Unseasonable warmth in a region known for its heat had been melting snow off the peaks of the Anti-Neret. Though there was no flooding, the Bareh-da was running high. That river, flowing through Shamramdi, made it possible for the city to exist and prosper in arid country. Floating out on one-man rafts was how most emigrants departed. Dozens abandoned the city every night.
Getting in was a little more problematic, and much less attractive.
The Mountain, Azim al-Adil ed-Din, al-Azer er-Selim, and Alizarin’s oldest companions took the river route, one man at a time over several hours in order to avoid special notice by the Eyes of the Night. Excepting Nassim himself and Indala’s great-nephew, all had visited Andesqueluz in the once-upon-a-time. The Mountain had had to reveal that before he could sell the Great Shake on his plan. Too, he had confessed that he knew the Commander of the Righteous better than he had admitted before, though he reserved the heart of the truth. He related only interactions during the campaign on Artecipea.
Wonder of wonders, the Great Shake did grasp how vast a threat er-Rashal al-Dhulquarnen would become, ascended, with an Old God in his arsenal. Indala had the vision to think beyond dogma hammered in since infancy.
Alizarin feared the peril might be beyond his imagining. Asher had not been benign. Should er-Rashal be unable to control it … Asher would engineer the resurrection of his spouse, Ashtoreth. The couple would chastise the world … which might be an ambition the Rascal shared, but according to his own lights.
Nassim quelled his dread. Pointless, dwelling. He had obsessed too long already, in an endless quarrel with his conscience. Now he was wet and cold and alone on a raft that had begun to come apart. There was no moon. The Bareh-da was not yet entirely free of crocodiles. Lions rumbled beyond both shores. Though nearly hunted out, the survivors were afoot tonight. Then he heard the cough of a leopard. What else might be about, less mundane than fang and claw, he did not care to speculate.
“Entirely imagination,” he told himself. “Just imagination. Fear pounded into my ancestors by the Night.”
The Night was the true danger. The Night was wickedly clever. The Night was boundlessly cruel-though Instrumentalities seldom showed up in person anymore. Mostly they lurked in scary stories from back before the Revelation.
Nassim Alizarin had seen crocodiles, leopards, and lions, in all their fearsome tooth and claw, and what they could do to people who annoyed Gordimer. He preferred a less grisly fate for himself.
He spotted the wan signal finally, used a rotted board to paddle to the western bank, eventually landing two hundred yards long. Mohkam joined him, armed with a small lantern shuttered so tight it released almost no light at all.
“The others?” the Mountain asked.
“All here. Waiting at the signal, except for the Master of Ghosts.”
Al-Azer had left first, on the best raft, his job to pick the landing site and set the signal. “Where did he go?” Then, “My raft came apart. I lost most of my gear.”
Mohkam shrugged. “He wanted to check something. You didn’t lose your weapons, did you? We can find food and clothes.”
They walked while talking. At the assembly point young Az asked, “How long should we wait for the Master of Ghosts, Uncle? We should be under cover before first light.”
Nassim said, “Patrols won’t be a worry if we don’t clump up. They don’t bother individuals who aren’t obviously smuggling food or weapons.”
Young Az remarked, “They are more restrained than they could be.”
“Restrained?” Nassim blurted, startled.
“It being a war and all. Of religions. Just saying. Despite the atrocities we hear about, the Righteous have been generous-if the defeated surrender when offered the chance.” Azim added, “Compared to the Hu’n-tai At, or Rogert du Tancret, or crusaders and Gisela Frakier who aren’t with the Righteous.”
It took the Mountain a moment to grasp the implication.
Had Captain Tage survived after all? The Righteous were not systematically exterminating the Believers, unlike the Hu’n-tai At. The Righteous simply disarmed those who served the God Who Is God, with massive destruction and bloodshed occasionally but never to the limits of their capacity.
That deserved reflection, someday when he had leisure time, when the sun was high and no big, hungry things were snuffling about.
Old Az caught up. He did not explain himself, but did report, “We are going to walk a lot. That could be good. On foot and at our ages we won’t look so dangerous.”
Nassim said, “I begin to entertain doubts about this.”
Young Az countered, “It was your idea.”
“Time has made me wise enough to admit that I can mess up.”
“And have you?”
Nassim grunted a provisional negative. He had grown passionate selling this mission to the Great Shake. Indala had had his doubts but once he made his decision he did not consult advisors or family other than Azim.
Nassim had shielded him from the totality of the scheme.
It would entail a certain level of what might be considered treason.
Treason? Easy for Nassim Alizarin, the professional turncoat. But what of Indala? What of the Great Shake’s most favored nephew? Would they be branded forever?
Success or failure would tell.
Old Az asked, “How did Bone take having to stay behind?”
“It wasn’t pleasant.” Nassim hoped the old warrior was secretly pleased. “He claimed he would rather die out here with his brothers than molder a dozen more years among strangers. I hope that was just for show.” The old man had been sure that he would see none of the band again.
Somebody feeling negative muttered, “And ain’t there a grand good chance the old goat was right?”
The Mountain felt like his companions were with him mostly because he was doing something, however foredoomed, as opposed to doing nothing in Shamramdi while awaiting the inevitable end.
The reception from the Ansa was mixed. Some blamed Nassim for their troubles since his departure. Others understood that their tribulations were less than a sideshow to the grandees of Qasr al-Zed. Nassim should be honored for having argued his way back into the conflict with the monster of the Dead City. Without him the Ansa had no hope at all.
The Rascal was his weakest yet but he won every skirmish. He had negated the Ansa firepowder weaponry. They could now do him no serious harm. They could not get close enough.
And now the Dreangerean had begun taking outsider victims.
The crusaders had closed the traditional communications routes between the coast and the Lucidian heartland. Today’s routes passed through the Neret Mountains. The road that debouched at al-Pinea was most heavily traveled.
Couriers did not always get through, though losses were never so heavy that the route might be abandoned. It had been dangerous in peacetime, the Ansa taking the blame. Usually, they were guilty.
The Rascal was harvesting messengers for raw material. Soon he would resume reanimating his grandfather of devils. He was very close to success.
Neither the Ansa who visited Shamramdi, nor any of the tribe’s appeals, mentioned that the Rascal had made himself some helpers by using his ugliest necromancy to resurrect some of Andesqueluz’s former residents.
They numbered fewer than a dozen. They were slow. They were vulnerable. They were not much good at carrying out orders but they did ease er-Rashal’s life. The terror they caused exceeded that generated by the sorcerer himself.
The terrified Ansa were on the brink of panicky flight despite having nowhere to run.
The Ansa found the situation hard to discuss. It struck to the core of their cultural obsessions. When a few did try to explain, language problems and cultural quirks left the Sha-lug baffled.
Old Az thought about it a lot. Eventually, at the communal fire, he told Nassim, “The Rascal did learn something awful from those mummies he had us steal.”