Havenstar

by Glenda Larke

  Trick the eye; it was true. That’s what the map did. When she looked at it, she saw part of the world in miniature, shade and shadow, movement and motion, all of it real with depth and dimension and texture. Yet if she ran a hand across it, it felt no different from any other mapskin. It was smooth to touch with just the slightest of bumps where the ink or paint was thick. How much better just to look at it! Then, it was real. She could see the hills projecting out of a rolling plain, jutting up out of the flatness of the vellum, so real that her mind could not understand why her fingers could not feel their roundness. She could see the twinkling shine of sunshine on a stream, its moving waters flowing across the skin, skimming the stones drawn beneath. Yet when her fingers dipped into the water, they felt nothing but the aridity of dried paint. Strange nodules—plants of some kind?—shaded the ground alongside, yet when she touched nodules and ground, they were all on the same plane. An animal grazed on grass clumps, moving across the dry dust of a blighted landscape with dainty steps; a rocky outcrop cast a shadow that moved with the passage of the day; and once, just once, she saw a group of people ride across one corner, mounts and riders as real to her as the pilgrims who passed the shop would be to an eagle flying high over Kibbleberry village.

  And there, in all its terrifying glory, was a ley line, snaking from north to south like a colourful, poisonous serpent, contaminating the land with its evil; worse still, inching its way sideways, sucking up colour and leaving behind a withered burn-scar of grey that the land struggled in vain to repair.

  A trompleri map moved and changed as the landscape it portrayed altered. By showing the variations in light and shadow, a trompleri map recorded sunrise and sunset, daylight and dark, or even the passing of a cloud, the falling of rain. A trompleri map showed the movement of people and animals, the passage of the tainted and the Wild, the trek of pilgrims and guides, couriers and traders; it showed all visible life—and the corpses of death. It was all there, momentarily etched on two-dimensional vellum with all the three dimensions of the real.

  It was disquieting. And wonderful. It fascinated and it terrified.

  A trompleri map was magic.

  ‘Imagine,’ Piers had said several years earlier. ‘Imagine, Keris. If I had such master charts, there would be no need to risk my life in the Unstable. When the ley lines moved, the change would be recorded there on the vellum. And if an Unstabler had one, well, a glance at the map and he’d know where best to cross. And when. A trompleri map is the ultimate master chart. It keeps itself updated!’

  ‘But do they exist?’ she had asked, her youthful imagination stimulated by even the idea of such a wonder.

  ‘Once upon a time they did. But the secret of making them was lost and gradually those that existed disintegrated with age. Maybe it’s just as well.’ He gave a wry laugh. ‘I’d be out of a job otherwise.’ He paused. ‘And yet—’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘I’ve heard tell just lately that someone has rediscovered the secret. Or is close to doing so.’

  ‘Truly?’

  ‘There have been rumours. But then, there are always rumours about those who frequent the Unstable.’ He sighed. ‘It’s the nature of the place and its people, I suppose. If I listened to rumours I’d believe in dragons spewing fire and fire-flies that talk, in beautiful ladies imprisoned by the Minions of Chaos and in heroes that rescue them, in a magic kingdom called Havenstar and wizards who live there and make trompleri maps—’

  ‘Wizards?’

  He’d laughed and ruffled her hair. ‘Ah, just tales, Keri. Nobody I know has ever been to Havenstar and nobody I know has ever seen a trompleri map. Or a wizard, or a dragon or an imprisoned maiden waiting to be rescued. And Havenstar is just a dream-place, made up by the poor wretched tainted Untouchables who fantasize about a sanctuary where they will be safe and can lead normal lives, where wizards will miraculously cure their ills. Many set off to find it. They never come back.’ He shook his head, touched suddenly by sadness. ‘Pity them, the Unbound. Think about what the name means: Unbound, pulled asunder, unravelled. They have been partially unmade, just as our poor Margravate was partially unmade so long ago. Theirs is the saddest of all existences.’

  Much more interested in talk of magic, she hardly heard his sorrow. ‘And the wizards make trompleri maps?’

  ‘So it’s said. Tales, Keri lass, tales. Out there in the Unstable you hear a hundred such stories and no more than two or three are true.’ He grinned. ‘Usually the most incredible of all, at that. For that reason alone I’ll keep dreaming of owning a trompleri master chart, but I won’t believe in them until I have one such in my hand.’

  Well, two years later he had apparently held such a map in his hand. And a fat lot of good it did him, she thought. It probably killed him. Always supposing that whoever was searching his things was the one who murdered him, and it was the map that they’d been hunting…

  ~~~~~~~ ~

  At first she had no idea what area the map represented. It was an abnormally large scale chart—1:5,000—that covered only a small area. It portrayed no halt or houses or signs of settlement. It was signed with the name Kereven Deverli, and it was undated. According to the title at the top, it represented an area known as Draggle Flats West. It was certainly not a map of any place north of the Wide. The names written beside the features drawn there were unknown to Keris: Milkwaters, Gaggle Crag, Melldale Bushgrass, the Humps—she knew none of these places. Even the ley line had a name she did not recognize: the Writhe.

  She searched through some of the old maps Piers had stored in the attic, looking for one that mentioned such names. These maps were not the ones Piers had created. He had bought them from other mapmakers long ago, before he had been married, in the days when he had travelled widely in the Unstable, even as far as the Eighth Stability.

  Eventually, after an hour or two of work, she found the Writhe—or the beginnings of it—marked at the extreme edge of one of the charts. It was near the Graven, the ley line that separated the Eighth Stab from the Seventh and the Sixth. The most puzzling thing of all was that the Writhe angled south, beyond the Eighth Stability, which meant that the trompleri map showed a portion of the Waste. But who would ever want to make a map of such a place? No one ever went even as far south as the Riven, the ley line that flowed beyond the southern edge of the Eighth, not anymore; it was too dangerous. There were no stabilities there, no areas of Order at all, just endless instability and horror. Or so it was said by the few who had gone exploring in years gone by and managed to return.

  According to legends, there had been other countries in the far south once. The twin nations of Yedron and Yefron, wicked Vedis where tyrants ruled and fabulous Bellisthron that floated on the lakes of Thron. The most ancient of the Holy Books spoke of such places, but if they really had existed, they did no more, or were separated from what was left of the Margravate of Malinawar by too wide an expanse of Unstable.

  No one searched for them anymore, no one went that far south anymore—and yet here was a map evidently showing an area south of the Eighth Stability. It did not make sense.

  She put the maps away with a sigh.

  In the days that followed she spent a lot of time thinking about the riddle, but could come up with no answers, nor did she know who to ask. She did speak about trompleri maps to several of the ley-lit Unstablers who came into the shop; they all dismissed them as something that may have existed once, but which were no longer to be found.

  It was not enough for her. The map she had was not old, at least not so old that it was in danger of disintegration. Therefore, she reasoned, someone had indeed rediscovered the secret of making such a map. Someone called Kereven Deverli. And possibly someone else was so desperate to obtain it they were willing to kill for it. Because of what it portrays, or just because it’s a trompleri chart?

  As the days passed, the trompleri became an obsession. Its ever-changing beauty enticed her, intrigued her, fascinated her. She tried to discover the se
cret of its creation simply by looking at it, by examining it, but could reach no conclusions. Her fingers told her that it was just an ordinary map, her eyes told her it was no such thing. Touch told her it was flat, sight told her it was contoured and time told her it changed. The inks and paints used to fashion it seemed similar to those she made herself from vegetable dyes, gums, resins, oils, lamp black, earth pigments and mineral salts. What, then, made it magic? She did not know and could not guess.

  Deep inside, she knew that above all else she wanted to learn how to fashion such a map herself. It was the ultimate challenge to a mapmaker, and equally deep inside her she knew she was indeed a mapmaker, not a woman destined to be just somebody’s wife. Nor yet a woman destined to be a holy Knighte. I am a mapmaker.

  She grew more and more restless and unhappy, knowing herself to be balanced on the edge of a precipice in her life, yet not knowing what would happen when she plunged over the edge. The trompleri map with its continually altering face symbolized the flux of her own existence. The mystery mirrored the mystery of her father’s death.

  Her pragmatism told her there was no possibility she could ever be a master mapmaker. True, she could use a theodolite, take readings and draft accurate maps. True, she could ride a horse and defend herself with a bow and arrow. True, she had accompanied her father on surveying trips within the First Stability and had learnt much of his skills on such trips. But she had never been into the Unstable and would not have known how to survive there. However often she heard its oddities and its dangers discussed, she was unfamiliar with them in practice. She was doubtful if a woman alone could survive long at the best of times. When the Wild and the Minions of Chaos were abroad, surely brute strength could mean the difference between life and death?

  And finally no one would buy the maps of a woman, because no one would have faith in them. Women were midwives and bakers, herbalists and tailors, barbers and weavers, dairymaids and button-makers, but they were never blacksmiths or chantists or tavern keepers or carpenters—or mapmakers. The Rule decided such things, and the Rule must be kept. A woman who tried a profession denied to her by the Rule would have been scorned and reviled, her business ignored, and that would be enough. There would have been no need of other punishment; society had already devised a perfect one.

  Order must be kept, and a woman who disobeyed the Rule threatened Order and would find no sympathy.

  The most she could hope for was to do what she had done for her father and was now doing for Thirl: work at the creation of a map and step back to see a man take the praise. Perhaps she could find someone who would accept her talent and take her on as a copyist.

  Better the dregs at the bottom of the glass than no drink at all.

  Perhaps.

  ~~~~~~~

  One evening, just at sunset, she was alerted by Yerrie to the arrival of a visitor. She had already put up the shutters, but she opened the door and peered out. It was a strange time for a customer, or even a village friend, but she was more curious than frightened. They had no problems with thieves or bandits in Kibbleberry.

  A man was standing beside the horse trough outside, looking at the water as if trying to make up his mind whether to drink it or not. He was middle-aged and tired; the face he turned to her sagged with weariness. He appeared to have no mount, and his clothes were shabby.

  As he moved towards her she saw that his left cheek was scarred with the ritual disfigurement of the convicted criminal, two bars and a crescent moon. Two convictions then, and the crescent moon meant a minor theft without violence. Her eyes dropped to his left hand. As if in answer he raised it for her to see: he had two fingers that had been broken and allowed to mend crookedly. Another mark of the thief. Anything worse than petty theft would have merited exclusion to the Unstable, of course, and thus a man who had been convicted of a greater crime would not have been standing before her.

  She said, ‘The nearest Chantry-hostelry is at Kte Marlede’s.’

  ‘I’ve walked from Hopen Grat,’ he said. ‘Mistress, please, I can’t get to Kte Marlede’s tonight. I’m tired and hungry and thirsty.’ His eyes dropped once more to the water trough.

  ‘Don’t drink that,’ she said automatically. ‘I’ll get you clean water.’

  ‘Food?’ he pleaded. ‘And a place in your barn for the night, maybe?’

  ‘That’s against the Rule.’ A criminal who had no property of his own was not permitted to sleep in inhabited areas, except at religious chanteries or Chantry-run hostels, and even then he was never permitted to stay more than two consecutive nights. It was also forbidden for unencoloured people to give such a person food. He was supposed to be totally dependent on Chantry aid.

  ‘The Rule says many things. And sometimes a man just doesn’t have what it takes to obey the Rule. I’m weary, maid.’ He sat down on the edge of the trough, and he did indeed look exhausted.

  Damn the Rule, she thought. I’m sick of it too. ‘All right. Come this way.’ She led him around the side of the house to the barn. ‘But be careful, my brother will not be charitable if he finds you. You had best hide yourself in the hayloft. I’ll bring you out some water and food and a blanket.’

  He looked grateful. And relieved.

  ‘Don’t touch the horses,’ she warned.

  ‘I won’t steal them.’

  ‘I know that. They’d never let you. I was thinking more in terms of not going near them at all. They are crossings-horses, apt to snap at strangers. And they have sharp incisors, so be warned.’ She left him then and went back to the house.

  Fortunately Sheyli was asleep and Thirl, who was courting the carpenter’s daughter Fressie, had walked into the village, so it was easy to take out the water and the blankets, then to prepare a plate of food without anyone wanting to know what she was doing.

  The man fell on the meal hungrily and she had to refill the jug of water because he finished it so quickly. They didn’t talk much; he seemed disinclined to chat and she was not sure she wanted to hear what he had to say anyway. She could guess at the kind of life he lived and she could guess at the bitterness he harboured inside himself. He could lead the life of a wanderer, forever condemned by his facial scars and crooked fingers, surviving on Chantry charity, hassled by Defenders and upright citizens alike. Or he could elect to be encoloured as a chantor. Or he could leave the Stability and live in the Unstable. It was not much of a choice. If he was encoloured, he could only be a kinesis-chantor, nothing else, condemned to spend most of his waking hours performing kinesis devotions within the kinesis chain. As an inhabitant of the Unstable on the other hand, he would be condemned by the unwritten code that existed there to wander with other more vicious excluded criminals. His life expectancy would probably be short.

  You don’t have much more choice than I do, she thought, and pitied him.

  She left him to finish his meal in peace.

  Next morning he was gone before she went to the barn. There were suspiciously few eggs under the hens, but nothing else was missing.

  She returned to the kitchen with the only egg she’d found to see Sheyli was sitting up in bed, which should have been a good sign, but she felt a lurch of fear just to look at her. Her mother’s eyes glittered with an unnatural brightness; her skin was patchily flushed.

  Keris sat on the edge of the bed and took her hand. ‘Do you want something, Mother?’

  She nodded. ‘Yes. I’ve been thinking and thinking…’ She was silent for a moment. ‘About many things. About little Aurin, sometimes. Do you remember him, Keri?’

  She nodded, although in truth her memory of her little brother was vague. She’d been only four when he was born, and he’d disappeared two days later.

  ‘They shouldn’t have taken him,’ Sheyli whispered. ‘Tessy kept her two sons and her daughter. And so did that drayman over in Upper Kibble. They make exceptions sometimes, but they wouldn’t for us. It was because Piers was an Unstabler, you know, and they don’t like Unstablers. Well, they’ll pay for it
now. There won’t be a proper mapmaker in the First anymore, and they’ll suffer for that. They shouldn’t have taken Aurin…it wasn’t right. There’s not been a day, not a single solitary day in the past twenty years that I’ve not remembered him.’

  The tragedy of her words caught in Keris’s throat and she started guiltily, knowing that she’d hardly ever given Aurin a thought.

  ‘Ah,’ Sheyli said, ‘sometimes I think the whole world is falling apart around us.’

  ‘Nonsense, Mother.’ She was shaken. Sheyli had never criticized the basic rightness of the Rule and Chantry before. In her shock, her protest lacked conviction so she added, ‘You’re being fanciful, and that’s not at all like you.’

  ‘Keri, it’s not going to be much longer. A day or two only. I can feel myself going.’ Keris opened her mouth to protest again, but Sheyli rushed on feverishly, giving her no chance. ‘Before I go, I want to know that you’re looked after. I want you to take the dowry money and leave.’

  ‘But—where would I go?’

  ‘To my brother. Your Uncle Fergrand in the Second Stability. You could make your lifetime pilgrimage at the same time.’

  ‘That money is not mine.’

  ‘Your father worked hard for it. He did intend it for you, for your husband, to take into your marriage. Not for Thirl. Thirl was to have the business and the house, you were to have the money. I intend to see that Piers’ wishes are carried out. Take the money before Thirl spends it on his wretched tavern.’

  Keris thought of the thief she had sheltered in the barn. Of a scarred face, crippled fingers, a vagabond’s life. To take the dowry money would be to commit a crime. ‘Mother, the Rule—’

  ‘Firstly, you can only be charged with a crime in the same stab the crime was committed in. Once you’re in the Second, you’ll be safe. It would be too much trouble to have you brought back over such a trifle. Quite apart from that, I shall tell Thirl that if he charges you, I’ll cloud the issue by denying there was ever any dowry money to start with. It will be Thirl’s word against the word of a dying woman. Who will be believed? I shall tell Mistress Pottle so that there will be someone else to stand witness.’