Dark Tapestry Read online

  I handed the map back to Vanir. "I'll be going now."

  "Oh, surely not! No Pathfinder would turn away from a chance to explore Xanchara."

  I laughed in his face. A moment passed before I noted his wounded expression and realized he was quite serious.

  Everyone has heard tales of an ancient city somewhere off the coast of Osirion, but few people give the tales much credence.

  "You believe Xanchara existed."

  "I do. And so, my dear lady, does Gham Banni."

  He reached into a hidden pocket and produced a smaller scroll, this one fashioned from fine papyrus in the pale green hue Gham favored. The writing was unfamiliar, but that was of little significance. Gham Banni was a noted scholar who attracted many students, some of whom acted as his scribes. But the sigil burned onto the bottom of the page was undoubtedly his.

  I should say a word about Gham Banni's sigil. Like many important men, his name held considerable power. In order to protect it, Gham Banni's personal rune was carved into a signet ring which could never be removed from his hand, nor could it be duplicated by means magical or mundane. The magic that burned the sigil onto parchment without heat or flame would be buried with him.

  Janu is anything but common.

  "The esteemed Gham Banni urges you to take on this task," Vanir said. "He goes on at length about your mission as a Pathfinder, and the opportunity to explore so renowned a site. He fully supports my quest, which is to recover a rare artifact and object of veneration among my people: the Reliquary of the Drowned God. It was stolen many years ago by people not unlike you Pathfinders, and brought to the great library of Xanchara. Thanks to this map I recently acquired, I believe it can be found."

  "I can read," I snapped.

  He held up both hands in a placating gesture and let me get on with it.

  As it happened, Vanir's summary hit the mark squarely enough. I lowered the parchment and considered the cleric for a long moment.

  "I have concerns."

  "As would any reasonable person. Please, name them, so that I might set your mind at ease."

  The utter absurdity of this claim shackled my tongue for a long moment. Judging from the Vudrani's confident smile, he truly believed he could sing this tale into a soothing melody.

  As I shook my head in wonderment, my gaze fell upon the little blue elephant. "To start with, why would you keep such a creature? It's an abomination, a thing outside of the natural order."

  "What civilized man does not improve upon nature?" Vanir countered. "In my country, magic and alchemy aid in the breeding of many wondrous beasts. Janu is a charming pet, but he is nothing beyond the common way."

  As if to underscore its master's point, the elephant rolled over onto its back, waving its tiny, flat-footed legs in the air like a puppy that wanted its belly scratched. The beast actually fluttered its eyelashes at me, flirting like a courtesan. I have seen street performers display more subtlety.

  I dragged my gaze back to Vanir Shornish. "You enjoy your pet's company."

  "Oh yes, very much."

  "Take him everywhere, do you? And you speak freely in front of him?"

  Puzzlement began to gather around the Vudrani's eyes. "Yes..."

  I crouched down to pat the little creature, taking note of how its eyes narrowed. With my free hand, I reached into a hidden pocket in my boot. This held a mixture of powdered herbs, one of the few useful things I had learned from the elf who'd sired me. As I rose and stepped away, I tossed a pinch of the herbs at the elephant.

  The air in the room was suddenly thinner, colder, and crackling with the sort of energy that preceded a giant thunderclap. Vanir's "pet" shrieked like an angry demon...

  Which made perfect sense, given its true form.

  If a jungle bat and a mantis held an orgy to honor the ugliest demon lord ever to walk the planes, the resulting offspring might resemble Vanir's imp. The only thing remaining of its elephant form was the color of its hide. Membranous blue wings beat the air, holding aloft a vaguely man-shaped creature. Its wizened face was twisted with fury, and a hissing snarl bared long, sapphire-hued fangs.

  "One of your Vudran ‘gods,' Vanir?" I inquired.

  The cleric made no response; he stood staring at the imp in an attitude of reverent awe—or, possibly, abject terror.

  "Who are you to speak of gods?" demanded the imp. "Druids are priests without gods, as impotent as warriors without weapons."

  As it happens, the imp wasn't far wrong about the weapons. I pulled the only one I had—the Mwangi man's knife—and put all my strength into the throw.

  Faster than I would have thought possible, the imp tucked one wing and rolled under the spinning knife. The little demon spiraled to the floor and landed in a crouch, one hand splayed for balance, then leaped into the air and flapped up to perch on the iron curtain rod. Its wings spread wide, preparation for a diving attack.

  Lacking other weapons, I picked up Vanir Shornish in a wrestler's carry and threw him onto the table. Wood shattered, and so did the awe that held the cleric in thrall. As he scuttled away like a panicked crab, I picked up a table leg and lofted it like a club.

  Janu swooped, I swung. Imp and wood met with a satisfying thud. The creature flew backward, wings folded together like praying hands, and slammed into a wall. It slid down slowly, leaving a stream of bubbling ichor on the tapestry. Again it landed in a three-point crouch, ready to spring.

  I advanced, club ready to bat the creature out of the air again. The imp surprised me by coming up in a sprint. It ran for the window and leaped onto the low sill.

  Janu sent me a mocking smile and pointed to the evening sky, where the planet Aucturn shone bright on the horizon and the rising moon, thanks to dust raised by violent khamsin storms, was the color of a bloody coin.

  "The khamsin," said the imp, echoing my thoughts with eerie precision. "Know this, water witch: Air and dust elementals are not the only creatures who feel the power of Aucturn's alignment. You will learn this."

  With that cryptic promise, the creature winged out into the gathering night.

  Silence lingered for the space of several breaths.

  "Thief! Cheat!" howled Vanir as he crawled out of his hideaway. "Spawn of a poxed whore and a rabid jackal! I'll kill the wretch who sold me a demon! I'll slit his throat! I'll flay him for boot leather! I'll... I'll... I'll report him to the merchants' guild!"

  "Or you could just give me his name."

  He quieted, cocked his head, and considered. "That would be easier," he admitted.

  "Tell me."

  Vanir did, with admirably concise language. He answered the questions I put to him and mostly told

  the truth.

  "Did this merchant know of your plan to recover the reliquary before he sold you the ‘elephant,' or after?"

  For the first time Vanir hesitated. "He is a wine merchant, among other things," he said sheepishly, "and generous with his samples. I am not altogether clear on the events of that evening."

  "Do you remember what you paid for the imp?"

  Vanir considered. After a moment his brows flew up. "Now that I think on it," he marveled, "my purse was missing no great sum, nothing that might explain such a purchase."

  I nodded, expecting this. Stooping, I plucked the whaleskin parchment from the ruin of the table, then rose to offer the cleric my hand and my bond. His face brightened, and he clasped my hand with both of his.

  "I will find your reliquary," I promised.

  And in doing so, I vowed, I would discover who else might be seeking it, and to what purpose.

  Chapter Two: Justice Done, Betrayal, Repaid

  I have never been troubled by the lure of gold. If a stray temptation of that sort were to wander in my direction, my memories would rise up like an angry mob and club it to death. Anyone who has watched a few-score treasure hunters purchase a senseless death will understand what I mean. Anyone whose life has been bartered for a handful of coins.

  Even so, ever
y now and again I cannot deny that money has its uses. The priest Vanir Shornish was afloat with it, and the fee he gave me to find a relic of one of his people's many gods was almost obscene in its generosity. I'd sent much of that fee on ahead by trusted carriers and paid for passage on a northbound ship, yet I could still feel the weight of coin in the purse stitched to my stout leather baldric, cunningly hidden behind the sheath that held a newly purchased knife.

  Also hidden in that purse was an ancient map written on parchment fashioned from whale skin and evil magic. If the seaman who called me "mistress" and "lady"—because money also buys fine clothes and misguided respect—knew I carried such a thing, they would throw me overboard in a heartbeat, preferably with an anchor chained to my neck. In their position, I would do the same.

  A small, sun-browned man came toward me with a wide smile and a sailor's rolling gait. I was leaning against the ship's rail, watching twilight awaken the stars and taking in the salty spray like a cat soaks up sunlight. I'd spent most of the short journey topside, and not just for the joy I found in the sight and smell and feel of the sea. There were but two cabins below decks. One belonged to the captain, the other to the ship's whore. Since it was not deemed proper for a lady to share sleeping quarters with the sailors, I was bunking with the whey-faced chit who serviced them.

  "A fine evening to you, Mistress," he said cheerfully, "and a fine one it is indeed! If the winds hold, we'll be making port in Chiron harbor before midnight."

  That did not seem right. My nature is bound to water; most druids would get turned around in a forest glade before I'd lose my bearings at sea.

  I pushed away from the rail and turned to face the sailor. "So soon? We were not expected to land until daybreak."

  "Aye, but the new bosun? The captain's nephew? He read the quadrant and corrected our course."

  A familiar prickling sensation began to gather at the nape of my neck, like tiny ice-cold spiders skittering down the back of my tunic and up under my head-wrap. I'd met the bosun: a prideful young man who knew just enough to be dangerous. I'd seen his sort among the would-be scholars who flocked to study with my venture-captain, their heads so full of themselves there was no room for their vaunted book-knowledge to mill around and form up into anything resembling good sense.

  "He changed our course? By what measure?"

  The sailor thrust one finger under his headscarf and scratched as he thought that over. He examined the flea struggling free of the dirt beneath a grimy fingernail, then flicked it into the sea. "Well now, you've heard tell of the Flood Star."

  What person in Osirion had not? A pale pink star, it appeared in the sky shortly before the spring rains. The night it rose was celebrated by festivals and rituals to the gods. This year, those rites would be particularly fervent. Last year the river's annual rising had fallen far short of the Floodmark obelisk. The drought was not yet severe, but another dry year could be ruinous. The Flood Star was considered a good omen, and its appearance was anxiously awaited, even though this year—

  Suddenly I understood the source of my unease. I seized the sailor's wrist before he could resume his flea hunting.

  "Did you see the bosun take this measure? Where did he get his bearings?"

  He frowned, puzzled by the urgency in my voice. "The pink star, right over—"

  His hand froze in the act of pointing and his face fell slack with astonishment and fear.

  The sky was nearly black now, and the fainter stars in the springtime Crocodile constellation had winked into view. The sole pink star in sight was the third from the end of the crocodile's snout. Lower, where the Flood Star should have been, was nothing but darkness.

  "Drought and damnation," he swore softly. "The captain won't thank me for carrying this news. He sets great store by that nephew of his."

  "He's a great deal fonder of his ship. Is he in his cabin?"

  The sailor cleared his throat. "In yours, more likely."

  I hurried to the ladder leading below decks and down into the hold. The door to the whore's cabin was locked. I pounded on it until the bolt shot open and the captain stood in the doorway, buttoning his trousers and glaring. He looked surprised to see me, as if I hadn't paid good coin for the use of that room.

  "We're off course," I said bluntly. "The bosun took quadrant readings from the wrong star."

  The captain hissed a sigh through clenched teeth. "With respect, Mistress Channa, Bosun Mozar knows his trade. What makes you think—"

  "Not think. Know."

  There was no time for argument or explanation. My gaze skimmed along a row of barrels, passing over the beer and drinking water and settling on an open barrel filled with salt water and the small, fleet fish used for swordfish bait. I took a tin drinking cup off its hook and dipped up some of the water, then poured a little through the fingers of my free hand as I murmured a three-word spell. I gulped down about half of the remaining the water and held the cup out to the captain.

  His eyes widened as he understood what I had done. Just to be sure, he sniffed at the cup and then took a tentative sip.

  "Sweet as a mountain stream," he marveled, cradling the cup of fresh water in both hands. He looked up at me with a mixture of awe and avarice. "If you'd told me you were a water witch, I would have offered you free passage."

  I managed, just barely, to suppress a snort of derision. If I'd told him I was a "water witch," I might have ended up with a chain to match the whore's.

  "We're off course," I repeated. "We're heading toward the Mermaid Rocks."

  That finally stirred him to action. He went roaring up the ladder, demanding to be brought the star charts, the sextant, and his nephew's ass in a sling.

  The first jolt of impact sent me staggering. The ship screamed as her wooden keel scraped against hidden rock.

  Running footsteps thundered across the deck, followed by the creak of a swinging boom and flap of canvas gone suddenly slack. Then came the thunderous snap as the sails caught the wind. I braced myself in the open doorway as the ship turned hard astern.

  Several frantic moments passed before we were safely away from the Mermaid Rocks, one of the worst ship graveyards off the coasts of Osirion and Katapesh. When I came topside, the sailors were grim-faced and pale, muttering among themselves about bad omens. To my surprise, they seemed more concerned about the "disappearance" of the Flood Star than the near-shipwreck.

  To my mind, this was a mystery easily solved. Every fifty years or so, the world scholars call Aucturn comes into alignment with our Golarion. Very rarely—perhaps six or seven times in recorded history—the paths of the worlds and stars is such that Aucturn obscures the rising Flood Star. Gham Banni, my venture-captain, told me these things. Since he is considered a learned man and, more importantly, since he has never lied to me, I'm inclined to believe this tale.

  I will never be a scholar, but this I know: talk of omens and portents is ridiculous. Star charts are fine for navigation, but not prognostication. Perhaps someday people will accept that the time of prophecy has passed and take upon themselves the responsibility of their own decisions.

  Right. And that will come to pass the day after mermaids become creatures of light and virtue.

  Disgusted with the sailors' superstition and my own momentary lapse into optimism, I retreated to the women's cabin.

  The whore was standing by the porthole, sipping from a pottery wine bottle and staring out into the darkness. No doubt she was enjoying a rare moment of freedom; a pile of fine-linked chain lay on the bed, removed for the comfort and convenience of her most recent visitor. Her bright orange dress, the mark of her profession, seemed to glow in the faint lamplight, and her northern skin was the approximate hue of a fish's underbelly. She glanced over as I entered and then turned her gaze back out to sea. Since I wanted nothing of her, she need take no interest in me. I had no quarrels wit
h this arrangement.

  I sat down at the tiny table and pushed aside her brushes and pots of face paint. Taking paper and ink from my pack, I settled down to record the details of my travels. That duty accomplished, I eased the old map from its hiding place and unrolled it for closer study. According to the letter Vanir Shornish had shown me, my venture-captain believed that Xanchara, the lost city of legend, truly existed. I found myself somewhat harder to convince.

  "Rees is entirely too smart to be trusted."

  A sharp intake of breath drew my gaze to the door. I hadn't heard it open over the sounds of the quickening sea.

  The flea-ridden sailor who'd greeted me earlier stood staring at me, his bulging eyes giving him the look of a landed carp. He pointed at the map with a shaking finger.

  "That... that's not what I think it is. It couldn't be."

  "If you say so."

  He dug both hands into his hair and looked as if he might shriek in panic. "That parchment's mermaid-crafted, mermaid-cursed. And here we are, barely clear of the Mermaid Rocks. It's an evil thing. It's an evil omen!"

  "It's an old map."

  He stormed into the room and waggled an accusing finger at me. "It's a promissory note to the merfolk, and what if they come collecting?"

  I rose to face him, moving so that I stood between him and the door. "Unless someone in this room drops them a message in a weighted bottle, I don't see how they'd find out about it."

  "The merfolk have their ways," he insisted. "The captain needs to hear about this."

  Behind him, I heard the faint clink of chain against a hard surface. A smile twitched at one corner of my lips as I realized another message had been inadvertently sent and received.