of water that ran along the south side of the long narrow island of Korel very calm given the constant storm raging just to the north. It had been snowing for the last three days and nights. She couldn’t recall when she last saw the sky. Thick dark clouds hung so low she thought the masts would scour them. It was dark and bitterly cold. Snow flurries gusted over the boats constantly — an improvement, however, on the numbing sleet that had left her wet and chilled to the bone. So cold was she that she found herself wondering about that rendered fat Ena had been offering.
As their small flotilla approached the Korel shore the Sea-Folk brought her and Lazar over to the boat carrying Blues and Fingers. If anything, Fingers was even more miserable than she. His seasickness had left him weak and now he complained of chills, aches, a racking cough, and a constantly running nose. He spent all his time hunched under blankets at the bows, where they sat with him now.
‘Orzu hasn’t said so,’ Blues began, ‘but if they land there’s a good chance the Korelri will just grab the lot of them.’
‘They must’ve known that from the start,’ Fingers objected, and coughed wetly.