Wheel of the Infinite

  "Oh, Ancestors above." Maskelle stood up. That was enough. Rastim looked startled, then aghast. She ignored him, going around to the front of the post and up the steps to the doorway, her irritation boiling over. Inside she found her way through rooms smelling strongly of fish, lit by smoky lamps or propped- open windows. Firac was all but cheering her on, but Rastim was at her elbow, worriedly muttering, "Your temper, your temper."

  She found the factor in a long room that opened onto one of the balconies, sitting at a table, arguing with traders.

  A Koshan nun wasn't an unusual sight, but the room fell silent when Maskelle entered. She went up to the table and slammed her staff down across the scattering of coins and papers. Everyone stared, gap-jawed with shock. Her eyes on the factor, she said, "Stand up."

  He was a large man, his head half-shaved and the rest of his hair braided, his face plump and good-humored, a temperament belied by the steel in his eyes. He smiled placatingly, and said,

  "Now Sister—"

  "Revered," she corrected coldly. She had held the title once and was still due it by the rules of temple precedence.

  He hesitated, calculating. She held his eyes. The calculation gave way to uneasiness, and he said, "Revered," and stood up. Several ranks in the temple were addressed that way, and none of them could be offended with impunity.

  She said, "These people are players and can't afford your extortionate prices for shelter unless they can perform." Her voice sounded soft and very angry. "Is there any real reason they shouldn't?"

  The factor spread his hands. "No, Revered, but if I let every band of beggars who said they were entertainers—"

  That stung Rastim to speech before Maskelle could interrupt. "We're not beggars," he said heatedly, stepping forward. "We do Ariaden and classical kiradi theater. We've come all the way from Ariad and we haven't had a chance to perform since Sakili."

  "It was a misunderstanding, Revered," one of the other men suggested worriedly.

  "If the Revered wishes it, then they can perform," the factor said with a stiff smile.

  Maskelle looked at all the anxious expressions and wondered what they were seeing. A heavy silence lay over the room, surely too heavy for a dispute like this. But that was her own conscience behind that thought; they couldn't know what she was. Had been, she reminded herself, had been. "The Revered wishes it," she said, and turned away.

  ***

  Rastim and Firac's announcement that they had won the battle and would be able to perform was greeted less than enthusiastically by the rest of the troupe. Gardick swore at them and Therassa pretended to collapse in a dead faint.

  Even Firac was hesitant when Rastim wanted to break out the scenery and do a full-scale Ariaden production, maybe Conquest of the Inland Sea or Dawncallers. Since they had no money to hire extra stagehands, this would have left everyone exhausted and in no condition to travel the next day. Maskelle was alarmed; it was more important that they reach the safety of Duvalpore soon than it was to rub their victory in the post factor's face. She wished she had realized that before starting the whole thing. But Rastim and Firac were voted down by the others and it was decided that they would do a kiradi comedy of manners, which could be read without scenery or costumes. Knowing Rastim, he would still try to work in a few puppets.

  Maskelle would have thought a kiradi comedy a bit too sophisticated for this crowd, except that the merchants who were to be the primary audience turned out to be from Mahlindi.

  The Mahlindi had nothing like theater in their native country and it had proved wildly popular with them when they encountered it in other lands. Maskelle had once seen a group of them sit for four hours enraptured by a Ventredi morality play performed in a language that none of them could understand. While they might know nothing of the subtle mores of kiradi noble society that the comedy was drawn from, they were certain to give it all their intelligent attention and appreciate most of the jokes.

  The Mahlindi were even willing to pay in advance, a copper coin for every member of their party, including the hired wagon drivers and guards, whether they wanted to see the play or not. This enabled the Ariaden to afford fodder for the oxen and over-priced pork buns and rice for themselves. Old Mali saved them money by buying taro cheaply off the back of a farmer's wagon, and fled cackling from the factor's assistants when they came to shout at her for private trading in the post compound. But everyone was in a better humor after a hot meal and almost looking forward to the performance.

  At twilight they lit torches around a flattened spot of ground between the merchants' wagons and theirs. The Mahlindi brought woven mats to protect their brightly patterned robes from the grass and proceeded to arrange themselves in orderly rows without having to be asked. There were only three chief merchants, identifiable by the clan markings on their cheeks and foreheads, but they had each brought at least a dozen apprentices and servants. Their guards and drivers arrived in a grumbling, reluctant group behind them.

  Maskelle moved back out of the torchlight, back to the open area between the two wagon camps, where she could see the stage, the front of the outpost, the place on the bank where the boats were drawn up, and the road where it curved past the trees. She sat on the wet grass, feeling the damp seep up through her robes. The life and torchlight around the makeshift stage seemed like an isolated pocket in a night of wild darkness. The wind had risen again, tossing the tops of the trees and sending fast-moving clouds across the moon. The lights in the post were dimmed by shutters and the inhabitants had withdrawn from the balconies.

  Rastim walked out to the center of the stage, made the odd Ariaden bow that was the same for everyone, whatever their rank, and the play began. Maskelle gave it only part of her attention; she was listening to the night. She had the growing feeling that it was trying to tell her something.

  The Ariaden had been unable to resist including puppets, and Firac's sons Thae and Tirin each appeared with one of the big walking figures. These were elaborate contraptions that fastened to the operator at the feet and waist, and could be manipulated with rods held in the operators' hands. The troupe owned larger ones that took two operators, one sitting on the other's shoulders, but these were relatively small and only towered a few feet over the boys' heads.

  The appearance of the puppets, the light wooden bodies brightly painted and the distorted heads with their clacking jaws, brought the curious boatmen over. Drawn by the laughter and applause of the Mahlindi, a party of wealthier travellers, probably passengers from the barge that was weathering the bad currents, came down from the post. Most of these people had never seen the elaborate Ariaden puppets before and there was much whispered commentary in the crowd. Someone else was drawn by the noise as well.

  Maskelle looked for him, and saw him finally just beyond the reach of the torches, sitting on the grass and watching. It gave her more information about him, though it was nothing that made any particular sense. She wasn't sure how a Sitanese outcast could have seen kiradi theater before, but he got the joke that even passed the Mahlindi by, the one that appeared to be an innocuous remark about idle hands and was actually a subtle innuendo implying masturbation, to the point where he actually fell over on his side with laughter.

  A burst of applause made Maskelle glance at the stage. At first she thought the figure crossing in front of Therassa and Doria's scene was a child, escaped from some parent in the audience. It was a puppet.

  "Great Days in the Dawn of Life," Maskelle swore, starting to her feet. How did that damn thing get out? She circled the crowd hastily, coming up on the wagon that formed the stage right entrance. She caught Rastim as he pelted into her and dragged him behind the wagon.

  "I don't know," he whispered frantically, answering the question she hadn't had the chance to ask yet. "Thae and Tirin got the Aldosi out of their boxes, but they know better, they would never—"

  "I know they wouldn't." Maskelle leaned around the wagon to peer at the stage. The animate puppet was standing, staring out at t
he audience, the painted face expressionless. Therassa and Doria were still saying their lines, but they were casually putting distance between themselves and the puppet. The crowd still thought it was part of the show; to people unused to puppets, the one that was walking by itself was no more miraculous than the two that had been controlled by the young boys. Firac and Gardick were standing out of sight of the crowd near the wagon marking the opposite end of the stage; Firac was holding a net. Maskelle shook her head. That wasn't going to do much good.

  All the Ariaden puppets had names: the Aldosi were the two big walking puppets Thae and Tirin were working. The one that was working itself had been Gisar, a clown puppet manipulated by strings pulled from above. Gisar had had the misfortune to be on stage during a performance that had offended a powerful magister in the eastern province of Corvalent. It was how Maskelle had first met Rastim and the other Ariaden.

  Gisar now lived locked in a box hung beneath Rastim's wagon and sealed by all the protective symbols Maskelle knew to put on it. It had been getting stronger, the particular nature of the curse put on it making its malevolence grow with time instead of fade. It must have been able to manipulate one or both the boys from inside its box, so when they had thought they were only unpacking the Aldosi puppets, they had opened Gisar's container as well.

  "You'll have to go and get it," Rastim whispered.

  "I know that." It hadn't done anything yet, but possibly it was biding its time, waiting for her. Across the length of the stage she caught Firac's eye. When she had his attention, she stepped out away from the wagon.

  "Wait," Rastim said urgently. He gestured rapidly to the others on stage. Ariaden actors had a sign language, used for communicating silently during the complex performances. Doria suddenly clapped her hands and gestured extravagantly stage left, saying something about the townspeople's dancing festival. Firac, Gardick, and Killia gamboled onto the stage, followed by the two boys with the Aldosi puppets. Firac whirled the net over his head, looking as much like an escaped madman as a celebratory dancer.

  The puppet Gisar stared at them, backing away from the trap. Maskelle darted onto the stage in the confusion and it sensed her presence immediately, turning to come at her with its hands upraised and wooden fingers curved into claws. It ran at her, and she thumped it in the chest with her staff, sending the light body tumbling back. Firac dropped his net over it, and in another moment, Maskelle, Firac, and Gardick were dragging the creature offstage. The audience applauded happily.

  Rastim and Old Mali ran around behind the other wagons to join them, and between the five of them they managed to drag the thing back to Rastim's wagon and bundle it back into its crate without drawing any unwelcome attention. Almost everyone in the post must be watching the play by now and assuming any odd activity to be connected with it.

  Maskelle drew the seals again, in wax and in coalblack, trying to ignore the knocking and rustling inside the heavy box.

  "How did it get out?" Gardick demanded, still breathing hard from the struggle. The puppet had managed to bite his hand and Old Mali was digging the splinters out for him.

  The noises quieted as Maskelle made the final sign and she sat back on her heels. "See where the last seal was scrubbed off? It made someone do that and then made him forget what he did. With the unpacking you all were doing for the play, it could have been anyone. It's not such a hard thing, when someone's opening boxes, to make him open just one more."

  "Not such a hard thing," Firac muttered uneasily. "Then why didn't it do it before?"

  Maskelle glanced at Rastim's worried face. "It's getting stronger."

  Gardick swore and Firac moaned. "But we're closer to Duvalpore and the chief priest," Rastim said quickly. "In a few days it'll all be over."

  Gardick said grimly, "If we're still alive then. Ow!" The last was to Old Mali, who must have dug a bit deeper than strictly necessary for the last splinter.

  "What we need," Maskelle said, cutting across the growing argument, "is a lock with a key. I'll keep the key."

  "Use the one on the moneybox," Firac suggested. "There won't be much to steal, not after we pay our fees here."

  Swearing under his breath, Rastim fetched the lock and Maskelle fixed it on the box's latch. Further discussion was put off by Doria and Therassa, repeating their last exchange at a shout so Firac and Gardick would hear their cues. Everyone bolted off and Maskelle followed more slowly, shaking her head. She would like to think that the puppet's escape was the source of her earlier disquiet, but she had the feeling it was only a portion of it and the greater part was still to come.

  Maskelle went back to her position at the rear of the audience. She looked for her swordsman, but he was nowhere to be seen.

  Chapter Three

  Near the end of the performance, when most of the Ariaden were on stage, something drew Maskelle's eyes to the bank below the outpost. The light from the lamps along the balconies didn't fall there and the shadows were deep... The light. Maskelle sat up abruptly. There should be smaller lamps attached to the pilings, so a boat passing down the river during the night wouldn't be in danger of striking them. There had been lamps, the last time she had noticed.

  She got to her feet, her knees cracking in protest at her long immobility, and made a wide circle around the audience, out of the torchlight. The boatmen were playing dice with the Mahlindi's guards and drivers in the very back, and none of them looked up as she passed.

  It was very dark near the bank, the shadow of the outpost blocking what little moonlight escaped past the clouds. She only knew how near she was by the sound of the river and the mud squelching underfoot. She found the water steps that led down to the bridges under the post, crept down them to the first piling. She ran her hands around the rough splintered surface until she felt the cracked globe of the lamp; the glass was still warm.

  So something came out of the river and put out the lamps, she thought, finding the steps again with her staff and climbing back up the bank. But where is it now?

  The play had ended and the troupe were taking bows, the Mahlindi thumping their feet and shouting to show their appreciation. Maskelle moved away from the outpost as the crowd dispersed. She saw the factor's assistant gesture emphatically at the pilings, calling an order to someone, and others ran to relight the safety lamps.

  Maskelle withdrew all the way to the edge of the trees where she had a view of the whole camp. There was a group around the factor's assistant now, pointing at each other and talking angrily; she took it that some blame was being passed around for allowing the lamps to go out. It would be nice to believe it was an accident or negligence, but she didn't think she was so lucky.

  It was late and the camp quieted down rapidly. The Ariaden were the first to retire, cranking down the shutters on their wagons against insects and the threat of rain. The boatmen went back to their boats, and the Mahlindi and the other travellers gradually withdrew into their own wagons, the drivers wrapping up in blankets and stretching out on the seats or tailgates. The factor's guards were all stationed inside the post; the Mahlindi had sentries, but they were all watching the merchants' cargo wagons.

  Maskelle paid special attention to a trader's wagon nearby. Before retiring he filled a lamp with oil from a large gourd which hung on the sideboard of his wagon. He had also banked his cooking fire badly. Water spirits could be driven off by fire, especially if they could be lured too far away from a source of running water.

  A little time passed and the lights inside the outpost went out, one by one.

  Sitting on the damp ground under a breadfruit tree, in the dark and quiet, Maskelle began to feel the night come alive around her. She felt the wind breathe through the heavy leaves above her, felt the impatient river water lap and tug at the pilings and the ropes, felt the weight of the wagons on the ground, the stamp of the oxen's feet. Felt that she wasn't alone.

  He was about twenty feet from her, crouching at the base of a tree at the edge of the compound. Hah, she thought, ea
sing silently to her feet.

  She made it to within five feet of him before his head turned sharply. "Surprise," Maskelle said, a barely voiced whisper.

  She had surprised her swordsman this time, she felt, and annoyed him too, though it was too dark to read his expression. He was sitting among the knobs at the base of an old cypress, the sheathed siri on the ground in front of him. This close to him she could still sense the scent of the Temple of the Sare on him, from when he had bathed in the sacred baray. He didn't say anything as she settled next to him, but after a moment he evidently decided not to hold it against her, and whispered, "It hasn't moved since it came out of the river."

  Maskelle hadn't expected to see whatever spirit had come ashore during the play, at least not until it moved into the compound. "How long have you been watching it?"

  She could feel him looking at her. "Since the middle of the play." Shifting to face forward again, he added, "I saw the lamps go out too."

  She decided not to correct his impression that she had seen the lamps blown out and not belatedly noticed the absence of light. She scanned the bank, but still couldn't see where the damn thing was. Giving in, she said, "Where is it?"

  There was a snort of exasperation and he leaned closer to her to point. "There, next to the boat with the broken hull, in the reeds," he said.

  She squinted. She could see the beached boat, a narrow-hulled slip used for quick travel. There was a crack in the hull and it had been left abandoned in the reeds on the bank, far from the occupied boats. After a moment she was able to discern a shape crouching near the bow. She gave the man next to her a sideways look, impressed. She had known it was somewhere along the bank, but she would never have seen it on her own, not without the Adversary's help.

  "What is it waiting for?" he asked, still watching her.