by Martha Wells
Arites nodded slowly. “I think I see. Thank you for telling me that story.”
Tremaine had almost finished her meal when Ilias returned, planting himself at her feet. “Thank you for bringing me dinner,” she told him, self-consciousness returning.
He shrugged, shifting to lean comfortably against her knee and appropriating the last few scraps of potato. He was wearing her ring on a leather thong around his neck. She decided she could get used to this, and maybe it didn’t matter what anyone else thought. Maybe Ander can stuff himself. She noted Ilias’s hair was damp and he smelled like salt water. “Where did you take a bath?”
“We went to that bathing place we saw,” he told her.
Tremaine frowned thoughtfully at the top of his head. “The First Class swimming pool?” They had passed through the pool room earlier today to find that Lady Aviler’s group had had it opened as a way to try to keep the younger refugees occupied. The pool was filled with salt water from the ship’s unlimited supply and housed in a large tiled chamber with a mother-of-pearl ceiling. Ilias and Giliead had both been impressed. Tremaine just wished somebody would open the steam bath and other special services in the rooms off the pool’s gallery, but she supposed they couldn’t have everything.
“That’s it,” he agreed. She processed the fact that his clothes were perfectly dry. Syprians didn’t seem to have much in the way of nudity taboos, even in public. I suspect I’ll hear about this tomorrow.
Giliead came into the room and flung himself down on the bed. From his disgruntled expression, she suspected he had been prowling the suite looking for a relative to start a fight with and was bitter at coming up empty. It didn’t surprise her; he had been worked up all day to kill a wizard and been balked again and again. Ilias, either less bloodthirsty or just more easily distracted, poked at her dinner thoughtfully, asking, “What do you call this again?”
“The white part is potato, the red part is tomato.” The Syprians found most Rienish food palatable, if strange. The only thing they had refused to eat that she knew of was the cranberry pie the kitchens had produced for breakfast that morning, on the grounds that cranberries were reserved for offerings to the dead.
Peering hopefully into the near-empty coffeepot, Tremaine heard Pasima’s voice out in the sitting room. “Oh goody, she’s back,” she sighed.
Giliead pushed up off the bed, his face set in grim lines, headed for the door. And the ring keeper strikes the bell for round two, Tremaine thought, eyeing his expression. Arites was still engrossed in his writing, but she saw him wince in anticipation. Hopefully it would cut up Pasima’s peace as much as it would everyone else’s. Obviously thinking the same thing, Ilias watched his progress, his brows drawn together in concern. Then as Giliead strode past he stretched out a foot and tripped him.
Giliead stumbled forward and slammed his shoulder into the doorframe, barely catching himself. He glared down at Ilias incredulously. Ilias grinned up at him. “Got you.”
Giliead grabbed for him, but Ilias was already shoulder-rolling away, Arites having quick-wittedly snatched his feet out of his path.
After a brief struggle Giliead had his friend in a headlock, and Tremaine was watching wryly, wondering if Ilias had developed that instinct for deflecting possible family arguments before or after he had come to Andrien. Then behind her, someone cleared his throat. Tremaine twisted around to find herself looking at Captain Marais, standing in the doorway. “Miss Valiarde,” he greeted her calmly. “The cabin door was open.”
“Oh, yes. It got broken.” She sat up hastily, putting her cup aside and gesturing to a chair. “Captain Marais, won’t you sit down?” And why in God’s name are you here? She wasn’t aware he ever left the wheelhouse, and if he wanted to talk to any of them, he could have had them summoned there.
Giliead released Ilias and both eyed the male interloper in their territory with wary cordiality. Businesslike, Marais nodded to them, as if finding them rolling around on the floor like oversized puppies was an everyday occurrence. He took the straight-backed chair at the desk, turning it around and taking a seat. Giliead dropped down onto the bed again, but Ilias stayed sprawled on the floor, propping himself up on an elbow. Arites shifted around to face Marais, attentively prepared to take notes. Marais glanced at their Syprian stenographer with mild curiosity, and explained to Tremaine, “I wanted to ask your friends some questions.”
“Ah.” She managed not to look immediately suspicious and defensive. “About what?”
He lifted a brow at her, and she wasn’t sure she had succeeded. But he said only, “Just a possible problem with our course.” He sat forward, frowning and pressing his fingers together. “You may know that the Ravenna was fitted with a wireless detection system before the war.” He saw her blank look and elaborated, “It’s an experimental system to detect icebergs in the path of ships by sending out a wireless signal. If the signal strikes a large solid mass, it bounces back and is picked up by the detection device. It was under study at Lodun before the war started.”
Ilias sat up, demanding impatiently, “What’s he saying?” Giliead was regarding her with lifted brows and Arites had his pen poised impatiently.
“I don’t know yet, just wait,” she told them in Syrnaic. Gesturing for Marais to continue, she switched to Rienish to say, “Sorry, just try to ignore them.”
The captain cleared his throat and forged ahead. “We’ve been using the device throughout the voyage. This morning it returned a signal to us.”
Tremaine frowned. “So we’re nearing land? But it’s not Capidara?”
“No, not yet.”
“Huh. I’ll ask them, but you know they don’t sail too far from the coast of the Syrnai.” She paraphrased Marais’s account in Syrnaic.
It took a while to get them past the explanation of the wireless detection system, but once there, Ilias scratched his chin thoughtfully and said, “It could be the Walls.”
“The Walls?” Tremaine repeated, having to hold on to her patience. “And that would be?”
“The Walls of the World,” Arites elaborated eagerly. “You don’t have that where you come from? It’s mountains that stick up out of the sea. Like islands, but they’re all connected. And there are old cities there, like the ones on the Isle of Storms. I hope that’s what it is. It’ll make a wonderful story.”
“Damn.” Worried now, Tremaine tried to visualize the scene Arites described. “That could pose a problem. To put it mildly.”
She translated for Marais. The lines in the captain’s brow deepened, and he looked very much as if this information was not what he had been hoping for. Controlling his frustration well, he said finally, “If they knew this was here, why didn’t they mention it?”
“He says that a word of warning might have been helpful,” Tremaine translated.
“We didn’t know it was really here.” Giliead sat up, propping his folded arms on his knees. The fight and the discussion had distracted him, and he seemed in a better mood. “We don’t know where here is, except east and more ship’s lengths from Cineth than anyone can count. And I’ve never talked to anybody who ever saw it, except Hisians.”
“They lie a lot,” Ilias clarified.
Tremaine absorbed that for a moment. “Not about this, evidently.” Hopefully, she asked, “When you say ‘Walls of the World,’ you don’t mean all the way across?”
Giliead and Ilias exchanged one of those looks. Giliead said, “The stories say there are ways through, but I don’t know whether we should go north or south to find one.”
Tremaine passed this along to Marais. He reflected on it for a moment, staring absently at nothing, then got to his feet. “Please thank them for me, Miss Valiarde.”
Ilias watched him leave, frowning, then glanced up at Tremaine. “We’re not going to get to Capidara in three days, are we?”
She rubbed her face wearily. “I wouldn’t bet on it.”
Tremaine had trouble sleeping. The ship’s roll seemed worse than
it had at any point in the voyage so far, and dim thoughts of storms and sinking kept her out of deep sleep and in a half-conscious doze. Once she was certain she felt the ship sway over and back upright, as if it was making one of its high-speed turns. She finally woke to Pasima standing over her, shadowed by the light from the open door. “What?” she managed to croak.
After one last sweep of the interior crew areas, they had ended up in the maid’s room of the cabin. Ilias was a warm presence against Tremaine’s side, sleeping on his stomach, arms wrapped around a pillow. Despite the mane of tousled hair, she could see one open eye regarding their visitor with hostility. Tremaine wished she could share wholeheartedly in the hostility, but she felt Pasima would rather have stabbed herself with a hot poker than come in here unless it was an emergency. Pasima confirmed this by saying, “A man is here for you. I don’t understand what he wants, but it seems important.”
Tremaine heaved up on one elbow, by habit fumbling for the bedside lamp. As she pressed the switch and the red-shaded light came to life, everybody flinched, and Ilias vanished under the blanket. “What the hell…” she muttered. The rumpled shape on the floor was Kias, sleeping between the beds in a nest of pillows and bedding. “Sorry.” She switched the lamp off again. She had seen enough to know that Giliead was in the other bed, now accompanied by Arites. She vaguely recalled Arites coming in late in the evening and a minor scuffle as he had climbed over Giliead. She remembered Ilias saying something about Syprians not liking to sleep alone, especially in strange places. God, they must not have wanted to sleep in the other rooms with Pasima’s little band. Either Gyan was being a diplomat again, or there just hadn’t been room for him.
Tremaine clambered out of bed, managing not to step on Kias, glad she had elected to sleep in her cotton nightgown. She didn’t mind the half-naked and entirely naked Syprians wandering the cabin at night, but she saw no reason to join the parade, especially if they were going to have visitors this early in the morning. She recovered her dressing gown from the floor and pulled it on, stumbling after Pasima as the other woman led the way out and into the main room.
Everyone else seemed to be awake and dressed. Cletia, Gyan and Danias were sitting in the main room, watching their visitor curiously. It was a naval officer, his uniform cap tucked correctly under his arm, though his tie was rumpled and there was a coffee stain on his shirt. He took in her appearance and winced sympathetically. “Sorry to disturb you, madam.”
“Right. I mean, that’s all right.” Tremaine pushed her hair back, trying to see past the bleary film that seemed to be clouding her eyes. She found herself listing to the right. She grabbed the doorframe for balance, realizing it wasn’t because she was drunk or hungover but because the boat was leaning. “What’s wrong?” she demanded, suddenly more awake. She recalled the earlier turn clearly now; it hadn’t been a dream.
The officer just shifted his balance to accommodate the new angle of the deck, as did Pasima. “We’re coming about, madam. The captain requests your presence in the wheelhouse, along with any of the Syprians who might be able to advise him on our course.” He added uncertainly, “We tried to ring you, but no one answered.”
“It must not have woken me. No one else will touch the telephone,” Tremaine answered, distracted. He didn’t say that nothing was wrong, he just said that we were turning.
“Oh, I see.” She couldn’t tell if he did see or if he was just being well-bred. “Can you be there soon, madam?”
“Yes, I won’t be long.” He nodded and turned for the door. The deck was already moving back toward the horizontal, and Tremaine asked, “It’s the Walls, isn’t it? We found the Walls?”
The officer hesitated, then decided it was obviously no secret. “Yes, madam.” Another hesitation, then he shook his head, adding gravely, “It’s one hell of a wall, all right.”
The dawn view was best from the open walkway that jutted off both ends of the bridge, designed so a crewman could look down the side of the ship and warn the captain that he was about to shear off the end of a dock. The sight that filled the vista from sea to sky was enough to drive the lingering cotton fuzz from Tremaine’s sleep-dulled brain.
The jagged ridge of mountains rose out of the sea some distance off the ship’s port side. The upper slopes were green where small tropical forests clung to the rock, spilling over sharp cliffs in curtains of vine. Beaches clung to their feet in little coves created by folds of rock. Sheltered places were formed by offshore reefs and pillars of stone that thrust up from the waves. Approaching it by boat, anywhere, would be treacherous.
Giant clefts and crevices broke through the rock at frequent intervals, waves crashing through them. Leaning on the rail, Tremaine stared in fascination as they passed a giant tear in the mountain that went all the way through to the other side, big enough for several locomotives to travel abreast in.
None of these openings was even vaguely suitable for the Ravenna, though one of her launches might make it through a cleft without being smashed to pieces. If the pilot was skilled and lucky.
Gyan and a couple of ship’s officers, with Ander to translate, were standing on the deck behind her having a consultation about navigation. Gyan had a long wooden pole, marked with a cross brace, which he was using to peer at one of the fading stars in the gradually lightening sky.
Tremaine went back into the wheelhouse, where the helmsman and his mate stared worriedly at various monitors and dials. From overheard conversations she gathered that something called the boiler feed pumps were causing the intense interest, and if they failed all the turbogenerators would go down like a house of cards. Not that they needed anything else to worry about at the moment. Great, they’ve got Gyan out there with a stick trying to figure out where in hell we are, and the boilers might fail. She went back to the chartroom where the Gardier maps were spread out on the big table with Captain Marais, Colonel Averi, Ilias, Giliead, Pasima, Count Delphane and several of the ship’s officers gathered around. Fortunately, Florian was there to translate, leaving Tremaine free to wander around and scavenge from the room’s large supply of coffee and rolls. It amused her grimly to see Pasima’s suspicion, as if the Syprian woman thought they had conjured the Walls as a trick.
Tremaine wasn’t sure of nautical miles and distances, but the Ravenna covered a lot of water at 30 knots, and she had been paralleling the Walls for some hours without any sign of a break. The ship had come about late last evening when it became obvious that she was going too far out of her way for no reason.
“What about taking the ship back through the etheric world-gate now, instead of waiting until we’re closer to Capidara?” Count Delphane asked, studying the map with a frown. In the bright electrics of the chartroom he looked aged and exhausted, his gray hair thinning and his face sallow and drawn. He looked almost as bad as Colonel Averi. They know more about what’s happening at home than they’ve told us, Tremaine thought dryly, eyeing them as she poured herself another cup of coffee. If that was what the knowledge did to you, perhaps it was better they kept it to themselves. She sure wasn’t going to ask for it.
His arms folded, Colonel Averi shook his head. “The navigator’s calculations show that in our world we’re crossing through the Maiutan archipelago. It’s a hotbed of Gardier activity, and the sorcerers say opening a large gate for the ship could draw them straight to us. We will if we have to, of course, but it would be best to find the break in the range the Syprians believe is out there.”
Delphane’s frown deepened, and he rubbed his eyes. On impulse, Tremaine handed him the cup of coffee, and he took it with a muttered thanks.
Ilias saw she was back and came over to report, “The Walls weren’t marked on the Gardier map, but it does show something to the south. They thought it was an island, and they came this way to avoid it. Gyan’s trying to figure out now if it’s in the same place as the stories say the Wall Port is.”
Tremaine frowned. “What’s a Wall Port?”
“A break in a
Wall, with a trading port. None of us have ever been to one, but the stories say the breaks are big, big enough for this ship.”
“And the Gardier have something planted right in the middle of it. That makes sense.” Tremaine nodded, unsurprised. “Horrible inevitable sense.”
The ship’s telephone rang, making Pasima flinch. Ilias saw it and snorted derisively. “She should be up here when they blow the big horn,” he said, low-voiced.
Tremaine lifted a brow. “Perhaps I can arrange that.”
The lieutenant who answered the telephone was saying, “Yes, she’s here. Yes, I believe they’re all here.” He held the receiver up, motioning to Tremaine. “Madam, it’s for you.”
Tremaine handed her cup to Ilias. “It has to be Gerard.”
As she took the receiver, the ship’s operator said, “Hold for the hospital, please.”
In another moment, Gerard’s voice said, “Tremaine? Come down here at once and bring Giliead with you. The Gardier prisoners are dead.”
An early-morning hush hung over the ship’s hospital, where many of the patients had been moved off into the Second Class cabins on the same deck. Tremaine perched on the desk, Niles paced the office area and an exhausted Florian sat next to a distraught nurse. Giliead and Ilias were with Gerard in the Isolation Ward, looking at the secure rooms where the Gardier prisoners had been held. Dr. Divies was currently with the army surgeon in the operating theater, examining the corpses.
All but one of the Gardier had died in the night, apparently victims of a virulent poison. The only surviving prisoner was the woman, who now lay in one of the smaller wards in the hospital, with one armed guard at the door and two more inside.