“Rhapsody — come now.” Ashe’s voice had the tone of a king, a quiet command that sliced through the madness and beckoned unwaveringly. Rhapsody shook her head to clear it, then turned away from the well and hurried back to him, taking his hand and walking rapidly toward the cedar door.
Behind them Manwyn began to call loudly.
Long ago a promise made,
Long ago a name conveyed,
Long ago a voice was stayed —
Three debts to be paid.
Against her will Rhapsody stopped and turned around. The Seer was not looking in their direction, but was dancing on the suspended dais, clutching the wires that tethered it to the domed ceiling, swinging crazily over the pit.
Manwyn began muttering madly. “Betrayed! Aid! Delayed! Your eyes — the color of jade!” Then her gaze locked on to Rhapsody’s, and a broad smile wreathed her face.
“Afraid?” she asked solicitously.
Rhapsody straightened her shoulders angrily, annoyed with the game.
“No,” she shouted back across the dark room. “No, Manwyn, I’m not afraid, not of the Past, nor of the Future, nor of your senseless babble. I will live happily in the Present, thank you very much, a place you should consider visiting sometime. But thank you for the lunch recommendation. If it produces a satisfying belch I shall dedicate it to you. But since it will be in the Past, you won’t know it.” She turned and stormed out through the cedar door, Ashe close behind her, struggling to keep his laughter in check.
“Well, Aria,” he said, wiping back a tear, “you are doing an excellent job of behaving as well. Come; that lamb sounded tempting, and I would pay an immense sum to watch you belch.”
Plaiting
13
INSIDE GURGUS, YLORC
“Almost ready, Rhur?”
The Bolg artisan nodded his agreement, followed a moment later by Shaene.
“Ready, Sandy,” the Canderian artisan said.
Omet took a deep breath, then grasped the newly assembled wheel, forged from steel and inlaid with clear glass wedges. The others took hold as well and lifted, groaning under the strain.
Carefully they guided the wheel over to the wall where metal piping was attached in a semicircular track beneath the open dome of the tower above them. The beveled edges of the wheel, after a few moments of maneuvering, aligned with the metal track; once they had it in place, the wheel hung, suspended at an angle, above the floor of the tower. The artisans carefully stepped back to survey their work.
“All right, Sandy, it’s up. Now what does it do?” Shaene asked, panting and wiping the sweat from his forehead.
Omet shrugged, ignoring innately Shaene’s joking reference to the sands of Yarim from which he had come, feeling winded himself. “Don’t know. I think it is some kind of healing device. Once the stained glass in the ceiling is in place, the plans seem to indicate that the wheel works with the colored light shining through the ceiling. Purely speculative on my part, however; I can’t read the language of the plans. If you want to know more you’ll have to ask the king when he returns. But at least we know we followed the plans correctly.”
“And no easy feat it was, either, since much of ’em’s missing,” Shaene hastened to add.
“Too true. All right, let’s take it down, wrap it in the oilcloth, and lock it in the storage room before something happens to it,” Omet said, brushing his hands on his breeches. “This is the only part of the project that has worked so far; we shouldn’t risk compromising that.”
“Right,” Shaene agreed. He grasped the top of the wheel a moment before Omet and Rhur were in position to do so. His sweaty palm slid off the cool metal, jostling it and setting it, inadvertently, into motion.
With a scream of metal the wheel spun quickly across the track, following it around the mountaintop tower for several yards while the artisans, shouting and cursing, ran after it. As it rolled it caught the sunlight shining above the mountaintop, and cast bright, quick patches on the floor of the tower that sparkled in elaborate patterns for an instant, then vanished.
Once they had regained control of the wheel, the three artisans stared at the floor in silent unison.
“What was that?” Shaene asked when he recovered his voice.
Omet shook his head. “I don’t know.”
“It must do something,” Shaene insisted. “Seems like an awful lot of trouble to go through for a moment of pretty amusement.”
“Well, it does do something,” Omet said, taking hold of it again. “It goes into storage. Come on, now, help me take it off the track.” He looked up to the open tower ceiling, where sunlight glinted off the metal framework on which the stained glass was expected to go, then looked back at Rhur and Shaene.
“And whatever you do, don’t tell anyone about it.”
THE WORK SITE, YARIM PAAR
Grunthor raised a hand for the drilling to stop, wiping the sweat from his massive brow as the relentless thundering of the gears and the pounding of the bit slowed to a dull cadence, then ceased.
He watched the men for a moment, all dripping with similar perspiration, their normally dusky skin pale and sallow in the heat. Accustomed to the cool depths of the Earth, already two Firbolg artisans and a soldier had succumbed and were being tended inside the Judiciary.
“This is ridic’lus,” the Sergeant muttered. “We’ve run out o’ today’s water already; is Karsrick gonna bring the additional rations ’e promised or not?”
“We have put out a call to the Shanouin, sire,” the duke’s aide-de-camp said to Achmed, who was pacing back and forth the length of the hot tent. “They are commanded to deliver three more barrels each morning. Will you similarly instruct your soldiers to allow them through the guard line? They have been turned away twice already.”
“That may be because my soldiers do not speak Orlandan,” Achmed said, stepping around the growing piles of red dust and gaping holes in the ground. He pulled the tent flap aside. “Come.”
A few moments later a parlay took place at the exterior ring where the Yarimese soldiers were holding the guard line. The soldiers, who had been told to deny access to anyone other than the commanding officers, the duke, lord, lady, and the Bolg themselves, were instructed to make certain that the water bearers, and the water bearers alone, were brought into the work site, under careful guard, and allowed to deliver their barrels.
After the outer ring had been given instructions, Achmed moved with the aide-de-camp to the inner ring, manned by Firbolg soldiers, and addressed them in Bolgish.
“An hour before each shift changes, water carriers will be allowed through the first guard line. Be sure to check their barrels without fail, pry open every one of them and run a clean sword through the water, make certain there is nothing or no one hiding in them. Then escort the water carriers back to the first guard line. If anyone attempts to slip away from you, or enter the tent, subdue him. Try not to crack his head open against the stones in the street, but if you should happen to do so by accident, at least the blood will blend in with the bricks.” The Bolg soldiers nodded in assent as the harsh, noisy cranking of the drill started up again.
“And if anyone broaches the guard line, kill him and eat him, in whatever order you prefer,” Achmed said loudly in Orlandan, for the benefit of the Yarimese.
When the bells of the tower tolled noon, six anxious-looking women in pale blue ghodins, priestesses in the Shanouin tribe, approached the work site under guard, bearing between them three great water casks. The Bolg soldiers ringing the tent grudgingly moved aside and allowed them to come through the second guard line, up to the exterior of the tents. They quickly set their burdens down outside the tents and hurried back through the Firbolg line, into the custody of their human guards.
As the tent flap opened, one of die women glanced over her shoulder fleetingly, only to meet the mismatched eyes of the Bolg king, staring at her from within the tent, clothed in black and standing in front of a great pumping machine that groaned
and screeched like the damned. In the split second of sight she thought she was gazing straight into the Underworld itself.
The Shanouin woman wheeled around and hurried to keep in step with her sister priestesses.
Inside the cool marble walls of the Judiciary’s library, Ihrman Karsrick and his captain of the guard watched the work site, seeing nothing but the occasional exit of a figure from the enormous tents. For three days the Bolg had labored in consecutive shifts, entering and leaving the tent at their appointed hour with the same precision as the changing of the guard at a royal palace, completely undisturbed by any onlookers.
A knock on the library door startled him; it was his chamberlain.
“Yes?”
The man came in and closed the double doors behind him.
“The Hierarch of craftsman’s guilds has sent a message, m’lord.”
“What is it?” Karsrick dreaded the answer, expecting it at the same time.
“‘With respect and regret, there is none in our ranks suited, available, qualified, or willing to accept the Bolg king’s generous offer. Our apologies and best wishes.’”
“There’s a surprise,” Karsrick muttered. “Now what am I to do?”
“There is another avenue, another source, m’lord,” the captain of the guard proffered nervously.
“What source? Where?” the duke demanded.
“The Raven’s Guild in the Market of Thieves.”
“Are you out of your mind?” Karsrick shouted. “You want me to consort with thieves and assassins, and send one of them into the realm of Ylorc?”
The captain shrugged. “There is no love lost between you and the Firbolg king. Sending an artisan who might be an assassin as well —”
Karsrick’s hand sliced through the air in a gesture of silence.
“I do not condone the assassination of heads of state, however much I distrust them, thank you. Do you have any idea what the Lady Cymrian would do, not to mention the Lord, if I were to engage in such chicanery, especially if it led to the death of her friends, the Bolg king, or his sergeant? She would melt my flesh from the inside with hideous musical torture, or some such thing. No.”
“M’lord, the Raven’s Guild is not entirely composed of assassins and thieves. On the contrary, they operate, as you know, some of the most prestigious and well-respected foundries, metal and glassworks in Roland. If there is an artisan left in Yarim to be had, one that might be willing to perform their craft in such odious circumstances —”
“No!” Karsrick stated again, more firmly this time. “I will not do that. I would prefer to make my apologies to the king and hope against hope for his understanding, than even think about opening that door, do you hear me? Is that clearly understood?”
“Yes, m’lord. It was only a suggestion.”
“A very bad suggestion.” Karsrick leaned heavily on the ornate metal molding that surrounded the library window, suddenly weary. “Do not allow this conversation to leave the room, Captain. The last thing I need is for word to get back to Esten about this.” He turned to look at the captain of the guard, who nodded, and met his glance.
It was a glance that acknowledged that Esten undoubtedly already knew.
JIERNA SID, SORBOLD
How easy it is to be overlooked in broad daylight, the man observed, standing in an alleyway shadow. He was watching the beggars of the city taking refuge from the heat of another blistering summer’s noon, supplicating for water or coin from passersby in the central streets of the capital city. The townspeople, oblivious of them, walked on without a break in their conversations, or even a glance of notice.
As if they were invisible.
He looked up at the high towers of Jierna Tal beyond the massive Scales, rising proudly to the sky above, thankfully free of any desiccating bodies or other grisly ornamentation. One had to admit that it was a beautiful palace, a place of visionary architecture that elevated the city beyond the dull little collection of animal markets, street booths, linen weavers, and dingy buildings in which the populace found shelter. One could even describe it as magnificent.
One day, he mused, all of Sorbold will be described thus.
One day soon.
His gaze fell on the Scales, their golden plates gleaming brightly in the light overhead; he closed his eyes, remembering with relish the feel of their approval, the rush of air as he was lifted up, held aloft in their approbation.
A few more days, he thought, fingering the violet scale in his pocket, relishing its warmth, its humming vibration. I await the moon.
He stepped off the portico step and over the beggar lying before it, then strolled into the light of the marketplace without a flicker of notice.
The crowd passed around him as if he were not there.
OUTSIDE THE PORT OF AVONDERRE
The seneschal held the candle aloft in the fallowing darkness, taking pains not to allow the wax to drip onto the child or his makeshift pool of gleaming green water deep in the ship’s hold.
The ship lurched suddenly as it hit a cross-swell; the current from the Northern Sea made approaching the harbor of this province of the Wyrmlands difficult, occasionally treacherous. The hold shuddered; Faron squealed tonelessly as the water around him stormed in tiny breakers.
“There, Faron, there, there,” the seneschal crooned comfortingly, trying to quell his impatience and that of the demon. “Don’t be frightened; read the scales and tell me if we can put into port here. Is anything lying in wait for us? Or do we have clear passage to the harbor?”
The creature struggled to maintain its balance, its soft bones and flaccid muscles no match for the pitching of the ship. With trembling, gnarled hands, Faron held a jade-green scale up to the flickering candlelight. The large, liquid eyes blinked rapidly in the intermittent dark and light. Finally the creature shook its head.
“No?” the seneschal demanded angrily. “No? Why in the name of Void not? Do you see any danger to us, any resistance, hidden in the waves? Is someone coming?”
The child stared at him in terror, then nodded vigorously.
“Are you certain?”
Faron groaned and nodded again, then disappeared beneath the meniscus of the green water.
The seneschal doused the light and groped his way to the ladder. He climbed up on deck and, spying the captain, shouted into the wind.
“Change course! Veer now; sail further north, along the coast, until we reach the reef of Gwynwood.” He brushed the wind out of his light blue eyes, squinting in the heat of the sun’s glare.
The captain stared at him as if he were mad.
“Your Honor, there’s nowhere to weigh anchor there! Avonderre is a sheltered harbor, with a guardian light to spare us from the shoals. We can’t wind the ship now.” He raised a hand to his brow and stared east toward shore. “That aside, we’re about to be boarded.”
The seneschal stumbled to the rail and followed the captain’s stare.
A small cutter in the harbormaster’s fleet was giving chase, flying the flag of approach.
As acid splashed the back of his throat, the seneschal cursed silently in the profane words known only to F’dor and unutterable in the language of men. He had feared this happening; the Basquela did not have valid docking papers in Avonderre, or any other Orlandan port, nor did it have clearance to dock in the other ports of the Cymrian Alliance. The potential of challenge by the authorities in the port had been weighed at the time of departure against the need for speed; Quinn had warned him of this when he hired the Basquela, rather than waiting for the Corona.
And now it seemed they were about to be confronted by the harbormaster’s crew, just outside Avonderian waters.
“Drop anchor,” the captain ordered the crew.
The seneschal turned to Caius, who was, as always, cleaning and refitting his crossbow.
“Pass word to Quinn, quietly, and tell him and the others to make ready,” he said to the crossbowman, while his brother and the seneschal’s reeve listene
d nearby. “I sense an unfortunate maritime accident may be about to occur.”
RAVEN’S GUILD, MARKET OF THIEVES, YARIM PAAR
The leaping flames of the enormous hearth all but obscured Dranth’s approach.
The guild scion was used to entering into the guildmistress’s presence with no fear; as her most trusted officer, he had come to believe that she valued his candor, even when it angered her, although she had been so irrational since the devastation three years ago, and even more so of late, that he didn’t take anything for granted where she was concerned.
Especially now, when she was as angry as she was; none of her spies had yet been able to broach the Firbolg guard line. The drilling was continuing, contrary to her wishes. Even the uproar that had erupted when a half-eaten body of a child had been tossed into the desert near the Bolg camp had failed to stop the excavation; a few hours of rioting had been quickly quenched, and the Bolg exonerated, causing the human sheep of Yarim Paar to return to their gawking outside the drilling tents, preventing her assassins from bringing the work to a halt.
It was frustrating her more than he had ever seen.
Being near Esten in a state of frustration was similar to playing carelessly with the volatile acids used in the foundry. It was not a matter of whether one would be burned, merely of when and how badly.
He cleared his throat softly.
Esten didn’t seem to hear him. She was staring into the roaring fire, her chin resting on her curled fist, deep in thought. Her long black hair, freshly washed and still damp, hung to her knees, gleaming in the dancing light. It was a dark and lovely image; Dranth could almost see the woman there in the fireshadows for a moment. Then reason returned, and he remembered where he was.
And who she was.
And what she was.
He would never forget his first sight of her, a ratty urchin, the child of a Yarimese craftsman and a dark Lirinpan mother, long gone. She was eviscerating a soldier four times her body mass in a back alley of the Inner Market, a tiny, crude blade jutting from the hollow of his throat, another moving like captured light in her hand. The look she had shot Dranth had been so deadly that he had merely stepped back and marveled as she coolly completed her grim task, her blade flashing with a speed born of a precocious talent, an inbred agility, and an utterly ruthless lack of fear. Dranth was no stranger to masters of the knife, but that day, in the dark backstreets, he knew without question that he was witnessing the most skilled artisan of murder he had ever seen.