Sometimes, during those long winter nights when they sat around the fire, sharing songs and stories, Darrow would take out the ring, the blood-red ruby ring that had belonged to Samis, and study it as intently as if he could see visions unfurling in its dark depths. Calwyn saw, and it troubled her, but she said nothing. It was as if the ring had cast some kind of spell over him; she wished that they had left it in Spareth.
At last there came a day, at the beginning of spring, when Darrow readied Heron and sailed away. He had told Tonno that he needed time to be alone, to think. To Calwyn, he had said nothing, not even goodbye.
Just once, in all the time since Darrow had sailed away, three full turns of the moons, she had asked Halasaa, ‘Does he still live?’
He hadn’ t needed to ask of whom she spoke. He had answered her gravely. Do you think so, my sister?
‘Yes,’ she’ d said. ‘I think so.’
Your bond with him is stronger than mine. If you believe he lives, then he lives.
But she was not as reassured as she had hoped.
With a sigh, she turned from the window. Tomorrow they would begin the long voyage to Merithuros, and it would be wise to get whatever sleep she could, while she still had the enjoyment of a soft bed. Yet she lay awake for a long time that night.
DARROW 1
Far away, on a nameless sea, a boat rocked at anchor in the moonlight. It held one lonely, sleepless figure, a slightly-built man a few years from thirty, with fair hair and a silvery scar above his grey-green eyes. He stared at the slow-wheeling stars. A dark light glistened from the great square ruby ring he held, so it seemed that a dark ember, the heart of fire, shone on the palm of his hand. He had not yet slipped the ring onto his finger. It weighed in his hand, as heavy as trouble, as heavy as choice. Then he thrust it deep into his pocket, next to his heart, turned his cheek to the hard boards of the little boat, and tried to sleep.
Heron was a light, quick craft, and easy to manage when the wind was in her sails, and as Darrow sat in the stern, one hand on the tiller and an eye to the rigging, he was able to let his mind roam. He was speeding back to Ravamey at last, back to Calwyn. But his thoughts returned insistently to Merithuros, and to Samis. He remembered the beginning of their last voyage together, and how they’ d stared across the rail of the big Gellanese galleon, watching as the golden dunes receded into haze. He hadn’ t been sorry to leave the Empire behind; he was eager to reach the Westlands, the home of chantment, eager to begin their adventures. And Samis – Samis must have been planning even then. As he stared over the rail, did he vow never to return until he was the Singer of all Songs and Emperor of all Tremaris?
Darrow shivered. Would he ever stop thinking about Samis? The man haunted him. Since Darrow was a child of twelve, Samis had dominated his life. ‘Let me be!’ he muttered, and hauled the tiller across, so that the wind bellied the canvas of his sail. He’ d hoped that when he left Samis behind in Spareth, dead, their bond would be severed.
Impatiently he turned his mind to the time in his life before he knew Samis existed. He remembered another ship, another voyage, and a small boy, hardly big enough to peep over the side –
The boy was born on the ship Gold Arrow. The captain is his father, and the captain’ s wife his mother, but the whole crew is his family. He runs up and down the rigging with ease so the sailors call him Mouse. They carve toy mice for him out of whalebone, and teach him how to play dice and knucklebones. He sleeps in a hammock in his parents’ cabin, and he rocks with the rhythm of the ship, and watches the shadows swing as the lantern swings. His mother sits nearby with a brush in her hand, and the lamplight glints on the pale shimmering silk of her hair.
The whole ship is his home; he knows no other. He knows that the ship and all the sailors, his mother and father, are from Penlewin, and they teach him to be proud that he is a son of the marshlands. But he has never seen the marshes, and has only the vaguest notion of what they are. A wet land, they tell him, and he imagines an endless sea like the one they sail, but crowded with other boats, a community of ships and sailors.
Yet when they come to port, the noise and the crowds frighten him. He clings to his mother’ s side. His father calls him a milksop, and sends him back to the ship. ‘He’ s only a baby, Jollan,’ his mother protests, but the little boy is glad to return to the safety of the ship and his own familiar hiding places.
Arram is a wizened old dark-skinned sailor. The other crew treat Arram with a strange mixture of fear and respect and scorn, but Mouse is fascinated by him and his mysterious eye-patch, and wonders what lies beneath it.
One day Arram sits by himself on the deck, mending a sail. Mouse creeps closer, watching as the old sailor forces the needle in and out of the canvas, pushing it through with a leather pad in the palm of his hand. Then he sees Arram glance about. Mouse shrinks into his hiding place between a barrel and the duck coop. Arram holds the sail out straight and begins to sing, a kind of song that Mouse has never heard before. The little boy sees the needle fly along the seam, darting in and out, but Arram is not touching it at all.
Suddenly Arram looks up, and sees Mouse watching. He stops singing, and the needle drops, lifeless, into his lap. For a moment, the two stare at each other, the old sailor and the little boy. Then Arram smiles his toothless smile, and beckons Mouse closer. ‘You never heard a song like that before, eh, boy?’ Mouse shakes his head.
‘I’ ll sing you another, if you like.’
Mouse nods. The old man starts a low growling with words that Mouse can’ t understand, and the carved mouse in the little boy’ s pocket stirs as if it were alive. He pulls it out, and it sits up on his hand and cocks its head at him.
Arram laughs. ‘You’ ll trap a fly in there, boy, if you don’ t watch out.’
With a snap, Mouse shuts his mouth.
Arram winks at him with his one eye. ‘Our secret, eh?’
Mouse nods his head. Then his mother calls him to a meal, and he scampers away.
Once or twice after that the little boy takes out his toy mouse and stares at it, but it doesn’ t move. He waits until he sees Arram sitting alone again, and he creeps up with his hands behind his back. ‘What is it, boy?’
He holds out the mouse on his hand. Arram laughs his silent laugh, and sings softly. The mouse’ s tail flicks; its nose twitches. The little boy laughs too, and he listens to Arram’ s song, and watches the shape of his mouth as he sings.
Night after night in his hammock, swaying with the ship, he practises the song. It’ s very difficult, but the little boy is clever and patient, and at last he makes the mouse’ s nose twitch. He does it again, and again, laughing with delight, until his mother comes in to see why he isn’ t asleep. He curls up obediently, clutching the mouse tightly in his hand, but he’ s too excited to sleep.
The next day he shows Arram what he can do. The old man’ s face goes pale under its deep leathery tan, and he looks around fearfully. He seizes Mouse’ s arm and shakes him. ‘Never let anyone see that you can do that! Understand me, boy?’
Mouse stares at the old sailor in mute rebellion. He wants to learn more. But Arram is afraid. ‘Tis a fearful thing to be a chanter, boy. I lost my home, my family, everything I ever loved, for the sake of this magic, and I were lucky not to lose my life.’ They strike a bargain: the old man will teach Mouse all he knows, in return for Mouse’ s silence. He doesn’ t have to tell him again to keep their songs secret; Mouse knows. The secret songs are called chantments. The magical tricks are called ironcraft.
Before long the little boy can toss knucklebones without picking them up, and lace his shirt without touching the ribbons, and at night he makes the little mouse run up and down his arm.
Night had fallen. Darrow trimmed the sail and let Heron rest on the waves, rocking gently just as his hammock had in those far-off days. He curled himself in the bottom of the boat, wrapped in a blanket, and stared up at the canopy of stars and the three moons. He had made good progress; the northern stars,
the tip of the Spear, showed above the horizon.
He had not dragged out these old memories for many years. It was surprising to find them, fresh as ever, as if he’ d opened an old forgotten trunk, shaken out some ancient garments, and found them scented like wildflowers. But there was an unhappy smell in the old trunk too, a dusty, suffocating smell. And it was that smell that pursued him into his dreams.
The ship comes to a port they’ ve never visited. It’ s a hot place, with a smell of spices, and Mouse sees people dressed in long robes. He sees strange woolly beasts, and tall thin towers, and golden sand.
Arram does not go ashore with the other sailors. He says he is sick with jaw-ache, and stays in his hammock with a cloth wrapped around his head. Mouse goes to visit him. Arram’ s skinny hand shoots out to grab his arm, and the old man hisses at him. ‘Be careful, boy! This is Geel. In Geel, when they find little boys who are chanters, they steal them away to the middle of the desert and eat them up! Our secret, boy. Remember!’
Mouse shakes off his grip and goes away. On the ship, the sailors are always warning him not to do this or that, or they’ ll tan his hide, or throw him to the fishes, or chop him up for stew.
Mouse runs up the rigging to watch the cargo being unloaded. They have big cranes and pulleys here, the biggest he’ s ever seen. The crew of Mouse’ s ship hook ropes around a heavy bale. But the man who operates the crane begins to lift the bale before the ropes are secure. The captain, Mouse’ s father, is underneath, bellowing orders; he doesn’ t notice as the bale begins to slip. The sailors shout and wave their arms, but the captain doesn’ t hear.
Before Mouse has time to think, he is singing a chantment. He leans from the rigging and sings out as loud as he can. The bale hangs in mid-air; it dangles from one rope, impossibly suspended. The sailors and the men on the dock stare, openmouthed, faces turned upward. Mouse sings. The bale floats. The captain steps back, one step, then another, his face ashen. Mouse stops singing. The bale crashes to the deck, on the very spot where the captain had been standing.
The sailors cheer; they don’ t understand what has happened but they are happy their captain is safe. The men on the dock seem frightened. They look up at Mouse who clings to the mast, and they make a sign with their hands to banish evil. And Mouse sees them steal glances at a man in black robes who stands in the shadows, watching the scene, watching the little boy.
Suddenly Mouse is afraid. He scuttles down the rigging and darts across the deck toward his favourite hiding place. He scrambles out onto the bowsprit and perches there. The man in black robes steps onto the ship. The captain strides forward, frowning, his arm raised. No one comes onto the ship without the captain’ s permission. But the man in black robes sweeps the captain aside with a wave of his hand, like a fly. His eyes are fixed on Mouse.
The little boy inches his way to the very end of the bowsprit. He is more frightened than he has ever been. Arram’ s warning comes back to him with terrible force. The man in the black robes stands in the bow. He stretches out his hand, and Mouse feels a rush of relief. The man cannot touch him, he’ s safe.
Then the man begins to sing. Mouse is lifted by the loop of his belt. The bowsprit snaps off beneath him, and falls with a splash into the water. An invisible hand tosses Mouse roughly onto the deck, and the man in the black robes sweeps him up under one arm. The captain runs toward them, shouting. The captain’ s wife throws herself at the feet of the man in the black robes, and tears at him with her fingernails, screaming. Mouse wriggles and bites and kicks. But the man in the black robes strides swiftly on, with Mouse under his arm, off the ship and away.
Mouse is smothered in the black robes. He will never forget their choking, dusty smell. He can’ t see where they’ re going; all he sees is the man’ s calloused, sandalled feet. The feet move rapidly, down steps, through doorways, along streets and into buildings. He can hear his mother’ s voice as she pursues them through the winding streets. Mouse wriggles and twists more than ever. The man raises his hand and clouts Mouse hard around the head. Mouse gives one little gasping sob.
‘You’ ll thank me for this one day, boy,’ hisses the man. Then he hits Mouse again, and he knows no more.
two
The Deadly Sands
MICA LEANED OVER the side of Fledgewing, staring through a narrow tube. Heben came up behind her. ‘What is that?’
‘Trout made it. You can see far-off things like they was at the end of your hand. Here, look.’
She passed him the tube and he stared through it. At once the faint line on the horizon, the shore of Merithuros, sprang into sharp focus. Heben could see the dunes, like frozen waves whose shape echoed the waves that curled onto the beach. He swung the tube back and forth. For as far as he could see, the desert stretched away, fold after fold.
‘I thought Doryus were a bleak place,’ said Mica. ‘All rocks and little stunted slava bushes. But this –’ She shivered. ‘It’ s so dead. Don’ t nothin live there?’
Heben stared at her in amazement. ‘The desert is filled with life. There are all manner of creatures: flocks of hegesi, and wasunti, the wild dogs. Snakes and lizards, and birds and little nadi –’ Seeing her blank look, he held his hands about one span apart. ‘Little burrowing creatures, about so big, with long snuffling noses. Every child in Merithuros, I think, has a nadu for a pet.’
Halasaa stared toward the shore, his tattooed face difficult to read. So many creatures in such emptiness?
Heben laughed. Their voyage had lasted a half turn of the moons, and he was becoming accustomed to Halasaa’ s silent speech, though it still startled him to hear that quiet voice inside his head.
‘Wait, and I’ ll show you! The desert is far from empty. Not like this –’ He gestured with a grimace at the sea that lapped all around them.
‘By the gods, you must be joking.’ Tonno, at the tiller, had been listening to their exchange. ‘Why, you can’ t put a bucket into the ocean without drawing out a dozen different kinds of fish and weed.’
Mica said, ‘There’ s islands near Doryus where you can dive for shellfish, and there’ s gardens all across the bottom of the sea. There’ s beautiful corals taller’ n a man, and flowers bigger’ n your head.’
‘You dive – into that?’
Calwyn smiled. ‘You and I have something in common, Heben. We who were not raised by the shore have to learn not to fear the sea.’
‘My people do not trust the ocean,’ he admitted.
‘But Merithuros has ports, and traders, and fisher folk, same as every other land. Except Antaris,’ Mica said.
‘Yes. But the coast-dwellers are not true Merithurans. Once they leave the desert life, once they leave the sands, they turn their backs on their true heritage. Criminals and outcasts work in the mines on the coast, and only misfits and orphans, people without family, live by the sea.’
Calwyn shook her head. ‘Don’ t forget you’ re one of those orphans now,’ she reminded him.
Half to herself, Mica sang a scrap of a song from her native island.
‘From the river, the sea;
From the sea, the rains;
From the rains, the river. . .’
Calwyn said, ‘The sea connects us all, it’ s the lifeblood of Tremaris. You will have to learn, as I did, to embrace the ocean, and not to be afraid of it.’
Heben looked away. It was true, he had forgotten that he had no family now; he was no different from those outcasts he had always scorned and pitied.
‘Ho, Mica!’ called Tonno. ‘Sing us a breeze, lass. This wind is slackening.’
‘Are you sure we’ re far enough fromTeril? It would be a pity to be arrested as chanters at the very beginning of our quest!’
Calwyn’ s tone was light, and Heben said with a slight bow, ‘My lady jokes, but I fear it is no joking matter. If anyone were to discover you were chanters, your fate would be no better than the twins’ . Perhaps worse.’
Calwyn was contrite. ‘I’ m sorry, Heben.’ She and
Mica exchanged a look, and when Mica sang up a wind for the sails, she sang so softly that Heben could barely hear the music weaving through the breeze.
The next day they came to Teril. At Heben’ s insistence, they entered the port without the aid of Mica or Calwyn’ s chantment.
Tonno grumbled, ‘It’ s a long time since I had to rely on my skills alone to bring Fledgewing into harbour.’
‘It’ ll do you good,’ teased Calwyn. ‘We don’ t want our chief sailor’ s skills to get rusty.’
Halasaa moved about the boat in his deft, silent way, hauling in canvas and loosening ropes before Tonno could give the order. Tonno had taught him well, and he was almost as at home on the waves as he had been in the dense forests of the Wildlands. But as soon as they drew near the teeming jetties of the port, Heben asked him to go below. ‘Once we reach the Court, we will dress you as a foreign servant. There are many such there, and no one will look at you twice. But here you will be conspicuous, until we find you some proper desert dress.’
Halasaa merely bowed his head and disappeared into the cabin.
Once at dock, Heben did not want Calwyn and Mica to go ashore and help purchase the supplies they would need. ‘The ladies will find it dull and dusty work,’ he said, with a bow. ‘And the town is too rough a place for women.’
Mica’ s eyes flashed. ‘You can’ t stop me comin, just you try!’ ‘You expect me to carry all the parcels, do you? Like one of those beasts of yours?’ Tonno glowered.
‘Surely it wouldn’ t hurt if Mica and I came along,’ said Calwyn. ‘We’ re not so delicate that we can’ t deal with a little dust.’ Heben’ s gallantry was beginning to grate on her nerves.
The Waterless Sea Page 4