“Resonance,” she supplied.
“Just so,” he said, grinning. “Incidentally, did you know that Sheason were once called Inner Resonance? Sheason exercise a power of Will that uses and affects this vibratory part of all things. Now, watch.”
The Maesteri then repeated the demonstration, but used three similarly tuned forks to show further resonance from one to the next to the next. Wendra’s mind began to race with applications for this new understanding. Though, before she’d gotten far, Belamae picked up one of the tuning forks and waved her over to a pianoforte whose cover had been removed.
It was a short walk, but when they got to the instrument, Belamae’s breathing had a slight wheeze about it. He steadied himself, holding the side of the pianoforte, his features pinched.
“Belamae?”
“I’m all right, my girl. Sometimes my air and blood don’t keep up with me.”
He rubbed at his chest a bit. Wendra noted the pallor in his skin, and the hollows in his cheeks. He looked ill. But he saw her concern and smiled brightly.
“Now,” he continued, “you might assume from our first experiment that resonance occurs only at the exact same pitch. Observe.” He struck the fork against the side of the instrument, and passed it a hand’s width above the strings in a slow, graceful motion. When he’d finished, he stilled the tuning fork and asked, “What do you hear?”
Wendra inclined toward the pianoforte. What she heard surprised her. Not only did she hear the exact pitch, she heard several of its octaves also resonating in the strings drawn over the soundboard.
“You’re hearing octaves, my girl. Strings attuned to not just the same note, but to a numerically related vibration. See here.” He pointed out several strings. “The lengths of these are all proportional, doubling in length for each lower octave.”
She took the tuning fork from Belamae, struck it, and passed it over the strings again. After silencing the fork, she leaned in, listening close. “I hear thirds and fifths, too. But fainter.”
“Just so!” Belamae exclaimed. “There are secondary and tertiary harmonics, and more still than that. Together, these do not always seem or sound harmonious, and yet they are related to the signature of a thing. Really, any two notes have a relationship; it’s about a consistent structure. Has much to do with math.”
They held a companionable silence until Wendra’s mind turned to another question. “If any two notes have a relationship, this helps explain how a Leiholan is shaped by any resonance she sings.”
He nodded. “In a real sense, you become what you sing.”
“Then what of Suffering?” she asked, also thinking of Belamae’s refashioned version of that song—for war.
Belamae’s smile fell.
Wendra clarified her question. “You said Suffering is always changing.” She followed the logic. “So if Suffering is changing, and a Leiholan—on some level—becomes what she sings, then Soluna…”
He held up his hands. “We’ve been singing Suffering for ages, Wendra. We understand how to adapt to its subtle shifts. But … it’s different in these last few years. I’m convinced there’s something more at work than the normal evolution of the Song.”
“Any more of an idea what it is?”
He shook his head, his face drawn tight in genuine concern. “I don’t know. But another Leiholan struggled last night. Worse than before. Suffering battered her something awful. I worry she might not…”
He looked up at her then, and took her hands in his. “But please don’t fret. We’ve music to make. And today we’ll focus on what I’ve just shown you: Everything has a resonant structure composed of many harmonic signatures. And it’s possible to find common resonances along these signatures in many things at once.”
* * *
Wendra walked the streets of the Cathedral Quarter, alone. She hadn’t left Descant since beginning her training, and was surprised all over again that the cathedral sat in the middle of a slum.
For the most part, the people were warm with their greetings. The pitiable shared the bond of struggling against life’s bad odds. Half of those she passed followed their hellos with a petition for food or coin. And when Wendra shook her head, she typically got a “dead gods save you” before she passed on. The other half were equally warm in their greetings, but with a hint of larceny or madness beneath it all.
There was always music, too. Almost every mealhouse and tavern had some kind of performance taking place. Between the various strains of song and the meaty smells and the redolent stench of those who couldn’t afford a bath, she nearly forgot that she was on her way to find human traders, like Jastail—who’d nearly sold Wendra and Penit. In fact, it was the highwayman she was specifically trying to find.
She had no real information about where she might locate him, but when he’d taken her before, he’d moved her a long way on the river. The same river that ran through Recityv. Her best guess was that if she could find a quiet dock, there’d be boats used for illicit trade—the kind that could push out into the current and be downriver with pickings before a general search was made.
So, she didn’t bother poking her head into drinking holes down narrow alleys, or visiting brothels or gambling pits or auction houses. And she didn’t alert anyone to where she was going, least of all Belamae. He’d see this excursion for what it was: a step toward knowing if and when she meant to leave her training. But she needed to at least start to inquire. She’d be happy if she found the Recityv river docks were little more than a travel port and fish market. Either way, she cut her path through the quarter, intent to find out.
The air grew colder as she neared the riverside district. The music here was slower, more often rendered in minor keys. And the voices less practiced, more broken, as from constant tobacco use or short sleep. In a way, this music was resonating with the feeling of the area. And its people.
She passed several inns and taverns before coming to an intricate dock system, like a series of streets and avenues on the water. Countless boats and barges sat moored in the night. The smell of old, wet wood hung thick over everything. Few people strolled the wharf-front. And those that did spoke in hushed tones, if they spoke at all. A fine mist hung in the air, enough to be a nuisance but not entirely hamper her ability to see.
Looking out over the scores of boats, she noted several with lighted windows. The kind of people she was looking for would be keeping their privacy, not standing around in taverns or mealhouses. Spending undue time in a place would be reckless. It’s not what Jastail would do. With that thought, she started out onto the docks.
Reckless to go out there alone, she thought. But she had her song.
The pilings and dock edges were covered with a brown moss. In the faint glow of storm lamps hanging from iron spikes driven through the pilings, it looked abrasive, like coral. A few of the boats she passed appeared empty, despite the lamps burning inside them. The farther out into the dock system she went, the more frequently she heard voices gathered in what amounted to small floating taverns. Little groups huddled around flickering oil lamps doing the serious business of drinking.
The sound of rippling water. The smell of moldy wood and the vague odor of fish. The dim pool of light in a boat that could cast off to the river in a moment’s time. Something told her she was getting close. At the farthest edges of the docks, a few of the boats had dockside strongmen standing like mute sentries. One of these, she guessed.
She approached two of the strongmen, but was shooed away before she’d even opened her mouth to lie. She finally turned left and wandered the far edge of the docks where she could scarcely see the lights of the wharf-front. The few tavern songs that carried this far sounded like an out-of-tune song box, warped and lethargic. Near the very end of the dock, she spied another strongman, this one sitting on a crate, staring ahead, motionless.
She took a long breath and approached him. Not fast. Not tentatively. She came to stand over him where he guarded the dock end of a short p
lank. “I have business.”
The man looked her up and down, the way a farmer does a mule at auction. “I don’t think so.”
“I have business,” she repeated, pushing her tone down her throat to give it a husky edge. “If I say it again, I’ll be sure your employer takes the lost sale out of your ass.”
Her threat seemed to do nothing to the man’s willingness to move. “What business do you think you have here?”
“I have stock to sell,” she replied, working to sound matter-of-fact. “I can do it here. Or I can go somewhere else. If you turn me away, I’ll be sure to spread word that you did. And I’ll make sure your competitors know you underpay. I suspect your employer will take that out of your ass, too.”
His eyes narrowed on her. “I don’t believe you.”
“Or how about this.” Wendra bent forward to look him levelly in the eyes. “How about rather than dim your employer’s business, I just end it? How about I share the details of this boat with the Recityv guard, one of which had a daughter taken recently. His justice will be different than your employer’s, I think.”
The man laughed. “Go on in.” He caught her arm. “And if you get lonely, later, I have help here for you.” He clutched his groin.
“I don’t think you have the stamina,” she said. “But I’ll remember the offer.”
He let her go, and Wendra crossed the plank and descended two steps onto the deck. She moved to a large cabin forward on the barge. She took a deep breath and went in, not eagerly, not tentatively, just like one who had something to pawn.
Oh my, was she out of place. Her clothes weren’t drab-cloth, but were still several cuts beneath the garments these people wore. Brush cloth in rich drake and cobalt and crimson hues. Wide cuffs and collars. Belts encrusted with glass gems. Rose-oiled beards kept trim. The ladies with pearl necklaces in a multitude of lengths. It was no secret where some of their trade funds were spent. But the finery looked almost comic, out of place for sure, given the multitude of stains in each garment. And if the clothes didn’t look odd by themselves, they were a sharp contrast to their owners’ faces. The skin of these five had the weathered look of riverfolk who got the glare of the sun coming down and back up again as it’s reflected off the water.
There were five of them, three men and two women. They didn’t appear mean-spirited, or jovial in the way Jastail had. They struck her like a group of traders. The one difference was the bottle on the table. This wasn’t mash, or kettle wine. This bottle had a gilded label. It was an aged whisky. The sharp tang of it hung in the air.
They waited on her, not as an intruder, but as if she were like any of a hundred others. Wendra could see knives and swords at their hips. Two daggers lay atop the table near the bottle.
“I’ll have a drink of that,” Wendra began, trying to play her part.
Without speaking, one man poured a mouthful into his own glass and held it out to her. Wendra took it and gulped it down, fighting the sting that rose in her nose and behind her eyes, then handed back the glass.
Still none of them spoke, waiting.
Wendra swallowed twice. “I have stock to sell. You buying?”
“We have no idea what you’re talking about,” the man who’d poured her drink said. He had a great belly. The kind that looked like hardened muscle.
“Three children,” she followed, unflapped.
The man showed no curiosity. Wendra thought back to her own abduction, and an idea struck her. “And a pregnant woman.”
The stoic faces showed a moment’s eager interest. The drink-pourer motioned one of his fellows to move around behind Wendra to block the door.
“Selling people is reprehensible,” the man said. “What makes you think we trade in such goods?”
Wendra fought her panic to run, and instead stepped farther into the room. She fingered the bottle, inspecting the label as one who knew the difference in label whiskys. “I can take my business elsewhere, if you haven’t the stomach for it.”
The man finally smiled, showing teeth gone brown as the moss on the pilings. “Have a seat,” he invited.
“I don’t intend to be here long enough to get comfortable,” she answered. “No offense. The whisky is your company.”
The man laughed at the insult. “You’re brave for a pretty girl alone at the far end of the docks.”
“What makes you think I’m here alone?” Wendra showed them each a challenging eye.
“Oh, I don’t know.” The man’s chair creaked under his considerable weight as he reclined. “The docks don’t hide much. And any help you have would arrive too late, I imagine. Don’t you?”
Wendra decided to play a card here. One that would, she hoped, get a reaction she could use. “Does the name Jastail mean anything to you?”
The man’s smile faded immediately. Wendra saw anger in a few faces.
“You’re twice dumb to come out here and use that bastard’s name.” He sat forward, staring at her. “You’re no trader. You’d know better than to threaten with Jastail’s friendship. His closest friends wouldn’t do it. So you’re no friend of his.” The man’s smile returned. He poured himself another drink and licked the rim in a suggestion of tasting Wendra’s lips, before downing the whisky.
“The real question,” the man went on, “is why you’re looking for him. Pretty thing like you.”
From below the floor, Wendra heard a muffled cry. “Run! Get out!”
The big man shot a look to one of his men, who ducked out the rear cabin door. He then returned his attention to Wendra.
She didn’t try to maintain her ruse. “Fair enough. The son of a whore owes me. I will make him pay, you may trust that. But I need to know where to find him. I need to know where he trades.” Wendra thought, and quickly added, “I have no quarrel with your trade in stock. And it’s true that I aim to become a trader myself.” Even saying the words sickened her some. “But for now, I’ll settle for a list of places where the ‘dust goes up.’”
Wendra had remembered the phrase for the auction blocks where captured stock crossed a makeshift stage with chalked feet that plumed as they stepped across. Shoes were taken to prevent flight. Their feet were chalked to keep them from cracking and thus limiting their owner’s value.
The man nodded, appreciating both her intent to exact a price on Jastail and her knowledge of the trade.
“So, the three children? And the pregnant woman?” he asked, hopefully.
“A lie,” she admitted.
A muffled slap came, followed by a cry of pain—again below the floorboards.
The man made a show of being crestfallen. “Pity about the pregnant woman. Wombs are our specialty.” He smiled, and leaned close enough that Wendra could smell the drink on his breath. “But where the dead gods take with one hand, they give with another.” He looked over her shoulder at one of his companions, who swept forward and grabbed Wendra’s arms, pinning them behind her.
The man sat back, poured another drink, and sipped this time, while staring at her thoughtfully. “You’re childbearing age. You’ll make a nice price. And if Jastail has some squabble with you, he might pay half again as much for the chance to be the one to sell you in.”
“In?” she asked.
The man waved away her question. “Put her with the others,” he said, and returned his attention to his drink.
“Wait!” she shouted. Something in the sound of her voice caught their attention, and stopped the man holding her. “Just tell me where to find him, in the event that I escape. I’ll make sure to kill him.”
The man looked back at her and shook his head in further appreciation. “The bastard really worked on you, didn’t he? What did he do, force you to spread your legs? Our buyers don’t care for that.” The man sat forward, and ripped down her pants far enough to see her waist. Something dawned in his eyes as he saw the stretch marks in her skin from her recent pregnancy. “You bore a child, I see. Jastail took you for the child. That jackass has grit, I’ll say
that.”
“Just tell me,” Wendra pressed.
As she said it, the man who’d gone out returned, shutting the rear cabin door behind him.
“For all the good it will do you, my girl, Jastail is a man of habit. If you were in his company before, you already know where to find him.”
Of course.
The man hadn’t let go of her pants. And now eyed her skin, his gaze moving over her belly and up to her breasts. “Maybe you’ll give us some fun, too. What a buyer doesn’t know…”
Both women in the small deck cabin gave Wendra lustful looks. The one other man she could still see made no effort to hide the craving in his eyes. “Maybe she starts with the ladies,” he offered. “We join in after.”
Their trade in flesh. Their use of good whisky. The obvious carnalities these men and women shared. This crew had a deep, maddened sense of pleasure. Not unlike Jastail, who could only gamble anymore if the stakes were of the highest sort.
Wendra couldn’t break the grip of the man holding her. And even if she could, running was useless. She’d never get through the door without them laying hold of her again, let alone past the dock man. Sing them down. But she didn’t want to sing her shout-song. It would attract a lot of attention—loud and likely to shatter the deck cabin besides.
Resonance. In many things at once.
Without thinking further, she started to hum. It must have struck them odd, as they all froze where they were, staring at her.
She opened it up to song and reached out with it, caressing them, imagining the dark pleasures inside them—flesh on flesh, breath musty with bottles of fine rye, watching people lose their last hope as they were sold for coin to be dropped in a pocket.
Wendra worked to keep a quiet tone. A languid, seductive melody. She improvised lyrics that suggested unspoken sexual desires, winters of drinking from old bourbon reserves in front of fires with body after body in carnal combinations … and the lamentations of stock they sold to pay for it all. Control. It was an aphrodisiac at the heart of every trader. And Wendra sang the song of it. She found the resonant place in each of them that harbored those notes.
Trial of Intentions Page 43