Trapped

by James Alan Gardner

Pelinor watched the Caryatid leaping, jumping, skipping. For a moment his face was grim; then it softened into a grizzled smile. “Why not?” he said under his breath. “Why the hell not?” His eyes continued to follow the Caryatid as she caught up with Impervia and the two matched step. “There are worse things,” he said. Then he smiled apologetically to the rest of us. “There are worse things,” he said again. Then, not jumping or skipping, but walking with a quick firm pace, he followed the Caryatid’s lead.

  Myoko seemed to have been holding her breath; now she let it out and turned to me. “What do you think?”

  I shrugged. Just a shrug but it felt strange, as if I were telling some kind of a lie. Feigning cool detachment.

  “Yeah, well,” Myoko said, turning away. “I always knew it would come.” She was talking to herself now. “Sooner or later, it had to. Yeah.” She drew in a sharp breath. “Only question was, who would start it: me or someone else? Might as well be me.” She glanced back in my direction once more and gave a mirthless smile. “Here we go. Here we go.” Then she headed for the horses, walking with her arms squeezed tight in front of her.

  Just Annah and me left. When I looked at her, she’d thrown back the hood of her cloak; her eyes met mine.

  How can eyes sometimes be so alive?

  “Are you ready?” she asked.

  “Sure,” I answered, “someone has to keep them all out of trouble, so—”

  She put her hand on my mouth. “Shhh.” Her fingers stayed against my lips. “They’re ready. I’m ready. Are you ready?” Her hand didn’t move. “Don’t make jokes or speeches. Are you ready?”

  I was too proud to nod obediently; nor could I shake my head no. After a moment, I took her hand from my lips, then leaned in and kissed her on the mouth.

  It felt like a good answer. Apparently, we were all ready.

  9

  WE MUST GO DOWN TO THE SEA AGAIN

  The stand of spruce beyond Death Hotel wasn’t big enough to be called a forest—it was just a thick windbreak separating the mausoleum from the farm fields beyond. Even so, the woman we pursued must have had trouble pushing through, thanks to snarls of undergrowth and drifts of unmelted snow. We couldn’t take the horses into those woods; we had to go back to the road and trot to the far side while Impervia followed the tracks under the trees. She came out damp and disheveled, spruce needles clinging to her long black coat...but one look at the taut expression on her face, and none of us said a word.

  “The tracks went straight through,” she reported, pointing downward. The mystery woman’s bootprints were visible in the mud at Impervia’s feet. “And look at this.”

  She lifted the lamp she’d been using to follow the tracks. With the other hand, she held out a few scraggly threads of crimson, frayed on the ends. “I found these snagged on bushes.”

  The Caryatid shucked off one sleeve of her overcoat and laid her arm close to the fibers. The red of the threads matched perfectly with the Caryatid’s crimson body sheath. When she looked up, we nodded in understanding. Centuries ago, the first Sorcery-Lord of Spark designated that particular shade of red as the “Heraldic Hue of the Burdensome Path” (i.e., the proprietary color of sorcery). There was no explicit law against others wearing that color, but nonsorcerers still avoided it. You shouldn’t pretend to be something you’re not; it’s even worse when your presumption annoys people who can cast powerful spells.

  “So our quarry is a sorcerer,” said Pelinor. “Or rather a sorceress. And a powerful one, if she could blow out the side of that mausoleum.” He glanced my direction. “You’re the history buff, Phil; was there ever a major sorceress entombed hereabouts? You know the type—wickedly strong, diabolically evil, locked up for all time because not even the Sparks could kill her.”

  I made a face. “I haven’t heard such stories, and wouldn’t believe them if I did. The Sparks can kill anyone...and if by some miracle there was somebody they couldn’t rip into constituent atoms, they wouldn’t just leave her in an unguarded crypt. They’d bury her ten klicks underground, and surround her with the most god-awful traps they could devise, not to mention alarm systems, sentries, and heaven knows what else.”

  “Enough chat.” This came from Impervia, who’d hopped back onto her horse while Pelinor and I were talking. “The trail goes this way. Let’s move.”

  We moved: into the dark muddy field, the horses’ hooves making soft sucking sounds through the wet.

  The bootprints led in a straight line for fifty paces, then turned toward the road. Those fifty paces must have been how long it took the sorceress to admit that slogging through muck was a waste of strength—the winding road might not be as direct as trekking cross-country, but its OldTech asphalt made travel much faster. Once the sorceress reached the pavement, her footprints left a dirty trail for another twenty paces. After that, the mud had worn off her boots and there was nothing for us to follow.

  At least we knew which direction she’d gone: toward the lake and Dover-on-Sea, the same way we’d been riding before we got sidetracked. We headed forward with all due haste...which wasn’t too quick, given that the horses had to move carefully to avoid potholes in the road. It didn’t help that we were traveling with minimal light to prevent the sorceress from seeing us; all we had were candle-sized flames tight to the ground, guided by the Caryatid at the speed of a shuffling walk.

  In this manner we proceeded—silently peering into the darkness. Each time we rounded a bend my nerves would tighten, expecting to spy the sorceress ahead...but nary a sign did we see of her, ever. She too must be traveling in near darkness: walking fast, perhaps even jogging, and always keeping at least one bend farther in front.

  Thus it continued all the way to Dover.

  Dover-on-Sea is several hundred kilometers from the nearest ocean. The so-called “sea” is actually Lake Erie, entirely fresh water...for a sufficiently loose definition of the word “fresh.” (Lake Erie is actually quite clean these days, now that it isn’t being poisoned by run-off from OldTech mega-cities; but the people of Simka love to infuriate Doverites by pretending the lake is still a stinking cesspool. One of those regional rivalry things.)

  Dover’s harbor is the center of a thriving fishing industry and home to what the town council calls the largest inland fleet in the world. I view that claim with suspicion—the councilors have been known to invent spurious accolades (“Voted the prettiest village on the Great Lakes” or “Universally regarded as the best source of handicrafts in all Feliss”). The council then disseminates these accolades at genuine tourist attractions like Niagara Falls in an effort to attract gullible visitors to Dover’s overpriced “country boutiques.” Nevertheless, Dover’s harbor is filled with a huge bevy of boats...many of which catch fish only one day in ten. The rest of the time, they devote themselves to grand-scale smuggling.

  Dover-on-Sea is definitely the Smuggling Capital of Feliss province...though the town council never mentions that distinction in their advertising. Each time Governor Niome tries to stimulate the provincial economy by taxing imports, the benefits are first felt in the back streets of Dover: each new tax creates a new line of business for the smugglers. On any given night, so-called “fishing” boats drop anchor in shadowed inlets along the nearby shore, offloading contraband liquor and linen, not to mention all manner of illegal substances from narcotics to necromancy aids.

  At least, that’s the gossip I’d overheard in sordid places like The Pot of Gold. I had no actual proof of unlawful activity, or I would have been obliged to tell the proper authorities. Assuming I could find some customs agent who wasn’t in the pay of the smuggling cartel. Also assuming I didn’t care if I suffered some nasty retribution. The smugglers wouldn’t try to break my legs, but I would never again be allowed to buy the extra-special “handicrafts” available to “favored customers” in the back rooms of Dover’s aforementioned “country boutiques.”

  At the very least, no more peach-scented soap for Gretchen Kinnderboom.

  Who
, incidentally, lived in Dover-on-Sea. Gretchen owned a mansion on the lake (or rather on the bluffs overlooking the lake, with a canopied walkway down to the water) where she sponged off her family fortune and allowed me to visit when she had no one better to do. Our relationship was mutually nonexclusive; but like most people in an “open” arrangement, I tormented myself that she was laughing behind my back as she rutted like a maniac mink. I could picture her bedding a different lover every night, turning to me only when a scheduled beau was forced to cancel because he had to sail to Amsterdam to corner the market in diamonds...whereas I passed my nights getting drunk with platonic “chums” like Myoko, and inventing fantasies about women throwing themselves at me (including Annah and every other eligible female who passed within reach).

  Admittedly, something was developing on the Annah front. Maybe. If I wasn’t misconstruing the situation. And maybe the next time Gretchen sent me a peremptory message (Tonight, 10:00, AND FOR GOD’S SAKE, DON’T WEAR THAT SWEATER), I’d have the backbone to answer, “Sorry, I’m busy with someone else.”

  All of which assumed I’d survive the next few hours. It’d be just my luck to get killed before I could brush off the exalted Fraulein Kinnderboom at least once.

  By the time we entered Dover’s minuscule “business district,” even Impervia admitted we’d lost the sorceress. We’d never caught a glimpse of our quarry...and once she’d reached town, she could have gone any number of directions. To the docks, for example: either the “pretty” tourist docks, dotted with food stands, craft shops, and music halls, or the real docks with their omnipresent reek of small-mouth bass. Our sorceress might also have headed toward the palatial beach houses in Gretchen’s neighborhood, or the more modest residences belonging to fisherfolk and shopkeepers. For that matter, she might have left Dover entirely, taking the lakeshore highway east or west to destinations unknown.

  We therefore stopped at the town’s main crossroads to discuss our next move...only to have the discussion cut off by Impervia saying, “Here’s what you’re going to do.”

  Dictatorship is so efficient.

  Pelinor, Myoko, and Annah were dispatched to the fishing docks in search of anyone who’d seen Sebastian, the sorceress, or the Divian with the sword. Impervia, the Caryatid, and I would make inquiries at inns and taverns. No one liked that we were splitting up—Annah met my gaze with owlish regret and the Caryatid stared similarly at Pelinor (hmm!), while Myoko took me by the arm, squeezed my hand, and whispered, “Don’t let Impervia get you into trouble”—but none of us had the nerve to argue, or could suggest better arrangements. With whispered good-byes and fervent last glances, our two trios went their separate ways.

  Three-fifteen by my pocket watch—not the best time for visiting rum-holes, especially in Dover-on-Sea. All decent establishments were closed up tight as a tom-tom: nobody awake except for whichever stablehand was stuck with the midnight shift, watching for horse thieves. Surprisingly, all such stablehands seemed to be avid readers of penny-dreadfuls, the kind where no self-respecting hostler will speak until given a handful of silver. I had plenty of cash for such shakedowns...but with Impervia watching, there was no point reaching for my coins. She didn’t believe in paying for information when others should supply it “out of the goodness of their hearts”; she did, however, believe in the threat of violence, using fists or the Caryatid’s candleflame. Her violence led precisely nowhere, since none of the stablehands we browbeat had seen anything of relevance.

  This left us to investigate establishments which were not decent: hole-in-the-wall taverns and fleabag inns. Places frequented by folks in murky professions where 3:15 is a regular working hour. Such people do not take kindly to questions; and Impervia was incapable of being diplomatic.

  Ergo, she barged into a dive called The Buxom Bull and glowered at the patrons therein. She did not speak; perhaps she was watching which patrons guiltily averted their gaze. As for the assemblage of hard-bitten men and hard-biting women, they showed no surprise to see a nun enter the premises. Either they were too jaded to care, or else Buxom Bull patrons were used to “ladies” whose jobs occasionally required them to dress in nun’s habit.

  The inn’s clientele were not so blasé about persons dressed in sorcerer’s red. Since the Caryatid wore a plain black overcoat, her crimson body-sheath was not immediately visible; but the tavern was hot and stuffy, filled with people who spent their days in hard physical labor on boats reeking of fish, so the Caryatid shucked off her coat as soon as she came through the door.

  That caught everyone’s attention.

  Most of the tavern was dark—business would suffer if customers could actually see what they were drinking. However, there were three bright oil lamps near the door to let management give the once-over to whoever entered...in case any newcomers were waving pistols, swords, or badges. Therefore, everyone in the taproom could see the Caryatid’s outfit as soon as she revealed it; and within seconds, every drink-slurred conversation faded to a strained silence.

  Impervia gave an offended sniff that the onlookers could possibly be more impressed by a chubby little sorceress than a lean mean Magdalene. She recovered quickly and spoke to the crowd in her usual piercing tones. “Ladies and gentlemen...using the terms loosely...”

  I gave her a warning nudge. “Be nice. We want answers, not bloodshed.”

  She glared at me, then returned to addressing the room. “We’re teachers from Feliss Academy. One of our students has run off tonight—”

  “She’s upstairs blowing my brother!” a male voice shouted from the back corner. The crowd laughed.

  “Very amusing,” Impervia said. “However, the student we’re looking for is a sixteen-year-old boy...”

  “He’s upstairs blowing my other brother!”

  More laughter.

  “How nice for your brothers,” Impervia said. “It must be a pleasant change from paying you to do it.”

  “Oh yeah?” In the back corner, the man who’d been yelling witticisms jumped to his feet: a surprisingly handsome fellow of Chinese extraction, black hair, slight but sturdy. He wasn’t especially imposing at first glance...but I’d seen enough fights to know that looks can be deceiving. Big burly types can sometimes crumple after a single punch, while slimmer middleweights can turn out to be as tough as terriers. The Caryatid, standing close by my shoulder, knew the same thing; in a low voice, she told Impervia, “Be careful.”

  “Don’t worry,” Impervia said. “I have a plan.”

  “What kind of plan?”

  “I’ll make a show of strength. To loosen the tongue of any patron who has useful information.”

  “Provided it doesn’t loosen your teeth instead.”

  Impervia gave the Caryatid a withering look. Then she turned back to the man...who was attempting to barge through the crowd in an angry rush, but had trouble weaving between the tightly packed tables. Though he wanted to appear livid with outrage, I could see he was trying not to jostle people as he pushed past them. That boded well for Impervia. She wasn’t facing a hot-tempered brawler; it was only a man who was acting hot-tempered, as if he wanted to impress the assembled spectators.

  When the man finally reached Impervia, he stopped in front of her and opened his mouth to say something. I don’t know what the words would have been. A threat? A demand for an apology? The truth will remain a mystery...because Impervia grabbed him by the lapels, swung him off his feet, and slammed him down on a nearby table top.

  “Good evening,” the good sister said. “My name is Impervia. What’s yours?”

  The man was slow to answer, maybe because his collision with the table had knocked the wind out of him. Impervia lifted him slightly, then slammed him down on the table again. “Your name?”

  “Uhh...uhh...Dee-James. Dee-James Mak...”

  “Well, Dee-James Mak, I’ve told you what I’m here for. A boy is missing from Feliss Academy. Have you seen him?”

  Dee-James shook his head.

  “Do yo
u know anyone who might have seen him?”

  Dee-James shook his head again.

  “The boy might have booked passage on a boat. Do you know any boats that left harbor tonight?”

  “N-no,” said Dee-James.

  “Who would know something like that?”

  Dee-James didn’t answer. Impervia thumped him against the table again. “Who would know?”

  “Uhh...uhh...Hump.”

  “Who is Hump?”

  “Me.” The single word came from the table where Dee-James had been sitting, far in the shadowy corner. A chair scraped across the floor and thudded into the wall. A man rose slowly to his feet—an extremely large man. Because of the darkness, I couldn’t see details...but size is size, and this man’s size was intimidating.

  Except, of course, to Impervia. “Yes,” she said, “you certainly look like a Hump.” She let go of Dee-James, who remained sprawled on the table. “Mr. Hump, would you care to tell us what we want to know?”

  “Get fucked.”

  “I’ve taken a vow against that.”

  “Vows were meant to be broken,” Hump said.

  The good sister shook her head. “I may break your arms or your kneecaps, but never my vows.”

  “Impervia, shut up!” the Caryatid whispered.

  “Don’t worry,” Impervia whispered back. “This is still my show of strength.” She raised her voice. “Well, Mr. Hump?” She spoke in her best Intimidating Teacher tones. “Do you have any answers for me? Or is your mind a blank? Have your thoughts gone dry? Is that it? Are you a dry Hump?”

  For a moment, the tavern went utterly silent. Then someone snickered. The noise was immediately stifled, but similar choked laughter sounded all around the room.

  “Ah jeez,” the Caryatid muttered. “That did it.”

  She was right. Growling obscenities, Hump kicked his chair over and began lumbering forward with murderous intent. He showed none of the qualms that Dee-James had about shoving people and furniture out of his way. Folks who got beer dumped in their laps only made soft damp gasps; they knew better than to complain. Considering that the aledrenched people looked tough as nails themselves, the behemoth stomping our way must be the meanest ass-kicker in the bar.