Sheri Tepper - Singer From The Sea

by Singer From The Sea(Lit)

  His Majesty nodded and smiled while marking down in memory what Delganor had just said. In the Lord Paramount's pocket was a small, off-world machine on which everything anyone said to him was recorded. In the Lord Paramount's luxurious rooms was another little machine into which, every evening, the Lord Paramount unloaded those parts of his day's record that qualified as "Delganor's presumptions." He did not wish to forget even one of them, and certainly Delganor's use of the words "our subjects" was a presumption, if not a damned arrogance.

  He smiled again, "You're very clever, Delganor. Really, extremely clever."

  "Your Majesty is too kind," the Prince demurred, though with little sense of satisfaction. Of course he was clever. He was so clever that the former royal heir had died "accidentally," and this old fool thought it really had been an accident. When this old fool found himself dying earlier than expected, as the Prince planned he should, he'd probably think that an accident as well. Delganor liked making such plans, which he found juicy and savorsome in anticipation. So far, all his advancements had been covert. Covert they would continue to be until he himself was Lord Paramount.

  "Will the Marshal confide to you about his daughter running off?" wondered the Lord Paramount in the same innocent tone. "Full of blustering apology?"

  "He'd be a fool to put himself in the wrong," murmured the Prince. "Though his naivete continues to surprise me. Even though he was orphaned at an early age and had no father or uncle to enlighten him, you'd think a man his age would have taken notice by now, would have asked a few questions, would have attended a few Tribunal meetings and started looking about for a candidate of his own. Instead he blunders about like an ape in an apiary, infuriating the inhabitants and missing all the sweetness! Well, if he takes good counsel, he'll not say a word. And later, when we get righteously angry at him, he'll be all surprised innocence, or do his best to act so."

  "Ah," said the Lord Paramount, with every show of disappointment. "I had hoped we might have a bit of excitement out of it."

  "Not soon," The Prince smiled grimly. "Eventually, yes, if Your Majesty would like to take part in the final act of our drama."

  "Thank you, no," murmured the Lord Paramount, leaning his head on his hand and smiling a secretive, bland smile. "Not at my time of life. Thank you. No."

  The Prince missed the secretive smile. The Aresian guards, who missed nothing that happened in that room, did not.

  12: A Short Trip to an Unexpected Destination

  The duchess had planned Genevieve's escape as well as she was able. Garth Sentith was as appropriate an escort as could have been found even with longer notice, but however thoughtful and sensible the plan, it lacked the necessary redundancies to cope with disaster, and disaster struck before they were well gone from High Haven.

  When they had come only a few miles outside Havenor, Genevieve's horse slipped on an icy rock and lamed the right front leg. Garth Sentith put Genevieve on his own horse, put the horse's pack and light saddle on his own back, and turned the lame horse back toward the city, letting it find its own way home, which it would in good time, lame or not. He would, he said, hire another horse at the next post.

  The post was a considerable distance off. Their night's travel on foot brought them only partway to the border between High Haven and the Tail of Merdune, and they were both weary by the time light oozed up over the eastern hills. As soon as it was light enough to see by, Garth began looking for a place to hide Genevieve during the daylight hours.

  "Do you think someone will be coming after me?" Genevieve asked.

  "I don't know," he answered. "But if they do, we want to be prepared for it. The horse is the problem. It isn't easy to hide a horse, so I'll look for a place where I can be more or less out in the open with the horse and you can be well hid. That way, the horse is explained innocently enough, and since there's no connection between you and me, they're unlikely to suspect anything."

  Genevieve agreed that this sounded sensible, and when they came across a wooded area at the foot of an east-facing cliff with a good many cavelets in it-though most of them were mere bubbles-they set up camp as Garth had suggested. The area was obviously often used by travelers, for there were circles of blackened rock, dried saplings laid across lower branches to provide framework for shelters, and even a small stack of firewood ready collected under the lee of a large boulder. Genevieve selected a small cave hidden behind some boulders about twenty yards away, where she put her own saddle and pack.

  At the back of the cave a fallen stone made a shadowed space, and she lit a lantern to scan for unwelcome inhabitants before unrolling her bedding there. The flame wavered and smoked, as though in a strong current of air. A few moments of poking and prying established that air was indeed coming from the back of the shadowed area where a cylindrical opening extended into the cliff, like the neck of a bottle. The air coming from this duct was surprisingly warm, which made her curious enough to squirm into it, pushing the lantern ahead of her. Two body lengths in, she found further movement blocked by a rusty grille some three feet across. Beyond it, something rustled and stilled, and rustled again.

  She squirmed out and went to ask Garth to take a look at this. He cut a sapling and used it to push his own lantern in far enough to see the grille, took off his gloves to feel the air, and nodded thoughtfully a time or two.

  "I'd say this could be a vent for the storage vaults below Havenor. Though they've no doubt grown in the telling, according to reliable people, they started out as extensive natural caverns that have been enlarged ever since the first settlers. I never thought much about it before, but it stands to reason they would need to let some air out and pull fresh air in. Or, the grille could have been put here in the long past to prevent someone's falling into a chasm with a hot spring. Either way, I see no reason you shouldn't take advantage of the warmth. You'll sleep better for it, won't you, Imogene?"

  "Yes," she said, after a moment, recollecting that she was now Imogene. "But there's a sound. Like something moving."

  "It's warm," he said. "And it's moist. No doubt siren-lizards or tiwies appreciate warmth, as you will if you put your bed in this recess. Tiwies are harmless and you'll be well hidden."

  "You are welcome to share the warm," she said, smiling wearily at him. "It's long enough for both of us."

  He patted her shoulder. "The horse won't fit, and we dare not leave the horse out of our calculations. No, the horse and I will be out there, and you'll be in here, safe, and we'll both get on with our journey as soon as conditions permit."

  They shared bowls of soup beside Garth's fire. When he had finished, Garth set his bowl on a convenient rock, leaned forward and said urgently, "Imogene, this unforeseen happening makes me believe we need an agreement in case of emergency. Your horse going lame has taught us that even good plans can go awry, so it would be best for us to be prepared."

  "Of course," she said. "I understand."

  "You are Imogene Sentith. You will need to remember your name, and that you are my eldest daughter and that I will be distraught over your absence. You have a brother, Ivan, and a sister, Ivy. Your brother is a stripling of fourteen, your sister a child of twelve."

  "Do I look anything like your daughter?"

  "No, my dear, you're much prettier, but then, no one here has ever seen Imogene."

  "Why are you doing this, Honorable Sentith?"

  "Not honorable, child, just plain Sentith, though I think you'd better get into the habit of calling me Papa."

  "Papa," she said obediently, feeling the word twist upon her tongue as if it had changed identities. "And do you call me Imogene?"

  "No, I call you Imma, and I hug you often, which you must not mind, for while I admire young women a good deal, I am faithful to my good wife, Ivalee, and I shall not bother you with unwanted attentions." He said this in a grave and bumbling voice, nodding his head, thus doubling his assurances.

  "I didn't think you would." Genevieve smiled. "I should know about the town
where we live, shouldn't I?"

  "There is little to tell about Weirmills. It is in a valley protected from both warm southerly winds and cold northers by the surrounding mountains, but it receives a good deal of rain, which makes the meadows burst with bloom, a good thing for the business of a perfumer, which is what I am. Weirmills is a little place, getting its name from the great weir built across the river to provide power to the weaving mills on either side."

  "And our house?"

  "The shop, a small one, is in the front of the ground floor, with our kitchen and living room behind it. We sell dried herbs and fresh ones, plus all sorts of herbal and floral attars and oils and mixed fragrances. Upstairs are the bedrooms, four of them, one for you, one for Ivy, one for Ivan, and one for your mother and me. We have good plumbing in Weirmills, for our people are wise enough to know it does not take technology but only determination to have clean water and a sensible disposal of waste, so there is a bathhouse and flush latrine at the back."

  "And what are we doing out here on the road, Papa?"

  "Well, we're on our way back home from Upland, where I've been bargaining with the Class Masters for several thousand bottles to be sent down the Merdune Lagoon in the spring."

  "What sort of bottles?"

  "This sort," he said, taking one from his pocket and passing it to her. The tiny thing was as long as her little finger, shaped like a teardrop stopped at the tip with a brilliant gem of colored glass through which the firelight glittered. "That's what they call their sparkle bottle. The stops come in different colors."

  "So the Glass Master story is real?"

  "Oh, yes, my dear. The story is real. When you must lie, my dear, lie as little as possible. That way you'll have the least to remember."

  "And what did I do all day while you were meeting with the glass blowers?"

  "You had a very bad cold, and you stayed the whole time in the little house I rented at the Crags-which is a kind of hostelry-nursing your poor stuffed-up head."

  She laughed. "That's easy to remember. It was a dull little house with two bedrooms and a common room. I saw no one, did nothing, went nowhere, right?"

  "Exactly. A dull little house with a smoky fireplace. You couldn't taste anything, so you weren't even hungry. And we arrived after dark, so no one saw you, and some days later, we left before dawn, so no one saw you then, either. If you wish, you may speak resentfully about all that, coming so far from Weirmills, to see so little."

  He nodded, still thoughtful, while Genevieve made sure everything she had used was cleaned and put away. Garth, on the other hand, left his bowl and cup and spoon where they could be seen.

  "You need to know the route," he said, as she was about to wish him good night. "The road we are on leads to Upland, with a fork to the right at the north pass road, a long, winding roadway to the coast, and south along the coast road is the little town of Midling Wells. If we are separated, one from the other, we will meet there, in Midling Wells, at Fentwig's house. And, if we are separated, you must think of some innocent way it could have happened."

  "I will think of something if needed, and I will meet you in Midling Wells," she agreed, wondering how in heaven's name she was supposed to get there if separated from her only guide. "At Fentwig's House. Well then, good night."

  "Good morning," he said, with a glance at the glowing sky. "Rest easy. I will wake you when it is safe to go on."

  She went back to her cave, spread her bedding into the warm recess, and crawled into it gratefully. The recess had been smoothed, either by man or nature, and though the surface was hard, she soon fell asleep. Some hours later, she was wakened by voices coming from outside. "Get up, I say. You! What's your name?"

  "Why, sir, I am Garth Sentith."

  "What are you doing here?"

  "I'm on my way home to Merdune from a business trip to the Glass Masters in Upland."

  "This isn't the road to Merdune! You should have taken the north pass road."

  "If I'd gone directly, yes sir, but I stopped a day in Havenor, to buy a gift for my wife."

  "And where's that?"

  "In my pack, sir. And be careful with it, please, for it's breakable." There was a moment's silence, during which Genevieve climbed out of her bedding to retrieve all of her belongings and bring them into her tunnel. From the light at the cave entrance, which fell high on the south side but not at all on the left, she thought it was probably midmorning. "Pah, a looking-glass," said one of the voices.

  The other said, "Have you seen anyone on the road? Particularly a young woman? On foot or ahorse?"

  "No," said Garth, "but then, I've been asleep."

  "Well, merchant, get yourself packed up. We're on our way north and we'll escort you to the north pass."

  "I don't want to trouble you, sir. And I'd like a bit of breakfast before starting out..."

  "Pack yourself up, I say, and go hungry until you're at the border. That is, unless you want to interfere with the orders of the Marshal..."

  "And the Prince," said the other voice. "Both of 'em are set on finding this young person, and to do it ex-pee-dishus-lee, we're to clear the roads and keep them clear, all the way to the borders."

  "That's it," said the first man. "Consider yourself part of the clearance."

  "Of course, of course," said Garth.

  The lighter voice said, "Meantime, we'd best look around. Be sure this one's alone."

  "Oh, he's alone, right enough. One horse, one rider, one pack."

  "Can't tell from that. He might be cleverer than he looks."

  "It's you want to be cleverer. Go, waste your time, I don't care." Panting with dismay, Genevieve, wriggled back toward the grille, pulling bedding and belongings along with her. It was farther than she had thought, but she kept wriggling feet first, deeper into the recess expecting to encounter the grille with her feet. Suddenly she realized there was nothing beneath her lower legs, nothing her feet could find on any side, and as she started to ease her way back, her ankles were firmly grasped by someone or something, and before she could make up her mind whether screaming would be a good thing or a bad thing, she was pulled down the tunnel and out, like a cork from a bottle, while someone whispered fiercely in her ear, "Shhh. Don't make a sound."

  Since the someone was busy gagging her, there was no significant sound she could make. Her bedding was pulled down on top of her, and the saddle and pack on top of that, and she heard the unmistakable sound of metal being latched.

  "There," said the voice in her ear, "the grille's locked! Even if they find the cave, they won't find you, not if you hush and quit struggling."

  Genevieve reminded herself that she did not wish to be found by either the Marshal or the Prince, and stopped struggling.

  Outside in the cave, someone bashed about. "Hey, Carton! Come see this!"

  Other shouts, murmurs, finally the sound of someone approaching the grille. "It's shut off back here! There's a grille over it."

  "Probably an old mine shaft," said the same voice that had accosted Garth.

  "But it's warm, Garton."

  "Thunkle, you're an idiot, you know that. Of course it's warm. There's warm springs all over High Haven. The whole valley was a volcano once."

  "Oh," said Thunkle. "I forgot."

  "Is it old? The grille?"

  "It's rusty."

  "Well, then. There's nobody there, is there?"

  "No."

  "Then come on. We've got this fellow to see to the border, and we don't want to waste any more time."

  Sound receded. In the stillness, Genevieve felt herself carried, heaved, then dropped carelessly, her head crashing against an unyielding surface.

  "Watch it," cried a voice. "She's not a sack of potatoes!"

  "I tripped," said someone else, sulkily.

  Genevieve didn't care. The blow had been the final insult, and she felt herself going away, somewhere else, into a buzzing darkness where there was nothing at all to think about.

  When she regained
any perception at all, it was of movement, her body being slowly jostled as she was moved by wheels. She could not move or speak, but she could see:

  Dim light far up and gray. Massive things at either side. Darkness mostly.

  She could hear:

  At least two wheels on the cart squeaked slightly, dissonantly, like an insect chirp. Slow drip of water into a pool, each plunking drop making its own tiny echo, the ripples spreading, reaching the edges and returning to intersect the new plunk to make an interference of wavelets. Something peeping, a lizard, perhaps, signaling others of its kind.