Текст книги "The Wide World's End"

Автор книги: James Enge

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CHAPTER THIRTEEN

The Sea Road to Grarby

“I object to water for its wetness, which is really its worst quality.” Deor would have gone on, but Morlock, weary of his incessant complaints, took a handful of water from the drinking barrel on deck, formed it into a ball, and threw it at him.

While Deor sputtered and the rowers cheered and laughed, Kelat stared in open-mouthed astonishment. “How did you do that?”

Morlock silently mimed the actions of throwing something.

“No, no: I mean the water. It held together like a snowball.”

“I convinced it to.”

“How?”

“Water is quite gullible, in small amounts,” the crooked man said.

Kelat reflected on this for a moment and said, “And in larger amounts?”

From the steering bench Lady Ambrosia said, “Moody. Dangerous. Usually beautiful, but always unpredictable. Sounds like your wife, Morlock, eh?”

Kelat was thinking that it sounded like Lady Ambrosia, but he didn’t think it right to say so. Somehow Morlock had convinced her to bring him along on this journey; he didn’t want to wreck anything, the way he usually managed to do.

Deor, quenched in more ways than one, came back to sit by Morlock. “Harven, have I been getting tiresome?” he asked quietly.

Morlock opened one hand, closed it.

Evidently Deor knew what that meant and said, “Sorry.”

“Eh. Don’t let it worry you.”

It was the second night of their travels, and by dead reckoning they were fairly near their destination, the settlement of Gray Folk on the northeast coast of the Sea of Storms. Kelat had never been on a sea voyage that long, and he loved it. He stood by whenever Morlock and Ambrosia took the bearings of true-east and true-north with the seastone and plotted their progress on the map. He took turns at the oars. He took turns spelling the drummer who helped the rowers keep time. He stood watches as lookout. He spent time watching the different techniques of the steersman (or steerswoman, in Ambrosia’s case). He wished the journey would never end.

He turned to look past the prow and sang out, “Fire on the horizon.” There was a dim red spark there, where the darkness of the sky met the darkness of the sea.

“Where? What? How?” Deor demanded.

“Dead ahead,” Kelat said, pointing. “Something burning. I don’t know how.”

“I see it,” Ambrosia said grimly. “That’s where Grarby ought to be. Any thoughts, Morlock?”

“Get closer,” he said.

“Boat’s made of wood, Morlock,” Ambrosia observed. “Wood burns.”

“It burns?” Morlock looked around in surprise. “Why?”

“Because. . . . Because. . . . Shut your stupid face!”

Morlock shrugged. “Closer.”

“So we go closer,” Ambrosia said. “But listen to me, Master Drummer and all you oarsmen! Be prepared to go to half speed.”

They drove on into the dark water, and the red bud on the horizon grew into a bright, burning flower.

“Lady,” said the captain, “we can beach the ship north of Grarby and march with you.”

“Vornon, you’re a giant,” said Ambrosia easily, “but it can’t be. This ship and crew must return intact to the fleet to help defend our fishing waters.”

The flower grew. Its red light spread toward them, like bright petals cast on the dark water. Ambrosia ordered half speed.

She called the rowers to halt when they could actually see individual buildings on fire in Grarby.

“Haul out the skiff,” she said.

The oarsman stood and moved their benches. They reached down into the innards of the hull and drew out a narrow little skiff on ropes. Morlock came over to help them lower it over the prow into the water.

“What is that?” Deor asked, in real distress.

Ambrosia stood up from the steering bench, stretched luxuriously (causing several sailors to stare wildly—including Kelat, he feared) and leaped forward to clap Deor on the shoulder. “That’s the last boat to Grarby, Deortheorn! Climb aboard!”

“It’ll sink.”

“Then we’ll swim. Get your stuff and come on!”

Deor glumly grabbed his pack and Morlock’s; Kelat ran back to fetch his own and heard Ambrosia say quietly to Vornon, “You’re in command now. Get this ship back and put it at the Vice-Regent’s disposal. Stand by him, Vornon. It will be a long, hard year, and that brings out the traitor in weak-minded men.”

“You’ll be gone for a year?” Vornon said.

“I’ll be back as soon as I can, but I don’t know how soon that will be. Carry out my orders, soldier.”

“Yes, Lady Ambrosia!”

Kelat brought Ambrosia’s pack along with his and handed it to her. She grinned at him, and he felt like he’d been punched. Where was the distant, cold, often angry Lady Ambrosia he’d known all his life?

Ambrosia danced across the benches and jumped over the side, landing neatly in the skiff. “Come on!” she called.

If the skiff had been the jaws of a sea monster, Kelat would have done exactly as he did: run past the benches, leap over the side, and land right in front of her. He lost his footing and his pack almost went over the side, but she seized it and him and no disaster occurred. He hoped he wasn’t gaping at her, but he couldn’t stop looking at her as she turned toward the warship and called, “Come on, you two! Grarby is burning and, for all we know, the sun is not. There’s no time to lose.”

“That thing will sink if all four of us get into it,” Deor said, not in a joking way but as if he believed it. Kelat turned to look back at him, not because he wanted to, but because he was embarrassed to keep staring at Ambrosia.

Morlock didn’t reply to Deor, but he made his way somewhat unhandily down the side of the ship by way of the ropes. Once he was in the skiff he looked up to Deor and opened his hands.

Deor shrugged. “Catch!” he said, and tossed down first his pack then Morlock’s. At last he followed Morlock down the ropes into the skiff.

“I think we can trust you two landsmen to row—” Ambrosia began.

“I am not a man. Madam.”

“Your pardon, Deor. If you’ll take one set of oars, I see Morlock is already shipping the others. Kelat, you’re lookout. I’ll steer.”

They cast off the ropes. Ambrosia bid Vornon and his crew farewell, and they cheered the skiff on its way. Deor and Morlock got fairly soon into a rhythm with the oars and they pulled away from the warship. When the skiff was well away, they heard Vornon calling out orders, and the warship’s oars began to dip and sweep. It made a long turn south, then west, back home to the cold camps of the Vraids on the northern coast of the Sea of Stones.

“This tub is going to sink,” Deor muttered.

“Probably,” Morlock agreed.

“Absit omen!” Ambrosia snapped. (Kelat didn’t understand that, exactly, except it seemed to be meant to ward off bad luck.) “You should know better, Morlock.”

“Every ship or boat I’ve ever been in has sunk, unless Aloê was in it, too,” Morlock observed.

“That’s not funny, brother.”

“No,” he agreed flatly.

“Er. Really? You mean it? Well, we all know how to swim—I hope?”

No one said her nay, and they rowed onward over the dark water toward the burning town.

The glittering red water was broken by the black-and-white furrow of a wake. “Something coming toward us in the water,” Kelat called back to the others.

“A ship?” Ambrosia asked calmly.

“Something under the water.”

The oars stopped rowing. Harsh ringing music: Morlock was drawing his sword. Kelat scrabbled about for his spear—where was it? Back on the warship?

The thing in the water: he could see it now. Sort of see it. It had a circular maw, ringed with knife-teeth that lifted from the water—

Morlock brushed past him and leaped off the prow of the boat, sword in hand, directly at the beast in the water.

Kelat shouted something, he never remembered what.

Morlock landed atop the scaly back of the beast. He stabbed the dark sword deep into it—there was no head—there was no neck—there was just the place behind the maw, and that’s where Morlock struck. His blade went all the way into the monster until the hilts were pressed against the scaly back.

The knivish ring of teeth clenched and champed. The beast screamed and rolled in the water. Morlock disappeared.

Deor cried out and Ambrosia called out, “Steady! Ware the waves!”

It was excellent advice. The fish-beast kept on thrashing and bucking in the water. Morlock came into sight betimes, hanging desperately onto the grip of his sword, still anchored in something—the beast’s spine, perhaps. Whenever he came into sight, he was already going out of sight as the fish-beast spun again and again in the water, arching its body and swinging its great finned tail.

The turmoil of the sea threatened to overturn the skiff, but it was the fish-beast’s tail that destroyed it, shattering the side of the boat so that the dark sea poured in.

Kelat tottered and fell from the prow, and in the chaos of foam and bitter cold water and blood and broken wood he knew nothing for a time except the struggle to stay near the surface and breathing.

The tumult in the waters slowed, ended. The fish beast drifted in the water, as dead as their boat. Morlock was nowhere in sight.

Ambrosia snarled, “Death and Justice! If he’s dead, I’ll bash his damn brains in!” Her dark shape dove beneath the dead beast and returned in a moment with a choking, water-spewing Morlock.

Kelat paddled over to help but Ambrosia snarled, “Don’t strain yourself. The danger’s over.”

“Don’t you strain yourself, harven,” said Deor. He thrashed his way over, their packs in tow . . . somehow all floating on the surface of the water. Their weapons were bound to the packs.

“How . . . ? How . . . ?” Kelat said, gulping as he trod water.

“Don’t know! One of Morlock’s little devices. Said it was best to be sure—he had bad luck on the water.”

“Man thinks ahead,” Ambrosia agreed, with chattering teeth. “Except when it comes time to jump on a sea-monster’s neck.”

Morlock had been more or less limp in her arms, but then he started and tried to get away.

“Hey, you!” she shouted in his ear. “It’s over! Relax!”

“Sword,” he said.

“Death and Justice! Can’t you just make another?”

“Sword.”

“It’s—”

“Sword!”

“Fine! Fine! I’ll get your little toy. Hang onto your pack, here. Don’t let him slide off, you two.”

“Lady Ambuh-buh-buh-brosia,” Kelat stuttered, but she was gone under the water again.

She seemed to be angry at him, and he didn’t understand it. Should he have jumped into the maw of the creature? He hadn’t even had his spear. She hadn’t done anything to aid or forestall Morlock either—she seemed to have stopped Deor from doing so. Why was he, Kelat, to blame?

Ambrosia reappeared with the strange crystalline sword and tossed it atop the floating packs.

“Let’s follow Vornon’s plan,” she said, “and beach ourselves north of the t-t-t-t-t-town. And hope the w-w-w-w-water doesn’t kill us before we get there.”

It didn’t, but it was a near thing. After an eternity of struggling in the cold, dark water, they finally dragged themselves onto the rocky shore. They lay there for a time, gasping. Then Morlock sat up and started fiddling with his pack.

“Morlock,” croaked Ambrosia. “What doing?”

“Dry clothes.”

“Stupid. Stuff’s as wet as water.”

Morlock looked at her with surprise. He continued opening his pack and pulled out dry clothing. With a marked absence of shame, he stripped off his wet clothes, and by that time, anyway, the others were ferociously attacking their own packs.

When they were all dressed in dry clothes and more comfortable, Ambrosia said, “So how did you do that?”

“Water’s gullible. Stitch runes through the packs that convince water to stay out. Easy.”

“You’re easy,” she jeered. “That’s what the girls on the waterfront tell me, anyway.”

A strange voice spoke next—inhuman, vibrant, crunching words like rocks. Kelat looked up to see a dozen mandrakes, armed with swords and spears, standing above them on the beach.

There was water in Kelat’s ears and he hadn’t quite caught the words. But, whatever they had said, it didn’t sound friendly.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

Empty Sock

Sunberry pie garnished with sweet cream and a cup of smoke-root tea are not, in fact, cures for grief and loneliness, and they do not answer any of life’s pressing questions. But Aloê wanted them and she could get them, and they were good enough for the time being. She sat in the garden of her favorite refectory, watching the sun’s pale red light disappear from the River Ruleijn below, and slowly ate her pie and drank her tea and thought many a useless thing.

She started to feel like she was being watched, though, and she looked up to see Noreê standing at the door of the refectory with one of her many thains-attendant.

She raised her cup in salute and Noreê came over. The thain stayed at the door.

“Will you have something?” Aloê said. “The owner is a friend of mine, and a wonderful baker.”

“What did you want in the Arch of Tidings, Aloê?” Noreê said.

“I was trying to find out why you murdered Earno,” Aloê said pleasantly. “That you did is pretty well established, but the Graith will want to know why—”

“Is that supposed to be funny?”

“Not as funny as you browbeating me, as if I were one of the thains-attendant who worship you as the incarnation of God Avenger. I am your peer and the Graith’s vengeancer.”

“We are not peers.”

“I stretched a point. You are almost my peer.”

Aloê placidly drank tea while the other woman fumed. She refilled her cup from the pot and gestured with it at Noreê, offering some. Noreê waved it impatiently away.

Eventually Noreê said, “I have a reason for asking.”

Aloê said, “I have a reason for not answering. If you want to tell me your concern, I’ll listen.”

Noreê fumed. Aloê drank her tea. The pot was almost empty, and Aloê had just decided to get up and leave when Noreê said, “A message sock was tampered with.”

“Which one? And how do you know?”

“It was the one in stranj with Earno’s. And I know because . . . one of the thains who keeps watch on the message room is one of mine. He checks the message socks routinely, and found that Earno’s had been—disrupted. Its seal was broken and the palimpsest within removed.”

“And how did you know that I had been to the message room?”

“The thain on duty there tonight is another one of mine. She sent word to me of your visit.”

Aloê said, “Let’s go.” She stood and walked away from the table, leaving Noreê to follow or not as she chose. She did eventually follow, hurrying to catch up with Aloê. By that time Aloê was at the door, exchanging pleasantries with the owner of the place. Aloê walked into the dark street with Noreê and the thain at her back. She strode ahead and let them follow her like an honor guard.

The Chamber of the Graith was nearly empty: only a few thains at the entrance, one under the dome with the broken Witness Stone, and one outside the Arch of Tidings.

“I thought Bleys might still be here, working at healing the Stone,” Aloê remarked to Noreê.

“He is here most of his waking hours,” Noreê conceded. “He thinks the pieces can be regrown together.”

“Regrown?”

“That’s what he says.”

They walked on to the Arch of Tidings. There was a woman standing under the arch or entry, wearing the gray cape of a thain. Aloê didn’t know her.

“This thain is one of yours?” Aloê said to Noreê.

“Yes.”

“Introduce us.”

“Vocate Aloê. Thain Veluê.”

“It’s good to meet you, Thain Veluê.”

“Vocate.”

“Vocate Noreê is now going to tell you to take my orders in preference to hers.”

There was a brief, tense silence. Finally Noreê said, “Very well. Veluê, Vocate Aloê is tasked with avenging the death of Summoner Earno. While she is, we must all help her as we can. I must ask you to consider her orders as higher than my own, or, indeed, anyone else’s.”

“Except your own conscience, Veluê.”

“Anyone else’s at all,” Noreê said urgently, as if she considered talk of conscience frivolous.

Veluê’s dark eyes went from Aloê to Noreê and back again. “I will do so, Vocates.”

“Thanks,” Aloê said. “Show me this sock that’s been tampered with.”

Veluê led the way to a scrinium with several message socks in pigeonholes. “This is the one,” she said, pointing.

“Did you discover it?”

“No, to my shame. That was the day man—Curruth is his name.”

“When?”

“Yesterday.”

“Chaos eat his bones.”

The other two Guardians looked at her in surprise.

“And mine, too. Earno’s message sock was stolen, Noreê.”

“Oh. Indeed.”

“Indeed. And I sat in this room some days ago and sent a message to the necrophors, never thinking there might be evidence about his murder in this room.”

“There still might be,” Noreê said thoughtfully.

“How so?” Aloê asked. “The sigil is broken. The palimpsest within is gone.”

“But message socks work because the two enclosures, and the palimpsests within them, are bound in talic stranj. There might be a talic impression in the message sock of the hand that removed the scrip and broke the sigil, disrupting the stranj.”

“We couldn’t run around reading the palms of everyone in the world . . . but we could start with those who likely had access.”

“Yes.”

“Let’s do it, then.”

“The impression, if there is one, will only be readable once; perceiving the talic pattern will disrupt it. Should I look for it, or should you?”

Aloê thought for a moment. “It’d be best if we look together, wouldn’t you say? It doubles our chances of finding this fellow. Unless there’s some reason we can’t join perceptions for this purpose.”

Noreê’s wintry face was briefly warmed by a smile. “No, you’re right. That would be best.”

Noreê was the greatest seer in the world, with the possible exception of Bleys, a couple of deranged recluses in New Moorhope, Ambrosia Viviana . . . and perhaps some of the mind-sculptors in the Anhikh Kômos. Aloê never ventured on an act of the Sight in her presence without some qualms of embarrassment. But she had more important things to think about now than her ego: she braced her feet so that her body could stand in semi-consciousness and let her mind ascend the invisible steps to visionary rapture.

The eye of her mind opened and she found her talic self standing apart from the slumbrous glow of her body. Near to her in intention was Noreê, whose talic self was like a river of icy light. Aloê extended her coppery selfhood to mingle with that of the older, wiser, crueller woman. The shock of joining was deep: Aloê was used to sharing it with Thea, but Thea was gone. . . . Never mind. Never mind. They were joined.

They moved in united intention toward the violated message sock. The sigil had a spidery multibranched mark on it—the shock of spellbreak. The sock itself. . . .

She/they thought they/she saw some words! Earno’s last message. They/she impressed the forms, but did not read them. Nothing is so hostile to the rapture of vision as language.

Within the sock . . . not a talic impression, but the reverse of one . . . not the image but its impress in the receptive matter of the enclosure. The sense of a specific person’s absence. She/they did not recognize it. But they/she took the impress of that also.

“Return,” said Noreê with her mouth, as if she were not in rapture at all. Aloê hardly heard it through her distant ears; she felt it directly in her selfhood. Which was hers alone again: Noreê had disentangled herself and descended from rapture already.

It took longer for Aloê, a timeless time. But at last or instantly the eye of her mind closed and the eyes of her body opened: she stood alongside Noreê in the hall of messages.

“It was a letter to Morlock,” Aloê said thoughtfully. “Oh, Chaos on crutches. That’s no good.”

“Is it not?” asked Noreê thoughtfully. “I remember something about ‘make you king’ and ‘consider Lernaion an enemy.’”

“After the Battle of Tunglskin, Lernaion said to Earno, ‘They will make that crooked man king,’ or something like that. Earno must have decided to warn Morlock about it. This doesn’t tell us anything that I didn’t already know.”

“I didn’t know it,” Noreê said. “And it may help us more than you think. Do you bear an impress of the thief?”

“Yes.” Aloê closed her eyes: the sensation was still clear in her mind. “More of an un-press—a sense of what the thief exactly is not. I’m not putting it well.”

“It can’t be put well.”

Aloê opened her eyes to see that Noreê was smiling at her again. “Tell me something, Vocate.”

“Yes?”

“You discovered this some time ago. Why did you wait to read the imprint in the message sock?”

Noreê said, “Why do you suppose?”

“I suppose that you thought I was the thief, and you wanted to test that suspicion before you revealed your knowledge.”

“Your shot strikes close, but not exactly in the center ring. I feared you might be the thief, and waited until I was sure you were not. You were a good choice for vengeancer, Aloê—none better. But I didn’t trust the man who proposed you. I had to be sure.”

“And now you are.”

“Yes. And you of me, I hope.”

“Within limits. I still think you’re crazy on the subject of the Ambrosii.”

Noreê shrugged uneasily. “It may be so. Intuition guides me very strongly. But to surrender to intuition is also to surrender to prejudice and other impulses that arise from the dark places of the mind. Everything has its cost. But I see what I see. It should not matter for this purpose, though: I can’t believe that Morlock would murder Earno and leave you to investigate the crime . . . unless you were somehow implicated. As you are not, plainly.”

Aloê yawned. “Beg your pardon. A long day for me. Noreê, will you meet with me tomorrow morning and help find the thief? If he was not the murderer, he must have been acting at their behest.”

“Surely.” Noreê put a gentle hand on Aloê’s shoulder. (The same hand had broken the neck of Osros, Third of the Dark Seven of Kaen.) “Rest, child. I’ll come see you in the morning.”

They walked out, exchanging a few more words as they stood in front of the Chamber. Then Noreê went her way and Aloê walked back to fetch her horse from the stable near the refectory where she had left it.

Full night had fallen, and a chilly night for spring. Horseman and Trumpeter were down and Chariot glowed somber in the eastern sky. The stars above were as sharp as silver knives; so was the wind off the river. She took part of her cloak and covered her head with it.

A single musical tone sounded, not far off in the night. She wondered for a startled moment why such a sound would make her afraid. Then the blade of a gravebolt entered her neck.