The Great Rift

by Edward W. Robertson

  After some time—a half hour, perhaps twice that long—Dante plopped on the floor, as sweaty as the old man. As for Shone, he regarded Dante coolly, as one watches a lone wolf from across an open meadow.

  "Why did you come here?"

  Dante wiped his sleeve across his forehead. "Your daughter's a very fine Nulladoon player, too."

  "That she got on her own. Damn game ran me right out of business." Despite the old man's cynicism, a decade of anticipation was etched on his face. Shone swung his leg off the bed. The skin around his eyes relaxed. "Josun's toes, son. A man who can do what you do's got no business wasting time with games."

  Dante smiled and stepped outside. Worring pulled her finger from her mouth and spat a ragged bit of nail into the dirt. "Well?"

  "Better," Dante said.

  "Such modesty," Blays said, eyes rolling. "That old crank will be fit enough to kick your ass again in no time."

  "Maybe you can come see for yourself." Worring glanced toward the door. "If you come here again."

  "Soon." Dante climbed inside the carriage. In the moment, he meant it: he and Blays could come back here on their return from the estate outside Setteven. He'd like to play Worring again, a rematch where he competed without the knowledge of every one of her cards. He would even enjoy losing, he thought, and if he won, to have a weaving made for himself.

  But he wouldn't return for years. When at last he did, Worring would be old herself, and retired from the tables, even friendly matches. She would tell him how Shone had healed: walking to the shop with her each morning, this time not as her master but her partner, his earnings from weaving just keeping up with the nulla he incurred from gaming. He would die three years before Dante made it back to Dollendun.

  * * *

  While Dante played, the others had worked. The Boomer's sails were whole and white. Bright blond wood stood out from the railing where wind- and spray-chapped timber, smashed in the battle with the Bloody Knuckles, had since been replaced. More surprisingly, Lira stood on the deck to greet Dante.

  "Leg better?" he said.

  "Fit to start working off my debt."

  "Saving you was my idea, you know," Blays said. "If he doesn't want to boss you around, I'll bear that burden for him."

  She swept breeze-blown hair from her face. "But I do owe you."

  Blays raised his brows. "In that case, you should know I can do my fighting on my own. It's other realms where it helps to have a partner."

  "I don't know," Dante said. "You seem plenty capable of handling that on your own, too."

  Orlen was striding across the deck on a beeline for him. Dante met him halfway.

  "Good work of it," the chieftain said. "When we heard the lord refused to name his buyer, we began our battle-prayers to Josun Joh."

  "Hope nobody went stir-crazy during the wait."

  "We are accustomed enough to waiting. That's what we do all winter. What we're not accustomed to is other people fighting our battles for us."

  "Good," Dante nodded. "Because whenever I rescue a clan of slaves from the bottom of a mineshaft, I prefer to do it with thirty howling warriors at my side."

  "It may not come to that." The tall man smiled. "But I hope it does."

  The Boomer pushed off that same day, negotiating its way through the pilings and river-traffic of rowboats and flat-bottomed schooners. An hour later, Dollendun was a black mass of buildings to their back, a blocky forest of stone and hard-fired mud. Dante had a firm enough grasp on Gaskan geography to know the Cricket River on which they'd been sailing this whole time was a tributary of the Rommen that ran through Setteven, meaning they could more or less float the whole way to Beckonridge, debarking however many miles away to complete the journey overland. What he didn't know was how far that was. Varlen reported it was just over 250 miles—less than a week's journey, if they sailed through the nights and made minimal stops.

  Dante had spent twice that long at Nulladoon, but the remainder of the trip felt much longer. Towns drifted past, but none nearly as large as Dollendun. Barges came upstream and down, and on two occasions the oars of war-galleys slashed the gray water, but neither vessel showed the faintest sign of interest in the Boomer. Even the land seemed to grow bored, flattening into an endless prairie of winter-yellowed grasses, hawks circling and screeching, mice and gophers ruffling the fields on their hunt for seeds, the skies clear and cool, but not quite cold and far from warm.

  He got out his boxes to play some desultory games of Nulladoon with Mourn, but he was missing pieces and tiles, and the game suffered for it. He watched Blays and Lira practice swordplay on the deck, their blades glinting in the sunlight until the fighters' faces gleamed and their chests heaved. Lira limped, but was able to lean and feint through all but the most delicate footwork. Out of eyeshot of the major towns, clan warriors took to the decks, too, sparring or just sunning themselves to break up the closeness belowdecks.

  On both banks, the land rose, first into yellow hills, then high bluffs with pale green shrubs and scraggly pines. The sides of the gorge were so steep Dante could see bare rock slanted in layers, great crumbles of loose stone mounded around the feet of the cliffs. The way grew fraught with sudden bends and jutting spurs of rock; Dante stayed up through the night, lighting the way from the prow with a white beam that flowed over black waters and cliffs. Snow capped the heights and the shadows where the sun rarely touched.

  The Boomer emerged from the gorge into brackets of pine-heavy hills. The air was wet and dense and deceptively cold, a damp hand that snatched your warmth while you weren't looking. That night, Varlen put to port in a small town where the docks were slick with algae and the log houses were fuzzy with moss. He returned from the dockmaster to confirm this was their port.

  Orlen held the troops belowdecks until all the town's lanterns but those on the docks had been extinguished. Then the warriors padded down the gangway single-file, as silent as snow, and gathered a short way into the woods. Dante, Blays, and Lira were the only humans to join them. The rest of the crew remained onboard the Boomer; according to plan, the ship would shove off in the morning, then turn around after two days to rendezvous with the clan and its cousins upriver in something like a week. If Captain Varlen hadn't seen or heard from the clan in a fortnight, he'd be free to leave without further obligation.

  The clan slipped into the forest along a plain dirt road that was frequently muddy and patchy with holes. Scouts returned to let them know the way ahead was clear. Vee estimated a two-day march to Beckonridge. Along with Orlen, she dropped back from the body of warriors to speak to Dante and Blays alone, glaring at Lira until she took the hint. With a cold nod, Lira dropped back further yet, out of range of their murmurs but close enough to watch their backs.

  "We expect the situation at Beckonridge to be much the same as Dollendun," Orlen said.

  Vee glanced in the direction of a hoot from the darkness. "Except in the sense that everything will be different."

  "But once again, a full body of warriors will be unwelcome, so we must present a human face instead."

  "Don't worry, we're experts at pretending to be what we're not," Blays said. "Like bathed."

  "We'll use the same story we did in Dollendun," Dante said. "Less suspicious. And with the added bonus of not requiring any more work."

  "I can't agree with that fast enough."

  Orlen pulled his soft leather collar tight against the cold. "As before, taking Mourn and Gala should—"

  The chieftain collapsed to his knees. In the darkened roadway, his head spasmed side to side, earrings flashing, as if he were attempting to shake a demon out of his skull. Spittle gleamed in the corner of his mouth.

  Dante knelt beside him, reaching for the nether. "What's happening?"

  Vee slapped his hand away with enough force to crack walnuts. "You mustn't touch him. Josun Joh is upon him."

  Orlen's violent jerks subsided to irregular twitches. He was overcome by a stillness as perfect as the meditations of the
supplicants of Urt. His eyes flicked open. "Josun Joh says the Quivering Bow is in the highest place; the Clan of the Green Lake in the lowest. Yet if one has two hands, both may be taken."

  "You know," Blays said, "Josun Joh might get more done if he said things that made any damn sense."

  "The meaning of his words often comes later, in singular moments of clarity." Orlen stood, wiping his eyes. "We'll understand soon enough."

  The march was pleasantly uneventful. Scouts watched for carriages and riders; at their whistle, the clan melted into the woods like a morning fog. On the second day the westward path sported a northern fork, leading them through shallow, rolling hills and the sharply sweet scent of pine.

  "You realize we're showing up on foot," Blays said when the scouts returned with word the manor was less than five miles away. "They're going to think we're the type of people who show up on foot."

  "Leave it to the norren to forget the wealthy treated their feet as the decorative bulbs at the end of their pants," Dante said. "We'll tell Lord Cassinder we were robbed."

  "That will never work."

  "You're right. Much more credible that we walked a thousand miles from Mallon before suddenly realizing what we'd left at home: horses."

  "Come on," Blays said. "Who's going to believe I could get robbed?"

  Dante nodded. "We'll tell them you look strong, but inside you beats the heart of a coward."

  "How about this? You thought our map was actual-size, and declared we'd have no need for horses."

  "We're the type of noble who boasts as much as he drinks. We decided to walk from the river to remind ourselves of ancient days, to partake of the brisk forest air, and to feel the strength of our legs beneath us."

  "Suppose we'd better get drunk, then. To get in character."

  The pair of forward scouts returned. Beckonridge was scant miles ahead. Orlen led the clan offtrail into the woods single-file. The last member dragged a stone-filled sack behind her to confuse their tracks. Miles out of sight of the manor, the Nine Pines bivouacked near a minor creek trickling between the ferns and the mossy roots of colossal red trees. Warriors turned their axes on saplings and low branches, raising inconspicuous lean-tos while Vee and Orlen rehashed the plan. There existed the fair chance that, as visiting aristocracy, and foreign ones at that, Dante and Blays would be taken in as guests, and might find it difficult to slip away; in that event, their "servants," particularly Mourn and Gala, would find it much easier to sneak away and get word to the rest of the clan about what was happening inside. The clan itself, meanwhile, would investigate the mine as best they could while exploring the woods for escape routes and sound places to defend from in the event enemy riders overtook them. That was it; the rest was left to chance, or rather, to their ability to improvise on the fly.

  Dante sent Lira and Mourn ahead to announce their presence, then cleaned up in the ice-cold creek as much as he could stand. He dried himself with a blanket and gathered up his things. Horse droppings littered the path through the pines.

  The forest ended on the ridge of a low hill, Beckonridge spread in the valley below. For administrative purposes, the place was a single household, yet in practical purposes it resembled a small village. The manor itself was a giant stone structure, L-shaped, with four floors of windows and several towers rising another three stories above that. At a tasteful distance, smoke poured from a smithy, the rhythm of clanging metal trickling through the damp air. A barn and stable sat close together. A number of other simple wooden structures were arranged here and there, housing for servants and resident employees. The dirt road continued past all this, widening as it climbed the ridge on the valley's opposite side.

  Gala walked with them, scanning the open fields as if she expected the old tree stumps to rip themselves from the ground and tear Dante and Blays limb from limb. Dante saw no hint of Mourn and Lira, which was either a good sign or a very bad one. At the manor, a servant waited before iron-banded double doors that could have resisted most armies. The woman led them to a warm receiving room, thick with carpets, a full shelf of books, and the scent of woodsmoke, where she explained that Cassinder was currently at the mines but would return shortly. Lira and Mourn were brought to the room a few minutes later, taking up properly studied positions along the wall.

  "See anything interesting?" Dante asked.

  Mourn nodded enthusiastically. "A rather nice rendition of the confluence of the Cricket and Rommen."

  "He said interesting," Blays said.

  "If you're referring to things you can eat, the answer is no."

  "There's always something to eat. It just depends on how much you want to chew."

  They spent the next hour leafing through picaroon novels and poking at the reluctant fire. At last, the door opened. In it stood a shortish man in a quilted pine green undercoat and the blotchy complexion of one who's been riding in the cold. His blond hair was cut severely short, a glowing fuzz above the sharp angles of his face. To Dante's surprise, he introduced himself as Cassinder; Dante had expected your typical middle-aged and doughy-middled lord, not a thin man nearly as young as himself.

  Cassinder blinked at the books spread on the low table. "There is no tea."

  "In all the world?" Blays said. "Have you checked under the bed?"

  "Excuse me. I will return with tea."

  Cassinder did just that, personally bearing a bronze tray carrying five green-glazed mugs and a steaming clay pot. He set them on the table and poured each full, offering one not just to Blays and Dante, but to Lira, Gala, and Mourn as well.

  "I'd heard this was a strange land," Dante said in his best blustery, jovial, bring-me-a-beer-and-the-nanny voice. "But not so strange that you serve the servants."

  "Everyone gets cold." Cassinder took a step from the table and gazed between his guests in the ritualistic Old Gaskan acknowledgment of presence that might well have been lost on Dante if he really were a traveling Mallish lord and not in fact a Mallish transplant who'd spent years attending dozens of versions of this same traditional tea-greeting. Considering his station, Cassinder's version of the ritual was extremely stripped-down yet respectful, a return to its historical origins. In other households, Dante had seen lords nod briefly at their guests while ignoring the servants pouring tea from emerald-crusted pots into delicate silver cups.

  Dante slurped tea. "Some excellent weed-juice you got here."

  "We grow it ourselves."

  "Funny, that's exactly why we're here. But I'm getting ahead of myself."

  "I will not be insulted if you want to cut straight to the point."

  The lord had a soft way of speaking that made you focus on every word. Dante suspected this was deliberate. Dante grinned and made another bonhomie-heavy insight about how nice it was to cut the crap, then launched into their cover story about needing to put the best possible laborers in front of their skeptical investors—specifically, the figures of the fabled Clan of the Green Lake.

  "They are, unfortunately for you, not for sale." Cassinder said. "Have you seen any of the Clan of the Green Lake?"

  "Not personally."

  Blays grinned. "Although we've heard so much about them I could believe there are no other norren."

  Cassinder gazed at the cooling teapot. "To southern eyes, they look no different from any other norren."

  "What's the difference to northern eyes?" Dante said.

  "Their beards are slightly reddish."

  "That's it?"

  "That is what I said."

  Blays cocked his head. "Then why are they so important to you?"

  Cassinder refilled Blays' tea. "They and their nomad cousin-clans are open supporters of norren independence. The message they send from down my mine is worth more than anything you can offer for them."

  "Don't be too sure about that," Blays said. "In Mallon, our gold grows as thickly as wheat. Our bread weighs eighty pounds a loaf."

  "Then I am surprised you have come all this way for norren when your own farm
ers must have the musculature of elephants."

  "Are the norren so likely to rebel they need reminders of their place?" Dante said. "From what I hear they're so busy exchanging treatises and crafting cups they can hardly run a village."

  Cassinder laced his fingers together, gazing at his paralleled thumbs. "The norren are restless. If they push much more obviously, several clans will soon be headless."

  "Sounds like you've got them under control either way."

  "I will not sell my stock. I will consider pressing the matter any further rude."

  Dante drew back, palms raised, eyes downcast. "Not our intention at all, sir. But I hope you won't consider it rude if I ask to see them, so that when I look for stock elsewhere, I'll know for myself how close my purchase comes to the finest clan-warriors in Gask."

  "It is not rude, merely pointless. But you are guests. We will go to the mine tomorrow morning."

  Neither his expression nor posture changed, but there was a sudden absence to Cassinder that made it perfectly clear their discussion was done for the day. Dante made a show of stretching, remarking how long the day had been. Cassinder nodded and excused himself. He was replaced by a pair of servants moments later, one of whom led Lira and the two norren to the servants' wing while the other showed Dante and Blays up a stairwell so plushly carpeted they couldn't hear their feet at all. The walls were empty of paintings, cloth hangings, statues, any of the usual trappings of status and wealth. Their two guest rooms were similarly spartan: a bed, a reading-chair, an end table, then nothing but carpet and blank walls, interrupted only by a fireplace. Dante visited the water closet, then returned to Blays' room.

  "What do you think of our host?" he said in Mallish, as if Cassinder might have his pale ear pressed to the door.

  "That he was born three months premature."

  "The fact his fellow bluebloods haven't killed him and claimed they mistook him for a fox makes me think he's close enough to the throne to smell King Moddegan's sweat."