‘You want to get off the island, don’t ya?’ He glanced about to make certain they were alone. ‘I know where there’re boats hidden.’
Dancer shook his head, disappointed. ‘There are no boats here. The supply boats arrive with food and water then leave with the ore, and that’s that.’
‘So the guards say. But I’ve been here a long time and I’ve heard things.’
Dancer returned to breaking rock. ‘Such as?’ he asked between blows.
‘These islands, they’re clan lands. Right now the Dosii claim them out of Dosin Pali. Every once in a while one of the Holy Falah gets his panties in a twist over the damned foreigners here and so they whip up their followers into delousing, if you know what I mean.’ Dancer nodded his understanding. ‘That’s why they keep boats hidden nearby.’
‘Okay. So why aren’t you gone yet?’
‘Can’t do it m’self. Can’t climb any wall. Can’t sneak up on any guard. But you…’ and he winked, grinning his ugly frog-grin, ‘something of a speciality of yours, I’m guessing.’
Dancer said nothing. He continued hammering, though his arms burned as if afire. ‘I won’t go without my partner.’
Hairlock grunted, nodding. ‘I c’n wait. Won’t be long.’
The rest of the day Dancer worked in silence. When the dusk gongs sounded the end of shift, he shuffled back up the tunnels, deposited his sledge, and was given a new chit for the second meal.
He ate this in the alcove. His shoulders and arms twitched and he could barely raise his hand to his mouth. He kept a smear of the glop for Kellanved. This he pushed through the lad’s lips, not knowing if he was swallowing or not. In the murk of the evening it appeared to him that the mage’s form held a strange translucency, as if he were but an image, or shadow, of himself. He squinted, reaching out; touched the rough solid cloth of the lad’s chest. He shook his head and collapsed on his own ledge to take the fitful rest of the exhausted and hungry.
A fist tapping on the rock nearby roused him. He raised his head. ‘Yes?’
‘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.’