by Allan Cole
Perhaps a week passed, a week of increasing misery, before Lizard came to me.
"Beggin' your pardon, lady," he said, voice barely distinct over the wind. "But I've been thinkin' about the garbage."
Cold as I was, there was life enough in me to wonder what in the hells he was talking about.
"There is no garbage, Lizard," I said. "If there were, we'd eat it. So what's the sense in worrying about stuff we don't throw away? And if there was a surplus, there'd be no need to worry about spoilage or sanitation. It's too damned cold for that."
His fur parka bobbed as his head went up and down in what I supposed was a nod of agreement. He could have been grinning as well, but who could tell? It might be nothing but the permanent grimace we all had on our faces, fixed there by the bone-grating chill.
'That's what got me thinkin', lady," he said. "Nothin' spoils here. Which means any garbage thrown away by the others'd still be in a pit. And it'd all be as fresh as the hour and day the cook made each meal."
The thought of eating garbage did not revolt me. Instead my mouth spurted with juices in anticipation of a messy feast.
The trouble was, how to find the garbage pit? There was no telling where it might've been dug, especially since the settlement was nothing but rubble now. If there were no storm, we could hunt about and eventually find it. But each trip outside the shelter was a lifetime for the traveler, a lifetime that could be measured by grains falling in a glass.
My Evocator's faculties were nil. The storm's natural force, combined with the underlying spell of confusion, had fuddled my magical wits so there was little force I could bring to bear on almost any detail. I could have made a fire, for instance, if ours burned out. But I couldn't have drawn enough energy to fuel it Even the spell of warmth on our cold-weather gear had faded to nothingness. And that spell had been especially formed and cast by skilled Evocators who worked with the Chandlers' Guild. My chest of sorcerous goods had been lost with the Tern, so there was no way I could test to see if those materials had been affected, as well. I suspected they would have been, so there was no real reason to mourn their loss.
Which brought me full circle to my dilemma: how to find the garbage pit. A physical search was out Only magic would do. How could I accomplish such a thing considering the circumstances? I felt very small against the might of that storm.
Then it came to me that smallness might be the answer. The more I thought about it, the more it seemed that the less magical surface I presented, the better off I'd be.
Our last foraging party had come back with a great prize, the frozen body of a ship's rat found beneath a hearthstone. Donarius had clawed it up as he was searching the ashes for blackened crumbs of food. We'd all made much over him for his find and were eagerly anticipating the rat's body being boiled into a broth, and that broth and the creature's ground-up bones added to our next batch of gruel. Now that would be a feast indeed.
You can imagine the frowns I got when I asked for the rat Even men trained like these couldn't resist the very human feelings of suspicion that I might be demanding more than my share. I paid them no mind, trusting in their professionalism to keep their heads fixed tight to their necks.
I withdrew to a corner and the men went back to taking turns around the fire. They did their best to ignore me, giving me privacy for my wizard's work. It wouldn't be hard. The wind roared all around us, making normal speech impossible. It was easier to let the sound swallow you as you crouched before that fire for the small time allotted each person. For a few minutes you could enter a state of dreamy exhaustion where the outside world was faint and far away.
I laid the gray body before me. I fumbled my firebeads from my purse and draped them across the small corpse. I didn't bother breathing the little chant that would make the beads glow into life. I'd attempted it before, and knew even that simple spell—which every Orissan child knows—wouldn't work. But I thought I might use the beads as a focal point like a magnifying glass. At least that was my theory. It remained to be seen if the theory could be made to work.
I concentrated on the beads lying against the dead creature. I made my will a narrow beam, slender as a needle. I held that image, made the magical needle sharper still and narrower, with a wide eye to receive the thread. I slipped the needle forward as delicately as I could.
I felt a hum in the ethers. Something had been alerted! I felt inquisitive little particles of magic waft toward me. But the interest was mild and there were only a few bits—like a gentle puff of snowflakes—swirling about. I kept still until they were gone.
When it was safe, I prodded with my magical needle again. I pierced a firebead, felt a minuscule glow of power, and pressed on through the bead and into the rat's body. I left the magical needle fixed in the body and slowly withdrew, unreeling a thin magical thread from the needle's eye as I drew back.
In my wizard's eye I could see the thread unspool, a silver bit of gossamer waving in the etherous breeze. My mental fingers gripped the thread and 1 chanted:
"Fur and fang, Squeak and quarrel. Scurrying, always Scurrying...
Busy in the burrow.
Fur and fang, Squeak and quarrel. Seek in death As ye did in life. Scurrying, always
Scurrying... Busy in the burrow, Seek ... Seek ... Seek!"
The rat stirred. First its whiskers flicked, then its nose twitched and pink little eyes fluttered open. The pink dots darted about, then the rat suddenly leaped to its feet. It didn't wait, didn't linger, but dashed for the base of the rock wall. There was a slim depression there between a ground stone and the hard-packed pebbles of the floor. I held onto the thread, made myself small, and let the rat carry me with it
I tugged hard on the thread and then I became that rat diving at the depression. My paws flashed and the floor was scooped away and I saw a hole emerge, but it was small, too small. But my little rat mind began to squeeze and squeeze and then I was through that hole, jamming myself deeper and deeper, swimming through pebbles and sand as if they were water. Then the pebbles fell away and I found myself dodging out from under an earthen shower and then scurrying along a narrow tunnel.
My wizard's self felt cobwebs of magical suspicion fall away as I hurried along the tunnel. I was too small to be noticed by our unknown enemy. But I didn't let myself dwell on it: the wrong mental activity might raise an alarm. I became as ratlike as I could.
I thought, "Eat. Eat. Find eat."
And I scampered along, burning with rat's energy, every nerve end seared by a multitude of sensations. I could hear the storm raging above the burrow but it meant nothing to me. I was warm, I was quick, I was hungry. And suddenly I knew the way and I was taking a fast turn to the left as another burrow loomed up. I could smell eat. I could sense others like me thinking eat, eat. Scuttling along other tunnels like mine. They were full of challenging scents. I was measured for fierceness, so I made myself the fiercest of all. A ferocious scent rose from me like smoke and I felt my challengers shrink away. Except for one.
She burst out of a large tunnel and shot toward me, fast as a cat, agile as a snake.
She had one eye, a scarred ear, and long teeth that could bite through steel. She was the Queen Rat and had borne and fed and guarded many litters through her long lifetime. She had her pick of the males, the best food from the garbage pit that I smelled just behind her. I knew this Queen Rat had killed many rivals, maimed twice as many upstarts, and was now determined to do the same with me.
I feinted for her right—the blind side—but struck left. My teeth sunk into fur, then flesh. I ripped her snout, then shifted my attack downward, slashing at her belly. I felt sharp teeth sink into my back paw but I paid no mind, twisting around her until I found the spine. I snapped it in my teeth. The Queen Rat gave a squeal of pain, then went still.
I dived past her body into the tunnel she'd guarded. And there I found treasure—the outpost garbage heap.
I snapped the magical thread, breaking the spell, and I was myself again.
Every bone and muscle ached as if I'd just performed the greatest and most strenuous feat in wizardly history. I grimaced. So much effort just to be a damned rat.
Then I went to tell my comrades the good news: There was a banquet waiting for us nearby. A feast of old rinds, moldy peels, and gobs of grainy fat.
Their mouths watered when I described it.
We suffered much to raid that pit, but we ate every filthy scrap of it and mourned the last meal when that dismal moment came.
After that was gone the fuel was next. Our supply dwindled until only enough remained to make a cup of hot water for each of us at the beginning and ending of each day.
During those weeks, the storm never ceased. Sometimes it was a blizzard, burying us all in snow. Then it would sweep the snow away with winds as dry as desert gales that'd suck all moisture from you, turning your lips into rims of dried flaking sponge.
I don't know how we survived those weeks in Antero Bay. I've heard of other mariners who've suffered such things. Some of them, I've read, became closer to the gods and praised their names until the day they died for saving them from such misery. I can't understand why. As far as I'm concerned, they deserve a good cursing for tormenting me so.
I can't describe how cold that storm was. At first I thought it was like knives, and then I thought it was like a leech, draining me of all power, all will. I also can't describe how hungry we got. Again, those knives were first in mind. But then I thought, no, it's like something was eating me.
The other senses were assaulted as well, but after time only the cold and the hunger meant much. In a way, they even obscured pain.
We became like automatons whose clockwork was slowly winding down. Every motion was measured, carried out slowly and painfully. There were no flares of temper or hysteria, not because we were all so brave but because we had no energy left for such displays. A low growl or a single tear would have to suffice.
Then one day we awakened to find that we were one less. Priam had died. He was a good-natured seaman but had become even more withdrawn than the rest of us during the crisis and so no one could remember when he'd spoken last. One day he was a cup thrust forward for a ration of hot water, and the next day that cup wasn't there anymore. We all gaped dully at one another, wondering what had happened. Then we realized what was missing.
We found Priam curled up like a child in his parka. Cold and dead.
I suppose there was some sorrow, but shortly afterward I felt a change in the air. Men kept looking over at the bundle that was Priam's corpse. I knew what was on their minds.
I called everyone together. Fortunately there was a rare lull in the intensity of the winds and I could make myself heard.
"Let me speak plainly," I said. "There's no sense in polite dodgings about the issue at hand."
I pointed at Priam. "One of our mates is dead. And we're all sorry for it. Meanwhile, we all intend to live. Priam doesn't have any use for his body any longer. But we could make use of it, thereby letting us all live a little longer."
I looked around but no one would return my gaze. They all hung their heads as if ashamed. I could see the tension knotting in their jaws.
Carale cleared his throat. "I 'spect we was all thinkin' along those lines, me lady ... and wonderin' what yer opinion would be."
"Of cannibalism?" I pressed. "Let's give it the proper name. You can't duck it by making it sound better."
"Yes, my lady," Donarius broke in. "And I'll also call it meat, if yuz don't mind. For that's all old Priam be, just now. Meat."
I shrugged. "I agree," I said. "And I don't have any scruples about making use of it."
Everyone smiled and I could almost feel them inch forward, itching to get out their knives. I raised a hand and everyone froze.
"But I think we ought to consider what we're about to do," I cautioned. "If we eat poor Priam, it'll give us a meal or two. Then we'll be without once more. Except this time we'll know where there's more meat to be had. We'll start waiting eagerly for the next person to die. Then we might even start encouraging it."
"None of us be murderers, me lady," Carale protested.
"But could you be?" I asked. "What if we made it easy? What if I suggested that next time we draw straws and that the one with the short straw sacrifice himself? We'd kill him and eat him. It's been done before, you know. Sometimes there has even been a survivor or two."
Donarius shuddered. "I've heard such tales, Lady Antero," he said. "We all have. 'N' none of 'em have been pretty."
I said, "And all of the ... volunteers, shall we call them ... didn't necessarily go bravely, did they? A few screamed and begged for mercy. But it didn't stay the butcher's hand. For they'd become ... just meat."
I grabbed up a tin cup and a handful of pebbles.
"Instead of straws," I said, "we could use pebbles for our lottery. I could mark a number on each stone. Drop them in. One by one."
I did so, and the rattle of each falling pebble made the men flinch. I stopped at seven. Then I shook the cup about, making a loud clatter.
'Then all we have to do is"—I held the cup out by way of demonstration—"draw a stone."
Everyone shrank away from the cup as if the drawing were real and their lives had actually become mere stones in a tin cup.
"But I think we ought to decide what to do together," I said. "We should vote on whatever course we take."
I looked at the ground and let the tension build.
"Well," I said. "What shall it be? Do we eat Priam or not?"
The twins said, as one, "Not!"
Then Donarius and Carale: "Not!"
The others weighed in as well, and all voted no.
Someone sighed, and the men relaxed as if a great burden had lifted. One man even made a joke; I don't remember what it was or even if it was very funny, but we all laughed as if it were from the Jester of the Gods himself.
The storm's respite continued, and normally we would've used the lull for a hurried foraging mission. After Priam's body had been taken away for later burial, I called the men together again for a much needed talk.
"We've all discussed our situation," I said, "but it's been in bits and pieces. And I'm not even certain we've all been together in one group so all know the same things."
"We'd 'predate a word or two from yer, me lady," Carale said.
"Here's how it is," I said. "We can do nothing until the storm stops. When it does, we'll still be marooned. The closest place is the other outpost. But I think we'd better assume they've also been wiped out."
" 'Pears we're gonna have a long walk home, lads," Carale said, trying to be jolly about it and failing miserably.
"And cold as the hells, too," one of the twins said. The other grunted agreement.
"When do yuz think the bleedin' storm will let up, lady?" Donarius asked.
I answered carefully. As their Evocator, as well as leader, I had to make certain they understood but did not fear. Sorcery sometimes makes even the spell maker's skin crawl.
"I keep getting signs that it'll end any day now," I said. "There's a feeling of slackening—like this lull we've got now, for instance. Then it picks up again. Harder than before. But there's time between each lessening, so that gives me hope."
"Is hope all we gots, lady?" Donarius growled.
"Meaning, why can't I stop the storm or at least weaken it?" I said dryly.
Donarius nodded. "No disrespect intended, lady," he said, "but I been wonderin' that... from time to time."
"The storm might be early," I said, "but it is natural. Not even all the Evocators of Orissa and wizards of the Far Kingdoms could create such a storm. And it's so strong a storm that my magical powers have been ... limited. It's like they were flattened ..." And I murmured to myself, half in thought: "Flattened in a curve and close to the horizon ..."
"What was that, Lady Antero?" Donarius broke in. "About bein' close to the horizon or some such. What was close to the horizon?"
"Never mi
nd," I said, "it's something a scholar will have to figure out Back to the point. The storm has limited my powers. Why, I can only guess. But I also sense something not quite natural about the storm."
"Another sorcerer, me lady?" Carale. asked.
"Almost certainly," I said. "But the presence I sense is more like a ... chorus ... a faint chorus at that. And this magical chorus is somehow using the wind to make its influence stronger."
"Chorus has a sorter friendly ring, me lady," Carale said. "But you haven't talked 'bout it in such a friendly manner."
I shook my head. "It isn't even vaguely friendly," I said. "No, it's looking for something, all right. It's looking for magical presences, and anything it finds will be ... burned out, is the only way I can describe it."
I'd never experienced such a thing, but I'd instinctively felt my magical flesh squirm each time my enemy's presence had made itself known.
"That's why I've had even less use of my powers," I said.
I paused. Then, "Anything bigger than a rat trick will bring it down on me. And if it gets me, then it'll know where you are. And it'll know your business. And it's likely to disagree."
Donarius grunted. "I gets yer point, Lady Antero," he said. "I gets it very well."
"Pardon, lady," came Lizard's voice. "What do we do when the storm's over? And you get your powers back? What do we do then?"
"Conjure up a bottle of grog," I said, "and get you to sing us a good drinking song."
The men chuckled. It felt almost warm in that chamber of frozen stone. Someone started to tell a story. I leaned closer to listen.
Then the storm howled in on us again and we all scurried back into the snowbanks of ourselves.
I dreamed I was standing on a long blue shore and a silver ship came swooping out of a cloud bank. I didn't find it remarkable in my dream, although I gazed with interest at the straining sails, thinking to myself that it was a windless day. Then I saw—quite clearly—a woman at the wheel of the ship.