Havenstar

by Glenda Larke

  She forced herself to move, to act. Together they erected the tent, settled Quirk in as best they could, and then fixed their own tents. She worked automatically, not speaking, not wanting to speak, avoiding even looking at the guide.

  He built a fire and put on some water to boil. She set about cooking a meal, using Baraine’s supplies because they were the best they had and Quirk would doubtless need nourishing food. By the time she’d finished, Quirk was stirring. Between them, they managed to coax him into eating and drinking, after which he drifted off to sleep. He did not seem to be fully aware of what had happened to him.

  As she left the tent, Davron jerked his head towards the fire. ‘Sit down,’ he said, ‘and have this.’ He pushed a mug of char into her hand, careful not to let his fingers brush hers. ‘You and I have to have a talk.’

  She sat down obediently where he indicated, and sipped the drink. Scow’s char, except it did not seem to taste as good as when Scow brewed it. She needed it. ‘Why talk?’ she asked, forcing the words out. ‘We both know you have to kill me. If I tell anyone you are a Minion of Chaos, your little masquerade is over, and doubtless you don’t want that.’ With reason. Anyone known to be a Minion could be killed on sight; in fact it was considered the duty of citizens of any stability to try to rid the Unstable of Minions.

  He sat down opposite her, warming his hands on his own drink. ‘I am not a Minion of Chaos,’ he said. ‘A bonded servant of Carasma, yes, but I’m not a Minion.’

  ‘What’s the difference?’ she asked dully.

  ‘Barring accidental death or murder, a Minion has eternal life, for a start. A Minion has surrendered his soul. A Minion has renounced the Maker. A Minion has sworn to serve the Unmaker without question for the rest of his days. I have done none of those things.’

  ‘What have you done? And why should I believe you anyway? You wear his sigil,’ she said, pointing to his arm, now covered with his shirt sleeve.

  ‘On my arm, not around my neck. I have to perform one task for the Unmaker, just one. And only within the Unstable. That is all he can ask of me. And then I shall be free of him. That is perhaps why he did not order me to hurt you. He wants me for some more important task.’

  ‘Oh, great. Thanks. My welfare is rather important to me, you know.’

  He ignored that. ‘And you know I’m not a Minion because you know I can go deep into the stabilities. You’ve seen me in Kibbleberry. If I were truly a Minion, that would be impossible.’

  She refrained from pointing out that it would have been possible for him to have sold his soul after she’d seen him in Kibbleberry. ‘This task you have to do?’

  ‘I do not know what it is.’

  She stared at him. ‘How can you live, knowing that one day you will have to do something that will be ... vile and cruel and utterly beyond forgiveness? That you won’t be able to stop yourself performing this deed?’

  He did not answer but that flush of his was travelling up the back of his neck and into his face once again. She watched it, mesmerised, stupidly fascinated by the idea that someone who had sold his labour to the Unmaker could actually still blush. ‘Why don’t you stay in a stab, away from him?’

  ‘Do you think I haven’t tried? He won’t let me. After a week or two, he drags me back. Somehow. No matter how far I go, I have to return whether I want to or not.’

  She took up her knife and held it out to him, handle first. ‘Kill yourself,’ she said.

  He ignored the knife. ‘Would you?’

  ‘Kill you?’

  ‘Kill yourself if you stood in my shoes.’

  She sheathed the knife and considered. ‘I don’t think I could live, knowing that something so terrible was in my future. And I don’t think I would have made such a bargain in the beginning.’

  ‘Ah, yes. You turned down whatever it was he tempted you with and therefore are in a position to scorn those who act with less virtue. You can despise those who forget their honour, who betray what you feel they should stand for.’

  She wanted to shout at him: I denied my mother a second chance at life—that gives me the right to feel self-righteous!—but the words would not come. She could not speak of Sheyli to him.

  ‘Perhaps the Unmaker just didn’t offer you anything that you cared enough about,’ he said, and there was more than a trace of bitterness in him.

  ‘Oh, I cared all right.’ She had killed her mother a second time… She drove away her guilt with anger. ‘You and the Unmaker struck a bargain, like a couple of traders haggling over a sale. One task in return for—what? What did he offer you, Master Storre, that was worth a life lived knowing you’re a walking future catastrophe to humankind? Knowing that one day you will explode into action at Lord Carasma’s bidding, even if what is required of you turns your stomach? You may be asked to kill and maim and murder and rape and mutilate until your task is complete. And because you are a strong, talented, intelligent man, you will do an excellent job... What in heaven’s name was it he offered you in return for that?’ When he did not answer, she added, ‘Yes, I would rather die than live knowing that something so dreadful lurked somewhere in my future.’

  The pain in him surfaced, stark and immediate. ‘I can’t,’ he whispered. ‘I can’t. Maker knows, I have tried... But I’m—I’m too much of a coward? Too selfish? I just can’t take my own life. Is that a crime, Keris? Is it?’

  ‘Don’t ask me for exoneration. You don’t have that right.’

  He was silent for a moment. ‘No, I don’t. I’m sorry.’ He fiddled with his mug and then tipped the dregs into the fire. ‘I don’t want to have you blabbing to everyone you meet that I am a Minion, or indeed that I am a bond-servant of Lord Carasma, so that I end up dead by another’s hand. We both know there’s an open hunting season on the Unmaker’s servants. I would beg you to keep your own counsel on this.’ He gave a lop-sided smile. ‘Another secret for you to keep. At least you know why cats don’t like me.’

  ‘Do Meldor and Scow know you wear Lord Carasma’s sigil?’

  ‘Yes.’

  She did not want to think about the implications of that. ‘Are you threatening me?’

  ‘No. You’re in no danger from me, unless Carasma demands it. If that were to happen I could make no promises. Remember though, that you’re out in the middle of the Unstable and I’m your guide. You need me, and do you think it would help the safety of this group if you told them I’m the Unmaker’s bondsman? Keep your mouth shut, Kaylen. Besides, if Carasma thinks you are a danger to me, he could make life uncomfortable for you. I am important to him, that I do know. I think he would perform any vileness to ensure my safety, and my anonymity. Do you understand me?’

  The dryness was back in her mouth. ‘Why hasn’t he had me killed already?’

  ‘He can’t order your death. Not so long as you are the Maker’s. To do so would be to risk his own viability here, perhaps his own existence, even. If the Minions happened to kill you on their own initiative, I doubt he would quibble—but he can’t order it.’

  ‘Couldn’t he have contrived it so that the ley killed me? An upheaval in the ley line?’

  ‘Without breaking the Law of the Universe? Difficult. Ley lines do kill, but purely accidentally, simply because they are focuses of unstable power. Carasma needs to conserve the power of the ley. Every time he uses the power, for whatever purpose, the ley line is weakened. Look at it.’

  She turned reluctantly. The line was calm and almost colourless. Directly opposite them it seemed narrower than it had been.

  ‘That’s because it took power to materialise the Unmaker, power to taint Quirk, power to call in that Wild to divert me while Carasma corrupted Baraine. If the Unmaker taints too many people, if he corrupts too many, the ley lines would start to dry up.’

  ‘I thought the whole purpose of a ley line was to kill or taint people.’

  His lips smiled, a little, but his eyes remained troubled. ‘No. Ley has other purposes, more important to the Unmaker. Ley come
s from the destruction of the world, and is then used to destroy more of the world.’ His gaze fixed on her, firelight dancing in the blackness of his pupils. ‘The need to conserve ley is the reason why Minions do not often use ley power to kill, why they prefer knives and other conventional methods or the strength of one of their pets. But don’t feel too safe, Kaylen. Carasma may well let it be known that he has no love for you, which could be enough to give Minions the hint. From now on you had better watch your back, and hope that Carasma expects me to take care of your—disposal, to protect myself.’

  ‘Why don’t you?’

  ‘Do you really think I—?’ He stared at her. ‘By the Maker, Keris, I don’t deserve that from you.’

  She didn’t answer.

  ‘We’ll stay here the rest of today and tonight,’ he said finally. ‘Tomorrow we’ll join the others. I hope Quirk will have recovered enough by then to make another attempt to cross the ley line.’

  She ignored the sickness in her stomach and asked, ‘The others?’

  ‘They will wait for us.’ He reached out to take the empty mug from her. For a moment their gaze met again and he read something in hers that stilled him. ‘You’re wondering if you should kill me,’ he whispered.

  She’d hardly known it had been there, that nebulous, terrible thought. Now his words had forced it to the surface, and she didn’t know how to deny it.

  ‘To stop me doing Carasma’s bidding.’ The harshness in his voice was softened by acceptance; the gravel whispered. He plucked his knife from his belt and thrust it into her hand, hilt first, just as she had tried to do to him. ‘Then do it. Do it now. I’d rather die now, like this, than lie awake all night wondering just when I’m going to be killed. And perhaps this way would be the best. Perhaps you’re right, and I have been wrong all along, to try and live.’

  She read his willingness to die in his eyes; he may not have killed himself, but from her he would accept it. Worse, she saw his uncertainty. He did not know if she would do it or not, and that was what unmanned her. The thought that he could even think of allowing it, could think of standing there while she plunged the knife into his throat or heart, stripped her of any desire to do so.

  The knife dropped from her fingers and she saw his gaze change: his uncertainty and pain flickered away into the lingering remains of his yearning for her. For one brief, impossible moment she responded by a quickening of her pulse, a rush of blood through her body. Then, sickened, she turned away.

  He was a bonded servant of evil, everything she had been taught to despise. How could she possibly want him?

  ~~~~~~~

  Chapter Twelve

  He who hammers evil at his last should be counted evil, even though the shoes he makes fit.

  ~~~~~~~~

  If poison is cast on the waters yet the dead fish be sweet, why should the customer complain?

  —sayings of the old Margravate

  Keris had to wake Quirk to give him his supper that evening. He sat up, groggy, when she poked him with a tentative finger, careful not to touch his skin. His focus sharpened as he caught sight of himself by the light of the lantern she’d brought into his tent. His thin arms lay across the brown of his blanket and the skin was the same colour as the wool. Where the material was roughly mottled, or speckled through with lighter streaks, so were his arms.

  With tentative fingers he explored one arm with the fingers of the other, seeking reassurance. Its texture was that of skin; the rest was illusion, a trick of light and colour. He flung back all his covers and sat up. Shocked, he stared at the rest of his body. He was naked—they had put him to bed as they’d found him—but in his panic he did not care that Keris was there.

  His body had not changed in shape; he was still too thin, he still lacked muscle; his ribs still showed across his torso. But he had changed in colour. His lower body blended in with the blanket he lay on; his upper body merged into the green colour of the tent at his back. When he placed his hand on the ground next to his bedroll, the fingers fused visually with the soil he touched. Keris had to look several times just to make sure he still had a hand.

  ‘I’m tainted,’ he said, stupefied with horror. ‘I’m tainted, aren’t I? It really happened.’

  She nodded.

  He touched the skin of his chest and stomach. ‘It still feels like me.’ Suddenly aware of his nakedness, he pulled a single blanket up over himself. And saw, in appalled fascination, that where cloth touched his skin, it too blended into the background, as if it had been contaminated by his body. For a moment he was blank-faced, then his expression changed as the realisation hit him that any clothes he wore would behave as his skin did. He shuddered and looked up at her. ‘What—what does my face look like?’

  ‘We’ll talk about it in the morning,’ she said and bent to give him his plate. ‘Right now I’ve brought you your supper.’

  ‘Don’t patronise me, Keris.’

  Her head jerked up in surprise. It was the first time she’d ever heard Quirk be assertive.

  She reddened, knowing she was in the wrong. ‘Sorry. You look—er— Oh Creation, he changed your—your eyes. I’ll get my mirror.’

  A few moments later she handed her glass to him, trying not to show her dread of his reaction. His face was still human, except for his eyes. These were now mounted at the top of mobile mounds ringed with wrinkles of skin: they were a chameleon’s eyes, completely saurian, able even to tilt up and down and sideways without any movement of the head. The pupil was a black slit in a yellow background.

  He stared for a long time at his reflection then handed back the glass. ‘I guess I knew,’ he said at last. ‘The way I blink is different. The way I see things is different. I knew there was something. I’m a sort of lizard, aren’t I? A—chameleon, that changes colour according to the background. And more than that. I’m a reptile that changes the colour of anything that touches its skin.’

  Fury swelled inside her. ‘You’re a human being, Quirk! A man, not a damned—damned—gecko.’

  He sighed. ‘A camouflaged human being who has to spend the rest of his life living in a place that scares the teeth out of his sockets. Keris, I can’t ever go back to a stab. From this moment on, I’m one of the excluded! Ley blast it, what am I going to do?’

  ‘You’ll go on living,’ Davron said, from the entrance to the tent. He came in and crouched by Quirk, giving him a quick visual once over. ‘You’ll adapt to life here. The worst has already happened, Quinling.’

  Keris, thinking him insensitive, glared at him, but Davron was unrepentant. ‘How do you feel?’

  ‘As well as can be expected?’ Quirk suggested tentatively after some thought, a strand of his old self-deprecating humour surfacing. And then, ‘Why, I think it cleared up my sinus problem. Now, that has possibilities, doesn’t it? The secret of Quirk Quinling’s guaranteed cure for sinusitis, only half a gold...’ When they did not laugh, his mood changed. ‘The Unmaker did this, didn’t he? It wasn’t just a random change by the ley. This was carefully thought out. The bastard has a cruel sense of irony.’

  Davron looked puzzled. ‘Pardon?’

  ‘I saw him, when I was rolling around feeling as if I was being turned inside out like a leech on a stick. Chaos, the pain! I saw him and knew who it was. He was laughing. He knew I was a nothing, a non-entity, so he’s made me even more so. Now I have no physical identity free of the background around me. I am always to be … blurred. A shade intangible.’ He paused, then swore. ‘Well, damn him! I’m more than that! You’re right, Keris, I’m a human being, not a blasted colourless iguana, and I’m going to fight that bastard and all he stands for even if it kills me.’ A moment later he gave a crooked grin, sheepishly amused by his own vehemence. ‘Which it probably will, I suppose. Kill me, I mean.’

  He’s right, she thought. It was a deliberate cruelty. A diabolical alteration tailored to mock an individual. It was all she could do not to sent Davron a look of pure hate. How could he even think of serving a creatur
e who delighted in devising such torments?

  ~~~~~~~

  On the other side of the ley line, Chantor Portron Bittle lay back on his bedroll, and tried not to remember what he had seen that day. That animal erupting up out of billows of ley, a confused movement of figures trapped in ribbons of misty colour… Scow, clamping a huge hand on his arm, anchoring him to safety, telling him Meldor had said the Unmaker was there. ‘There’s nothing we can do,’ the Unbound had said. ‘Not when Carasma is involved.’ And then, more kindly, ‘Davron will look after her as best he can.’

  But he did not trust Davron. How could he trust a man who played with the evil of ley?

  Then that final glimpse of Keris, naked, in the swirl of colour… A glimpse that had hit him like a butted head in the belly. Maker save and protect her!

  He remembered Maylie. Keris was so like Maylie ... like Maylie had been, when he’d known her. A strange mix of innocence and innate wisdom, of shrewdness and trust. Boyish figure, yet possessing surprising muscular strength. A nondescript face, hair of an indeterminate shade—nothing about Keris was memorable, yet somehow she could never be forgotten, just as he had never truly forgotten Maylie, though he had tried. Tried hard, for twenty years, and sometimes he had indeed put away all thought of her, until something came to remind him. A woman with the same turn of the head, perhaps, or the familiar habit of biting her lower lip when puzzled, or a similar way of sounding cross. And now there was Keris, who reminded him all the time of what he had once possessed, for such a short time, so long ago.

  Nine months, twenty years in the past; that’s all they’d had...

  And now he was once again travelling towards a woman and a child, just as he had twenty years ago. He had no hopes of recapturing what was past and precious; it had gone, swept away by the Rule. Whoever it was he was going towards, she was not Maylie. And the child would not be Maylie’s daughter.