by Larry Niven
He pushed with his legs, rolling over toward the sword. He managed to get his hand on it, but without the leverage necessary to slide Flaygod out of its scabbard. A sword nick on his right leg made him roar with pain. He finally abandoned his scruples, balled his fist and smacked Teesha on the side of the head hard enough to snap her face back and to the left, eyes crossed, barely conscious.
He rolled up as Negron stabbed at him and stepped on his scabbard, paradoxically providing the traction Aros needed to pull Flaygod free. He drove the steel through Negron’s shirt so quickly that his little piggy eyes popped out as much from astonishment as pain.
The other brother, the one with the knife backed up, screamed, “On him!”
And suddenly the early morning bristled with steel. Aros struggled to fight, not to trip over Teesha or run into Negron, who had collapsed to his knees and seemed to be trying to decide whether to simply die now or pull his intestines in and find a surgeon who would lie to him and take his money.
These city dwellers were slow and clumsy compared to the Aztec, but he knew from the sound of scurrying feet that Teesha and her brothers had brought enough help to seal his fate.
Kicking a barrel down the alley, he paused to gather up his breeches, slammed Flaygod back into its scabbard, and leapt for the edge of the roof above them.
One-handed (the other holding his pants), he swung himself up like one of the little monkeys in the jungles of his youth, far south of Quillia. Aros landed in a crouch.
A phalanx of patrol soldiers had been attracted by the commotion and were now headed this way. As the men in the alley below screamed in anger and pain, the crowd of soldiers decided to pursue.
Lovely.
Aros belted his pants and spun just in time to deflect a blade, clubbing a soldier down with his left. Damn it, damn it … don’t kill one of the queen’s men if you don’t have to. Even if you were innocent, judges tended to have limited sympathy for anyone who dispatched officials.
Aros ran. Even as a boy, he had been fleetest and most agile. This was why he had survived when his mother had been captured by the priests for nonpayment of taxes, her heart wrenched from her chest on a stone altar.
Damn the priests! First they’d taken his father, killed in a war to seek out victims for their thirsty god. Then they’d condemned his widowed mother simply for being poor. He would gladly have perished with her, but the frantic, doomed woman had wrung a promise from his lips. He’d sworn to stow away on a northern trade ship and try to build a life.
That had been very long ago. A lifetime ago. The small, nearly feral child named Aros had ripened over the years into a blooded warrior, a thief, a man of many lethal skills … and no home. He had made the mistake of thinking that Quillia might be a place to set roots.
Taxman had had a nice ring to it. Once upon a time.
He was not running randomly through the maze of roofs. His chance to make it out of the harbor seemed smaller by the moment, but he could still go the other way, east through the desert. He had allies who could smuggle him out of the city—
The lip of another roof was coming up fast. Aros’s feet thumped the roof like the hands of a mad drummer, blurring … and he jumped. He leapt, the wind on his face, the void opening and then closing behind him as he hit the roof and rolled.
He heard other feet landing behind him—fewer, perhaps. His tactic had thinned them out. Behind him, a man screamed in shock and fear. Aros looked back over his shoulder and saw a soldier balancing wildly on one leg on the edge of the roof, waving his arms wildly—and then disappearing.
Ouch! Would he be blamed for whatever broken bones resulted from that? Best not to find out. Best to be certain that he wasn’t captured.
Another roof edge. Almost twenty feet, Aros reckoned. He’d never jumped that far, but he felt loose and strong, juices up, confident that he could make it. And the men behind him would almost certainly give up. Aros increased his speed, closed his mind to all doubt, and jumped.
Sailing …
Freedom …
Aros hit the far roof in a joyous surge of triumphant laughter, rolling to his feet just in time for the roof of wood and mud brick to collapse beneath him.
He plunged down into a bedroom, where an astonished, pale, and naked man was being ridden by a busty woman old enough to be his mother. He only glimpsed them, however, because the floor beneath his falling feet gave way as well. Surrounded by a cascade of rotten boards and plaster dust, he plunged through into a tavern filled with soldiers.
They stared at him, and he at them, and then all dissolved into a milling chaos of fists and feet. While Aros defended himself with heroic strength and skill, the falling of his personal night was inevitable, and welcome when it finally pulled him from a world of pain.
FIVE
The Proud Abyss
ONE MONTH LATER
Quillia’s gold and crimson flag waved bravely against the ocean rain. The Proud Abyss, the royal fleet’s most prized vessel, was a three-master riding high in the waves. Its prow was blessed with a mermaid statue with improbably blue eyes and blond hair, consecrated by priests to ferry the princess Tahlia safely to her destination and home once again. Ahead of them, the Triton. Behind, the Domino.
Tahlia leaned against the railing of the center ship, looking out at the rain-swept sea, mourning her life.
Zatch’s wedding had been wonderful, for the fun of it, but also for the chance to see her cousin, whom she adored. With whom she had been raised, knowing that in days to come that relationship, fostered in childhood, would be the thread that bound their kingdoms together.
Her life had been like a clockwork toy, all jewels and tightly choreographed lessons, social engagements, travel … all designed to lead to the moment when she would be offered to the highest bidder in marriage.
No, it wasn’t quite like that, but close enough. All of the royal privilege was merely preparation for her future role as royal wife: a jewel on the arm of a king or prince, a ravishing and limber bedmate, an advisor in matters of state.
And, most important, one of the anchors holding the kingdom of Quillia in the firmament. This was more important than ever after the death of her father. A widowed queen could be seen as weak, a potential opportunity for adventurous rulers who thought to pressure the kingdom by threats of war into more advantageous trade relations. Tribute. Gifts of land … or daughters.
That was what had happened to her cousin Zatch. The kingdom of Nandia had nibbled at Quillia’s northern borders until the queen had agreed to release a disputed province and gift the dullard prince with one of Tahlia’s beautiful cousins.
Only with trepidation had Tahlia traveled up the coast to the kingdom of Nandia. Captain Dinos had been a perfect host, even if his first mate, Chastain, made her skin crawl. Their ships were welcomed at harbor, and her cousin Zatch had greeted her warmly, sweeping her to a palace less imposing than her own, but of necessity more martial. Their neighboring kingdom of Shrike was not to be trifled with.
When she met the prince (And the oaf in question wasn’t even the eldest! He would inherit lands and titles, but not a crown. And if the eldest had any doubts about his sibling’s loyalty or ambitions, Tahlia hoped that Zatch would stay alert for poison…), she had been impressed by his manners if not his silhouette, which suggested he enjoyed food more than swordsmanship. She had been on the verge of mourning for her childhood friend, when she caught the brief, shielded glance between Zatch and the captain of the prince’s guard, a handsome rogue with shoulders Atlas might have stood upon to lift the world.
Tahlia had hardly been able to control her curiosity until they were alone.
“Zatch!” she said, astonished by her cousin’s boldness. “You aren’t even married, and already taking liberties?”
Zatch had only grinned at her younger cousin. “Tahlia, you will learn the ways of the world. I have potions to prevent conception, so the royal line is secure. Second, because my husband is not in line for the thron
e—he has two other brothers who would ascend first—there is little concern about it. And third, the captain of the guard serves both the prince and princess. If you understand my meaning.”
Zatch had thrown her head back and laughed raucously, as Tahlia gawked in astonishment.
So … perhaps she was naive. So … the marriages for which she and her cousins had been molded were often shams, with pleasure taken wherever it could be found.
Tahlia leaned against the railing, watching the waves wash up against the mermaid’s painted eyes. So much beauty in the world, so many possibilities. And now she saw … so many fictions as well.
Unless she could marry for love.
“Brill ’twith say honor,” said a voice beside her.
“Confir alth all tithing,” she answered in ritual response. She smiled, wiping rain from her face. Even on a sea voyage, her faithful Drasilljah was teaching her. In this case, the structure of ancient Lemur, the high language of the kingdom of Nandia.
“You did that deliberately,” the princess pretended to pout. “You knew where my mind was straying.”
Her nursemaid, the woman who had been with her since childhood, seemed to sense her mood. “Not your fate, child,” the old woman said.
“And how do you know that?”
Drasilljah’s kind mouth curled in a smile. “Not so powerful as I was in childhood,” she said, and shook her head. “Raised by my weird sisters to be helpmate to a princess, trained in the powers and knowledge of the earth and the stones. The magic is in my blood. And then … the magic itself began to retreat. Nothing to be done.”
She sighed. “But I know enough to see your fate, and it is not to be a plaything, or a bauble, or a beard.”
“Then what is it?”
And here Drasilljah’s face took on a more troubled aspect. “I am not sure,” she said. “But if it were to be like your cousin, I would have felt a twinning of your paths. A doubling.”
“What did you see in its stead?”
“Clouds.” She looked up at the half-shrouded moon. “There is a darkness in my vision. At first I thought to blame the world, thought it was the action of some other sorcerer … but not now. It would take too much power to cloud my vision in such a fashion, so far from land, with such consistency. And while such power still exists in the world, it is difficult to believe anyone would expend it just to blind a graying old crow like me.”
Tahlia hugged the crone. Drasilljah’s shoulders were thinner, less padded than once they were, but Draz was still the same woman who had nurtured her in childhood, and it was incredibly comforting to have her close.
“So we don’t know what the future will be. Only that it won’t be that. There are suitors, of course. Some are even handsome.” In truth, her only remaining suitors were actually of the very best families of the Eight Kingdoms, all wealthy, handsome, and powerful. Most were either brilliant or brave, and she imagined that, eventually, she would succumb to their blandishments and choose one. But …
“It will take more than handsome to make you happy. And more than power to keep the kingdom safe. Your mother will make the best match she can.”
Tahlia ran her forefinger back and forth along the railing. “Must it be a prince?” she asked.
Drasilljah frowned. “Get that out of your head,” she snapped. “That wizard is nothing but trouble.”
Tahlia smiled. Neoloth was trouble—there was no question about it. But he was also courtly, and charming, and she found herself considering him favorably, especially compared with the clutch of dandified suitors who had descended upon her mother’s kingdom drinking and eating up her substance like locusts, riding around the capital kingdom with their squads of bodyguards like clowns on parade at the circus.
Her choice of one of those egotistical young bravos or languid balladeers would end one phase of her life and begin another. New alliances. New resources. New trade agreements. All to produce, in years to come, a new brood of trading tokens to be married to seal future alliances.
She wasn’t a human being. Peasants had it better, she thought. They could marry for love. Or at least lust.
Love …
Odd how, when she thought that word, her heart sped up, just a bit, and her skin felt the way she felt that time a picnic had been interrupted by a lightning storm, and she’d been much too close to an actual strike. The air hummed. And her skin did as well.
She remembered her cousin’s face when she looked at the face of her paramour. That was not the face of the girl Tahlia had played dolls with in childhood; it was the face of a woman who knew more about her body than Tahlia did. A woman who knew what it was to be a woman.
Tahlia looked out across the ocean, dark but for slivers of moonlight dancing on the crescent waves. Restless, eternally in motion. Almost invisible. Like a woman’s heart. Who did she want to take her to that distant land? In whose hands could she entrust her heart? Any of those rough or effete and pampered boys seeking fortune? Ah, some of them were pretty enough, but none of them bottled the lightning …
Draz had said something, quiet, but the softness itself had caught Tahlia’s attention. “What? I didn’t hear you.”
“I said that the mermaid’s eyes are open.” The voice was cool, a little withdrawn. There was something in it.
Princess Tahlia looked over the side of the ship. The figurehead faced the sea ahead. How could Drasilljah see the eyes?
“I feel it,” she said, answering the unspoken query.
“I thought the eyes were always open. In fact, when we came aboard, I saw that the statue’s eyes were open.”
Draz wagged her head. “Not the wooden eyes,” she said. “The royal ships have figureheads carved from driftwood and blessed with the souls of Merfolk. We bond their spirits into the figureheads, and they give us protection.”
“How do they do this wondrous thing?”
“Humans are not the only ones who work magic. We weird sisters have friends among the magical folk. When they age or sicken, if their lives cannot be saved, they sometimes benefit their clans by offering to bind their spirits into the carvings. Centaurs may become travel wagons. Weremice bond to household totems.”
Tahlia nodded. She was actually a bit surprised that she’d never asked the question. “So the eyes…” She looked along the side of the ship and could see the back of the mermaid’s head and part of the tail, but nothing of the face. It was not surprising that Drasilljah could, however. Drasilljah could do many things.
And right now Draz’s tension was becoming alarm. Princess Tahlia looked up at the sky. Dark, long hours from dawn, rain clouds threaded with lightning, the distant roll of thunder mere echoes … but no hint of danger. What of the ocean? When the clouds parted enough for the moonlight to splash upon the waves, she could see nothing, but hers was not a sailor’s practiced gaze, able to detect the masts of a pirate vessel bobbing at the horizon.
But still …
There … a patch of ocean to the north was silvered with moonlight. Nothing. Was she expecting a kraken?
“Look,” Drasilljah pointed.
Tahlia tried to look along that finger, squinted, unsure if her eyes had adjusted to the darkness, or if she was merely imagining a hint of outline. There did seem to be something out there. At first she thought she was seeing a single wispy waterspout, then for a moment she wondered if she was seeing three such freaks of weather dancing on the waves.
No. Tiny streams, though. Like steam rising from a kettle’s spout. And the crackling lightning revealed that the wisps seemed to issue from small black shapes upon the waves. The driving rain made it difficult to make out anything at all, but if she wasn’t mistaken, between the first and second flashes, the objects had moved closer to the Proud Abyss.
That ruled out any kind of sailing vessels, she reckoned. The wind was blowing in the wrong direction.
Up in the crow’s nest, First Mate Chastain whistled, pointing out “Starboard!” And the other sailors on late watch crowded
to the right side of the ship, more curious than alarmed.
Tahlia clutched Drasilljah’s hand. The woman she had known her entire life seemed … on point, like a hunting dog.
“What do you sense?” Tahlia asked. “Magic?”
“Not magic. No … yes, magic…” She shook her head. “I don’t know. I’ve never felt anything quite like this before.”
“Captain!” the old woman called. “Captain! On your guard!” Drasilljah turned toward the cabins. “I know not what this is, but I fear that only ill wind blows against the clouds. Come.”
Tahlia caught one last glimpse before she followed her friend and protector. And that last glimpse revealed three small ships. It was difficult to establish size because of a lack of known objects with which to compare them. And they had no masts. She looked for oars in the water, but couldn’t see them. They seemed to be on fire, although she could see no flame, and would have questioned its presence in this driving rain. But each roof emitted a thin, constant stream of smoke.
“Come!” Drasilljah tugged more urgently now. There was another puff of smoke from the closest vessel, which was now only two arrow flights away. Followed by a dull clap of thunder. Duller, perhaps. More localized, without that sense of everywhere-and-nowhere you had with the child of lightning, when fire was quenched in water.
Then the night exploded into flame.
Their trailing ship, the Domino, shuddered and lurched, as her amidships erupted like a volcano. Tahlia’s eyes widened. Never had she seen such a thing. In the light of the spreading blaze (And how it spread! It was like a jellied layer of fire!) she glimpsed the smaller vessels riding the waves, now puffing burst after burst of fire into the night. The Domino erupted again and again, and the sailors crowded against the rails groaned in terror.
And then … the same thing happened just ahead of them. The Triton’s side burst, wood arcing up into the sky, splinters and shards of singed wood rained down upon the deck of the Proud Abyss, still smoldering.