A Dirge for Sabis

by C. J. Cherryh

  "I understand perfectly, but is the river house secure?"

  "As safe as stout walls, good locks, and Zeren's watchfulness can make it."

  Eloti said nothing for long moments, eyes fixed on the few remaining flowers. "Very good," she murmured at last. "I hope you will not take it amiss if I visit you there on occasion."

  "Er, no, certainly not."

  "Perhaps I'll come bearing good news. You may go."

  * * *

  "That was all she said," Sulun reported later, in the fitful light of the cubicle's one small lamp. "I can't fathom her intentions, except that she wants us to continue."

  "Perhaps she's taken a liking to Zeren," Yanados yawned, shoving a drowsing Arizun off her shoulder.

  "Our Zeren?" Sulun laughed. "It's not like you to see romance everywhere. What, are you feeling the pull of mating season already?"

  "Hardly. But can you think of a better reason?"

  "I could imagine dozens, and have no evidence for any of them."

  "What was that she said about Jarrya?" Doshi put in, looking up from his precious maps.

  "Eh? Why, nothing—except that this Prince Eylas spoke of it." Sulun shook his head. Yanados getting romantic, Doshi getting homesick, Arizun turning mystical, and Ziya fascinated by fire—they were not doing well in Entori House.

  "Well then, what is this prince supposed to have said?" Doshi insisted.

  "Uhm, something about the fine cattle raised there and in Torrhyn, I think. Nothing of any import or detail. I'm sorry, Doshi. Now, why that odd look?"

  "Cattle?" Doshi's frown deepened. "That isn't cattle country, and never has been. The winters are too harsh to keep cattle out-of-doors, and the buildings are all made of stone. . . ."

  "I think we've all been awake too long," Sulun hinted, rubbing his back.

  "They have to be stone to withstand the winter storms. One can't build very large barns there, not enough to house large herds of cattle. A few milk cows, perhaps, but they're poor beasts by southern standards. Folk there mostly raise sheep."

  "Time to sleep, Doshi. We all need our rest."

  Yanados took the hint and stood up, dragging Arizun with her. Doshi reluctantly gathered up his maps, but kept worrying at his thought as he shuffled toward the door.

  "I don't think this visiting prince ever saw Jarrya. I think he's merrily lying his way through the court. You'd best tell Zeren that when you see him again."

  "I will, Doshi. I promise. Now off to bed."

  "I think there's no rebellion in the north at all, and we're just as badly off as before, except worse because now the court won't pay as much attention to the northern defenses, and—"

  "Good night, Doshi."

  "We'd best continue our plans to leave," Doshi finished as Sulun closed the door on his heels.

  * * *

  Arizun, perched near a window as lookout for possible mobs, was the only one to hear the soft tap at the door. He quietly slipped the bar and locks to let Eloti in. She drifted silently as a leaf through the passageway, although the noise from the workyard would have covered ordinary footsteps. Once again, Arizun wondered how the lady managed to travel so easily and unnoticed through the dangerous streets, apparently alone, dressed well enough to attract the attention of a thousand desperate thieves. As always, he thought it best not to ask her.

  Zeren was already there with the others, stripped of his armor, helping to pour sand and water into the standing mold. He glanced up as the other two came in, and for a moment his eyes met Eloti's. He blinked, nodded politely, quickly, and turned his attention back to what he was doing.

  "Enough water!" Omis snapped. "We don't want to wash the sand out again. There, there . . ." He inspected the wet, packed sand in the thick wooden box, poked it here and there with his fingers, grunted satisfaction, and turned to study the mold itself.

  Nearly buried in wet sand, the mold didn't look very prepossessing: a heavy wooden tube, no bigger than Omis's leg, sliced lengthwise. Wet sand surrounded and filled it to the top. Omis picked up a short log, fit it neatly inside the tube until it touched the sand, and leaned on it. The sand compressed a bit, and the log stayed in place by itself. Omis nodded thoughtfully, picked up several squared short logs, and poked them endwise into the box, on top of the sand.

  "Everyone pound together," he announced, picking up a large maul for himself. "Remember to beat them all equally."

  Everyone else sighed, picked up assorted hammers, and converged on the box.

  "May I ask the purpose of this exercise?" Eloti asked, dropping gracefully onto a bench.

  "We have to pound the sand tight," Arizun explained, taking a light mallet for himself. "We pour it, wet it, pack it, then pray it stays in place when we pull out the mold."

  "Fascinating."

  "Damned hard work."

  "All together," Omis warned, raising his maul. "Now." He struck a good solid blow on the round log. The others followed suit, almost in unison, on the logs surrounding the mold. "And now. And now;."

  Thud. Thud. Thud.

  The hammering fell into a smooth rhythm. Water began oozing from the bottom of the box. Inch by inch, the logs drove deeper as the sand compressed. Watching them, Eloti tapped first her foot and then her fingers in rhythm.

  Eventually Omis called a halt, pulled out the logs, and inspected the sand. "Hmm, it should do," he decided. "Pour in more sand."

  Everyone put down their hammers, picked up bags and buckets, and carefully poured. When the sand level reached the top of the mold, Omis called for the water. The wetted sand sank hardly at all. Omis poked again, studied the sand for a moment, then took up the logs and hammers once more.

  It was, Sulun decided, nearly as hypnotic as the droning prayers in the temples on a great holy day. Pound, pound, pound all together, half a dozen arms swinging as one, and the sodden thudding rhythmic as a temple bell. Pound, pound, pound. If concentration, devotion, and perfection made the best defense against magic, not even the greatest wizard in Sabis could touch them this day. Pound, pound, pound. Now if only his well-worked muscles didn't tire and cramp and pain him enough to break his concentration . . . Pound, pound, pound.

  The voice sneaked up on him, interweaving so smoothly with the hammer-rhythm that he didn't notice it as anything separate from himself, not until one corner of his mind noted that he'd never heard the words of the song before.

  "Low lie the stars over Toslagen's memory,

  High hang the flowers from the trees of her tomb."

  And was it strange or not that everyone else swayed and swung with the quiet song? Everyone hammering smoothly, rapt as corybantic dancers: pound, pound, pound . . .

  "'Care,' sing the birds in the boughs of the cypresses, 'Care, love and care, win you free of your doom.'" Just those few lines, over and over, keeping the rhythm, drawing the arms, the mallets, to swing and pound, pound, pound endlessly, hold the mind tight on the simple action, no stray thought, no deviation, steady as a perfect engine . . . "Halt!" Omis yelled, shaking his head. "We're down." Everyone dropped their assorted hammers, rubbed their arms, and shook their heads as if coming out of a dream. Indeed, Sulun noticed, the level of the sand was down—and packed as tight as fine clay.

  Magic! Sulun turned to look at the one person who could have provided that song, the only one not hammering.

  Eloti sat waving her fan gently, that faint smile lingering on her face.

  "Goodlady." Sulun bowed to her. "I had no idea you could sing so well."

  "A largely useless skill." She shrugged. "Save on rare occasions."

  "Magic!" Arizun breathed. "That was a—a protective spell, or I've never seen one."

  "You've never seen one, then," Zeren snorted, rubbing his arm. "'Twas a work spell, and a rather good one." He grinned a brief salute at Eloti.

  Eloti gave an eloquent shrug, punctuated with her fan. "It merely seemed appropriate," she said. "I assure you, I've never been a wizard's apprentice."

  The others laughed approvin
gly, trying to imagine the quiet lady of Entori House as a scampering apprentice running errands for some crotchety wizard. Impossible, indeed.

  "Back to the mold," Omis insisted. "Plug the top of the log; this will be the last layer."

  The rest duly took up bags and buckets again, and went back to the careful pouring of sand and water, the last layer that would fill the box to the top.

  "Gods grant," Omis muttered, easing the wooden plug into the top of the bombard shape, "we can get the pouring done today."

  Sulun nodded agreement, but kept only the minimum of his attention on the mold. His eyes kept straying to Eloti, calmly fanning herself while she watched the proceedings, and his head filled with wild speculation where all the facts slid into place with a click as neat as the closing of a latch.

  Eloti had sorcerous talent. His mistress was, in common parlance, a witch.

  No wonder Entori House could survive the malice of Entori's clients, and with no better protection than the drunken house wizard. No wonder this house, outrageously vulnerable to the ill-will of the neighbors, at least, hadn't been disturbed by thieves nor plagued with accidents, even in these bad days. No wonder the lady came and went as she chose, unbothered by cutpurses or worse, virtually unseen. No wonder she remained unmarried. Who would have a she-wizard to wife, save for another wizard who wished to breed talented sons—and family-proud Entori would never let his sister marry below what he considered her proper class.

  Yet she could read, and knew how and where to listen, and learned readily. Perhaps she had cozened secrets out of the house wizard, leaving him to forget her in his cups. Perhaps she had learned everything from books and observation alone. In secret, in whatever fashion, she had learned—and practiced. Eloti was the true protector of Entori House, and now of Sulun and his unknowing friends.

  Accident. Fate. Pound, pound, pound . . .

  "Enough," said Omis. "Pull out."

  The others drew away their logs and mallets, and stepped back to let Omis inspect the mold. The tight-packed sand covered the wooden form almost completely, leaving only the bare disk of the plug's top visible. Omis nodded and breathed a long sigh.

  "All right," he said. "Now we take out the mold form."

  Only Sulun noticed that Eloti began humming softly, a different tune this time, in rhythm with the languid beat of her fan.

  Omis tugged carefully, delicately, at the plug. After a seconds resistance it pulled free of the wooden tube, free of the sand, displacing hardly a single grain. Omis sighed again in relief, fitted the jaws of narrow tongs around one of the tube halves, and pulled gently, ever so gently. The wooden half-tube slid quietly out of its bedding, leaving the deep, perfect half circular hole in the packed sand behind it. Omis set the piece aside and reached for the last one with the tongs, careful, utterly careful, whispering prayers to assorted relevant gods.

  Eloti's humming purred softly in the air like the sound of drowsy bees in sunlight.

  The last piece of the mold slid out smoothly, leaving its shape perfectly molded in the packed sand.

  "Perfect!" Omis whispered, tiptoeing away from the mold as if too loud a noise would shatter it.

  "Perfect . . ." Sulun echoed, daring a sidelong glance at his mistress.

  Eloti sat unchanged, calmly fanning herself, a faint smile resting on her otherwise impassive face.

  "Begin the melt," said Omis, very quietly. "And no noise."

  The others turned to the forge, gently picking up tools and billets of brass.

  Sulun guessed he wouldn't be needed for this part; there was something more important to do. He went into the house, -rummaged through the supplies, and came back with some watered wine and light bread. Very quietly, he took them to Eloti.

  "Best to refresh yourself, Mistress," he said, noncommittally. "This will be long and tedious work."

  Eloti looked at him for a moment, then thanked him formally and took the food.

  Sulun hurried back to the group working at the forge and busied himself with odd tasks: tossing in more charcoal as the fire rose, working the bellows when Zeren's arms tired, helping to pitch brass into the heating crucible, wetting down Omis's gloves between pokings and stirrings. Often he glanced at Eloti, noting that she kept her eyes on the undisturbed mold and could be heard softly humming to herself. Despite the heat of the forge, he shivered.

  * * *

  At close to sundown the brass was ready, flowing like milk, glowing like the sinking sun. Omis ran two thick iron bars through the rows of rings on either side of the crucible, took the end of one bar, and they all lifted together. Carefully, carefully, they walked their glowing burden away from the forge and up to the lip of the mold.

  "Gently now, gently," Omis fairly chanted, "Set the forward bar, hold it steady, steady . . . Zeren, lift with me. Lift, lift . . ."

  Eloti's humming grew ever so slightly louder.

  Slowly the crucible tilted, its spout descending over the deep circular hole in the packed sand. The molten brass touched the edge, slipped into the spout, seemed to pause for an instant, then spilled gracefully into the mold. For a moment everyone saw the glowing stream pooling, with scarcely a splash, at the bottom of the long circular hole. Then clouds of steam boiled up to fog the vision, driven up from the wet sand.

  "Keep pouring!" Omis snapped. "Don't change position. Close your eyes if it gets too bad. There, there . . ."

  Coughing and blinking in the stifling fog, Sulun watched the shining surface of the molten brass rise in the mold. Upward it crept as the crucible slowly emptied, up to the top of the central column of sand and then over it, up to the surface of the sand mold. There it stopped, a gleaming disk in the sand, while the last drops trickled from the almost upended crucible.

  "Perfect!" Omis laughed in relief. "Exactly enough. Gods, I was afraid we'd have too much, have to ease this bucket back down and empty it in a drain ditch. All together now, lift that other rod and pull back. Good, good . . ."

  Step by step, with only a little less care than on their advance, they pulled the cooling crucible away from the mold and set it down. The ground steamed where it touched. Everyone else stepped back, and Omis pulled the carrying rods free.

  "How long till it cools solid?" Zeren asked, wiping his forehead.

  "Tomorrow sometime." Omis pulled off his gloves and tossed them aside. "I'd leave it a full day, just to be safe. So, we'll come back the morning after next to break out the mold and start on the smoothing. I suppose we can spend tomorrow working on another ship's engine for the old—er, the Master." He darted an embarrassed smile at Eloti.

  "Should we not celebrate our success?" she almost purred. "I believe a small thank-offering to the gods would be in order."

  "A good libation should do," Zeren grinned, starting toward the house. "I brought a few jugs of a very decent wine with me."

  "If we wish it heated, we could mull it in yonder crucible." Eloti smiled.

  Omis roared with delighted laughter. "Gods, yes! How fitting!"

  Fitting indeed, Sulun thought, following Zeren into the house to fetch the cups.

  * * *

  The gears, the hated gears . . . Sulun dourly polished another of the little iron monsters, reflecting that he was beginning to hate the very thought of steam engines and ships. Bits and parts of another engine nearly completed, Entori nagging him to hurry, the bombard waiting like a treasure that could be touched only in few, precious, stolen moments: half a moon like this. And the news from the north no better. All Sabis might fall before they managed to finish the bombard. Damn Entori, damn his engines, damn these interminable gears!

  Seeing no further burrs or irregularities, Sulun dropped the hated gear in a box with its companions and glanced automatically at the sunlight above the roof. Good gods, nearly dinnertime. The others had gone inside, leaving him here with his wretched little task, and he couldn't blame them. He rubbed his eyes, back, fingers, and stalked off to his minuscule room. Just enough time to wash his hands and face for
dinner, no time or reason to change his clothes; let the old vulture see that he'd worked like a galley slave all day. He washed fast, towelled off faster, and stalked toward the dining hall still damp.

  It was the silence he noticed first: the servants eating so very quietly, heads down, trying not to be noticed. Scarcely a head lifted as he shuffled into his place on the bench at the servants' table.

  But one of the heads raised was Arizun's. "Keep your head down," he whispered fiercely in Sulun's ear. "Look who's visiting Master at the upper table."

  Sulun duly hunched over his plate and glanced sidewise at the Master's table—from which, he now noticed, came sounds of unusually lively conversation.

  There sat Entori and his sister, as always: Eloti looking politely attentive, Entori for once animated and almost jovial. Facing them, backs to the servants' table, sat two newcomers. Guests, Sulun realized, probably business acquaintances, hardly friends, knowing Entori. Reason enough for the servants not to want attention drawn to themselves. But why was Arizun so agitated? And why was Vari shooting frightened looks at him across the bread dish? In fact, why was everyone in his work gang looking so frightened? He studied the two newcomers more closely.

  Both men were fat and well-dressed, though the leftmost was decked with more jewelry and embroidery—clearly the master. He was, at the moment, almost demanding of Entori, "But gods curse it, man, I'm offering you twenty percent of my cargoes for a full year! I'm not asking for the secret of their manufacture, only for the engines themselves. Just two good engines, fit for hundred-tonners, in exchange for twenty per hundred: Where will you find a better bargain?"

  Aha, Entori's little show on the docks with the Yanira had borne fruit, and doubtless he was haggling over the price.

  Sure enough, Entori replied, "I don't expect a better bargain. It's quite an excellent bargain. It's also quite impossible. The engine is a most complex and delicate bit of work; it takes time to make one, time to mount it properly. That first one took my craftsmen two moons to build, and the second will hardly take less. As soon as my own ships are fitted, of course, I'll be free to discuss fitting others', but you must understand the delay—"