The Waters Rising

  She had arranged a meeting with the men from Woldsgard this evening, after Oldwife Gancer and Nettie Lean would be asleep. The old woman was recovering from her grief over Xulai and had come to believe the girl was well, somewhere, and would in good time be restored to them, so she’d been eating and sleeping better. Nettie was keeping close watch on her. Even Precious Wind had come to believe Xulai’s return was not impossible, in time, and if the old woman dwelt in that hope, she would not cast doubt upon it. Provided that this abbey nastiness was cleared up, including finding each and every man the prior had corrupted, or perhaps simply co-opted. She went to her meeting with that firmly in mind.

  The five Wolds men were in one of the abbey gathering places, those tavernlike places frequented by both men and women who work all day and have either too little or too much family life to keep them at home. The five were known to be old friends, so no one would question their being together with another old friend from the same place. They drank beer. Precious Wind disliked beer greatly, but it was a drink that would draw no attention whatsoever, so she put the mug on the table before her and pretended to take a sip every now and then, trying not to breathe the sour smell of it.

  “So we’ve been asking,” said Bartelmy in a low voice, though his face smiled and his eyes crinkled as though he were telling a joke.

  Bartelmy had it in him to be a good spy, she thought, unlike Black Mike, who always looked as though he were about to assault someone.

  “We’ve been asking this, asking that, what kind of work we can do to make ourselves useful. I’ve been saying I’m a good bowman, do they need a good bowman. Mike says he’s a good one to keep order if order needs keeping; you know the kind of thing, Precious Wind.”

  “And?”

  “And I’ve had a sergeant or two say I might find a place with the abbey armor, and another fellow said the watch has openings, and like that. But Mike, he had a nibble from someone saying a certain high-up person has occasional very-well-paid work for people who aren’t afraid to get their hands dirty.”

  Mike lifted his mug and muttered around it, “So I asks, hands, or something else? And the guy gives me a look and says, so if it was something else? And I say, I’d hafta know what, because I don’t mind doin’ to, but I don’t want to be done to. Like that. He said he’d be in touch.”

  “So then,” Pecky said, “Mike gave me the nod, and I followed the guy to see who he talked to, which was a certain bunch of men in the watch. Altogether, there’s about twenty of ’em. All single. They all live in one of the dormitories, and I said to myself, well, now, their living together makes it a lot easier to know who’s involved with ’em.”

  “And?”

  “And it’s just them. All of ’em. We can’t find any one of ’em who isn’t.”

  “So me’n Clive, we’ve been gettin’ acquainted with this one and that one,” said Willum. “I hear from each and every one, prior’s a man who pays well.”

  “Don’t push it,” said Precious Wind. “Let them come to you. And don’t worry if they don’t come to you. The prior may have a change in plans.” She gave them one of her rare and radiant smiles, toasted them with her mug, set it down, and left them.

  Black Mike switched his empty mug for her full one and drank it down. “We’ll do that, lady,” he said to no one in particular. Sometimes he dreamed about Precious Wind. He was not enough of a fool to attempt making any such dream come true.

  Precious Wind made a showy bustle, going hither and thither at the abbey, telling people she was departing soon. Off to the southlands. Off to find a ship from Merhaven. Going to return to her native land. Farewell, good people. And so on. Meantime, she was concentrating on leaving no loose ends. In making a mental inventory of everything she had done, heard, thought, and planned, she came at last to the large wooden crate that had been secreted in the bottom of the dray. Bartelmy showed her where the dray was, where the crate was, and she found the corner that had held the ideogram with a hole gnawed neatly through it. Xulai’s furry friend could well have done the gnawing.

  “She’s with Abasio,” said Precious Wind to herself. “He rescued her. If she had had the thing with her and had read the instructions, she obviously wouldn’t have needed rescuing. The thing would have brought her back on the wings of the wind. So, she didn’t have it. The thing isn’t in our quarters so she didn’t leave it here. Abasio left the abbey before she did, which means he could have had it before he left. If he didn’t unwrap it and read the instructions—which I’m fairly sure he would not have done, as it was hers, not his—he wouldn’t carry it around. So, he’d leave it in his wagon.”

  She wandered restlessly through a cloistered arm of the abbey, staring at the fountain at its center. The dyer’s wagon was more than merely distinctive. It was unmistakable. If anyone, Bear, for instance, saw that wagon in Merhaven . . . If one of the duchess’s spies saw it . . . well, the duchess had never seen the dyer’s wagon in the same group as Xulai. Abasio had had better sense than that. Nonetheless, both Xulai and the wagon had come from the same direction and might be linked in the duchess’s mind, so chances were very good that Abasio and Xulai had left the wagon behind. If they hadn’t thought to take the package with them, which was very possible considering that Xulai might have had a hard time during her abduction and Abasio was thinking about her, rather than anything else, then the thing might still be . . . in the wagon.

  So where was the wagon? Abasio had reached the tower in time to rescue Xulai and, possibly, probably, kill Jenger. This meant he had not been more than a day’s journey away, which meant he had taken the wagon less than a day’s journey south of the abbey. This indicated he had not been far off the road where he had hidden the wagon and waited for Xulai.

  Precious Wind went to the library and, in the absence of her friend, Wordswell, asked one of the other librarians to provide her with a map of the surrounding countryside. There were several. She spent the afternoon pondering them. Farms were shown. Dwellings were shown. Ruins were shown. She drew a careful mental arc, one day’s ride, from the Vulture Tower south, not far from the road. Included in that arc were half a dozen farms, a few ruins. One, in particular, caught her eye.

  “What does it mean if there’s a little triangle by the name?” she asked.

  “Means the family died out,” said the young woman who was helping her. “Some of the farms and mines and things around here were leased by the abbey to certain families, oh, generations ago. So long as the family wanted to go on, the abbey let the leases alone. They were always leases whereby the family paid in crops or wood or metal ore or something, not money. But if the family died out, we would note it on the maps and in the books. It meant in future we could include that land or whatever in the abbey plans.”

  “This shows a house,” said Precious Wind.

  “It shows where there was a house. It might be empty or fallen in or even disappeared.”

  Precious Wind nodded, thanked her, and returned the maps to their proper folders in the proper drawers. She had mentally marked three possibilities that met her criteria as to distance and location. She chose to take the hop-skip they had driven from Woldsgard. It was a vehicle that could be drawn easily by one horse on the level, but she felt two, hitched tandem, would be better for hills. Though quite small, the hop-skip was large enough to carry a significant load of supplies: a small tent, blankets, food, some oats for the horses, water bottles, and her saddle. She might need a saddle; there were places a wheeled vehicle could not go. Willum and Clive had modified the harness so it could be either a single or tandem hitch. Two horses would be better, in case one might grow lame.

  She supplied the little carriage and made a tearful farewell to Oldwife Gancer and Nettie. Though Nettie had been happily surprised to find Aunt Belika both able and willing to forgive old arguments and joyous to have a niece, she still considered Precious Wind a good friend and was sad at her leaving.

  “When I find Xulai, Oldwife, I’ll send you
a message; I’m taking some pigeons from the abbey. I’ll be able to let you know that she’s well. You know she has to return to Tingawa.”

  “It’s just, since she’s gone, and now you’re going, I’d like to go home,” said Oldwife.

  “To Woldsgard?” This should not have surprised Precious Wind, but it did. It was a loose end she had not thought of.

  Oldwife had her reasons. “To my little house there, yes. To my kinfolk. And the men, they’d like to go, too. Bartelmy was telling me. Probably Nettie as well, though I’m not sure.”

  Precious Wind shrugged mentally. This would only take a day or so more before she could leave, and it had to be done. These people were her family as well as Xulai’s. She hugged the old woman, saying, “There’s no reason you shouldn’t go. I’ll talk to the men now. They may want to leave some of the furnishings here, no reason to labor taking them back. They have the dray, the company-trot, and the wagon. All the horses and mules are still here except the two I’m taking and except for a few up-and-down miles north of the abbey, it’s all downhill from here until you reach the Woldsroad. Xulai’s horse should go back to Woldsgard. When she returns, that’s where she’ll go. It was home for her.”

  Oldwife broke into tears. “It was home for her. I heard her . . . her . . . the duke telling her he was sending her home and I saw her poor little face. Poor thing. Where did he go, do you think?”

  “None of us know, Oldwife. He wasn’t going to endanger anyone by telling them where he was going or if he would ever come back. But there’s no reason you and the men shouldn’t go home. The man here has pigeons for Woldsgard. I’ll send Hallad, Prince Orez, a message saying you’d like to come home. He may even send an escort for you.”

  This new complication did take another day, as she had to wait for the librarian and the abbot and the other people in their party to return from their tour of inspection out and around the South Watch Tower. Upon their return, they learned from the prior’s servant that his master was very ill.

  Precious Wind arranged a meeting with Wordswell that night, hoping she could tie all the loose ends into one bundle and place it in his lap.

  “They say the prior’s ill,” said Wordswell. “Do you think he is seriously ill?”

  “I think he’ll die,” said Precious Wind. “Probably in a few days.”

  “How very sad,” said the librarian. “Will anyone here particularly miss him?”

  “If I were you, I’d pay particular attention to anyone who does,” she said, handing him the list she and the Woldsgard men had compiled. “The men listed here will probably miss the pay he’s been giving them to do murder and mayhem. It’s possible there are others, but we doubt it. Might be a good idea if this bunch went somewhere else for a while. And maybe didn’t come back.”

  “And the three who followed you?”

  “They haven’t returned. It’s not unusual for that kind of men to disappear rather than confront the anger of the person who sent them.”

  “Really.” He regarded her with something like awe.

  Precious Wind nodded. “It has been known to happen, yes. I have one more burden to place upon you. Oldwife Gancer, possibly Nettie Lean, and certainly the men from Woldsgard would like to go home. Actually, Bartelmy would probably like to go hunting for Xulai, but it’s best he not do so. He was sweet to her when he thought she was a child, as little maids and men sometimes are, but nothing can come of it, so best he go home and find himself another sweetheart. He’s a lovesome boy and will not want for takers. So, I’d like you to send a message to Hallad, Prince Orez, telling him they’d like to come home and asking if he would care to send an escort.”

  Wordswell smiled. “Prince Orez should be advised they’re coming, certainly, but I think the abbot will send an escort from here so they can leave promptly. It’s a round-trip either way, for them or for us. I think we’ll send about a hundred men, including the ones on this list. The officers in charge will know that this . . . how many, twenty . . . can be left at Woldsgard. We will already have sent Woldsgard our suggestion for dealing with them.”

  “I agree that Prince Orez’s men will find it less difficult to dispose of them than their own mess-mates might do. The Woldsgard folk may take their freight back. It’ll be easier than when we came, it’s downhill most of the way.”

  “As you say,” he murmured. “And what of you, Precious Wind?”

  “I am going to hear evensong in the abbey tonight. I am going to hear morning psalms at dawn. Then I am going to hitch up my horses and go south, to Merhaven. Solo Winger has given me pigeons. I am taking a little carriage so I can carry the cage and their food. I will let you know.”

  “Take half a dozen birds,” said Wordswell, feeling unaccustomed tears gathering in his eyes. “Let us know how you fare. And, Precious Wind, if you can . . . let me know what all of this was about. It wasn’t about a Xakixa, a soul carrier, I know that much. That foul woman in Ghastain and her daughter, they may have thought it was about them and their machinations, but I know it wasn’t. I would hate to die not knowing what the reason was for it all.”

  “My friend,” she said, controlling a strong urge to hug him, “I know you for a brave and honest man. I have written here what it is all about.” She handed him an envelope, sealed with her own seal. “You may read this, but only after I have gone, for I may not answer questions and you will be full of them. Read it once I am out of sight and then destroy it, burn it. I hope you will not die for many, many years, but when the time comes, you should not die unsatisfied. To my mind, the worst thing about death is not knowing how the story ends. And, who knows, we may yet meet again. I may even be able to tell you how it is working out.”

  Precious Wind was usually kind, but she had a streak of cruelty in her. She knew it and sometimes grieved over it as a character flaw. On the other hand, some of the things she needed to do could not be done without a certain simple cruelty, and she tried never to gloat over it. The prior, however, had infuriated her, for he had gloated in the same way that the duchess gloated. A hot little flame of superiority and entitlement had gusted off both of them. Each of them had breathed a sly little wind of greed. The duchess was out of reach, but it would be good to tell at least one of them that it had been noticed.

  She found the prior’s servant and asked if she could be of any help to the prior. Tingawans, she said, were schooled in medicine and perhaps she could help.

  The servant inquired. The prior, in great pain and considerable fear, would clutch at any straw.

  Precious Wind arrived to express her sympathy. “It is a pity Xulai is not here,” she said when he had told her what he could of his symptoms. “She was far better than I as a physician.”

  “She was only a girl,” the prior panted. “I don’t understand.”

  “Oh, it’s partly learning, sir, but it’s partly talent, inborn. She would have known many cures that I do not. Especially since the only thing I know of that fits the symptoms you describe is impossible. Such symptoms as you have are said to have been caused by a mechanism that has not been known since the Big Kill. It could use such things as hair and fingernail clippings and spit to create a . . . what was it called? A virus? Something of that kind. The virus would find the pattern of the person it was created to find, and it would destroy that pattern. The person would simply melt away.” She shook her head in emphatic negation. “Nothing known today can do that! Such mechanisms no longer exist!” Looking deep into his horrified eyes, she reached forward to pat the hand that quivered uncontrollably upon the blanket.

  “Now, if I could find the duke’s treasure that he intended as a reward for me, and for Bear, I might be able to hire the one person in all Norland who can cure that disease I mentioned! It would take all that treasure, believe me. The remedy is known to be effective but it is hideously expensive. However, that’s simply fantasy. Since we know it can’t be that illness, that cure wouldn’t help. I’m sure it’s just a winter cold. Nothing serious.”
br />   She gave him her mostly kindly, brilliant smile and left him, testing her conscience as one might test a tooth with one’s tongue, to see if it ached. It did not.

  Behind her, in the prior’s quarters, the prior thought dreadfully of things he had not considered before. Of the fact that the abbot had been away recently; of the fact that when the abbot went away, which he did rarely, his rooms might have been cleaned. Of the fact that his own rooms might have contained the very things he had found in the abbot’s quarters. Of the fact that Tingawans were said to be subtle and secret and knowledgeable about many things.

  Surely not. Surely not. It could not be. The Tingawan woman who had just visited him was not that clever. None of those people from Woldsgard had been that clever except perhaps for the girl herself, and she hadn’t been here. Well, there were others on the road south to take care of her if she went that way. The one called Bear. He was there.

  No, it had to be that woman, at Altamont. She had done it. Perhaps she and her mother were cleaning up after themselves. Or, more likely, the duchess was conspiring against her mother! No love lost there, she had made that clear. So, no love lost the other way, either. And Mirami might know of a way to cure this! To stop it! Stop it happening!

  He called for his servant. He wrote. He asked that the message be sent to Ghastain.

  His servant returned. The boy who cleaned the bird lofts had mistakenly released all the birds for Ghastain. They had no way to reach Ghastain except by messenger.

  The prior wrote again and sent for one of his special men, those who did particular jobs for him, such as ride very long distances very fast on the relay horses that they’d been sending to Benjobz recently, for Benjobz was going to be a waystation for vastly increased traffic when the abbey and Wold were brought into the king’s lands.

  The servant returned. The particular men the prior wanted had been sent to do a reconnaissance of the road down to Benjobz Inn. There were said to be brigands in that area, molesting travelers, and the abbot had sent a hundred men from the abbey to seek out their camps along the road while escorting the people from Woldsgard home. The men the prior wanted were with them.