Nephril took them uneventfully through the Upper Reaches and out by its southern gateway onto a road that ran to the west, alongside its wall. It was late in the morning by the time they branched off to the southwest, away from where the wall itself turned north.
They now got their first sight of Bazarral’s harbour as they steadily descended the few short miles to the top of Hlaederstac. Still far below, its granite-grey quays lay crammed with a riot of lines and lanyards, of baulks and bulwarks and beam-boards, of cut and jib and colour.
It seemed to stir Nephril to say, quietly and more to himself, “A two-edged sword be these times. Their true natures lend such mesmeric splendour where grey habituation would best suit,” and he slowly shook his head.
Prescinda readied her hand nearer the steering wheel and asked “What is it about the Bazarran that worries you so, Nephril?”
He glanced at her but turned back before she’d a need to grasp the wheel, staring ahead more in thought than at the road. Still a little way off, the first sharp bend of Hlaederstac measured his answer’s time and so he hurried.
“Legend tells how the Bazarran were wrought to tend only to Dican needs, to keep Leiyatel forever safe and so ensure life’s unending presence here. Their blood, though, had to be altered for the same, minutely and subtly, so to meet but that one true purpose alone.”
She waited, and as she did so, looked behind only to find Falmeard seemingly asleep, and quietly made mention to Nephril. “Better so I reckon,” he said. “Falmeard hast brought disturbing memories, ancient ones now long forgotten by Dica, but to him so painfully fresh.”
Drawing ever closer to Hlaederstac, it clearly urged Nephril on. “I suspect he comes from similar stock to the Bazarran, from a world that valued invention, adventure, curiosity. It be why he is the way he is I fear, and why Dica must pall so against his memories.”
“And, I suppose, why he’s so convinced he’s seen a city. Is that it, Nephril?” but he only sighed as Hlaederstac’s closeness kept his eyes to the road and his hands at the Halcyon’s levers.
The last of the broad expanse of scrub quickly fell behind, soon lost to the enclosing press of buildings and their cooler shade. The task now of swinging the Halcyon through each new turn, of controlling its downhill rush and preserving its lush, bright-blue paintwork kept Nephril’s hands completely full.
It did, though, give Prescinda a chance to stare in wonder at the southern view, as each bridge below took them once more across the cove. Now on one side, now on the other, back and forth, the harbour seemed so near despite its eight mile distance.
Only when they at last reached the bottom, and Nephril stopped for a well-earned rest, did he finally answer. “Steward Melkin, of all Bazarran, seems to be the very same as Falmeard, although more of them appear to be following suit. At first I thought him an aberration when he sought me out all those years ago. An unusual pupil was Melkin, even for his own kind. Fired with a thirst for knowledge he was, but a thirst only ever hinted at between the lines of ancient verse.”
He turned to smile briefly at Falmeard. “Their choice of verse, however, is not always what it should be,” and quietly intoned.
“Betest besettan betweox baered borden,
Hard haldaned his hamlic hus.
Betest besettan betweox baaned besten,
Hard haldaned his haefened hall.”
Prescinda turned him a plainly bemused face, soon bringing a sheepish grin to his own. “’Tis but a fragment of the old language, mine dear, once an adage I am sure, but now no more than a riddle.”
“An adage?”
“A patent truth, Prescinda, one known all too well by the chosen Bazarran, with their fresh new blood. Blood as of those who first landed here from the west.”
Before she could ask, he answered, “This particular adage be an exemplar of restraint, even in its use of words, constrained as it is but to two initial letters. I suspect it were longer, although only this fragment now exists.”
She waited for she was beginning to see something of how he thought, how the ancient ways often led around the houses, but along streets that were firm and level.
“Best beset between bared boards,” he at last translated, “Hard held his homely house. The ‘B’, thou see, be for Bazarran, and the ‘H’ most likely for Heofon, the place of supreme contentment.” He raised an eyebrow and continued, “Best beset between boned beasts, Hard held his havened hall.”
“So,” Prescinda said, “they were fashioned to value hearth and home above all else, even if it only gave them empty tables and bony cattle, is that what you mean, Nephril?” and he grinned.
Falmeard stirred, mumbled in his sleep and grunted as his elbow slipped from the arm of his seat. He pushed himself up and stared, bleary-eyed, over its high back. “Hlaederstac,” he sleepily slurred. “Not far then,” and once again closed his eyes.
Nephril smiled, stretched his aching arms and urged the Halcyon on towards the grey expanse of sea, where the Graywyse Defence Wall strode south across the cove.
When they came onto the wall, and the Halcyon’s wheels once again held fast in its road’s deep grooves, and Falmeard’s head lolled open-mouthed from side to side, Prescinda felt safe to ask, “So it doesn’t matter that what we saw from the balloon may be a city or not, only that it’s a distraction?”
Nephril seemed to stare absently across the bay, far beyond what little could be seen of the mouth of the Suswin River. He didn’t answer for a while, but when Prescinda began to suspect he hadn’t heard, he said, “If it be anything other than a mirage then it will draw to the fore the original caste of blood from the Bazarran.”
“And send them chasing after adventure? Is that what you fear, Nephril? What you meant by subversion?” but Nephril only continued to stare.
There, across the bay, he now knew a breach lay in Dica’s ancient defences. A breach that threatened to soak away all life, out into the desert’s arid sand.
16 Limited Only in the Mind
They’d left the Halcyon near the top of the stairwell to the harbour, and soon joined the river of passengers and porters pouring down it to the quays. Whereas most made their way to the Passing Pool, bound for the regular coastal services, Nephril led Prescinda and Falmeard away on a more lonely tramp along the Eastern Dock Quay.
They passed the Harbourmaster’s House, high up in the wall of the Graywyse Defence, but kept on to the quiet of the Sunset Dock at the northernmost side of the harbour. Some half a dozen smaller sailing ships were tied up there. Mainly old brigs and brigantines, they looked to the world like mould growing from their long-jaded berths.
Their quaysides lay littered with blackened crates and piles of rope, amidst stacks of mildewed canvas. Even the water below the lines of the barnacle-encrusted hulls carried an oily scum, within which floated slimy baulks of Belforas timber.
Beyond this motley line of forgotten vessels, a sleek stoom-launch appeared to sit up straight. Alert at its berth, a ribbon of steam streamed from its funnel. Its own quayside sat apart from the rest, all spick and span, a clear path kept through to the ship’s rising gangway.
There were crewmen aboard, all about their duties, one of whom stood looking down from the top of the plank. He watched Nephril and his party draw near then glanced at something he took from his waistcoat pocket before hailing Nephril.
“Thee’s lordship?” to which Nephril nodded. “Still be draught enough, m’Lud, but thee’ll ‘ave to make strides.”
“Thank thee, boatswain,” Nephril called, and then urged Prescinda onto the gangway and followed her up, Falmeard at his heels.
“This way if thee would?” the boatswain said, once they’d all stepped aboard, and he led them beneath the port-side over-deck. “I’ll let t’cap’n know thee’s ‘ere. Watch thee’s ‘ead, ma’am,” he warned as he ducked through a doorway and into a narrow lounge.
“There’s glasses an’ grog on t’sideboard,” he offered, “or I can have tea sent up, whiche
’er takes thee fancy?” With tea chosen, they were left alone, only the sound of the Boatswain’s feet tripping lightly up a ladder to the bridge.
When the two men remained silent, Prescinda sighed. “So, am I to be the only one who’s no idea where we’re going?”
“We’ve none of us any real idea, Prescinda,” Falmeard yawned as he stretched out on a sofa, “other than it’s over the other side.”
“The other side?”
“The other side of the Suswin, mine dear,” Nephril said as he watched Falmeard’s eyes once again close.
“What? You mean on the Southern Hills side of the bay?” and the thought made her feel queasy, as though Nephril had said they’d to fall from the edge of the world. It didn’t help that he refused to meet her eyes. All she could do was gulp and repeat, “The Southern Hills?”
She started at a sharp rap on the doorway’s surround, a young lad then stepping in over the high threshold, bearing a tray of tea. As the teapot lids rattled and spoons clattered against the cups, orders began to be shouted across the deck outside, the scurry of many well-ordered feet quickly drumming across the bleached-white boards.
“’Tis all best nettle, sirs and ma’am,” the young lad said, setting the tray in its rack on the sideboard. He lifted each pot’s lid and stirred their contents. Just then, the boatswain slipped in to say the captain would be delayed, but that he sent his apologies and would they mind remaining in the lounge for the crossing?
The stoom engine sent a coughing shudder through the timbers of the launch, soon rising to a clattering wail. The sound of churning water echoed back from the wharf, the stench of stale brackish water and worn-out oil drifting in through the open doorway.
Prescinda stood there and watched the quayside recede, but then saw the hurried arrival of a group of men, all left standing and staring after the launch. In amongst them she was sure she saw a flustered Steward Melkin.
When she made mention to Nephril, he grinned. “Melkin hast never taken kindly to rising early, and certainly not to missing his breakfast.” He fought back a laugh. “Never an early bird, our Master Steward, and so, fortunately for us, one who rarely catches the worm ... or three,” then he let his laugh slip free, enough to open Falmeard’s eyes.
When told what had happened, Falmeard’s only concern was how long they could stay ahead. The captain eased his worries when he joined them sometime later.
“Ain’t no other vessel ‘llowed beyond t’Suswin ‘cept this ‘ere maid, even if there were another berth over there. An’ t’tide won’t gi’ us another return crossing today.”
“When do we get in?” Prescinda asked. She learned that the crossing would take nearly an hour and a half. Enough time she reckoned for Nephril to explain just why he was dragging them to the edge of the world, at which thought another shiver ran down her spine.
As soon as she asked, the captain solicitously dismissed himself, leaving Nephril clutching his nettle tea, like some kind of talisman against the gentle swell he now felt beneath his feet. He settled himself into a chair, cleared his throat and slowly began to unfold a most unusual story.
“I said to thee earlier, Prescinda, how Steward Melkin seemed to mark the start of a change in the Bazarran.” She nodded. “And how they seemed to be slipping free of their long-wrought bonds.” She again nodded, but this time as though hurrying him along.
He smiled at her earnest look, at how it reminded him so much of Sconner, but then turned his tale to a man named Phaylan. He was a man who should have been the last to think the way he did, Nephril told them, for he came from pure Galgaverran stock, of blood far more closely constrained than any Bazarran.
“Steermaster Phaylan cannot rightly be, for his is the blood of a priest of Baradcar, of a once true servant to Leiyatel.”
“Was it Leiyatel’s dying that’s let it happen then, Nephril?” Prescinda asked, making him choke on his mouthful of tea. “Sorry, but it struck me that all this loosening of blood must have happened around that time, you know, when she was no longer in control.”
“Phaylan was able to see in his mind what his eyes should never have seen. And he a Galgaverran at that.” Nephril paused, clearly thinking back. “The Suswin River hast always marked Dica’s southern border, although none thought it strange, not until late last year when Steermaster Phaylan decided to set...”
He stared at Prescinda, although she couldn’t have noticed for her mind now reeled. Somehow her old fear of heights seemed to be flooding her guts, but this time with molten lead.
Cold air too seemed to be blowing through her mind, making her narrow view through the doorway of the mouth of the Suswin River swim before her eyes. She didn’t know why, nor thought to question it, for it had instilled a very real fear in her heart.
“What is it, mine dear?” Nephril asked, but as though he’d no real need. “What dost thy native Dican blood perceive of the wild Suswin’s spreading vale, of its boggy banks and shifting sands? What dost thy blood make of the hills that rise beyond its treacherous flow, beyond the mournful, misty sprites that float above its meandering drifts of reed and sedge?”
She couldn’t answer for in her mind there raged a war. Sense fought hard against a senseless conviction, one that almost scared her to death. Its sudden awakening could well have won out, so surprising was its strength, had a memory of Nephril’s face not come between the warring parties.
She remembered the Towers of the Four Seasons the previous year. She remembered Nephril explaining how unthinking-fear had long kept them safe, had protected what they contained. She remembered how that fear had made the false image of them appear so convincingly real. Leiyatel’s store of memories had stayed safe for some one hundred and sixty thousand years by means of nothing more than irrational fear, instilled in all life that happened near.
It was the look on Falmeard’s face, when she tore her eyes from the view, that made her compare the two and see the falsehood now made plain in both. She saw something in his eyes that spoke the truth, although she suspected he knew it not himself.
With that thought foremost, the fear soon ebbed away as though it had never been, and she smiled at Nephril.
He returned it with his own, but one formed more from relief than revelation, one that at least momentarily made him forget where he sat. For a short while at least, he lost that green tinge with which the growing swell had so thoughtlessly coloured his cheeks.
17 Cold Light of Day
Although the sea had remained slight and the sky no more mottled by clouds than at the outset, the rough and ready quay beside which they now slid seemed somehow colder, almost wintry. Perhaps blame lay with the makeshift harbour’s granite-grey setting, newly stripped of its gorse and sedge, or maybe the simple oiled-black planking of its wharf.
The wind certainly felt keener when they came on deck to watch the launch nudge in against the only berth. Seamen leapt ashore, their plimsolls hollow against the planking as they tied up at metal hoops anchored deep in the rock of the shallow cliff face behind.
There was no-one there to meet them, only a handful of wooden sheds to offer welcome.
Prescinda caught sight of Falmeard, first down the gangway, but then felt Nephril’s hand shakily rest on hers, where she’d clutched the rail against which she leaned. She could feel the nearness of his body, as though his rare heat drew hers through the coarse fabric of their coats. She couldn’t turn to him, though, despite feeling his breath warm upon her cheek, for the place seemed to hold her stare by the very heat of her life, drawing it through her eyes.
“Leiyatel forbid,” Nephril had said, his words weakened by fear, cracking at their utterance, “however did Phaylan forebear it ... however and for why?”
She felt his breath turn away, knew he now stared, like she, at the inhospitable view.
“Whatever made him come here?” he said, his voice dropping to a whisper.
Spreading a stain across the seemingly colourless view, Falmeard strode before them and
stopped, staring up into their faces from the quay.
“You two not coming ashore then?” he called up, for all the world as though he stood on a wharf in Grayden’s homely harbour. He even grinned, as though impatient for a look around.
“We must not lose sight of Falmeard, mine dear,” Nephril quietly warned as he lifted her hand in his own and gently drew her to the gangway. He halted part way down, as though steeling himself, but then shuffled onto the oiled planks of the quay.
They heard the boatswain calling, saying he’d be with them in a while, but Falmeard had by then climbed a flight of steps that cut sharply across the cliff, already threatening to vanish beyond its top.
Prescinda chased after him, Nephril close on her heels until his resolve began to falter, his hand losing its grip on hers. When she turned, he looked shocked, near to tears, fear and confusion filling his face.
“Come on, Nephril,” she chivvied, trying to sound brave, “we don’t want Falmeard getting into mischief, now do we? You know what he’s like.”
She felt her smile had failed, but could do no better. “Come on,” she repeated, “like Falmeard’s always saying: stiff upper lip, eh?”
She stepped ahead, almost pulling Nephril along, although his feet did eventually unfreeze, letting him stumbled after her. When they came to the top of the steps, though, Falmeard was nowhere to be seen.
“Where’s he got to?” Prescinda said, teeth now chattering. She began to stamp her feet, as though chilled despite the sun plainly shining down from a large patch of blue sky.
“Why’s it so damned cold here, Nephril?”
The cliff top marked the start of a steepening rise of rock and rough grass, lain across with carpets of gorse punctuated here and there by gnarled and stunted trees. The rise belonged to the northern slope of a ridge that ran down from the last of the Southern Hill’s westward march of peaks. Its jagged, craggy back eventually formed the peninsula that gave Foundling Bay its western shore, and as it dipped into the sea, the line of the Stepney Isle rocks.
An Artist's Eye (Dica Series Book 5) Page 7