The Sea of Time

by P. C. Hodgell

  Jame thought that that last was probably true. Killing people in ambiguous circumstances rarely did any good.

  As for the Host, it was preparing for what might come. That morning the camp had been shaken out of bed early by the blare of the alarm horn. Everyone had rushed to the inner ward, to be told that it was only a drill, but they had still been too slow.

  Amantine stomped, regaining Jame’s attention. “Oh, you and your precious toy soldiers! Prince Ton promises to raise a militia that will do every bit as well.”

  “Does he propose to lead it himself? Riding what two draft horses, or shall we find him an elephant? Speaking of which, what have we here?”

  He had spotted the rhi-sar’s fearsome head bobbing behind and above the last rank of his attendants. Courtiers turned to stare, then to back away, some in fright, some holding their noses. The great beast smelled worse dead than alive. The Kendar bore it forward and let its hide sprawl at Krothen’s feet as if in obeisance. He clapped his pudgy, beringed hands in admiration.

  “Your Magnificence,” said Jame, bowing. “Would you deign to preserve our prize with your touch?”

  Brier lifted one of the flayed forearms and extended a talon as if it were reaching out to the king. He dabbed at it, then paused thoughtfully, twiddling his sausagelike fingers. Jame could see that he was tempted to claim the entire hide as royal booty.

  “Don’t you dare,” she said, to a gasp from the courtiers.

  Krothen pursed his lips with a moue of petulance, but withdrew his hand. “Should I rob so bold a hunter of such a trophy? Take it, with my blessing. Now, who have we here?”

  Kalan nudged her son forward. The Langadine boy stared up at the mountainous figure before him, wide-eyed with wonder.

  “Why are you so big?” he asked.

  Krothen made a subterranean sound that emerged as a fat chuckle. “Why are you so small? Here. Have a candied centipede.”

  The Kendar bundled up their prize and retreated, leaving Lanek perched on what was presumably the royal knee, dubiously regarding his still twitching many-legged treat.

  III

  WHILE THE TEN-COMMAND departed to deliver the rhi-sar hide to Gaudaric, Jame went in search of Graykin. She found him at the shabby tavern most commonly frequented by the Intelligencers’ Guild, holding court among his dingy followers, none of whom looked pleased to see her.

  “What do they have against me?” she asked when Graykin left them to join her at her table.

  The spy shrugged. “You set me to look for Ran Awl and Nightshade, not to mention the other missing Randir. I recruited the entire guild to help me.”

  “Without pay, I take it.”

  “They should be glad to do their guildmaster’s biding.”

  “Huh.” Jame took out a golden arax and rapped on the table with it. “Drinks on me for the house, until this runs out,” she told the slovenly maid who came to take her order.

  “You didn’t need to do that,” Graykin grumbled.

  “It can’t hurt. Now tell me: have you discovered anything about Shade and Ran Awl?”

  “Not so much as a tinker’s fart, and we looked everywhere.”

  “Undercliff too?”

  He gave a moue of discontent. “You know we aren’t welcome below.”

  “All right. As it happens, I’ve made my own arrangements there. And don’t look so sour. I remember your reception at Fang’s hands the last time.”

  She surveyed the room, noting many sharp noses buried deep in refilled mugs but also many glittering eyes watching her and Graykin askance. Only Hangnail stared at them openly with hooded eyes, his drink untouched before him.

  “Walk wary, Graykin,” she said softly. “Come the next Change, you could be in trouble.”

  The spy shrugged. “That may not be for years. Anyway, whatever happens, I’m still your sneak, aren’t I?”

  “I wish you wouldn’t call yourself that. I bound you, more or less by accident, and I’m responsible for you. Nothing will change that.”

  Graykin let out a breath he seemed unaware that he had been holding. “That’s all right, then.”

  Undercliff, Jame sought out the Waster Fang, who gave her a similar report.

  “I can’t swear that my gang of urchins has searched every single cave—remember, they go back for miles—but we would have heard something if there were prisoners here below.”

  Jame sighed and counted out a handful of coins. “For your efforts, nonetheless,” she said. “See that the children get some fresh fruit and vegetables. Where’s Kroaky?”

  Fang glowered. “Here and there, as usual.”

  “I ask for no secrets, mind you, but what is his connection to that great lump, Krothen? Surely you’ve noticed the resemblance.”

  “No, I have not,” snapped the Waster. “What, d’you think I sit in the king’s pocket? I’ve never even seen the man.”

  With that, Jame had to be satisfied.

  IV

  WINTER PROGRESSED without a sign of the missing Randir but with growing unrest in the city. Merchants and craftsmen began to feel the pinch of their lost ventures and, as the princess had foretold, they were quick to blame Krothen and Lord Merchandy. Some also looked to Lord Artifice, but it was well known that he had risked as much of his wares as any two merchants, enough seriously to compromise him. Of the three guild lords, only Lady Professionate escaped criticism on that count, although she found her hands full dealing with the newly stressed, combative populace.

  No one wanted to admit that Kothifir’s days of glory might be over.

  “Not that we can’t survive on our own talents,” said Gaudaric, sketching a shoulder plate in blue chalk on the creamy rhi-sar leather. He picked up a toothed file and began to saw. “I’ve said before that we have plenty of skilled craftsmen here, at least as many as the other Rim cities. True, some guilds will suffer more than others—the silk and spice merchants especially. Others shouldn’t have sent more wares than they could afford to lose. My own losses will sting for a while, but they won’t ruin me.”

  Jame perched on a stool, feeling stifled. Gaudaric had bound plates of wet, boiled leather around her torso and there she would have to remain until they took her form.

  “Sit up straight,” he told her, “and remember to breathe.”

  “You really think that the city will recover?”

  “My guess is that it will never be what it was, but if everyone is sensible, yes. Mind you, not everyone will be. People have grown used to the fat times and they will resent losing them. I credit that for this cry to distribute the king’s riches. Then there are the opportunists. Merchant Needham, now, there’s a fellow determined to turn things to his advantage at whatever cost to others.”

  Jame had heard that the merchant, Master Silk Purse, was haranguing his guild about Kothifir’s need for new rulers. Lord Merchandy was his prime target, although there were whispers that he also spoke in private against the king. It was unclear to Jame if he wanted a civil uprising or a Change—surely not the latter since that would put his own position as a guild master at risk as well, unless he was so arrogant that he considered himself unassailable. Then again, what did he think he could do to restore the city’s now dwindling wealth?

  She could only imagine how Kothifirans would react if they ever learned that a Kencyr temple coming to life in the past had caused their current distress. The sea awash with the dead at Langadine still haunted her. Damn her god anyway for his unthinking cruelty, much more to Langadine than to Kothifir. That in turn reminded her of Kothifir’s temple, which she hadn’t visited since her arrival in the city.

  Consequently, when Gaudaric finally released her from leather bondage, she made her way toward the ruined outer ring of the city.

  This time she entered the topless tower from the ground level. The temple still loomed up through the broken floors like a dormant volcano, making her wonder anew why anyone had built it there to begin with. Perhaps it had been small at first and the structure h
ad been built around it to hide its existence. However, it wasn’t quite as tall as it had been the last time she had seen it. Graykin had been right: it had shrunken, not disastrously but noticeably. Black-robed priests and brown-clad acolytes still bustled in and out of its only door. The whole structure vibrated with power, but with a catch to it, like a top beginning to falter in its spin.

  “You again.”

  Jame turned to find the blond acolyte of her previous visit standing behind her, looking sour. She indicated the diminished temple.

  “How long has it been like this?”

  “Since Winter’s Eve, if you must know. Every day it shrinks a little more, on the outside at least. Inside it stays the same. One of us always remains outside, just in case.”

  “When is it likely to trigger a Change?”

  He laughed, without humor. “Grandfather would give a lot to know that. As many Changes as he’s lived through, they still tend to catch him by surprise. We could go on like this for another year, or a sudden fluctuation in the weather might tip the balance overnight.”

  Jame regarded him curiously. The last time they had met, he had been willing to see her plunge to her death. Now he looked harried and preoccupied, not entirely focused on her presence. “I don’t know much about the inner workings of the priesthood,” she said. “How did you come to be here?”

  “Because of Grandfather, of course. I belong to a hieratic family and trained in the Priests’ College at Wilden, as my father did before me. He died at the Cataracts. He was a horse healer. Of course, no one gave him credit for that.”

  “I expect the horses did,” said Jame.

  Her own attitude toward the priesthood had changed somewhat since she had come to know Kindrie Soul-walker. She still didn’t trust most of them, but she was now aware that the Priests’ College was a dumping ground for unwanted Shanir children, resulting in a disproportionate number of healers and others of singular power. She wondered what talent this boy wielded, if any.

  “Who are you?” she asked.

  He drew himself up. “Dorin, son of Denek, son of Dinnit Dun-eyed, son of . . .”

  “Enough.”

  “You asked, I answered—and I know now who you are too. You may call yourself the Talisman, but you’re also the Highlord’s unnatural heir, Jamethiel Priest’s-bane. Did you think we wouldn’t find out?”

  Jame had hoped that they wouldn’t, but her reputation had apparently preceded her, at least among the priesthood.

  “How is M’lord Ishtier anyway?” she asked. “The last time I saw him, he was trying to gnaw off his own fingers.”

  Dorin glared at her. “Not well, thanks to you, but he gave us warning.”

  “I can imagine. Did he also tell you that he tried to create a rival deity to the Three-Faced God?”

  The boy’s face reddened. “Lies!”

  “Truth, I’m afraid, and a word of warning: never call me a liar. ‘All the beings we know to be divine are in fact but the shadows of some greater power that regards them not.’ That’s the Anti-God Heresy of Tai-tastigon. Ishtier used a Kencyr soul to create a demon, and believed that he had created a god, but Tastigon ‘gods’ spring from the power that spills over from our own temple and are shaped by the beliefs of their followers. Here in Kothifir, that gives you the guild lords, the god-king Krothen, and, to a lesser degree, the guild masters.”

  “What about the Old Pantheon godlings of the Undercliff?”

  “Their source of power is different, bound to this world specifically through the Four, not to us.”

  He shook his head as if plagued with bees. “What Four? No, don’t tell me: I don’t believe any of it anyway. You Highborn will say anything to keep us powerless, we, who control the greatest power in the Chain of Creation through his temples.”

  “You keep the temples from exploding. What else you do with them, I don’t know. Their power certainly doesn’t help the rest of the Kencyrath. And you must be part Highborn yourself if you’re a Shanir priestling.”

  “Lies,” he said, backing away. “Lies. Who is our lord? No one. Whom do we serve? The high priests. Who is our family? Each other. On whom do we spit? Our cruel god, who has forsaken us. The temples are ours, I tell you! No one else serves or deserves them.”

  Jame watched him go, almost running. It seemed to her that she had let an unwelcome light into his world, or maybe she only hoped that she had.

  Priests, she thought in disgust.

  V

  MIDWINTER CAME with a spate of rain, drumming on the baked ground. The Amar ran swift between its banks around the city and in channels through the Undercliff, fed by mountains to the north. Winter crops in the Betwixt Valley neared harvest.

  At Tentir, the Winter War was being waged between the new first-year cadets and those who had returned for a second year.

  In two three-hundred-yard pitches established in the training fields south of Kothifir, randon officers and cadets competed against regular Kendar in an all-barracks match that took three days to complete.

  Thus late on Midwinter’s afternoon, Jame found herself and her ten-command waiting to face their regular counterparts in the east field, surrounded by thousands of noisy spectators who had already played their own sets.

  The game was called kouri, a native favorite usually conducted on fleetfoots with a headless goat carcass. The Kencyrath, however, preferred horses and a sheepskin ball. The object was to carry said ball between the opponent’s goalposts. There were few other rules and many casualties, for it was a rough sport.

  Timmon rode up, his horse lathered and his jacket stained with sweat.

  “Whew,” he said, wiping his brow with his sleeve. “Those regulars take this seriously, and they’ve had a lot more practice than we Riverlanders.”

  “I suppose this is their chance to show that they’re our equals or better in something,” said Jame. “What’s the score?”

  Timmon glanced toward the western field where dust rose like smoke and the crowd roared. “Counting senior matches, two hundred thirty to two hundred ten in their favor.” He stood up in his stirrups to survey the opposite side of the pitch. “It looks as if you’re going to be matched against a Caineron ten-command. Who’s that blond Kendar? She looks formidable.”

  “That’s Amberley,” said Brier on Jame’s other side. “And she’s carrying a crook-whip. Watch out for her.”

  Jame eyed that instrument. It was exactly what its name implied, a short length of springy wood with a metal hook bound at one end and a cluster of braided leather thongs at the other.

  “That hook can be used to trip mounts as well as to pull down riders,” Brier said, addressing the rest of the ten-command over her shoulder. “Look to your horses.”

  Jame patted Bel-tairi’s neck. She wished she were mounted on Death’s-head instead, but the rathorn had seemed rather much for what she had assumed would be a friendly match. Bel might be more nimble, but she was also the smallest, lightest equine on the field. Trinity, what had she been thinking of to risk a priceless Whinno-hir in such a game?

  The set before hers was about to conclude, the judge trotting on the sidelines, lips moving as he counted down. Ten skirmishers seethed close to the randons’ goal where a cadet guarded the set of posts and four of his peers ranged back and forth waiting to intercept, intercepted in turn by four regular rangers who sought to block them. A cadet had the ball and was trying to break free while his teammates attempted simultaneously to shield him from the regulars and to open a way to the rival goalpost. He saw his chance and plunged out of the scrimmage, closely pursued. One of the regular rangers lunged for him. They ran several paces side by side before the regular wrestled away the ball, unseating the cadet who held on a moment too long and so lost both stirrups and seat. Jame winced as he fell under pounding hooves. The regular threw the shaggy ball to one of his mates, and he to another who dodged the goalkeeper and cantered between the randon posts with it held high. Watching cadets groaned and regulars cheered as
the judge brought down his baton to signal the end of the set.

  “Another loss for our side,” said Timmon. “Watch yourself out there.”

  At the judge’s signal, they trotted out onto the pitch and lined up opposite their opponents. Amberley absentmindedly tapped her crook-whip against her boot as she waited for the baton to drop. Jame was aware of Brier Iron-thorn on her right, riding her tall chestnut gelding. Her former friend was the ten-commander of her troop while Brier was only five-commander under Jame, although for this match Jame had designated Brier as the captain of the team, given her knowledge of the game. Regarding the two Kendar, Jame wondered again about their past relationship, how close they had been, how potentially bitter their estrangement.

  Tap, tap, tap went Amberley’s whip.

  A passing spate of raindrops pattered against the earth, helping to lay the dust.

  Brier edged her gelding closer to Bel-tairi.

  The judge dropped the sheepskin ball between the two lines and retreated. Down came his baton.

  Two riders wheeled to protect their respective goals while four on each team spread out to cover the middle field as rangers. The remaining ten skirmishers charged each other.

  Dar swung down from the saddle to grab the ball by its long fleece, but jerked back and swerved as a regular thundered down on him, cutting him off. The other team had the ball. Cadets pressed in to prevent it from being thrown to an enemy ranger. Horses clashed, squealing. Amberley slashed at Brier’s face with her whip, again and again, until the Kendar reached up and wrenched it out of her grip. Jame saw the white, furry ball pass from rider to rider under the confusion.

  Suddenly it flew free.

  Mint and a regular raced down on it. The Knorth got it, but the other horse crashed into her own and she dropped it. Now the regular was coming straight at Jame, the ball under his arm. No fool, Bel jumped out of the way, to a groan from the onlookers. The regular pelted on toward the goalposts and tried to throw the ball between them; but Killy, the cadet guard, caught it and threw it back into play. Now the field was thundering back toward Jame.