by Paula Volsky
Torvid Stornzof eyed the corpse in annoyance and flicked his cigarette aside. For a moment he cogitated, then concluded, “Body armor of some sort. Heavy swaddlings of fabric, perhaps. We will wrap one of these Lanthians in canvas or linen, dampen the layers, and send him to the bridge. If that proves unsuccessful, we will experiment with protective windings of rope or stout twine—”
“Your experiments are concluded for the moment,” Karsler noted expressionlessly. “Look around you.”
The senior Stornzof obeyed. The shadowy Cognitive net enclosing the Inspiration allowed a fairly clear view, and it was easy to see that the boat had come, by accident or design, to a small bay hollowed into the coastline of a steep island, one of the hundreds of such islands scattered across the broad blue reach of the Jeweled Expanse. A gap in the shadowy web had opened itself, patently inviting exit, and the crew seized upon the opportunity with enthusiasm. The anchor was lowered and the men sprinted for accessible lifeboats.
“Lanthian scum.” Torvid’s hand automatically sought the revolver. “We will stop them.”
“We would do better to join them,” Karsler told him. “Come, Grandlandsman, put that away, it is useless against Cognition. Understand that Inspiration fails for now, and there is nothing we can do. Console yourself with the thought that the delay is temporary.”
“The delay is unacceptable. I will steer the ship myself, if all others fear to do it.”
As if it comprehended the last words, the great Cognitive shadow sent a couple of midnight serpents sliding along the deck, straight for Torvid Stornzof. The grandlandsman watched them coming, and stood his ground. Stance and expression communicated nothing beyond cold contempt.
“Come, Grandlandsman,” Karsler repeated. “Into the boat. That is the best course, for now. I urge you, come.”
“Very well, if you are so alarmed.” Torvid suffered himself to be persuaded. “This time, I will humor you.”
Without further debate the Stornzof kinsmen went to the nearest boat, whose occupants admitted them reluctantly. The small vessel descended and made for the island shore.
Karsler turned to look back at the besieged ship. The Inspiration was lapped from stem to stern in Cognitive coils, all of which joined the huge knob of a head bulging at the summit of the tallest smokestack. As he watched, the head turned slowly, immense dead eyes aiming themselves at the trio of fleeing lifeboats. Perhaps the arcane perceptions extended beyond the confines of the ship, perhaps not. Either way, the shadow attempted no pursuit.
Minutes later the boats reached shore. Crew and passengers disembarked onto a narrow stony strand hugging the base of tall rock formations. For a while they loitered at the water’s edge, watching the shadow-smothered ship in anticipation of final disaster—an explosion, or perhaps quiet disintegration—but nothing happened, and finally the bizarre but static scene began to lose interest.
The beach was bare and inhospitable. The captain issued orders, splitting the group into several reconnaissance units, dispatched separately. The sailors departed. The Stornzof kinsmen stood alone beside the water.
“Do you not wish to investigate, Grandlandsman?” Karsler asked.
“No need.” Extracting a black cigarette from his platinum case, Torvid lit up. “We stand upon a rock. There is nothing to see. In any event, be assured we shall not mark time here for long. Go ahead and explore if you wish, Nephew. Amuse yourself as best you can.”
“I will, Grandlandsman.” Karsler inclined his head to the correct angle, and set off in the wake of the vanished sailors. Behind him lingered his faultlessly groomed uncle, an incongruously elegant figure upon that barren beach, cigarette in hand and contemplative eagle gaze trained upon the black-shrouded Inspiration.
Karsler turned his back and took his leave with a subtle but distinct sense of relief. He had not anticipated his own pleasure in solitude, nor had he fully recognized, until that moment, the oppressiveness of his uncle’s polished iron presence. Now, for the first time in days, he could draw an unencumbered breath. He did so, pulling the clean sea air down to the bottom of his lungs, and his spirits lifted despite the misfortune that had brought him to this stark little island.
Or perhaps because of it.
He reached the level summit of a tall escarpment, where he paused to survey his surroundings. The grandlandsman had been right, there was little to see. The island—probably nameless—was small and all but devoid of vegetation. Nothing but a naked stone protrusion pushing up out of the sea, home to a colony of slovenly seabirds nesting raucously atop the rocks. No food, no fresh water. Not much space, no cover. From his present vantage point he could easily spot the separate squads of crewmen toiling antlike over the rocks, and his uncle’s mannequin figure, solitary upon the strand. A bleak little sun-drenched prison, comfortless, probably frightening to the sailors confronting residency of indefinite term.
But Karsler Stornzof realized that he liked the place. A moment’s reflection suggested the reason. This anonymous little crag overlooking the sea reminded him of another place, another life. There the surrounding waters and the sky were eternally grey, and here both were brilliantly blue. There the sun rarely showed its face, and here it shone unremittingly. And yet the stark pure contours of this isle recalled the granite grandeur of the Promontory, and both shared a quality of extreme isolation, a separation from the world and its frenetic concerns.
He felt at home in this unyielding place. He understood it, and vice versa, but he could not stay for long. The race called, and beyond the race, the wars that never ended. He had once regarded his withdrawal from the Promontory as very temporary, but the battles raged on, he was needed, and return waxed increasingly problematic. Of late he had begun to suspect that he would never again know the solitary tranquillity of that youthful, far-off haven. But today he caught an echo of it.
He did not know how long he sat there on the sun-washed ledge, mind lost in the past, eyes blind to the blue infinity of sea and sky. He did not sleep, yet awareness distanced itself, and when at last his sense of duty called him back, the light and colors had changed, the shadows had stretched, and the tired sun was hovering a hair above the horizon. His newly wakeful eyes shot to the Inspiration lying at anchor in the bay below. Tentacles of shadow clutched the ship. A well of blackness bulged above the smokestack. Vast lifeless eyes met and absorbed his gaze, returning nothing.
Hours had passed, yet the Inspiration remained magically immobilized, a voiceless testimony to the prowess of some unknown patriot savant. Down below, the stony beach was clotted with human figures. The Lanthian sailors, returned from their unrewarding explorations, had regrouped beside the water. Now they were sitting around in small clusters, playing at cards, playing at dice, or just staring out over the Jeweled Expanse. One ramrod figure held itself conspicuously aloof. Even at a distance it was not difficult to pick out the Grandlandsman Torvid.
Time to return. Unwillingly Karsler Stornzof abandoned his perch, making his way down from the heights to rejoin his uncle on the beach. The sun was setting and the long red rays glanced strangely off the density of the Cognitive shadow looming above the Inspiration. The breeze coming in off the sea sharpened, and would grow colder as dusk gave way to night, but there was little relief to be found. The island offered no fuel for fire, not so much as a handful of dry seaweed.
The three lifeboats contained lockers of foodstuffs and canisters of water, enough to sustain comfortless life for several days. No candles, lanterns, or blankets. The captain distributed provisions sparingly and equitably. Karsler Stornzof, along with everyone else, received a few swallows of stale water from a communal cup, a portion of hardtack, and a leathery strip of cured beef. The meat he offered to his nearest neighbor, a surprised sailor, and the hardtack he consumed without tasting.
The last traces of color fled the sky, the twilight deepened, the stars came out, and the moon displayed a half-averted face. Somebody’s pocket yielded a stump of candle, whose light permitted con
tinuation of the cards and dicing for a little while longer. Nobody’s heart was in the game. Spirits and voices were equally low. Presently the candle guttered and expired. Conversation did likewise, and the sailors glumly composed themselves for damp and sandy slumber.
Karsler walked alone along the beach until he came to a relatively dry and rockless patch of sand mounding at the foot of a boulder, and there he reclined. For a time he lay wakeful, watching the moonlight tease the waters of the bay. The air was chill and his stomach all but empty, but he did not mind in the least, for the silence and serenity of the spot more than compensated for minor discomforts. His mind swarmed with memories, not one of them stained with the crimson of warfare. He would gladly have rested thus for hours, but his lids drooped, the moon extinguished itself, and his memories gave way to dreams.
HE WOKE AT DAWN to a sky aglow with immoderate color. For a couple of moments he lay watching the roseate clouds, then reality reclaimed him and he sat up, his glance arrowing out over the bay in search of the Inspiration.
The ship rode unremarkably at anchor. No sign of sorcerous shadow remained. Sometime during the night, while crew and passengers slept, the Cognition of the anonymous Lanthian savant had exhausted itself. The danger was over, the impediment gone, the way east clear again.
Karsler supposed he should have been pleased. He rose without enthusiasm and rejoined his companions, who sat grouped in a semicircle, consuming their small rations of hardtack and water.
Torvid Stornzof did not choose to seat himself among inferiors. He stood apart, inflexible posture uncorroded by the salt air, garments impossibly unrumpled, monocle firmly in place. By no sign was it evident that he had spent the night prone upon a rock-strewn beach.
But perhaps he had not slept at all, perhaps he had remained wakeful and indomitably upright throughout the hours of darkness. Perhaps he had smoked cigarette after cigarette, and walked, and plotted strategy all night long. That, Karsler reflected, would be typical of the grandlandsman, who was even now making his will known to the Lanthian sailors.
“The Cognitive inconvenience has vacated the ship. We will return now to the Inspiration,” Torvid informed his listeners, in Vonahrish. An emphatic gesture clarified matters for the linguistically limited. “Man the boats.”
They could scarcely have failed to understand him, nor could they have doubted the authority of a Grewzian noble. Yet they neither spoke nor moved, but sat still, staring.
“Man the boats,” Torvid repeated slowly and clearly, as if he imagined his audience hard of hearing or deficient in intellect.
Still no response. The vertical crease between the grandlandsman’s black brows deepened, and he inquired, “Are you people stupid, or cowardly, or both?”
“Neither, sir.” The ship’s captain spoke respectfully to a Grewzian as prudence dictated, but could not suppress every trace of anger. “The men are concerned, and I share their reservations.”
“Reservations? The crew, these common seamen, harbor—reservations?”
“They do, and rightly so,” the captain returned stonily. “The Cognitive shadow seems to have vanished, but who’s to say that it doesn’t lurk yet belowdecks? These savant-sendings do not last forever. Another few hours, and we can be certain that it’s gone.”
“I do not grant you hours, Captain,” Torvid replied. “Our schedule admits of no such delay. One concession to your faint Lanthian heart I will allow, however. You—” He picked a sailor at random. “Take one of the boats, row out to the Inspiration, inspect her well, and when you have assured yourself of her safety, signal us to come aboard. You understand me?”
The question was relevant, for the Lanthian seaman displayed no sign of comprehension. He sat there blank faced, and Torvid waxed impatient. Turning to the captain, he commanded, “Instruct this animal.”
The captain spoke in Lanthian, and the sailor answered in the same language. A skyward glance, together with a decided shake of the head, accompanied his reply.
“Seaman Second Class Wisfa declines,” the captain reported.
“Insist,” Torvid advised.
“Seaman Second Class Wisfa expresses the desire to wait until noon before approaching Inspiration.”
“Inform Seaman Second Class Wisfa that his request is denied.” Torvid drew his revolver and, for the second time within twenty-four hours, leveled it at a Lanthian stomach.
Seaman Second Class Wisfa stiffened and his eyes bulged, but he did not stir.
“Go,” Torvid commanded. His victim remained motionless, and he fired.
The Lanthian sailor grunted and doubled in agony. A second shot took him between the eyes, flinging him backward onto the stones, where he twitched and died. A sharp collective intake of breath greeted the homicide. A couple of shocked imprecations made themselves heard. One of the sailors surged to his feet, found himself facing the dead-steady barrel of Torvid Stornzof’s revolver, and subsided.
“Grandlandsman.” Karsler scrupulously masked all visible manifestations of his disgust. “I respectfully submit that this measure of severity is unnecessary, and even—”
“Opinion noted,” Torvid cut him off. “We will debate the issue another day, if the topic entertains you.” Addressing himself again to the captain, he commanded, “Order your men into the boats.”
“I will issue that order at noon,” the Lanthian returned.
“Perhaps you fail to understand me.” Torvid leveled his revolver at the other’s heart.
The captain folded his arms. Meeting the grandlandsman’s eyes, he permitted himself a slight, contemptuous smile.
A protest strove to escape Karsler’s lips, but he managed to hold it in. Opposition would only goad his uncle. Moreover, by every ancient law of Grewzian tradition he owed the head of the House his deference, obedience, and loyalty. Beyond that stood the clear necessity of presenting a united Stornzof front to foreigners and foes. His jaw tightened and he said nothing.
“You Lanthian sailors.” Torvid’s strong voice was easily audible above the rush of the surf and the cries of the seabirds. “Into the boats. We return now to the Inspiration. Disobey, and I will execute your captain.” His eyes flicked the hostage as if daring contradiction, but the captain was silent.
A muttering uneasiness ruffled the Lanthian crew. Evidently their commander was a popular man.
Only one Lanthian ventured to request, “Permission to bury Wisfa.”
“Denied,” Torvid replied.
Again, Karsler managed with effort to hold his peace.
The muttering Lanthian resentment darkened, but the captain’s peril could not be denied. Following only a brief hesitation, the sailors manned and launched the three boats.
The voyage back to the Inspiration was short and silent. Once aboard, Torvid dispatched a couple of seamen to search below. Minutes later, the men returned to report the vessel clear of Cognitive visitants.
“Then weigh anchor,” Torvid commanded imperturbably. “Set course for Aeshno.”
The Inspiration steamed east.
Upon the grandlandsman’s insistence the Stornzof kinsmen appropriated the captain’s cabin to their own use. In the days and nights that followed, aware of the bitter resentment that surrounded them on all sides, they took to sleeping in shifts, with one or the other ever at watch beside the door. They took most of their meals in the cabin and rarely ventured out onto the deck, except in one another’s company. Such enforced proximity scarcely strengthened the familial bond, but may have exerted the desired effect upon the hostile crew, for there were no incidents.
The countless islands of the Jeweled Expanse streamed by.
Around noon of the sixth day, when the Aennorvi coastline appeared on the horizon, the Stornzof kinsmen were up on deck to see it.
“You are some twenty-four hours behind schedule.” Torvid’s tone smacked faintly of accusation.
“That is no disaster,” Karsler returned shortly.
“It is not, thanks to me. You are fortun
ate that I am here to protect your interests. This jaunt has taught me that you are not ruled by your head, Nephew. You are a soldier and a Stornzof, yet sometimes seem almost as silly as a woman. There is no limit to the inconveniences we should suffer, were I to indulge your childish tenderness of heart.”
8
OUT! NOW! PLEASEPLEASEPLEASE!
The silent appeals blazed through Nevenskoi’s mind. Masterfire’s urgency pressed hard.
Soon, the adept responded in silence.
Nownownow!
Patience, loveliness. Another few moments, and you will enjoy a new experience. We are leaving the workroom.
Workroom?
The place that you know. The space enclosed by the four walls of stone. We are about to sally forth.
There is more space?
Much more. There are corridors, stairways, many great chambers, and beyond them there is the world in all its vastness.
It is big? Big? Big?
Enormous.
There is food?
More than you could consume were you to stand so tall that your tongues lick the stars.
Food! Space! Big! I will eat the world, the whole wide world! I will eat the stars, for I am grand, I am fine, I am dandy, I am hot, I am MASTERFIRE! Let us go eat all of it!
“Eat,” Nevenskoi mused aloud. “All of it. Everything.”
EatEatEatEatEatEatEatEatEatEatEat—
Impractical. Recalling himself with an effort, the adept forced himself to reply, No, my beauty must curb his enthusiasm. Today we venture only so far as the king’s study.