Chapter 8
Voices out of the Past
THE KENDAR was still asleep when, three days later, the first caravan left. On the fourth day he finally woke, but seemed even less interested in his surroundings than on the first evening when he and Jame had met. He would eat if watched but didn't seem to hear any questions put to him and spent most of his time either in sleep or mechanically polishing the blades of his great war axe.
"He worries me," said Jame with a frown, watching Cleppetty stir with a sprig of lemon balm the warm wine she would presently take up to the newcomer. "It's as if all the spirit had been battered out of him."
"Maybe he's just weak-witted," suggested Kithra wickedly.
"No," said Jame. "As it happens, I've seen this sort of behavior before, years ago, in my father's keep. It was a hard life there. After a while, some people simply gave up. Most of them asked for the white-hilted knife; but a few just sat down in a corner—so as not to be in the way, you see—and stayed there until they died."
"Are you saying that if our friend doesn't rouse himself . . ."
"He may well die," said Jame, taking the cup, "by passive suicide."
On the tenth and fourteenth days respectively, the second and third caravans left. From the loft, Jame watched first one and then the other ascend into the Vale of Tone by the River Road and vanish into the shadows of the Ebonbane. Word filtered back that they had come upon the remains of the first caravan just under the Blue Pass, scattered over a mountain field black with crows. Soon after that, snow fell among the peaks again. A few wagons, late for the rendezvous, had gathered south of the city, hoping to form the nucleus of a fourth convoy, but no one was optimistic now about their chances of starting. True to predictions, the season had closed after only two weeks.
It was an odd time for Jame. All plans gone awry, she lived without new ones, waiting to see if the Kendar would live or die. A shock of some sort might restore him to his senses before it was too late. If he really had decided to die, however, it was not honorable for her to try to thwart him. That he would eat at all under these circumstances both surprised and encouraged her, so she continued to do what she could, hoping that something would bring about a change.
Meanwhile, the Tower of Demons affair continued to have repercussions. The day after the Feast, representatives of Prince Ozymardien appeared bearing not only ten golden altars in a silken bag as payment for the B'tyrr but also a command that she dance before His Glory again. When it became clear that she would not, agents began to lurk around the inn, apparently looking for a chance to kidnap her. Luckily, none of them ever made the connection between Jame and the Senetha dancer. Surprisingly few people ever did. The B'tyrr did not perform again until the Prince lost interest and recalled his men.
Perfumed notes for the Talisman were delivered every day for a week from the Lady Melissand, whose interest had apparently survived her outwitting.
Less regular and far more irksome were visits from the guards, who searched the inn for the Peacock Gloves several times with a thoroughness that made Jame glad they were no longer in her possession. Afraid they would unearth the knapsack, she moved the Kendar's pallet over to the corner where it was hidden so that no one could get at it without shifting him. Few guards were so intrepid. One, whom Jame suddenly recognized as the man who had nearly caught her behind the Moon, regarded the sleeping Kendar so intently that for a moment she was afraid he would try.
"Doesn't look so good, does he?" he finally said. "Poor old Marc."
"You know him?"
"Sure—Marcarn of East Kenshold. I met him six, no, seven years ago when he and a bunch of other Kennies were sent to help us during the Lower Town disaster. Didn't recognize him at first in the alley that night, he was looking so patchy. I would have bedded him down in the guards' barracks, but he kept saying that he had to get to this place. So I brought him."
"That was kind of you. Did you . . . tell him why you were chasing me?"
"No," he said, eyeing her speculatively, "but I will when he wakes up if you don't tell me now where the gloves are."
"That won't do," said Jame firmly. "If he wakes, I'll tell him myself. But you may as well know that they aren't here anymore. My word of honor on it."
"Well, that's something," he said, looking more cheerful. "You can't blame an old dog for wanting a bigger bone. After this, Talisman, a proper prize you'll make for the guard who catches you. Keep an old friend in mind if there's a choice, won't you? The name's Sart Nine-toes." With that, he gave her a clumsy bow and went tramping down the spiral stairs.
Later, Jame dressed for the one of the few new activities that occupied her these days. Once ready, she paused only to check the Kendar's condition (which remained unchanged) and to snatch up an old cloak, then she ran from the inn, bound at full speed for the Temple District.
Because this area was assigned to Penari, Jame had gotten to know it very well. As the old thief's apprentice, she had the right to steal anything there that she could get away with; but, to the great relief of the priests, she had not as yet exercised this privilege. Most of the local officials had stopped noticing her at all by now. They would have been far less at ease, however, if they had known why she continued to prowl among them day after day; bit by bit, she was beginning to solve the mystery of the gods of Tai-tastigon.
Early in her wanderings through the district, Jame had noticed that the most powerful of these beings were the ones with the most dedicated followers. This suggested to her that, here at least, faith might create reality. It was a beautifully simple solution and quite an appalling one from the standpoint of any Kencyr. After all, if this were true for the Tastigons, might it also be so for one's own people? In effect, had the Three-Faced God created the Kencyrath, or was it the other way around? If the latter, then the Three People had spent the last thirty millennia hag-ridden by a nightmare of their own making. Not only would this invalidate the very principles that justified their existence, but it would mean that they, not some cruel god, were responsible for the mess in which they currently found themselves.
Jame didn't want to believe this. Some instinct told her, however, that she had stumbled on at least one part of the truth, and she felt compelled to dig for the rest. As a result, she had begun a series of experiments in the Temple District on perhaps its most innocuous resident: Gorgo the Lugubrious. It was in front of this god's temple that she found herself some thirty minutes after leaving the inn and up its steps that she rushed, adjusting the hood of her cloak to overshadow her face as she went.
The outer room was empty, as was the tiny courtyard that opened off its far side. Wailed responses sounded dully through the wall to the right. The service was well underway. Jame paused to catch her breath, then slipped through the door into the chapel. This was a small room with a very high ceiling, completely dominated by the towering image of Gorgo set at its front. The god was represented as an obese, crouching figure, with the most sorrow-stricken face imaginable and unusually long legs, the bent knees of which rose a good two feet above its head. A steady stream of water trickled out of tiny holes in the corner of each green glass eye. Loogan the high priest was holding forth in front of it for the benefit of a small, dutiful congregation, all of whom were cloaked and hooded as though in the depths of mourning. Jame settled down unobtrusively on a back bench, mentally breathing a sigh of relief. He had only gotten to the fourth canticle of the creation ode: she was not too late after all.
The words of the service, uttered in a shrill singsong, scraped about her head. Many of them were pure gibberish, but there was some quite lovely liturgical story-telling scattered throughout, the relic, Jame believed, of an older ritual. There was no doubt that Gorgo was a god of ancient lineage, much come down in the world. Most demeaning was the hierarch, Loogan, who's every gesture and mouthed bit of nonsense seemed like a calculated insult to the dignity of his religion. Still, some vestiges of power remained in this room, enough to convince Jame that Gorgo mi
ght serve her purpose. She had already stuck a number of pins into layman and priest alike, hoping to determine exactly what Gorgo was and what relationship faith had to his existence. No pin to date, however, had been as sharp as the one she meant to use tonight.
Ah . . . Loogan had come to the tenth canticle, a hymn celebrating Gorgo's compassion for the sorrows of mankind. At this point, his assistant, hidden behind the statue, should throw a lever that would open the ducts to a reservoir on the roof and allow water to trickle down on the celebrants. There was a faint, mechanical creak. Loogan looked expectantly at the ceiling, arms raised to call down the benediction of tears. Nothing happened. The congregation stirred uneasily as their priest, his face a picture of anxiety, repeated the signal words. Again, the sound of the lever being thrown; again, no water. Jame stared upward intently. Was there a hint of mist gathering in the upper darkness? She couldn't tell. Damnation.
Loogan wearily dropped his arms and began the whole service over—as he must do until he got the proper results. Jame edged toward the door. The little priest saw her. The surprise mixed with growing anger in his face told her all too clearly that, despite her hood, she had been recognized. Hastily, she slipped out of the room.
Up on the roof, Jame removed the clumps of moss that she had used that afternoon to block the ducts. The pin had been too dull to provoke a miracle after all. Next time, she must try for something more conclusive, more spectacular, but now for some reason the whole business had left a bad taste in her mouth. She climbed down and set off for the Moon to wash it away.
* * *
"HAVE YOU HEARD the news?" Raffing shouted over the din as Patches, Scramp's younger sister, made room for Jame at the table. "Mistress Silver's idiot son has gotten himself caught for pickpocketing again. That's the third time since last Midsummer's Day."
"Will the Sirdan ransom him again?" asked the new apprentice.
"Oh, he'll try, if only for his mother's two votes, but the Five may not let him. Rumor has it that one of them—probably Harr sen Tenko—is thoroughly annoyed, and who can blame him? Three times!"
"It'll be the Mercy Seat for sure," said Hangrell with considerable relish.
"Don't you believe it. I say exile at most. Don't you agree, Darinby?"
"You're probably right," said Master Galishan's journeyman tranquilly. "Money has a loud voice in this town. Even so, Carbinia of the Silver Court isn't likely to thank Theocandi for anything less than a full pardon. She's never reasonable when that son of hers is involved. No, as long as the Five are adamant, the Sirdan's support in that quarter is at hazard."
"Does he need it so badly?" Jame asked.
"Every vote will count this time. Let's see. Theocandi can depend on Abbotir of the Gold Court because of Bane, and probably on Master Chardin too. Men-dalis, on the other hand, will undoubtedly get the four Provincial votes. So far, then, it's a tie. Thulican of the Jewel Court will go with whoever looks best, probably at the last minute. Odalian, Master Glass, can be bought and so, I suspect, can the masters' two representatives. That's sixteen votes in all—ten for the five courts, four for the Provincials, two for the masters —and at least six of those will go to the highest bidder, who will use them to win the election. Money will be the key factor this time, make no error about that."
"Then it will be Theocandi," said Raffing with disgust. "He has the whole Guild treasury to draw on."
"He is also a miser," said Darinby flatly. "He may well be out-bid, especially if Men-dalis's mysterious backer can provide the funds. I wonder if we'll ever find out who he is."
"One of the Five is already helping Men-dalis by refusing to pardon Mistress Silver's son," said Patches suddenly.
Jame and Darinby looked at her approvingly, but Hangrell, smothering with jealousy, snorted contemptuously. "Speak when you're spoken to, girl," he said. "Who invited you, anyway?"
"Who, for that matter," said Jame softly, "invited you?"
Hangrell tried to meet her eyes and failed. Muttering some excuse, he left the table precipitously, pursued by jeers. Never a favorite, the lanky thief had recently lost even more credit through his efforts to worm himself into Bane's favor. He would not be missed at the Moon.
"What an alarming person you are, Talisman," murmured Darinby. "Still, it won't help our young friend here if you fight all her battles for her."
"I don't intend to. The next time someone tackles her, he may be in for a nasty surprise."
Patches grinned. She was still sore from her last Senethar lesson and looked forward to trying out her developing skills on someone without her instructor's uncanny reflexes.
"Besides," said Jame, ruffling the girl's sandy hair, "Half-a-noggin here is too clever not to make her own way once she's gotten a start, prejudices or no. As for the rest of this lot. . ." her eyes raked over the room, hardening, "the more afraid of me they are, the better. I'm tired of being underestimated. Now if you gentlemen will excuse me, I have a cat to walk."
Darinby caught up with her outside. "I'll go with you for a ways," he said, falling into step beside her.
"What's the matter, afraid of being attacked?"
"No, but you should be. Bortis is back in town."
"Oh?" said Jame lightly. "I didn't know he'd been away."
"You should have. He's a hill brigade, remember. Now that the season is over, he's in Tai-tastigon again, bragging about the massacre under the Blue Pass (for which, it appears, his band was largely responsible), and swearing vengeance on you for the loss of his eye. Oddly enough, it never seems to have occurred to him to blame Bane."
"Hmmm. Still, boasts break no bones."
"No," said Darinby darkly, "but other things do. You were saying a minute ago that you've had enough of being underestimated, which, I suppose, means of being a target for half the bullies in town. That, admittedly, is a problem, but it's one I expect you'll have all your life. Very few men are ever going to give someone as fragile-looking as you her due in anything. That may be one reason why Bortis can't accept what happened to him: even if you didn't wield the knife that maimed him, you were there, you were the cause. For men like him, Talisman, you're a baited trap. They'll never be warned off because they can't admit to any danger. On the other hand, frightening sprats like the regrettable Hangrell isn't going to make you any friends either."
"You think I need friends like that?"
"No. You've been fortunate in your allies—and in some of your enemies too, come to that. After that run-in with Bane on the Palace steps, half the Guild must have laid bets that you'd be dead within a week. All I'm saying now is that while you may not be able to stop people from underestimating you, you must never underestimate them . . . especially not when they've sworn to have your blood. Huh!" he said with a sudden, rueful laugh. "Hearken to the sage. I didn't mean to lecture you, Talisman, only to speak a word of warning in what I'm afraid is still a deaf ear."
"Sorry, Darinby. If it will make you feel any better, I'll go on from here by the rooftops—where it's safe."
"You have an odd idea of safety," said the journeyman, watching her swing easily up onto a portico roof and from there climb to the eaves. "Watch out for loose slates."
Jame had, in fact, meant to go aloft as soon as she left the inn. She loved the rooftops late at night, especially when the full moon transformed them as it did now into a wild, mountainous country quite distinct from the world below. Here the wind hunted freely among the gutters and chimney pots, coursing down the sweep of a thatched roof, whistling to itself among the gables. Bits of straw were in the air. Tiles lost their grip and slid, clattering, into the void. A solitary Cloudie crouched on the opposite eave like a lesser gargoyle, fishing for some tidbit below with a grapnel much like the one Jame now always carried dismantled up her sleeve. The streets below glowed with light, with all the pageantry of the late night city. Not one in all that bustling crowd looked up; not one had ever seen the wild, lonely land above, the Kingdom of the Clouds where moon shadows raced.
/> Jorin was waiting impatiently for her. After checking Marc again, she and the ounce went down the back stairs together, hearing snatches of song from the great hall. They turned right at the old gatehouse into the rim road and followed its curve to the Mountain Gate. Beyond that, the foothills of the Ebonbane rolled on under the full moon.
They had come here every night for the last two weeks. In that time, the summer flowers had bloomed unseen, filling the darkness with their fragrance, while the cloud-of-thorn briers held up their impaled blossoms above tangled shadows. The berries beneath these fragile white flowers already glistened in the moonlight like dark drops of blood. Birds who had eaten them during the day clung to the spiked branches singing ecstatically on and on until their hearts faltered and stopped. Roe deer drawn down from the mountains by the lure of sweet grass drifted over the hills, making Jorin prick his ears and chirp eagerly. There was another presence in the hills that excited him even more, but of that Jame never saw so much as a shadow. She was simply aware on occasion of being watched and remembered the vague stories of a catlike creature, perhaps an Arrin-ken, that was said to live in the mountains above. The first time this happened, she had called to it with her mind as she did to Jorin, trying to reestablish the psychic link. The very quality of the silence that came in response, as though to a child who had spoken out of turn, had so abashed her that she had not tried since.
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