“No, I don’t mind. You’re easy to talk to, you know?” They waited until an elderly man, leading a well-groomed horse by the bridle, walked past them near the curb. “He’s not really himself.”
“In what way?”
“Well, he’s always been a bit self-important, you know? I mean, he really is important, don’t get me wrong, but now he acts as if he feels it, not like he has to keep reminding himself.”
This boy was brighter than he looked. “He’s less self-conscious, you mean?”
“Yes, that’s it exactly.” The boy was pleased at being so quickly understood. “It’s like he’s stopped checking to see that everyone is watching him.”
“He’s just achieved something astonishing, something no one else has been able to do—or so I gathered from what Practitioner Lowens told me. That alone should give a man all the confidence he needs.”
“You know, you’re very perceptive for a—a newcomer. But now Practitioner Metenari is suddenly insisting that he wants the Albainil man. Though he doesn’t say why.”
For a mundane. That was what Predax had meant to say. “Who can guess what’s in the mind of a practitioner like Santaron Metenari?” Elva said. The apprentice nodded. Elva allowed the talk to turn away into less personal areas. As they passed down an elegant street that Elva thought he recognized, he noticed that they were drawing the attention of a man standing out front of one of the town houses. This was especially noteworthy, given how everyone else was still ignoring them.
“There’s a man staring at us—don’t look!” Elvanyn rolled his eyes up. Practitioners would never learn to take precautions.
“Oh, that’s Ginglen Locast.” Predax frowned. “That’s his hotel. He must remember me from when I came to pick up Fenra Lowens’ things. She’d been staying here with that Albainil man.”
Elva glanced over his shoulder at the place as they passed by. The man turned his head and kept watching them as they turned the corner.
Fenra and Arlyn stayed there, he thought. This is the last place the White Court would look for them.
Nine
Fenra
MOST OF THE wooden chests, boxes, and caskets in Medlyn’s vault lined up against what would have been an outside wall if this were a real room. At least, it felt like an outside wall to me. I told Arlyn to rest and began going through every piece of furniture I could open. I had already found clothing that fit me, so who knew what other useful thing I might find? The first three chests, each solidly built of several different woods, were empty of everything but the scent of their cedar linings. Next came the clothes press I had already looked into . . . I softly whistled two surprised notes.
“What?” I had seen Arlyn much worse when the lowness was on him, but now, though weak, he looked alert, and interested.
“Another set of clothing,” I said.
“Clothing?” He turned his head slightly so he could fix me with one eye. “You’ve already found clothes, what’s the excitement?”
“These clothes weren’t here before. This press should be empty, and instead there is another complete set of clothing. Inner wear, outer wear, shirts, boots—look, even a hat. The clothes I found fit me, and I will give you odds these will fit you.”
I gathered up the top few items and brought them to Arlyn. He stroked the white silk shirt with his fingertips. Then his mouth spread in the biggest smile I had ever seen. For a moment I saw what he must have looked like as a child. Before the lowness. Maybe even before the practice.
“Do you know what we have here?” His eyes almost glowed.
Obviously he did not refer to the clothes. “I take it you do?”
“The jug.” He glanced around and pointed at where the jug still stood on the table. “It had juice in it when we needed juice, and exactly the type of juice we needed most.” He turned back to me. “And now it has wine in it.”
“Practitioners have been practicing containers to refill themselves for years. Not everyone can do it, but . . .” My voice trailed away as Arlyn shook his head. For a moment I thought I saw lines of silver in his hair, but it must have been a trick of the light. He was so excited I am not sure he noticed that his hands were very slightly trembling.
“The same jug, Fenra. The same jug. Juice when we needed it, wine when we wanted it. Very likely water when it comes time for that. All in the same jug. Don’t you see what this means?”
I started to shake my head, and then I caught a glimmering of his idea. There had been, I remembered, two different liquids in the pitcher in Medlyn’s office. “The jug had to have held all these liquids, but obviously not all at once. The forran on this jug duplicates not one specific space and time—when the jug held wine, for example—but all the different spaces and times in which the jug held liquids.”
“Exactly. And not only that, the jug provides the type of liquid needed at the moment of that need. Without the recipient specifically asking for it.” He gestured at the clothes in the chest. “Maybe even before we know we need it.”
“The way our clothing and our tools and wagons and weapons and all change from Mode to Mode, without anyone asking for it.” I shivered, the world suddenly a strange place.
“As if there is a small modality in every box, every container, every—”
“Every one? Most of these chests and boxes appear to be empty.”
“Appear to be empty—maybe they just hold something we haven’t needed yet. But even if it’s only the two we’ve found, the jug and this press, it’s still the most remarkable achievement since, since . . .”
“Since the Godstone.”
Arlyn shut his eyes, as if the excitement was draining his energy. “I don’t know whether Medlyn Tierell found this forran or created it.”
I considered, my own intellectual interest sparked by Arlyn’s enthusiasm. “I knew Medlyn had been working on something like this, a forran to connect various spots in space simultaneously, but I thought it was for transportation.”
“Either way, your old mentor had depths I’ll bet no one knew about. This is a spectacular achievement. What we couldn’t do with something like this.”
The healer in me rejoiced to see Arlyn so animated, so much a part of the present moment. The rest of me feared I was seeing the attitude that had created the Godstone in the first place. Medlyn must have had some reason for not sharing this forran with the rest of the White Court.
To distract Arlyn, I pulled out the rest of his clothing, tossing the boots to the floor, laying underclothes over the arm of the sofa. Arlyn began to pull his shirt over his head.
“Do you need help?” I asked.
He grinned. “Not since I was three.”
“Fine.”
Arlyn’s suit consisted of fawn trousers, a pale blue jacket cropped at the waist, the white silk shirt, a scarlet cravat, and a dark blue waistcoat. He dressed quickly and was tugging his cuffs into place when I handed him his hat. It looked very much like the flat-topped practitioner’s hat, except for the flat brim and the thin, pale blue band around the crown.
I closed the door of the press, wondering what I would find in it if I opened it again. “Just think, I can come back here at any time, find whatever we might need, and fetch it out to where we need it.” I looked up, frowning. “If only I didn’t exit every single time into that woman’s office.”
“I’ve got an idea about that.”
* * *
Arlyn
At first Fenra was reluctant to try tampering in any way with the locket.
“Right now this is our only connection with the world,” she pointed out. She walked back and forth in front of the couch, finally sitting down beside me, her elbow brushing mine. A little further exploration had yielded a pie safe containing one ham and one peach pie; what might have been a meat safe held dried apples and some kind of spicy sausage Fenra said we would take with us
when we left.
“Look, so far you’ve been opening it face up, as if you were looking at a book. All I’m asking is that you open it facing away from you.”
“Is that all? You half scare me to death and that’s all you wanted me to do?”
“Well, that’s the first thing I want you to do. I have a couple of other ideas in case that one doesn’t work.” I bit at the inside of my cheek. “There is something I’d like you to do first, however.” She waited without responding for me to continue. I’d seen her use this trick before, when patients couldn’t quite bring themselves to tell her what was wrong. I knew she could outwait me. “I want you to go back now in the ordinary way, back to Tierell’s old office.”
“Why?”
I flexed my hands on my knees. “Metenari’s had the Godstone all this time we’ve been dressing and eating. I’d like to know if our world is still there.” I saw the meaning of what I’d said dawn as her mouth fell open.
Fenra pulled the locket free, turned it over and over in her hand. “Would we still be here, if our world wasn’t?”
“I don’t know,” I told her. “When I used it—as soon as I saw what was happening, I stopped.” I could see her wondering if she should ask me for more details, deciding that now was not the time. “Afterward, my vault was the same, but whether that was because the change I made was quite small, or whether it’s something in the nature of the vaults themselves . . .” I shrugged.
She nodded, still staring at the locket in her hand. “Metenari was always very methodical, very careful and precise. I do not see him rushing into using the Godstone right away. If he is still the man he was, he will be taking time for more study, more research, before he tries anything with it.”
“I still want you to do a quick round trip, just to be sure there’s somewhere to come back from.”
“You should come with me.”
“No.” I started to shake my head and stopped as a wave of dizziness swept over me. “An unnecessary risk for just a test. You’re safer without me.”
“If I cannot come back for you, how will I deal with the Godstone?”
“The only reason you wouldn’t be able to come back is if Metenari has used it. In which case, nothing else would matter.”
I could tell she agreed, but from the hard set of her mouth, she wasn’t happy about it.
She looked from me to the cupboards and back again. “You cannot see the food. You would not know what was there.”
“Exactly,” I said. “Which is why you have to come back. One way or another, I’m going to starve to death if you don’t.”
She passed me the remaining piece of ham pie. “Keep this in your hands. Perhaps if you do not put it down you will not lose it.” She got to her feet and without looking at me was gone.
* * *
Elvanyn
Predax reported directly to his mentor on his return to the White Court. He handed over the map case and Metenari checked the seal just as carefully as the Red Court guard had. Elva would bet those seals were more than just wax.
Almost immediately, however, the practitioner’s expression changed, and he looked at the map case as if he’d never seen such a thing in his life. He stood for several minutes turning it over in his hands. Finally, he took the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger, eyes shut, just like Xandra used to do. Elva swallowed, though his mouth was suddenly dry. Lots of people do that, he told himself.
“Do you know me?”
Elva resisted the impulse to look at Predax and check his reaction.
“You’re Santaron Metenari, Practitioner.” Elva kept his voice calm, uninterested. Servants, he thought, were asked silly questions every day.
Metenari reached out with his right hand, as if he wanted to touch Elva’s cheek. Elva stepped back, the way anyone would. The practitioner seemed about to say something else, but at that moment Noxyn, the senior apprentice, walked into the room carrying a shallow willow basket full of scrolls, loose papers, and books, some so old their covers were broken and about to fall off.
“I think I’ve found something, Practitioner,” Noxyn said, ignoring Predax and Elva completely. Elva was happy to be overlooked. He’d be off duty soon, and he wanted to get back to that hotel. It was just possible that Fenra or Arlyn, or both, might return there. He could at least leave a message for them, just in case. He’d have to word it pretty carefully, so that no one but Arlyn or Fenra would understand.
“You may go.”
Elva had kept an eye on the practitioner as he spoke with Noxyn, and so he wasn’t startled by the sudden dismissal. Predax, however, kept looking back over his shoulder as they headed for the door. As he glanced at the apprentice, Elva saw another familiar gesture out of the corner of his eye, as the practitioner clasped his hands and tapped his lips with extended index fingers. Xandra? Elva shook himself. Impossible. And there was nothing he could do about it anyway.
Once out of the room he headed straight for the guard barrack, where he changed into his own clothes. They’d draw attention, but his experience with Predax made Elva think he’d rather be noticed as a stranger in town than as a White Court guard. Besides, his gun belts hung better over his deerskin jacket than they did over the guard uniform. Each piece of his clothing had been designed over years to let him carry his weapons comfortably. His jacket had extra layers of leather on the shoulders, to pad the weight of the gun belts, as well as an extra layer on his left side, where his sword hilt rested.
Elva tugged down on the right-hand brim of his hat until the feathers brushed his shoulder, and walked out the door, across the open space on the far side of the barracks and over the bridge. He thought he could retrace the route he’d taken with Predax without much trouble. As he’d thought, without the uniform—and the apprentice at his side—the few people who bothered to notice him looked him over frankly as he passed them, interested by his clothing, or his weapons, but nothing else.
Elva had once been told that it was impossible to tail someone through a city and not be noticed—if the target in question was alert. So he wasn’t surprised when he caught the middle-aged woman who turned away every time he stopped at a crossroads to check the street names. She was good, but he’d been at this game longer.
Now that he’d caught her, how to lose her? He stopped and took his bearings, pretending to check the sky for clouds. He oriented himself right away. He was a street or two over from the clock tower of the market. He took the next right—a textile shop had replaced the barber who had once been on this corner—and slowed down as he reached the old market building. Refaced in red brick, and with what looked like extra skylights, it was recognizably the same year-round market, with stalls, arcades, stands, and booths. And dark corners, and obscured exits. He hoped.
He walked through the main entry doors, looking around as if seeing the place for the first time. From the front entrance, a central series of stalls was flanked by two wide aisles running parallel down the length of the building, with another row of stalls set up against each of the outer walls. Every row of stalls was broken into smaller sections by narrower aisles running crosswise. The cobbled floor hadn’t changed, nor the high, vaulted ceiling, but the place was so much brighter that he began to worry. Then he realized the effect was created mostly by freshly whitewashed walls and clean skylights. Someone had also gone to the trouble of removing decades of cobwebs from the rafters. It took a minute to see that, from his point of view, nothing important had changed.
Most people who frequented the market thought the outer stalls were built right up against the plastered walls, but Elva knew a narrow corridor ran behind all those walls, connected to loading bays that allowed stall holders to move their wares in and out without having to force their way through crowds of customers. The place wasn’t crowded at this time of day, but there were enough people picking up fish or bread or cheese or meat or carrots or
potatoes to distract even as competent a follower as the woman watching him.
At least, temporarily.
As Elva moved along with the flow of foot traffic, slowing down and stopping from time to time to examine the wares more closely, he noticed that the stalls themselves had also been painted a clean white, and each now had a matching sign indicating the name and type of business. Elva found the sameness dull, but he supposed it did cut down on misspellings.
He bought himself a cup of hot cider and strolled along aimlessly, watching as a butcher sliced cutlets for an elderly woman hugging a small dog tucked under her arm. She noticed him watching, smiled at him, and used the small dog’s left paw to wave at him. The dog gave him a look that clearly said this wasn’t his idea of fun, and Elva gave him a sympathetic look in return.
Elva had been keeping his tail in the corner of his eye. The thin crowd worked against her as well, giving her fewer people to hide behind. She had to keep a greater distance, and let more and more people get between them.
He’d reached the section where the fishmongers had their stalls. Not much had changed here either. There were still the smaller stalls with only one or two people serving, and a couple of others where one senior person was flanked by a handful of junior women and men who acted as assistants, fetching, wrapping, and bagging. There were even a few runners who would be following the customers home with their purchases.
Elva looked for a chance to slip behind an outer stall and disappear down the hidden corridor, but nothing presented itself. He was almost out of the fish section and beginning to worry when two young men a little older than the runners started tossing fish across the aisle. Obviously a well-rehearsed game, one of them would pick up a fairly hefty fish, a salmon or perhaps a large bass, and sling it over the heads of the shoppers, as if the fish were swimming across the aisle. The young man on the other side caught it in his arms and cradled it like a baby.
The Godstone Page 20