by Ian Irvine
Karan had not intended to go any further but she suddenly found herself at the bottom, picking her way across the slippery platform, avoiding the many places where rotten timber had collapsed, or would as soon as an unwary foot stepped on it. On the other side she looked up at the huge piles and beams of the wharf city. The tarred wood was covered in weed and barnacles. She stepped into the reeking dark and stopped abruptly. Two of the lanky robed Hlune, the masters of this place, stood quite still, watching her.
Karan had been frightened of them before. But then, in the war their very existence had been threatened. The life of the city had settled back into its old grooves since then. Karan came to a sudden decision.
Holding out her hands, palms up, she said slowly and clearly, “I have come to see the Telt!” She referred to the smaller race who toiled for the Hlune. They had sheltered her a year ago, before her escape with Shand. The Telt had treated her kindly, for no reason other than that she had been their guest, and an uninvited guest at that. “My name is
Karan,” she added.
They looked at her blankly. She realized that there might be thousands of Telt in the wharf city. And back then she’d had dyed black hair. What was the name of the young woman who had been kind to her?
“I have come to see Cluffer the Telt. My name is Karan. 1 was here with Shand, one year ago.”
The names did not seem to mean anything to them. They each took an arm, not roughly, and led her to the meeting place with the paneled walls where she had been questioned before. After a considerable wait, Karan was brought before the pair of elderly Hlune, who presided there on their red cedar chairs as before. The two wore only ceremonial loin-cloths. The man’s chin-whiskers were plaited into at least a hundred braids, signifying his exalted rank. The woman’s hair was similarly divided, hanging down in a fan that covered most of her chest.
“Shand is my friend,” she said. “I am Karan Fyrn, of Bannador.”
This time Karan was recognized, though when she repeated her request they looked bemused.
The woman felt her arm. “Karan?” she said, clicking her tongue. Then, “Shand, hah!”
“I have come to visit the Telt who sheltered me a year ago,” Karan said, speaking very slowly.
The elders seemed puzzled. Perhaps the Telt never had visitors, or perhaps they never came this way.
“Telt!” Karan repeated. “I have come to see Cluffer the Telt.”
“Who is Cluffer?”
Karan spelled the name out with a wet finger on the wall.
“Cluffer?” The man popped his cheeks as he followed the letters with his own finger, sounding the name out to himself. “Cluffer?”
Then suddenly he laughed. “No, no,” he said, crossed out Cluffer with his finger and painstakingly spelled out C-L-O-G-H-E-R. “Cluffer,” he repeated, with a subtle but almost imperceptible difference in pronunciation. “You see!”
“Cluffer,” Karan agreed.
The woman smiled, a leathery drawing-back of the lips, and gestured to the Hlune who had brought her in. Karan was taken through the dark-timbered, wet, rotting passages of the wharf city to a room like every other room there. It was just a box of raw timber with a floor that was awash and a platform halfway up, above the tide level, on which sat half a dozen barrels and a pile of jellyfish. A dozen Telt worked there, a small, slender, pale-skinned, dark-haired, broad-nosed people. Men and women wore the same solitary garment, a scanty loincloth of drab material. They were a smiling folk, despite their miserable existence.
The Telt were busy at packing jellyfish into barrels. The vile smell of foul-jelly assaulted Karan’s nostrils. The stench of the fish oil on their hair was equally overpowering. They turned and stared as one, not recognizing her.
“I am Karan,” she said. She reached into her pocket and took out the tea and the honeycomb, offering it.
Someone recognized her voice and smiled. It was Cluffer. Putting down their tools, they washed in the sea and shook hands, each clasping her two hands in their own. The man she remembered as Cluffer’s lover, a slender young fellow whose hair gleamed with fish oil, went over to the urn and set the flame glowing.
They were quite reserved, much more so than before, glancing at one another but not at her. Karan realized that they did not know what to make of her. Back then she had been like them, for all she’d had in the world was a borrowed loincloth. Now she was richly dressed by their stan-dards, far beyond them. It was too high a barrier to be overcome. Then she thought of a way.
Karan took off her coat, shirt, boots and socks, rolled her trousers up at the knee and sat down on the bare boards again, more than a little embarrassed. Goosepimples sprang up on her exposed skin. The damp went straight through her trousers. She wondered how they would react.
The Telt laughed and clapped. One by one they embraced her, then they formed a circle and hugged her in its center. Their skin was warm and very comforting.
After that they drank her spiced tea, cup after cup, until the light began to fade. One or two tiny lamps were lit, and Karan gestured to the jellyfish vats, indicating that she would be glad to take a turn at cleaning and packing them, and pressing them for their jelly. The Telt seemed to find that idea very amusing.
“Holiday!” said Cluffer with a merry grin.
They sat on the upper floor for dinner. The food was put on a single wooden platter which was worn and stained black. Before any of them took a morsel for themselves (and they all ate with their fingers) each one picked up a choice tidbit and offered it to their neighbor, or to Karan as the special guest. The one who accepted the gift first bowed, and after eating, licked the fingers of the offerer to signify appreciation. This custom was not expected of Karan, their guest, but nonetheless she copied their manners, and their way of taking food, as closely as she could. They took food only between the thumb and first two fingers of the right hand, with a fluttering movement of the free fingers, and politely licked their fingers before picking up a morsel to offer it, or to take a piece for themselves.
Dinner was not what Karan would have described as a feast, being based on jellyfish cake, the stringy material left over after all the jelly had been squeezed out. However there were other more palatable dishes. She ate spiced seaweed, mussels in a fermented bean sauce and slug-like black things that they must have gathered by diving and feeling around on the surface of the mud. The platter also held thin strands of red algae pickled in a vinegary fish sauce that stank abominably but tasted rather fine, though the algae were hard to chew and harder to swallow, being rather like eating fishing line. And at the end were served little brown pods like the bladders of a seaweed. They popped in the mouth releasing a thin, intensely sweet but slightly fish-tasting syrup.
It was good to be in the company of people who expected nothing from her. It was a delightful meal, and Karan found herself chattering away to her friends about all sorts of things, important as well as trivial, for she found their speech easier to understand than before. At the end of the meal they passed the platter to her, as guest of honor. Karan felt embarrassed, not knowing what to do with it. Then she realized that it was her privilege to lick it clean. After she had done so they clapped again and put it to one side.
A young man ran out, returning shortly with a large black bottle sealed with wax. Karan offered her knife, which they marvelled at. The wax was chiseled out and saved. The wooden tea cups appeared again. A small measure of thick, milky liquid gurgled into each.
Karan eyed hers dubiously. She had not much of a head for strong drink, and this looked very strong. Cluffer, who was directly across the table from her, raised her cup. The others did so too, then roared something that sounded like “Caranda!” and drained it to the last drop.
“Caranda!” she roared back, and hurled it down her throat. The liquor was horrible, very bitter, burning and strong, with a pungency that went up her nose like mustard, taking her breath away. Tears sprang into her eyes. Everyone laughed.
The first
cup was followed by another almost at once. While recovering from that, Karan sat back against the wall, her bare shoulders touching warm shoulders on either side. Some of the Telt took out pipes and other instruments and began to play. Their songs were melancholy, for the most part. Lovely skirling melodies, but about shipwrecks or lost children, bloody battles and terrible revenges.
She wondered about the Telt. What did they want out of life? Did they dream of living free of the wharf city? But she was not sure it would be polite to ask such questions. The drink pulsed in her veins. Karan felt herself sinking into a dreamy state, and might have gone to sleep if not for the fact that her bottom was so cold and wet.
In an hour or so there was another bout of Caranda! followed by dancing, a slow, sinuous, complex, interwoven ballet. Karan allowed herself to be led out and they taught her a few steps, though she soon realized that it would take years to master, even if her head were not spinning. She sat down again, clapping in time to the music. When it was over, everyone resumed their seats.
“Caranda?” Cluffer asked.
Karan shook her head and smiled, and without any visible sign of regret Cluffer stoppered the bottle with a wooden bung and put it away.
The Telt made more tea, using up the last of her small gift. She drank another cup gratefully, for she felt cold now. It was quite late. The platter, urn, cups and instruments were packed away. Cluffer took her hand and led her to the sleeping chamber where everyone prepared for bed.
Karan felt a little stab of panic, remembering past nights there, freezing in damp seaweed all alone. That was history. They took off their loincloths, washed them in the sea and hung them up to dry. Removing her wet trousers, Karan did the same. They cleaned their teeth with seaweed. She rubbed a leathery yellow frond over her own teeth. One of the Telt gestured to the center of the big pile of woven seaweed blankets, indicating that she was to take the place of honor. She crept in, the weed tickling her skin, and they all burrowed in after. The last one blew out the light.
Now she understood what they had meant by “sharing warmth”, for in the center it was beautifully warm and comforting, though the pungency of their oiled hair was, to say the least, hard to get used to. The water lapped at the slatted floor, the drink rose to her head and took her off to sleep.
Twice in the night Karan was woken by nightmares, once her familiar hideous dream of the brain-sucking leech, the second time the nightmare of the army being led to its doom over the cliff while she tried and failed to scream out a warning. Each time she was embraced by a dozen arms, and a multitude of hands stroked away the fear, the guilt and the powerlessness. Karan soon found herself drifting back into a lovely, carefree sleep.
Later she woke, lying quietly in the dark. It was a long time before she could get back to sleep. The bed was like a nest of grubs, always shifting, and every movement made the weed rustle. When the people on the outside grew cold they would wriggle into whatever inside spot presented itself; the group shifted to accommodate them and all would settle down again.
And sometimes there were other noises, whispers and giggles, though now she knew them for what they were, no longer afraid that they were secretly laughing at her. They moved all around her, breasts and knees and legs and noses, while soft hands crept across her skin. She lay there dreamily, touched by silky fire, making no protest even when they touched places that she would not normally have permitted. But she made no offers, and after a while the hands went away again.
In the morning Karan woke feeling calmer and more relaxed than she had been in months. Thanking her hosts, she donned her clothes again. But before she went they must give her a gift. They brought carvings to her, a selection of their best, and begged her to choose one. She chose a tiny, beautiful thing, a laughing child playing with a toy crab. It made her feel quite sentimental, quite sad for what she would never have.
But such a gift required an equal gift, and she had only one object the equal of theirs. Her prized knife, which Malien had given to replace the one she’d lost in Katazza. It was also a beautiful thing, made of the finest Aachim steel. She offered it, and they accepted it with laughter, hugs and tears. Then she hurried away, suddenly realizing that Llian would be worried about her.
Back in her own room, Karan understood what she had gained from them. The Telt always supported each other, and comforted each other too. She remembered how they had stood up for her last year when the Hlune had wanted to cast her onto the streets. She could not imagine them refusing to act for fear of the consequences. She must do the same. Karan felt an overwhelming relief at having made this decision after so long.
After that she was purged of her fears, if not of her failures, and those nightmares did not trouble her again.
29
A Time of Choices
The fortress was in uproar from the assassination attempt. The guards on the gate had been doubled and would not let Karan in without her pass, which she had thrown away weeks ago. She headed down to the citadel, where she encountered the same problem because of the theft from Llian’s room.
Fortunately Tallia was passing at that moment and signed her in. Karan ran down to Llian’s workroom to find that it was full of people. Mendark was there, furious at the breach of security, and more so at the loss of Yalkara’s book. He had brought a brace of archivists, who were going through Llian’s papers, to his fury. Yggur was there too. The attack on Maigraith had shaken him out of his all-pervading despair. Maigraith stood by the window looking out, apparently none the worse for her ordeal, though she seemed tired.
“This is a shocking blow,” said Mendark, limping back and forth. “A shocking blow!” The loss of the book seemed to bother him more than the attack on Maigraith.
Just like him! Karan thought.
A messenger ran in to whisper in Mendark’s ear. His face fell even further. “Have all the ashes brought to me!” The fellow ran out. “The thief has been tracked to her room,” Mendark announced, “but she is dead and, tragically, the book burnt. A catastrophe!”
“Her name was Ellami,” said Maigraith, burying her head in her arms. “I knew her from childhood. I can hardly believe Ellami tried to kill me.”
“Faelamor must have a low opinion of us. She’ll try again. Be on your guard!” Mendark shook his head. “I had such hopes for the book.”
“Well,” said Llian, taking it all very calmly, “none of us had been able to decipher a single glyph, and I don’t think I ever would have.”
“Useless chronicler!” cried Mendark, stamping off. The archivists, Yggur and Tallia followed him, leaving only Karan, Llian and Maigraith in the room.
“What was this book?” asked Maigraith, who had arrived just before Karan.
Llian explained.
Maigraith let out a choking gasp. “But that was my book! Yalkara told me so, in the message she left on the Mirror.”
“What message?” Llian asked curiously.
“I’ve not told anyone but Shand. The book contained the first Histories of the Charon, from the time they went into the void, and even before. It was infinitely precious.” There were tears in her eyes.
“Come on,” Llian said hastily. “I can’t bear this place any longer.”
They walked down to a park which was empty on account of the miserable weather. Llian’s limp was practically gone now, though his legs would be scarred forever. He wiped the stone bench with his cloak and sat down.
Karan sat beside him, watching Maigraith pace back and forth through the mud. “What’s going on, Llian? You’re up to something. Maigraith, come here!”
As Maigraith sat down, Llian burst out laughing. “I still have the book,” he said in a low voice. “It’s here in my bag.”
“What—?” Maigraith said.
“Well,” he flashed his famous smile, “one time Lilis had nothing to do and wanted to practice her writing, so I set her to copying Yalkara’s book. It was the copy that was stolen. I always carry the original with me, as I do my journals.
They’re all here.”
Opening his shoulder bag, he handed her a slender volume. “No one knows there’s a copy, except Lilis, and she’s off with her father. I’ll swear her to silence when she gets back.”
Maigraith took the book as if it was the most precious object in the world. She caressed the cover and laid it against her cheek. “I can’t think of any way to thank you,” she said. Opening the book, she stared at the glyphs on the first page. “These are the mirror image of the ones on the Mirror of Aachan. I wonder why?”
“I have no idea,” said Llian.
“Perhaps we can work on it together, if I can find the key.” She stood up, slipped the book into her bag, gave a secret smile and turned away. Then she came back, giving Llian a self-conscious hug. ‘Thank you, Llian. After last night I have some rather urgent things to think about. I’ll see you tomorrow.”
Look upon the Mirror, and it will show you what you must do.
But what must I do, Maigraith agonized as she went back to her room. Mendark and Yggur assumed that her destiny was to wage war against Rulke, but surely Yalkara had never intended that. Where should her allegiance lie? With the interests of these people, this world? The Three Worlds? With Rulke and the Charon? The conflicts were irresolvable.
Was the birthright intended to be melted down and made into a device to create gates? Yalkara may not have intended any such thing. And if they did make a new golden flute, just learning how to use it could be a perilous exercise. How was she supposed to restore the balance between the worlds anyway? Maigraith, used to being told what to do, found her choices overwhelming. In some ways Faelamor’s legacy still crippled her.
The Mirror will teach you when the time comes.
She opened the Mirror, recovered Yalkara’s message to Aeolior and sat quietly, reading the words over and over. Why was part of the message missing? Had it been lost over the years, or was the Mirror hiding something?
Why won’t you tell me? she thought tiredly. How I need you, Yalkara. This is all too hard. Maigraith laid her head down on her arms, resting her cheek on the cold surface of the Mirror, and drifted into sleep.