Werenight

by Turtledove, Harry

  “They set up the harpoon just aft of his head, right behind the others that hadn’t gone deep enough to kill. Then the fellow with the mallet swung it up over his head and hit the butt end of the harpoon with everything he had. I swear by all the gods there are that the whale leaped clean out of the water, with the harpooners still clinging to him. They might have screamed, but we never would have heard them. We were backing water for all we were worth, but still I saw that great tail like a fist over the bow.

  “When it came down, the ship just went all to splinters. I’m hazy about what happened next, because something hit me right between the eyes. I must have grabbed an oar; the next thing I remember is being fished out of the water by one of the little boats that came out as soon as the people on shore saw Old Crimson was really dead. Thirty-four people were on our boat when we set out, and six of us lived: only one of the harpooners, the fellow with the little stand.

  “Anyway, the fishermen who rescued me took me to shore, and the Jalorians took the whale’s carcass ashore too, for they valued the meat and oil of it. The head of the merchants’ guild kissed all of us who had lived, and gave each of us a tooth worried out of the whale’s head: I don’t lie when I say it was more than half a foot long.

  “But do you know what? I didn’t make a copper more from it, for that fat merchant sitting on his arse on the shore just called me a filthy foreigner and wouldn’t pay. For all that, though, I drank my way through the grogshops for ten days straight without touching a coin of my own, and to this day no one in Jalor knows how old Kariri’s warehouses burned down.”

  “You know,” Gerin said thoughtfully, “if they were to put a line on the end of their harpoons with floats—sealed empty casks, maybe—every hundred paces or so, they could spear their whales without having to climb onto them, and if the wound didn’t kill on the spot, the whales couldn’t escape by diving, either.”

  Van stared at him. “I do believe it’d work,” he said at last. “Why weren’t you there then to think of it? The gods know I never would have.” He looked to Elise. “Gerin, I do believe our guest thinks my yarn would be good for making flowers grow, but not much else, though since she’s kind as she is fair she’s too polite to say so. Hold the reins a bit for me, will you?”

  Elise started to protest, but Van was not listening to her. He stepped into the back of the wagon. Gerin heard him rummaging in the battered leather sack where he kept his treasures. After a minute or two, he grunted in satisfaction and emerged, handing Elise what he held.

  Gerin craned his neck to look too. It was an ivory tusk unlike any he had ever seen: though no longer than the fang of the longtooth he knew, this was twice as thick, and pure white, not yellowish. Someone had carved a whale and the prow of an unfamiliar ship on the tooth; the whale was tinted a delicate pink.

  Seeing the baron’s admiration, Van said, “A friend of mine made it while I was out roistering. You’ll notice it isn’t done, but I got out of Jalor in a hurry, and he didn’t have time to finish.”

  Elise was silent.

  Gerin kept the reins. Van had been yawning all morning, and now he tried to snatch some sleep in the cramped rear of the wagon. The Fox was looking for one particular dirt track of the many joining the Elabon Way. Each path had a stone post set beside it, carved with the marks of the petty barons to whose keeps the roadlets ran. It was past noon before Gerin saw the winged eye he sought. He almost passed it by, for the carving was so ancient that parts of it had weathered away; startling red lichens covered much of what remained.

  “Where are we going?” Elise asked when he turned down the track. She coughed as the horses kicked up dust.

  “I thought you knew all my plans,” Gerin said. “I’d like to hear what the Sibyl at Ikos tells me. I stopped there once before, when I went south for the first time, and she warned me I’d never be a scholar. I laughed at her, but two years later the Trokmoi killed my father and my brother, and I had to quit the southlands.”

  “That I had heard,” Elise said softly. “I’m sorry.” Gerin could feel the truth in her words. He was touched, and at the same time annoyed with himself for letting her sympathy reach him. He felt relieved when she returned to her original thought: “Where we go matters little to me; I simply didn’t know. Any place away from Wolfar is good enough, though I’ve heard evil things of the country round Ikos.”

  “I’ve heard them too,” he admitted, “but I’ve never seen much to make me think them true. This road goes over the hills and through some of the deepest forest this side of the Niffet before it reaches the Sibyl’s shrine. It’s said strange beasts dwell in the forest. I never saw any, though I did see tracks on the roadway that belong to no animals the outer world knows.”

  The more prosperous petty barons and their lands clung leechlike to the Elabon Way. A few hours’ travel from it, things were poorer. Freeholders held their own plots, men not under the dominion of any local lordling. They were of an ancient race, the folk who had been on the land between the Niffet and the High Kirs even before the coming of the Trokmoi whom the Empire had expelled. Slim and dark, they spoke the tongue of Elabon fluently enough, but among themselves used their own soft, sibilant language.

  The road narrowed, becoming little more than a winding rutted lane under frowning trees. The sinking sun’s light could barely reach through the green arcade overhead. Gerin jumped when a scarlet finch shot across the roadway, taken aback by the flash of color in the gloom. As the sun set, he pulled off the road and behind a thick clump of trees.

  He routed Van from his jouncing bed. Together they unharnessed the horses and let them crop what little grass grew in the shade of the tall beeches.

  They had but a scanty offering for the ghosts: dried beef mixed with water. It was not really enough, but Gerin hoped it would serve. Elise wanted to take one watch. The Fox and Van said no in the same breath.

  “Please yourselves,” she shrugged, “but I could do it well enough.” A knife appeared in her hand and then, almost before the eye could see it, was quivering in a treetrunk twenty feet away.

  Gerin was thoughtful as he plucked the dagger free, but still refused. Elise looked to Van. He shook his head and laughed: “My lady, I haven’t been guarded by women since I was old enough to keep my mother from learning what I was up to. I don’t plan to start over now.”

  She looked hurt, but said only, “Very well, then. Guard me well this night, heroes.” He half-sketched a salute as she slipped into her bedroll.

  Van, who was rested, offered to take the first watch. Gerin got under a blanket, twisted until he found a position where the fewest pebbles dug into him, and knew no more until Van prodded him awake. “Math is down, and—what do you call the fast moon? I’ve forgotten.”

  “Tiwaz.”

  “That’s it. As well as I can see through the trees, it’ll set in an hour or so. That makes it midnight, and time for me to sleep.” Van was under his own blanket—the gold-and-black striped hide of some great hunting beast—and asleep with the speed of the experienced wanderer. Gerin stretched, yawned, and heard the ghosts buzz in his mind like gnats.

  In the dim red light of the embers, the wagon was a lump on the edge of visibility, the horses a pair of dark shadows. Gerin listened to their unhurried breathing and the chirp and rustle of tiny crawling things. An owl overhead loosed its hollow, eerie call. Somewhere not far away, a small stream chuckled to itself. A longtooth roared in the distance, and for a moment everything else was quiet.

  The baron turned at a sound close by. He saw Elise half-sitting, watching him. Her expression was unreadable. “Regrets?” he asked, voice the barest thread of sound.

  Her answer was softer still. “Of course. To leave all I’ve ever known … it’s no easy road, but one I have to travel.”

  “You could still go back.”

  “With Wolfar’s arms waiting? There’s no returning.” She started to say more, stopped, began again. “Do you know why I came with you? You helped me once, lo
ng ago.” Her eyes were looking into the past, not at Gerin. “The first time I saw you was the most woeful day of my life. I had a dog I’d raised from a pup; he had a floppy ear and one of his eyes was half blue, and because of his red fur I called him Elleb. He used to like to go out and hunt rabbits, and when he caught one he’d bring it home to me. One day he went out as he always did, but he didn’t come back.

  “I was frantic. I looked for two days before I could find him, and when I did, I wished I hadn’t. He’d run down a little gully and caught his hind leg in a trap.”

  “I remember,” Gerin said, realizing why the dog Ruffian had seemed familiar. “I heard you crying and went to see what the trouble was. I was heading south to study.”

  “Was I crying? I suppose I was. I don’t remember. All I could think of was poor Elleb’s leg shredded in the jaw of the trap, and blood dried black, and the flies. The trap was chained to a stake, and I couldn’t pry it loose from him.

  “Hurt as he was, I remember him growling when you came up, still trying to keep me safe. You knelt down beside me and patted him and poured some water from your canteen on the ground for him to drink, and then you took out your knife and did what needed to be done.

  “Not many would tried to make friends with him first, and not many would have sat with me afterwards and made me understand why an end to his pain was the last gift he could get from someone who loved him. By the time you took me home, I really did understand it. You were kind to me, and I’ve never forgotten.”

  “And because of so small a thing you put your trust in me?”

  “I did, and I have no regrets.” Her last words were sleep-softened.

  Gerin watched Nothos and the stars peep through holes in the leafy canopy and thought about the obligations with which he had saddled himself. After a while, he decided he too had no regets. He fed bits of wood to the tiny fire, slapped at the buzzing biters lured by its light, and waited for the sun to put the ghosts to rout.

  At dawn he woke Van. His comrade knuckled his eyes and spoke mostly in sleepy grunts as they harnessed the horses. Elise doused and covered the fire before Gerin could tend to it. They breakfasted on hard bread and smoked meat. To his disgust, Gerin missed a shot at a fat grouse foolish enough to roost on a branch not a hundred feet away. It flapped off, wings whirring.

  The track wound through the forest. Trailing shoots and damp hanging mosses hung from branches overhead, eager to snatch at anything daring to brave the wood’s cool dim calm. The horses were balky. More than once Van had to touch them with the whip before they would go on.

  Few birds trilled to ease the quiet. Almost the only sounds were the creaking of branches and the rustling of leaves in a breeze too soft to reach down to the road.

  Once a sound almost softer than silence paced the wagon for a time. It might have been the pad of great supple feet, or perhaps nothing at all. Gerin saw—or thought he saw—a pair of eyes, greener than the leaves, measuring him. He blinked or they blinked and when he looked again they were gone. The rattle of the wagon’s wheels was swallowed as if it had never been.

  “Place gives me the bloody shivers!” Van said. To Gerin, his friend’s voice sounded louder than needful.

  The baron thought the day passing faster than it was, so thick was the gloom. He bit back an exclamation of surprise when they burst from shadow into the brightness of the late afternoon sun. He had not realized how much the thought of camping again in the forest chilled him until he saw he would not have to.

  The hills cupped the valley in which Ikos lay. Travelers could look down on their goal before they reached it. The main road came from the southwest. Gerin could see little dots of moving men, carriages, and wagons, all come to consult the Sibyl. His own road was less used. The border lords usually put more faith in edged bronze than prophecy.

  A tiny grove surrounded the temple. Probably in days long past the forest had lapped down from the hilltops into the valley, but the sacred grove was all that was left of it there. The shrine’s glistening marble roof stood out vividly against the green of the trees.

  Around the temple proper were the houses of the priests, the attendants, and the little people who, while not really connected with the Sibyl, made their livings from those who came to see her: sellers of images and sacrificial animals, freelance soothsayers and oracle-interpreters, innkeepers and whores, and the motley crew who sold amulets, charms—and doubtless curses too.

  Around the townlet were cleared fields, each small plot owned by a freeholder. Gerin knew the temple clung to the old ways. He did not grudge it its customs, but still thought freeholding subversive. A peasant could not produce enough wealth to equip himself with all the gear a proper warrior needed. Without the nobles, the border and all the land behind would have been a red tangle of warfare, with the barbarians howling down to loot and burn and kill.

  “Should we go down before the light fails?” Van asked.

  Gerin thought of Ikos’ dingy hostels. He shook his head. “We’d get nothing done at this hour. From what I recall of the inns, we’ll find fewer bugs here.”

  The evening meal was spare, taken from the same rations as breakfast. Gerin knew those had been packed with the idea of feeding two people, not three. He reminded himself to lay in more. Pretty sorry scholar you are, he jeered at himself—worrying over smoked sausages and journeybread.

  He must have said that aloud, for Van laughed and said, “Well, someone has to, after all.”

  The baron took the first watch. In Ikos below, the lights faded until all was dark save for a central watch-fire. The hills to the southwest were dotted with tiny sparks of light Gerin knew to be camps like his own. In its grove, the temple was strange, for the light streaming out from it glowed blue instead of the comfortable red-gold of honest flame.

  Magic, Gerin decided sleepily, or else the god walking about inside. When Math’s golden half-circle set, he roused Van, then dove headfirst into sleep.

  He woke to the scent of cooking; luckier than he had been the morning before, Van had bagged a squirrel and two rabbits and was stewing them. Elise contributed mushrooms and a handful of herbs. Feeling better about the world with his belly full, Gerin hitched up the horses. The wagon rolled down the path toward the Sibyl.

  IV

  Gerin soon discovered his memory had buried a lot about Ikos. First of all, the place stank. It lay under a cloud of incense so cloying that he wished he could stow his nose in the wagon. Mixed with the sweet reek were the scents of charring fat from the sacrifices and the usual town odors of stale cookery, garbage, ordure, and long-unwashed animals and humanity.

  The noise was as bad. Gerin’s ears had not faced such an assault since he returned to the north country. It seemed as if every peddler in Ikos rolled down on the wagon, each crying his wares at the top of his lungs: swordblades, rare and potent drugs, sanctified water, oats, pretty boys, savory cooked geese, collected books of prophetic verse, and countless other things. A fat bald man in greasy tunic and shiny leather apron, an innkeeper from the look of him, pushed his way through the pressed and bowed low before the bemused Fox, who had never seen him before. “Count Stoffer, I believe?” he said, back still bent.

  Patience exhausted, Gerin sanpped, “Well, if you believe that, you’ll believe anything, won’t you?” and left the poor fellow to the jeers of his fellow townsmen.

  “Is this what the capital is like?” Elise asked faintly.

  “It is,” Gerin said, “but only if you will allow that a map is like the country it pictures.”

  She used a word he had not suspected she knew.

  Van chuckled and said, “It’s the same problem both places, I think: too many people all pushed together. Captain, you’re the only one of us with pockets. Have a care they aren’t slit.”

  Gerin thumped himself to make sure he was still secure. “If any of these fine bucks tries it, he’ll be slit himself, and not in the pocket.” He suddenly grinned. “Or else not, depending on how lucky I am.”


  They pushed their slow way through Ikos and into the clearing round the sacred grove. The sun was already high when they reached it. They bought cheese and little bowls of barley porridge from the legion of vendors. Men from every nation Gerin knew cursed and jostled one another, each trying to be the first to the god’s voice on earth.

  One lightly built chariot held two nomads from the eastern plains. They were little and lithe, flat of face and dark of skin, with scraggly caricatures of beards dangling from their chins. They dressed in wolfskin jackets and leather trousers, and bore double-curved bows reinforced with sinew. They carried small leather shields on their left arms; one was bossed with a golden panther, the other with a leaping stag. When Van noticed them, he shouted something in a language that sounded like hissing snakes. Their slanted eyes lit as they gave eager answer.

  There were Kizzuwatnans in heavy carts hauled by straining donkeys: squat, heavy-boned men with swarthy skins; broad, hook-nosed faces; and liquid, mournful eyes. Their hair and beards curled in ringlets. They wore long linen tunics that reached to their knees.

  There were a few Sithonians, though most of them preferred the oracle at Pronni in their own country. Slimmer and fairer than the Kizzuwatnans, they wore woolen mantles with brightly dyed edgings. They scornfully peered about from under broad-brimmed straw hats: though they had been subjects of the Empire for five centuries, they still saw themselves as something of an elite, and looked down on their Elabonian overlords as muscular dullards.

  Even an Urfa from the deserts of the far south had come to Ikos. He must have ridden all the way around Elabon’s Greater Inner Sea, for he was still perched atop his camel. Gerin looked at its reins and saddle with interest, thinking how fascinated Duin would have been. The desert-dweller peered down at the wains and chariots around him. He growled guttural warning when they came too close. That was seldom; horses shied from his evil-looking mount.

  The Urfa was wrapped in a robe of grimy wool. Eyes and teeth flashed in a face darkened by dirt and long years of sun. Save for a nose even larger than the Kizzuwatnans’, his features were delicate, almost feminine. He wore a thin fringe of beard and, for all his filth, seemed to think himself the lord of creation.