“Towards danger,” said the Dog, moving aft to flop down at Lirael’s feet. “We mustn’t forget that, Mistress.”
Lirael nodded, thinking back to the necromancer and Death. It seemed unreal now, out in the sunshine, with the boat sailing so cheerfully down the river. But it had been all too real then. And if the necromancer’s words were true, not only did he know her, he might know where she was going. Once she left the Ratterlin, she would be relatively easy prey for the necromancer’s Dead servants.
“Perhaps I should make a Charter-skin soon,” she said. “The barking owl. Just in case.”
“Good idea,” said the Dog, slurring. Her chin was propped on Lirael’s foot, and she was drooling profusely. “By the way, did you see anything in the Dark Mirror?”
Lirael hesitated. She’d momentarily forgotten. The vision of the past had been put out of her mind by the necromancer’s attack.
“Yes.” The Dog waited for her to go on, but Lirael was silent. Finally, the hound raised her head and said, “So you are a Remembrancer now. The first in these last five hundred years, unless I am mistaken.”
“I suppose I am,” said Lirael, not meeting the Dog’s eyes. She didn’t want to be a Remembrancer, as the book called someone who Saw into the past. She wanted to See into the future.
“And what did you See?” prompted the Dog.
“My parents.” Lirael blushed as she thought again of how close she had come to seeing her parents making love. “My father.”
“Who was he?”
“I don’t know,” replied Lirael, frowning. “I would recognize a portrait, I think. Or the room that I saw. It doesn’t really matter, anyway.”
The Dog snorted, indicating that Lirael hadn’t fooled her one bit. Obviously, it mattered a lot, but Lirael didn’t want to talk about it.
“You’re my family,” said Lirael quickly, giving the Dog a quick hug. Then she stared deliberately ahead at the shining waters of the Ratterlin. The Dog really was her only family, even more than the Clayr she had lived with all her life.
They had shown she would never be truly one of them, she thought as she tightened her headscarf, remembering how the silk had felt against her eyes. Families did not blindfold their own children.
Chapter Thirty-Seven
A Bath in the River
Following Sanar and Ryelle’s advice, Lirael spent her first night away from the Clayr’s Glacier anchored in the lee of a long, thin island in the very middle of the Ratterlin, with more than four hundred yards of swift, deep water on either side.
Soon after dawn, following a breakfast of oatmeal, an apple, a rather tough cinnamon cake, and several mouthfuls of clear river water, Lirael drew in the anchor, stowed it, and whistled for the Dog. She came swimming across from the island, where she’d performed her canine duty for the other dogs who might one day visit it.
They had just raised the sail and were beginning to reach before the wind when the Dog suddenly went stiff-legged and pointed across the bow, letting out a warning yip.
Lirael ducked her head down so she could see under the boom, her gaze following the line pointed by the Dog’s forelimb at some object two or three hundred yards downstream. At first, she couldn’t make out what it was—something metal on the surface of the river, reflecting the morning sun. When she did recognize it, she had to peer more carefully to re-affirm her initial judgment.
“That looks like a metal bathtub,” she said slowly. “With a man in it.”
“It is a bathtub,” said the Dog. “And a man. There’s something else too . . . you’d best nock an arrow, Mistress.”
“He looks unconscious. Or dead,” replied Lirael. “Shouldn’t we just sail around?”
But she left the tiller to Finder, took out the bow, and quickly strung it. Then she loosened Nehima in its sheath and took an arrow from the quiver.
Finder seemed to share the Dog’s desire for caution, for she turned away from a direct intercept. The bathtub was traveling much more slowly than they were, propelled only by the current. With the wind on her beam, Finder was considerably faster and could curve around in an arc to pass the bathtub and keep going.
Keeping going was what Lirael wanted to do. She didn’t want to have anything to do with strangers before she absolutely had to. But then, she would have to deal with people sooner or later, and he did look as if he was in trouble. Surely he wouldn’t have chosen to be out in the Ratterlin in a craft as unreliable as a metal bathtub?
Lirael frowned and tugged her scarf down lower over her forehead, so it shaded her face. When they were only fifty yards away, and about to pass the tub, she also nocked an arrow, but did not draw. The man was definitely unaware of Finder’s approach, since he hadn’t so much as twitched. He was on his back in the bath, with his arms hanging over the sides and his knees drawn up. Lirael could see the hilt of a sword at his side, and there was something across his chest—
“Bells! A necromancer!” exclaimed Lirael, drawing her bow. He didn’t look like Hedge, but any necromancer was dangerous. Putting an arrow in him would simply be insurance. Unlike their Dead servants, necromancers had no trouble with running water. This one was probably pretending to be hurt, to lure her into an ambush.
She was just about to loose the arrow when the Dog suddenly barked, “Wait! he doesn’t smell like a necromancer!”
Surprised, Lirael jerked, let go—and the arrow sped through the air, passing less than a foot above the man’s head. If he’d sat up, it would have pierced his throat or eye, killing him instantly.
As the arrow arced downward to plop into the water well past the tub, a small white cat emerged from under the man’s legs, climbed onto his chest, and yawned.
This provoked an immediate response from the Dog, who barked furiously and lunged at the water. Lirael only just managed to drop her bow and grab the hound’s tail before the Dog went over the side.
The Dog’s tail was waving happily, at such a speed Lirael had difficulty hanging on to it. Whether this was actual friendliness or excitement at the prospect of chasing a cat, Lirael didn’t know.
All the noise finally woke the man in the tub. He sat up slowly, obviously dazed, the cat moving up to perch precariously on his shoulder. At first, he looked the wrong way for the source of the barking; then he turned, saw the boat—and instantly went for his sword.
Swiftly, Lirael picked up her bow and nocked another arrow. Finder turned into the wind so they slowed, giving Lirael a reasonably stable platform from which to shoot.
The cat spoke, words coming out amidst another yawn.
“What are you doing here?”
Lirael jumped in surprise but managed not to drop her arrow.
She was about to answer when she realized the cat was speaking to the Dog.
“Humph,” replied the Dog. “I thought someone as slippery as you would know the answer to that. What are you called now? And who is that sorry ragamuffin with you?”
“I am called Mogget,” said the cat. “Most of the time. What name do you—”
“This sorry ragamuffin can speak for himself,” interrupted the man angrily. “Who or what are you? And you too, mistress! That’s one of the Clayr’s boats, isn’t it? Did you steal it?”
Finder yawed at this insult, and Lirael tightened her grip on the bow, right hand creeping to the string. He was obviously a very arrogant ragamuffin, and younger than she was, to boot. And he was wearing a necromancer’s bells! Apart from that, he was quite handsome, which was another black mark as far as she was concerned. The good-looking men were always the ones who came up to her in the Refectory, certain that she would never refuse their attentions.
“I am the Disreputable Dog,” said the Dog, quite calmly. “Companion to Lirael, Daughter of the Clayr.”
“So you got stolen as well,” said Sam grumpily, hardly thinking about what he was saying. He hurt all over, and Mogget’s presence on his shoulder was both extremely uncomfortable and annoying.
“I am Lirael, Dau
ghter of the Clayr,” pronounced Lirael, her anger overriding her familiar feeling of being an imposter. “Who or what are you? Besides insufferably rude?”
The man—boy, really—stared back at her, till the blush spread further across her face and Lirael bent her head, hiding under her hair and scarf. She knew well what he was thinking.
She couldn’t possibly be a Daughter of the Clayr. The Clayr were all tall and blond and elegant. This girl . . . woman . . . was dark-haired and wore odd clothes. Her bright-red waistcoat was not at all like the star-dusted white robes of the Clayr he’d seen in Belisaere. And she lacked the aloof confidence of the seeresses, who had always made him nervous when he had met them by chance in the corridors of the Palace.
“You don’t look like a Daughter of the Clayr,” he said, paddling the bathtub a bit closer. The current was already taking him past Finder, and he had to battle just to keep in place. “But I guess I can take your word for it.”
“Stop!” commanded Lirael, half drawing her bow. “Who are you? And why are you wearing the bells of a necromancer?”
Sam looked down at his chest. He’d forgotten he was wearing the bandolier. Now he was aware of how cold it was, how it pressed against his chest and made breathing difficult.
He unbuckled the bandolier as he tried to work out something inconclusive to say, but Mogget beat him to it.
“Well met, Mistress Lirael. This ragamuffin, as your servant so aptly described him, is His Highness Prince Sameth, the Abhorsen-in-Waiting. Hence the bells. But on to more serious matters. Could you please rescue us? Prince Sameth’s personal vessel is not quite what I am used to, and he is eager to catch me a fish before my morning nap.”
Lirael looked at the Dog questioningly. She knew who Prince Sameth was. But why on earth would the second child of King Touchstone and the Abhorsen Sabriel be floating in a bathtub in the middle of the Ratterlin, leagues from anywhere?
“He’s a royal Prince, all right,” said the Dog, quietly sniffing. “I can smell his Blood. He’s wounded, too—it is making him irritable. Not much more than a pup, really. You’d best be careful of the other. The Mogget. I know him of old. He’s the Abhorsen’s servant all right, but he’s Free Magic, of the bound variety. He doesn’t serve of his own free will, and you must never loose his collar.”
“I suppose we have to pick them up,” said Lirael slowly, hoping the Dog would contradict her. But the Dog simply stared back, looking amused. Finder finally settled the matter by moving her tiller a little, and the boat started to head slowly towards the bathtub.
Lirael sighed and put away the bow, but took care to draw her sword instead, in case the Dog was mistaken. What if this Prince Sameth was actually a necromancer, and not the Abhorsen-in-Waiting at all?
“Leave your sword by your side,” Lirael called. “And you, Mogget, sit under the Prince’s legs. When you’re alongside, don’t move until I tell you.”
Sam didn’t answer immediately. Lirael saw him whisper to the cat and realized that he was having a conversation similar to the one she’d had with the Dog.
“All right!” Sam shouted after listening to the cat, and he pushed his sword cautiously down to the bottom of the tub, with the bells. He looked feverish, Lirael thought as they drew closer; he was very flushed on the cheeks and around the eyes.
Mogget climbed down gracefully, disappearing below the rim of the bathtub. The makeshift vessel continued on its way, spinning in the current. Finder moved, too, tacking across the wind to come broadside.
Boat and bathtub met with a loud clang. Lirael was surprised by how low in the water the tub was—it hadn’t seemed so submerged from a distance. The Prince scowled up at her, but true to his word, he didn’t move.
Quickly, Lirael reached across with her left hand and touched the Charter mark on his forehead, her sword held ready to strike if the mark was false or corrupted. But her finger felt the familiar warmth of the true Charter, bright and strong. Despite what the Dog had told her, the Charter certainly seemed to go on forever, without Beginning or End.
Hesitantly, Sam stretched out his hand, too, obviously waiting for permission, with the sharp point of her sword so near. She nodded, and he touched her forehead with two fingers, the Charter mark there flashing brilliantly, brighter even than the sun on the river.
“Well, I guess you can get out of the bathtub,” said Lirael, breaking the silence. She felt suddenly nervous again, having to share the boat with a stranger. What would she do if he wanted to talk all the time, or tried to kiss her or something? Not that he seemed to be in any shape to do much of anything. She put her sword down and reached out to help him up, wrinkling her nose. He smelt of blood and dirt and fear, and obviously hadn’t washed for days.
“Thank you,” muttered Sam, slithering over the gunwale, his legs cramped and useless. Lirael saw him bite his lip against the pain, but he didn’t cry out. When his legs were swung over, he took a breath and said shakily, “Could . . . could you get my sword, and the bells and the saddlebags? I’m afraid I can hardly move.”
Lirael quickly complied. She lifted the saddlebags out last. As they came free, the balance of the bathtub shifted, and one end went briefly underwater. For a second it righted itself, riding still lower in the river. Then a slight wave filled one end beyond recovery, and it flipped over, sinking like a strange silver fish into the clear water below.
“Farewell, brave vessel,” whispered Sam, watching as it sank below the upper band of light into the darkness of the deep. He sat back and let out a sigh that was half pain and half relief.
Mogget had jumped as the tub filled and was now facing the Dog, so close their noses almost touched. Both just sat there, staring, but Lirael suspected they were communicating in some way unknown to their human “masters.” It didn’t look entirely friendly. Both of them had their backs up, and the Dog was growling, low and soft, the sound rolling out from deep in her chest.
Lirael busied herself turning Finder back downriver, ducking under the boom as it swung across. The boat hardly needed her help, but it was easier than talking. Once that was done, the silence grew oppressive. The two animals still stood nose-to-nose. Eventually, Lirael felt she had to say something. She wished she were back in the Library and could just write a note.
“What . . . um . . . happened to you?” she asked Sam, who had settled himself at full length in the bottom of the boat. “Why were you in a bathtub?”
“It’s a long story,” said Sam weakly. He tried to sit up to see her better, but his head dropped back and bumped on a thwart. “Ow! In the simple version, I guess you could say I was escaping from the attentions of the Dead, and the tub happened to be the best boat available.”
“The Dead? Near here?” asked Lirael, shivering as she thought of her own encounter with Death. With the necromancer Hedge. She’d presumed that in Life he would be near the Red Lake, as he was in the vision. But that might not have actually happened yet. Perhaps Hedge was somewhere close, right now—
“Several leagues upstream, last night,” said Sam, prodding the flesh around his wound with a finger. It was tender and felt tight against the trouser leg, a sure sign that the spell to contain infection had failed in the face of his weariness and over-exertion.
“That looks bad,” said Lirael, who could see the dark stain of old blood showing through the cloth. “Did the necromancer do it?”
“Mmm?” asked Sam, who felt like he might pass out again. Pressing on the wound had been a big mistake. “There was no necromancer there, fortunately. The Dead were following set orders, and not being too smart about it. I got stabbed earlier.”
Lirael thought for a moment, unsure what to tell him. But he was a royal Prince and the Abhorsen-in-Waiting.
“It’s just that I fought a necromancer yesterday,” she said.
“What!” exclaimed Sam, sitting up, despite a sudden wave of nausea. “A necromancer? Here?”
“Not exactly,” said Lirael. “We were in Death. I don’t know where he
was physically.”
Sam groaned and fell backwards again. This time Lirael saw it coming and just managed to catch his head.
“Thanks,” muttered Sam. “Was . . . was he sort of thin and bald, with red armor plates at his elbows?”
“Yes,” whispered Lirael. “His name is Hedge. He tried to cut my head off.”
Sam made a sort of coughing noise and turned towards the gunwale, the muscles in his neck straining. Lirael just managed to get her hands free before he threw up over the side. He hung there for a few minutes after that, then feebly splashed his face with cold river water.
“Sorry,” he said. “Nervous reaction, I suppose. Did you say you fought this necromancer in Death? But you’re a Clayr. Clayr don’t go into Death. I mean, nobody does, except necromancers and my mother.”
“I do,” mumbled Lirael back. She blushed again. “I’m . . . I’m a Remembrancer. I had to find out something there, something in the past.”
“What’s a Remembrancer? What’s the past got to do with Death?” asked Sam. He felt delirious. Either Lirael was raving or he was somehow not able to understand what she was saying.
“I think,” said the Dog, turning from her nose-to-nose communication with the cat, “that my mistress should tend to your wound, young Prince. Then we might all start at the beginning.”
“That could take a while,” said Mogget gloomily, searching for fish over the side. Whatever he’d been communicating with the Dog, their body language indicated that he’d come out second best.
“The necromancer,” whispered Sam. “Did he burn you, too?”
“No,” replied Lirael, puzzled. “Who did he burn?”
Now she was confused. But Sam didn’t answer. His eyelids fluttered once, then closed.
“You’d best tend to his wound, Mistress,” said the Dog.
Lirael sighed in exasperation, got out her knife, and began to cut Sam’s trouser leg away. At the same time, she reached out to the Charter, pulling out the marks for a spell that would cleanse the wound and knit the tissue back together.