‘Do you not fear us?’ he asked now. ‘We gave you much pain.’
‘Necessary,’ Ilze said with an angry flush. ‘It was necessary. Not your fault. Pamra’s fault.’ There was a little fleck of foam at the corner of his mouth. He felt it there, wiped it away, struggling to remain calm.
‘And if we took this Pamra Don, but did not give her to you?’
‘You owe her to me,’ Ilze whined, the words vomited out unwillingly in a detested, shameful tone he could no more control than he could withhold. He willed himself to silence and heard his own voice once more. ‘You set me looking for her. You owe her to me.’
‘Perhaps,’ soothed Sliffisunda, chuckling inwardly. ‘Perhaps we do. We’ll see, Laugher. Remain with us for now, while we discuss this matter.’
‘If you will provide for me.’ Sulkily, this.
‘Oh, we will provide.’ This time chuckling audibly, Sliffisunda turned away through the heavy curtain. In time some fliers came to take Ilze back to his room.
In a high, narrow shaft cut into the bones of the mountain, Frule edged himself away from the hole leading to Sliffisunda’s aerie. It had taken him a year and a half to open the cleft wide enough that he could climb it. It was hidden on three sides and from above. Only the fourth side gaped toward the north, and Frule braced himself against the stone as he withdrew a small mirror from his pocket, breathing upon it, then polishing it vigorously upon his sleeve. He cocked an eye at the sun, then tilted the mirror to catch it and fling the dazzling beam into the empty north-lands. Flash, flash, again and again, long and short, spelling out his message. After a time he stopped, waiting. From a distant peak came an answering flash, one, two, and three.
Frule sighed, hiding the mirror once more in his tunic. He had had more excitement in this one morning than in the last two years put together. Gratifying, in a way. There had been very little to report to Ezasper Jorn since the Ambassador to the Thraish had recommended him to Sliffisunda as a competent workman, luring his spy, Frule, to take the job by promise of much reward when the duty was done.
Much reward.
There could be only one reward. The elixir. Something of that magnitude was what it would take to pay him for these two cold, comfortless, stinking years! And yet, it would have been difficult to argue for such a reward had there been no results, no juicy, blood-hot information.
He shivered, half anticipation, half cold, drawing his cloak more closely around him. It would be some time before his message could be received at its ultimate destination and new instructions transmitted. Still, better wait where he was. Getting into the cleft required a hard climb up a rock chimney with his shoulders and feet levering him upward in increments of skin-scraping inches. He had managed to get into position today barely in time to hear the conversation between the visitor and the Talker. Better stay where he was. He lost himself in dreams of fortune, eyes glazing with thoughts of the elixir. He dozed.
He did not wake even when the claws dragged him out of the cleft and over the cliff to bounce upon a hundred projections before his pulped body came to rest far below.
‘A spy,’ said Sliffisunda mildly. ‘I knew he was there, somewhere. I heard him breathing. And I smelled him. He was very excited about something.’
10
Looking at my carvings today, wondering which ones I ought to give away, I came across the little boat I’d carved, oh, fifteen years ago, maybe. The Procession boat. Always meant to get some gold paint for it, but never did.
I remember that Procession. I saw the Protector of Man with my own eyes. I don’t know where I was when he came around before – I’d have been old enough to remember if I’d seen him, so I suppose I didn’t. The golden boat was as long as a pier, and it shone like the sun itself, all full of Chancery people in robes and high feathers. It was a wonderful thing to see, and all the shore was lined with people chanting and waving. But when I saw it, I remember wondering what it was all those people did, there in the Chancery, there in the northlands. No farmers among them, that’s for sure, nor boatmen, either. Soft hands and pale faces, all of them, so they aren’t people who work. So I said to Obers-rom, what do you suppose they do with their time, those people? And he said, whatever it is, it won’t help you or me, Thrasne. And I suppose that’s right.
But I still wonder what they do.
From Thrasne’s book
Word reached Ezasper Jorn late in the evening, carried down endless flights of stairs, through door after door, shut against the cold of polar winter, the message carefully transcribed onto handmade paper, the missive properly folded and sealed. Jorn liked these little niceties, the sense of drama conveyed in folded, sealed documents, ribbons dangling from the wax, the color of the ribbons betokening what lay within. These ribbons were red. Something vital. Something bloody, perhaps. He played with the heavy paper for a moment, sliding his thumbnail beneath the seal, teasing himself.
So, Frule had at last acquitted himself well! Ezasper Jorn had almost given up hope of receiving any sensible information from the man, not that it was his fault. Ezasper had visited an aerie in the Talons, once. They were not made for two-legged spies, and Ezasper had no source of winged ones. Frule must have carved himself a spy hole somewhere. Ezasper grinned, for the moment almost warm enough in the flush of his enthusiasm.
Now. Now. Where could the information best be used? He peered into the corridor for a long moment before slithering along to Koma Nepor’s suite, knocking there for an unconscionable time before the Research Chief heard him and let him in. Ezasper gave him the letter, reading it again over his shoulder, jigging with pleasure.
‘I think we’ll give it to Gendra, don’t you? Part of a package? Later we’ll get old Glamdrul to tell her there’s heresy all right, started in Baris. She’ll like that. She’s dying for a reason to get rid of the Superior in Baris, dying to rub Tharius Don’s face in it, too. Then we’ll suggest it would be a good idea if she went there herself.’
‘She won’t leave the Chancery,’ Nepor objected. ‘She won’t leave the center of power when the power is looking for a center, old fish. No. Never. She won’t.’
‘Ah, but might she not go in order to obtain the support of the Thraish for her candidacy?’
‘How would she do that?’
‘Read what’s in front of you, nit. She will gain the support of the Thraish by delivering Pamra Don into their claws. In return for supporting her, of course. All other things being equal, it’s a strategy which just might work.
The assembly likes things peaceful between us and the Thraish. It would get her some votes, if she were around to get them – which she won’t be.’
‘Because while she’s gone, we’ll do away with Obol and see that you, old fish, that you’re named Protector, is that it?’ Nepor rubbed his hands together, jigging from foot to foot in his excitement. ‘Oh, that will be a turn.’
Ezasper Jorn sat down ponderously, pulling his cap firmly down to cover his ears and stretching his legs toward the fire. Even in these vaults, far below the earth, the cold crept in as the winter lengthened. ‘Well, Tharius will vote for himself, you may be sure of that. Obol will be dead. Gendra will be gone. That’s three.’
‘Bossit will vote for himself. You and I will vote for you, Jorn. That’s six, and two votes for you.’
‘Leaving Jondrigar.’
‘Oh, that’s a difficult one. I should think the general will not vote for anyone.’
‘Ah, ah, but you see, I have this letter.’
‘A letter? What letter, Jorn?’
‘This letter from Lees Obol. To the general.’
‘When did Lees Obol last write anything? Come now, Jorn. Would you try our credulity?’
‘Nepor, if you ask the general, “Can the Protector of Man write a letter?” what will the general say?’
‘He would say the Protector could write a letter, or ride a weehar bull over the pass, or thump down a mountain with his fists. He would say the protector could do anything
at all. I think he believes it, too.’
‘He does, yes. He has that happy faculty of never confusing reality with his preconceptions. General Jondrigar will believe in the letter, leave that to me.’
‘And the letter will say?’
‘That Lees Obol, feeling himself fading away, chooses to recommend to the general that he vote for Ezasper Jorn as the next Protector of Man.’
‘That’s three of you,’ said Nepor admiringly. ‘And only two against.’
‘But a very strong two,’ Ezasper mused, holding out his hands to the fire. ‘Bossit. And Tharius Don. Perhaps I can find some reason that Tharius Don would consider it wise to support me …’ He stared into the dancing flames, lost in contemplation. Koma Nepor, familiar with this state of reflective trance in his companion, snuggled more deeply into his chair to consider which of the several strains of blight he had available to him would be best to use in ridding themselves of Lees Obol.
Ezasper Jorn carried the message to Gendra Mitiar the following morning, wending his way through endless tunnels from the roots of the palace to the roots of the Bureau of Towers, finding Gendra Mitiar at last in a room warmed almost to blood heat by a dozen braziers, ventilated by the constant whir of great fans turned by her slaves. Gendra was undergoing a massage at the hands and feet of Jhilt, the Noor. Though Jhilt was sweating and panting from her exertions, the sheet-covered heap that was Gendra’s ancient body showed no signs of perceiving her exhaustion.
‘Message from the Talons,’ he said, trying to fit his words between the slap, slap, slap, wrench, crunch, grunt that Jhilt continued.
‘Ahum,’ Gendra responded.
‘Important, Gendra. You should listen.’
‘Don’t care about the stupid fliers.’
‘Don’t care about being the next Protector of Man, perhaps?’
‘Enough, Jhilt,’ Gendra said, slapping the woman’s hands away. ‘Get out of here.’ She sat up, wrapped in the sheet, her ravaged face peering from the top of it like the head of an enshrouded worker, looking no less dead than many did. ‘What was that you said?’
‘I merely asked if you were not concerned with the possibility of being our next Protector. Koma Nepor and I have talked it over. In return for some arrangement which we can undoubtedly agree upon, we two would be willing to support you for that position. Entirely quid pro quo, Gendra.
‘You know me well enough to know I am not altruistic.’ He made a long face, appearing both shamed and somehow ennobled by this admission, sighing deeply the while. She regarded him suspiciously, and he made a disarming gesture. ‘I have no chance at the position myself, and making an arrangement to support you would be more profitable for me than seeing Tharius Don as Protector.’ He turned away, watching her from the corner of his eye. It was not necessary to see her, for she ground her teeth at the mention of Tharius Don. He went on, ‘Of course, this is all somewhat premature. I have every reason to believe Lees Obol will live for two or three years yet. Still, it is not too early to plan. Proper planning will, I am sure, assure your nomination. However, nomination by the council is only a first step. Election by the assembly is necessary. As Ambassador to the Thraish, I feel it would be important to convince the assembly you have the endorsement of the Thraish as well.’
‘And how is that happy eventuality to be achieved?’
He handed her the message, its open seal still dripping red ribbons across the words. ‘My spy, Frule, has overheard a conversation between the Laugher Ilze and our old friend Sliffisunda.’
She took the paper from his hand, screwing her eyes into it, pulling the content of the words out of the paper like a cork from a bottle, weighing, evaluating. When she had read it once, she cast Ezasper Jorn a suspicious glance and read it again.
‘What here can be used to my advantage, Jorn? I don’t see it.’
‘If you were to deliver the woman to them yourself, Gendra? Having made somewhat of a bargain with them? Their support for yours. Tharius Don won’t let this Pamra Don go easily, you know. He wants her in his own hands. So much was clear at our last meeting.’
‘True. He has some unexplained interest there. I’ve asked Glamdrul Feynt to look into it, but the old bastard dithers and forgets. Still, I’ll threaten Feynt a bit and see what emerges. So. So. You think my turning the woman over to them would gain their favor, eh?’ She had quite another reason for wanting the favor of the Thraish, but she did not intend to discuss that with Ezasper Jorn.
‘Something for something, Gendra. If you want our support, Nepor’s and mine, you’ll have to offer something. We’ll talk again.’ He left her chewing on that, figuring how to outwit him in the long run, so taken with her own cleverness she couldn’t think for a moment he had already out-witted her.
The corridors of the Bureau of Towers were long and echoing, the stairs even longer. When he came to the bottom of the sixth flight, three levels below winter quarters, smelling the opulent dust of the files, he was too out of breath to summon Glamdrul Feynt for a time. He contented himself with leaning on a table while his heart slowed, then banged the nearest door in its frame three or four times, hearing the echoes slam down the endless corridors, ricocheting fragments in an avalanche of sound.
When the sound died it was resurrected, coming from the opposite direction, another door slammed somewhere far away, and the sound of Feynt’s voice, ‘Hoo, hoo, hoo,’ as he stumbled nearer. When he saw who it was, he straightened and stopped limping. ‘So, Jorn. What’s on your mind?’
They sat on a filthy bench, staring at dust motes like schools of silver fish in a slanting beam that struck from a high lantern into the well of the files, talking of Gendra Mitiar, of fliers, of this and that.
‘So you’ve got it all planned, have you?’
‘If you’ll tell her there’s heresy in Baris, yes. That’ll do the trick. She’ll trot off to the fliers with Pamra Don, and she’ll keep right on going. Oh, she can’t wait to set her claws into that woman in Baris.’
‘And you’ll be the next Protector, then?’
‘Sure as can be. We count three votes for it, against two at the council. Of course, the assembly’s something else, but we can manage that.’
‘And what’s in it for old Feynt, Jorn? Oh, I know you’ve talked dribs of this and drabs of that, but what’s in it for me, I want to know?’
‘Elixir, Feynt. All of that you want. What else can I do for you? Some other job? No reason you have to stick down here, is there?’
‘Nobody else knows where anything is, you know that, Jorn.’ It was said with a kind of belligerent pride.
‘Does it matter?’ It was said all unheeding, Jorn so drunk with his own plotting he didn’t think. He was watching the dust motes, thinking of himself on the royal Progression, dressed all in gold and held up by the Jondarites to the acclaim of the mobs. He did not see the wrinkle come between Feynt’s old eyebrows or the hateful gleam that winked once across his eyes. Did it matter? Did a man’s life matter? Over a hundred years spent on these files, and did it matter?
When Ezasper Jorn left in a little time, he did not know he had made an enemy of what had been, at worst, a malicious but disinterested man.
11
Among the more respected followers of the crusade were several scribes, including a light-colored spy sent by Queen Fibji and at least one adventurer from the island chain. Night found these assigned recorders, among others who kept records for their own various reasons, hunched over their individual campfires or crouched into the pools of their lantern’s light, scribbling an account of the day’s sayings. Some of them had not seen Pamra Don herself, so they wrote what others said of her, of her and Lila.
‘She shines with a holy radiance,’ some wrote, confusing the shining statue that had appeared in Thou-ne with the woman it had likened. ‘The child is a messenger of God, sent into her keeping, an unearthly being, of an immortal kind.’ In which they were more accurate than they realized, though Lila’s unearthly nature came from a s
ource closer to them than the God of man.
‘The Noor are personifications of the darkness,’ they scribbled. Queen Fibji’s spy gritted his teeth as he made note of this particular doctrine. It was a new teaching. Peasimy Flot had been stopped by a troop of Melancholics in a town market square as they were passing through. Unwisely, the Melancholics had suggested the crusaders be whipped for holiness’s sake. Peasimy had peered into their dark, grinning faces and had turned away with revulsion, shivering. ‘These are devils,’ he cried. ‘The darkness creeps out of their skins.’ The word had spread rapidly through the following, and since that time, the crusade had gone out of its way to surround and brutalize troupes of Melancholics, beating them with their own whips. When the spy for Queen Fibji had written it all down, he rolled the account into a lightweight tube made of bone and attached it to the legs of a seeker bird. The Queen would soon have this news to add to her many burdens. The writer considered it more ominous than most information he had provided.
After sending the bird off, he went back into his little tent and shaved his head. His skin was light enough not to appear Noorish, but nothing could have disguised the long, crinkly strands of Noor hair. He would follow yet awhile. The whole movement had a feeling about it, as before a storm when the quiet becomes ominous. He slept badly, dreaming of that storm but unable to remember its conclusion when he wakened.
12
Out here, on the water, I think about things a lot, things that didn’t bear thinking of when we were closer to shore. The nights are bigger here, and the daytimes, too. Space is bigger. I feel as though the inside of me – what’s in my head – is bigger out here than it was on Northshore. Perhaps because it’s quieter, here. Perhaps the quiet entices the shy thoughts out, ideas that never come out when there are people around …