by James Enge
“It’s like school,” said Keluaê to Naevros, who smiled suavely. There had been no school in the three-boat port town where Naevros grew up, Aloê knew, but she doubted that Keluaê could tell. Naevros could handle any conversation—except the ones that mattered most. He was a mirror image of Morlock, who never seemed to be able to speak unless the conversation was a matter of life or death. Often she wished she could make one whole man out of their scattered traits, and not only in this context.
Morlock served out wine, red or white, whereas Deor busied himself with the tea urn. When Walking Shelf had given everyone a tray, Morlock said, “Walking shelf, go: stand in a corner.” It looked around with its brass eye, stumped over to the nearest corner, and stood still.
Morlock had a tray of his own by that time and a mug of tea. He came and sat on the floor next to Aloê. He knew why she was sitting there, of course. She reached out the hand she wasn’t eating with and tangled it in his crazy hair. She saw Naevros looking, saw him look away. She didn’t bother to stop on his account. She had made her choice, the right choice, a century ago.
There was contented semisilence for a while, as the Guardians slew their hunger with weapons of food and drowned their thirst in oceans of drink.
“Morlock,” said Sundra Ekelling after a time, “you are the master of all makers.”
“Injustice!” sputtered Deor. “In the kitchen, I am the master. Eight parts of what you are eating is my work, and one of the others is either underdone or overdone.”
“You lay wonderful eggs, Deor,” Jordel remarked.
“You may laugh, Vocate, but laying an egg is relatively easy compared to cooking it properly—neither seared paste nor raw, slippery glook.”
“Whoever made these wonderful little filled flushcakes has my eternal gratitude,” Sundra said.
“Oh. Well. I suppose they’re not so bad. Those are Morlock’s, to tell the truth. Master of all makers of pancakes, you should call him. But apart from that: what a menace! Morlocktheorn, won’t you have some wine?”
So Deor had noticed that, too. It was a little thing, but connected to the deep fear within her.
Morlock shook his head: he would drink no wine.
Deor persisted: “If you don’t like the ones we brought up I could run and get you something else from the cellar. We have some golden Plyrrun, from that sunny island off the coast of Southhold. Salty and sweet and refreshing all at once. Or Barkun, from Westhold. That’s a fine, bold red wine.”
“No, Deortheorn,” Morlock said. “The day’s work isn’t done. I never drink while I’m working.”
“There!” shouted Deor. “I made you say it! Go on, then, Morlock: what’s your evening’s work, and how many precious talismans of the Graith’s magical armory will it destroy?”
“Deor,” Naevros said mildly, “give the man a rest. We all had a long, bitter day.”
Deor’s flat, gray face looked wounded. “It’s him that doesn’t want to rest. I meant no criticism of my senior in the Order—” he rolled his eyes at this “—and in Theorn Clan.” He did not roll his eyes. “I enjoy breaking things, personally, and it is many hours before I must sleep. Come on, Morlock!”
Morlock shook his head. “Thinking now,” he said. “Talk later.”
“This may take a while, then,” Jordel said. “These people who are particular about thinking always take so long to choose their words! Now, me, I never bother to think before I talk, which reminds me of the time—”
He was instantly pelted with rolls, bits of stray bread, and catcalls.
“I’m going to ignore that,” he said, “partly because I know you don’t mean it, and partly because your suffering is to me merely the butter on this delicious bread. This was back when—you’ll remember this, Naevros—”
Jordel’s stories at their best—and this was a pretty good one—required audience participation: cries of disgust or disbelief, exclamations of confirmation or denial, alternate versions of events in more temperately colored prose, occasional doses of applause. It served Jordel’s end of making everyone forget their troubles—except Morlock, who sat eating and drinking his damned tea and thinking, thinking, thinking.
They were sitting in the roseate aftermath of Jordel’s ridiculous anecdote when Illion appeared in the doorway, his apple-nosed jester’s face looking unwontedly serious.
“I tried to ring the bell,” he said, in apology, “but this big eye just opened in the door, and then the door opened to let me in. I thought it was really weird, and I want one.”
They shouted for him to come in, and they got him a cup of wine. They were going to make up a tray for him out of their leavings, but Walking Shelf woke up when he came in, reached inside itself and brought forth from a hidden warming box a tray for Illion. It stumped over and handed it to him.
“Thank you,” Illion said to it bemusedly.
“Walking Shelf, go: go back to the corner,” said Deor in a singsong voice, then he glanced at Morlock. “So you were right. How did you know Illion was coming?”
“I didn’t know,” said Morlock, “but I did ask him to.”
“I’m glad you did,” said Illion, perching on a chair and setting down his food and drink on a nearby table. “The hospitality of Tower Ambrose is strangely excellent and excellently strange.”
“Like the compliments of Illion the Wise,” Jordel said wryly.
“Let him eat! Try the rolled flatcakes, Illion. They’re good.”
Illion ate and drank, and the conversation became general. Morlock didn’t partake in it unless someone addressed him in particular, and then he answered as briefly as possible. He got up to pour himself some more tea, then came back to sit by Aloê and drink it. He was waiting.
Eventually Illion pushed away his food, accepted a refill of wine, and turned to Morlock. The waiting was over. “Listen,” he said, “why did you break the Stone rather than kill Kelat? Either would have broken the hostile rapport.”
“Something in him,” Morlock said.
“There was, and it was still in contact with Rulgân. You have no doubts about who the speaker was?”
“None.”
“Well. I didn’t say so earlier, but: good work, Guardian. My throat thanks you, from the bottom of my heart.”
Morlock opened his free hand and waited.
Illion sighed and drew something from his pocket. It was like a gem, the kind often used as a focus of power. It looked like a white diamond veined with red ruby. “Here it is,” he said. He tossed it to Morlock.
Morlock held it up to the light, and thought, and said nothing. Aloê watched him.
“You cut it out of his brain?” Deor asked. “Is he dead? Oh, of course he is.”
“No,” Illion said, “he didn’t die. Not permanently, anyway. We sealed his brain, his skull, and his skin and Noreê took him off to the lockhouse in the west side where the surviving Khnauronts are being kept.”
“Will he die?” Morlock asked.
Illion shrugged and drank. “We all will, Morlock.”
“Some sooner than others, if that icy witch has her way,” Deor remarked. “Telling truths, Guardians,” he said when some protested.
“Is he sane?” Morlock asked Illion.
“Yes. He remembers things about his life, for instance, that he didn’t before. He’ll remember more, in time. And we inscribed a protection against dragonspell in kharnum letters on his naked skull, so he won’t fall prey to that trap again.”
“Good of you.”
“It was Noreê’s idea.” He turned to Deor. “I know why you say what you say. But there is more to her than you know.”
Deor raised his mug in salute. “I honor you for defending your friend, Illion.”
“It’s not just that. It’s about justice.”
“Aha, but what about that thing you people are always saying? ‘I don’t judge; I defend.’”
“Perhaps I’m in the wrong line of work,” said Illion. “I like justice, when I can get it.�
�� He turned back to Morlock. “What do you think of the thing, Morlock the Maker?”
“I think this gem did not grow in the veins of the ground,” Morlock said thoughtfully. “There are makers in the unguarded lands who can do work like this, but they are mostly dwarves.”
“Unlikely that they would take a commission from a dragon. Or do you think this was stolen?”
“No, I think it was crafted to be a vessel of power for Rulgân in particular. It vibrates with draconic force.”
“And therefore . . .” Illion said, and waited.
Morlock didn’t speak.
Jordel said, “You can’t suppose that someone in the Wardlands made it for him?”
“I have supposed it,” Illion said, “and it’s not impossible, you know. The Wardlands are wide and there are many people in them, thinking their own thoughts and going their own ways. Maybe someone’s path brought them to this. But no, I think there’s something else even likelier.”
“Old Ambrosius, of course,” said Sundra. “What do you say, Morlock?”
“Yes. I think so.” Morlock tossed the dragonstone back to Illion.
Illion was startled, but quick of hand. He caught the stone and said, “That’s odd. I thought you would want this.”
“Keep it,” Morlock suggested, “in case Rulgân launches another attack against the Wardlands. But I think Kelat will be of more use to me. That is, if he can travel.”
“Oh ho!” Deor said. “The evening’s work has taken shape, I guess. We’re going to break into the lockhouse, kidnap Kelat, and carry him back to the unguarded lands for a dragon hunt. Am I wrong, harven?”
“No,” said Morlock.
“Yes,” said Aloê, “about one thing. That is the night’s work, not the evening’s. If my husband is going on a deadly mission into the unguarded lands, you will need to spend a pair of hours preparing for the journey. And he needs to spend that time with me.”
“Ath, rokhlan!” Deor said, bowing low. “Ev xemennen akkram hav!”
Aloê stood and offered Morlock her hand. He rose and took it. She led him from the room, heedless of Naevros’ carefully averted eyes.
CHAPTER SIX
A Parting; a Meeting
Among other things, Aloê said, “I love you” and “You are in danger” and “They think you could be king.”
He did not answer the first in words at all, nor did she need him to. To the second he said, “There is no safe place anywhere. It may be we only choose where and when to meet the end.” To the third he said, “What?”
“Lernaion said it, after the Battle of Tunglskin. Earno called him a liar. I was half dead at the time, but I remember hearing it.”
Morlock sat silent, thinking. “This explains some things Lernaion has said to me of late.”
“Such as?”
“False courtesies, as if I were his senior in the Graith. As if he need ask my permission for things. As if I were king, I guess.”
“Who do you think the Graith listens to more—especially after today?”
“Let them listen. When I talk, I have things that need saying. But I am not king, nor am I even Summoner of the City. I don’t wish to be, Aloê.”
She turned away from him on the bed and drew a coverlet over her naked shoulders. “Why not?”
“Why not?” he repeated, astonished.
“You heard me!” She turned and glared at him. “It’s not like you to waste words, beloved. I say, ‘Why not?’ and I want your answer.”
“No one person should have supreme power in the land. Attempting it is grounds for exile. It is why my ruthen father was exiled, Aloê.”
“So what?”
“It doesn’t matter to you? It matters to me.”
“Say, then, you will not be king. You will be High Vocate of the Wardlands, leader of our Graith, and no more.”
“King in all but name? Why would I want that?”
“Don’t you want people to see that you are. . . .”
“That I’m what?”
“Better than everyone else!”
“I’m not. And I will not follow in my father’s footsteps.”
“You followed them into the Graith.”
“To be a better Guardian than he was. A better man.”
“And you are. Don’t you think I know that? Don’t you think everyone does?”
He was silent for a long time and she said, “I’ve shocked you.”
“No,” he said slowly. “We have lived together for a century, Aloê. We have met, heart to heart and mind to mind in rapture many times. I knew you were ambitious. I didn’t know it took this precise form, though.”
“You should think about your choices, beloved.”
“I have made my choice, Aloê.”
“No, beloved. You may have one before you that you don’t understand yet.”
“Tell me.”
Her golden eyes searched his face. “You’re not angry at me? If we’re going to fight, let’s fight. I don’t need an ironic fencing match just now.”
“I’m not angry. You see many things I would never see. Tell me.”
“What if your choice is between ruling the Wardlands or being exiled from them, with no third option? What then?”
“I can’t see how that would happen.”
“If people think you could breach the First Decree, they may exile you before you have the chance.”
“Not without giving me a chance to defend myself.”
“Are you joking?”
“No. That’s what I think.”
She was silent for a while. Then she said, “I won’t go with you.”
He shrugged uneasily. “Of course not. You must stay here to avenge Earno.”
“Thank you for that, too, but that’s not what I mean. If they exile you, I’ll stay here. My life is here.”
He bowed his head and thought long before he spoke. Finally he said, “That is what I would want for you. To be here, to do your work, to have your life.”
“That’s what you would want for me. What would you want for yourself?”
“You,” he said, smiling.
“Then we both can’t have what we want.”
He shook his head. “It won’t come to that.”
“If it does. . . .”
“If it does, you have told me. Have you nothing else to tell me before I leave for the end of the world?”
She did, but not in words. Their mouths were busy otherwise for an hour or so.
Morlock took a run through the rain room, put on clean clothes, and descended to the atrium of Tower Ambrose. Deor was waiting there with two packs. Morlock looked at them dubiously. One seemed too large. The other was larger.
“You always leave it to me to pack,” Deor began.
“And some call Illion ‘the Wise.’”
“Yes and—Was that irony at my expense, harven?”
“Everyone is accusing me of irony.”
“That doesn’t seem to be an answer. Oh, never mind. I want you to look over your pack. I don’t want any snide looks if I forgot to pack your favorite razor or something.”
Morlock grumbled at the gigantic backpack, evidently meant for him. “I hate a heavy backpack,” he said.
“Who doesn’t? I’ve given you the barest necessities.”
Morlock unlaced the pack and began to search through it. Then he just dumped the contents on the floor of the atrium and began selecting items for repacking. He took flatbread, dried meat, and a waterbottle and put aside all other foodstuffs. A firemaker, a few tools, three books, and a bedroll completed his kit. He laced up the considerably lighter backpack and called for Walking Shelf to gather up the rest and take it away.
Deor sighed. “I suppose you’ll want to go through mine as well?”
Morlock shook his head. What Deor carried was his business. But Morlock did not propose to spend the rest of his life wandering in the unguarded lands: the barest necessities would do.
“Shall we wait for Aloê?” D
eor said uncertainly, as Morlock bound his sword and a stabbing spear in their scabbards to the frame of the backpack.
Morlock thought of Aloê as he had last seen her: her dark face angry under a bright glaze of tears. He shook his head.
Deor shrugged and shouldered his own backpack. They went out through the front door, which closed and locked behind them.
As they stepped into the street they both looked back and saw Aloê standing on the balcony above the door, a shadow framed by the dim light behind her.
“Hurry back,” she said.
“All right,” said Morlock, and turned away. He felt then he was walking away from everything that mattered to him.
Around the side were the modest stables of Tower Ambrose, and when Morlock stopped by them Deor said, “Oh, no. Not on one of those things.”
“We must cross the city as fast as we can. What do you propose?”
“What do I propose? I propose that you, the master of all makers, fashion some sort of device that enables a man or a dwarf or even both to travel a decent distance in some way that preserves their dignity and comfort and that in no way involves contact with vicious, sweaty, herbivorous beasts!”
As Deor raved, Morlock was already opening the stable doors. Reluctantly, Deor assisted in saddling a couple of herbivorous beasts, a horse named Nimber for Morlock and a pony named Trundle for Deor. They cantered west along the River Road southwest for a while, then took the Vintners’ Way due west. The road was unlit except by Chariot and Trumpeter, both red and gloomy over the western horizon: it was the last day of the month of Marrying. But the way was clear and they travelled steadily until Tower Ambrose was lost among the thicket of towers reaching into the starlit sky.
Vintners’ Way ran west into mountain country, and they followed it through the ruinous western wall of the city into the neighborhoods beyond as far as the nightmare-painted streets of Fungustown.
“I never like coming here at night,” Deor whispered. “Or in twilight. Or in the daytime.”
Morlock grunted.
The only building lit up in Fungustown was the lockhouse. It had been a block of apartments when it was built. Noreê and her attendant-thains had not changed the walls at all, but simply put the prisoners in the windowless basement.