The Seascape Tattoo

by Larry Niven

  “Would you do me a favor?” Mijista asked, every word warm and wafting on a warm, moist breeze.

  “Of course,” he answered.

  “The boy I remember was my betrothed. And before he left, he showed me the tattoo that had been graven in his skin. It hurt terribly, he said. But he was very brave.”

  She stood. “I also traveled, as the highborn do, between the Eight Kingdoms. And I also received such a tattoo. If you would care to see it, first show me yours.”

  He took a deep breath. For what purpose had Jade Silith brought him to this house? Was this a trap? And yet … at no time had he claimed to be this or that person. True, they had manipulated the …

  His brain wasn’t working properly. As he was thinking, he was also standing up and, in standing, had already begun the unbuttoning, the shedding, there in the light from the setting sun. Until his chest was bare, and with it the tattoos that had once been upon the boy they had found in an unmarked grave.

  Yes, the boy. He, Aros, could not be other than he was: a thief, a mercenary, a man of no consequence in the world. His momentary fantasy dispelled and …

  She was touching him. Her fingers tracing their way across his chest. “Turn,” she said, and did the same thing along his back. “Strange,” she said. “The images are familiar. But … not so large as I would have expected.”

  “I can’t see my own back.”

  “If you are the boy I remember—”

  “I never claimed to be.”

  She looked at him carefully. “No,” she said. “You never claimed to be. But here you are, in Shrike. In the chariot of the most powerful woman in the kingdom. Who brought you to me. What do you think of this?”

  “I think that m’lady makes more of it than I do.”

  “Yes. Well spoken. You are not the boy I knew,” she said. His heart raced. Then she said, “But you are the man he would have grown to be.”

  Her lips pressed against his and then withdrew.

  Eyes half-lidded, she took a half step backward.

  And then showed him the tattoo on her back, as he had displayed his own. Faded blue, it covered most of her upper back: a dark, ten-year-old boy with an infectious smile.

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  Assassin

  The carriage returned for Aros at dawn. Jade Silith was not in it.

  Again, the coachman had no horses to manage and steered the steaming device with a lever that stuck through the floor, with a great wheel not too dissimilar to the wheel of a sailing ship.

  “Where to, sir?”

  Sir? Aros could think of precious few times in his life that he had ever been addressed in such a fashion, and fewer still when it was said without irony or hope of immediate reward.

  Sir.

  “To the Boar’s Head Inn,” he replied. The coach began to wind along the narrow path, and in the darkness of early morning, it somehow seemed more sure-footed. Or … perhaps he was just less concerned, more relaxed.

  He felt happy.

  And it wasn’t just the spectacular evening that Mijista Wile had afforded him. Not just the things she had said, or done, or what had happened since he’d returned from the desert.

  It was the fact that everything before the desert had been artifice. But what had happened there, fighting beside the general and leaping down into the cavern to save him … Neoloth’s trickery had had no part in that. That had been no fraud, no plan, no act. He had jumped into darkness to save a man he admired.

  And that man had responded by promoting him. His wife had responded with the gratitude any loving wife might feel. Introducing him to society and then … to his former fiancée.

  NO! Not his. The boy who had died in the desert, and been laid in his grave. Whose tattoos they had stolen.

  Unless … for some reason he did not understand, those tattoos had been transferred from one boy to another. As if …

  Well, but that way lay insanity.

  But what was happening to him was insane. The general didn’t care who he was—he cared that Aros had saved his life, at the risk of his own.

  The general’s wife didn’t care. Oh, it was clear that she toyed with the notion that he was her son … but her mother’s heart was ready to accept him regardless.

  And what of Mijista Wile? Certainly part of what had happened between them could be considered a very intimate inspection of his tattoos. Madam Silith had known Mijista Wile was a lusty widow and could be trusted to report back. And what would be said? That the tattoos were there; yes, they were. But weren’t quite right. Too small. Skewed, perhaps.

  He had never claimed to be their son. In a world in which tattoos could be moved from one body to another or duplicated or removed … who knew what was possible?

  He had pleasured the widow; and she, him. There had been no artifice about that, either. And the memory of her clutchings, and gaspings, and rising heat, and cooling kisses had been as real as anything in this world or the next.

  He felt it. There was a place for him in this kingdom. In this place. And that was something he had never known before, in all his life, and all his wanderings.

  * * *

  Sunlight was creeping across the rooftops by the time he returned to their lodgings. There was a barracks berth for him, of course, but no one would question his return to the lodgings he shared with his manservant.

  The very manservant waiting for Aros when he strode through the door.

  Neoloth had been up for some time, apparently, working on a scroll. Aros wondered if another scroll may have been on the table just moments before, if a hasty substitution had been made when footsteps were heard on the stair.

  “Ah, the hero returns,” Neoloth said, and his smile was not exactly a comforting thing. “It has been some time. I’d begun to wonder if you were coming back.”

  “I keep my word,” the Aztec growled.

  “So I have seen, and I appreciate that. In return, I can tell you that our purpose here grows sharp.”

  “Eh?” Aros felt a wave of fatigue flowing over him. It had been … a strenuous evening. Mijista Wile was quite a woman. He wondered if she would be available again that evening …

  “Listen to me,” Neoloth said sharply, drawing his attention back. “The stars are aligning to our purpose. I know where the princess is. I have an ally who can help her escape.”

  “Ally?”

  Neoloth nodded. “The same who helped me reach into your dream.”

  Aros rubbed his head. “That was strange. It felt as if you were walking into my head. You and someone else.”

  “Never mind that.”

  “Who was she? Another magician?”

  Neoloth’s expression was a stone wall. Do not ask. I will not say.

  Aros shrugged. “All right. You saved my life. I won’t ask how. What now?”

  “Now,” Neoloth said, “you kill the general.”

  Of all the things that Neoloth might have said, that was the last he had wanted to hear. “W-what? I think you had better spell that out for me.”

  Neoloth sat next to him, exuding a sort of avuncular ease that felt positively serpentine. “I made an arrangement to save the princess. It involves the death of General Silith.”

  “Why?”

  “Because Silith was involved in a massacre some time ago, and my … ally wishes revenge. My ally can get the princess out of prison. We will have to get her to the ship, and away. That will require a distraction. I believe that freeing the captives would create enough chaos to—”

  “Wait,” Aros said, holding his hands up. “Wait just a moment. Slow down. I never agreed to be an assassin. This is supposed to be a rescue mission.”

  “It seems to me that you were perfectly happy to play the assassin on Catal Island, some time ago.”

  Aros’s eyebrows furrowed. “That was different.”

  “How?”

  “I didn’t know him.”

  “Oh, so that makes the difference? You’ve discovered morality?”

&nbs
p; Aros slammed his fist on the table. “Do not speak to me as if I am some servant of yours, wizard. You can take my life, but you cannot take my honor. Silith has done me no wrong. In fact, he has treated me better than anyone ever has. Ever. His wife has treated me like a son. You tread very carefully here: do not think I will simply obey you if you snap your fingers.”

  Neoloth ground his teeth. “You understand that, in order for us to complete our mission, I must have allies. There are costs to that. All I had to do was remain silent, and you and your precious general would have died. At great cost, I reached out to you, saved your life. I could have completed my mission without you. So … you owe General Silith. What do you owe me?”

  Aros groaned. There was no escaping the logic. He had promised to free the princess. Neoloth had, in warning him, proved himself a worthy ally. He hadn’t had to do that. Aros would never have known. Even if he had survived, he would never have suspected the wizard had any part in it.

  What did he owe Neoloth? What did he owe General Silith?

  By the serpent! He had never had to deal with a quandary like this one!

  He had saved the general’s life. Would he now take it?

  He sighed. “I have no answer for you. I appreciate that you saved my life. It is true that I am in your debt, a greater debt than I owe the general. With that truth upon the table, can you see my dilemma?”

  Neoloth nodded. The barbarian was in a hard place. The laws of hospitality were engaged the moment he took wine, meat, and bread in the general’s house. Not to mention the promotions. And … he was not blind to the degree to which the barbarian was growing to admire the general.

  He had not anticipated that Aros’s pretending to be a son might blossom into the real emotions of being a son.

  This was as delicate a moment as Neoloth had ever navigated. The future of his entire venture was being decided now, in this room, beneath this guttering candle. “All right, Aros,” Neoloth said. “Allow us to postpone our decision. Will that suffice?”

  The barbarian nodded gratefully.

  “What are your plans? I’ll have to work around them. Are you near to learning anything?”

  “I don’t have your background,” Aros said. “I’m seeing things you might understand, if you saw enough. I’ve seen something like miniature volcanic explosions set off with little tubes, or inside big iron or bronze tubes, or tubes hung over a man’s back. We’d be up against those in any assault, or maybe we could use them ourselves.”

  “I trust the magic I know and my allies. If I were to kill the general, would you be bound—”

  “No. Feel free; I won’t hold a grudge. But he’s no lightweight. And someone else is trying to kill him, too.”

  TWENTY-NINE

  Messages

  Neoloth rented a horse and rode out beyond the city limits to the stony beaches south of the capital of Shrike, beyond the sight of the great statue in her harbor.

  The last days had brought both joy and new problems. He had to believe that, overall, things were going his way, that the new challenges actually resulted from an embarrassment of riches. New allies, new problems.

  In a week, he had gone from having no idea where the princess might be found to knowing exactly where she was and how she could be obtained … if he could fulfill his side of a deal. General Silith had to die. And that he could do, even if the barbarian was not his instrument.

  If he understood the Red Nun correctly, Silith was allied with the Hundred but not formally one of them. Why had he not joined? Because he was not a magic user … although he was willing to use magic to suit his aims. Perhaps he did not wish to be formally ranked less than the One, whom the Red Nun addressed only in hushed, awed tones.

  What was the way forward, then? Aros would not assassinate the general. The Aztec would not feel obliged to avenge his death, so long as he was not involved in it. Barbarians were practical if nothing else.

  How? Neoloth had killed before … but never like this.

  Well. First things first.

  Last night he’d used the talisman to call upon the other allies he needed. But he could not send specific information in such a way: a time and location were the most he could manage, and by the time he reached Smuggler’s Cove, he was drawing his cloak tightly across his shoulders and shivering with the cold and wet.

  The moon was shielded behind dark clouds. When it shone through, it seemed unnaturally huge and silvery, like a bright, pockmarked coin.

  Neoloth unseated from his horse and stepped out to the edge of the wave, spreading his cloak and placing the talisman upon it, smoothing out the ruffles carefully with his hands.

  Then he sat and began to chant his spells.

  In a meditating state, he chanted. Far into the night, until just before the sun would have come creeping up from behind him, he saw the wakes and knew that his spells had been answered.

  Two Merfolk had answered his call. If they had young, they had doubtless been told to remain concealed.

  The male was bearded, the breasts of the female bare and beautiful, rounded and full in the waning light.

  “You call, wizard. Who are you to use the secret signs of the Merfolk?”

  “One who is a friend to M’thrilli of the southern waters,” he said. “We have traded often, to mutual benefit. I bring tokens of friendship.”

  Neoloth waded out into the water and offered this newcomer four spearheads, upon a folded leather square. The merman took them, and examined them, eyes glittering.

  “This is good,” he said. “And what is it you wish of me?”

  “Just one thing,” he said. “To get this parchment to M’thrilli. It is of importance to your people. I ask this favor, as an old friend to your people. If you can make this happen, it serves you well, and I will not forget the service.”

  The merman extended a hand and Neoloth slipped a folded paper into it. On it were writings in the Mer-language, and others in the language of the Eight Kingdoms.

  The merman handed the paper to his bride, and she read them. “I speak and read the human tongue,” she said, speaking for the first time. “I know what you ask. There is danger.”

  “Yes. But you must know that what Shrike plans is the end to all magic. It is to both our good that you do as I ask.”

  She read them again. “And all you wish is that we get this to M’thrilli. It may take days.”

  That was true, and Neoloth cursed under his breath. Time was of the essence.

  Then she smiled. “Is it true what they say? That upon a time you danced with our people?”

  “Yes,” he said. “They were the best days of my life.”

  “Tell me of this time,” she said.

  He closed his eyes. And began to speak of a time when a younger man, a more powerful man, fancied himself master of air and water and land. And fell in love with a mermaid, and for a glorious time had been her mate.

  Another world, another life. A time when it seemed all things were possible for one such as he. And when he spoke of her, Phashere, he found the emotion rising in his voice and realized that he was not pretending. That he had loved.

  As now he loved.

  Why was it so easy for him to forget his own emotions?

  * * *

  By the time Aros returned to their lodgings, the sun was alive along the alleyways. He fully expected to meet Neoloth in his cups, but the room was empty.

  Where was the wizard? And … what was the next step? He would not kill the general. But if Neoloth attacked him …

  How would he respond?

  Certainly, he need not help!

  He sighed. Things were so much more complicated these days that it almost made his head hurt.

  His thoughts were interrupted by a knock on the door. It couldn’t be Neoloth. The wizard would have simply entered, servile on the outside, imperious once inside. Aros thought the change was amusing and enjoyed watching it.

  But it wasn’t Neoloth at the door. It was a boy of perhaps fourteen
years, with a pale and narrow face, who wore a quasi-military uniform. He handed Aros an envelope. “From Jade Silith, sir.”

  Aros nodded. He waited for the boy to leave, then opened the envelope.

  To Captain Kasha

  You are cordially invited to the birthday celebration hunt of General Sinjin Silith.

  He gazed at it, aware that he was beginning to smile so widely that it would have been embarrassing in public.

  The door opened again, and this time Neoloth walked in. As expected, his posture changed the moment he was in the room.

  “Things are going well,” Neoloth said.

  “Very,” Aros replied. Without being certain why, he concealed the invitation. “Where have you been?”

  “Planning,” Neoloth said. He was keeping something to himself, but that wasn’t surprising. Each of them had secrets. “And you?”

  Aros grinned. “Let’s say I’ve made a friend,” he said. “And leave it at that.”

  Neoloth was angling for something, Aros was certain, but he wasn’t sure what.

  “I know that our transportation will be back in harbor in a week, at the next moon,” the wizard said. “Our plans need to be complete by then.”

  “Complete.” That meant the princess rescued, and their escape in hand. “That means very careful timing,” Aros said. “Escape will be difficult once the alarm goes up.”

  “We’ll need a distraction. I have something in mind,” he said.

  “What?”

  Neoloth smiled. “When the time is ready, you will know.”

  So. Trust was running thin. That reinforced his sense that it would be wise to keep his own secrets to himself.

  Neoloth was straightening his side of the room. It seemed to Aros that he was somewhat odd about it, repeating the same movements in a pattern. In entirely too casual a voice, the wizard asked, “What are your plans tomorrow?”

  “Was there something you needed me to do?”

  “If I did?”

  “I would have to find an excuse to my officers,” Aros said, lying automatically. “There is a training ride to the northern border. I’m expected to lead the men.”

  Neoloth seemed to consider, then turned, suddenly seeming lighter. “Ah! That’s right, you’ve been promoted. The responsibilities of office. I should have news for you upon return.”