The Rose Sea

by S. M. Stirling

  Amourgin, still choking from his near-drowning, wondered how much longer that would be true.

  A ship rose out of the sea in front of the procession of the dead. Its hull was rotted, and slimy water poured out of holes in its sides.

  "Come," the dead men whispered again, and the sounds that came from their ruined throats, Amourgin thought, would drive a man mad.

  I am mad. He refused to walk over the water on his own—instead, he made the corpses carry him. The ship loomed over him, dead as the animated bones that dragged him to it. He thought, I am mad, and lost, and the gods truly live—and they have cursed me for my unbelief.

  Now the sea grew glassy still, and the moons hung out of place for the season, and raced across the sky like stones tossed by giant boys. Night never left—Amourgin believed himself in a world at the end of time, when the sun had died and all the hells broke open and freed their damned. The dead men took seats at the rotted oars, and with creak and snap, the ship raced through the windless night.

  Amourgin saw only the sea for a wearying time, and then began to believe the sea was coming to an end. He thought he could make out a darker line along the horizon. His heart leapt—he dreamed of escape—he looked with yearning at what surely was land. Then the white-eyed old man appeared before him, and screeched, "No time. No time."

  Amourgin felt himself thrown backward, and with a crash and a shriek of pain, he landed on the floor beside his bunk.

  Eowlie jumped so high and so fast she hit her head on the bottom of the bunk above her, and turned, growling, on Amourgin.

  He lay on the floor half-stunned, bone weary, aching, soaking wet. A few pale rays of sunlight crept into the stockade at the sharp angle of early morning.

  Eowlie stared at him, and shook her head. Her eyes expressed bewilderment "What haffened to you?" she asked.

  "Storm caused bad dreams," he muttered, and started to crawl into bed. But as he pushed against the floor to lever himself up, his hand covered a piece of seaweed and something hard. He closed his fingers around the hard thing, and took it into the bed with him, and held it in his palm, and stared.

  "Storm," Eowlie repeated. "There was no storm. It was hot and quiet all night."

  Amourgin did not answer. He stared in silent horror at the talisman he held. It was a finger bone. The bone of a dead man.

  The law-speaker lay back in his bed and wept.

  In the early dawn, Lieutenant Chevays Coado, dressed not in his uniform, but in the disguise of a wealthy outland merchant, rode through the streets of Derkin. He played the part of the rich foreigner with studied ease: stopped to watch the mourners at a Tykissian wake dancing in formal circles around the deceased, who sat in a chair and missed all the fun; leaned back in his saddle to watch workmen sliding a carved monument along a path of scaffolding lined with ice blocks. He avoided the naked street urchins peddling stolen fruit and the vendors selling shoddy sandals and fly-covered meat. He smiled politely at dark-eyed women who called after him with promises of wondrous and secret delights.

  He made his way over the cobbled streets, swathed in an aura of foreign elegance and deadliness, and took some pleasure in being one above the thronging masses.

  But the pleasures of the moment could not make up for the torment which awaited him.

  He rode steadily uphill, and finally passed beneath another gate, under the fierce gazes of red Krevaulti guards in private liveries, onto the main boulevard of the Hill of Ancients. The Seven Hills of Derkin wore the city's wealth upon their shoulders, but the Hill of Ancients wore the city's crown. Polished granite walls fronted the streets, set with ornamental carved marble and very practical glass blades along their tops. The colored mosaic tiles of the sidewalks spelled words of power and wealth. Metal gates set in the walls gleamed with intricate wrought brass and gilded iron, some set with spell-jewels to keep out thieves. Behind the gates, huge, terrible dogs and their keepers waited, watching Chevays silently as he rode by. Even the character of the street changed, as the rounded, worn cobblestones gave way to shaped white limestone. Pariah streetcleaners worked in the long shadows of morning, scrubbing at the white stones with strong-smelling soap and heavy brushes, removing the marks of the previous day's traffic.

  Chevays continued upward, from Broad Street

  to Banker Lane

  to Seaview Cliff, where the sidewalk had mosaic murals glorifying the owners of the mansions, or their ancestors. He reached at last The Pinnacles, where the road split into three branches blocked by guarded gates, beyond which each spiraled around a peak upward to a huge estate. Chevays chose the second road. The words inlaid in tiles and gems above that gate said "Footsteps of the Sun." The first time he'd read those words, many years earlier, he'd thought them grandiose. He'd discovered they merely described the demesne beyond the gate, and that with less than sufficient poetry.

  "Who comes?" The guard was Krevaulti, the dogs the notorious Krevaulti warhounds, which had in common with their masters that they were fanatically loyal, mad as weyrds, and could rip skin from bone in an instant.

  Chevays cleared his throat "Chevays, come to say the largest fish in the sea have begun to jump."

  The Krevaulti looked through Chevays for an instant, his gaze fixed on things beyond the realm of the natural. Then he nodded. "Yes, I was told to expect such news." The guard unbarred the gate, and let him pass. The dogs, twice the size of wolves, watched him, their pale blue eyes seeming too intelligent and too cruel to be found looking out of the faces of beasts.

  Chevays passed three checkpoints on his way up the spiraled outer path to the top. The flowering shrubs and vines set in rock terraces were ornamental, but the weapons of the guards were entirely functional. At each, he gave a different message and was permitted to continue upward to the next. He never failed to be aware of the dogs behind him and in front of him, of the arrows trained on him from hidden vantage points, of the character of those who watched him pass. Chevays feared little, but in The Footsteps of the Sun, he was never out of the clutches of dread.

  Beyond the final checkpoint, servants led his horse off, while he was taken to a stone room and stripped and searched with some vigor by big Krevaulti women who seemed to enjoy their work. When they finished with him, they studied the packages he carried, and laughed at the little trinkets he brought as gifts. Once separated from all his weapons, he received a short silk wrap and his packages, and one of the women, with her dogs at heel, led him into the public room. The floor was white marble set with designs in amber and lapis; the tall windows were shuttered, veiled with rose-colored silk.

  She was already waiting, smiling, enjoying his discomfiture and the knowledge of what she'd just had him put through. She sat in her tall chair looking lovely and very young, and very cold. It was always this way with her—she was much older than she looked, old enough to have picked up some very nasty habits. Pain was a habit of hers—but other peoples pain. Specifically, sometimes, his.

  She pulled her knees up to her chin and wrapped her arms around her legs, and she gave him the sweet little-girl smile he'd learned had nothing of the little girl beneath it. "That's fine, Eaney," she said to the grinning Krevaulti behind him. "I'll call you in when I'm ready to have you and the puppies sweep out the pieces." Her laugh was soft and bright and pure, gold notes in the perfumed air. Chevays had no idea whether she was joking or not.

  When the guard was gone, she kept watching him, chin propped on knees and that half-smile on her face.

  "So," she said finally, "you've come to tell me little sister is finally making her move."

  He nodded.

  "You have proof, of course."

  She never asked him questions. She made statements, and when she was unsure, said nothing and let him flounder for words. This time he rummaged through his packages and pulled out the box Willek had given him. He handed it to her, and she frowned.

  "Yes," she murmured. "This has the taint of blood magic about it." She opened the box, and didn't even b
link when the characters inside flew out and billowed into glowing quasi-life in front of her. "Hmmmmmm." She studied the images. "How very interesting."

  "She wanted me to find them and possibly kill them. She wouldn't say why."

  "No. She wouldn't." The woman on her chair released her knees and stretched and yawned Chevays could see the small, tight muscles ripple under her delicate silk gown. When she finished stretching, she stood and smiled up at him. "You would not have come to me just with this, however."

  "No. I found her courier. I… extracted… the information you wanted from him."

  She smiled brightly, no doubt picturing the extraction. "How delightful. You'll have to tell me all the details later. But right now, you must just give me the meat of your news."

  "She's in league with Darkist."

  It was the first time Chevays had ever seen the woman lose her composure. Her face went white, and the color drained from her lips. She sat down heavily and stared again at the figures from the box. "Darkist," she whispered. Her fingers dug into the padded brocade of the chair, until Chevays almost expected it to rip. Then she shook off the expression of shock—he could see her forcing herself to calm. She tapped her fingers on one knee and stared thoughtfully past him. "Such a pity Shemro's little brother was assassinated. It would have been lovely to pull him out of hiding, as a legitimate heir to the throne. I fear we would have had use for such an heir—soon." She smiled a cold little smile and added, "So blood really will tell. Assuming he got the right story."

  Chevays had no idea what to make of that.

  "I was very thorough in extracting the information," he said.

  Her eyes focused on him again, and for the first time he noticed how like the Krevaulti wardogs' eyes they were. Fierce, mad eyes, that held no mercy in them. "Of course you were. You know what I would do to you if you gave me the wrong information."

  She said thoughtfully, "You must not kill these people on her command. First, I will have to know why they are important. And if, perhaps, I find them of more use to me alive than dead, I shall want you to keep them alive. If she has allied with Darkist and they pose a threat to her, then perchance they are my allies." She cocked her head sideways and studied the images again, then clicked her tongue. "One gets such dreadfully shabby allies when one goes adventuring."

  Chevays waited, feeling the dread growing in his belly.

  Her expression brightened, and she turned to him, and slowly licked her lips. "Well, then. That's enough business for one morning. Certainly we can take time out for pleasure, and then we'll make sure you have enough of whatever you need to carry out my tasks—while acting as my dear sister's trusted assassin the rest of the time. Come with me."

  He swallowed, feeling his mouth go dry. He reminded himself that he could get through what was coming. In order to survive, he could take the humiliation, and the pain.

  He followed her through the beautiful rooms, the vast and breezy sunlit rooms, and down the stairs at the heart of the house to the dark and terrible place where she found her amusement. He remained aware at all times of the eyes of the guards and their dogs who watched him from out-of-the-way places. He remained aware of the arrows trained on him, and of his danger.

  It wasn't the money. He didn't do what she wanted for the money. He would have gone back to being a poor street thug in the time it took for his heart to beat once, and would never have questioned the decision. But he'd discovered his truths too late. Her servants were ubiquitous and fanatical and as lethal as he. She had a death grip on him. He breathed by her command—no matter where he went, he could never move beyond her reach. And she—she was beyond the reach of all but the uncaring gods.

  There were things they understood about each other, he and she. They both took pleasure in pain—in other people's pain. It was simply the measure of her power that she used him the way he used his victims. If he didn't let her do what she wanted, and in doing so maintain some measure of control, at least in his own mind, she would have done what she wanted anyway.

  He could get through the things she would do to him. He would try to learn something while she was at it.

  And the dark-eyed girls in the streets of Derkin who called after him like chattering birds would benefit from whatever he learned.

  He tried to keep that thought in mind.

  * * *

  Karah stared into the blinding morning sunlight. All around her, the world was bone dry and hot. And she was soaking wet, and her skin itched from sand and sea salt. Seaweed soaked her bedroll, and the pulpy tendrils of some pale, stinking jungle vine wrapped around one of her ankles with an air of disgusting familiarity.

  Drums called the recruits out of the bedrolls to face the new day. Karah dragged herself wearily out of her one-man tent and trotted to the line. She ignored the startled stares of her fellows.

  Eowlie made a point of standing next to her. "You have seaweed in your hair," she said.

  "And seawater and sea sand in my britches," Karah snarled. "I had a bad night."

  Eowlie raised her eyebrows, and one corner of her mouth quirked into a smile. "Indeed. And where did you have it?"

  "In my own tent."

  "Its very strange. You look exactly like the law-sveaker looked when he woke this morning falling out of his bed. And he spent the night in the vrig." Eowlie shook her head, bemused, and leaned forward to look down the line. "Yah. He still looks like a drowned alley rat" She grinned at Karah, and looked up at the clear, bright sky. "Funny weather folks have indoors around here."

  Karah wrinkled her nose. The taint of her nightmares would not leave her. She could not find within herself the courage to laugh, not even in daylight "Not very funny at all," she said.

  "The law-sveaker felt the same way."

  They stood in the line beside the dusty main road that led out of camp. The air was already getting hot. Such breeze as there was blew the heated air around, but offered little relief. Karah's clothing and hair began to dry and to stick to her. The salt and sand itched fiendishly.

  First Captain Morkaarin worked his way down the line, making comments from time to time, discussing things with his aide and the regimental priest. Karah dreaded what he would say when he came to her. She tried to think of something, anything, that would explain her condition.

  The First Captain reached her and stopped and studied her from top to bottom and back to top again. One eyebrow rose fractionally, but other than that, his expression didn't change. "Turn, please, Grenlaarin. One full circle."

  Karah bit her lip and turned.

  "Stop," he commanded when she was halfway round.

  She stopped, and felt his hand brush her shoulder, and lift her braid.

  "Note the fresh seaweed," Morkaarin commented.

  She heard the priest say, "Yes, sir. That I do." He had a strong accent—not Morkaarin's central-provinces noble's tone.

  "Salt crystals on the skin, bit of vine around the ankle—you recognize that vine, by the way?"

  "No, sir."

  "No. Well, neither do I. It certainly isn't local flora. Nevertheless, there it is."

  "Yes, sir."

  The First Captain said, "Finish the turn, Grenlaarin."

  Karah turned again until she once more faced him.

  "The practical joker who did this was busy last night. He got both you and Thurdhad—who was in the stockade at the time."

  Karah felt a burst of hope. A practical joker! What a perfect lie. No doubt the law-speaker had come up with it. She nodded solemnly. "I knew about the law-speaker."

  "You'd heard?" He glanced over at Eowlie, and Karah saw comprehension in his eyes. "Oh, yes. His stockade mate. What I want to know is, did you see or hear anything last night out of the ordinary?"

  Karah wished she knew what else the law-speaker had said. She wondered if he'd experienced the things she had. "I—ah. I thought I heard thunder, sir." She shrugged, wishing she had more experience lying. "Nothing else." She gave him an apologetic smile.

/>   "Thunder? Interesting. That's more than the law-speaker got. Apparently he didn't wake until the joker threw a bucket of cold seawater on him."

  That was a good story, Karah thought. But of course, it was the story of a man who made his living listening to untruths and passing them on for profit. He had the advantage of her. She wished she hadn't mentioned the thunder. If she ever got another visit from the walking dead, she would be sure to keep all the details to herself and try to look as innocent as Amourgin, down the line, was managing to look.

  Assuming, of course, he had been through the same ordeal she had. Perhaps she was assuming too much.

  She didn't think so. She'd always considered herself a logical person, sensible and practical. She couldn't see, logically, how she and Amourgin could have been soaked with seawater and covered with seaweed without having both been involved in the same ordeal.

  "Go wash off," the First Captain said, interrupting her reverie. "Present yourself back here after. I'm announcing the postings and training schedules for the new recruits."

  And that gave her something else to worry over. Animate drowned corpses and ghosts on a jungle island were not enough, but she had to worry, too, about getting ready to go off to war. But then, Konzin ought to be reaching the ranch any time, she thought. So Ma and Pa should arrive to buy me out in a day or two.

  She didn't doubt for an instant that the army would accept good Grenlaarin steeds in exchange for herself, or a hefty fee and a few able ranch hands into the bargain if necessary. If they just got to the camp before her unit shipped out, she'd be fine.

  Meanwhile, she could put up with anything. Probably.

  The light of the new day stretched across Willek's bed, and glared red through her closed eyelids. She was pretending to be asleep—transfixed by the horrible certainty that something in her room was watching her. Which was impossible, since she'd slept alone. She felt the tingle of magical energy race along her nerves. She listened for breathing, but could hear none besides her own.