“What in all hells,” says Sigrud.
The footsteps stop. The shadow of the human figure stops advancing as well.
Silence.
Then a man’s voice, high and cold and brittle. It doesn’t seem to come from any one place—not from the shadow of the person before him, nor from the wall of darkness beyond—but rather it seems to be coming from all the shadows in the room, as if they were all vibrating at once, creating this…voice.
The voice says: “He’s dead.”
Sigrud glances over his shoulder at Khadse’s corpse. He says, “Uh.”
“I know this one,” says the voice. More footsteps. The second lamp dies, and the shadow advances across the floor, swirling as the invisible person—whoever or whatever he is—walks around the final remaining lamp. “Khadse, wasn’t it? He was a good one.” The footsteps stop, and the shadow hangs on the floor in a position suggesting that the invisible person is standing directly before Khadse’s body. The voice says softly, “He did as he was told. He didn’t ask questions. I hate when they ask questions….I always feel obliged to answer them.”
A long silence. Sigrud wonders if he should attack, or dive away, or…what. But one thing he suddenly, fiercely believes is that he should not leave the light. He’s not sure why, but he feels that if he crosses that border of shadow—which suddenly seems so firm, so very hard—then he’s not coming back out.
“I had wished to do it myself,” says the voice with a faint tone of regret. “Not wise to have a man walking around with so many secrets in him. But oh, well….”
More footsteps. The shadow of the human figure rotates as he circles around the lamp. The shadow falls across Khadse’s corpse….
And then it’s gone. It’s as if the man’s passing shadow wiped Khadse’s being from existence, like a rag wiping away a spot on a windowpane.
Sigrud glances around at the tiny island of illumination at his feet, cast by the one remaining oil lamp. Do not leave the light.
The next thing he knows, the shadow of the figure is gone, blinking out.
Sigrud grasps the radio transmitter at his belt with his free hand—part of the preparations he’d put together in case someone tried to ambush him. It wouldn’t do any good here, so far from the entrance, he thinks. He puts the idea aside, wondering what to do.
Then Sigrud feels it: a sudden attention, as if all the darkness in the room is turning to look at him and examine him.
There is a low, awful groaning in the darkness, like the sound of tall trees slowly shifting in the wind. His left hand suddenly aches, aches horribly, as if the scar there were made of molten lead.
From what sounds like a distant corner, the voice whispers, “And who are you?”
Sigrud lowers the pistol. He’s not quite sure what to do in such a situation—being addressed by a wall of shadow is not something he was trained for—but questions, well, those he knows how to handle.
He instinctively resorts to the cover story that corresponds with the Papers of Transportation in his pocket. “Jenssen,” he says.
There’s a silence.
The voice says, puzzled, “Jenssen?”
“Yes.”
“And…what are you doing here, Mr. Jenssen?”
“Looking for work,” says Sigrud determinedly. “In Ahanashtan.”
A much, much longer silence. Then a rhythmic tapping from his right, like the twitching of a snake’s tail. And slowly, slowly, he thinks he can see light in the darkness….Tiny pinpricks of cold light, like terribly distant stars.
“I am not sure what this means,” says the voice softly. “You are either stupid, or you are lying, which is still quite stupid.” Then, closer to him: “But you called me. You did, or he did, or both of you did.”
Sigrud looks down. The circle of light is slowly contracting. Sigrud is reminded of a water rat being suffocated by a python.
The voice whispers, “Are you working for them? Are you one of theirs? Tell me.”
Sigrud doesn’t know whom the voice is referencing, but he says, “No. I am alone.”
“Why did you kill Khadse?”
“Because…Because he killed a friend of mine.”
“Hmm…But it should have been quite hard, shouldn’t it? I arrayed him in protections, in defenses.” A brief, soft burst of cheeping, like crickets in a vast forest. Sigrud wonders—Where am I? Am I still even in the warehouse? Yet he sees the oil lamp still hangs above him.
The voice continues: “You should not have been able to follow him, should not have been able to wound him. And yet I sense the protections I gave him are in your bag…”
The circle of light contracts a little more. Sigrud’s one eye widens as he realizes what the voice is saying. Is this…this thing, he thinks, Khadse’s employer? Could this thing be…Nokov?
“And I smell about you,” says the voice in the darkness, “my own writing, my own list, passed through my own channels. A letter. My letter.”
Sigrud swallows.
“You are lying to me,” says the voice. “I don’t believe you could have killed Khadse without some help. Their help.”
“I did it alone.”
“So you say. Yet I don’t believe you.”
A long silence. Sigrud feels something shifting out there in the shadows, a dry rustling, a hushed shuddering.
“Do you know who I am?” whispers the voice. The border of shadow is just inches from Sigrud’s toes now. He stands up very straight and tall, trying his hardest not to allow an elbow or knee to enter that veil of shadow. “Do you know what I can do to you?” says the voice. “You killed Khadse, certainly—but what I can do will make murder feel like a wondrous blessing.”
A sigh beside him. The scrape and scratch of something being dragged across the concrete floor. His hand hurts so much he can’t stop making a fist.
“Wandering forever in darkest night,” whispers the voice, now on his other side. “A vast, black plain, underneath distant stars…You’d walk and walk and walk, walking for so long, until you’d forget what your own face looked like, your own being. And only when this had happened—when you’d forgotten your own name, the very idea of yourself—would I breach your isolation, and ask you questions.”
Something hisses before him. A chuckling sound—certainly not a sound made by a human throat—comes from behind him.
“And you,” whispers the voice, “sobbing, would tell me.”
The shadow inches closer. Sigrud feels like he’s standing in a tiny tube of light.
A murmur in his ear, as if the thing in the darkness is just beside him. “Do you wish me to do this to you?”
“No.”
“Then tell me if…”
The border of shadow trembles. Sigrud waits for the first blow to fall.
Then the voice makes a noise of peculiar discomfort: “Unh.”
Sigrud cocks an eyebrow. “Unh?”
The circle of light at his feet expands, as if whoever—or whatever—is out there is losing their grasp on it. The voice says, “Who is…Who is doing that?” It sounds as if the speaker is suffering a terrible migraine.