The Waters Rising

by Sheri S. Tepper

  “And anything that amuses you, you find worthwhile?” he murmured.

  “Believe it, Jenger, always.” And she smiled again, so sweetly that he felt an instant’s deadly fear. He had been her follower for some time. Sometimes, she had given him a strange, addictive sort of ecstasy. On certain occasions she had given him power. Sometimes, briefly, he had thought she considered him a friend. Occasionally, he had considered himself her friend. Briefly. Yet, most often he had been merely utilized, and sometimes, as today, he found himself playing a game with rules he did not know against a viper he could not see. He knew it was there, somewhere, its fangs exposed, its venom ready, behind her face, behind her eyes—her eyes that sometimes went empty, so that looking into them was like looking into a tunnel that had no end yet became no smaller the farther it went, a tunnel with a red light at the far end of it. There were things living in that light: ugly, sinuous movements; hard, dreadful words; a hideous, tingling laughter. Each time he felt them, his skin tightened and erupted in gooseflesh, as though he had been caught in an avalanche and was dying of cold.

  It had happened half a dozen times since he had been with her. Each time, he told himself it was only imagination. Each time he was not reassured, for he knew it was real. That other place or that other person or . . . those other creatures were there, at the bottom of her eyes. Or, if not at the bottom of her eyes, then somewhere else that she saw from within herself. Wherever, whatever it was, she knew the way to it or them. Perhaps she went there sometimes, to amuse herself. Perhaps that was really where she lived in those hours and days when no one knew where she was.

  He should not have mentioned the queen. Alicia hated Queen Mirami. Her own mother, and she hated her. A time or two he had thought he understood it, but at other times he did not. She had loved her father. He was sure of that. Alicia had loved Duke Falyrion with all the love she was capable of, and when she spoke of him it was with adoration, with grief and loss in her face and manner. She had said once that her mother had taken her father away from her. He had not dared ask her how.

  He feigned a loose saddle girth and dismounted to tighten it, allowing her to put a little distance between them while he breathed deeply, trying to swallow the burning that filled his throat. When he mounted again, he stayed behind. The terror would pass. It always had before. It would again, he thought. He hoped. When they arrived at the Old Dark House, Jenger took the reins of the duchess’s horse and led it away, forcing himself to move in a matter-of-fact way, showing no fear, watching from the corners of his eyes as she ran, actually ran, through the great doorway. He did not want to know where she was going.

  She went where he had never gone: down a long flight of stairs, through an anteroom, then into a room to which only she had the key. As always, when she entered, she checked her machines before she did anything else. First, the fatal-cloud machine. She had confessed to Jenger that she had made mistakes when she used it on the Tingawan woman, years ago, forgetting some of the details her instructor had given her, but she had reviewed the procedure afterward, and she would not make that mistake again. Second, the seeker-mirror machine. It would find anyone, or it would reflect anyone, depending upon how it was set. Third, the sending machine she had used last night. It was very old. It had buttons on it to control “the visuals,” “the sonics,” “the settings,” “the maps.” Her instructor had told her it sometimes malfunctioned. She would not use it again except to send a haunting. It still worked well enough for that! Fourth was the machine that watched and protected her. That’s all it did, its great bulk standing in a far corner, red eyes alert, just watching. There were other devices in the room, one that opened and shut the door, one that kept the room warm and circulated the air, one that showed her where her servants were, but the first four—no, three now—were the important ones.

  Now that she had met the Tingawans, it was time to see what might be done about them—or at least one of them. From the cubicle in which she kept her precious things, she retrieved a very old package, stained by the spray of the sea, the tar of oiled ropes, the sweat of many different hands. It had been lying there for a very long time, locked away in her secret room, hidden on a shelf. Until today, she had not been moved to do anything with it, but now she opened it with hands so eager that only the iron control she held over her body kept her from trembling.

  Inside were other wrappings, and still others, and at last, in a fold of oiled silk, a few black hairs obviously pulled out by the roots, a few scraps that only close examination would have revealed to be clippings from fingernails.

  The duchess smiled a smile that even demons in hell would need to practice in order to achieve in such perfection. There was love of pain in it; enjoyment of torture; the rapture she felt when she observed grief and loss, especially when she had caused it; and now she could anticipate doing it all: torture, pain, grief, loss, all in one long-awaited achievement. She murmured, only to herself, “Ah, so, little Legami-am. I have all your hopes and longing in my hands, and they shall be the pathway to that large bale of muscle who guards the Tingawan girl. Bear, he is called. Well, we shall skin him. You shall summon your betrothed home long before he plans to go. It is my will that you shall summon him home. What a pity you will no longer be there when he arrives . . .”

  Near the end of the first day’s travel from their camp near Riversmeet, the wagons from Woldsgard passed Abasio, who seemed to be waiting at the side of the road. Blue pulled the dyer’s wagon onto the road behind the others.

  When they stopped for the night, Xulai brought Blue a horse biscuit and told both Blue and Abasio about the incident in the nighttime, though Abasio had suggested Blue not talk on this journey, as it might endanger all of them if it were known a horse could listen, remember, and repeat. Xulai badly wanted comforting from both man and horse, and at the moment, they were out of earshot of the others.

  While Abasio pondered the storm, the wolves, the duchess and her men, Blue munched his biscuit, mumbling, “Not bad, but they made better in Artemisia.”

  Xulai gave him a second one and said mournfully, “Abasio, Blue, Precious Wind says I did something else.”

  “And what was that?” Blue mumbled around the last crumbs of his biscuit.

  “My cousin told me, before we set out, that if I looked very young, I would be thought inconsequential. And the duchess rode up to look at me, and I think . . . I think I looked like a baby.”

  Abasio stared at her for a long moment, forehead wrinkled in concentration. “And sometimes, do you, perhaps, think you are older than you seem to be?”

  She looked up, surprised. “Sometimes. Though I don’t think I do that very well.”

  He drew her to him, into a comfortable hug, a dog hug, cat hug, friend hug, anything-warm-and-living hug, concentrating on making the embrace full of consolation without any sexual overtones whatever, as those, he told himself, were his private problem. “Don’t worry about it. If it’s any comfort to you, sometimes I think you are about . . . oh, seventy-two.”

  “That old!”

  “At least. And at other times, about three. I really think it will sort itself out very soon and you’ll average out. You have had a very unusual upbringing . . .”

  “A down-putting upbringing,” she said resentfully.

  “That, too. But I’m virtually positive it will soon sort itself out. Be patient.”

  She resolved to be patient, and the resolution comforted her for almost half an hour. That day’s travel was uneventful, and that night they made camp outside the walls of a watchtower manned by guardsmen from the coastal fiefdoms.

  “This is the Eastwatch Tower of Wold,” the sergeant told them. He was a solidly built and placid-faced man from Chasmgard whose dark hair stood straight up in spikes every time he pulled off his helmet, which he did at brief intervals in order to scratch his head. “With Wellsport town moved high onto the slope of the mountain, with Wellsmarsh moved back miles east toward us, if the enemy takes the coast, we’re pro
bably the first line of defense.”

  “Wellsport moved?” grated Bear. He had not really believed this.

  “The water came slow enough that the Port Lords managed to move the town. First the lower buildings, then the higher ones, a third of the way up the mountain. They kept moving the piers, too, up and up, back and back. The Port Lords are living on their fat. There’s been no cargoes come over the sea for years now. Now the Marish, that’s moved by itself; each year the shallow water was farther upriver to the east, and the reeds and fish and fowl all followed the shallow water. Wellsmouth town was already well up the side of Wellsgard Peak, and there’s still plenty of fish and fowl in Marish for them to live on, just not so close to the town as it was.”

  “And north of there?” Abasio asked.

  “Oh, Chasmgard, Combesgard, and Valesgard were mountain citadels to begin with, all of them well over the waters’ rising. They’ve lost some garden lands, down near the river, but they have valleys where they can grow their food. It’s only Wellsport that’s had to move itself, but that does make us first in line if we’re invaded. Though far inland as we are, if we’re the first to see invaders from the sea, we’re in deep trouble long before we catch sight of them. We’re depending upon getting a signal from the beacons long before their warriors get here!”

  “It might be raining,” said Xulai, who had joined the men in visiting the tower. “If it’s raining, you can’t see anything.”

  “Well, that’s true, little missy. So much so that we’ve a standing order: whenever the sky clouds over, we’re to send out a line of relay riders, all the way to the crossroads at Riversmeet, or on to Wellsport if need be. They’re to stay in place until the skies clear, or until they see hordes of Sea People coming down the road!” He burst into laughter. “Not that anyone expects that. I’ve heard they can’t breathe out of water or walk on land. The sea’s their place and so far, they’ve stayed there.”

  “How do they conquer, then, if they cannot come ashore?”

  He pulled off his helmet, scratched his head, and said with great sadness, “By corrupting land dwellers is how. It’s said they’ve bought allies from among us earth walkers, mercenaries from the Copf Islands and from Marshurland to the far south. It’s they who take the land and then sit on it, preventing the former occupants from coming back.”

  Bartelmy and Abasio talked a bit more about this supposed conquest and occupation, finally arriving at the critical question. “How far from here to the abbey?”

  “Wilderbrook Abbey? Well, for the next few days’ travel, you’ve got the road winding back and forth up the cliff. It’s a steep climb; the valley’s over a mile above us, and your animals can’t go far in a day hauling wagons. There’s a dozen villages of refugees along the road between here and the top of the falls, plus more hanging in caves on the cliff, like bats. Say three or four days up the road to the top, depending on how strong your animals, how heavy your wagons, and how much the residents delay you. The falls have eaten their way deep into the cliff, into a kind of slot no wider than the falls themselves, so you’ll not see them until you get there, but if the mist breaks for you, you’ll see a wonder.

  “Then, when you turn east once more, there’s a few days’ easy travel through the Lake Country—it’s been dry lately, so the road is good and there’ll be no swamps to deal with. In wet years, that valley’s like an extension of the Dragdown Swamps. Then you’ll come to Benjobz—that’s his name, Benjobz, like it’s King Gahls, even though there’s only one of each of ’em—next to Benjobz Pond, where the Wells comes down from the highland to the north and the Wilderbrook runs in from the south. For five generations there’s been a Benjobz running an inn there, where the Wilderoad comes in from the south. That’s the road you’ll take to get to the abbey. It’s steep in places. I’d say you have twelve to fourteen days’ travel from here, depending.”

  “On?”

  “Like I said, depending on animals, weight, and whether the refugees slow you down, or whether it pours rain and the Lake Country turns into swamps. In real wet years, the Dragdown Swamps include the whole valley of the Wells and all the western slope of the mountains east of Altamont. When the slope and valley are full of swamp, travelers to Lake of the Clouds have to ride far west, high along the edges of the woods, and travel there is more difficult and more dangerous. Them’s wild woods, with wilder creatures in ’em . . .”

  “What sort of wilder creatures?” asked Abasio.

  “I’ve heard some talk of new kinds of snakes, big ones. Then there’s boars, always more willin’ to attack than discuss the matter sensibly. Nothin’ worse than you’ve seen before, just keep an eye out. Then, too, if you decide to visit the court, that’d take you extra time. It’s not somethin’ I’d recommend, by the by.”

  “Why not visit the court?” Xulai asked. “Is it very grand?”

  “Not that, little missy, no. Just that it’s been somewhat dangerous for a good while. Old friends falling out of favor. People being accused of treachery or worse.”

  “Worse?” Bartelmy’s eyebrows rose into his hair.

  “Oh, people are whispering about necromancy and such. That sister of the prince, half sister I should say . . .” He leaned forward, almost whispering. “ ‘Where Alicia strolls, someone’s head rolls,’ that’s what folks are saying. Not that she’s there just now. Sometimes she’s back and forth all the time, up and down the cliff road, doing what, no one knows, but she’s stayed near Altamont more than usual lately. Longest she’s ever stayed away from court that I can remember. Her goin’ and comin’—it makes us nervous.”

  “Do you have relay riders?” Bartelmy asked.

  “And good horses. Prince Orez sent us fifty horses, too, bred in Vale. He said not to put our trust in the signal fires, for the clouds have been lyin’ lower of late. ‘Keep watch! Keep it well,’ that’s what he said.”

  The three of them returned to camp. Xulai went to see to her animals, large and small, while considering what the sergeant had said. There was more than one way to interpret “clouds lyin’ lower of late.” It could have been a simple comment on the weather; it could have implied a specific threat; or it could have included both. Xulai asked Precious Wind and Bear what they thought about it, and she was interested to see Bear gnawing at his cheek as though to chew a hole in it, as he did when he was mightily displeased about something.

  They began the next day’s journey by crossing the bridge over the Wells and beginning the gentle climb north on a narrow road carved into the west escarpment of the highlands. By noon, they were far enough north that they could see Woldsgard, a tiny toy castle perched northwest of them on the far side of the valley. Black Mike had traveled the road before, and he taught them to locate the wide spaces on the roads above them, to keep track of wagons on the road above them, and to pull into wide spaces to let downward traffic pass.

  “Down traffic’s quicker,” he said. “It takes less time to let them pass and makes more sense to rest the animals that are hauling up!”

  At midmorning, they came to one of the infrequent wide spots, made at some switchbacks and wherever the cliff wall was slightly less steep, and Bartelmy, seeing wagons not far uphill from them, signaled a stop and got down from the wagon seat to stretch. The descending wagons made the turn and passed them, the drivers nodding but offering no conversation. Bear took Bartelmy’s place; Bartelmy got into the carriage with Precious Wind. The wagons made a slow, tight turn and started back toward the south, only gradually separating from the lower road they had traveled during the morning. Xulai was beside Abasio, amusing herself by watching the traffic upon the lower road: a swineherd driving a considerable piggery; a gooseherd driving his flock down a tortuous path winding steeply westward to a marsh beside the river; a traveling tinker, well behind them, his wagon hung with pots and pans, far noisier than Abasio’s wagon. Abasio had tied down all his equipment to make less annoyance for them all.

  “I’ve been meaning to ask you a questio
n,” said Abasio. “Every time someone mentions Precious Wind or Great Bear, I wonder how they got those names. Can you tell me?”

  “ ‘Great Bear’ is a title given to a warrior who has won the imperial battle games. When Tingawa is at peace, there may be several Great Bears. If Tingawa is at war, many may have perished in battle. This Bear was born on the island of Zol, so he is the Great Bear of Zol. As for Precious Wind, she says on the day she was born, a sea wind brought rain sweeping across her island to break a long and terrible drought. So she was named Xu-xin, ‘Precious Wind,’ as I am named Xulai, ‘Precious Hope.’ The princess was Xu-i-lok, ‘Precious’ or ‘Treasure of the Ancients,’ as her father is Lok-i-xan, ‘Ancient Word of the Family Do-Lok.’ ”

  “But Precious Wind is not called Xu-xin . . .”

  “Here in Norland, only members of royal clans use their Tingawan names. Precious Wind says all others’ names are translated into some near equivalent out of courtesy. I am related to the clan Do-Lok, and I am Xakixa, so I must use the name as I was given it.”

  Abasio mused on this as they passed the wall of a deep cistern being built against the cliff-side on their left, a stone wall creating a deep, curved trough, the inside of it being plastered to hold water, the whole structure held against the cliff by a net of thick ropes attached to metal rods driven into the cliff face. Farther on they could see other, completed cisterns, most with tarred canvas pipes leading upward to smaller catchments higher along the cliff.

  “I wondered where they managed to get water on this cliff,” said Abasio. “Now I wonder where they get that rope.” He nodded toward the massive ropes to which the nets that held the walls in place were fastened. “Rope like that is expensive stuff. Since seagoing ships don’t sail anymore, there can’t be many rope walks left to turn out such thick cable as that.”

  Xulai, staring wonderingly at the huge ropes, asked, “What do ships do with those huge ones?”