The Well of Darkness Page 8

  “What’s your proposition?” he asked warily.

  “First answer the question,” I said. “Were those other deaths your doing?”

  He shifted in his chair. “You a friend of Obilin’s?” he asked.

  There was no deception in the way I laughed at that suggestion, and Jaris sensed it.

  “Arright,” he said. “Arright. I don’t work exclusive for Obilin. You’re right—there were three seven-days or so when Obilin shut down his operation. I just doubled up on my other business, that’s all. I didn’t kill nobody.”

  “Other business?” I repeated, then rocked to my feet, unable to believe the conclusion I’d reached. “You’re an agent for the Fa’aldu?”

  Jaris was out of his chair, his dagger in his hand. “For a stranger, you sure know a lot. Just who the fleabite are you?”

  I held up both hands, palms toward Jaris. “Easy now, I was just surprised, that’s all. As to who I am—you don’t want to know, Jaris. It can only get you into trouble.”

  “Yeah,” he said, and relaxed a bit—but he didn’t put away his blade. “Yeah, I got a feeling you’re right. So tell me what you want, and let’s get this done with.”

  “I want out of here,” I said, putting real desire in the words. “But I need to know what I’d be getting into.“

  He considered me for a moment. “You already know about Obilin. The phony stiffs go straight to Eddarta and he takes them from there. The Fa’aldu business—goes by another route.”

  “Surely the Fa’aldu don’t pay you,” I said, thinking of the way they lived, trading, never using coins.

  “Not them, the slave’s relatives, friends, whatever. The Fa’aldu do the planning, and take the fee—I get it when the slave reaches the end of the line, some place in Chizan.”

  “Why Chizan?”

  He laughed, a short, snorting sound. “You know what happens to somebody who’s caught after escaping? This side of the world’s filled with lowlifes looking to make a fast zak.” He grinned, knowing I might put him in that same category. “The slaves who been in the mines—they all have a certain look, y’know? Somebody spots ’em, turns ’em in for a standing reward for returned slaves. Guards go anywhere to get ’em back—anywhere this side of Chizan.”

  I picked up the two gold coins I’d removed from my belt and left on the windowsill, and I held them so that the light gleamed from them. “Will this buy my passage out of here?” I asked Jaris. “Naturally, I’d prefer the Fa’aldu route.”

  “Naturally,” Jaris said, as he stepped forward, holding out his hand. I pulled the coins back. “You wanna do business or not?” he snarled.

  “I said before that I want to know what I’m getting into. Where do the Fa’aldu slaves go?”

  “I take ’em to Taling when it’s my turn to haul,” he said, grudgingly. “The Fa’aldu have a contact there—from that point to Chizan, I got no idea where they go.”

  “How do you account for them being gone?”

  “Well, y’know, it’s a funny thing about that long trip to Taling. Folks that look just as healthy as a vlek sometimes fall right over dead all of a sudden. And there ain’t no point in bringing a corpse all the way back here, now is there?”

  “When do you have hauling duty again?” I asked.

  He grinned. “Now ain’t you just in luck. I got to head out for Taling tomorrow.”

  He reached for the coins again; this time I let one of them drop into his palm.

  “Hey!” he said.

  “I want the name of the Fa’aldu contact in Taling,” I said.

  “When we get there,” he growled. “You must think I’m stupid; I ain’t gonna tell you that till we get to Taling.”

  “And the deal’s off until I know that name,” I said.

  He tossed the gold coin and caught it. “I got half your money, man,” he said.

  “And I am not as squeamish as Naddam,” I answered. “I don’t much like this place, but while I’m here, I plan to do a thorough job. In fact, I will be checking dead bodies personally to be sure they’re dead, and reporting any discrepancies immediately to Eddarta. Also, until further notice, you’re suspended from water-hauling duty.”

  His eyes narrowed and I tensed, afraid for a moment that he’d let his anger get the better of him.

  “A baker named Rull,” Jaris said. “His shop is on the north side of town, the southeast corner of a small square.”

  I tossed him the other coin. “Tomorrow, then,” I said. “I’ll change clothes with one of the slaves, so—if you should ever be asked—you didn’t even know I went along.”

  Jaris tucked the coins into his belt.

  “I ain’t gonna miss you much, Lakad,” he said as he went to the door.

  “It’s mutual,” I replied.

  When he had left, my knees went weak with relief, and I sagged into the chair behind the desk.

  It was worth the money for the misdirection, I thought. Now when they find me gone in the morning, I‘m hoping Jaris will think I‘ve headed for Lingis, that the money was a bribe for the Fa‘aldu contact‘s name, and that the main trickery was in the timing. I‘m betting he‘ll lead everybody in that direction, bent on revenge.

  Most of all, I‘m counting on the fact that Jaris is no smarter than he looks.

  That unsettling thought was still with me that night, as I filled a makeshift pack with the portions of breakfast and lunch—both served to me in the office—which I had reserved. Fruit, bread, and cheese, and a few scraps of meat. I had been regularly, with no conscious intention, saving up the small, hard sweets that were served as dessert at the evening meals. Those, too, I packed, reflecting that they would come in handy as quick energy during my long run.

  I hoped that it wouldn’t occur to anyone that I would set off across the desert alone. These people were uniquely adapted for desert life, with a physical capability to retain water more efficiently than human beings. But water was still essential to their individual existence, even more so to community life. So their cities clustered around the rivers which spilled down from the Wall to irrigate land and quench thirst, and travel was, preferably, a matter of moving from city to city, following the contours of the Wall.

  When desert travel was necessary, Gandalarans traveled in groups, lone travelers often waiting days for a caravan going in their direction, and paying in money or service for the chance to travel with the traders. Few Gandalarans felt it necessary to do what I was preparing to do now—endure days of heat and hunger and thirst, merely for the sake of getting from one place to another.

  But few Gandalarans have the reasons I do, either, I mused as I tested the cork stopper in the ink bottle. I added the bottle and several sheets of parchment to the bundle I was piling on the cut-up blanket. And fewer still have the experience of faster travel. Riding a sha‘um makes you impatient with walking. If Keeshah were here, I‘d be in Eddarta tomorrow night, instead of four days from now. The thought made me feel slightly ashamed. The big cat was more, much more, than an animal of burden. If Keeshah were here, this would all be easier, I thought, the pain of loss ripping through me once again, as if he had only now left me. With it came another thought, full of anguish and fear.

  Can that be the reason why I‘ve fouled things up so badly? I wondered. All the strength, the ability to think and plan, the leadership I had before—was that mine, or was it only on loan from Keeshah, through our linked minds? And did it go away with him?

  No! I fought the insecurity, shaking myself mentally. I was Ricardo before I was Markasset, and I lived a full and decent life with Keeshah‘s help. His going hurt me, that‘s all. I‘ve got to get used to the idea of life without him again—for his sake, as well as mine (and Tarani‘s). Because I know he couldn‘t control the time and place of his need to go.

  I had some excuse in the desert, I admitted to myself, because of the suddenness of his loss. I was in shock. But if I let it get to me now, and interfere with Tarani‘s plans, then I‘ll be giving Kees
hah responsibility for the consequences. It would hurt him—God, how it would hurt him—to think that his desertion had brought about my death.

  I wasn’t fooling myself on one point—the next time Indomel got his hands on me, I’d die. I had to keep my wits about me, stay free, and—the truth of this shone out—die by my own hand rather than be used again as a weapon against Tarani.

  As I fastened up the corners of the blanket, and used the long ends I had left free to tie the pack across my shoulders, anticipation and determination swept through me, making me feel more alert and awake that I had in days. I had felt the sensation before, at the moment when planning ended and action began. It was a carryover from Markasset, and it was well entrenched in Rikardon.

  I slipped out the window, made my way through the torch-wavering shadows to the water tank, opened the tap, and drank deeply. Then I filled a small leather pouch, the only container I could bring without generating suspicion of my actual route. The cut-away part of the blanket was inside the pack, for the same reason—to leave no clues. The pouch wasn’t prepared for water storage and would swell in the heat, stealing some of the precious liquid from me. Even with the special qualities of this Gandalaran body, I knew the water wouldn’t be enough to last the entire journey, and I could look forward to a dismal last day.

  I’ll make it, I told myself, as I moved toward the stone wall of the enclosure. The wall wasn’t extremely high—the surrounding desert was a much more effective barrier. I know I’ll make it. More importantly, Tarani knows it. She’s counting on me, and I won’t fail her again.

  I ducked back against one of the slave barracks as a perimeter guard rounded the inner corner of the wall. He glanced in my direction, but the shadows hid me well enough. He was wearing such a look of boredom that I nearly pitied him.

  When the guard had passed, I moved along the wall to the corner. The small spaces where the stone blocks met imperfectly were nearly useless elsewhere as hand- and toe-holds; there wasn’t enough depth to them to support the vertical lifting of a man’s body. But here, where one could brace between two walls, using the angle both for support while climbing and for greater pressure at each contact point, those spaces were sufficient.

  Wheezing from the tension and exertion, the healed dralda wound throbbing in my arm from the unusual strain of the climb, I dropped quietly into the sand outside the Lingis camp and left it with no regret.

  10

  I pushed myself that night, running hard through the relative coolness of the silvery desert. I wanted as much distance as possible between me and the mining camp before my absence was discovered. Even after the moon set, and the darkness was nearly absolute, I kept moving. Caution slowed my pace, but I had already outrun the desert’s edge with the ground-hugging bushes that could trip the unsuspecting. Now there was only salty sand, spraying up behind me and settling soundlessly to the gently rolling ground. As long as I made allowance for the ups and downs, I kept up a reasonably good pace.

  In fact, I felt rather confident and self-satisfied as I ran through the blackness. I was as sure of my direction as if I could see Eddarta in the distance.

  That might be Markasset‘s “inner awareness”, I speculated, my mind separating itself from the hypnotic, rhythmic motion of my body. But he‘s never shown evidence of such a strong link to the All-Mind. More likely, I thought, and a warmth not of the desert filled me, it‘s a light compulsion from Tarani. Lonna would have reached her before nightfall, so she knows I‘m on my way, and she‘s helping as much as she can. It doesn‘t feel quite like the compulsion she used in Eddarta to bring us back together—but then, the distance is much greater.

  The lady does have power, I thought. Enough, I hope—no, I‘m sure, because she said so—to keep Indomel‘s at bay. But I won‘t rest easy until I get the Ra‘ira and Tarani away from Eddarta‘s corruption.

  I had to pause, and laugh at myself. Until I get them away, I thought. That‘s a good sign. I‘m beginning to feel powerful again, myself.

  That good feeling sank a little the next morning, when something called my attention into the sky. I could barely see the small, gray-green bird against the grayness of the cloud cover, but I knew the maufa was on its way to Eddarta, with Tullen’s trouble-making report in tow. I don’t know whether the maufa or I was more astonished when a piercing shriek sounded and a huge white bullet dropped down from the clouds. The white shape collided with the green one, its straight course zigzagging with the impact; then wide wings opened and the two birds drifted down. Lonna dropped the maufa at my feet and hooted at me. I gripped my forearms and held them out; she settled into the square nest and lay her head across my shoulder.

  I sat down, still holding her, and freed one arm to pick up the other bird, tiny in comparison to Lonna, its feathers stained with blood, its neck loose. Why, Lonna, I thought, Why didn’t you tell me you were a chicken hawk?

  “Tarani sent you, of course,” I said aloud. “To gain time. No news to Indomel is good news. What’s this you’re carrying?”

  When my hand felt the lumps under Lonna’s wings, the big bird spread her wings and hopped out of my grasp. Tied to her sides, beneath and behind her wings where they wouldn’t put direct strain on her powerful breast muscles, were two hand-size pieces of leather, not quite flat. I cut the lacings which held them, and they plopped into the sand, changing shape.

  “Water!” I said, picking them up. They were small water bags made of specially treated glith skins. Tarani had put only a small amount of water in each one, out of consideration for the bulk and weight of Lonna’s burden. But what she had sent nearly tripled my water supply.

  “Tarani, Lonna—thank you,” I whispered to the desert.

  Lonna stayed with me for three days, feeding on the maufa she killed and flying off in the evenings to find her own water source. Following this straight desert route, the trip back to Eddarta was slightly shorter, but even more boring. I rejoiced when I caught a glimpse of color against the even grayness of the desert.

  Eddarta was no exception to the one rule of landscape in Gandalara: where there was water, there also was abundant life; where no water flowed, “life” was brief, very chancy, and preferred night to day. That glimpse of color—nothing more, really, than a change from the gray scrubby bushes that clung to the sand to a greener variety—told me that the city was close.

  On the trip from Eddarta, the troop had followed the River Wall out of Eddarta, marching along gentle slopes at the base of the long, sloping wall. Near the city—and the lifegiving waters of the Tashal—those slopes had been thick with crops. From the crest of a hill, we had been able to see patterns to the land, smooth geometric shapes that changed color as the crops varied made use of every accessible square inch of irrigated land.

  We had quickly left the farms behind us, but for miles beyond them, the land had continued to enjoy the rich base of groundwater supplied by the broad cascade of the Tashal and its myriad branches. The terrain had been wild and overgrown; without the smooth, winding line of road, it would have been slow going. It had reminded me of the terrain near Thagorn, except that here the uncultivated dakathrenil trees, their woody trunks twisting about only inches above the ground, were mixed with the slim but straighter, coniferous-looking trees I had seen planted in orchards near Dyskornis.

  Walking through the one had brought back memories of riding through the other—which had led inevitably to the precious memory of the first time Keeshah’s mind, and not merely his thoughts, had touched me. I had been embroiled in a fight with two Sharith, and keeping Keeshah out of it had been an essential element of my disguise—had they seen him, they would have known me as Markasset. So Keeshah had joined me in the only way he could—through our mindlink. His consciousness had merged with mine, providing instant interpretation of sounds and sights and scents that Markasset could not have processed so quickly, helping me win. Then—again for the sake of disguise—he had allowed me to ride the sha’um of the other men.

 
The memory had been with me constantly on that march, alternately a comfort and a torment, as the reality of Keeshah’s absence pierced my reverie. I was just as glad now, as I stopped and let my panting slow, that I was approaching Eddarta from just this angle. I had missed that woody area, which had climbed the rolling upward slope of the River Wall and covered a narrow strip of level ground at its base. And I was too close to the wall to meet the treacherous salt bog that was the terminus for every surface water source in Gandalara—that, too, would have brought memories of Keeshah and our first trip together, out of the Kapiral Desert toward Raithskar. I was approaching Eddarta from the east, entering the cultivated area through an interface of scrubby bushes whose only differentiation from the desert growth was the healthier-looking green of their spiked leaves.

  I called Lonna to ground, opened my pack, and wrote a brief note to Tarani. I tied the note to the bird’s leg, and sent her off with Tarani’s name as directions. Then I dug out a hollow in the sand in the scant shade of one of the bushes and settled in to wait.

  It was dark when Lonna returned, and her call of welcome woke me from a deep sleep. It had been the first time in recent memory that I hadn’t been troubled with restless dreams of unfilled needs and unanswered questions—whether that meant that the prospect of seeing Tarani had set them at rest, or merely that exhaustion had given me peace, I couldn’t say.

  The message Lonna carried was brief:

  Lord City gate, midnight, tomorrow I will come to you. T.

  The packet also contained a few small coins—a thoughtful addition, since I didn’t dare try to change the gold pieces I carried. They displayed the countenance of Pylomel, the former High Lord, and had been minted some twenty or so years ago in honor of his planned marriage to Zefra. His plans had been delayed for two years, during which time Zefra had left Eddarta with Volitar, had given birth to Tarani (who had thought Volitar her father until recently) and had been, finally, captured and returned to Pylomel. The memorial gold coins hidden in my belt were rare enough to invite attention—the last thing I needed. The coins Tarani had provided were small in amount, but precious in their usability.