Aloren

by E D Ebeling

  “All those times he’s saved my arse,” I said. “It’s embarrassing. Please, Floy, don’t make my lot any harder.”

  “Trying to make it easier’s what I’m doing.” But she consented when my whining became unbearable, and it took her but a day to root out the significant parts of the problem.

  ***

  “Daifen’s hall,” said Floy, “is famous for sitting directly above an ancient well. Ocling’s Well.”

  “It’s sacred,” I said, skipping shards of stone across the grey surf. I tried to recall why. “They say it goes far below the bottom of the sea, where the sweetwater collects. But wouldn’t it take days to draw water?”

  “Don’t know.” Floy nestled in a chink in the sea wall, twisted her neck, and preened. “Daifen’s in control of it, though. I went inside. The well comes up in a cave, and a very important person must have built the house––the cave opens right into the master chambers like it’s part of the house.”

  “I know. Some idiot Lauriad thought the well was running dry and hid it beneath his house.” I shrugged, glancing up at a silent birch reaching over the wall. “And now I bet Daifen has the only sweetwater well left in the country. The only one that in’t dry.”

  “He doesn’t use the well for water so much as he uses the cave for a safe-deposit. So I’ll warrant your weasel’s heirloom is tucked away in the cave somewhere. But the cave has a locked door, and it’s a strange lock, right enough. Saw it. It’s square, and you’ll be able to rotate a square within a square as soon as break down the door with your head.”

  “I’ll find out when I see it.”

  “I’ve a better proposition,” said Floy, alighting on a long pile sticking from the water. “How about using the key?”

  “Saw that too, did you?”

  “Beneath the flagstones under the man’s wash-stand.”

  “How do I get into his rooms?”

  “You don’t––it’s heavily guarded. And he only lets his closest lackeys anywhere near, unless you’re Grulla the chambermaid or one of the two pageboys who carry him his bathwater.”

  “Ugh.” I wrinkled my nose. “How much did you see, Floy?”

  “I flew a perilous mission. Do I get a thank-you?”

  She hardly needed one; missions were a thank-you in themselves for Rielde.

  “Thank you most graciously,” I said anyway, throwing water at her.

  ***

  I reached up and took a cannister from the self. It was an odd looking one: iron glazed with enamel so that the acid wouldn’t burn through the metal.

  “Ain’t going to drown yer troubles with that?” Nefer said. I looked sheepishly over at him. “That don’t work half so well as Tuley’s whiskey. Help me build this fire up so’s I can anneal this.”

  I slipped the can into my pocket, took up the bellows, and pumped until the flames leapt in the furnace. My trousers felt crispy, and I stepped back. Nefer hung a chalice bowl over the anvil horn and plannished it smooth. He sang boisterously as he did it.

  Padlimaird was at his brazier, shaking his head, fitting together the chalice’s stem. It was fashioned like a tree, boughs cupped to receive the bowl.

  I walked closer, saw the snakes creeping through the roots and the raptors roosting around the top––kestrel, osprey, eagle, kite––and noticed a familiar hallmark near the foot: a fish eating its tail.

  I burst into laughter. Padlimaird flipped the thing over with his pliers. “Were the roots supposed to go on top?”

  “You’re paying Dick Dagerleon a high compliment,” I said to Nefer. “Why’re you giving him the credit?”

  Nefer smiled. “Habit.”

  “He wants to see the look on Dick’s face when he’s asked to make another one,” said Padlimaird. Trid had done a fine job with Nefer’s arm, breaking the old fracture and splinting it. Now it was late in the fall and Nefer had the uninhibited use of both his arms.

  “Send Paddy over to give poor Dick a couple of pointers.” I moved toward the door.

  “Bring that canister back when ye’re through with it,” said Nefer.

  Twenty-Four

  The weeks spent themselves quickly; and soon it was the afternoon of winter solstice, and in trepidation I climbed the maple through Natalya’s window.

  Natty, dressed in green silk, kept her excitement hidden until Andrei left the room.

  “Find her something with long sleeves,” he said on his way out. “And don’t kill each other.”

  Natty slammed the door, flipped the latch and grinned at me. It made my hair stand on end.

  “The soap might send you into shock,” she said, “but don’t worry––the bath water’s cold.”

  Natty walked over to her bed and held up a dress. “I wore this when I was twelve. I think it will do.”

  There was a girdle, silver, fashioned like an ivy wreath, and a blue velvet smock that hung over the creamy silk; and as soon as I saw it I wanted to stab it in the heart. But I wasn’t allowed to touch it until I had taken a bath.

  “And don’t shed your trousers and tunic.” She pushed me towards a tub full of her used bathwater. “We might as well wash everything.”

  When she was through my skin felt as though it’d been scoured with a currycomb. I was surprised my hair hadn’t fallen out. I believe Natty would’ve preferred it had, judging by the way she sighed over it’s length, which wasn’t so bad—I’d not cut it in a while.

  She rolled the hair toward the nape of my neck and secured it there with all her pins. Then she batted my hands away and dressed me. The fine, clean fabric felt stiff and strange against my skin.

  She finished it with a silver headband and couldn’t hide her pleasure. “Lucky for us that Gireldine girls hide beneath rags and buckets, my mother always said.”

  She turned me out into the hall. The bench at the end was occupied by Andrei and Max, and though Andrei was asleep (a fit that often possessed him during bouts of boredom), Max watched as Natty and I approached.

  “Who’re you?” said Max to me. Then he slammed the bench against the wall and woke Andrei. “She looks like a girl.”

  “Max,” said Andrei, “one of these days I’ll pee my trousers.” He recognized me and the red spread up his neck all the way to his ears. I’d never seen him blush before.

  “You’d smell better,” said Max.

  Andrei stood up. “You’ve redeemed yourself, Natty.”

  “So you’ll be nice to me?” said Natty.

  “You’ve a little more to redeem yet.”

  And we found a cloak for me, sought out Trid, and to Natty’s dismay left on horseback for the ferry across the estuary; and Natty hissed about my straddled legs and terrible poise until I turned in my saddle and rode backwards.

  ***

  Daifen’s house hugged a sea bluff with its old stone arms, and the place would have seemed wild and lonely but for the number of people that showed up that night, all of them dressed in the same high fashion with cloaks drawn tight against the chapping wind.

  A groom took our horses, and we stole inside with me hidden in the middle. Floy flew in before us, looking like a stray leaf.

  The entrance hall was fragrant with winter greenery and potted orange trees. Max (who’d grown taller that autumn) reached and picked a few oranges. “They’ll probably read poetry for a couple of hours while we slowly starve,” he said, handing some to Andrei, who put them in his jerkin pockets next to my canister of acid.

  A number of people were already in the big hall, talking and laughing. The tables, colorful with food and drink, had been pushed aside to make room for dancing and entertainment.

  Trid sat on a bench in a corner as far from the center of the room as possible. I made to sit beside him, but Andrei laughed and pulled him up. “We’ve got to sit closer to Daifen, Triddy. Don’t fret––I’ll protect you.”

  I looked about the room. My heart slowed considerably when I failed to see the Queen. Andrei nudged me and pointed at Daifen. A woman stood at his ri
ght, old as he was––probably his sister, as he’d taken no wife. The other Gralde were easy to spot, dressed brightly, acting raffishly, talking loudly in their own tongue. I kept my eyes averted when we passed them.

  Andrei chose a couch near the food, close enough so that he could hear what Daifen was saying, and I sat in his shadow. Trid, head down, dropped onto a bench directly opposite us.

  Max sat beside Trid. “And now,” he said, almost drooling, “to start a fight.”

  “A fight?” said Trid. “That’s the plan?”

  “Don’t sound so cynical. Andy’s here.”

  “Not yet,” said Andrei, looking round. “We need a reason––Ah.” Luka had just come in, arm in arm with his mother.

  Mulled drinks were offered in liberation, loosening tongues. Music commenced. I had a cider I thought was just cider, but soon my words crammed together and I catcalled with the boys when Natty was called to play a little harp that had been arranged on a stool. She sat on the stool and refused to play for lack of a singer. A Gralde girl was cajoled out of serving drink and shoved, giggling, to the spot beside Natty.

  “The Bean, the Bean,” cried another Gralde. “Ocling’s Bean.”

  “That piece of nonsense?” Natty said.

  “It’s all Jennet knows.”

  The Gralde girl blushed, and more folk took up the call; so Natty plucked grumpily at her harp and the girl sang along in her kitten’s voice:

  “O half sunk in sea stood a doorstep of yew

  That had once borne the stamping of old Ocling’s shoe;

  A squall had provided the rest of his house

  With a taste of the sky, then a sea-salty douse,

  And Ocling was left with a bean to his name,

  And a thirst that could put a fried flounder to shame,

  So he walked the north shore with a rattling groan

  Till he’d come to a well in a grotto of stone.

  But ’twas high in a sea bluff secured by a sprite

  And the grotto was guarded by day and by night,

  And this saebel with teeth all of sea-foam and salt

  Bid Ocling good day, and then ‘Drink not thou shalt.

  ‘For the water is mine after many a brave

  Hath attempted to take this, my rightful enclave.’

  Though stern spoke the saebel, old Ocling’s retort

  Held that lack of a drink equaled pleasures cut short

  By the curse of the mortal, by death’s dark estate,

  And the Elde found fit to steer clear of this fate.

  So he jumped on the saebel––and throttled a mist,

  For the neck of the sprite is like water in fist.

  Then the sprite drew a cutlass––the famed Eel’s Claw,

  And he thrust the misnomer at old Ocling’s jaw,

  But Ocling was skilled at the Lobster’s Gavotte

  And deflected the blow with that curious knot

  That one makes when the pelvis is placed in the mouth,

  When toe plugs the west ear, and knee plugs the south.

  But Death’s dire scythe would have still reached its mark

  Had not old Ocling’s secreted bean stopped the arc

  Of the cutlass thrust toward that intrepid face.

  Then the bean and the sword locked in rigid embrace,

  Were flung in the air, and thrown down to the source

  Of the water and bigotry, greed and remorse.

  The saebel was fond of his sword to a fault,

  And the worst of the battling drew to a halt

  When the saebel leapt after his cutlass of bone,

  Grabbed Ocling’s ear, and dropped like a stone.

  For three frightful days down the shaft of the well,

  Past limestone and granite and iron they fell

  Until sea-salty sprite upon cutlass was flung

  And Ocling’s suspenders from tendril were hung;

  Tendril that curled from a branch of a stalk

  That had grown from the bean in a watery shock,

  When the bean had encountered a crystalline lake

  Filled with water disdainful of ordin’ry make.

  For a full thousand years Ocling worked for his means

  In the deep of the well, cultivating his beans,

  And growing more youthful with each sip he downed

  Of that water unknown to the rest of the round.

  And when young Ocling found that he’d grown enough twine

  For twisting together and lashing a line

  That could climb to the rim of the sweetwater well,

  He began right away with escaping his cell.

  He worked his way up with his rope and the claw

  That was ripped from the sword that had threatened his maw,

  Till at last he climbed over and slid down the scree,

  And found himself amidst the grand jubilee

  That the locals threw yearly to honor the man

  Who had freed from the clutches of saebeline hand

  Their marvelous well full of radiant dew,

  Though the stuff was redolent of beans to a few.”

  Natty ended with a miserable glissando. Before the notes had whispered away Max was up and slicing for himself a slab of partridge.

  Luka had, at Max’s offhand request, joined us on the couch with a platter of food. “That was utterly ridiculous,” he said, tugging the honey cruet away from Max.

  “Excuse me?” Natty sat down next to Trid.

  “He wasn’t talking about just you,” said Andrei. “Of course he’d find it ridiculous. Hasn’t yet mastered an Eldine language.”

  “And Andrei”––Luka slathered honey over his ham––“hasn’t yet mastered basic etiquette, what with his inviting that scrawny rat to a court function.”

  “So,” said Natty, her eyes dangerously bright, “I haven’t the wits to make your scrawny rat look good enough for a drunken, loutish––”

  “He wasn’t disparaging your wits,” said Andrei. “He’s trying desperately to hide his attraction.”

  “And what is it you’re hiding, Andrei?” said Luka. “Something a bit more severe than attraction. Can’t be healthy. I’m not half as important as you and I’m growing unwell just looking at her.”

  Andrei jammed his elbows into the upholstery. I poked him in the side.

  “Hit a soft spot, haven’t I?” said Luka. “Look at him, Max. Unhappy as a lion in a monsoon.”

  “Shut your gob,” said Max, still chewing.

  “Why? I’m a strict believer in openness and honesty.”

  “How’s this?” said Andrei. “One more word and I’ll boil your head in its own spit.”

  “No, none from me. I’m trying to keep from retching, anyway.” He set his plate on the floor.

  Trid, who had been hunched silently over his drink, stood up. He walked to the sideboard, grabbed the red rump of a hind, and swung it into Luka’s chest.

  Luka keeled over and took the couch with him.

  There was a rush of wind, and Andrei, Luka, and I fell in a jumble on the floor. “Here’s our chance,” said Andrei. He grabbed a turkey leg from Natty’s plate, and clobbered Luka around the ears.

  “That’s my brother!” said Max, and he threw gobs of mashed turnip at Andrei. He miscalculated some and smothered Natty’s hair.

  This was unforgivable. She pelted him with things from her plate, harder than I would’ve thought her capable.

  “What’s this? What’s this?” said a fat old man with no hair, and he got up from his chair. “This is no way to––” Max slammed a tart into his face before I could make out if he was human or Elde.

  Max threw the next tart at Andrei and I, and using the couch as a barricade we lobbed handfuls of pudding and flan towards the Garvad boys. Daifen got caught in the barrage.

  Max cackled maniacally when a woman (probably his mother) called his name, and he took plates of fruit, and candied orchids, and sugar lace, and toffee-brittle, and apple custard from the
table and hurled it around without reserve. Trid, shaking his head, attempted to walk toward the exit while ladies pushed, prodded, and shrieked around him. It looked almost like a riverside riot.

  Shaking nuts out of my skirts, I nervously eyed the crowd.

  Their silks and velvets were dripping and patched, and they had very ugly looks on their faces. One of them had Max by the ear.

  Floy chose that moment to fly down from the rafters. “It’s time to leave,” I said, and heaved Andrei up by the collar. “You saw Daifen, didn’t you? Having a bad time. Wiping his doublet and screaming at you.” We left, slipping on gravy, onions, scallops, and finally, through a side door.

  Floy led us down a spiral stair. We stopped next to a laundry, and hid behind a hamper of sheets while grinning servants ran up and down the stairs. Daifen must have been stuck apologizing for some time, because a good hour passed, and several steaming tubs of water, before two boys emerged from the laundry with the right tub.

  They were grey-eyed Gralde, eleven or twelve, dressed in Daifen’s russet livery with hoods drawn up against the drafts. “That one’s for him,” said Floy. The tub was wood, very big, with wheels rolling beneath it.

  The boys stopped when they saw Andrei and me. They smiled. “M’lady,” said the smaller one. “You look like you could use a damp towel.”

  “For Daifen, is this?” said Andrei. I ran a sleeve over my turnipy face.

  “Aye,” said the smaller.

  “He said the lady might use it instead.”

  “We weren’t told of this,” said the taller of the boys.

  “Oh, but he did say so, he felt so badly about it.” Andrei glanced at me. “She had a terrible meal. Got her face stuck in a whiskey jug, and started dancing on the table soon as she was drunk enough. People started throwing food––”

  The boys giggled. “I don’t think that’s what happened, sir.”