When True Night Falls by C. S. Friedman
Downright Earthlike, he thought. Awed by the thought. Jealous of the land that had prompted it.
A tiny shadow had appeared on the horizon that was neither ship nor swampland. The lookout, whose viewpoint bettered Damien’s by some thirty vertical feet, was the first to recognize it. “Land ahead!” the man announced, and he cried down specifics in the sea-code of the west. Damien watched through his glass as the shadow spread, lengthened, covered more than half the horizon with its craggy terrain. Coastline? Island? He wished that Rasya were with him so that he could ask her. But she was much too busy now to be bothered with a mere passenger’s queries. And so he watched uninformed as the land drew nearer and nearer, and tried to read meaning into its form with his oh-so-limited skills.
A ragged, mountainous skyline spoke of a far more solid foundation than the mud islands they had passed, and a much older history. As they drew closer he could see that though its form was lost in the distance to the north its southern tip was clearly discernible, and the foreign ships that headed toward them seemed to be coming from around that point. And they were heading toward it. He watched as signal flags flashed from one ship to the other, bright splashes of red and white and black against the morning sky, and watched the distant shoreline shift to the port side of the ship as the Glory and its escorts made their way through the crowded seaway. Damien tried to guess how far away the land mass was or how tall those peaks might be, but he lacked any kind of reference scale; not for the first time, he wished the sea had mile markers.
A hand tapped his shoulder, interupting his reverie. It was Anshala Praveri, purveyor of ... (he tried to remember) ... spices?
“Pilot said to give you this,” she said, and she handed him a roll of paper.
Uncurling it, he discovered the map that had been pinned on the wall of the cabin section. Nothing had been marked on it since last he had seen it, and for a moment he was lost as to why it had been sent to him. Then his eyes traveled down to Rasya’s mark, and the strange position it occupied. South of the river’s mouth by several miles, her initials were entirely circled by a thin ring of land that jutted out from the coast. A few narrow channels gave access to enough water that the surveyors had labeled it a bay, but it hardly had the kind of access one would require for a major port. Unless time and tides—and earthquakes with their smashers—had resculpted that narrow arching tongue, opening wide one entrance to the sea....
And the seas have risen, he reminded himself. He felt the paper fall from his hands, heard the rustling of Anshala’s clothing as she bent to retrieve it.
“What is it?” she asked him.
For a moment he couldn’t respond. “A safe port,” he said at last. His voice was hardly more than a whisper. “A truly sheltered harbor.” How many were there in the human lands? He could remember only three, and each had become—for obvious reasons—a center of human commerce. If Lopescu and Nyquist had discovered one here, then their journey was truly blessed.
And then the Glory came around the southern point of the jagged land mass, and he saw.
Ships. They were scattered across the bay like so many thousands of birds just come to land, bright wings fluttering in the noontime breeze. Open-sea ships with rank after rank of weathered sails, coast-land yachts with slender masts and peaked canvases, private boats that whipped about their more massive brethren with playful alacrity, some so tiny that a human weight against the tiller was enough to shift their course. White upon white upon white upon white, all glistening in the dual skylight: silver from overhead, gold from the east, creating dual shadows that played upon the waters like nuporps, sporting in the multiple wakes. There was smoke as well, mostly from the numerous tugs that wove in and out of the traffic, guiding the larger ships to their safest route. But for most the crisp northeasterly wind was clearly enough, and sails bellowed full as ship after ship wended its way through the harbor’s narrow mouth with no more power than Nature had provided.
If these are to be our allies, Damien thought in awe, then we may yet triumph. But if they turn out to be our enemies ... then we’re in deep shit. He did notice that few of the larger ships had any kind of visible armament, which was marginally reassuring. And certainly it was hard to imagine the creatures they had fought in the rakhlands—vicious and sun-sensitive, shadowbound and animalistic—having anything to do with this glorious display, or with the society that founded it.
But the Evil that we came here to fight is subtle, and its tools may vary. Don’t give in to assumptions, he begged himself. Even as he felt optimism flood his body like fine wine, making his senses swim. Even as he tried to ignore the fact that a part of his spirit was souring like the wind itself, that a voice inside him rang with the force of a thousand chimes: These are my people, oh, God. Thy people. And see what wonders they have wrought, all in Thy Name!
The coastline to the east of them rose quickly to meet a line of mountains which made it possible to see the city even from this distance. Immense and sprawling, Mercia carpeted the lower slopes in a tapestry of terra cotta tile, gleaming numarble, whitewashed brick. In the center of the city several buildings soared among the others, and sunlight glinted on their heights. One looked like a cathedral. The others could have been ... anything. Damien raised his eyes above, saw a mountainside terraced for farmland, with the maize and sienna velvet of thriving crops already rippling along its heights.
The sound of winches tightening drew his attention back to the middeck—and up to the rigging, where sailors were scurrying to gather up the sails. Evidently Rozca had received some sign that they were to remain here, for the great anchors were released to fall into the sea even as the last of the sails were furled. Then, as if in response to the Glory’s actions, a small rowboat was lowered from the rear of Toshida’s ship, to make its way across the waves to them.
Damien hurried to the head of the boarding ladder, where the ship’s officers had already assembled. Rasya was gazing out across the harbor, and as Damien watched her study the foreign ships—as he noted the adoration and envy that filled her eyes—he wondered if any mere man could ever inspire such depths of emotion in her. Probably not. Which might be just what had made them so compatible as lovers, he reflected; both their hearts were given over to greater things.
The ladder shifted as it was grabbed from below, then rattled against the side of the ship as a single man climbed it. It wasn’t Toshida this time, nor one of his advisers, but a guard whose uniform and bearing hinted at considerable rank. He climbed up onto the deck somewhat awkwardly, trying to manage the maneuver with a thick roll of fabric tucked under one arm. When he was finally on board he straightened himself regally and addressed them.
“His Eminence Toshida, Lord Regent of Mercia, bids you welcome to his port and to the Five Cities of God’s Grace which bless these shores. He requests your indulgence and your patience while he sees to the details of your welcome. In that there has been no western expedition in centuries—and never one like yours—preparations for your disembarkation may possibly take longer than tired travelers would prefer. For this he apologizes.
“I am instructed to ask if there is anything he can send aboard which would make your wait easier. Mercia is eager to welcome its guests.”
For a moment there was silence, as each passenger and crew member digested his message. At last the captain ventured, “Fresh fruit’d be welcome.”
“A damned relief,” one of the touchier passengers muttered.
“Fresh meat,” another dared, and the woman beside him added, “but not fish.” That drew a chuckle.
“Soap,” Rasya offered. “Lubricant.” She shut her eyes part way as she tried to remember what conveniences had run short in the last few weeks. A few of the sailors made suggestions of their own; half were for food items. One was for alcohol.
“That’s it,” the first mate said at last. He looked at the captain.
Rozca nodded. “We’ll pay for it all. Keep a tally of what’s brought on board and take car
“The goods are a gift of the city,” the officer informed him. “A celebration of your arrival here against tremendous odds. His Eminence will permit nothing else,” he said quickly, forestalling Rozca’s argument. “Verdate.”
The captain swallowed his words with effort, then bowed his head. “Like the man says.” Damien suspected he was secretly pleased, despite his token resistance. A gesture like that was an excellent omen.
“His Eminence asks that your crew and passengers remain on board until he contacts you again,” the officer said. “He advises that there could be complications, if any of your people were to leave the ship prematurely. Tambia he asks that you fly this.”
He handed the bundle under his arm to the captain. With the first mate’s help Rozca carefully unrolled it.
It was a flag—a pennant, more accurately—with a red band at the base and a long black tip that would flutter in the wind. On the red section was a series of seals, too small to be made out from a distance. Official markings, Damien guessed, for the benefit of the ship it guarded.
“What is it?” the captain asked.
“It warns other ships not to approach you,” the officer explained. “You understand that we can turn the larger ships away ourselves, but the private boats sometimes go where they want ... this will warn them off.”
“And if they do come on board?” Damien heard himself asking. “What then?”
“They die,” the officer said coolly. “As all men do, who defy the Regent’s will. So you see, it would be best if the warning were raised as soon as possible. Verda?”
With those words for farewell he formally bowed his leavetaking and lowered himself once more over the ship’s side. This time he had no difficulty with the ladder, as his arms were unencumbered.
For a moment there was silence, thick and uncomfortable. As each man wondered in his own way what manner of land they had come to, that combined hospitality and ruthless quasi-justice with such casual, numbing grace.
“All right,” the captain said gruffly. Breaking the spell. He handed the pennant to his first mate, who in turn handed it to a lesser crewman. “You heard the man. Fly the vulkin‘ thing.”
Seven
Toshida never ran—he thought it lacked dignity—but he had long legs and a quick stride and he put them both to use with gusto. Thus it was that he walked from the harbor to the Matria’s Sanctuary in record time, well ahead (he hoped) of any gawking voyeurs who might have anticipated his route.
The doors were open and he stepped inside. The guards spared him a sharp look—do you belong here}—to which he responded with a glare of his own—what does it look like, you fool?—and he continued on his way. His face had been in at least a thousand newspaper features, not to mention the Mercian five dollar credit note and an Octecentennial coin; if they didn’t know it by now, he wasn’t going to waste time educating them.
He found a Church attendant and didn’t have to state his business; the boy simply nodded and led him upstairs. Thick velour carpet scrunched softly underfoot, a welcome alternative to the coarse planks of the ship. All about him the wealth of his nation welcomed him home: fine white numarble walls with crimson veins, elaborately carved fixtures plated with rose gold, stained-glass windows designed and executed by the most prestigious artists in the Five Cities. Gifts, all of them, and freely given; the house of the Matria would no more pressure its citizens to part with items of value than it would expect the tax department to pick up the tab for her decorating. Which was as it should be, he reflected. Exactly as it should be.
On the second landing there was a small waiting area, and the attendant indicated that he should make himself comfortable there while he announced him. He disdained to sit on the tapestried couch, but spent a moment studying the two engravings that adorned the wall behind it. One was of a sailing ship that had clearly seen better days; its sails were tattered and its mizzenmast had been split in a storm and black ash coated the standard that had been rigged to fly from a forward jib. That would be the First Holy Expedition, Lopescu’s company. The second depicted a handful of ships coming into a primitive harbor; that would be Nyquist. The other walls featured paintings of nature, trees and flowers and a brilliant seascape that stretched across three large panels. No pictures of the other expeditions, he thought. Is that a sign of our honesty, or of hypocrisy?
Then the door before him opened and the attendant stepped out. “She’ll see you now, your Eminence. Please forgive the delay.”
With a gracious nod he passed the boy and entered the Matria’s audience chamber. It was a large space, richly carpeted, whose narrow stained-glass windows cast jewellike shapes across the floor and walls. A broad desk of polished rosewood dominated the space, with matching chairs on either side. The Matria was seated behind it. As always, he felt strangely awed when ushered into her presence. And as always, that awe was coupled with a deep-seated resentment.
She nodded her welcome as he bowed. “The newsmongers say there’s a foreign ship in our harbor.”
“Then newsmongers can fly, your Holiness, because I came here as fast as a man can travel.”
She smiled. “Actually, I like Raj’s theory that each newspaper has only one common brain, and all those bodies who go running about are merely its limbs in disguise.” She rose from the desk and approached him, extending one slender hand. She was no longer a young woman, but age had been kind to her, and the features that had been striking in her youth had matured into something no less impressive. The white robes of her Order swept the floor as she came to him: narrow sleeves, full skirts, a tight-fitting coif that hid most of her hair from view. Her eyes were large and arresting, and for a moment—just a moment—Toshida was reminded of the Sanctified woman on board the foreign ship.
He took her hand and kissed it reverently, dropping to one knee as he did so. The fact that his station permitted him to remain standing made the gesture doubly dramatic and he knew it. “I came to report to you as soon as we landed.”
“And?”
She returned to her seat behind the great desk and signaled for him to join her. He took a chair opposite.
“It appears to be a trading vessel,” he told her. “Some four dozen passengers and crew with a good bit of merchandise. They claim to have set sail from the West, and I see no reason to doubt them. They all come from different cities, I gather. We’ll get a list before we let them disembark.”
“Did you inspect the pilot’s books?”
It took effort to keep from smiling. In all of his inspection there had been only one rough moment, inside the pilot’s cabin. He remembered the woman—what was her name, Maraden? Marades?—seated atop the thick leather volumes, blue eyes flaring with indignation. No, she had said. This is where I draw the line. I don’t care who you are. Her sun-whitened hair gleaming like silver, so oddly short, so strangely alluring. Ask your own pilots what the custom is. He had. And they’d told him. And since he wasn’t ready to declare war on her ship, or to take her prisoner for personal reasons, he’d left the books alone.
“I saw the captain’s log,” he responded evenly. “It supports their story. And there were other signs. I believe them.”
Her golden eyes fixed on him. “There’s a lot riding on your judgment.”
“Verda, Matria. I was thorough, I assure you.”
“And their cargo? Did you check that?”
“Luxury goods for the most part. Some livestock. I counted seven crates that contained dried vegetable matter in one form or another; we’ll check them for narcotic content before they unload. Nothing else of any concern.” As an afterthought he added, “It’s a rich load, and they brought no guards. Security may be a problem. What courtesies may I extend to them?”
She narrowed her eyes, considering. “A dozen of your private guard for the first week, compliments of the city. After that, supply them with a reference for suitable independents. It sounds like they’re carrying more than e
And then her eyes met his and he had the dizzying sensation of falling; for a moment his vision clouded and he could see only soft shapes, red and blue and amber shadows and the hazy outline of what must be her desk. It took effort to pretend that nothing was wrong, to keep from reaching out to take hold of the desk’s edge to stabilize himself. But he was damned if he was going to let the Matria—or any Matria—unsettle him that much. He had come too far and dealt with them too often to quake in the face of their power now.
“The nightborn,” she said quietly. “What of him?”
He didn’t speak until he knew he had full control of his voice again. “I saw no sign of any nightborn creature, human or otherwise.”
“Did you search?”
His vision was returning to normal, but the giddyness remained. He articulated carefully. “I inspected everyone on board in the light of day. Some were pale, a few were burned, but no one seemed worse for the experience. I searched every cabin, with special attention to possible hiding places. I opened every crate on the ship and walked the length and breadth of every level ... and I saw no nightborn creature there, nor any space that might have sheltered one. I’m sorry.”