Ship without sails, p.34
Ship Without Sails, page 34
part #1 of The Norsunder War Series
Dtheldevor eyed Andri speculatively, but he lounged against the wall smiling, and she gave a sudden laugh. The tension was gone as Andri turned to Rel. “Want a go?”
Rel was a full head taller, and solid muscle. As he chose among the heavier swords, Andri added, “Let me fetch another sword. Maybe a chair or two.”
People laughed, but Arthur said, “You don’t really do that, do you? Chairs?”
“Inna real fight? Sure.” Dtheldevor snorted. “Chairs, tables, plates, whatever’s at hand.”
“Whatever gets you out alive. I managed to eel out of an ambush by six that my cousin sent as a present,” Andri said reminiscently. “Used a bowl of salt. Another time, dried peas.”
Dtheldevor waved her blade at Liere. “Let’s see what you learnt over on Nightside.”
Liere walked over to the weapons rack, but halted mid-stride, one hand out, as everyone with Dena Yeresbeth stiffened, and then, in unison, swiveled, facing east.
15
It was as if winter had formed intent. Not the clean, bright winter of snow and soughing pines, but a lifeless, dead winter of cracked stone and iron-bleak sky. How does one describe an impression for which there are yet no words? A reek that one senses, not smells, an ice-burning glare one flinches away from, a wail of desolation felt in the marrow rather than heard. The acrid taste of poison though there is no substance.
It was the embodiment of threat, and it was seeking.
“Mind-shields,” Liere said softly—though there were no enemy ears in that room.
Most of them had already done so; Falinneh flopped to the floor and stuck her fingers in her ears; though the human-adjacent shape-changers she came from did not have Dena Yeresbeth, instinct clamored with danger.
Liere and Sveneric, the most sensitive there, were able to listen passively outside of their shields enough to be aware that the intent was not seeking persons so much as a locale, and both breathed easier when the intent turned northward and away.
“It’s gone,” she breathed when she was certain they were safe. Or as safe as could be these days.
“Whew!”
“What was that?”
“It felt like a nightmare but I’m wide awake!”
Senrid, who had been stashing his practice sword while Rel chose one, looked up at Rel. “Want a suggestion?”
Rel said, “If you’ve got one, let’s hear it. I have no idea where to do from here.”
“Neither do I,” Senrid said, as people began stirring, murmuring. Dtheldevor cursing roundly, and Falinneh snickering. “But whatever we decide, it should be sooner than later. This, here, though admirably put together, is an invitation for disaster with all of us conveniently gathered together.”
“I know,” Rel said.
The next day icy rain thrummed against the windows of Rel’s bedroom, but in the corner a fire burned cozily. Atan and Rel sat near it busy with sewing.
Atan had discovered that ever since the morning drills began the Mearsiean girls, except for Seshe, were at best sporadic with certain kinds of chores. Their promise to help with the sewing had lasted as long as the novelty had. With sewing, that was seldom very long. Seshe was the exception, but her sewing was slow and labored when she wasn’t coopted for cooking, at which she excelled.
There was no point in complaining. The conviction that the group was going to break up soon manifested in so many ways besides restlessness. Soon they might all be traveling into danger, and there was an increasing chance that none of them would see the others again. Facing such an uncertain future, it seemed ridiculous to squabble over such matters as being behindhand in sewing. Not that there were that many orders for new things—it was mostly mending of winter clothing, in order to eke another year out of otherwise good fabric, a dreary chore at best.
Atan frowned down at her stitchery, thinking about the recent news, for it had reached her ears through Darian Selenna that two of Detlev’s boys had died, both deaths war-related. Curtas had been the only one to find, and rescue, Shontande Lirendi, who had subsequently vanished like smoke. A vision of his face and form painted itself inside her head, bringing back the tingle-fire of allure, so familiar, and just as familiar was the conscious effort to dismiss it.
Until Shontande Lirendi came to Eidervaen, her only experience had been with Rel. She’d been comfortable with that—even complacent about the fact that her intimate life was so easy, so manageable.
Then she met Shontande.
There had been one evening spent entirely alone with him, just the two of them, during which she had retained enough sense to realize through the dazzle of his proximity that to break those vows she had so easily and confidently made with Rel and to tangle with Shontande would bind her in a sensory and emotional knot that might take years to unravel. Her responsibilities precluded that freedom.
Rel’s dark eyes narrowed in irony. “Let me guess.”
She smiled. Of course she’d told Rel everything. “Aren’t you glad to find out that Shon is alive?”
“Very. But I was thinking about Detlev.”
“Eh.”
“Admit it. You thought if he showed up again he’d have some master plan, some whirlwind idea that would blast Norsunder back across time for ever.”
“Uhn.” Atan knew that she had indeed unconsciously begun to assume just that—not that she was going to admit it out loud. “He did seem so...so omniscient when he was a villain.”
“Except he’d gotten himself nipped and switched in the first place.”
“Do you think he was a dolt as a young man, then?” Atan laughed softly at the image.
Rel gave his head a shake. “Wasn’t he a dyr-wielder? He had to have known they were coming.”
“Not necessarily.” Atan dropped her hands, crushing the linen under-robe in her lap. “I’ll bet he was one of those mages who never remembers anything practical—like shoes when it’s snowing, or meals, or noticing when an enemy is stalking you—and didn’t know he was trapped until it was too late.”
“Somehow that doesn’t seem characteristic. It also doesn’t figure Siamis in.”
Atan shrugged. “He’s easy to forget.”
“He was twelve.”
“That was long ago. I’m more concerned about now. Apparently Detlev helped Hibern and Jilo and the rest keep Norsunder from making a portal, but how long will he persist, and can he win? Whatever the cause, he did lose all those centuries ago. I do not want to have to depend on him; I suspect he hasn’t the faintest idea what to do any more than we have.”
“I hope you’re wrong. Hope we’re both wrong.” Rel frowned out the fragmented gray sky through the window panes. “Though I don’t see how we can win. Every day that passes the news gets worse.”
“Set aside Detlev, then, as he’s so obviously done to us. There are two things that disturb me. Well, to be more specific, two people.”
Rel thought over the past few days and said, “Which squabbles have you been overhearing?”
She gave him a pained smile. “Nobody takes Kyale seriously.”
“She doesn’t take herself seriously.”
“I’d argue with that.”
Rel lifted a shoulder. “I don’t consider trying to force a storybook version of life onto the world instead of engaging with it serious. When she gets the courage to do that, things might be different.”
“I’ll agree with that. I believe she frets about small things because at least those can be fixed. And Hibern doesn’t fight.”
“Hibern.” Rel considered the Marloven mage-student, who usually sat at the back of any gathering, calm, austere, her black eyes observant. “She’s not been around much.”
“Yes. She’s angry about what happened in Marloven Hess—and she’s angry because the Mage Guild put her out there to defend Shendoral when she knows more about ward magic than Liere, smart as she is, or even most of the senior mages. And I think there is strain between her and Erai-Yanya.”
“And your second worry?”
“Deon of Sarendan—”
Her voice suspended suddenly. She had to confess inwardly that the news that one of Detlev’s boys had died—no matter which one, weren’t they all pretty much the same?—left her largely unmoved. At least he died doing a very good deed, rescuing one of her friends that no one else had been able to get to. But when she thought of Lilah Selenna, dead by a careless and cruel hand, grief wrenched her heart. Lilah’s bright laugh, her vivid face, her sense of fun. Lilah had been Atan’s companion when she first freed Sartor. And she had been Peitar Selenna’s younger sister.
Peitar. There was another cause for grief, for different reasons.
She pushed that old ache away, and said angrily, “It’s obscene, how they can kill someone so easily. Worthless, they considered Lilah, because she knew nothing of war, nothing that could help them. From what young Darian picked up by that mental business, it was Darian Irad who’d earned Norsunder’s respect, and that by taking out a dozen of them or so before they brought him down. So much death. At least he was able to get his wife and children away, I hear.” She stopped and shook her head, then dropped her needle in her lap in order to dash away tears. “Ah, I hate Norsunder, I do, but I am more convinced by day that we’ll have to think in some measure the way they do before we can be rid of them.”
Rel grunted an acknowledgement.
She looked up, her eyes unhappy. “And that will make of us—what?”
“It won’t make us warmongers.”
“Are you sure?” Atan’s mouth twisted. “Rel, I loved those lessons with Senrid. What’s more, I was good at it. I guess that comes of years of having to juggle priorities on the run. Isn’t that the essence of command?” She picked up her needle again and jabbed it toward the window before beginning the poke-poke pull, poke-poke pull rhythm of needlework. “I find myself lying awake at night, thinking about how, if I could pull Darian Irad’s army over from Sarendan, how we would attack communications and supply first, and Rel, I relish those daydreams. So I can scarcely scowl at any of our group for warlike talk without being an almighty hypocrite.”
“Maybe. But you’re thinking about defense, not fighting for the sake of fighting. Who was it specifically among our merry band was on your mind? Deon?”
“Yes. You noticed as well?”
Rel gave a reluctant nod.
“She doesn’t sing any more. She doesn’t laugh, except a hard laugh, at cruel jokes about Norsundrians. And the others are clearly worried about her. And she resents it.”
“I’ve seen it,” Rel admitted. “She’s the one fostering the worst of the restlessness in those who still retain the Child Spell. Lilah was her best friend, her only civilizing influence, for Derek Diamagan told me years ago she was the bloodthirstiest of their little group during Sarendan’s troubles.”
Tears burned Atan’s eyelids afresh. Loss, regret, memories; she looked up at the window, where a brief, watery sunbeam had broken through.
Rel finished off his seam, folded the garment, and laid it aside. “Weather’s lifted. I’d better make my rounds, then roust those not on kitchen rotation or out at another job to get started on the afternoon practice.”
Downstairs, he grabbed his coat and cane and walked outside, despite the cold. He leaned for a moment on the hitching post, looking westward down the muddy street. Above, gray-blue clouds stretched out in variegated streamers, promising more weather soon. His breath clouded, froze, fell, vanished.
No one, not even Atan, knew how much impending kingship agonized Rel. Logically he knew that his inadvertent position of leadership over the young allies was not some kind of test. As king, he would have Atan’s backing, and centuries of custom and sheer habit behind him. Here, he had no authority over anyone.
And yet, he still felt that if he couldn’t haul in the reins on the wild ones—if he couldn’t find some direction for the lost ones —how could he expect to do his share of ruling over a vast and demanding land like Sartor? He supposed that many of the old aristocrats would expect him to stand around in an embroidered tunic and be a figurehead consort, but Atan didn’t want that, and he knew he couldn’t endure such a role.
That didn’t mean he was fit for the partnership that she seemed to expect.
He knew what lay beneath Atan’s sorrow over Lilah’s death. She was wrestling with remorse over her having discovered, too late, that Peitar Selenna had loved her. Rel had seen it long before Atan had had any idea; he’d also suspected why Peitar had deliberately ignored warnings on all sides in his mad pursuit of something that didn’t even exist. Sometimes Rel wondered if Peitar had committed suicide by Norsundrian.
Rel still endured late-night fits of remorse, thinking that what he’d reported about vagabond magic had contributed. He’d never stop regretting his and Atan’s obliviousness at the emotional pain they’d given Peitar, aside from mysterious magical quests.
He looked down at his hands, now tingling and numb at the fingertips, and shook his head. They were the hands of a man, but inside he still felt like a callow youth.
He pulled his coat tight, and bent into the wind to make his rounds. “Warmongers.” In truth, he looked forward to losing himself in a long afternoon of fighting competition. It was better than unrepairable regret.
16
“Wait. Wait.” Falinneh bounced on her toes, her thick, wiry red braids smacking her purple shirt. “Let’s go back to stenches. I have at least ten good jokes about stinks, and when it comes to The King of the Chwahir—”
“We’ve heard ’em,” four people said at once.
“Then how about my villain play? It fits any villain. We put Llyenthur’s name in when he meets the goat, and the goat barfs at the sight—”
“We did that play when we were in Wnelder Vee chasing poopsies,” Dhana said. “Nobody laughed but us.”
CJ scowled. “Rel said we should try to cheer people up, and after that creepy attack, people seem to be more tense than ever. If we get too picky, then we’ll never get anything done.”
“You could ask Troy to play,” Seshe suggested. “He’s really, really good.”
CJ bobbed her head. “True. And Dhana can dance. Even grownups like to watch her.”
Dhana just sat there—she didn’t care who watched her, or if anyone did. If she heard music, she danced. Even if the music was the wind in the trees, or the chuckle of a brook.
“I can sing a song or two,” CJ added. “Real songs, not my made-up ones. I noticed nobody except us laughed at ‘Oh My Dear I Lovest Thee, Thy Teeth are as Green as Green Can Be’ villain song, any more than they laughed at Falinneh’s play. I may as well save it for people with taste.”
“True, true,” Falinneh agreed.
“We can go first. Many people feel shy about going first,” Seshe suggested. “Once the atmosphere is easier, then ask others if they’d like to do something.”
They all agreed to that, and split up.
“Celebration at sundown!” The Mearsieans went around the rest of the day reminding people, whether they wanted to hear it or not. By the time the light began to dim, Rel’s house filled with the delicious smells of apples baked in cinnamon, and savory freshwater fish over rice.
The rest of the underage inhabitants helped the Mearsieans by setting up the attic. They ran along the floor pushing towels, and when the floorboards gleamed, they laid out the bedding seam to seam so that everyone could sit comfortably. In supplying the kitchen, Rel had brought in a variety of plates and bowls, and eating utensils from various directions—eating sticks from the north, the tiny-tined forks of the Colendi, which were almost eating sticks, forks, spoons. Many just ate with their knives, scooping food into their mouths from the lip of their bowl.
Troy—Morgeh Troiad of Wnelder Vee, the king who wanted to be a bard—had been staying with Dtheldevor’s gang, who were old friends, Dtheldevor’s primary hideout being on one of the hundred tiny islands off Wnelder Vee’s coast.
As soon as everyone was served, Troy set aside his plate and tuned his tiranthe as his food got cold—not that he noticed. From tuning to strumming, then he played with consummate skill, surprising some, as he usually looked half asleep. His voice was mellow and pleasant, ringing when a song called for it. Then CJ, feeling a sense of responsibility about those who were ambivalent about performing, stood up and sang. To the astonishment of many, she actually had a clear, pretty voice.
She stuck to her conviction, leaving out her own compositions in favor of traditional Mearsiean ballads, in which traces of Sartoran triplets could be heard.
As she sang, Rel circled around and poured a dollop of expensive distilled liquor in all the cups and mugs of those over sixteen. Rel was not much of a drinker, but he and Atan had talked it out, thinking that a bit of whisky in the coffee would give everyone some added warmth, and maybe take the edge off the ever-present stress, at least for an evening.
Senrid didn’t notice what Rel was doing until he smelled the heady aroma as the liquor plopped into his coffee. He was about to turn down the whisky, but Rel was already moving on, leaving Senrid staring down at his mug in disgust. He loathed the flavor of anything fermented or distilled, no matter what the ingredient. And he had spent too many years being vigilant to ever want to feel the effects of drinking.
But he also didn’t want to insult Rel. Already people were praising whatever it was in the cups. He took a cautious sip, and grimaced. The excellent coffee, which came straight from the Ghost Islands, was ruined by the nasty flavor of the whisky, which burned his throat going down. But then the warmth lingered on his tongue and in his chest, a warmth that was not due to the coffee. The taste was still vile, but he had to admit that the aftereffect was not entirely loathsome.
Then the rowdier of the Sarendan gang joined Falinneh (who could not resist sharing her humor) and the company was subjected to “The Defeat of Imry Llyenthur by a Snail, a Goat, and a Pig” by actors who were their own best audience; halfway through several whispered conversations had begun in the corners of the room, but the performers didn’t care. They were all laughing much too hard to notice.
