by Liz Williams
“I know of Lord Broke's conclusions. I am not of a similar mind, nor do I hedge and fret as Broke so clearly did, because you are close to Elizabeth. There are such charges; they still stand and substance will be given to them.” Bonner still spoke courteously, but his gaze was a serpent's own. “What do you say, Dr. Dee?”
Dee knew that he could make no plea for clemency. If Bonner could not find evidence of heresy, he would manufacture it. And the Lord knew that there was plenty of material at Dee's house that could be used against him; Bonner would be a thousand times more thorough than the hedging, pragmatic Lord Broke. The bronze bee, the precious globes that Mercator had given to him and which were now hidden in the cellar. Thank God, thought Dee, that he had taken care not to commit to parchment any of the ideas about sublunary flight or his increasingly interesting investigations into the alchemical sciences.
“I am waiting, Dr. Dee.”
Dee felt his skin grow clammy. This was it, then, the moment that the skeleton hand would first tap him upon the shoulder. The room grew icy and the fire hissed as if snow had fallen down the chimney. Then Dee caught sight of the Bishop's face and realized that it wasn't just fear that had caused such an effect. The room really was arctic, and Bonner was staring behind Dee's shoulder like a man who has glimpsed the Devil. After a startled moment, Dee turned.
Something was standing at the far end of the room. Dee, paralyzed with shock, only knew that it was an angel because its long hands were folded in front of it in an attitude of prayer. It did not have the bland face and the swan's wings of the Catholic statues. Its face was blank and cold as marble, and as Dee stared, it turned slowly on its own axis so that he could see that it had not one face, but four. Two of the faces were female, the lips set in an awful fixed smile. The other two faces were male. It wore robes and it was transparent, as if made of some vitreous substance. Its mouths stayed closed and it continued to revolve slowly, like a planetary orb.
“What—” Bonner's voice had risen by an octave. Dee himself was too astounded to speak. It did not occur to him to talk to the angel, any more than he would have thought to address one of Mercator's globes. The angel spun faster, and started to grow huge until it filled the whole room. Bonner started to scream then, and went on screaming until the angel burst the room apart and sent the midnight stars flying down around Dee's head.
Chapter II
DRIFT-BOAT, ORBIT
Where are we?” Alivet asked. She was somewhere dark and hot, with a complex smell of a thousand spices. She could not see an inch in front of her face. She reached out, trying to locate Ghairen.
“It's all right.” The Poison Master's voice came from somewhere off to her left. “We're on the drift-boat. You're safe now.”
Hardly, thought Alivet. Ghairen went on, “I must apologize. I thought I'd taken precautions not to be spotted. I didn't count on being seen from above.”
“What precautions? That poison? And what is it, anyway?” She could still feel it, fizzing deep inside her mind.
“It's designed to disrupt the visual cortex. Can you see at all?”
“No. Isn't that because it's dark?”
“It isn't dark, Alivet. You've been temporarily blinded. Come and sit down.”
First the Night Palace, now blindness. It was as though the world had stored up a collection of horrors, then released them all at once, a flock of black-winged birds.
“Don't worry,” Ghairen said. “It won't last more than a few minutes. And the portal is sealed behind us, in case you're wondering. Nothing's going to follow from that direction.” She felt his hand on her arm, guiding her forward. She sat down on something plushy and soft.
“I saw my sister,” she told him, in a whisper.
There was a pause.
“Alivet, you don't know that. Your vision must have been affected.”
“No. I know what I saw, Ghairen. And so do you. Don't lie to me.” She did not know whether he was playing games, or trying to be kind. “It was Inkirietta. Her eye—” Alivet had to stop then, and collect herself—“her eye was gone, but she knew me. I saw it in her face—she remembered. And I left her there! I let her go again.”
Ghairen touched her hand, but Alivet pulled it sharply away.
He said, “If you had not gone through the portal, then the Lords would have had you both. It's possible that the Lord could not see what was happening. For all you know, Inki may be rewarded for trying to stop the intruders.”
“Yes, and she may be tortured inside a cell. I saw the Lord's mind, Ghairen. I know what it had planned for us.”
Alivet was starting to notice sparks in the darkness: a skein of firecracker images, a dim red glow. She blinked, trying to clear her vision.
“We don't know. But remember—if they had caught us, even the slim threat that we represent would be gone. When we are successful in finding a substance that will put paid to the Lords, then you will realize that it was worth it.”
“Even if I have to sacrifice my sister?”
If there really was a way to defeat the Lords, just what was she prepared to sacrifice? Her own life? Yes, if necessary, though it was hardly an attractive prospect. But what about Inkirietta's life? For the last few years, her goal had been to free her sister from Enbonding. The thought of failure was hard to bear.
The light around her was starting to grow.
“How's your sight now?” Ghairen asked.
“I can see,” Alivet conceded. They were sitting in what appeared to be the center of some vast machine. The floor and walls were made of some burnished metal; her own dim face looked out at her from a dozen different directions. She looked up and saw a lattice of wires, so intricately laced that it was impossible to tell how far upward it extended. Yet high in the lattice Alivet could see points of glittering lights: stars, or some mechanism of the drift-boat itself? There was an oval opening in the opposite wall, but she could see nothing reflected in it except a dark swirl that moved like a restless current.
“What's that?”
“The other end of the portal through which we traveled lies beyond that door.” Ghairen indicated a metal panel at the far end of the room. “When we came through, you were disoriented and barely conscious, so I brought you here to recover.”
“I've seen inside a drift-boat,” Alivet told him. “And it seemed very different—just rows of unconscious people.”
“Did you see such a thing during a Search?”
“Yes.”
“What you glimpsed, then, may have been truth or it may not, as I'm sure you are aware. The Lords—as you'll also be aware—do things differently than us. They do not build on a human scale; they pay little attention to human comforts. We, on the other hand, believe that if one is to go to the considerable trouble of interworldly travel, then one might as well do so with a modicum of indulgence. Certainly we pay enough for it.” Ghairen arranged his disordered robes in a more elegant manner and sat back in his chair, as if dismissing the subject.
“How is it that the—thing—in the Lords' Palace connects with this boat, then?”
“There are portals on all the worlds, but some are unstable. On Hathes, for example, the boat actually docks. There is a ruined landing site on Latent Emanation. Some worlds have only a few portals, like your own—and the Lords, as you now know, impose strict controls upon who enters and leaves Latent Emanation.” Ghairen smiled. “There is usually a direct correlation between those who go in, and those who fail to come out.”
“You're not the only one, then? I got the idea that you were a sole traveler.”
“Did I give that impression? Well, there have been a few others. But generally the Lords prefer to keep a tight rein on their uninvited visitors. The portals are not the Lords' own technology, however.”
“Who built them, then?”
“No one. They're a natural phenomenon. They can be harnessed, by means of special devices, and connected to craft such as the drift-boats. It is difficult, however, and Hathes has only one vessel,
in which you are now sitting. It took us a considerable time to build. It's quite old.”
“So where are we now?”
“Between worlds. Legend has it that it is possible to travel without the use of a craft, to move directly between portals, but I know of no one who has achieved such a thing.” Ghairen glanced toward the dark opening. “The boat will soon be voyaging to Hathes. I must say, I'll be relieved to reach home.”
“Unfortunately, I can't say the same.”
“Don't worry, Alivet. You'll be home soon enough.” His fingers brushed her hand.
Was that a threat or a promise? Alivet wondered. With the Poison Master, it was hard to tell.
“We'll have to stay here,” Ghairen explained, “until the boat is on its way. Then I will show you the dormitory.”
“The dormitory?”
“Our journey will take a single night. And I'm sure you must be tired.”
No thanks to you, Alivet thought. She sank into her seat, and felt its warmth close around her. When she looked down, she saw that a thin mesh of tendrils had crept about her waist, holding her in. She was encased in bronze wire, ornamented with tiny metal leaves. Then the enormity of what she had embarked upon overtook her, and she closed her eyes. Memories of her sister kept returning in grim, cold waves. Far below, in the depths of the boat, she could hear a low hum, which intensified as she listened. She became aware of a curious and unfamiliar smell, which filled her head like a murmur of wasps. She tried to place it—metal? rain? a chemical?—but could not.
The smell grew stronger and more astringent, and Alivet felt a shudder beneath her feet. Moments later, the tendrils of mesh around her waist drew away, leaving her free to stand.
“Our journey has begun,” Ghairen said. “The drift-boat's moving. Follow me.”
He led her through into an adjoining passage; again, a dim, hushed place. The polished walls produced a faint glow. She turned, to see a dark, pale-faced girl with a hand to her mouth. A reflected sequence of Alivets marched into mirrored depths. Lights flickered beneath her feet, chasing one another across the floor like mice. The walls sparkled and a bloom spread across them as though they had been touched by a frosty wind. Alivet thought again of the drift-boat she had seen in the Search and how different it was. Compared to this, the Lords' drift-boat was nothing more than a hollow shell.
Ghairen stood aside to let other passengers go by. Alivet watched them curiously. All were men. Some resembled Ghairen with their hollowed eyes and sleek dark hair, others looked pinched and ancient. Their eyes were as black as winter-sloes, the whites clearly visible; why, then, were Ghairen's eyes red? Alivet wondered about the effects of a prolonged exposure to poisons. The men wore rustling, complex clothes and whispered together in soft voices. Alivet strained to overhear, but found that she could not understand them. They were not speaking her own language, nor did it sound like the Mooric tongue of the deep fens. Yet Ghairen was fluent enough.
“Where are these people from?” she whispered.
“They are traders, for the most part. The boat visits several worlds on each trip.”
“Including mine?”
“Ah.” Ghairen smiled. “Not usually. I persuaded them to make a detour. If we had been delayed in the Night Palace, the portal—well, let's just say that things might have been awkward. I'm afraid our fellow passengers might not be very pleased with me, if they suspect that I've been responsible for their wait.”
“How long has the boat been within reach of Latent, then?”
“A couple of days—portal reach, that is, but outside the Lords' detection system, which is a little arcane. I gave the ship a rough time of arrival, but they wouldn't have waited forever.”
So if the ship had gone, presumably she and Ghairen would have been stuck in the depths of the Palace of Night. Not a comforting thought. Alivet wrapped her arms around herself and leaned back against the wall.
Ghairen strode ahead to speak to an official-looking person at the far end of the passage and as he did so, a woman stepped from the shadows.
Alivet saw a small curved nose like a fen-hawk's beak. The woman's eyes were huge, a translucent, watery gray, and her mouth was melancholy and folded, as if hiding secrets. In common with the men she, too, wore a robe: a layered construction of loops of brocade beneath a high-necked bodice. Her hair was tightly braided and clasped close to her head. Alivet's hand stole up to touch her own long plait, banded by the apprentice rings. The woman glanced up, startled. Her eyes widened as she saw the wheel on Alivet's palm, she seemed about to speak, then she turned swiftly away and disappeared into the recesses of the drift-boat.
Alivet wanted to explore the boat but Ari Ghairen, smiling indulgently, would not allow her to do so and insisted that they remain seated in an alcove adjoining the main chamber of the ship. More lattices concealed the alcove, casting a dappled pattern of shadows across Ghairen's face. Alivet did not find the alcove comfortable. The seat was too hard and curiously shaped, and the table was very low, as if designed for people other than humans. Yet Ghairen had said that this was a drift-boat belonging to his own world. She wondered whether he had lied; perhaps this boat had been captured from some other race, or designed by them. Alivet was growing accustomed to mysteries, but she still did not enjoy them.
Other passengers drifted by, clustering in small groups and whispering conspiratorially. Ghairen ignored them. Alivet kept an eye out for the woman, but she was nowhere to be seen.
“Why won't you let me see the rest of the boat?” she asked.
“Much too dangerous,” Ghairen informed her airily. “What if you were to stray into one of the toxic chambers?”
“Why would a drift-boat have toxic chambers? Do you practice your art on your passengers? And wouldn't such places be sealed off?” Alivet asked. He was surely lying to her, or perhaps this was nothing more than some whimsical game.
“Nothing is sealed. What is poison to one person may be nothing more than a light floral perfume to another.” Ghairen waved a languid hand. “What is deadly to you is likely to be harmless to me. It depends on one's grade.”
“So how do people know where they can and can't go? Are there warnings on the doors?”
“Usually. But most of the passengers are from Hathes, and have an understanding of such things, just as you know which drugs are safe to take, and in what dosage, and so forth. Other passengers may wander as they please throughout the boat, but whether they live to tell of what they have witnessed is entirely another matter. I suggest that you keep close to me. Would you like some tea?”
Alivet nearly declined, but the hot air of the drift-boat was making her thirsty and she could hardly refrain from touching food or drink over the course of her journey.
“Very well,” she said, stiffly.
“Then tea we will have,” Ari Ghairen agreed. He rose to his feet and summoned a floating servitor: a dull silver platform, whorled like a shell. Ghairen flicked his fingers and lights sparked over the surface of the servitor. Alivet watched with interest as it glided away. Then she turned her attention to the room beyond.
“How does this boat move?” she asked. “What propels it?”
“I've no idea.” Ari Ghairen spoke with indifference.
“You must have some notion.”
“No, none whatsoever. Why should I concern myself with such things? I am a Poison Master, not a mechanic or a pilot. I would no more expect an engineer to trouble herself with the details of my work than I would expect her to ask me to go down to the engine room and ratchet the wheel arch or add more hot coals to the furnace. Or whatever it is that they do.”
“Aren't you interested in anyone else's profession, then? Don't you think that a little wider knowledge might come in useful?”
“Of course. I don't pride myself on my ignorance. For example, I am extremely interested in your profession, and I look forward to having many long and interesting conversations about it. Aha! Here is the tea.”
Alivet, with a
dubious glance, took the glass from the servitor and gave a cautious sniff. She smelled a dark array of spices: amber-flowering lavender, summer balsam.
“We have,” Ari Ghairen remarked with seeming irrelevance, “seven hundred and thirty-two varieties of tea on Hathes. It is a veritable industry.” He gave her a sidelong look and Alivet thought, He's trying to make things up to me. He thinks I'll be interested. To her annoyance, however, Ghairen was right. For the first time since her flight from the Unpriests, Alivet glimpsed the possibility of a future for herself. Perhaps an exclusive importer of otherworldly beverages might be a promising trade? In this fleeting vision, she saw Inki by her side, learning the business. She blinked, dispelling the image. They had a long way to travel before that came to pass.
“Has anyone tried them all?” she inquired of Ghairen.
“A few. The tea masters, of course. Some of them are very old; they've spent their lives in the tasting chambers.”
“Can women be masters? Of poison, or of tea?”
“Of course. We are an equitable society, in many spheres.”
“That's good to know,” Alivet said, dryly. “And how soon can one attain mastery? At what age?” She looked at Ghairen, trying to assess him. It wasn't easy. The smooth countenance bore no betraying lines; the crimson eyes in their bone cradle were ageless. With reluctance, Alivet lowered her gaze, only to find it drawn back again. She should not stare at him so. Ghairen appeared not to have noticed.
“It depends. I myself was forty-three when I attained Fifth Grade.”
“And how long do your people live?”
“Two hundred years, perhaps. If they are lucky. Almost no one reaches that age.”
“But two hundred years is a natural life span?” Alivet pursued. Ghairen smiled, sipped tea.
“My dear young lady, there's no such thing as a natural life span on Hathes.”
Well, that shut her up, Alivet thought. She drank her tea in silence, appreciating its depth of taste. When she had finished, Ghairen appeared to relent and suggested a tour of the boat, suggesting to Alivet that his talk of poisoned chambers had been nothing more than an unpleasant fable.