The Seascape Tattoo

by Larry Niven

  The thousand-year spell had begun.

  From around the world, the mages had come, drawn by the One, and the Ten, to be part of the Hundred who would rule the Thousand …

  A pyramid and the One who ruled them all were terrifying to her, and she could not let that show, because fear would open the door to her heart, and once the One was in her, the One would know who had betrayed them.

  Shyena’s carriage passed the shops, the training grounds where the Thousand, recruited from Shrike’s armies and artisans, worked, built, and trained with the anomalies. That was what these strange devices were called. The anomalies.

  The king knew a bit about what was going on here, but the senile old fool couldn’t possibly know precisely what was happening. Even she could barely hold the reality in her mind, and there were times she awakened in the middle of the night sweating even if the night was cold. What were they doing? Could such a colossal action take place without risking the sanity of reality itself? What price would they pay, would the world pay, if they were making a mistake?

  What price this final victory? Her mind swam.

  Her carriage paused before the round red building, and she dismounted. Other carriages, as well as several of the odd two-wheeled balancing vehicles, were parked around the building, and she heard the voices within even before she entered. The hall was designed so that it might hold the Hundred, with semicircular rows of seats facing a raised dais. On this day the Hundred only numbered sixty-one.

  She was one of the last to arrive, and the others turned to watch her as she entered. In terms of power and authority, Shyena was positioned in the Hundred’s bottom half, but due to her beauty and mystery, she was of interest to those among the highest.

  The Red Nun took her seat. Folded her hands and waited. Two more arrived and took their seats.

  Two acolytes closed and bolted the door.

  The lamps were dimmed, and a glowing glass cast a circle of light on the dais. The smell of incense, cinnamon, and blood filled the room.

  And then a voice floated out of the corners of the room, from everywhere and nowhere, all at once. “Our time is here,” the voice said. It was neither male nor female, and she shuddered.

  The One.

  A cloaked figure moved from the shadows. Had it been there previously, unnoticed? She wasn’t sure, but it was possible. Hiding in plain sight. Watching them, unsensed.

  Her flesh crawled.

  The form was bulky, with wide hips and shoulders, thickness in the middle. The arms of the robe were swollen with muscle, the chest doubled with enormous breasts.

  When the One reached the dais, the One threw back the cowl to reveal a face that was both strongly masculine and beautifully feminine, depending on the angles from which it was perceived. Long black hair, painted mouth, eyes lined with highlights. Strong cheekbones, full lips with the tip of a pink tongue darting to moisten them.

  The One. “Belot” was all the name the Red Nun knew. She had the impression that once Belot had been either male or female and that some magic had been employed to change the body and mind. Why? No one knew. Some said Belot was a woman who had wished the strength of a man. Others that Belot was a man who had desired to bear children, that the acolytes that accompanied Belot everywhere were those offspring, and that Belot had had them without the intercession of another male. Had impregnated herself.

  No one knew. Or dared to ask. Belot was the most powerful sorcerer known to walk the earth, and Belot’s word was law.

  “Our time is here,” Belot repeated. “That time for which we have worked so long, suffered so much is here. I wish to acknowledge the works, the very good works from our brothers and sisters of the Guild. It is they, and their descendants, who have accomplished this. You are strong in the Way.”

  The room broke into murmurs. The Guild was all-important, its members lives extended to twice the norm. It would be their task to keep the Spell going through the years. The decades. The long centuries. For the moment, the cave was blocked by a long, conspicuous wall. Gates were there to support the traffic that carried explorers in, anomalies out. When this work was done, the wall would disappear; the cave wall would be partly blocked, then hidden.

  She did not understand all that was being done. Knew that it required the lives of slaves and captives to drive the energies that pierced time. Children to do the seeking; but why children? She knew that slowly, the aperture between this world and that to come was growing wider. And what would happen as it did? Shrike would have weapons no other kingdom could match, and it would take the lead in the world. And as the tunnels lengthened? Was there a far end?

  She could not even imagine. But with a sinking feeling in her gut, she suspected that Neoloth was right: of what use is magic in a world in which every cobbler can create a miracle?

  “We bring you here,” Belot said, “because one of our greatest allies wishes to speak with us, feels that we can assist him in resolving a conundrum. I wish each and every one of you to listen closely and help to the limit of your capacity.”

  The Red Nun kept her face calm, even as she felt alarm, as the general strode up to the podium.

  An ally, not a member. A magic user, but not a magician. She realized she was in a dual trap. The general would be scanning the audience to see what guilt might surface on their faces.

  But Belot would be doing the same, and for different reasons.

  “As some of you may have heard,” the general began, “four days ago, on a mission to push back the forces who have ambushed settlers, on the plains to our east, my men were set upon by cannibals. There is no better word for it.”

  Murmurs swept the room in waves. General Silith raised his hand. The hand fell down to touch the bandage at the side of his face.

  “We survived. Conquered, but only because we held them off until dawn. This bare fact is not what I wish to bring to your attention.”

  Belot’s voice rolled, its range immense. “What, my friend, is your purpose? And might I say that we are all profoundly grateful that our friend and ally was delivered from death.”

  Silith smiled. It looked like a slit carved in a bronze mask. “Thank you. The thing I wish to bring to your attention is that the cannibals sought me out for special attention. In the attack, my cloak was ripped from my body, and, when it was, they attacked that.” He paused. “There are scents hunters use to attract prey. I have done this myself: secretions of musk glands and so forth. And I was reminded of nothing so much as this when they tore into my cloak.”

  Belot steepled her hands. “And were you able to retrieve this cloak?”

  “No, I’m afraid not.” Silith’s eyes shone.

  “That is a pity,” Belot said. “Were we able to examine it, much might be determined.”

  “Yes,” Silith agreed. “Much.” He paused, leaving the implication hanging.

  “So…” Belot went on. “Let us assume that something, some trick, some stratagem was employed to attract these creatures to you. What do you infer from this?”

  “That it was not a simple attack. That it was an attempted assassination. Someone knew where we were traveling, knew of the existence of these creatures, and saw it as an opportunity to remove me from some battle plan.”

  “And who would wish to do such a thing?”

  “I haven’t thought that far,” Silith said.

  Belot’s templed fingers absorbed her attention for a long moment, and then she looked up. “I think that, considering the mundane nature of the trap, we can assume that the conspirators did not have access to magic.”

  Silith said, “Ah. Continue.”

  “What remains is the general’s rivals in the military, or perhaps courtiers jealous of his burgeoning influence.”

  The general’s eyes shifted sideways without his head turning. “I come to you in the belief that we share the same goals, that our partnership, which has come so far, serves purposes dear to us all. That there might be one of this august body who may know a fact that he
lps me determine the truth of what has happened.”

  No one moved or spoke. The Red Nun held her breath, kept her face calm. She dared not use a glamour to control her appearance: Belot would be watching.

  Belot would know that something had happened. Might well know that Silith had been somehow warned. And if he knew that, he might know he had been betrayed. Two men searching a single audience for a betrayer.

  But amid sixty men and women seeking to conceal their thoughts and feelings, she was merely one more. Without focusing her eyes on Belot, she could see the One scanning them, and Belot’s eyes did not linger upon her.

  “Know for a certainty,” said Silith, “that I will discover who did this, who is responsible. And that when I do, I hope my allies, yourselves, would be among those most eager for justice to be done. It is, I believe, in all our interests.”

  He scanned them. “Twelve years ago, your leader Belot came to me and told me of the Thousand Year Spell. That if a secure place could be found, where men might labor in secret for generations, a miracle could be achieved. That Shrike was positioned perfectly so that hidden caves within the mountains might be secured more firmly with magic and armed force to turn away prying eyes, and that with the power of Shrike, magic could be extracted from slaves and captives to create a bridge to the future, one maintained by generation after generation, even after the magic dies in the rest of the world. That we, on this end, could make it work.”

  Appreciative murmuring followed. Nodding heads.

  “And it has. As we have worked to maintain and widen it, future generations of the Hundred have kept faith with us and held open the tunnels. The farthest caverns are too narrow for any but children to reach the miracles of further time. I could not have predicted the results. Trifles at first. But then … lights without fire. Cannon that can be carried by a single soldier. Boats that run on burning wood and boiling water rather than wind, or rowers. Trivia: tiny tubes that project lines of light, the most marvelous cat toy imaginable. Miracles.”

  “And more to come,” Belot reminded them.

  “Yes, and more to come. But as our plans approach fruition, it is important to remember how much we still need each other. It would be a grave error to assume that the partnership that has brought us so far can now be discarded.”

  “Unwise indeed, General.”

  Silith examined their faces, searching for guilt, or guile. His eyes met hers, and she had the sense that he lingered for an extra moment, but it might have been her imagination. Then he looked on.

  And at the same time, of course, Belot was watching them as well. Looking for something different.

  Finally, the general nodded. “As you know, certain things have begun to accelerate. Our time is now. I would suggest that each of you look at the brother or sister to your left and right. Know that they might be the weak link in the chain. And keep your eyes on them.”

  He nodded and left the dais. Belot returned. “An excellent notion. I make the same suggestion. That each of you look to the right and left. Know that the secrets of the Hundred are for us”—she inclined her head graciously toward the general—“and our allies, of course. And that any who share those secrets, for whatever cause, are risking all our lives.”

  * * *

  There were varied other bits of business to be handled, but much was communication, information, or instructions to be passed down the line to the Thousand. And then the formal meeting was called, and questions or requests taken. And then the meeting was dismissed.

  The Red Nun was exiting the building when one of the acolytes approached her, a youth whose sallow face was sunken deep in his cowl’s shadows. “Belot wishes a word to you.”

  She nodded, hoping that he could not hear the way her heartbeat raced. That would not do at all.

  The Octagon was built upon a maze of corridors, such that only those who lived within it truly knew all its secrets. It must be deliberate: the confusion of one led within, the implied helplessness once you had taken too many twists and turns in the corridors adding to the confusion and eventual submission. With every step, her sense of helplessness increased.

  Torches had led the way only months before. Now there were gas lamps, fed by pipes concealed within the walls. She wondered what she would see the next time she entered. The changes were happening more rapidly now.

  The acolyte walked tall, as well he might. He knew that his path ahead was secure. Was not every strange machine that flowed back along the time stream evidence that the Thousand had succeeded? That they were stretching their hands forward into the future? That nothing had stopped their growth? That, in time, they may well have inherited the earth itself?

  He walked like a conqueror, and that was what he might well be.

  The tunnel went down and down. This was, she knew, their plan: an underground world that might be concealed from prying eyes, something that could last a thousand years, or ten thousand, however long it took to fulfill their aims.

  She was taken to an office hollowed out of the stone. The gaslights were accompanied by other, stranger devices, glowing glass bulbs hooked to boxes sprouting wires. The light flickered but was bright enough to test the eyes, and she could not understand what she was looking at. Magic?

  “I called you here, Shyena, for a very special reason,” Belot said.

  “I am here to serve you,” the Red Nun replied.

  “And this is good. The reason is your ambition.”

  “My … ambition?” she asked, trying to keep the stress from closing her throat.

  “Yes. I know that you would seek to be one of the Ten. Is this not true?”

  She nodded slowly. Where was this leading?

  “You are fortunate,” Belot said, “in that you are intelligent and ambitious enough to seek membership in the Ten, without the skill or power necessary to have betrayed me.”

  She hoped that she kept the anger from her face, but at the same time realized that Belot had spoken a simple truth: she could not have pierced the veil of distance, reached the general in any way, by herself.

  “How and why do you believe the general was alerted?”

  Belot interlaced her disturbingly long and tapered fingers. “We do not have direct sources. As you can imagine, the nature of the trap we set made it difficult to place spies among the troops. All were expendable. So those who survived are not easily convinced to share knowledge. The lure was placed in the general’s cloak, and his scouts were … urged to encourage the general to camp on the old battlegrounds.”

  “And did any of your pawns survive?”

  “We believe that one did, yes. And that he is being questioned as we speak.” Belot waved a dismissive hand. “The inquiries will lead nowhere.”

  “And how do you believe the betrayal was effected?”

  “We are not certain. Certainly, if it had been a mundane effect, a message or a messenger arriving before that night, the camp would never have been made there. Perhaps a messenger arrived late. So it is possible that a fool spoke to the wrong person. We are investigating that as we speak.”

  She knew what that meant: torture followed by murder.

  “And the other option?”

  “That there was a magical communication of some kind. Perhaps directly to the general. Perhaps to one of his men, a magic user we had not identified.”

  “That would make the communication more efficient. Require less mana.”

  Belot watched her carefully, but the Red Nun kept her emotions under control. Belot did not suspect her. Perhaps wished her as an ally. After all, she was ambitious, but weak.

  Grim humor to be found in that irony. Too weak to be a threat, but powerful enough to be an enemy.

  Belot was smiling at her, and the Red Nun had another, terrible thought. A trap. It was all a trap. Be very, very careful.

  * * *

  The Red Nun was very careful for the rest of the day and the next. But she noticed something: one at a time, at least a dozen other members of the Hun
dred had been summoned before Belot and questioned and probably recruited to the purpose of determining who and how their plans had been foiled.

  And she decided, after much thought, that she was safe. Not even Belot could watch everyone. Or have enough trusted acolytes to watch everyone, with others watching the watchmen. And so a day later, she took a deep breath and traveled to the Tower. She had been there before, and there was nothing unusual about it, but she felt as if every eye was upon her.

  The Red Nun had always hated the prison. It smelled like fear and pain and death. And whereas she could handle all of that, it also smelled of burned blood, a smell that reminded her of another place, another time, and people who once had loved her.

  There were three levels aboveground and a dungeon below the ground. The people there were standard-issue criminals: thieves, murderers, general scoundrels.

  But they were not of interest to the woman who called herself the Red Nun. She had left such things behind long ago.

  And on the ground level was an armory, where tools were made, some of them of standard design, and others strange things in new designs she had never seen. That no one had ever seen.

  The cries, moans, and screams echoed even in the quiet. She could close her ears to it, but it still reverberated in her bones. And what she felt the most was that she was a part of this. Her quest for revenge didn’t change the fact that she had and was collaborating with evil.

  She was evil. Evil had entered her heart, and she had yielded, and for that, she felt … what?

  For so long she had sealed away her emotions, sealed away everything in her heart except the urge for vengeance. And an unexpected side effect of her session with Neoloth was the opening of her heart.

  What had happened? Was it that he had opened his own heart, and by linking to him, that softness had infected her? Or was it just the knowledge that Neoloth had seen what she was.