Out of the Waters

by David Drake

  She had finally collapsed beside a fallen tree which was thicker than she was tall. Fine loam, sticky and damp, filled the angle between the trunk and the ground. Hedia didn’t know whether it had blown there and been trapped or if it was the product of the tree itself, rotted bark and the excrement of wood-boring beetles.

  Regardless, it was soft and cool. It had pillowed her head and had even, to her amazement, allowed her to fall asleep. It had been a busy day, and the stress of capture by demons and escape had drained her utterly.

  Hedia got to her feet, pressing her hand against the tree bole more for mental than physical support. Something crawled over her toes. She froze where she stood. That was probably the right decision, because whatever it was—mouse? snake? insect?—vanished into the night, having left no more than a slight tickle on her skin.

  Hedia stumbled on. The alternative was to huddle where she was. She wasn’t going to do that. Many men—she smiled—could testify to the fact that she was not of a passive temperament.

  The sun must have risen, because she was beginning to be able to make out shapes though not yet colors. She itched all over, and whenever a drop of sweat oozed into a scratch, it stung like a hot wire.

  Birds called to one another in the canopy. They didn’t for the most part sound very musical, and the cries of one in particular sounded like sheets of bronze rubbing.

  Of course they might not be birds. Hedia was beginning to regret that she knew so little about plants and animals. She’d never really liked the outdoors, even in circumstances as controlled as the garden of a close friend. Afterward she generally found nicks and bruises that she had ignored in the throes of passion.

  She saw a human figure and stopped where she stood. It was little more than an arm’s length ahead of her, but because it was completely motionless she had almost walked into it before she noticed its presence: a bearded man, looking back over his shoulder in terror. It was stone, but it wasn’t a statue.

  Ahead of the male figure were a woman and a child. They had fallen over: their limbs stuck up from the ferns and leaf litter. None of them wore clothing, but the man had a bandolier woven from withies which had survived weathering better than cloth had.

  Hedia turned in sudden reflex. She glimpsed a face watching her through a screen of the spindly saplings which grew until, light-starved, they died. The face vanished so quickly that she might have thought she imagined it, save for the blue pentacle tattooed on the forehead.

  She was being watched—followed—by the man-faced ape which she’d seen clambering through the ruins just before she dived away from her captors.

  Hedia began to run, which was pointless; and looked for a branch that she could use for a club, which was even more foolish. Any branch she could break off would be useless against the muscles beneath the ape’s russet fur.

  She didn’t hear the creature following. Well, she hadn’t heard it before, either, but it obviously had followed her from the ruins. If it wanted to harm me, it could have done anything it pleased while I was asleep. Or now, for that matter.

  She had been aware of the slow thumping in the sky for some while, but as the sound became louder, she realized that it wasn’t a bird’s call. Understanding struck her; she stopped dead, wishing that she were closer to the petrified family so that she might be confused with them.

  She craned her neck upward. Can they see through the trees? What they’re doing is a waste of time if they can’t, though … even if they can see me, that doesn’t mean they can land in this forest.

  The beating sails passed overhead. The thumping faded, then swelled again as a second vessel followed, slightly farther out than the first. Hedia couldn’t see anything, not even a deeper shadow on the canopy.

  She heard people on the ships speaking. Though she was sure the voices were human, she couldn’t make out the words clearly enough to know whether the language was familiar to her.

  Hedia set her hands on the trunk of a great tree and leaned against it; she closed her eyes. The men in the flying ships were hunting her: it can’t have been a coincidence that they flew directly overhead. The glass men who captured her might be following her track; at any rate, she didn’t dare go back the way she had come for fear that she would find them waiting.

  And then there was the ape; she didn’t know what its plans were, but she was certainly part of them. What his plans were: the creature’s human face was masculine. Rather ruggedly handsome, as a matter of fact.

  There was no point at all in her going on but she did regardless, pushing her way through more of these accursed saplings. Several were dead; their dried twigs scratched her no matter how careful she tried to be. She came to another fallen tree; she couldn’t see over the trunk. I’ll turn left when I get past it so that I’m going the way I was before. Otherwise I’ll be walking in circles, which—

  An eight-foot-long lizard hopped to the top of the great tree bole; it cocked its head to stare down at her. Half the lizard’s length was tail, so it probably didn’t weigh much more than a large hunting dog.

  Hedia stopped in midstep. The creature stood on two legs; its thighs were disproportionately muscular, like those of the fighting cocks bred by the manager of Saxa’s farm in the Sabine Hills.

  Balancing as delicately as a sparrow on its right foot, the lizard raised its left leg and cocked it back. It hissed at Hedia. The middle of the three toes was armed with a hooked claw the size and shape of a sickle.

  Something thrummed by close overhead. The lizard launched itself toward her, but a serpent—

  A rope! A bark rope weighted with fist-sized pieces of crystal on either end!

  —wrapped around the creature. Hedia ducked and the lizard crashed past, twisting its long neck to snap at her as it went by. It pulled a lock of hair, but she was already stumbling forward.

  Over Hedia’s shoulder, the lizard and the great red-haired ape were rolling in combat. The reptile shrieked like steam shrilling from a covered pot, but the ape was as silent as death itself.

  Hedia ducked to shove her way through a shrub whose stems arched from a common center and touched the ground again with their tops. A day ago she couldn’t have imagined plunging into such a mass; now it was only an obstacle to be surmounted as she fled.

  She burst out into a broad glade covered with flowers and rank grass that grew no higher than her knees. Two of the flying ships lay before her, canted on their sides when at rest. Several score of men carrying ropes and hand nets were starting toward the forest under the command of one of the figures in blazing armor. This time the armored man had taken off his helmet, so that Hedia could see that he had a tattoo on his forehead like that of the ape.

  Hedia turned to dodge back but stumbled to her knees from exhaustion. Three nets curled over her and tightened. The hunters would have caught her regardless before she pushed herself back into the brush.

  * * *

  “WHO ARE YOU HERE TO SEE?” Alphena demanded. She was tired and was feeling the strain besides, but she doubted she would have been able to sleep even if she hadn’t needed to remain in the back garden with Anna.

  The doorman and a carpenter’s assistant held a wretched man who was clad in an uncertain number of layers. If they had been clean, he would have looked parti-colored; as it was, they were the uniform shade of filth.

  He mumbled something. Alphena couldn’t make out the words. “Speak up!” she said in frustration.

  “Da noble Alpheno Saxo,” the fellow said. He had a strong Gallic accent.

  Alphena grimaced. She glanced over her shoulder toward Anna, but there was no need to bother the older woman with this one.

  To the servants she said, “Beat him and throw him back into the street.”

  The carpenter pulled the maul from beneath his sash. Alphena snapped, “Don’t kill him! Well, try not to kill him.”

  The beggar squalled as Alphena slouched back onto the garden bench. He was the third one who had tried to slip into Saxa’s house with th
e steady trickle of delivery people, some of whom looked just as disreputable as he did.

  Anna was busy with a growing array of paraphernalia. She had brought three small wooden chests from Corylus’ apartment—members of Alphena’s escort had carried them behind the litter—but she had sent a score of messengers out in the hours since they arrived here, to order more materials. Supplies, mostly in baskets or jars, arrived in response—sometimes with the messenger, but more often brought by unfamiliar men or women.

  Some of the beggars living in the cul-de-sac had thought that gave them an opportunity. They had been wrong.

  Alphena grinned at the recollection. At least the intruders had provided occupation for the considerable company of servants in the alley—footmen, messengers, watchmen. The deputy steward Callistus acted as paymaster, but he was under the observation of two clerks from the accounts division.

  Alphena had directed a pair of servants to carry a bench just inside the open back gate. Though wicker, it would have been an awkward load for one person. Alphena had decided not to move it herself, especially while wearing the long sword. The servants could have lifted marble furniture as easily: it just would have required more of them.

  There were scores lounging around nervously, after all. Nobody in the household seemed to have slept since Hedia was abducted.

  Alphena stayed by the gate not so much because Anna needed help—she didn’t—but so that anybody who arrived got a hearing instead of a blow. Several of the people bringing the old woman’s orders would have been lucky to escape with their lives if they came to Saxa’s door under normal circumstances.

  Anna hummed quietly as she worked. Alphena didn’t know whether the tune had magical significance or if Anna simply hummed while she was working. She seemed focused and content, if not exactly cheerful. Apparently her forebodings had been submerged as she lost herself in the activity.

  Someone opened the interior door, peeked in, and quickly closed the door again. Alphena looked around, but she didn’t see who it had been. Probably some servants, wondering what was happening. When they saw the Marsian witch at work in the middle of the garden, they fled as though demons were pursuing.

  No demons as yet, Alphena thought, rolling the idea in her mind until it brought a grin. Perhaps soon, though.

  Two deliverymen arrived at the head of the alley and were passed through after muttered questioning. The doorman escorted them to where Alphena waited. They carried a potted fruit tree between them on a handbarrow.

  Why has Anna ordered a tree?

  Before Alphena could speak, the man in front said, “A first-quality pomegranate in planting vase, a gift for Lord Saxa from his friend Publius Corylus!”

  “But he says stick it in the ground, don’t leave it in the pot,” the other servant piped up unexpectedly. “Lord Corylus does, you know?”

  “Shut up, Bello!” the leading man said over his shoulder. “And he’s not Lord Corylus anyhow, he’s a knight!”

  Then, apologetically to Alphena, “But he did say that, yeah. He wants you to plant it where the dead pear was. Though it won’t bear as well out of the pot.”

  “Bring it in, then,” Alphena said. Then, thinking of the way the servants disliked the back garden—and what was going to happen tonight wouldn’t change that feeling for the better—she added, “Say. Could you two plant the tree yourselves?”

  The servants exchanged puzzled looks. The man in front said, “I guess we could, mistress, but, well … don’t you have your own gardeners?”

  “Never mind that,” Alphena said. “There’ll be an extra silver piece for each of you. And you’ll find tools in the shed in the corner.”

  Why has Corylus sent us a pomegranate tree? Alphena thought. Well, she could ask him when they next met. For now, it was a simple enough problem to deal with.

  The men set the pot close to the peach tree to keep it out of the way when they were digging, then sauntered to the toolshed. The younger one—he had a nasty gash in his scalp but it didn’t seem to have harmed his cheerful nature—eyed Anna as he passed her, but there was no particular concern in his glance. He was just curious.

  Anna ignored them both. Their presence wasn’t even an interruption.

  Another load arrived, this time a foreman leading two men who carried a large wicker basket. The sun was still below the eastern houses, but the sky was bright enough for Alphena to watch the servants questioning them. She thought of snarling to the officious fools to let the men through—they were obviously not beggars—but she held her tongue.

  Maybe I’m mellowing. More likely, I’m just tired. She was certainly very tired.

  “We’re from Agrimandi the Potter,” the foreman said officiously. His eyes had flicked down to the sword Alphena wore; disdain made his tone sharper than it might normally have been when greeting the person at a senator’s door. “We’ve brought the basin that Lord Saxa ordered.”

  “Bring it in!” Anna called, no longer lost in arrangement of the powders and other articles that she was preparing. She grabbed both walking sticks and lurched upright. “That’s what I’ve been waiting for. Bring it in, dearies.”

  The foreman hesitated. “Yes, do it!” Alphena said with a curt flick of her hand.

  The potter’s servants tramped through the gate. The goods would be made outside the city and brought in by wagon or more likely barge. Agrimandi might even be a jobber rather than a manufacturer; given the haste, the object had to be from the stock he had on hand rather than a special order.

  “Set it there, by the well curb,” Anna said, pointing with a stick. “Unpack it and set it on the ground.”

  The porters untied the top of the basket and withdrew a shallow basin from its packing of straw. It was four feet in diameter and glazed a bright blue; it was probably meant for a birdbath.

  On the rim were four crouching figures. Alphena stepped closer and identified them: a gryphon, a chimaera, a basilisk, and a mantichore. She glanced at Anna but didn’t speak.

  “Ma’am?” said the older of the men who’d brought the pomegranate. His partner was at the ancient well, filling a bucket made from willow splits and tarred to make it waterproof. “We’ll wet it down good and head back now, all right?”

  The pomegranate was settled in the ground. The men had even trailed the extra soil neatly along the edges of the summer bedrooms in the inner corners of the garden.

  “Yes, very good,” Alphena said. “And take the pot back with you.”

  “Ah—ma’am?” the workman said, frowning in concern. “That’s a valuable piece, you know?”

  Alphena opened her mouth to snarl, then paused. He was trying to do me a favor. He cannot imagine how wealthy father is.

  “Even so,” she said with a negligent wave of her hand. Publius Corylus would be pleased with me. Looking toward the alley, she said, “Callistus? A silver piece for each of the men whom Master Corylus sent.”

  One of the clerks stared at her in surprise: a silver piece was a day’s wage. If he had been about to say something, he was prevented by his partner who tugged him around to face the other way. Callistus merely bowed and said, “Of course, your ladyship.”

  The men who had brought the basin were leaving also. The foreman had caught the exchange with the nurserymen and watched her hopefully as he passed, but Alphena merely gave him a disdainful glance.

  Anna turned to face her. The two of them were alone in the garden once more.

  “I guess that’s done it,” Anna said with satisfaction. “There’s nothing more to do but wait for moonrise.”

  “All right,” Alphena said. She swallowed. “What should I do now, mistress?”

  Anna stretched, raising her right arm and then her left separately so that she could keep one cane firmly planted on the ground at all times. “Get some rest, your ladyship,” she said. “I’m going to try to do that myself, and I don’t have near so far to go tonight as you do.”

  She pursed her lips. “And get something to eat,” s
he added. “There’s no telling when you’ll be able to eat next. Ah—you might make it a good meal.”

  Because it may be your last, Alphena thought, completing the sentence.

  “Yes,” she said. “We’ll both do that.”

  * * *

  VARUS WALKED BESIDE PULTO at the rear of the squad of “Praetorian Guards.” He had listened to the servant muttering curses all the way from Saxa’s house where they started before dawn.

  It wasn’t until they clashed to a halt in front of the home of Sempronius Tardus that Varus realized the old soldier wasn’t worried about what would happen if they were caught pretending to be soldiers on a mission for the emperor. Rather, he was furious that the troupe of servants was hopeless at marching in step.

  Because of the circumstances Pulto couldn’t even scream and slap them into better order with the vinewood swagger stick he carried in the guise of a centurion. Lenatus, at the head of the column with Corylus, was probably having the same mental problem.

  Varus grinned. The situation was pretty funny when he thought about it. The risk of being tortured to death was an accepted hazard for any veteran of skirmishing on the frontier. The embarrassment of marching bumbling incompetents through the middle of Carce was a new experience and apparently a more harrowing one.

  “Open in the name of the emperor!” Corylus said. The door was closed, but Varus could see movement behind the eye slot. “I have a petition with a rescript from the emperor, requiring the release of Master Pandareus of Athens!”

  The acting guardsmen looked quite impressive when they halted, which was all that really mattered. Pulto seemed to have begun to relax. In truth, the reaction of most residents of Carce—citizens as well as slaves—to a squad of soldiers was to get out of their way, not to quibble about the quality of their close-order drill.

  No one spoke from the other side of the door. Varus moved so that he—or anyway, his broad-striped toga—was visible behind Corylus.

  Corylus nodded. Lenatus stepped forward and rapped a sharp tattoo on the door panel with his stick.