The magician nodded. “That’s Lordkin and kinless. What of the Lords?”
“We met them before we found the forest. They showed us how to gather wood, taught us about Yangin-Atep and Zoosh—”
“Why would they know about Yangin-Atep and Zoosh?”
“I don’t know. The Lords have not always been with us, but they were with us when we took this land. They spoke to the kinless. They keep the kinless working.”
“But you are Lordkin. Are you kin to the Lords?”
Whandall shook his head. “I’ve asked that. No one says different, but no one says so either.”
The magician smiled thinly. “I see. So now you take what you want from the kinless, and the Lords gather from you.”
“No, the Lords gather from the kinless, seldom from us. They have their own lands, and the harbor. And…?”
The magician nodded. “All right. You know the story of Atlantis?”
“The land that sank. A long way from here.”
“Right on both. A very large land mass a very long way from here, and it sank because the swordsmen came.”
Whandall just looked at him.
“I was wizard to the fishing folk, human and mer. I was blessing a new ship at the docks. Attic warships came into sight, east of us. Hundreds. The captain decided I could finish my spells while we sailed for safety. I could have stayed and fought alongside the priests, but… it was too late.”
“Did you know Atlantis was going to sink?”
“Yes and no. Something was coming sometime; everyone knew that. A thousand years ago, priests of Atlantis were already making spells to keep the land quiet. The quakes were long postponed. We didn’t know they would come that day. The Attic soldiers must have reached the priests during the Lifting of Stone ceremony.
“After sunset we saw waves like black mountains marching toward us. Our ship floated above the water, but the waves below and the wind they took with them tossed our ship like a child’s toy.”
“And you brought water to Tep’s Town?”
“Wh—? Yes. Yes, that was me. It’s a good story. I’ll tell you another time.”
Nobody but Tras Preetror did that: traded information for information.
Whandall smiled. A mountain of ice had come from the end of the Earth at Morth’s bidding, scouring across lands belonging to the Lords. Whandall would know if Morth told the story right, and Morth had no way to know that Whandall knew.
A long city block away, Tras Preetror stepped out of a shadow to intercept him. He wanted to talk about Morth of Atlantis. Did Lordkin deal much with magicians? with barbarians? with magic, other than their own peculiar fire magic? What was Whandall doing in Morth’s shop, anyway?
What was Tras doing waiting for him here? Whandall didn’t ask that. He said, “Morth is funny. He trades what he knows for what you know, like kinless trade shells for goods. Tras, what’s it like to sail on a trader?”
Tras offered strips of jerked meat. “I expect all magicians do that. Information is what they sell, in a way. What did you trade with him?”
Whandall ate. “Yes, Tras, but what’s it like to sail on a trader?”
“I prefer not to be reminded of my experience…”
Whandall waved and turned away.
“All right.” Tras Preetror looked at him hard. “It’s no fun as a deckhand. It’s different as a passenger, as a teller. Tellers do a lot of traveling. We get over being seasick quick, or we quit, or travel on land instead.”
“What’s seasick?”
How to survive seasickness, and how to survive a storm, and what you ate at sea—it was different for passengers and crew—and what you’d better eat on land to get healthy again. Weather magic and how it could kill you. Tras was skilled at telling. “You never know how strong the magic is when you’re on the ocean. The manna—you understand manna?”
Whandall shook his head. He’d heard that word. Where? On Shanda’s balcony!
“Boy, you’re going to owe me. Manna is the power behind magic. Manna can be used up. The man who learned that ranks with the woman who learned what makes babies. At sea there are currents, and manna moves with those. A spell to summon wind might do nothing at all, or raise a tempest to tear your ship apart. There are water elementals and merfolk.”
“Does Morth know about this?”
“Have you ever seen an old Atlantis ship?” Whandall shook his head, and Tras said, “The bottom has windows and hatches. It floats above the water.”
“Above the water. Above land too?”
“The most powerful did. No longer, I think. And the ships they built in this last hundred years, before Atlantis sank, they’re ship shaped. If some ocean current swirls away the manna, down comes the ship, splash, and then you don’t want windows breaking below the water.
“Sure, Morth knows about manna. Likely he thinks it’s his most secret secret. So, Whandall, are you thinking of taking up sailing?”
“Tras, we never see the docks. The Water Devils don’t want anyone else there.”
“That’s all that’s stopping you?”
Whandall had seen ships, but only from the top of Wheezing Hill. He’d be guessing. Well… “I can’t see why a ship’s captain would let a Lordkin on. Wouldn’t it be dangerous? What if a sail disappeared, or that tube they look through, or that big board at the back—”
Tras was laughing. “Rudder. Damn right it would. Whandall, you couldn’t buy or beg your way aboard a boat, and kinless can’t either, because most barbarians can’t tell kinless from Lordkin. You’ll never learn enough to steal a ship, and the dockside Lordkin won’t help you do that because they’d lose the trade, such as it is.”
“Do you think I could become a teller?”
Again Whandall was subjected to intense scrutiny. “Whandall, I think you could. You’ve got the knack already, trading information with me like a kinless sweets merchant. But anyplace these boats go, they know about Lordkin, and you have the look. You’d never be welcome—anywhere.”
Whandall nodded, trying to swallow his disappointment. He said, “Morth was blessing a new ship at the Atlantis docks when…”
CHAPTER
18
On a later day Whandall returned to Morth of Atlantis.
He lurked a bit before he went in. Tras Preetror seemed to be following him around, and he didn’t like that. How could anyone lurk, hide, spy, gather, with a teller hovering at his elbow? But Tras wasn’t about, and Whandall—Seshmarl went in and bought an acne cure for fourteen (not thirty) shells. It was an evil-smelling cream altered by gestures. It hurt when he rubbed it in, but three days later the ring-shaped inflammation was fading from his eye, and his pimples were smaller too. In a week his skin was clear except for the ringworm, and that was smaller. Morth gave value for money.
He came again and asked about love potions. Morth wouldn’t sell those. He considered it wrong to tamper with another’s mind. Whandall nodded and pretended to find that sensible, and wondered who the man thought he was befooling.
“I could have used a love potion a time or two,” the wizard said. “Can you guess how lonely it’s been for the last Atlantis wizard in a town of no magic?”
“You’re talking to a Lordkin. That’s lonely.”
“Yes. Come any time, Seshmarl, even if you can’t afford to buy. Wait now, I can do tattoos,” Morth said suddenly. “You’re Serpent’s Walk? Would you like a serpent tattoo?” He waved at an elaborate golden-feathered serpent, somewhat faded, displayed on one wall.
“Beautiful.” He’d never find money for that! “I have a tattoo,” Whandall said, and gave Morth a glimpse of the tiny serpent in the web of his thumb. “I haven’t asked for another yet.”
Morth looked down at Whandall’s hand. His brows furrowed… but he only looked up after a moment and leaned close into Whandall’s face. “A tattoo would be painful over ringworm and look odd too. But I see my cure is working.”
“Yes.” Whandall pointed at the feathered serpent and asked anyway.
“How much for that? Where the ringworm was?”
Morth laughed. “I’d ask enough to put a new room on my house, normally. Here… where would I find a client? Seshmarl—no, wait.” Morth took Whandall’s right hand, the knife hand, in both his hands. Bad manners. He spread the fingers wide. Morth wasn’t just staring at Whandall’s hand now; he was pulling it toward the oil lamp above them. Astonished, Whandall let him do that.
Light fell on his hand. Morth had an open face, not used to hiding things, but now Whandall couldn’t tell what he was thinking. He said, “You’re going to leave Tep’s Town.”
“Why would I want to do that?”
“Can’t tell. Maybe you don’t want to. Will you take a word from me?” Morth was still studying… reading Whandall’s hand. “Never go near rivers or the ocean. If you depart by land, it’s likely your own idea. But you might visit the docks and travel the rest of the world as an oarsman with a bump on his head or be carried in the bellies of a school of fish.”
Whandall had to clear his throat to speak. “We can’t go to the docks anyway. Water Devils don’t like people from outside. Morth, do you know your future?”
“No.”
“What can I give you to put that tattoo on my face?”
“… Yes. Seshmarl, I have some errands for you. And one day, when you are fully healed and your, um, bandlord has given permission, come to me. The tattoo will be my gift.”
There were days he came with no excuse but the whim to talk. He would watch Morth and his customers discuss their needs. Then Morth would hand them something from under the counter; or step to a shelf and mumble and wave, or only stand watching for several seconds before snatching up some box or tiny flask, as if avoiding invisible teeth, and give it to the customer with elaborate instructions.
One could ask.
Medicines for pain? Yes, Morth had those (but his hands stayed still and his eyes didn’t move from Seshmarl’s). For wheezing, shortness of breath? Morth sold a lot of that, especially after the Burning. He bought herbs from loggers.
Philosopher’s stone? Unicorn’s horn? Boy, you’ve got to be joking! Magical cold torch? Spell of glamour? Invisibility? Levitation? Those didn’t work here either. “I had a cook pot once that would cook without fire. Never knew what to do with it. Didn’t use it because I would wear it out. I couldn’t sell it because it wouldn’t work very long. Finally it was stolen, not that it will have done the thieves any good. Magic is weak in the Valley of Smokes.”
“Well, it would still be a pot,” Seshmarl said.
“True.”
“Is it that way everywhere?”
“Less so some places.” Morth’s eyes went dreamy.
“Why here?”
Morth shrugged. “Yangin-Atep. Magic is the life of a god. It’s like you can’t keep honey where there are ants. Atlantis had no god.”
“Can you do prophecy?”
“Seshmarl, to know the future is to change it, so that time wriggles like a many-headed snake. What you see is false because you’ve seen it. Even if there were magic enough, how could I read the lines in my own hand? We student wizards couldn’t even read each other’s lines; our fates were bound up together, tangled.” Morth shrugged as if great weight sat on his shoulders. “I read part of your fate because you might leave. See, time spreads ahead of us like this…” He reached above his head. “This fan. Your most likely future leads to places where magic still holds power. Traces of manna flow back through time to weave meaning into the lines on your hand.”
“I’m going to leave?”
Morth took his hand again and spread it in the lamp glow. “Do you see? It’s the pattern the lines make with the ambient magic, anywhere in the world but here. Yes, you still have the chance to leave, and you should still stay clear of water, except for bathing.”
Bathing? Whandall saw only his hand. He asked, “Morth, why would a magician live where there’s no magic?”
Morth smiled. “Seshmarl, that’s not something I’d tell anyone.”
Morth had said that Whandall would leave Tep’s Town. In his present state that seemed desirable. Had he healed enough? Did he know enough?
He tried to beg money from Resalet. “Just suppose, now, suppose Morth sells me a potion of easy breathing for Mother’s Mother. I might see where he takes it from. If it’s where the pimple salve came from, then that’s the medicines, and if he’s lying about unicorn’s horn, which is supposed to be priceless—”
“Stay out of that magician’s shop.” Resalet’s finger stabbed Whandall’s chest. “You don’t know what he can do. Read minds? Make you die in a month? He’s the man who killed your father.”
“I know that.”
“But does he? Stay away from Morth of Atlantis!”
If he couldn’t buy from Morth, was there anything Morth might want from Seshmarl?
He asked. Morth said, “I want to know more about the forest.”
“You buy your herbs from loggers. Ask them.”
“That is a very strange situation,” Morth said. “Lords tell the loggers where they can cut down trees. I mean, exactly where and which. They don’t log themselves—”
Whandall suggested, “Maybe they’re hiding something in the forest.”
“Yes, and maybe they just like telling people how to live their lives!” Morth took dried leaves from a jar. “Here, smell this. Do you know it? Does it grow there?”
“Wait… yes. Sage. Grows where the trees open out. It doesn’t kill, and it smells great when you walk through it. Hey, they use this for cooking at Samorty’s house!”
“Yes, it’s good for that and other things. What about this one?”
Whandall took the sheet of pale bark—rubbed it, sniffed it, held it to daylight in the doorway. “I don’t think so.”
Morth smiled. “Willow bark. I didn’t think it grew around here. What about this?”
Long leaves. “Yes. Foxglove,” Whandall said.
“It can be valuable. Do you know of poppies?” He showed a faded flower.
“I know where there are whole fields of them,” Whandall said. “The loggers say they are dangerous.” He didn’t add that he had been to the poppy fields and nothing happened.
They whiled away an afternoon. Morth was dubious: he didn’t want Whandall—Seshmarl—picking plants that were not quite what he wanted. That was dangerous. “Bring me the whole plant or a whole branch when you can, so I’ll know what I have.”
Morth sent him to where there were no loggers. Whandall didn’t want to meet loggers anyway: he was no child, and he’d be on their turf. Kinless or not, they had axes and severs. He sought Morth’s plants in the old growth and found them rarely.
On his second foray he approached the Lordshills from the forest side.
There was the blank wall back of Lord Samorty’s house. The tree had been cut back, and there were marks on the top of the wall where it had been repaired. Whandall watched the hill for a time. No guards… and if they chased him into the wood he would outrun them or lead them into lordkiss. He half ran, half crawled within range of the wall, then hurled what he was carrying. He was in shadow when he heard the splash. He didn’t wait for more.
But a pine cone had splashed into the laundry pond, and Shanda would know of it. She would know he was alive.
CHAPTER
19
Morth’s plants were rare, but they both understood that Morth sought knowledge too. He was using Whandall’s explorations to map the forest.
Morth wasn’t stingy with his rewards. Whandall collected medicines to ease pain and reduce a swelling and bring sleep. Foxglove leaves made a powder that would send a man into jittery mania just before a fight. Poppies yielded a brown gum that gave good dreams. All of these lost their power if not used, and often Whandall had more than Morth and Placehold combined would need.
He began trading them for favors on the street.
Morth always told how to use the powdered leaves. Sniff carefully. Never more than
once a week, and don’t ever heat them first. Whandall was careful to do the same.
Then one day he was summoned to Pelzed.
Pelzed was angry. “Did you give Duddigract some of your foxglove?” he demanded.
Duddigract was one of Pelzed’s advisors, a big man with a bad attitude, always muttering about what he’d like to do to the Lords. He was usually behind Pelzed. Today he wasn’t anywhere to be seen.
“No, Lord. We don’t get along.”
“He’s dead,” Pelzed said. “Some Maze Runners raiders came into the Walk. I sent Duddigract to deal with them.” He turned to one of the men behind him. “Renwilds, tell it again.”
“Yes, Lord. Duddigract saw the Maze Runners. Five of them. There were only six of us, but Duddigract looked mean. The Maze Runners looked scared, and I was sure they’d run if we gave them a chance. We could chase them out. They’d run, they’d be gone with no blood shed, and they’d drop anything they gathered. I started to say that to Duddigract, and I saw he had a leaf full of white stuff. He took a big sniff of that, then he stuffed a wad of brown gum in his mouth and chewed, then he took another big sniff from the leaf. We tried to say something but he just grinned, said it would be a shame to waste it, now he was ready to fight.”
Pelzed looked to Whandall. “You know what he’s talking about,” Pelzed said.
“Yes, Lord. I always tell people how dangerous the white foxglove powder is. The brown gum is safe enough, that just puts you to sleep, but the white is dangerous.”
“What does the white do?” Pelzed demanded.
“Lord, I don’t know. I just know that’s what Morth of Atlantis tells his customers. He never sells them more than a pinch or two of white, and he makes them sniff it there in the shop. He won’t sell them any more until it’s been a week or more. Brown he’ll sell any time, but not white.”
“Say more, Renwilds,” Pelzed ordered.
“I’d say that magician knows what he’s talking about,” Renwilds said. “Duddigract sniffed that stuff and got a big grin, and all of a sudden he was a wild man. He took out his knife and before any of us could say anything he was all over the Maze Runners. They were ready to talk, you know, brag a little before they ran, and we were all set to brag back, and there’s Duddigract with his knife out. He cut down two with no warning; they didn’t even get to draw. By then the others had their knives out and one of them cut Duddigract, and Lord, it was like he didn’t even feel it. Duddigract yelled, but it wasn’t like he was hurt, it was like the Burning had come. We were sure Yangin-Atep had him, but Duddigract didn’t want to burn anything. He just wanted to kill! He killed another Maze Runner, and the others dropped everything and ran. They were really scared, but so were we, Lord. When the Maze Runners ran, Duddigract looked at us like he didn’t know us!”
The Burning City Page 14