“It’s thundering grand,” Pridisso agreed. “And sure to make our job the easier. We’ve come to the right place.”
“But does the velocity of Sourcian rotation vary throughout the day?” Vinzille wanted to know. “And if it does, will the temporal-epiatmospheric vortices alter in form or location?”
“Sometimes. The vortices respond to assorted stimuli. For example, the phases of the moon exert a direct influence upon the Lines of Chusq, which in turn—”
Preoccupied with his own sensations, and with the look in Sonnetia Corvestri’s eyes, Aureste lost track of the conversation. At length, however, he became aware that Orlazzu and his four new colleagues were discussing the arcane wonders of the shelter, in technical terms beyond his knowledge and comprehension. He did not enjoy the sense of his own ignorance, and soon grew restless. But there was at least one question of a practical mundane bent whose answer he would surely understand; a question relevant to the safety of all present.
“May I ask, sir, what measures you’ve taken to defend your stronghold against invasion?” inquired Aureste.
“You’ve already seen the stone that secures the sole entrance,” Orlazzu told him. “Neither the Wanderers nor the automaton can win past it, and they are the only invaders that I fear.”
“And if the Wanderers should lay siege to this place?”
“Unlikely. I’ve never seen them display such purposeful, organized behavior as that.”
“They’re changing. They’re learning. So, then—if they should lay siege?”
“Then my connection with the Source enables me to survive in reasonable comfort almost indefinitely. Food—clean water—wholesome air—light and warmth—disposal of wastes—all of these matters can be successfully addressed by arcane means. I daresay I should grow short-tempered and weary of my prison, but I could withstand any siege.”
Perhaps he could. Aureste reserved judgment. His practiced ex-soldier’s eye ranged the walls, floor, ceiling, and exit shaft. All appeared sound and sturdy. Moreover, invisible arcane safeguards doubtless reinforced the masonry. And yet, could protection of any description, arcane or mundane, guard the structure against the quivering of the ground? A violent shaking might dislodge the great stone above, or else open a crevice, allowing access to the shaft. The undead things roaming the area would be quick to exploit such an advantage.
Stepping to the wall, he ran a thoughtful hand along the stonework. Cracks, fractures, erosion? He detected no obvious weakness. Advancing a few paces to the foot of the shaft, he studied its cylindrical height, seeking the telltale incursion of daylight along the edges of the great stone portal. There was none. Nor did he spy rust, or any sign of deterioration where the iron rungs contacted stone.
He moved on about the perimeter of the room, and presently an object hitherto overlooked caught his attention. On the floor at the foot of Orlazzu’s pallet rested a small crate, built of heavy, unfinished planking. The container was uncovered, which seemed inconsistent with its durable construction. He approached for a closer look and found that the box was stuffed with coils of woven grasses. The coils formed a nest, containing a squat flask of ceramic ware, or perhaps some kind of coarse glass. He bent, drew the flask from its resting place, and examined it from various angles. The vessel was small but dense and thick-walled, with a big stopper secured with twists of heavy wire. There was no perceptible odor. A brief shake spoke of liquid contents.
“Put that down.” Grix Orlazzu’s low voice snapped like a steel trap.
Aureste looked up, affronted. He let the displeasure show on his face.
“Oblige me, sir.” Orlazzu carefully moderated his peremptory tone, adding by way of explanation, “Liquid lightning.”
The term meant nothing to Aureste, but he saw recognition spark the eyes of his arcanist companions.
“Take care,” Innesq advised.
“Incendiary device?” Aureste respectfully returned the flask to its nest, noting the ebb of collective tension.
“Amateur bungling.” Ojem Pridisso shook his head. “You see, Orlazzu—this is what we’ve had to endure, every single day.”
Aureste’s hand itched for a weapon.
“A powerful explosive, its natural properties enhanced by arcane means,” Innesq interjected deftly. “Your ultimate instrument of self-defense, Master Orlazzu?”
“Yes.” Orlazzu nodded. “I keep it at the foot of my bed, within easy reach. Should my safeguards somehow fail, and I wake from sleep to find the undead upon me, then I dash the flask against the floor with force enough to break that stout vessel. Exposure to air detonates the liquid, and the violence of the explosion within this confined space reduces all to impotent bits and pieces. So you see, my visitors, we needn’t fear the agonies of the plague, nor yet the indignities of undead existence. We’re safe from all of that.”
Perhaps. Aureste’s doubts lingered.
Outside Orlazzu’s refuge, evening had fallen. There was dinner to prepare, and sleeping arrangements to consider.
They carried their own food with them, and Orlazzu showed them how to use his cooking device; a curious contrivance, with no moving parts, no flame, and no detectable fuel consumption, but capable of bringing water to a boil within seconds, while remaining at all times comfortably cool to the touch. Their meal consisted of the same simple stew, hard biscuit, and dried fruit that they had eaten ever since the defection of the servants. Orlazzu added a basket of nuts, together with an assortment of Wraithlands roots and pods. There were no chairs, and they dined seated on the stone floor. Aureste’s eyes traveled the circular chamber, sliding from face to face. He still had not identified the source of illumination, which agreeably resembled lamplight in color and intensity.
The warm light, perhaps combined with the influence of the Source, invested the faces of his companions with a healthy glow. He had never seen Innesq looking better, healthier, or happier. And Sonnetia, with color in her cheeks and lips for the first time in days—Sonnetia was … beautiful. The little white Nissi appeared unaltered. Among all of them, only Yvenza appeared to have changed for the worse. Even the favorable lighting could not disguise her dead complexion, her skeletal gauntness, or the emptiness of her eyes. Perhaps the rigors of the journey were beating the damnably vigorous virago down at last. He could only hope so.
But his satisfaction was short-lived, for even as he contemplated improved circumstances, he felt the Other stir at the base of his mind like a giant shifting in Its sleep. He had, for a few minutes, almost forgotten the Overmind. Some unconscious part of him must have imagined that the protection of Orlazzu’s stone walls, combined with the tonic effect of the Source, had driven It from his mind.
Such was not the case. It had lain quiescent for a while, but It was still with him.
Not for much longer, though. This conclave of arcanists would pool their talents in the morning, do whatever was needed, and set the world to rights. The Overmind could go back where It had come from, wherever that was, and the freshly purified Source could go spinning along on its merry way. He would have his own mind to himself again, the unwelcome visitor ejected once and for all. Only another few hours to go.
Those hours would be shortened and wisely invested in sleep. It was still early evening, but all were ready to retire. They spread their blankets on the floor of the circular chamber, and found themselves positioned much as they might have been about their customary campfire. Instead of an arcane bubble to enclose them, tonight they enjoyed the protection of Grix Orlazzu’s stone walls.
Orlazzu caused the unidentifiable illumination to diminish, and a soothing dusk enveloped the room.
Aureste’s fatigue was as much of the mind as of the body. He closed his eyes, and sleep claimed him at once. His slumber was filled with visions. He dreamed of his daughter.
It was early evening. Jianna knew this because they had brought her the usual dinner of gruel and a crust, not long ago. There were few other indications whereby to judge the passage
of time. Her windowless cell was illumined only by the corridor lamplight sliding in through the iron grate in the door. The lamps burned perpetually, the light never altered, and she had lost all sense of the outside world. Only the regular arrival of savorless meals marked the progress of her final hours.
Curling up on the straw that served as her bed, she closed her eyes and hoped for sleep, which came and went capriciously these days. No more than a minute or two had passed before she sensed the pressure of regard. She opened her eyes, sat up, and saw the silhouette at the grate. A guard was standing there, looking in at her. She knew at once why he had come.
She stood up and stepped to the door. She recognized the guard’s face. She had seen it often, but never clearly, for the light was always behind him. She did not know his name.
“Tomorrow, then?” she asked.
“That’s right.”
“It’s been days. Am I the last?”
“Of your gang, yes. But there’s been another group confirmation, so now there are others in line behind you.”
“I see. Which is it to be—hanging, or exsanguination?”
“For you, it’s the big drain. You’re lucky, that one’s easy as a walk in the public gardens.”
“Early morning?”
“Couldn’t say.”
“I’ll be alone?”
“Didn’t say that. You won’t be alone—your friend the doctor goes along with you. See, you’re getting it easy every which way.”
“Falaste Rione, executed tomorrow? No,” she whispered, hands pressed very hard against the door. “That’s a mistake. They won’t kill him, he’s too useful. Everybody knows it.”
“No mistake. He’s had a sweet spell for a long time, but it’s over. You resistance people need a good lesson. This whole sinkhole of a Faerlonnish city needs a lesson.”
“Why now?”
“Oho, you haven’t heard? A gang of Faerlonnish hooligans, backed up by a bunch of household Sishmindris, of all things, have taken over the Cityheart and grabbed the deputy governor, his family, and some others. They’re threatening to kill all the hostages if their demands aren’t met. Do you people actually expect to pull that off?”
“But Falaste has got nothing to do with any of that,” she argued, as if expecting to alter matters by convincing him.
“The real troublemakers are holed up in the Cityheart, and out of reach, for now. Your doctor friend’s a different story, so he’ll stand in for them. His bad luck. But look on the bright side—tomorrow, you’ll have someone to hold hands with, there on the scaffold.” With that, he left her.
The sound of his retreating footsteps died away. For some time thereafter, Jianna remained standing at the door, motionless as if dazed. And perhaps she was dazed, or else the news hadn’t quite penetrated, for she felt remarkably little. A vast emptiness filled her, and her mind seemed unwontedly slow, almost frozen.
At length she returned to her pile of straw, lay down facing the wall, and curled her body into a wounded shrimp shape. For a while she lay there unmoving, mind vacant, and she wanted it to stay vacant, the longer the better. With any luck, the state of merciful numbness might persist throughout the night. By no means did she expect to sleep.
But at some point, sleep did overtake her. No telling whether it came swiftly, or whether she lay awake for hours, but sometime during the night she drifted off, and she dreamed. She dreamed of her father.
Her thoughts of and longing for him had long since receded, pushed from the forefront of her mind by concerns more immediate and urgent. But he had never been wholly absent, not for a single day. And now he was back again.
They stood together amid heavy grey mists that obscured their surroundings. So thick and dense were the clouds that she could not judge whether they stood out of doors or beneath some roof. Despite the impediment, she could see Aureste clearly. There he was, regarding her with a wonder that matched her own, looking exactly the same as ever, except for his clothing. In place of his usual handsome and dignified robes, he was now attired in serviceable garments of leather and wool, travel-stained and visibly the worse for wear.
He was close enough to embrace, but somehow she knew that they could not touch. Nevertheless, the old, familiar current of affection and trust flowed between the two of them almost palpably, just as it always had.
“I knew you’d come,” said Jianna.
“But where have we come, and by what means?” Aureste looked about him. “What is this place?”
“I don’t know. Is it real?”
“If it can bring us together at last, then I choose to accept it as real. I tried so long and hard to find you,” he told her. “I knew that you were still alive. I finally came to Ironheart, but too late. You’d already escaped; they couldn’t hold you. I was mad with disappointment, but so proud of you.”
“I came back to Vitrisi as soon as I could, but too late. You’d already gone, along with Uncle Innesq, and nobody knew when you’d be home again.”
“Very soon, I think. We’ve reached our destination. Your uncle and the others will perform their task tomorrow, and then we’ll return, I hope by swift arcane means. Shall I then find you at Belandor House, or what’s left of it?”
“No. I couldn’t stay. I went away again. Uncle Nalio would have forced me to complete my interrupted journey to Orezzia without delay.”
“And you wished to see me again before leaving?”
“I wished to see you and explain that I wasn’t about to leave at all.”
“What’s this? You were willing enough, not long ago.”
“I was, but then everything changed. I met a man. I love him, and he loves me. He’s not a magnifico, nor even of high birth, and yet I think you could not help but approve of him, for you always respect intelligence, energy, and ability. He’s a physician of remarkable talent, even genius. He’s saved countless lives, originated brilliant methods, and he’s even devised a treatment often effective against the plague. And he’s a man of the noblest character—oh, generous, kind, honorable, large of mind and heart, far better than I. And I’m resolved that I’ll have no other. Nothing in the world will alter my decision.”
“So determined you look, like a butterfly made of steel. It’s strange,” Aureste mused. “A few months ago, I would have counseled you to leave important decisions to heads more experienced and wiser than your own. And had you complained, I should have insisted. But you don’t seem quite the same child that you were. You’ve changed, my Jianna. You’ve grown older, and stronger. But sadder, too, I think.”
“Falaste has been a source of nothing but happiness.”
“I wish you always to say the same of me. I love you too well to bend you by force. Therefore, I’ll postpone my decision until I’ve met this physician of yours, and determined whether he’s quite the paragon you believe him to be. Ah, but where are the smiles that should greet such a concession? You look sadder than ever. What is the trouble, my dear?”
“I’m finished, Father. I’m in prison, sentenced to die tomorrow, together with Falaste. You’ll not meet him. Even speeded by Uncle Innesq’s powers, you couldn’t return to Vitrisi in time to save us. I think this meeting between us here and now is a gift—a gift of value—almost arcane, but something else. I’m given the joy of seeing you one last time; the chance to tell you how much I love you, and to bid you farewell. For that, I’m so grateful.”
Aureste stood silent for such a long time that almost she fancied he had not heard her. His eyes seemed to follow the shifting mists, then returned to fix on her face.
“Unacceptable,” he said.
Her brows arched.
“Quite unacceptable,” he repeated. “No, Jianna. This sad, futile, and ignominious conclusion that you envision will not be. Never think it. Never submit to it. Believe that your future shines, that it’s filled with hope and happiness. I know this to be true.”
“Oh, Father. I love your confidence and spirit.” She smiled mournfully. “But you�
�ve just admitted that I’m no longer a child—so please, don’t treat me like one. You seek to comfort me, but we’re both aware that you can’t know such things. Nobody could.”
“Nobody in the ordinary world that we normally inhabit. But here, in this place, all things are possible. Here, I can speak of future happenings, and know that I speak truly.”
“Here? Why? How?”
“My dearest, have you not realized that all of this is a dream?”
Jianna awoke.
EIGHTEEN
Aureste awoke.
His instincts told him that it was early morning, perhaps around dawn. The sound of his companions’ deep, regular breathing filled the chamber, but he heard something more; a muffled drone of voices, intolerable to living human ears. He knew that sound. It was the collective utterance of the Wanderers. Did it filter down from the surface, where the undead gathered, or did it originate inside his own head?
No one else appeared troubled. All slept soundly, and frustration burned across Aureste’s mind. He wanted to talk to his brother.
As if responding to a mental push, Innesq opened his eyes and raised himself to a sitting posture.
“What?” he asked in a whisper.
“I dreamed of Jianna,” Aureste replied in similarly hushed tones. “It was so clear and strong, it seemed real.”
“What was the dream?”
“That she’s alive, well, and loves me still, but she’s in danger. She lies in prison, condemned to die in the morning. She said in the dream that even your arcane powers couldn’t speed me back to Vitrisi in time to save her. Could this be true—any of it?”
“I do not know. How could Jianna be in prison? It does not seem likely.”
“And then I told her not to fear, for her future is bright. And she answered that I couldn’t know such things, but I told her that I could know—within a dream. And I did. It was altogether clear to me that I spoke the truth. Then I woke up. Tell me—are dreams ever real? It seemed so, more than I could ever have imagined. I’ve always scoffed at such things, but now I must wonder.”
The Wanderers Page 33