"I'm sorry," she said softly in Pellish. Rahniseeta had never imagined the wolf-woman capable of such pain over something that, after all, had to be done.
There was a tense moment where it seemed that they might not be able to get Questioner's tail free. Firekeeper drew her knife to cut it off, then in an apparent fit of temper smashed the plank that pinned it. This precipitated a minor avalanche, but the tail came free.
"Rope," Firekeeper said at last. "When we have him harnessed, you get on that windowsill or I put you there. I think he holding up that—" She indicated the "lean-to" board with a toss of her head. "And when we move him, it drop, and when it drop… "
Rahniseeta understood.
"What are you going to do?"
"I slide him slowly, then lift him, and we lower like Sky."
"And if the floor breaks?"
"That is why you on windowsill."
Throughout the long process, Rahniseeta had been periodically aware of sounds from outside. There had been voices, human and otherwise, shouting orders, occasionally calling up to them for reports on their progress. She gathered there were several different crews at work: trying to rescue the northerners, treating the wounded, and shoring up the tower as best as possible.
Now a clear shrill howl cut through all of this, and at its call, Firekeeper's head snapped up.
She howled in return.
Rahniseeta watched in amazement as Firekeeper's hands tied the final knots on the harness, moving as if unaware of what they did. Periodically the wolf-woman howled, the sounds high and keening, occasionally interspersed with argumentative growls.
The last growl, though, came from Questioner, and at the sound of it, Firekeeper rose stiffly and turned toward the window.
Questioner had said nothing all the while they worked over him, but that growl was clearly no moan of pain. It was an order, and Firekeeper had obeyed.
"Tell me what's going on!" Rahniseeta said sharply.
Firekeeper didn't stop moving.
"Truth say I must get Shivadtmon. I trust Questioner to you. He is my father, and I would not leave."
The wolf-woman's face was alive with grief and fear.
"Do what I say before and maybe it work. Truth say it might."
And on that enigmatic note, Firekeeper climbed heavily onto the windowsill and began groping her way up the side of the tower.
In the cool little corner of his mind that never stopped looking for the advantage, Waln assessed the different ways men faced death.
Four remained of the nine who had gone in. Tedgewinn and Elwyn were presumably buried beneath the collapse their foolishness had started, and as Waln saw it, the only pity was that they'd have such a large monument to mark their graves.
Rarby was somewhere down there, too. He'd been mounting the stairs when the crash came and had vanished in a cloud of dirt and stone. Nolan had been standing a few steps from the top, and had lost his balance. His raw scream as he fell still echoed distractingly in Waln's imagination, though it had long since vanished from the air. He had no idea where Rahniseeta was, nor did he care.
The survivors—Waln, Shivadtmon, Wiatt, and Shelby—crouched on an island where the two sides of the half-moon-shaped building met. The stairs had broken off beneath them, cascading down, each hitting the ones beneath until just stubs of stonework remained. The portion of the staircase that remained was nowhere near them—even if any of them had felt the impulse to climb up to the teetering remains of the stepped top.
Down wasn't that attractive either—not now that what had been hiding in the forest and the other towers had come out. Gigantic beasts prowled among the scattered stones—for not all the detritus had fallen into the shell of the tower—and here and there among them monsters could be seen. Moreover, not one of them was uninjured, and while the injuries were far from fatal, the pain reminded them of the risks they would be taking.
Yes. It was interesting to study the different ways men faced death.
Shelby was obviously shattered by the death of his older brother, so shocked that he felt neither anger nor regret. Indeed, Waln would be surprised if he felt much of anything at all. Shelby sat at the point where two corners of the wall met, the crossbow he'd somehow retained unloaded and resting idly between his knees. There was a nasty cut on his forehead, but the blood had mostly stopped flowing, leaving Shelby's features bordered in dried blood.
Looks like we have a new nominee for ship's fool now that Elwyn's dead, Waln thought, but despite the jocular cast he tried to give his thoughts, Shelby made him uneasy. There was no telling what his mood would be when he emerged from the shock, and Waln depended on having some idea how those he led would react.
Wiatt had proven equally unpredictable. He'd come close to falling—indeed, if one wanted to be perfectly technical about it, he had fallen, but he had caught the jutting edge of a broken beam and laboriously pulled himself to the relative safety of this aerie. In the process, he'd banged his right knee badly, and even wrapping it hadn't stopped it from ballooning up to twice its size. However, even with the pain from his knee, Wiatt's biggest worry seemed to be how the yarimaimalom would react when he reached the ground.
"You don't think they know I'm the one who shot that arrow?" he kept asking. "They couldn't have seen it was me, right? I was behind a wall then. Do you think they could smell me on the bolt? Surely they can't. I only handled it for a moment."
This, or variations thereof, spilled from his lips so continuously that Waln was rapidly able to ignore the sound as he ignored the sound of the wind when he was at sea. What bothered him more was that Wiatt had dropped his crossbow and bolts down among the wreckage.
But neither Shelby's brooding silence nor Wiatt's nervous nattering bothered Waln as much as how Shivadtmon was treating the situation. Initially, Waln had thought the aridisdu both composed and uninjured. He had been grateful for that composure while he had inspected the other men for injuries and inventoried what gear was left to them. That hadn't proved to be much. Most of what they had carried up from the Islander either had been left below or had been stacked on a floor that was now indistinguishable from rubble.
When Waln had asked Shivadtmon if the other had, by chance, held on to one of the bundles of rope, the aridisdu had looked at him calmly.
"I don't understand how this could happen. She invited me. The door opened. Why would she let this happen?"
"Maybe it wasn't her that opened the door," Waln said, "maybe it was one of those monstrosities. You saw them coming out of the other towers. They live here."
But Shivadtmon had responded to this sensible statement with a small shake of his head.
"Magic invited me. I am sure of it. Somehow I have missed something crucial."
"Well, if you think of a way we can get down," Waln said, "intact and alive, that is—the other way is easy enough—let me know."
Shivadtmon had granted Waln a distant and bemused nod, and gone back to staring at the ruined stonework.
All three of them driven mad, Waln thought, and so no help to me, but it would be best if we all got down. We've been through a lot, wouldn't look good at all if I left them. Of course, if Shivadtmon took a tumble, then we could claim he put us up to this—he did really—and it would only be his word against ours.
But then Waln remembered cursed Barnet Lobster, presumably alive and comfortable on the Islander, and knew he couldn't make that work.
Waln had tried to see if he could climb down the outside, but two things prevented him. A wrist he'd twisted somehow in the crash wouldn't bear his weight—but more important, he couldn't make himself take that step over the edge without so much as a line to cling to. He didn't like how the stone shifted and grated, how the mortar crumbed and crumbled. Give him honest rigging and he could still climb with the best, but on stone, with unforgiving ground beneath him, he might as well be a landsman.
Waln pulled himself back onto the relative solidity of what was seeming more and more like an island i
n the sky, and wondered why no one was getting around to rescuing them. He knew how his own people would react in a similar situation. All hands would struggle to rescue a sailor from drowning even if he was due for flogging as soon as he got out of sick bay.
Maybe these Liglimom didn't see things that way. Maybe—like Shivadtmon—they saw this all as a punishment sent by their deities, and it would be up to Waln and the others to get themselves out. That was an ugly thought, and Waln was still considering it when he glimpsed the fiery red hair of Derian Carter down below. He was walking with a large wolf Waln thought might be Lady Blysse's companion.
"Hey, Derian Counselor!" Waln shouted as loudly as if he were in a storm at sea, not thirty or so feet off the ground.
"Hey, Waln Endbrook," Derian replied, looking up. The wolf beside him looked up as well, his jaws gaping apart and showing a wealth of teeth. "Didn't you know Misheemnekuru is off-limits to humans?"
Waln ignored this banter, thinking it in rather bad taste.
"Tell me. Is anyone going to help us down from here? Even a line would be useful."
"There was only one rope here," Derian said, "and it's in use. We've sent runners to the boats, and then we'll see what can be done."
Waln didn't bother to ask what the other rope was being used for. He'd heard noise around the other side of the structure and assumed that someone—Rahniseeta most likely—was being gotten down.
"Runners will take a while" was all he said.
"These less than most," Derian replied. "They sent a couple of white-tail bucks. I wrote a note for Barnet. Hopefully, he'll figure things out."
Waln nodded. He'd wondered why Derian hadn't asked the obvious questions, like how many were alive, and how badly injured and all that. Then he'd realized that there must be those among the birds who could report to Lady Blysse. The thought made his skin crawl, even as he was grateful.
"You have water?" Derian asked.
"Some."
"Then stay as still as possible. You can't see it from there, I guess, but whenever you go pacing about, things start crumbling. They're working on shoring up things, but nobody has a lot of experience with this. Can your carpenter advise?"
"He's one of the ones who created this mess," Waln replied bitterly.
"Ah."
There wasn't a lot to say after that. Waln passed on the warning about keeping still, but Wiatt insisted on going close to the edge and calling down his interminable litany to Derian.
Derian seemed amused rather than otherwise.
"If they didn't know before," he said, "they do now. However, I think they're willing to leave you to the authorities."
Wiatt seemed relieved by this, and Waln didn't bother to point out that here the authorities were likely to be animals—or worse, one of those monsters. He'd kept shying away from looking too closely at them, but what he'd seen… Well, he'd been to New Kelvin, and he didn't think those were costumes.
Forbidden to pace in body, Waln did so in spirit, his mind swinging back and forth, trying to find the best way to deal with this once they were down. There was no question that they'd violated their host's laws. Could they claim they'd been bewitched? It had been an acceptable defense in Bright Bay until fifty years after the Plague. Would it work here?
"Shivadtmon," he called softly. "Do your people have tales of magic being used to influence how others think?"
The aridisdu looked at him curiously.
"We call it divine inspiration."
"No. I don't mean divine magic. I mean the human type—like that woman Melina I told you about."
Shivadtmon's eyes narrowed. "All magic is divine. Humans may misuse it, but Magic is one of the divinities."
"Forget it," Waln said, but Shivadtmon was looking at him very strangely.
"Magic invited me," the aridisdu said. "The master sent me. How can this wrongness have happened? Is Magic testing me? Is she seeing if I am faithful?"
Waln shrugged, trying hard to say the right thing.
"You're the aridisdu. Can you read the omens? Does Magic want something from you?"
Shivadtmon's eyes brightened with alarming intensity.
"Something of me… and the master has taught us what the deities want, what has been withheld from them for too long."
"Well, then pray to Magic," Waln said, hoping he didn't sound exasperated. "Promise her you'll give her whatever it is when you're down from here."
"Better," Shivadtmon said, rising to his feet and pulling his knife from its sheath. "I'll give it to her right now."
Chapter XXXIX
Firekeeper felt the instability in the stonework as she climbed, but by now she trusted Truth—or at least the jaguar's ability to see what was important.
This time her climb was as much horizontal as vertical, going along the rounded edge of the tower before pushing upward. Here she did not have as far up to go. At this point, the fourth-story walls had almost completely collapsed, and rather than climbing to a window ledge, she simply went through a hole in what had been the outer wall. A few smaller stones crashed down in her wake, but she didn't have time to worry about that.
Her ears had not been closed as she climbed, so she knew she was coming into trouble. What she hadn't realized was how much.
To her left, Shivadtmon had backed Waln Endbrook against a stand of lath and plaster that was all that remained of an interior wall. Firekeeper could easily envision what had happened. Shivadtmon had come at Waln with the knife that still was in his hand, and Waln, unprepared, had backed away, only to discover too late that he had made his situation worse. He had his hands out in front of him as if by that alone he could keep the aridisdu back.
"Shivadtmon, in the name of all the ancestors, what's gotten into you? Someone stop him! He'll be for you if you don't do something. Do something!"
The other two sailors had not ignored Waln's pleas. Firekeeper heard Wiatt shouting something about not acting crazy, that they'd have the whole rest of the mess down about their ears if they weren't careful. He'd thrown away his own bow, she recalled, so doubtless shouting was all he could do. No harm in that.
Shelby was another matter. Firekeeper had heard the winged folk's report that since he had learned of his brother's death Shelby had done nothing but sit staring off into space. Shivadtmon's action, however, had penetrated his despair. Now he had risen and was slotting a bolt into place. Firekeeper recalled that Shelby, like his brother, was skilled in arms and didn't think that he would miss.
She finished pulling herself onto the level, then rose to her knees, grasping blindly for something she might throw, for she was reluctant to relinquish her Fang. Waln's frantic chatter provided ample distraction. Indeed, she wondered if any had noticed her arrival, so focused were all on Shivadtmon and Waln.
Waln yammered on, "Shivadtmon, Magic doesn't want me. You've misread the omens, I think. That door wasn't an invitation… "
Firekeeper's fingers found a stone of throwing size. Normally, she would have leapt to her feet and thrown in one motion, but she remembered the warnings about how unstable this area was and settled for raising herself to one knee.
Shelby had loaded his bow and was aiming carefully, his task made more difficult because although Waln had nowhere to run, he was ducking back and forth, trying to evade the blade with which Shivadtmon was tracing patterns in the air an arm's length from his body.
Shivadtmon was muttering something, too, but Firekeeper hadn't learned Liglimosh well enough to grasp the meaning in his elaborate wording. She'd seen magic being done before, and recognized the signs. For a moment she paused, uncertain who her target should be. Then she remembered Truth's warning and threw.
Her rock caught Shelby in the stomach just as he was about to fire. The crossbow went off, but the bolt did not find its mark. Instead of hitting Shivadtmon, it impacted squarely in the main beam supporting the section of wall against which Waln had been backed.
The beam, already abused, could not take the added strain. It sn
apped with a sharp, almost metallic sound, and the fragile construction that relied upon it went with it.
Waln staggered, but reflexes trained on the pitching decks and swaying riggings of oceangoing ships would not let him fall. He compensated, swaying forward, and met the knife Shivadtmon had been about to plunge into the vicinity of his heart.
The long blade met Waln's gut instead, ripping in and up, tearing through muscle and intestines with not only the force of Shivadtmon's blow, but with all Waln's own desperate attempt to keep from falling.
Firekeeper saw the blood wash forth, smelled the stink of bowel, and knew there was no saving him—but then saving Waln Endbrook had never been part of her plan. She picked up another rock and surged to her feet. To her left Shivadtmon was shrieking something, the only part of which she understood was the beginning:
"You have heard me! Lady who is the Moon, give your servant… "
Over to the right, Shelby, dually unbalanced by the recoil of his bow and the rock Firekeeper had thrown, was swaying back and forth, trying to regain his balance. Firekeeper didn't care if he did this, but didn't think he should be permitted to keep the bow. Having it aimed at her would make rescuing Shivadtmon even more difficult than it was already turning out to be.
She hefted her new rock and looked over at Wiatt.
"Help Shelby, but no bow or my people not forget you shot at them, understand?"
Wiatt quite clearly did. It probably helped that he was used to taking orders and that her orders fit neatly in with his own personal mania. Firekeeper heard him calling to Shelby, and put those two from her mind. Even if Shelby didn't listen to Wiatt, he was going to have trouble shooting Shivadtmon around the cook, and if he shot Wiatt, Firekeeper would hear.
She took careful aim and threw her rock. She didn't dare put too much strength behind the throw lest she knock Shivadtmon forward and into the collapsed interior of the tower. What she wanted was to turn his attention away from whatever he was screaming over Waln's corpse and toward her.
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