Magesong

by James R. Sanford

  Still, he had to be careful even then. The eye of glamour tied delicate bonds to those it was cast upon. He must not do anything that would allow Libac to question the rapport or loyalty of his best retainer.

  They reached the door to the trophy room, and Libac turned to him as he fished the key from his waistcoat pocket. "Are you sure you don't mind, Orez?"

  "Of course not, sir. It was I, in fact, who suggested it if you recall."

  "Yes, I know," Libac said, opening the door, "but it is such menial work for a retainer of your breeding and education."

  "As you said yourself, sir, my unique education makes me the most qualified to clean your antiquities room. After all, if your scholarly guests at the garden party are to view your collection, it must be pristine."

  "Yes, I cannot believe I was lucky enough to find an educated man who shares my interest in ancient artifacts, much less one who worked with the great Dorien Ryne. You seem tailor-made to my needs, Orez."

  "It suits me as well, sir." Lucky, yes. Lucky that I caught you alone in the privy long enough to use the eye to charm you.

  Libac opened the door and they entered the room. "Airen," Ephemeris said softly, "once again it enraptures me." With the sweep of his arm he included the entire room, but his eye stayed fixed on the star-shaped wooden object.

  He watched with disgust as Libac went to it and stroked it with his stubby hands. The artifact exuded a spirit so strong that even an uninitiated fool like Airen Libac could feel something.

  "I wish I had time to watch you do this, my friend — no doubt I would learn a great deal, but the preparations for this affair consume me. I will leave you to your art."

  Libac closed the door behind him as he went.

  Art. Yes, exactly. Ephemeris seized the Essa, and power flowed through him. He touched the tarnished brass handle of the door and said a quiet word in the Essian tongue, no need of an elaborate incantation for a simple Fastening, not for a magician of his experience. A second word, and it was done. Now, not even Libac could walk in on him, and anyone who tried would find the door quite stuck. A door sometimes gets stuck. It had been wet the last few weeks, and everyone knows that this kind of annoyance often comes with a change in the weather.

  He turned to the spirit box. Now, after weeks of tedious service as a gentleman's gentleman, after weeks of only being able to look at it, he could at last touch it. Opening himself to the weird, he placed his hands on the domed top of the artifact, feeling at once the ancient energies locked within. Beads of sweat formed on his temples, breaking free to run down his long sideburns. Running his hands along the curved sides of the object, he felt instead of its waxen smoothness the waters of a healing spring. Yes, Cipher had been right. As soon as he touched it, Ephemeris knew it for what it was: E'alaisenne, the sixth great elemental, the most gentle of all the essential spirits. And he would be the one to bring it to the Temple of Supplication where they would bind it to the other five Aevir.

  The first great elemental, Ivestris, an ethereal creature of sea and sky and mystery, had been brought to the abandoned tower by the founders of the society, the first inner circle. That had been in the last days of the Cycle of Ice, over three hundred years before. The legendary Insessor had delivered Vaz'thokkar, a being of fire and wind and power, in the first Cycle of the new age. The Supplicants of the Final Grammarie still hailed him as the greatest magician the society has ever known, but his life passed before another of the Aevir could be found. In time, though, the others revealed themselves: Salaniyus, made of stars and silence and wisdom, Aleramykrae, of sand and light and craft, and Jasbevrien, the elements of the moon and flowers and harmony. And now Ephemeris would complete the circle and seize the final power. Insessor would be forgotten.

  Late that afternoon, Ephemeris drove away from the Libac town-house in a one-horse buggy and travelled the three and a half leagues to the waterfront of Mira-Delvin. As he boarded his ship, he saw that only the mate, the cook, and two sailors were there.

  "Where is everyone?" he called to the mate, who had just emerged from the sail locker.

  "I gave them liberty, sir. The ship is all squared away, and well . . . we've been sitting here for weeks, Captain. It would be strange not to."

  Ephemeris thought for a moment. "Alright. As long as they do not take strong drink."

  "Oh, no sir. None of us would break your rule against drinking. I don't even remember what it was like."

  The cook approached, knuckling his forehead. "Will you be taking supper aboard ship tonight, Captain?"

  "No, I must return to my work tonight," Ephemeris said, walking away from them and going to his cabin. He stopped in the doorway, turning back to the mate.

  "Has anyone come looking for our poor sick friend, the customs man?"

  "No sir," the mate said, looking away with a slight shudder.

  Inside his cabin, Ephemeris dismissed the invisible fastening laid upon his iron-bound sea chest, retrieving from within a weathered almanac. He flipped the pages, looking for the night of the garden party . . . yes, the tide would be high enough at half past midnight and the moon nearly full. That settled it. The timing was almost perfect for the plan he had been devising.

  As the last of the guests were leaving — at about ten o'clock, he figured — he would tell Libac that the door of his treasure room was open and the spirit box missing. Perhaps he could throw suspicion on one of the guests who had already gone and offer to go off in pursuit. In any case, the Aevir would be waiting in the alley with Malor, who Ephemeris, as major-domo of the Libac estate, had seemingly hired to haul away the garbage. They would have to rent, or better still, buy a mule and wagon. And he should have Malor draw a blunderbuss from the arms locker. The remainder of the crew would be at the ship with all in readiness, and they could sail as soon as he arrived. Midnight would find a fair wind for sailing on the rise, but an hour later it would turn into a local storm. Ephemeris would make sure of that. Yes, Libac and the authorities would figure it all out the next day, but by then he would be far out on the ocean, and woe be to any ship that tried to overtake him.

  Ephemeris of course knew the problem with plans — they often go wrong. The shock of seeing his beloved artifact gone might allow Libac to shake off the glamouring. But not that, nor the liveried guards could stop him, even if they all walked in on him in the act of theft. If he had to blind everyone who saw him, he would do it. If he had to put on the glove and leave a trail of dead men behind him, he would do that too.

  CHAPTER 13: The Poorest Quarters

  "We don't even know his name," Farlo said between bites of black bread. "Hey," he called to the huge matron, "got any jam to go with this?"

  She stuck her head into the front room where they breakfasted. "That costs extra, another half-penny."

  Reyin downed the last of his coffee and wished for more — commoners in Jakavia drank better coffee than the lords of the north — but that cost extra too. "We will find out his name, and everything anyone knows about him."

  "And then?"

  "Then we'll make a plan."

  The matron came in with a tiny saucer of orange marmalade. "Will you two be staying again tonight? I'm going to the market today, so I'll need to know."

  Farlo cast a desperate beam at Reyin. He had not slept well for a second night.

  "No," Reyin said, "thanks. We're sure to find our friends today.”

  She had been full of questions when they returned for dinner the day before, Reyin still shaken, Farlo tight-lipped. Who were they? What was their business in Mira-Delvin? After all, if they were staying in her house she had a right to know.

  Farlo had answered her with a snappy, "None of your business," and Reyin then had to spend the entire meal allaying her suspicions. They were minstrels, looking for other musicians they were to meet here. He explained that troubadours sometimes held meetings just for themselves, to trade songs. Farlo? Yes, I know he doesn't speak well, but he's the best flute player west of Tamurr. Later, when t
hey had gone to their room, Farlo asked, "Why are you acting like we're on the run? We ain't done anything. Even if I showed my little mark, what could she do besides throw us out of her house? There's no law against being a Syrolian outlaw in Jakavia."

  "Keep your voice down," Reyin whispered. "She may be listening outside the door." He tiptoed over to the door and peeked through the keyhole. "Don't you know that there are thief-takers who would haul you all the way back to Kandin and be happy to split the bounty with the one that spotted you?

  "You must remember that we're foreigners here. If all she did was report us to the watch as suspicious persons, we might be taken to the jail and questioned. At the very least they would discover we haven't any money and put us outside the city walls. Jakavia seems to be a country where . . ."

  "Where you had best be about your business?"

  "Yes, exactly."

  Reyin watched Farlo spoon marmalade onto his buttered bread. So now they had to search out a new place to stay. The cost of a hotel was out of the question, and Reyin didn't think they could find a cheaper room. Maybe they would find a landlady who was less suspicious. After saying good-bye to the matron, Farlo carrying Reyin's flute case for show, they walked the streets aimlessly for a time.

  "Have you noticed," Reyin said as they walked, "something missing here? No street hucksters, no beggars. The usual gang of street toughs, and urchins, sure, but they look like they live here. No one destitute."

  "They'd all be down at the harbor."

  "How do you know?"

  "Because waterfronts are all the same, everywhere you go. And that's where the miserably poor live. You say we're short on coin and need to be anonymous? That would be the place to stay."

  "I may never have been a sailor like you, Farlo, but I've seen my share of waterfronts. Yes, they are somewhat alike, I suppose. Not all are run down, though, and none that I have seen compare with, say, the thieves quarter in Elatylos."

  Farlo made a sound in his throat. "You don't know where to look."

  Farlo led him down a wide boulevard jammed with mule teams pulling heavy wagons. As they neared the harbor he began looking down the alleys and side streets muttering, "Not close enough yet."

  He stopped where a narrow street, just wide enough for a dogcart, snaked off to the southwest between a four-story block of flats and an ancient stone warehouse. He nodded, waving at Reyin to come along as he turned off the boulevard. Past the warehouse the street zigzagged sharply down a steep incline. A sidewalk cafe lay at the bottom of the hill, its white plaster front broken by a thousand cracks and crevasses running together in a chaotic pattern. An old man wearing a linen headwrap sat outside at a wobbly table drinking a clear liquor. He didn't look at them.

  "There," Farlo said, pointing. A narrow paved alley sliced alongside the cafe, descending steeply in a series of stonework steps and landings. They went down, stepping carefully among the large shards of broken bottles laying everywhere. The grade became very steep, all steps now, as they entered the shadow of the buildings, and still the alley continued downward, seeming to cut into the very bedrock supporting the city. A sagging wood-framed house behind the cafe loomed over them from five stories up. The paving ended at the bottom of the steps, the alley running off into a tall tunnel roofed by a concrete bridge.

  The dirt floor of the passage was damp and smelled of urine. In the low places, the tips of small animal bones broke through the mud.

  "Let's keep going," Farlo said, entering the grotto.

  Reyin had to close his eyes for a moment to speed adjustment to the dark, but the tunnel was short enough for each end to spread dim light along its length. After twenty paces he suddenly became aware of human shapes squatting or lying to each side. In many places long low niches had been carved into the walls, a few handfuls of flattened straw scattered in each.

  "What is this," Reyin whispered, "a tomb for those not yet dead?"

  "Shut up," Farlo hissed. "We're in these people's home."

  A lone figure, a shirtless man wearing a stocking cap, entered the tunnel from the opposite end. When they passed him he waved casually and said hello as if it were simply a village lane they walked. And a village of sorts it seemed to be when they came out into the light of an oblong plaza.

  It had been built in the vertical. Around a longtime dry and broken fountain rose tenements, tiny shops, market stalls, open platforms, rain cisterns, animal pens, and even a gazebo of sorts, all under a sea of faded awnings stretching upward for seven stories, catwalks and ladders criss-crossing the great circling facade. Reyin felt a touch of vertigo as he looked up and turned around. The odor of humanity hung heavy there, not quite masking that of fish and brine.

  In a clear space between two huts on the south side of the plaza, sat a fat man next to a contraption something like a ship's capstan. A small donkey stood hitched to it. On the other side of the man lay an enormous basket harnessed to a rope thick as a man's leg. The cable ran upward eighty feet from the gondola to pass through a block at the end of a beam, then back down to the animal-driven winch. Two elderly women approached, each giving the fat man a fresh peach for fare, and climbed into the basket. The fellow touched his donkey with a light switch and the basket with the women swung into the air, inching slowly up as the donkey made turn after turn.

  "Is there a cheap place to stay around here?" Reyin said to the man as he and Farlo walked over to him.

  Rubbing the two days of growth bristling on his neck, the fat man said, "You must be new to The Barrel."

  "The barrel?"

  "What we call this place." He halted the donkey, waving at the old ladies as they stepped out onto a platform halfway up. He turned back to Reyin. "Only place to rent a room is the Topmast Inn." He pointed to a mud-brick building on the highest level. It leaned discernibly to one side.

  A shawled woman, carrying a baby and wearing patched drapery for a dress, appeared at the highest platform. She whistled down at them and called, "Hey Bodoval! All the way, okay?"

  Waving to the woman, Bodoval turned to Reyin. "I don't get many willing to pay for a trip down."

  Bodoval tapped the donkey, sending the basket to the top. The woman waited while he removed the push arm of the capstan from the hub and brought the animal off to the side. He signaled the woman with one hand, and when she stepped into the basket he eased back on a braking lever and began bringing her down slowly.

  "Come on," she called, "I don't have all day."

  Bodoval opened the brake a little more and the gondola dropped quickly, almost falling. At the last moment he casually threw closed the lever and the basket came to a stop a foot off the ground.

  The woman vaulted over the side, the baby in one arm. She reached inside the baby's blanket and produced a tiny coin, a silver penny, tossing it to Bodoval.

  "Hoa," he said, "you've done well today Letia."

  She smiled. "I have, but I want half of that back."

  Bodoval took a pair of crude iron scissors out of his pocket and snipped the coin in neatly in two, returning one portion to Letia. She took it, gave Reyin an interested look, and slid past him as she went on her way.

  "Best cutpurse in the whole city, Letia is. Smart too. Pretends to be a beggar, but the baby isn't even hers. She rents them from those who have too many."

  Reyin's eyes went wide as his hand lunged for his purse strings.

  Bodoval laughed. "Don't worry. No one is fair game in The Barrel; everyone here is dirt poor. The watch don't even come here, 'cept maybe once a year, but we have our own way of dealin' with stealing. Remember that."

  Reyin wanted to climb the seven rickety ladders to the Topmast Inn, it seeming less risky than Bodoval's device. But Farlo thought it safe enough when Bodoval told them the first lift was free, and up they went. The Topmast Inn had a front room enclosed by thick mud walls, surprisingly cool in the midday heat, with planks across sawhorses for the only dining table and old crates of various sizes for all other furnishings. Two ladders at the bac
k led each to a small wooden shack, crudely pegged together, sitting on the roof of the older mud-brick structure. These were the inn's two rooms.

  "This is safe," Farlo said, "only the lowest cutthroat would stay here."

  The innkeeper was short and muscular, with the tip of a harpoon where his left hand should have been. "Fiddlers and the like pay the same as everyone," he said when he saw them. "You can play for the crowd at night if you want, but they'll most likely throw knives as coins." He let go a laugh that sounded like gravel in his throat.

  Farlo took the flute case and pushed it at Reyin. "This is his."

  One room was vacant, and they took it for three pennies a night. Reyin threw his gear onto the only bed, a torn length of canvas stretched across a wood frame. Farlo found enough netting in one corner to rig a hammock for himself.

  From their window, a large hole covered with a flapping piece of oilcloth, they could see over the topmost structures of The Barrel. They could also see the other way out. A narrow passage, barely wide enough for a man, ran from the top platform of Bodoval's lift through a maze of warehouses to empty into a trash dump.

  Reyin slumped on his cot, wiping the sweat from his brow. Compared to the coolness of the room below, the rooftop cabin was like an oven.

  "No one in this hole would know anything about the fellow we seek,” Reyin said. I guess I could ask around in taverns, or maybe toady my way into a low-end club with a drunk sportsman."

  "Don't be stupid. You'd come off sounding like a thief who's new in town, and likely catch it from the real thieves if not from the authorities. There's too many informants lurking in taverns." He rubbed the brand on his arm through his long sleeve. "We need a friend, someone who lives here and knows the place."

  "Have anyone in mind?"

  Farlo looked at the ladder to the common room below. "I'd bet that the guy who runs this place worked whalers most of his life, at least he has the look of it. I worked a whaler once. I'm sure we speak the same language."