Deadhouse Landing

The squat mage shrugged. ‘Just a money-making enterprise. Privately held.’

‘Not a prison?’

The mage eyed him for a time. ‘Not as such. The Falari pirates who run it take whoever they’re paid to hide away.’

‘Like scholars and malcontents?’

A wide frog-like smile split the mage’s face. ‘Yeah. Kinda like that. Took two Holy Falah and one of the Seven City champions to bring me down. This is the only place that can hold people like me.’

‘Mages.’

Hairlock grunted his agreement.

‘A prison of mages.’

‘And politicals ’n’ thieves. ’Cept for the odd duck – like you.’

Dancer hefted the sledge over the crouching mage. ‘Like me?’

Hairlock grinned up at him, revealing his greying rotten teeth. ‘Been watching ya. This place can’t hold you. Ain’t built to. I figure your friend won’t last much longer and you’ll leave once he’s gone.’

‘So?’

‘Take me with you.’

Dancer leaned on the sledge. ‘Why should I do that?’

‘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…’