Havenstar

by Glenda Larke

  And so it was, after several false turns down dead-end valleys and several days lost in backtracking, they came within sight of the Fifth Stability. Davron signalled a pause and rode with Meldor and Scow to the top of the small rise overlooking the kinesis chain to check on their position, while the rest of the party waited patiently below. Overhead, the stingray mantas circled with lazy undulations of their wings, viewing the humans below with their piggy eyes set on the underside of their triangular heads.

  ‘More spies?’ Scow asked, noticing them. But neither of the others answered. There was no way of telling.

  ‘We’re right where Keris said we’d be,’ Davron said. ‘I can see the border town of Edgeloss.’

  ‘And the Minions?’ Meldor asked.

  ‘They’ve dropped back.’

  ‘Doubtless they feel the kinesis chain. Davron, we have to throw them off our trail.’ He turned to Scow. ‘I’m sorry, Sammy, but you and I and Quirk might have to enter the Stab. At least for a while.’

  Scow was stoical. ‘A few days won’t hurt us.’

  ‘Skirt inside the kinesis line and try not to let Chantry catch you,’ Davron said. ‘The rest of us’ll go in to stock up on supplies, and we’ll meet you south of Middlemass, in the Unstable. You know that canyon with the waterhole?’

  ‘Withering Hole?’

  ‘That’s it. We’ll meet there in eight days.’ He turned back to Meldor. ‘This is all coming to a head. We can’t go on like this much longer. I can’t go on travelling with you if the Unmaker has realised what you are doing. If he has, then the task he will ask me to perform will be either your murder, or the destruction of Havenstar.’

  Meldor gave the faintest of sad smiles. ‘Davron, I have never at any time thought it would be anything else. Surely it is obvious that there is a certain…inevitably about it. Destiny, if you like.’

  Davron dragged in a heavy breath. ‘A case of the fence stealing the crop, eh? And believing that, you have travelled with me all this time?’

  ‘Companion to a guide has been a good cover, as you know. You’ve suited my purposes, and where better than to have your enemy than under your nose?’

  ‘You think of me as your enemy?’ The unbearable desolation in Davron’s voice touched both of his listeners; it was the cry of a lonely man knowing his own abandonment.

  ‘You are my closest friend and my greatest danger. You will destroy me, or I will kill you. Or…just perhaps, together we will destroy Carasma first. As I have said before, I believe I will have warning of the Unmaker’s call to you. If that happens, you will die before I will let you destroy our dreams. You have my promise on that.’ He then added briskly, ‘Come, we waste time. You must ride on to Edgeloss.’

  ~~~~~~~

  Idly Keris watched the manta rays circling, pointed tails ruddering through the air to keep them on track. Minion pets? she wondered. Or just Wild, descendants of some of Malinawar’s vanished bird species, perhaps, for all that they were featherless. She felt a moment’s sadness. With the Rending, so much had gone or been irretrievably changed. Even if it was possible to restabilise the world, to banish ley, there was so much that could never return. Extinction is forever. A tautology she had read somewhere that now plucked a strand of helpless sorrow within her. Damn him. Damn the Unmaker.

  She pushed the thought away and looked over to Portron. ‘Chantor, will you still be riding with this fellowship after the Fifth?’

  ‘Oh, aye. I’m thinking so. As long as you do.’

  ‘You don’t have to. I don’t need a guardian.’

  ‘That’s a matter of opinion.’ He glanced towards Corrian and Quirk to make sure they could not hear. ‘I’m not good for much, I know. I’m not much of a rule-chantor, never have been. I hate confrontations. I should never have been placed in a Rule Office. I might have made a better devotions-chantor, or a mentor—I don’t know. But the Sanhedrin said rule-chantor and once a decision is made it can’t be unmade. But even I can see I have a duty towards an unprotected lass riding in a fellowship like this one. I’ll be seeing you as far as the Eighth.’

  She did not ask what he thought he could do to protect her. She knew it was a question he would not be able to answer.

  ~~~~~~~

  Edgeloss was much like Hopen Grat, yet in spite of its lawlessness, Keris was surprised at the surge of confidence she felt. For the first time in weeks she was safe. Here there were no Minions, no Wild. Here the land was not going to erupt beneath her feet, swallow her up or do anything else impossible. Tomorrow it would look exactly as it had done yesterday. Here she might be raped or knifed or robbed, but no one was going to use ley on her, rip her to pieces, or steal her soul.

  As they rode down the potholed dust of the main street, she drew in a deep breath of contentment. Not even the unsettling memory of the abandoned line of kinesis chain towers they had just passed, a good five hundred paces outside the present barrier, could disturb her sense of well-being.

  She glanced across at Davron where he rode beside her, to see that he too had relaxed. The tight look around his eyes had faded. For a while at least he did not have to worry about being ordered to embark on some murderous task that would turn his stomach. Within the stability he was safe from the Unmaker.

  ‘Where are we going?’ Portron asked him, looking around with some distaste. ‘This place is as bad as Hopen Grat.’

  ‘There’s a Chantry with a traveller’s lodge in the next town: Dormuss Crossways. There’s a shrine there to Kt Beogor, I believe—or is it Kte Sylgie? Anyway, doubtless you will be glad to be among your own kind again, Chantor.’

  ‘Indeed I will. And it’s Kt Belmatian, I believe.’

  Corrian removed her pipe and spat. ‘And what about me and my kind, Master Storre?’

  He gave her a teasing grin. ‘Stay here if you will, Mistress.’

  She grinned back, impervious to the slur. ‘Ah, nay. I’ll stick with you. Two nights, you said?’

  ‘Yes. Then we’ll cross to the south of the stab, buying supplies as we go, and leave from the south. You will have time to visit the obligatory shrines in the stability along the way.’

  She sighed. ‘More time on bent knee, or worse. I do hate these shrines that demand you approach flat on your belly, wriggling along like maggots trying to get out of the light. And as for Abasement kinesis: down on your knees, up on your feet, down on your belly, up on your elbows, down on your forehead— My old joints don’t like this kinesis business at the best of times, but Abasement is the buffalo’s arse.’

  Portron frowned, as if wondering whether to make some remark to exhort Corrian to behave herself, then thinking better of it. It was Davron who replied. ‘I don’t know why not,’ he said, his tone deceptively mild. ‘Those same joints or yours don’t seem to mind other sorts of exercise.’

  Corrian cackled and pulled her mule around to skirt what appeared to be a dead body on the road.

  ‘Should we do something about him?’ Keris asked doubtfully.

  Davron glanced down. ‘No. he’s beyond help. Did you know Dormuss Crossways is where Letering the Mapmaker has his shop?’

  ‘Is it? Will I have time to see to him?’

  ‘Of course! Unless you want to linger around the shrine all day.’

  ‘Not me,’ she said, low enough so that Portron could not hear. ‘If I was going to stay anywhere all day, it would be in a steaming hot herb bath, with lots of that lovely scented soap the chanteries make.’ She sighed. ‘It seems months since I had a good bath.’

  ~~~~~~~

  The chantery did not have any guest baths at all, but there was a public bathhouse next door so, for a price, Keris had her wish, scented soap included. When she slipped between two clean sheets on a real bed that night, after a hot meal that had not been cooked with beef jerky and old vegetables, she felt she never wanted to leave again. Yet, when she woke in the morning to the sound of bells tinkling as the chantors hurried past her room to attend morning Obeisance, and when she smelt the whi
ff of the rose-musk perfume used in the ceremony, she felt uncomfortable. The Rule was suddenly once again too close, too oppressive. With an inward sigh she dug around in her packs to find a skirt. Trousers might be all right to wear when riding in from the Unstable, but no chantor would tolerate her wearing anything but a skirt in the chantery of the town.

  Breakfast, hot milk and fresh bread still warm from the oven, was lying on the refectory table when she entered, although most of the chantors had eaten already. Davron sat at a long trestle table, alone.

  She made the morning kinesis as she sat opposite him and poured herself some milk from the jug. ‘Where’s Portron?’

  He returned the salute cheerfully. ‘Obeisance. Where’s Corrian?’

  ‘Dead to the world. She had a tremendous argument with the dormitory chantor last night, did you hear? She wouldn’t put out her pipe.’

  She sipped her milk, surreptitiously watching him. In the Unstable he always seemed tensely alert, yet calm. Now it was the opposite. He was relaxed, yet somehow his calm had vanished. He was fidgeting and seemed to have shredded most of his bread rather than eat it.

  ‘I’ll show you the way to the mapmaker’s when you’ve finished,’ he said. ‘I have to walk that way myself.’

  A chantor, who had been cleaning the other tables, stopped beside him. ‘Master Guide,’ he said politely, ‘we don’t waste bread here.’

  Davron looked down at what he had done, seeming to notice the pile of crumbs for the first time. ‘Oh, I’m sorry.’ He picked out the biggest piece of bread and popped it into his mouth.

  ‘It’s the Rule,’ the man said.

  Davron raised a puzzled eyebrow. ‘It’s the Rule not to make a mess of one’s bread?’

  ‘Not to waste bread. We grow all the grain we can, but we’ve lost a lot of land to Chaos since my grandfather’s day.’ He shook his head sorrowfully. ‘I heard they are thinking they’ll have to shift the kinesis chain yet again and abandon a village on the south side of the Fifth. That’s good farming land out that way. I keep on wondering when we’ll be able to move the chain the other way, taking land away from Chaos, but it never happens.’ He sighed and moved on to the next table.

  Guiltily, Davron upended a cup over his crumbs and grinned at Keris. ‘Let’s go,’ he said, ‘before I have to do kinesis penance for the wanton destruction of a slice of bread.’

  ~~~~~~~

  Dormuss Crossways was shabbier than any First Stability town. The houses were more ancient and the slate roofs were often so broken they resembled rubble rather than tiles. The people were also shabbier. The Rule in the Fifth was more oppressive and stated all non-encoloured citizens must wear grey, with black collars and cuffs. Boots had to be black and have a regulation number of hooks for the laces. Snoods and wimples had to be dark and even unmarried women had to have their hair done in braids tied with black laces. Men were obliged to wear narrow brimmed hats. Dressed in her fawn blouse and brown skirt, Keris felt colourful and far too conspicuous.

  Just outside the travellers’ lodge a few town workmen had dug up the street and then abandoned the workings. As Keris and Davron stepped out of their lodgings, they had to push their way through a crowd now gathered about the pile of unearthed cobbles, arguing heatedly. ‘I wonder what that’s all that about,’ she said.

  ‘The chantors were talking about it this morning at breakfast. It seems the Rule won’t allow anyone to quarry for more stone to make new cobbles, so someone decided they should just turn over the old ones to put the underside uppermost. Unfortunately they’ve just discovered that someone else had the same idea several hundred years ago—and now they’re arguing about which side of the cobbles is the most worn.’

  They looked at one another and simultaneously burst into laughter, sharing an appreciation of all that tale said about the absurdity of stability life and the Rule.

  They were still laughing when they were stopped a moment later by a rule-chantor. He was resplendent in crimson and gold, with the green braid of his rank and the purple of this Ordering adding still more colour. Both wrists were heavy with jewelled bracelets, and he had fringed his stole with lace as well as bells. His tricorne hat was ruched and spangled. Chantors in the First were always colourful, but Keris had never seen quite as much splendour as on this man. He held up an authoritative hand. ‘Stop, please. Tell me why you are dressed this way.’

  ‘Master Guide,’ Davron said laconically, tapping his chest. ‘And a pilgrim from the First.’ He fumbled in his purse and produced the leather tag of a guide, duly stamped with the seal of the Sanhedrin.

  The Rule-chantor looked at it and carefully handed it back, before glaring at her. ‘Your pilgrim’s pass, please.’

  She showed him the pass she had bought in Hopen Grat. He stared at the date, did a few calculations and then handed it back with a curt nod. ‘You Firsters,’ he grumbled, ‘you don’t know how to dress. If I had my way, you’d have to put on the clothing of the Fifth while you are here. You disturb the regularity of the Rule with your different garb, and it encourages disorder. In fact, the Sanhedrin should enforce uniformity throughout all the stabilities.’

  ‘I agree entirely,’ Davron said blandly. ‘Everyone should wear exactly the same thing.’ She just managed to keep a straight face until the chantor had disappeared around a nearby corner.

  They continued on their way, swapping tales of Chantry absurdities. When she related stories of her verbal battles with Nebuthnar in winter school, she was amazed to find she had the power to turn Davron’s casual interest into chuckles and finally into helpless laughter. Davron Storre, laughing? When he finally pointed out the mapmaker’s and then continued on his way alone, she felt a disproportionate regret. They had so little opportunity to feel carefree…

  And Letering was not there. ‘I’m sorry, ‘ his wife said, ‘but he’s gone to buy more skins from the tanner’s. I expect he’ll be back in half an hour or so. I’m sure he’d be glad to meet you, if you’re a mapmaker.’ She sounded doubtful, dubious of the truth of Keris’s statement about her trade, rather than her husband’s willingness to meet a colleague. ‘You can wait, or go for a walk. There’s a nice stretch of river further along the road. Real picture it is now, with all the wildflowers and the view across to the domain.’

  ‘Which domain is that?’ Keris asked, suddenly alert.

  ‘Tower-and-Fleury. Not a big place, mind.’ The woman laughed. ‘Even the Tricians aren’t rich around here.’

  ‘Oh. Would that—would that be the family of Alyss who married Davron of Storre?’

  ‘That’s the one.’

  ‘She’s there now?’

  ‘Oh, I shouldn’t think so. She’s married, after all, but then, what do I know? Tricians don’t tell the likes of us what they’re up to, do they?’

  ‘No. Not very often,’ Keris agreed.

  She left the shop and went to look for the domain, driven by an overwhelming curiosity, and a bizarre desire to hurt herself. Lovely Alyss, moonshine and quicksilver… She did not doubt for a moment Davron had gone there.

  The river was barely more than a stream and the domain house in the distance, long and low with a slate roof, was set on the opposite side surrounded by farm fields. The near side of the stream was a tangle of trees, bushes and undergrowth into which a narrow path disappeared. It was not the kind of woodland scenery Keris was used to; the Fifth was drier than the First and the vegetation was more stunted and tangled as a consequence. Still, it was suddenly good to see proper trees again, and feel grass beneath her feet, grass that crushed beneath her shoes. She set off down the path, catching glimpses of the domain house through the growth as she approached closer.

  What she did not expect was to see Davron.

  He should have been in the house, surely. Instead he was standing hidden among the trees, watching the buildings on the other side of the river, so intent that he did not see or hear her. She came to a halt, stood motionless, appalled. She was intruding and her intrusion was
unpardonable, yet she could not bring herself to move.

  From where she stood she could see he was watching two children playing in front of the house. One was a girl of about eight, the other a boy some two or three years younger. They were Trician children; she could see that much by the fineness of their black and grey clothes.

  A plump middle-aged woman came out of the house and called to them. The girl promptly caught hold of the boy’s hand and began to walk towards the door until he protested and pulled away. There was a scuffle, a child’s shouted protest and several giggling chases before both of them ran off into the house and all was silent again.

  It had been a short glimpse of ordinary daily life, without any particular meaning, yet it left her with a feeling of profound sadness. She glanced back at Davron and began to back away.

  He turned and saw her, and stopped dead.

  She thought he would be angry. Instead he stood like a man on the edge of a chasm, knowing any minute that the edge would crumble beneath him. There was no room for anger in his despair. She stepped towards him, unable to do anything else. ‘Why?’ she whispered. ‘Why can’t you go and see them?’

  The woods around them seemed hushed, quiet, waiting for his answer. He was silent for so long she thought he was not going to reply at all, then he said quietly, without emotion, ‘Because if I try, if I speak to my daughter, my wife will tell Chantry that I wear this.’ He touched his sleeve at the place where the Unmaker’s sigil was fused to his biceps. ‘I have not spoken to Mirrin—my daughter—since the day this was placed on my arm. I have never held my son in my arms, or heard him call me father.’ He looked back at the building on the other side of the stream. ‘Every time I come to Dormuss I stand here and watch the house, and hope that I will at least catch a glimpse of Mirrin. Just a glimpse. Often I stand all day, and I never see her at all.’