Raven's Ladder

  He drew sweet smoke into his mouth, tasted its burn in his nose and on the back of his tongue. “I suspect we’re all wrong about a great deal in this world. I admit, it’s harder to believe than not to.”

  “It’s ridiculous. You ever seen the Keeper? Or a Northchild?”

  Tabor Jan blew out a long stream of curling smoke and wished he could float away on it. “You ever seen the wind?” he asked. “No, I’ve never seen the Keeper outside of dreams. And I never saw those amazing colors that Auralia showed House Abascar. But kick me in the gut if I go calling Cal-raven a liar.”

  A voice from the boat slapped Wynn back to work. He tromped to the wavering raft and lifted another barrel to his chest. Tabor Jan took the birdcage and tried to look like a watchman on duty.

  “What’s in these tubs anyway?”

  “Syrup, I think. From the islands. Syrup. Nuts. Grains. Cider. Seeds. Gemstones. I’ve moved it all.” The way he said it, like someone who’d worked these docks a lifetime, made Tabor Jan shoot smoke through his nose.

  A line of soldiers attending to a cargo flat at another dock began marching in a line to the mouth of a tunnel, burdened by heavy bags. A burly guard let them pass into a tunnel in Bel Amica’s foundation. Tabor Jan eyed the guard and considered requesting passage. But the guard’s answer was in his scowl and in the nasty, barbed club in his hand. Even his hair appeared threatening, braided in long thin ropes with metal barbs.

  “That’s Balax,” said Wynn.

  Tabor Jan walked back to the sled and sat down. “What does Balax guard?”

  The boy did not look up, muttering out of the side of his mouth. “The loaders call it the Punchbowl. It’s where King Helpryn used to build his ships in secret. He liked surprises. He’d sail them out when they were ready, and everybody’d be amazed. Now only Ryllion’s best patrol soldiers go in there. And Seers sometimes.”

  “What’re they building in there?” he mused. “And what’s in those bags they’re carrying?”

  “The loaders say it’s oil. Really smelly oil. Before I worked here, they dropped a bag, and it broke. Those who didn’t jump in the water quick were knocked flat and slept for three days.”

  “Slumberseed oil.” Tabor Jan smiled. “Think they’d sell me some?”

  The guard suddenly looked troubled, and it was easy to see why. A painted woman draped in beads and veils had come dancing down the stairs from the marketplace, and now she tiptoed gleefully toward him. He crossed his arms to discourage her. But she placed her bejeweled hands on his shoulders.

  “That’s Gelina,” Wynn grumbled. “Sometimes Balax goes inside with her and the others take his place.”

  Tabor Jan regarded two other guards who sat slumped against one another, sleeping.

  “I hate her perfume,” Wynn groaned. “Makes my skin turn red.”

  “She’s approached you like this?”

  “Not like that, no. But she’s lonely. She asked if maybe she could go with us when the Abascar people move on to a new house. She’s not thinking straight, you see.”

  As if he’d been bitten, Balax shouted and knocked Gelina down so that she curled like an injured bird. Tabor Jan fought the instinct to rush to her side. She climbed awkwardly to her feet, found her balance, and staggered toward the stairway, her chains of gems clattering like a beaded curtain.

  Tabor Jan ambled toward the guard, holding the birdcage by its hook in his left hand, his right open and close to the knife hilt.

  Balax regarded him with annoyance. “The Abascar captain.” He glanced at the birdcage, and a pale scar that ran from his left eye to the corner of his mouth twitched. “I see you’ve found a task that suits your strengths.” He spoke as if he were chewing a gob of root-gum.

  “The tetherwings?” He fought the urge to boast that Partayn himself had assigned him to carry them. “Oh, they’re sick. I’m supposed to take them to old Myrton for treatment. Otherwise, they might not do their job in the wild. And you? What’s your assignment?”

  The guard crossed his arms again and answered officiously. “Seers’ business.”

  “I thought you answered to Ryllion.”

  Balax seemed suddenly afflicted by an itch on the back of his neck. “Think you understand how it all works, do you? You don’t want to meddle in Ryllion’s affairs, bird-man. I swept some teeth off the dock yesterday after Ryllion delivered a scolding.”

  “You’ll do anything he says, then?”

  “I’d scrub his vawn’s hindquarters if it would please him. He’s Bel Amica’s future.”

  “Interesting. The name I’d heard was Partayn.”

  The guard’s eyes flashed. “Here’s a secret,” he muttered. “Houses aren’t ruled by half-crazy singers. They’re ruled by strength. You’ll see.”

  Tabor Jan felt an urge to distance himself, and right away. “Look,” he said, “I need to get a message to an Abascar soldier who’s gone into the Punchbowl. That’s why I came down to—”

  “No Abascars have passed me.” Balax’s teeth flashed nothing like a grin. “You’re confused.”

  “Sorry. Must have misunderstood.” He looked over Balax’s shoulder into the tunnel’s darkness.

  Choo? hooted one of the tetherwings. Tabor Jan looked down in amazement.

  Balax shifted closer to partially block his view. “Get those birds out of here. And keep your mouth shut about this place. Ryllion wouldn’t want you spoiling his surprise for the queen. I’d rather not sweep up your teeth.”

  Choo? said another tetherwing.

  Tabor Jan whisked the birdcage away and headed to the stairs.

  Halfway up, he was startled by a pile of seashells and beads that suddenly approached. “And what can Gelina offer you tonight, good Abascar captain?” she sang suggestively.

  The impulse to raise his sleeve to his nose was almost irresistible. “Funny you should ask. I need some help.”

  “You’ll find,” she said with a lascivious grin, “that I’m very, very helpful, so long as you offer me some help in return.” She jingled a coin purse that was pinned to one of those seashell chains.

  “Oh,” he said, “I can offer you something better than coins. How about a home in New Abascar? How about a life under the king’s protection, where no one will disrespect you again?”

  All deviousness drained from her expression, replaced by a desperate hope. “What kind of help do you need, exactly?”

  30

  AN OFFERING TO THE CHIEFTAIN

  Vawn. Bull. Girl.”

  Cal-raven watched, grim with worry, as Jordam named the shapes he had sculpted from riverstones. “rrMusic?”

  “Yes, this one’s a bellerose drum,” he said. “And this one, a hewson-pipe. Will the chieftain believe these are prizes from Abascar’s ruins?”

  Jordam knocked on the stone model, but it made nothing like a musical sound. He shrugged and lifted it into the boat alongside the largest sculpture—a detailed statue of a regal figure that stretched the length of the craft. Then he climbed across the statue to the gap in the front of the bark.

  Cal-raven unwound the boat’s tether from a tree root, climbed into the small space at the back, and surveyed their surroundings in the brown light of the Cent Regus dawn. Tomorrow by this time, Henryk would be settling in near this spot, armed and ready for the escapees.

  I must not keep him waiting.

  Jordam uprooted the oar from the soft bank, and Cal-raven pulled the muskgrazer blanket over himself.

  We’re ready, Mother. Will you know me?

  In the waves of rising emotion, Cal-raven feared he would lose his reason. He felt he was sailing back through time toward a looming figure whose features were vague and shifting. He blinked back sudden tears, and he did not know if they came from weariness or anticipation, despair or hope. As they washed the air’s dark grit from his eyes, the white scar remained, flashing its persistent warning, as if to say, You’re going the wrong way.

  The boat moved crookedly through the sludge, and Cal-raven
saw Jordam straining to clear debris from their path.

  He looked again at the statue covered by layers of shieldfern. He knew every inch of that figure; he’d crafted it quickly but carefully so nothing about it would arouse suspicion. And he had given it broad feet so it would stand firm.

  At times his thoughts would drift into imagined scenes where he drew the sword that Henryk had given him and defended his mother from slavering beastmen.

  The boat entered a haze of foul smoke.

  “rrWrong,” Jordam suddenly snarled. “Something wrong.”

  Silent, Cal-raven shuddered for fear of what he could not see.

  But soon he found it difficult to breathe, even beneath the blanket. “Where’s it coming from?” he whispered.

  “Everywhere. Shh.” Jordam crawled like a cat across the statue so he could speak softly to Cal-raven. “Trouble in the Core. Fire. Loud noise. rrBodies in the river.”

  “What kind of bodies?”

  “rrCent Regus.” Jordam stood up, sniffing the smoke, then turned and barked something in the rough, jagged Cent Regus tongue. Something answered him with an ultimatum.

  Cal-raven let his hands drift up and down his forearms, checking his sleeves for placement of the stabbing pins, thin spikes of stone with a textured grip.

  “Trouble,” Jordam wheezed again, fear in his voice. “rrGo now. Get in.”

  Cal-raven crawled forward beneath the covering to the feet of the statue. He touched the flat base, and a layer of stone dissolved, providing an opening to the statue’s hollow core. He wriggled inside as if climbing into a suit of armor that had been fused into one piece from head to toe. He squirmed onto his back, then leaned forward so he could see through the statue’s open eyes.

  “Ready,” he said.

  Jordam lifted a stone plate with contours that matched the figure’s feet and pounded it into place, sealing Cal-raven inside the statue.

  The boat slowed. Cal-raven could hear more and more objects—or bodies, perhaps—bumping against the prow. Jordam hissed and cursed. “rrMudgators.”

  The boat rocked, and Cal-raven heard a commotion. Jordam grunted once, twice, again. The statue shifted, rocked, rolled onto its side, and now through the array of smaller sculptures, he could see Jordam, teeth bared, thrusting the spear into the water. His hood had fallen back, and Cal-raven stared in bewilderment at that massive head with a fringe of hair around the base of the skull—what was left of the beastman’s mane. Those eyes—narrow but white like any man’s. Those teeth—bright, stained, bold, and wolfen. And those bare arms that had cast the cape back to work freely were bound in bandages at the wrists and elbows.

  Jordam pulled the gory spear free, then slumped into the boat and let it coast. “All wrong,” said Jordam. “All wrong. Trouble in the Core.”

  A short while later Cal-raven saw that they had come to a crooked stone arch caught in the coils of some strange disease, a colorless mold like the stem of a mushroom.

  A creature clung to the arch with its talons. It was a bony, featherless bird-man with huge white eyes. From its curved beak streamed sentences of clicks and squawks. Somehow Jordam understood, and he gestured toward the statue with great appeals. The bird-guard blinked, then shrieked what sounded like a decision.

  Jordam rowed again with greater fury, as if worried the guardian might change its mind. “rrBig problem,” he murmured as if to himself. “New chieftain.”

  “What?”

  “New chieftain. Skell Wra pulled down from his throne. Core full of fighting.” He leaned in close to the statue. “rrBe ready. Strange camp ahead. Many Cent Regus.”

  The river twisted and turned restlessly as if looking for a path around what lay ahead.

  Scowling, Jordam began fitting together pieces that Cal-raven had sculpted to disguise him. One long stone fang hung down from his lips. A dark tumor of stone fit over his left ear. He would not be recognized.

  The boat sailed between slumping, shapeless hills, and in the distance, wavering like a mirage, the ruins of the city that was once House Cent Regus came into view. Between the river and the cracked walls, the world’s seams were tearing, crevasses opening in crazed lines. But across one unbroken patch of ground, a shroud of white dust glittered. Cal-raven recognized the substance immediately—the chalky crystals of Mawrnash.

  Seers.

  Within that canopy of mineral mist, dark figures like a flock of black herons hunched, wings drawn protectively around them. But they were not birds at all.

  Jordam cowered as if he might turn and throw himself into the river. “rrStrongbreed. Strongbreed, a new kind of Cent Regus.”

  “New? How?”

  “Cent Regus born all kinds of ways, but not like men. These born as men. Men made to drink Essence. They change. rrBecome like Cent Regus, but thinking better. Thinking stronger. And some have powers.”

  Cal-raven drew a sharp breath. “Those are men? They’re enormous. They’re as big as…” The name stopped in his throat. Ryllion.

  “Powers. Like yours.”

  “Stonemastery?” He flexed his hands. The Cent Regus have begun to manifest the powers of Tammos Raak’s descendants.

  “Melt stone. Run through fire. Stop us with screams like…like spears.”

  Cal-raven’s stone shell seemed more stifling with every moment.

  “There.” Jordam pointed to the center of the camp. “New chieftain.”

  In the center of the army, a red curtain encircled the base of what looked like a broad-boughed, leafless tree. Its black and bristling branches thrashed as if caught in a storm. No, not branches. Tentacles. Limbs like the arms of some frantic ocean monster stranded on dry land.

  Feelers. Deathweeds.

  “The throne,” Jordam rasped, clearly horrified by what he saw. “Skell Wra’s throne. It’s above ground. It walks. rrCarries a new chieftain.” He turned and gripped the statue by the shoulders. His eyes were wide, and his cracked lips quivered. “rrQuiet. They’ve seen us.”

  White rat-beasts seized the stone sculptures from the boat and thrust them into a wagon. Cal-raven braced himself as the statue landed, propped up and facing backward. Through the eyes, he could see Jordam put his weight into pushing the wagon up the slope toward the camp.

  Into the white dustcloud they moved. Long shadows lashing the ground like contentious serpents told Cal-raven that they were nearing the throne.

  The Strongbreed stepped aside to give them passage, then turned to close in behind them—a barrier of rippling black cloaks. Giants indeed, the minions stared with red eyes, gripping spears with massive clawed fingers the color of old blood.

  Jordam brought the wagon to a stop. Sweat rivered down the beastman’s neck, and he pulled the hood of his stormcloak up. Then he fell forward, out of Cal-raven’s sight, most likely to bow before these Cent Regus powers. Cold smoke reeked in the air.

  Cal-raven pushed his hands up and began to close the openings in the statue’s face. As he did, he leaned forward, trying to see clearly through the tiny slit he left open in the left eye.

  “Skarggh!” One white-eyed rat advanced and lashed at Jordam with a whip. “Skenn-skenn,” the rat repeated.

  A familiar figure stepped into view, laughing at Jordam. Cal-raven held his breath.

  One of the Seers.

  A hissing like a nest of snakes filled the air. The Seer stepped aside as one of those black bristling branches wriggled into view, then coiled about Cal-raven’s statue. Sharp teeth lined the tentacle, scraping against the surface as it tightened and dragged the statue through a break in the curtain toward the new chieftain.

  Cal-raven fought for breath.

  The towering, skeletal Seer—his everlasting grin still gleaming like the teeth of a polished skull—hissed with pleasure. “Gooood. A fine ornament. A resourceful servant has brought this for you, Chieftain.”

  The tentacle lifted the statue, turned it upside down, and Cal-raven winced as the top of his head struck the statue’s stone cap. But the fig
ure did not break.

  Through the slit of the open eye, he could now behold the beastman.

  At first he could not tell the chieftain from the throne.

  It seemed the throne’s twitching tentacles had drawn in living prey as a spider clutches its meal. Sitting in the crux of trunk and branches, the beastman looked likely to be torn apart, for some of the throne’s branches penetrated the gaps between the ribs of his broad red chest.

  The chieftain was a confusion of animals. Two powerful arms, plated with a skin of rough shields that scraped together when he moved, wielded hands backed with spines that he seemed eager to fling like daggers. He thrust out a jaw like a shovel, flaring red-stained teeth. The face rising from that fanged bowl resembled a man’s. His head bore crisscrossing stitches; someone had opened it several ways, then sewn it up again. Behind his ears what remained of a thick black mane spilled down around his shoulders.

  At times the creature seemed to direct the throne, to turn it like a rider turns a steed; yet, he was anchored to it like a puppet.

  “You’ve seen the ruins of House Abascar, haven’t you?” The Seer leaned in as if cooing to a nervous child. “A fitting prize for you.”

  From the chieftain’s throat came a sound like a bone rattling in a wooden box. The eyes, which were small and sunken, unnerved Cal-raven, for they were such human eyes.

  “It’s a reminder of all that your kind have conquered. A prize to remind us of Cent Regus’s sovereignty. He always was the greatest son of Tammos Raak.”

  Flattery, Cal-raven thought. The Seer speaks to him just the way Pretor Xa speaks to Bel Amicans.

  “Show this prize to your predecessor, Master Cent Regus,” sneered the Seer.

  The statue rolled in the air, suspended suddenly before a small cage. Inside, a sniveling creature lay on its side, curled up like an infant. Its skin was blue with cold, and as it weakly lifted its head to stare at the statue, Cal-raven covered his mouth with both hands. The blue baby was not in any way healthy or human. Its hands were clawed, its face so swollen that its features were almost engulfed by the rolls of flesh. Like a newborn animal, it bleated from two separate mouths, one human and one strange and alien on a long throat lined with dark veins.