Dwyrin woke again in almost darkness, though now no chains lay upon him. Another ship creaked around him, and the groaning sound of ropes rubbing against the sides of the ship filled the air. A sheet covered him; by its feel against his skin it was cotton. He shuddered at the thought of being naked, either physically or mentally, in the presence of the creature that had leaned over him in the slave cell. The air around him seemed oppressive and his skin crawled with a sense of imminent danger. Very cautiously he opened his eyes and looked around. This time the chamber was not belowdecks in the hold, but it was small, low-ceilinged, and occupied only by the cot upon which he lay, a bucket, and a curved door. The wall the cot was built out from was curved as well, and Dwyrin realized that he must be in a small room wedged into the corner of a ship hull. A dim blue light shone from the edges of the door, giving him what light there was to see.
Carefully he checked his limbs, finding no shackles or chains. His clothes were gone, and he seemed unharmed.* At his neck, however, there was a thin cord of metal. Delicately he tested its strength and its feel in his hands suggested that it was unbreakable by regular means. He slowed his breathing and attempted the First Entrance. After a moment he stopped. The power, the passage that had always been there before was simply gone. Despite his best effort, despite running through the entire litany of the meditations, nothing unfolded in his mind to lead him into the overworld of forms. He fingered the cord around his neck again, puzzling at its sudden warmth.
The creak of the door and a flood of blue-white light into the room interrupted further ruminations. Squinting and raising a hand to shield his eyes, Dwyrin quailed to see that the figure outlined in that harsh glare could only be the dead man.
“Come, my young friend, dinner is set upon the table.” The half-hidden mockery present in that dust-dry voice did nothing to assuage Dwyrin’s fears. Still, there was nothing else to be done at the moment. Wearily, for his body seemed very weak, he levered himself off of the bed and crouched down to crawl out of the tiny space. Beyond, a cabin held a table bolted to the floor, a profusion of carpets and bric-a-brac, two chairs, and a number of plates and bowls. The smell of dinner slithered across the Hibernian like a snake, the prospect of food twisting his stomach but the subtle smell of carrion clogged his throat. Dwyrin took the smaller of the two seats gingerly, clinging to the side of the table as the ship rolled a little.
Even as the Hibernian seated himself, the dead man was already composed in his larger chair. A spidery hand lifted a pale-white bowl and drew back a cloth laid over it, offering it to Dwyrin.
“Bread?” the voice whispered from its bone-filled well. “You should start easy, do not take too much at once.” The bowl was placed at the side of the platter in front of Dwyrin. The boy took a piece of one of the cut-up loaves. It looked and smelled like way-bread, heavy and solid. It was not fresh. He bit at it gingerly, his tongue checking for the small fragments of stone that often survived the sifting at the end of the milling process. The bread was nine or ten days old, but still it was edible. He chewed slowly. His host watched him with interest.
“You may call me Khiron,” said the dead man, drawing a bronze goblet toward him. “You are my or, rather, my master’s property. You seem an intelligent youth, the more so for having spent time in one of the myriad Egyptian schools.” The thin black line of an eyebrow quirked up at Dwyrin’s sullen gaze. “The signs upon you are quite unmistakable, you know. The calluses of the fingers, caused by a reed pen. The inkstains on the same hands, obviously of an Egyptian source. The meditations that you summon to calm yourself, to try the exert your will over the hidden world. All of these things point to such a conclusion.”
Dwyrin did not respond, continuing to slowly chew the bread. Khiron looked away for a moment, his thoughts composing themselves. His profile was that of a hawk, with a sharp nose and deeply hooded eyes. For all his appearance, however, Dwyrin was unaccountably sure that he was not Egyptian. With his othersight gone, Dwyrin had to look very closely to see any of the signs that had convinced him before that this creature was a dead man. The skin was pale, but not with the chalky texture and graininess that it had shown in his true-sight. The long dark hair, lank and a little oily, still hung down from his shoulders, but now it did not coil with the glowing worms of power that it had before. His dark eyes were still pools of vitriol, but now they did not swim with living darkness. In his lips, there was the slightest trace of a rose blush. Then the creature smiled at him, and Dwyrin shuddered to see the pure malice and hatred in the thing for him, a living being.
“We will be in the great city in another three days,” Khiron said “and my master will take you into his House. You will be well cared for there. You shall not want for food, or drink, or attention of any kind.” The dead man leaned a little closer over the table. “But you will not have your precious freedom, though you may walk freely in the city. No, the master will be delighted to add you to his collection.” Khiron drank again from the goblet, and Dwyrin felt a chill settle over him as the touch of rose in the dead man’s lips flushed and began to spread into his cheeks.
“Eat and drink* my young friend, there is more than enough for both of us. Delos is always most accommodating in providing me with provisions.” Now the creature laughed. The sound was like babies’ skulls being crushed between iron fingers, one by one.
Dwyrin continued to chew the bread.
The ship rolled up over another swell, its sails filled with a southern wind. North it drove, through a dark sea, its oars shipped, only the hands of dead men upon the tiller.
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CONSTANTINOPLE
Thyatis stood on the bow of the Mikitis, the north wind in her face, her hair, loose, streaming behind her in a gold cloud. Though the wind off of the Sea of Darkness was chill, the Aegean sun was hot, and she had stripped down to a short leather vest and a thigh-high skirt. Her normally fair skin had bronzed under the Mare Internum sun, and she ignored the sidelong glances of the ship’s crew as she had for the three weeks of their journey from Ostia. Nikos was watching her back, a silent presence on the fore-deck where he sat, sharpening one of his many knives. Like a knife itself, the sleek merchantman that the Duchess retained for her “work” sliced through the deep-blue waters of the Propontis. Around her the narrow sea was broad and open, its waves gentle. Before her, between twin dikes run out from the towering walls of the capital of the Eastern Empire, the military harbor was a great confusion of sails, masts, ships, and longboats.
The Mikitis banked over and the crew ran to furl the main sail. The steering oars bit the water, and the ship shivered as the captain lined up to pass between the two hulking towers that stood watch on the entrance to the harbor. Beyond the profusion of sails and rigging, the granite walls of Constantinople rose up: height upon height topped with sharp-toothed crenellations and the jutting shapes of massive towers. Even from the deck of the ship, one hand holding easily to the forward guyline, Thyatis felt the brooding power of the fortresses. Beyond them she knew from the Duchess’s notes, a thriving city of close to two million souls bustled about its daily business. All this despite the six-month-old siege of the Avar barbarians and their Slavic and Gepid allies. Coming up the Propontis the signs of the nomads had been clear on the northern shore-burned-out farms and distant pillars of smoke. Now the Mikitis entered the harbor and the walls loomed even greater above her.