Dark is the Moon

by Ian Irvine

  It was a bright night, a full moon showing just a crescent of yellow. They carried the net down to a place where the crust of salt looked firm enough to walk on, though Llian had no idea where to put his feet and twice Osseion had to haul him out of places that suddenly liquefied under his weight.

  “No, put your hands here, and here. Don’t you know anything about fishing, Llian?” Osseion rumbled.

  Llian smiled. “I’ve never even wetted a line; nor wanted to before today. But after a month eating skagg I will become the master chronicler of fishing. I have in mind to write a book: The Compleat Angler, I will call it.”

  Osseion roared with laughter, clapping Llian on the shoulder so hard that he fell to his knees and promptly began to sink into the quickmud. “It’s been written already, so I’ve been told,” Osseion said, pulling him out again. “But I’m glad to see that you’ve mastered the first lesson—never let go of the net. Now, hold it down, otherwise they’ll just swim under it.”

  Llian did as he was told while Osseion waded out into the water until it was up to his waist. His path curved around in a circle, he stamped his feet and turned back to shore. Shortly, after much heaving, they had a catch of half a hundred fat fish, a handful of the crayfish that Karan called clatchers and a red and gold water snake that reared up on top of the pile, its eyes glittering red in the moonlight. Osseion borrowed Mendark’s staff to flick it back into the water.

  They feasted on the fish, the clatchers and some unfortunate ducks; on lake weed and the pith of reeds that grew along the levee banks high above the salt. Three days they stayed there, drying fish fillets in the sun, then pressed on, much rejuvenated, and in another few days crossed off the salt plain onto the slope leading up to the high plateau. Above the first cliff they found a series of rockpools filled with gorgeously cool fresh water, and in the larger of these they bathed and washed the filthy rags that were their clothes. They stayed two days at that place too, feasting, for fish and fruit were plentiful.

  Llian spent most of that time sitting alone in the shade. He was now starting to build the Tale of the Mirror in his mind and any kind of company was a distraction. Karan did not worry; she had made a friend in Tallia and they were often to be seen treading water down in the shady end of a pool and talking quietly together—the one tall, black-haired and chocolate-skinned, the other small, flame-haired and pale as milk, with not even a freckle to show for the months of walking under her tent-like robes.

  “Come and join us, Shand,” Karan called one morning as he went by the pool. He had his head down and did not seem to hear. “Shand!” she yelled.

  He looked up vacantly, raised a hand then kept on.

  “What’s the matter with him?” Karan wondered.

  “I don’t know,” said Tallia. “He’s gone all quiet lately. Race you down to the bottom!” She upended, her long legs rising out of the water, then plunged down.

  Karan followed more slowly. She knew from experience that no one could match Tallia at diving.

  “What will you do after all this?” Karan asked on the last afternoon.

  “I don’t know,” sighed Tallia. “I feel that my life has come to a crossroads.”

  “You and Mendark are not…?” Karan enquired delicately.

  Tallia laughed. “That was brief and ended years ago. I still care for him and for the objectives he strives for. He’s done a lot of good for Santhenar, whatever you think of him. But my indenture is over now, and I think I’ll go my separate way when this business is finished. What about you?”

  “I don’t know—I’m all confused. I just want to go home to Gothryme. I can’t imagine how I ended up here now. It all seems like a nightmare.”

  Karan looked up and there was Shand, sitting on top of a lonely rock, staring out over the sea. She followed his gaze. The salt had an eerie beauty from this far away—it looked cool and inviting.

  “The Dry Sea is a great tempter,” said Tallia.

  Next day they went back into the blast of the sun to continue the long climb. They found the high plateau arid, the spring grass long withered, all but the largest rivers broken up into waterholes separated by long expanses of sand and gravel. Yet still there was game in plenty, fruit and nuts ripening on the banks, and they were never more than a day’s march from water. Compared to the Dry Sea it was a holiday.

  At the first west-flowing river they came to, the Aachim, master boatmakers that they were, stripped huge sheets of bark from trees growing by the water, hardened them over a fire and formed the sheets into bark canoes. After that they padded gently along all day and drifted down with the current for half the night as well. The days were mild and the nights wonderfully cool. Once, as they neared the western side of the plateau, it rained, the first Karan had felt for half a year. It would have been a pleasant journey, save for the ever-present shadow of Yggur at the back of the last canoe.

  After another week, more or less, of winding their way down through the eastern mountains, they reached the south road. As soon as they did, Yggur came sidling up to Men-dark.

  “What do you want?” Mendark asked sourly. He and Yggur had scarcely exchanged a civil word in the past month.

  “I’m worried what Rulke is up to,” Yggur said.

  “Pity you didn’t think about that when we had the chance to shut him in!”

  “That’s done with,” said Yggur sharply. “But it’s still not too late.”

  “We must have a weapon first,” said Mendark. “The flute, if you remember.”

  “You can follow that path. He is only one man—I have armies back in Thurkad.”

  “He is Charon! And he has a legion of Ghâshâd.”

  “I have a hundred thousand troops, blooded in battle. I’ll give him plenty to worry about.”

  “Then you don’t need me,” Mendark said with a thin smile.

  Yggur pursed his lips as though what he was about to ask was repugnant to him. “I… I have no money, Mendark. I beg you, lend me gold for my journey back to Thurkad and I will repay it tenfold.”

  Mendark snorted. “So that you can restore your fortunes and your empire at my expense, and pay me back with my own coin?”

  “I cannot deny that I hate you and will do everything in my power to bring you down,” Yggur said coldly. “But back in Katazza we declared truce, if you recall, and I hold to that. I know you care, as I do, for the well-being of Santhenar ahead of your own fortunes.”

  “What is your plan?”

  “To get back to Thurkad by the fastest way possible.”

  “By yourself—a blind man?” Mendark said dismissively.

  “I have a little sight. Enough! Will you give me the money?”

  Mendark reached inside Osseion’s pack, bringing out a small pouch, not much bigger than an egg. “Very well. Take this bag of gold, one hundred tells. See that you repay me a thousand in Thurkad. And after our enemy is defeated, the truce is ended.”

  Yggur took the gold. “Agreed!” They clasped hands, though only for an instant.

  Once on the road it was not long before they reached a sizeable town, where Yggur hired mounts and aides. The half-blind look he gave Llian before he departed was ominous. “Take care of yourself, chronicler,” he said. “I won’t forget you.”

  Llian did not answer.

  “Send word to me in Thurkad,” Yggur shouted, and set off for Flude at a furious pace, there to find a boat to take him home.

  They watched his dust spread and fade, then went down to the café tables on the waterfront.

  “We’ll go to Rude in the morning,” said Mendark, “and there, if Pender is true to his word, I will take ship east to Crandor and go overland to Tar Gaarn and Havissard.”

  “Crandor must be a beautiful country,” Karan said, a little wistfully. “I’d love to see it.”

  “It is beautiful,” Tallia agreed, “but then, so is your own land. I came through Bannador on my way back from Tullin last year. I’ll visit you in the winter, if I can. You must show me e
very part of it.”

  “You will be very welcome, but don’t expect too much. It’s a poor, droughty place, not like your land, where I hear it rains every month of the year and the soil is ten spans deep and the apples grow as big as pumpkins.”

  “I think that Crandor has grown rather in the telling,” laughed Tallia. “Yes, I’m going home for the first time since I left eleven years ago. I’d love to show you my country too.”

  “Perhaps you will some day.”

  “Look, Karan, there’s The Waif!” Tallia yelled as they hobbled, bow-legged after days of riding, down to the waterfront of Flude.

  At last, Karan thought. She was worn out from the months of travel, sick of everybody, even Llian and Tallia, and the knowledge that they were still two hundred leagues from home was unutterably depressing. She just wanted to be alone.

  At the end of half a dozen other vessels, as freshly painted and polished as the day they had left it, stood The Waif. Only the sails were bleached and tattered to show how far it had been in the past months.

  Karan could scarcely credit that the sour and importunate Pender she had first met in Name could be the master of this lovely vessel. Then a fat, rough-looking sailor appeared on the deck. No one else had quite that shape, or that distinctive waddle.

  “Pender!” she cried joyfully, sprinted down to the jetty and sprang right over the gangplank onto the deck.

  Pender’s grin nearly split his face in half. If anything he was fatter than ever, and more unkempt. Karan’s arms did not nearly meet round him.

  “Karan!” he yelled, dancing round the deck. “I never expected to find you here.” They had not seen each other since leaving Thurkad at the end of endre, mid-winter week. It was past mid-summer now. “What have you been up to all this time? And just look at my boat; did you ever imagine such a beautiful creature?”

  “Never,” she said, sharing in his pleasure, “save that Tallia told me all about her. And, she tells me, she is a part-owner.”

  “One-fifth,” Pender muttered glumly, for though he was fond of Tallia and would sooner have her for a partner than anyone, he would rather not share The Waif at all.

  Tallia came up and shook hands with Pender. He looked uncomfortable, as if something was preying on his mind. When she stepped back he said abruptly, “I have the books of accounts ready, if you would care to come down and check my reckoning. But I’m afraid that there have been many unexpected expenses…”

  “We have lost money?” cried Tallia, pretending dismay. “I did not…”

  Pender was scornful. “Of course not! Rates are as high as the mast, with the war. Do you take me for a fool or a villain, eh? We have a profit, though barely three hundreds of percent. Hardly worth the risk in this business, but I promise the next voyage will be better.”

  “Hardly worth the risk,” Tallia agreed cheerfully. “Well, we want to go to Crandor and come back again, as soon as you can make The Waif ready.”

  “Crandor!” cried Pender, greed wakening in his eyes. “Why, just last week someone asked me the tariff there. He nearly fell off his counting stool when I told him. We will measure our profit by the wheelbarrow load, after such a journey.”

  “How long to get ready?”

  “She is ready now, except for water and fresh food. We could go tomorrow if you wish it. The chandlers serve their customers quickly here in Flude. Unlike some places I could mention,” he said with a glint in his eye.

  Tallia did not wish to be reminded of their adventures in Ganport last winter. “I don’t think Mendark is in quite that much of a hurry,” she said, clapping Pender on the shoulder. “Now tell me, have you been keeping an eye out for Lilis’s father?”

  “Ah, Lilis,” sighed Pender, and Karan was surprised to see a tear in his eye. “How I miss her. I keep wondering how she’s getting on. The Great Library’s no place for a kid, hanging around with books and withered old book grubs.”

  “But it’s just the place for Lilis,” said Tallia. “Nadiril is a kind old man. He’ll look after her. What about her father?”

  Pender sighed. “I’ve looked at every sailor in every port I’ve been to, and asked in every inn too, but heard nothing at all. He was taken too long ago. Seven years, eh!” he said, shaking his head. “Pressed sailors don’t have a long life. I’m sure he’s dead.”

  21

  * * *

  THE RAINBOW

  BRIDGE

  They stood at the counter of The Typhoon, the best inn in Flude, while Mendark made the financial arrangements.

  “I’d like a room to myself,” Karan said without thinking. Then she held her breath. Relations between her and Men-dark were no more than polite at the best of times, and she expected him to point out that paupers had to take what they were offered. Her debt to others was now so huge that she had ceased to count it, but she felt it on her back every day. She longed to get away from it and from everyone. To have control of her affairs again, at last.

  Mendark gave her an enquiring glance, then nodded. Llian looked hurt but she didn’t have the energy to explain. Taking the offered key, she ran up the stairs to her room, locked her door and lay on the bed staring up at the ceiling. Peace at last! Blessed solitude! It felt wonderful. The only thing that could improve it would be a hot bath. Her last had been in Katazza months ago. Grabbing soap and a towel, she raced down to the bathroom before anyone else could take it.

  After that she locked her door again and went back to the thoughts that had been chasing around her head for most of the journey. What talent did she have that Rulke wanted so badly, and what had Llian and Rulke done together in the Nightland? Maybe the two were related. Did Rulke know that she was triune? What was so special about triunes anyway? She didn’t dare ask for fear of arousing suspicion.

  After a moment’s hurt feelings about the room, Llian had got used to the idea very quickly. Finding that it gave him so much more time, he began to work on his tale every spare moment. That irritated Karan too. He was so adaptable! Annoying man! Much more than she, for in spite of her feelings, she missed him day and night. Night especially.

  Mendark seemed in no hurry to head east. They spent several days at The Typhoon, a large, comfortable place built massively in an old style: thick stone walls, slate roof, wide verandas and small windows which left it dark inside. The inn was raised on a little knoll five or six steps above the broad promenade that ran the length of the port. Llian’s room had a large bed, a table for working and a balcony veranda outside. The weather was good, and an afternoon sea breeze moderated the summer heat.

  Llian found Flude greatly to his liking, and now that Yggur was gone with his accusations and his threats, he felt a great weight lift from him. He rose each day with the dawn, not at all his usual habit, and immersed himself in his papers. From the moment he’d left Chanthed, Llian had begun to make notes of his experiences, and even before they reached Thurkad last winter he had been putting them into a framework for his tale.

  He was in his element now, writing furiously all day, surrounded by his notes, enough to make another thick volume. By now every page of his journal, and a collection of scrolls and scraps of parchment, were twice or even thrice overwritten. Here in Flude he bought another journal to write in, a book of many thin pages. The cost was very high, six silver tars, and now Llian began to count with care the dwindling coin in his pouch. Into this book he entered all that had happened since Katazza, and began the first clumsy version, to be rewritten many times, that would become the third book of the Tale of the Mirror.

  The evenings he spent carousing in the bar or on the terrace, entertaining everyone with his tales, laughing immoderately and drinking even more immoderate quantities of the resin-flavored green wine, or the strong and astringent purple, and staggering up the stairs (sometimes falling down them again) in the middle of the night. Sometimes Mendark joined him in these affairs, and seemed much younger and more carefree, almost as he had been on the road to Zile, years past. They nearly regained
the companionship of that journey. Almost, but not quite; Mendark could not quite let go, and his laughter was just a trifle contrived, his gaiety a little forced. Nonetheless, Llian still looked over his shoulder sometimes, imagining Basitor creeping up behind him.

  Tallia was better company. She had the knack of being at home with whoever she was with, and making them feel at home as well. Once or twice she joined Llian at the revelry, drank with him bumper for bumper, topping each ribald tale of his with one of her own. She was in the highest of spirits, for she was on her way home. But she had many preparations to make for the journey, and after the second such night, to everyone’s regret, she did not come again.

  The Aachim, who had gone to a different inn right across town, were morose, indifferent or absent according to their mood, and seldom came to the revels. Their circumstances had cast a pall over all, and when the gaze of the revellers fell upon Tensor sitting silently in a corner, or Selial, white-haired and thin as a bundle of sticks, all the joy fell from them.

  Shand joined them on the first night, but like Karan he was withdrawn and became more so with each succeeding day. It was not that he disapproved, rather that the frivolity became less and less relevant as time went by, as he plunged deeper into remembrance of things long gone until he found himself in a place where nothing outside could reach him.

  Several days after their arrival, Karan was sitting by herself, brooding, when she noticed someone consulting a calendar on the wall. She idly asked the date.

  “It’s the seventeenth of Thisto,” said the man.

  It seemed somehow significant, though Karan puzzled for some time before remembering why. Today was the anniversary of the Graduation Telling. It was a year ago today that she’d first met Llian.

  She went back to her chair. Karan often sat there for hours, watching Llian tell his tales, or gazing at the sunset or the moon on the water (for the party was often held out on the veranda overlooking the quay), or the stars, or listening to the waves lapping at the quay. Since that night out on the salt with Tensor she had become more reserved. What she had done to him had shocked her deeply, as her rare fits of violence did. It was as if it had been someone else.