Maia inhaled and released a shuddering breath. She managed to turn her head, and saw a hand emerge through the small porthole. A woman's hand, making beckoning motions.
What, no shouts of alarm? Maia wondered blankly.
Wait! That's the upper cargo level Would reavers live here? Not likely.
A far better place to keep prisoners.
It took an awkward contortion to pull the hanging rope so that she could hold on with one hand while squatting closer to the porthole. As she bent over, the wooden cudgel dug into Maia's belly. Her right foot started to hurt from bearing all her weight.
With her free hand, she stretched down to touch the wrist of whoever was silently calling, which went rigid for an instant, then withdrew. Near the opening, Maia saw a dim outline press close . . . the outline of a human face. There lifted the faintest of whispered words.
"Thought I recognized my spare set o' shoes. How ya doin', virgie?"
The murmur lacked all tonality; still, she knew the speaker. "Thalia!" Maia hissed. So this was where the radical var partisans were being kept! There came a faint clanking of chains, as the prisoner pressed closer to the porthole.
"It's me, all right. In here with Kau an' the others."
"And Kiel?"
There was a pause. "Kiel's bad off. First the fight, then from arguing with our hosts."
Maia blinked. "Oh, I'm sorry."
"Never mind. Good to see ya, varling. What're you doin' here?"
Surprise and pleasure at this discovery were rapidly being replaced by pain, from both her twisted posture and fear that even whispers might carry elsewhere. She knew nothing of the conditions, of Thalia's imprisonment, and did not relish finding out firsthand.
"I'm going after Renna. Then to get help."
Another long pause. "If we got broke out of here, we could help."
Yeah, like a lugar in a porcelain store, Maia thought. The idealistic rads were no match for the reavers. That had already been proven, and this time they'd be fewer and weaker still. Besides, I don't owe you lot anything.
Still, Maia wondered. Did she have a better plan? If a rad breakout accomplished nothing more than casting the two ships loose, it could make even an abortive rebellion worthwhile. "You'd do as I say?" she asked.
If there hadn't been a moment's hesitation, Maia would have known Thalia was lying. "All right, Maia. You're the boss."
"How many guards are there?"
"Two, sometimes three, just outside the door. One of 'em snores somethin' awful."
There was more she might ask, but the quaking in Maia's right leg was getting worse. Any longer and she might land in the lagoon, right back where she started. She sighed heavily. "I'll see what I can do. No promises, though!"
There was a tremor in Thalia's grateful squeeze. Maia shifted her weight in preparation for resuming her climb. The pressure of the wooden cudgel eased and she exhaled in relief, only to wince as something else jabbed her thigh. With her free hand, Maia fished under her belt and pulled out the cloth-wrapped scissors. On impulse, she bent once more and tossed it through the small, dark opening. The touch on her ankle vanished.
Maia wasted no more time. While her right leg and back throbbed, her arms felt refreshed, so they did most of the work at first. Soon she was shinnying almost vertically, with the hull stroking her back. It was a journey she could never have imagined making as a newly fledged fiver, stepping out of her mother-hold. Now she thought no further ahead than the next straining pull, the next coordinated slither of hands and knees and ankles. When, at last, one leg floundered over the side, Maia rolled onto the ship's lower deck and quickly sought shelter behind the mainmast, panting silently with a wide-open mouth, waiting for the pain to dull. Waiting till she could listen once more to the sounds of the night.
There was a faint creaking as the ship rocked gently at anchor. The lapping of wavelets against the hull. A soft murmur of conversation. Maia lifted her head to look across the wharf toward the smaller pirate vessel, the Reckless. A pair of women in red bandannas crouched next to an upturned barrel with a lantern set upon it. Although they were playing dice, no coinsticks lay in sight, which explained the desultory nature of the game. The players seemed not to keep score as they alternated rolls of the ivory pieces, talking quietly.
Turning around, Maia realized with some shock that Manitou looked deserted. Of course, from Thalia's description, there would be a brace of beefy vars on duty below, just outside the cargo hold. Still, whatever had pulled the rest of the reavers away must be awfully important.
Sound and sight were vital for warning of danger. Once she felt more secure, however, Maia felt a sudden wash of other sensations, especially smell. Food, she realized suddenly, acutely, and hurried aft quick as she could scuttle silently. Just below the quarterdeck, she found where supper had been prepared and eaten. Stacks of grimy plates lay within a stew pot, soaking in a swill of brine. The resulting goulash was hardly appetizing, even in Maia's state, so she kept looking, and was rewarded at last in a far corner when she found a small pile of hard biscuits atop a rickety table and an open cask of fresh water nearby.
She drank thirstily, alternately moistening baked crusts into a feast. While devouring voraciously, Maia searched for a sack, a piece of cloth, anything to stuff and take back to Brod. At least she could leave a stash of food for him in the little boat.
There was nothing in sight to use as a bag, but Maia knew where else to look. With biscuits in each hand, she hurried to a row of narrow doors at the rear of the main deck. Opening one, she looked down a slanted ladder into the selfsame room where she herself had lived, up to a few weeks ago, along with a dozen other women, amid bunk beds stacked four high. Maia descended quietly, eyes darting till she verified by close inspection that no bed held sleeping reavers. It hadn't seemed likely, with everyone called off on some mysterious errand.
She had entered in search of a bag, but now Maia noticed she was shivering. Why not swipe fresh clothes, as well?
She started with her old bunk. But somebody several sizes larger, and much smellier, had taken over occupancy since the battle on the high seas. She moved on, sorting in near darkness until at last she found a shirt and well-mended trousers roughly her size, neatly folded at one end of a bunk. Still munching stale bread, Maia wriggled out of her own tattered pants and slipped into the stolen articles. The rope belt had to be cinched extra tight, but everything else fit. A clean, if threadbare, coat finished her accoutrement, though she left it unbuttoned, in case it became necessary to dive back into the water. The thought made her shudder. Otherwise, Maia felt better, and a little guilty about poor Brod, cold and hungry, almost half a kilometer overhead.
What next? she wondered, picking up her cudgel and sticking it in her new waistband. The rads might be imprisoned on the Manitou, but Maia doubted Renna would be kept anywhere so insecure. Probably, he was deep inside the sanctuary. Did she dare try to brazenly walk in, looking for him? The more she thought about it, the idea of springing Thalia and the others made sense. If the rads could take over Manitou, then lay doggo while Maia snuck near the sanctuary entrance, they might at a chosen moment create enough distraction to let her slip inside.
First task is eliminating their guards. Sounds simple. Only, how am I supposed to do it?
She pondered possibilities. I could go to the cargo gangway and pretend to be a messenger . . . shout down some made-up call for help. When one emerges, I'd knock her out and then ... try the same thing again? Or go down after the other one?
What if there are three? Or more?
It was a lugar-brained scheme . . . and Maia felt fiercely determined to make it work. At least once that phase was over, she wouldn't be alone anymore. Maybe the rads would have an idea or two of their own to offer. Maia cast around the room one last time for weapons. She only found a small knife, embedded in the wooden post of one of the bunk beds, which she wrestled out and slipped into the coat pocket.
She was halfway up the lad
der when the door suddenly swung aside, spilling light upon her face and outlining a large figure. Maia could only stare upward in dismay.
"Thought I heard someone down here," a gruff woman's voice said. "Come on, then. No duckin' work. I won't cover for ya, next time!"
The silhouette turned, leaving Maia blinking in surprise. Hurriedly, she followed, hoping to catch the reaver from behind while they were still out of view from the Reckless. At the doorway, however, Maia's heart sank upon spying four other women on deck. They were wrestling open a sealed box, pulling out long gleaming objects.
Rifles, Maia realized. They seemed well-supplied, this bunch. Even the Guardia at Port Sanger wasn't better armed. Maia was past being shocked, however. It is the victors who write history, she now knew. If Baltha and her gang succeed amid the chaos they want to create, no one is going to quibble over a few extra crimes.
"Well? Come on!" The first woman called to Maia, who shuffled forward unwillingly with her head averted, eyes downcast. She concealed her surprise when three of the slender, heavy weapons were thrust into her arms, and clutched them tightly, not knowing what else to do.
"Don't forget to bring enough ammo, Racila," the leader told a slight, scar-faced pirate, who pounded the crate shut again. "All right, you lot, let's get back, or Togay'll have us eatin' air for a week."
Maia tried to take up the rear, but the leader insisted that she go ahead, tromping with the others down the gangplank, onto the pier, and then along thumping, resonant wooden slats toward where bright sconces cast twin pools of brilliance on both sides of the sanctuary entrance.
Loaded rifles, shouted calls, groups of anxious women hurrying through the night. This was surely no Farsun Eve celebration. What in the name of the Founders was going on? For Maia, the worst moment came as they climbed spacious, cracked steps and passed under the fierce electric dazzle of the sconces. When she wasn't denounced on the spot, she realized it hadn't been darkness that saved her, back at the ship.
Either there are so many women in the gang that they don't all know each other—which seemed highly unlikely—or else they think I'm Leie.
The possibility of playing such a ruse—pretending to be her sister—had naturally occurred to Maia. Only it had seemed too obvious, too risky. All Stratoin children, whether clone or var, learned to notice subtle differences among "identical" women. Leie no doubt wore her hair differently, carried distinct scars, and would acknowledge with a thousand disparate cues that she knew these people who were utter strangers to Maia. Besides, what to do when Leie herself showed up?
Maia had finally chosen to try the subterfuge only if stealth utterly failed.. Now there was no choice. She could only try brazening it out.
"This dam' hole is big as a scullin city!" One short, rough-looking var in the group told Maia sotto voce as they marched up the broad, splintered portico, then between tall, gaping doors. "We must've sniffed a hunnerd rooms already. Can't blame ya for duckin' out to catch a snore."
Shrugging like an unrepentant schoolgirl caught playing hooky, Maia muttered in mimicry of the other woman's sour tone. "You can say that again! I never signed up for all this runnin' around. Had any luck yet?"
"Nah. Ain't seen beard nor foreskin o' the vrilly crett since watch shift, despite the reward Togay's offered."
That confirmed Maia's dawning suspicion. They're searching for someone. A man. Her chest pounded. Renna. She suppressed her feelings. You can't be sure of that, yet. It might be another prisoner. One of the Manitou crew, for instance.
The entrance showed signs of that long-ago battle that had shaken Jellicoe with blasts from outer space. A rough-cut, makeshift portal of poorly dressed and buttressed stone led from the shattered steps into a vestibule that might once have been beautiful, with finely fluted pilasters, but now bore jagged cracks. Rude cement repairs had peeled under attack by salt and age.
These effects ebbed as the group passed into the sanctuary proper, where thick walls had sheltered a grand entrance foyer. From there, broad hallways stretched north, south, and east. Strings of dim electric bulbs cast islets of illumination every ten meters or so, powered by a hissing, coal-fired generator. Beyond those light pools, each passage faded into mystifying darkness, broken by brief glimpses of occasional bobbing lanterns. Distant, echoing calls told of feverish action, nearly swallowed by the chill obscurity.
At first sight, the place reminded Maia of her first imprisonment—that smaller, newer sanctuary in Long Valley—another citadel of chiseled passages and thick, masculine pillars. Only here, the scent of ages hung in the air. Soot streaks and daubed graffiti on the walls and ceilings told of countless prior visitors, from hermits to treasure hunters, who must have come exploring over the centuries, torches in hand. By comparison, the pirates were well-equipped.
There was another difference. In this place, the walls were lined with a deeply incised frieze, running horizontally just above eye-level. As far as Maia could make out, the carved adornment ran the length of each hallway, snaking into and out of every room, and consisted entirely of sequences of letters in the eighteen-symbol liturgical alphabet.
Taking the center route, which plunged deeper into the mountain, Maia's party passed through a stately hall where flames crackled in a spacious, sculpted hearth, underneath gothic vaulting. There was no furniture, only a few rugs thrown on the ground. Bottles lay strewn about, along with mugs and gambling equipment, all abandoned in apparent haste. "Seems an awful lot o' trouble," Maia probed, choosing the nearby short var who had spoken before. "I don't s'poze anyone's suggested we just set sail, and leave the vril behind?"
A wide-eyed glance from the husky little reaver told Maia volumes. The spoken response was barely a hiss. "Go suggest it yerself! If Togay 'n' Baltha don't quick make ya swim like a lugar, I may say aye, too."
Maia hid a smile. Only loss of their chief prize would provoke such wrath. Although this would make Maia's own task of finding Renna harder, it was nevertheless great news to hear that he had given them the slip. Now to reach him before they get really desperate.
Abruptly, Maia recalled what she was carrying in her arms—long, finely machined articles of wood and metal and packaged death. The weapons gave off a tangy smell of bitter oil and gunpowder. Apparently, after hours of searching, someone had decided that which cannot be recaptured must not be lost to others.
The anomalous frieze helped distract Maia from her nervous dread. As the group passed room after empty room, they were accompanied by that row of stately, engraved letters, punctuated by occasional, ill-repaired cracks. Now and then, she recognized a run-on passage from the Fourth Book of Lysos, the so-called Book of Riddles. Other stretches of text seemed to parrot nonsense syllables, as if the symbols had been chosen by an illiterate artist who cared more how they looked next to each other than what they said. The effect, nevertheless, was one of grand and timeless reverence.
Certainly males were welcome to worship in the Orthodox church, which even attributed them true souls. Still, this wasn't what you expected to find in a place built solely for men. Perhaps, long ago, males were more tightly knit into the communion of spiritual life on Stratos, before the era of glory, terror, and double-betrayal leading from the Great Defense to the toppling of the Kings.
The group continued past gaping doorways and black, empty rooms, which must have already been searched hours ago. Finally, they arrived at another vast foyer, encompassing six spacious stone staircases, three descending and three ascending, again divided among the directions north, south, and east. It was a monumental chamber, and the running frieze of enigmatic psalms expanded to glorify every bare surface, seeming all the more mysterious for the stark shadows cast by a few bare bulbs shining angularly across deeply incised letters. All this grand architecture might have impressed Maia, if she did not know of greater vaulting wonders that lay just a kilometer or two from here—secret catacombs containing power unimaginable to these ambitious reavers. The reminder of her enemies' fallibility cheered
Maia a little.
Two bored-looking fighters stood watch at this nexus point, armed with cruelly sharpened trepp bills. They spoke together in low voices, and barely glanced at the passing work party. Which suited Maia just fine. She averted her face anyway.
The string of electric lights continued down only one staircase to the right, while Maia's group plunged straight across the open foyer to the dark center steps, leading upward and further into the heart of the dragon's tooth. Two lantern-bearers turned up the wicks of their oil lamps. As Maia and the others climbed, she glanced down, and caught sight of several figures, two levels below, landing at the start of the illuminated hallway. Four women were exchanging heated words, pointing and shouting. Maia felt a chill traverse her back, on hearing one harsh voice. She recognized a shadowed face.
Baltha. The erstwhile mercenary stood next to one of the other Manitou traitors, a wiry var Maia had known as Riss. They were debating with two women she had never seen before. Emphasizing a point, Baltha turned and began waving toward the stairs, causing Maia to duck back and hasten after her companions. High on her list of priorities was to avoid contact with that particular var, not least because Baltha would recognize her in a shot.
Brin, David - Glory Season Page 55