Singer From the Sea

  “Well, we’re on our way back home from Upland, where I’ve been bargaining with the Glass Masters for several thousand bottles to be sent down the Merdune Lagoon in the spring.”

  “What sort of bottles?”

  “This sort,” he said, taking one from his pocket and passing it to her. The tiny thing was as long as her little finger, shaped like a teardrop stopped at the tip with a brilliant gem of colored glass through which the firelight glittered. “That’s what they call their sparkle bottle. The stops come in different colors.”

  “So the Glass Master story is real?”

  “Oh, yes, my dear. The story is real. When you must lie, my dear, lie as little as possible. That way you’ll have the least to remember.”

  “And what did I do all day while you were meeting with the glass blowers?”

  “You had a very bad cold, and you stayed the whole time in the little house I rented at the Crags—which is a kind of hostelry—nursing your poor stuffed-up head.”

  She laughed. “That’s easy to remember. It was a dull little house with two bedrooms and a common room. I saw no one, did nothing, went nowhere, right?”

  “Exactly. A dull little house with a smoky fireplace. You couldn’t taste anything, so you weren’t even hungry. And we arrived after dark, so no one saw you, and some days later, we left before dawn, so no one saw you then, either. If you wish, you may speak resentfully about all that, coming so far from Weirmills, to see so little.”

  He nodded, still thoughtful, while Genevieve made sure everything she had used was cleaned and put away. Garth, on the other hand, left his bowl and cup and spoon where they could be seen.

  “You need to know the route,” he said, as she was about to wish him good night. “The road we are on leads to Upland, with a fork to the right at the north pass road, a long, winding roadway to the coast, and south along the coast road is the litüe town of Midling Wells. If we are separated, one from the other, we will meet there, in Midling Wells, at Fentwig’s house. And, if we are separated, you must think of some innocent way it could have happened.”

  “I will think of something if needed, and I will meet you in Midling Wells,” she agreed, wondering how in heaven’s name she was supposed to get there if separated from her only guide. “At Fentwig’s House. Well then, good night.”

  “Good morning,” he said, with a glance at the glowing sky. “Rest easy. I will wake you when it is safe to go on.”

  She went back to her cave, spread her bedding into the warm recess, and crawled into it gratefully. The recess had been smoothed, either by man or nature, and though the surface was hard, she soon fell asleep. Some hours later, she was wakened by voices coming from outside.

  “Get up, I say. You! What’s your name?”

  “Why, sir, I am Garth Sentith.”

  “What are you doing here?”

  “I’m on my way home to Merdune from a business trip to the Glass Masters in Upland.”

  “This isn’t the road to Merdune! You should have taken the north pass road.”

  “If I’d gone directly, yes sir, but I stopped a day in Havenor, to buy a gift for my wife.”

  “And where’s that?”

  “In my pack, sir. And be careful with it, please, for it’s breakable.”

  There was a moment’s silence, during which Genevieve climbed out of her bedding to retrieve all of her belongings and bring them into her tunnel. From the light at the cave entrance, which fell high on the south side but not at all on the left, she thought it was probably midmorning.

  “Pah, a looking-glass,” said one of the voices.

  The other said, “Have you seen anyone on the road? Particularly a young woman? On foot or ahorse?”

  “No,” said Garth, “but then, I’ve been asleep.”

  “Well, merchant, get yourself packed up. We’re on our way north and we’ll escort you to the north pass.”

  “I don’t want to trouble you, sir. And I’d like a bit of breakfast before starting out …”

  “Pack yourself up, I say, and go hungry until you’re at the border. That is, unless you want to interfere with the orders of the Marshal …”

  “And the Prince,” said the other voice. “Both of ‘em are set on finding this young person, and to do it ex-pee-dishus-lee, we’re to clear the roads and keep them clear, all the way to the borders.”

  “That’s it,” said the first man. “Consider yourself part of the clearance.”

  “Of course, of course,” said Garth.

  The lighter voice said, “Meantime, we’d best look around. Be sure this one’s alone.”

  “Oh, he’s alone, right enough. One horse, one rider, one pack.”

  “Can’t tell from that. He might be cleverer than he looks.”

  “It’s you want to be cleverer. Go, waste your time, I don’t care.”

  Panting with dismay, Genevieve, wriggled back toward the grille, pulling bedding and belongings along with her. It was farther than she had thought, but she kept wriggling feet first, deeper into the recess expecting to encounter the grille with her feet. Suddenly she realized there was nothing beneath her lower legs, nothing her feet could find on any side, and as she started to ease her way back, her ankles were firmly grasped by someone or something, and before she could make up her mind whether screaming would be a good thing or a bad thing, she was pulled down the tunnel and out, like a cork from a bottle, while someone whispered fiercely in her ear, “Shhh. Don’t make a sound.”

  Since the someone was busy gagging her, there was no significant sound she could make. Her bedding was pulled down on top of her, and the saddle and pack on top of that, and she heard the unmistakable sound of metal being latched.

  “There,” said the voice in her ear, “the grille’s locked! Even if they find the cave, they won’t find you, not if you hush and quit struggling.”

  Genevieve reminded herself that she did not wish to be found by either the Marshal or the Prince, and stopped struggling.

  Outside in the cave, someone bashed about. “Hey, Gar-ton! Come see this!”

  Other shouts, murmurs, finally the sound of someone approaching the grille. “It’s shut off back here! There’s a grille over it.”

  “Probably an old mine shaft,” said the same voice that had accosted Garth.

  “But it’s warm, Garton.”

  “Thunkle, you’re an idiot, you know that. Of course it’s warm. There’s warm springs all over High Haven. The whole valley was a volcano once.”

  “Oh,” said Thunkle. “I forgot.”

  “Is it old? The grille?”

  “It’s rusty.”

  “Well, then. There’s nobody there, is there?”

  “No.”

  “Then come on. We’ve got this fellow to see to the border, and we don’t want to waste any more time.”

  Sound receded. In the stillness, Genevieve felt herself carried, heaved, then dropped carelessly, her head crashing against an unyielding surface.

  “Watch it,” cried a voice. “She’s not a sack of potatoes!”

  “I tripped,” said someone else, sulkily.

  Genevieve didn’t care. The blow had been the final insult, and she felt herself going away, somewhere else, into a buzzing darkness where there was nothing at all to think about.

  When she regained any perception at all, it was of movement, her body being slowly jostled as she was moved by wheels. She could not move or speak, but she could see:

  Dim light far up and gray. Massive things at either side. Darkness mostly.

  She could hear:

  At least two wheels on the cart squeaked slightly, dissonantly, like an insect chirp. Slow drip of water into a pool, each plunking drop making its own tiny echo, the ripples spreading, reaching the edges and returning to intersect the new plunk to make an interference of wavelets. Something peeping, a lizard, perhaps, signaling others of its kind.

  She was crumpled uncomfortably on the floor of a vehicle that moved among mountains, their edges
obscuring then revealing the dismal light, like moons behind mist.

  The place smelled of dust. As the vehicle trundled along, it created a little cloud of dust that went with them, enveloping them. The vehicle made a sudden turn, and her head banged against something hard. She whimpered.

  “It’s all right,” said someone. “We won’t hurt you.”

  She hadn’t thought they would, until then. The reassurance had the opposite effect from the one intended. She was sure they would hurt her, or that one of them would. The one who had spoken. There was something viscous in that voice, a gelatinous insincerity. And the other one? If the first did something evil to her, would the other concur? Or watch, interested? Passive? She trembled.

  “No,” said a younger voice. “We really won’t hurt you. You don’t need to shiver all over like that. The only reason we tied you up was so you wouldn’t make any noise.”

  A rough hand patted her, as one might pat a dog. This touch did what the voice had not, reassured her. It wasn’t the touch of a … well, that kind of touch. She turned her head a little, letting one eye see higher up. Shadows against that far gray light. A massive carved throne, high in the sky against the light. A curlicued bedstead? A rocking horse? A great swag of bunting from one precipice to another. A man up there, poised to leap. No, it had to be a statue of a man, holding a bow, a man with wings holding a bow, dark against the high gray light.

  None of it made any sense. She relaxed, letting it happen. The water sound grew louder, plunket… plunket… plunket … and the wheels began to swish through a shallow pool, a wide, wide pool that reflected light from above, ripples fleeing from their wheels. Obviously, they were underground. In a cavern. Just as those men had said, the ones who’d been looking for her.

  Far above her, to one side, a balloon hung limply from the ceiling, its basket dangling, slightly tipped. She had seen a balloon like that at a provincial festival, filled with hot air, round as an apple against the blue. People had paid to go up in it, to see the world from on high. It had to be pulled down by a capstan, but it always floated up again, when the bellows were applied to its little fire basket full of coals. She had much wanted to go up, but her father had said no. Such activities were for commoners, those easily amused by novelty.

  The light grew slightly brighter the farther they went. They passed a precipice of doors stacked one on another, some upright, most recumbent, doors paneled, painted, carved; doors of gilt and metal, reaching from the level of her eyes into the far, dim upness of the place. They entered a chasm between escarpments of carpets, rolled, flat, folded, draped down the sides, lengthy runners twisted into rough garlands hung in catenary curves up the sides of the carpet cliffs. Then, abruptly, they left the rug chasm and came into an open space.

  The rough hand returned to take her gag away. “There now. Is that better?”

  “Who?” she murmured. “Who?”

  “Bottoms,” he said cheerfully, as he untied her. “Jeorfy Bottoms. My friend here is Zebulon. Zebulon Coffin. Not a cheerful name, is it? Bottoms now, that’s cheerful. Always get a laugh out of Bottoms.”

  He busied himself with much tinkling and rattling. Light happened, a lantern, and in its orange glow she saw she was on a flat platform with a seat at one side and a control lever at one end. From the open side, two men in gray coveralls regarded her intently, the younger one with amusement and interest, the pudgy, older one with an avid stare that made her apprehensive.

  She gulped. “I’m Imogene Sentith,” she said.

  “Oh, right,” said the younger one, with a demonic grin. “And I’m the Lord Paramount of Haven.”

  “And I am his Prime Minister,” said the other, with a sneer. “We heard you, you know. Talking out there. You’re not his daughter. You’re just pretending, and we want to know why.”

  “Why do you want to know?” she cried. “It isn’t your business.”

  “Is so,” said the older of the two. “Anything goes on in this cavern is my business! This is my place! My job! And you came poking into it.”

  “She didn’t, you know,” said Jeorfy, in a conversational tone. “Don’t get all in an uproar, Zeb. We pulled her in.”

  “What is this place?” she whispered.

  “The Lord Paramount’s cavern,” said Zeb. “Where he keeps the things he gets from off-world.” He sniggered. “Where I keep ‘em, for I’m the actual keeper. Him,” and he jutted an elbow toward Jeorfy, “he’s my assistant, and he’s just arrived.”

  Jeorfy drew himself up, raised one hand, and declaimed:

  “After years without a word, I was suddenly transferred. They removed me from the archives, where I’d spent eleven years, and I’ll hate them all their damn lives for they took me from my peers.”

  He stopped, grinning like a maniac. “If it weren’t for Zebulon, my dear, I’d have been here totally alone.”

  “If you don’t quit versifying stupidities, Zebulon will transfer you violently,” growled the other, over his shoulder. “It’s damned annoying, Bottoms!”

  Jeorfy grinned at her again, but fell silent as they rumbled among further promontories of goods and furniture, shortly arriving at the door of a small room built of packing cases against the cavern wall. Genevieve pulled herself upright, assisted by Jeorfy, and stood dazedly looking about herself at endless stacks of cartons and boxes and crates towering into vanishing points against the vault and its widespread galaxies of dim lights.

  She shook her head at the monstrous accumulation. “I thought there were very few things bought off-world.”

  Zebulon laughed, a dry, scraping sound. “Oh, woman! That’s for public consumption, that little tale. Why, the Lord Paramount buys all sorts of things off-planet. Piles of them. Stacks of them. Look at them! And this is only one cavern! There’s others! Bigger!”

  Genevieve stepped down from the vehicle, dusting herself off, and Jeorfy led her into the small room. It was warm, dry, and furnished with several well-padded chairs and a neat bed against the wall. It was also well lighted by a sun-bright panel set into its ceiling, and Genevieve sat in the chair beneath it, grateful for the outdoors feeling it gave her. Though the cavern was huge, it had a claustrophobic, tomblike atmosphere.

  She slapped at her neck, where something clung, dashing the thing to the floor. Jeorfy grabbed it up, in the moment, tossing it out into the cavern and closing the door behind it. The door was covered in mesh, not metal or fabric, but something she had not seen before.

  “What was it?” she cried, feeling her neck and bringing blood-stained fingers before her eyes. “It bit me!”

  “Cave-lizzy,” said the older man. “When they’re tiny, they’ll bite, you give them a chance. Unless you teach ‘em not.”

  “Like this,” said Jeorfy, going to the door and whistling. At once there were several tiny forms clinging to the mesh, and Genevieve went to look at them, jeweled little creatures, ruby and sapphire and emerald, with frills around their necks, webs between their legs and sharp little muzzles, siren-lizards in miniature. Jeorfy went to a cupboard and took out a packet, unwrapped the dripping contents, opened the door a crack and held it out. His hand was covered at once with a whistling, squeaking, chomping horde of the little creatures.

  “Every so often, the grown-up ones come into the caves to make their stinking nests and lay their eggs,” said Jeorfy, conversationally. ‘“They hatch into these little ones, and at this age they’re supposed to eat fish. These caves used to be full of rivers, and the rivers were full of fish. But when the Lord Paramount drained the caverns, oh, long ago, the fish were all drained away somewhere else. So, these hatchlings, they’ll eat us instead, or we could poison them all, but that’d wipe out the big lizards, and the nobles like lizard skin boots, so, we feed ‘em instead.”

  “What do you feed them?”

  “Fish. It comes in from outside somewhere. And it’s only every ten or twelve years that the big lizards reproduce. This time next year, all these little ones will be grown up and
flown out into the world. The grown ones are aquatic. It’s only when they’re little they can fly.”

  She smoothed back her hair, settled her collar, and said firmly, “You know, I have to get back to Papa.”

  “He’s not your papa,” said Zebulon. “And you don’t need to get back to him just yet. Why, you’re the only amusement that’s come along in ten or twelve years.”

  Jeorfy gave Zebulon a puzzled look before turning to Genevieve once more. “So, tell us your real name, pretty girl.”

  “Henrietta Hazelbine,” she said. “Daughter of the Count of Ob.” There was a county Ob in Frangia, but so far as she knew, there was no Count of Ob, nor had there been for many years. Still, it was worth a try.

  “And who are you running from?” asked Zeb.

  “A nobleman who wants to marry me, but I don’t like him.”

  “Aha!” said Jeorfy. “There! It’s the Prince, I’ll wager. Didn’t I say! He’s after another wife, isn’t he? That’s it, isn’t it?”

  “Why do you assume so?” she asked, astonished.

  “Because all the oldies, every so often, they seem to get remarried, or they adopt a niece, or they take on a mistress. He’s only had three wives, so maybe he needs another one. He hasn’t had one for fifty years or more.”

  “Fifty years?” she faltered. “How old is he?”

  “A hundred eighty, a hundred ninety, somewhere in there,” said Jeorfy. “You’d be the fourth.”

  “They all died, I know that,” she said, remembering her father’s anger when she had asked about Delganor’s wives. “I only heard about two of them.”

  “It was probably the first one you didn’t hear about. She was the only one who got away, I have no doubt.”

  “Jeorfy!” threatened Zebulon. “Talk like a sensible person!”

  “Got away?” asked Genevieve.

  “Ran away, eluded, absconded, disappeared,” said Jeorfy, making a face at his companion. “Felt that she’d be safer in a wig and a false beard!” He nodded slowly. “That’s merely a guess. At any rate, he never found her.”

  “Where did you find out all this?” she asked.

  Jeorfy cocked his head impudently, “A man came to the archives, with very charming ways. I learned after he’d left me his name was Aufors Leys. I let him use the archives to look up some history, and what he didn’t say about it spurred my curiosity.”