by Martha Wells
Giliead nodded, studying the woman thoughtfully.
They went on up, finding the big room where they had first boarded less packed with people but still crowded, everyone babbling in unfamiliar languages. Ilias recognized some of the freed slaves by their ragged brown Gardier clothes. From here he could see there were round columns of polished green stone flanking colorfully patterned carpets and more of the cushioned furniture. There were glass-walled rooms along the sides, though they seemed to be empty.
“I don’t see Gerard.” Giliead let out his breath, sounding both resigned and annoyed. “This is going to be like looking for a pebble in a quarry. Any ideas?”
“No…. Wait, there’s somebody.” Craning his neck, Ilias saw a familiar sleek blond head bobbing through the crowd and started forward, shouldering his way through. It was the other wizard, Niles.
“Hey,” he called when he was in earshot. “Niles.”
The man turned, a little startled, and eyed them dubiously.
“We need to find Gerard,” Ilias said. He was annoyed to find himself speaking slowly, as if that would help. The only word the man would recognize was the other wizard’s name.
Niles lifted his brows, enlightened, and motioned for them to follow, turning to head for the opposite end of the big chamber. It was easier this time because people had noticed them and were moving aside, mostly so they could stare. It didn’t bother Ilias since he had done his share of that in the Rienish city. And it wasn’t unfriendly staring, like the Gardier or when he and Giliead had traveled to an enemy city or port; it was just honest curiosity.
Niles led them to the back of the big chamber, down a short corridor where the tile floor turned to rich green carpet. It opened into another stairwell, this one gently lit by cloudy glass panels in the walls, each etched with graceful waterbirds and plants. They went up a couple of decks, through an empty carpeted chamber, then a metal door that led to another stairway, this one narrow and without the colorful appointments of the others. The walls here were just the bare metal bones of the ship and as they went up Ilias caught the scent of damp outdoor air, as if a hatch was open somewhere. He wondered how far they were above the water. “How do you steer something like this,” he said softly. It must be like trying to steer a floating city.
Giliead shook his head slightly. “The steering platform has to be in the bow.”
“But how does that work?” Ilias protested. They came up into a short passage with four doors and Niles chose one, stepping inside. Ilias looked cautiously past him, seeing a room with wooden walls unadorned except for two small windows looking out into a cloudy gray sky. In the corner there was a long cabinet with narrow drawers, very like the one where they had found the maps inside the Gardier’s flying whale. The men in the room were leaning over a big table spread with maps and papers, studying them intently. Permeating the air was the strong odor of that awful drink the Rienish seemed unable to live without. The Rienish sailors had identical clothing the way the Gardier did, but instead of dull brown they wore short dark blue jackets with bands of red on the upper arms, the front decorated with small round ornaments of bright metal. The color of their clothes can’t be the only difference between them and the Gardier, Ilias thought, feeling a little uncertain in spite of himself. He glanced up at Giliead, whose brow quirked, as if he was thinking the same.
Then past the other men he saw Gerard, leaning over the table and looking reassuringly ordinary in his Syprian clothes.
“Gerard,” Ilias said in relief.
“There you are.” Gerard straightened up. He spoke to Niles for a moment in Rienish, then adjusted the pieces of glass he wore over his eyes and switched back to Syrnaic to ask them, “Everything all right? Oh, this is the shipmaster, Captain Marais.”
One of the other men glanced up, studied them with sharp attention, nodding as Gerard repeated their names. Ilias was surprised to see how young he looked, though his face was reddened and weathered from long experience at sea.
Giliead nodded to the man, then asked Gerard, “Where’s Ixion?”
“Ah, yes.” Gerard’s expression hardened as it always did at any mention of Ixion. It was one of the reasons Ilias trusted him. “We’ve got him stowed away in a specially warded chamber. Would you like to see it—him?”
Giliead let out a breath and glanced at Ilias. “Not really, but I should anyway.”
“How do they steer this ship?” Ilias asked, only partly wanting to delay the visit to Ixion. He was really curious.
“Ah…” Gerard looked around absently. “I can show you the wheelhouse, it’s right up here.”
In Rienish he spoke to the captain again, who nodded and waved them on. Gerard stepped to the half-open hatch in the far wall.
They followed him into the next room and Giliead stopped so abruptly in the doorway that Ilias stepped on him. A little wary, he peered past him to see a big room, the opposite wall lined with large square windows.
Green-gray sea stretched out in all directions and they were so high in the air the heavy clouds seemed almost within reach. Ilias had seen the view from the bow before but they were higher up this time; in daylight, even the half-light of the storm, it was far more breathtaking. “A floating mountain,” Giliead said softly.
The two men in the room turned to look curiously at them but didn’t object to their presence. One stood before the center window, holding on to a wooden wheel mounted on a post. Gerard exchanged a few words with the other, who nodded and made an expansive welcoming gesture.
Giliead moved further inside, still caught by the view, and Ilias followed him, looking around. There wasn’t much there he understood the use for except the windows. The other sailor stepped to one of the waist-high white pillars that studded the floor, taking hold of the lever that sprouted out of the top and pushing it forward. Baffled, Ilias glanced at Giliead, who shrugged slightly to show he had no idea either.
Gerard noticed and explained, “Those are the engine telegraphs. They’re used to communicate the helmsman’s instructions to the engineers in each of the four main engines.” He indicated the squiggles on the pillar’s side that might be writing. “Slow, full, stop, and so on.”
Ilias exchanged a look with Giliead. Some of those words hadn’t meant anything, but he thought he had caught the gist of it. It was more evidence that what all the Rienish were saying was true and that the ship didn’t really use curses to sail. Wizards—the wizards they knew anyway—would have just cursed these men below to do whatever they wanted. Not require them to read their orders from signal flags or whatever these things did.
Gerard nodded to the man holding the wheel. “The helmsman steers from there. At the moment we’re on a sort of zigzag course to avoid any Gardier airships that might be accompanying the gunship. Our advantage is that we’re much faster in the open sea.” He pointed to two glass boxes set above the center window. “That indicator shows the course heading, the other one shows the angle the rudder is making with the ship.”
“You steer with that?” Giliead’s expression was doubtful.
Gerard smiled wryly. “Yes, it’s a little daunting to know that a ship of…Well, of however many tons is being guided by that. Supposedly it can be moved with one finger.”
“She sheared off the end of the dock when she left port,” Ilias told Giliead. “And smashed a house.”
Giliead looked impressed. So did Gerard, for that matter. The wizard said, “Did she? I suppose accidents will—Anyway, let me take you to see Ixion.”
They went down this time, past endless metal corridors and places where heavy pipes covered the ceilings. Except for the steady movement underfoot you could forget you were on a ship. The air had a slightly bitter metallic taint to it but it wasn’t hot and moved as if there was a strong draft somewhere. The passages were as complex as the caves under the Isle of Storms. Ilias groaned under his breath, wishing they could leave trail signs. He kept telling himself if this ship was inhabited by anything other than pe
ople, the Rienish surely would have mentioned it.
There were trail signs of a kind; down here they were painted on the slick gray metal walls or doors and on the decks above they were embossed in what looked like copper or brass. If they stayed here any length of time, learning to read the markings would become imperative, but right now Ilias couldn’t see any pattern to them at all.
“How many wizards are aboard?” Giliead asked Gerard suddenly.
“Niles and I are the only Lodun-trained sorcerers on the ship that I know of.” Gerard glanced over his shoulder as they left a stairwell for a narrow corridor. Before they had left the room at the top of the ship, he had picked up a familiar battered leather bag and now carried it slung over his shoulder; it held the sphere, the Rienish god-thing. “There are a few others assigned to the Institute whose training was interrupted by the war, like Florian. The ship did stop to pick up more passengers at Chaire before creating the etheric world-gate; there may be some among them as well.” He hesitated. “I was told that when the border fell, the Queen released all sorcerers from army service to flee to Parscia or Capidara. I’m…not certain how many would have made it.”
Ilias glanced back at Giliead, who was unhelpfully wearing his stony expression. The thought of unknown wizards aboard made his nerves jump, but he reminded himself again it was different for the Rienish.
Gerard added more briskly, “I meant to tell you, I’ve spoken to Colonel Averi and Captain Marais and as soon as the storm passes and we’re certain we’ve evaded the Gardier gunboat, we’ll head back toward the mainland and put you all ashore somewhere near Cineth.” He added hastily, “But not near enough to alarm anyone in the city. You’ll have to let us know what would be a suitable spot.”
Ilias hesitated, not sure if they should say anything about the idea of an alliance yet or wait for Halian. He felt out of his depth. Brow furrowed, Giliead said, “We were hoping you would stay to talk to Nicanor and Visolela.”
“Really?” Gerard turned to regard them, his face serious. “We had assumed that would be impossible because of your beliefs.”
Giliead shrugged slightly. “It’s not…impossible.”
Gerard gave him a thoughtful nod. “I see. I’ll speak to the military commander about it.”
As they moved on, Ilias exchanged a guarded look with Giliead. At least it had been suggested and Ilias supposed that was all he and Giliead could do without stepping on Nicanor’s sensitive toes. Halian’s idea seemed only common sense, but considering how much trouble the council had had with the very idea of wizards as allies, they had a steep hill to climb.
More sailors, men and women both, came and went down here, either dressed in the now familiar blue or stripped to brief white shirts stained with sweat and some dark foul-smelling stuff. They passed through a room where three men stood guard, all armed with the weapons that shot metal pellets to kill at a distance. The Gardier used these too, but the Rienish insisted they didn’t need curses to work, but a black powder made from various metals. As deadly as the weapons were, they might as well have used curses.
“Here we are.” Gerard stopped in front of a heavy door with a round glass window in the center. “The wards I placed around Ixion should keep him inside. Considering I used the sphere and that Niles has augmented my efforts with his own wards, it should be secure.” Gerard rubbed his forehead, letting out his breath. “Of course, we also have the armed guards.”
Giliead held out his hand to the door. “I can feel the curses—spells.” He added the Rienish word a little self-consciously. From what he had told Ilias, Giliead and the others owed their lives to Gerard; if he hadn’t given them a curse to immobilize Ixion, they would never have gotten out of the Gardier cells. Not without making a demon’s bargain with Ixion himself.
Giliead stepped up to look through the glass and Gerard told him, “Niles and I believe your first instinct was entirely correct. Attempting to kill him would have been a mistake; I think if this body is still viable, the spell to transfer his consciousness won’t initiate. Such a spell couldn’t be cast in the usual way; it would have to be triggered by the sorcerer’s death or severe injury.” He hesitated, then gestured absently. “If he can somehow trigger it on his own, we won’t know until he does it.”
Giliead nodded thoughtfully. He held his hand close to the door without quite touching it. “It’s cold. Is that part of what’s keeping him inside?”
“No, that’s actually not magic. This room is connected to one of the ship’s refrigeration units. They create the cold.” Gerard eyed the door. “We thought if we made it somewhat uncomfortable for him, he might be encouraged to break cover.”
Giliead’s mouth twisted ruefully and Ilias thought, Won’t that be fun. He would have preferred it if Ixion never broke cover.
Giliead stood back so Ilias could look. Wary of what he might see, he stepped up to peer through the glass, feeling the cold radiating from the door. He saw a small metal-walled room, brightly lit. Ixion’s new body, still clad in the brown Gardier clothing, lay on the bare floor. The skin on his face had a white waxy look and his features were blunt, like melted clay. From what they could tell, Ixion had grown this body in his vats, much the same way he had made the howlers, the grend, and the other creatures he had created to populate the island. It looked uncannily like his real body, the one Giliead had decapitated last year.
Ilias stepped back, ignoring the cold knot in his stomach. It was just a body, locked in a room and held helpless by Rienish curses, but thinking that didn’t seem to help. “So when can we kill him? When we’re far from the island?” He looked at Gerard.
Gerard glanced at Giliead and let out his breath. Ilias sensed he wasn’t going to like the answer; Gerard looked exactly like a healer who was about to tell you that your leg had to come off. Giliead folded his arms and stared at the floor, as if he suspected what was coming. Gerard said slowly, “The problem is that this kind of spell is outside our experience. The books—and the people—who would be able to help are back in Ile-Rien, in the city of Lodun, trapped behind a Gardier blockade. And I suppose Ile-Rien itself has been overrun by now.” He shook his head, as if just remembering, as if the idea was still unreal. He cleared his throat and his gaze turned thoughtful. “One solution might be for us to take Ixion back to our world.”
Ilias ran a hand through his hair, looking away. And if he escapes and finds his way back? He knew Gerard was trying to help, but the thought of Ixion off alive somewhere, still plotting, with them helpless to do anything about it, was the last thing he needed.
Expressionless, Giliead said, “We’ll think about it.” After a moment, he added belatedly, “Thank you.”
Ilias heard quick footsteps out in the corridor and Niles, the other wizard, leaned into the room, his face flushed. In Rienish he spoke hurriedly to Gerard, who answered in the same language, sounding exasperated. Niles replied and they argued back and forth for a moment.
Finally, Gerard turned to them, looking both harassed and enthusiastic. “Niles believes he has an idea for protecting the ship against the Gardier’s disruption spell. It sounds unconventional, but—We can’t afford to be choosy at the moment. Can you find your own way back?”
Giliead nodded, saying, “Good luck,” as Gerard hurried away. Then he turned to Ilias, his face drawn in concern, taking breath to speak. Ilias interrupted him briskly with, “One of us should stay here. They don’t know what he’s like.” He didn’t want to talk about Ixion, not anymore, not right now. “I’ll take the first turn, you go get some sleep.”
Giliead hesitated, then obviously decided to accept the change of subject. He nodded, absently looking around for the door to the corridor.
“You know the way back, right?” Ilias asked, suddenly not sure if he did himself.
Giliead shrugged and gave him a farewell clap on the shoulder. “No, but I wanted a better look around, anyway.”
Chapter 3
Gerard asked Gyan what the god was. He asks ev
eryone that. Gyan said that didn’t the Rien have gods of their own? Gerard said yes but that they didn’t choose Vessels or give advice, and Gyan asked what they did with their time? Apparently no one knows.
—“Ravenna’s voyage to the Unknown Eastlands,”
V. Madrais Translation
Tremaine woke from a dream about being on the train to Parscia with Florian’s mother to find herself staring at an unfamiliar metal ceiling painted a cheery yellow. Through the bed she could feel the rolling movement and remembered she was on the Ravenna. The distant howl of the wind, muffled and rendered impotent by so much metal and wood, told her the Gardier’s storm still pursued them.
She sat up in the narrow maid’s bed, recognizing the warm lump next to her as Dyani. The girl was curled up around a pillow, sound asleep. Gyan was in the bed against the opposite wall, buried under a blanket and snoring faintly. There was a clock built into the paneled wall, but it was electric, powered by the ship’s system. It would have started up with the generators and she doubted anyone had bothered to go around setting the clocks in the passenger cabins. Tremaine scratched her head vigorously and tried to get her brain to focus. She needed to find out what time it was, where they were, what the hell was going on.
She climbed out over the other girl and stood, stretching carefully. Oh, God, I hurt. She had been relatively fit and used to hard work after her stint with the Siege Aid, but after the past few days her muscles ached down to the bone. She felt bleary and incompetent as she opened the door and stumbled out.
Everyone seemed to be asleep, piled in the beds, with those who couldn’t fit stretched out on the floor. Some of them had decided to shed their clothes and Tremaine, used to spending time backstage at theaters, regarded all the bare skin with bemusement. The lights she had turned on earlier still burned; she realized the Syprians wouldn’t have wanted to touch the switches. It didn’t matter as the electric glow, softened by frosted glass, didn’t seem to be keeping anyone awake. The air was warm but not too musty or close, despite all the people in the suite. She stopped in the dining area, reaching up to adjust the small vent near the ceiling. It was a round bakelite orifice spewing air, with a metal lever to turn the inner ring to cool or warm, or to close it off entirely. The draft from it was strong; it might be outside air, funneled through the ventilation system by the ship’s own movement. There were fans mounted on some of the walls as well.