by Clayton, Jo;
Aleytys lifted her head, the turmoil within her worn to a dull, aching misery. She looked around, took in Gwynnor’s worried face, took in the jade-green sweep of the water, the high red sandstone cliffs, the pale sky interrupted by thready clouds. Sighing, she slid around so she was lying curled up on the floorboards. In minutes she sank into a heavy sleep.
When she woke the sun hung low in the sky, turning Gwynnor’s head and shoulders into a black bust against the glowing crimson. She levered her stiff body up, moving with exaggerated care.
Feeling the boat move, Gwynnor nodded briefly to acknowledge her return to consciousness, then went back to scanning both sides of the river.
“Gwynnor?”
“What is it?” he said impatiently.
“You think you could move the waterskin where I can reach it?”
He lifted the skin by its shoulder strap, swung it back then forward, releasing it at the end of the forward swing so that it plopped to the floorboards in front of her feet.
“Thanks.” She took a mouthful of the warmish water, sloshed it around, then let it trickle down her dry throat. Then she drank again, taking a few small sips until the sick, cottony feel was gone from her mouth. She replaced the stopper and settled the skin by her feet.
She looked around. The red cliffs were gone and the river had spread until it was twice the width she remembered. On either side, trees stood in water that crept on and on under their spreading branches. She could see no end to it. The trees had a ragged, pallid look as if dipping their feet continually in the black water had leeched some of the life from them. Even the air flowing past the boat had a stale decayed smell. More and more patches of reeds grew up around dead trees that were bone-white skeletons reaching up from the thickening reedy fringe.
Gwynnor was frowning anxiously as he continued to swing his head from side to side, examining the dead trees with particular care.
“Is there something dangerous in that mess?”
“Not to us out here.”
“Why work for a sore neck?”
“Night. Moonless night. I don’t plan to sink us on hidden snags or wander off the main channel. There’s supposed to be a lay-by somewhere around here.”
“Spend the night in that?” Aleytys shuddered.
He shook his head, a sharp impatient jerk. “No. Of course not. Siglen-du has a bad name. The lay-by’s a platform in one of those dead trees. We’ll stay there for the night.”
She wrinkled her nose at the still, black water under the trees. “What lives in there?”
“According to trader tales, nothing we’d like to meet.”
“Have you ever come this way before?”
“No.”
“Oh, great!”
“Don’t worry. I’ve listened to trader’s talk about the river and the Siglen-du. Besides, I asked Tipylexne.” He frowned. “As long as we keep to the main channel, we’ll be fine. But, dammit, if we miss the lay-by we’ll be in the delta in thick dark.”
“I haven’t the slightest idea what you’re talking about.” She looked over her shoulder at the wide ribbon of river unreeling from the line of the horizon. She jerked a thumb at the muddy greenish-brown liquid sliding past the boat. “That doesn’t even look like water.”
Curiosity widened his cat eyes.
“Trees, I know. Rocks. Grasslands and even deserts. But I’ve never seen an ocean. Except from up there.” She flipped a hand at the sky. “What’s a delta?”
“Where … huh! there it is.” He dug the paddle into the water and began angling the boat inshore.
“Can I help?”
Grunting with effort, he fought the current. “Just sit still,” he managed, spitting out each word at the end of a stroke.
The current let go reluctantly but he gradually edged the boat to the right. As soon as he was out of the main channel, the water slowed and he was able to angle more sharply toward the dead giant, thrusting bone-white limbs far out of the thicket of reeds. Then they were in the reeds, poling the boat through the bundled pithy stalks, stirring up foul-smelling mud. Something lay dead not far away. Dead and rotting, the sweet putrefaction hanging in the air like some over-ripe perfume. The stench became unbearable.
Aleytys held her hand over her nose and breathed as shallowly as possible, unwilling to protest because to speak she would have to open her mouth and she deeply didn’t want to do that. For the first time since she woke she was glad to have nothing in her stomach.
As Gwynnor shoved the boat through the reeds he stirred up another nuisance, clouds of insects that added a whole new dimension to their discomfort. Landing on every square inch of exposed skin, biting, crawling, the bugs swarmed over them.
Several birds went flapping wildly into the air, their harsh croaks protesting this intrusion into their home place. Aleytys caught fleeting glimpses of water serpents curving silently off into the noisome fluid, and other things she couldn’t name but instinctively recognized as something to avoid.
Eventually, Gwynnor brought the boat alongside the bleached white trunk of the dead giant. A laddervine, yellowing with age, climbed up to a large platform a good twenty meters above them.
Batting fretfully at the bugs, Aleytys frowned. “Do we have to stay here?”
“The air’ll be cleaner on the platform. Maybe even cooler. Get the packs while I tie up.”
“Yes, master.”
He looked up quickly, saw her grin, and went back to working the mooring rope through a hole bored in one of the knobby roots.
Aleytys pulled the packs from the nose of the boat and left them sitting on the floorboards by the mast. “I’m afraid to move.”
“Want to spend the night down here? With the snakes and the other things?” He grunted with satisfaction as he tested the knot with a quick jerk on the line. “Don’t forget the waterskin.”
He took two steps and stopped at the mast. “On your feet, Aleytys.” He picked up his pack and slid his arms through the loops. As he adjusted the tump strap on his forehead, he went on, “A matter of keeping the ship trimmed. Sudden moves are stupid. Getting out, catch hold of the vine and let it take a lot of your weight before you move. Understand?”
“Easier said,” She stood up, cautiously, freezing as the boat rocked under her, starting to breathe again when the swaying damped out. A little more calmly, she slid her feet along the floorboards until she was beside him, her hand just below his on the mast. “What now?”
“Hand me the waterskin. Don’t pick up your pack till I’m out of the boat.”
“Right.” As she moved her pack into position with her foot, he slipped his arm through the shoulder strap of the waterskin. “At least I’ve acquired a good, empirical notion of what tender means when applied to boats.”
“Nothing like experience.” He leaned out and caught hold of the laddervine. “Give me your pack as soon as I’m a little way up. You’ll have an easier time without it overbalancing you.”
“Thanks.” She closed her eyes as the boat rocked wildly when he swung onto the vine. She heard little scrabbling sounds as he began climbing.
“Aleytys!”
She pried her eyes open. He was half a meter up the trunk, leaning out, reaching for the pack. Swallowing hastily, one hand locked around the mast, she scooped the pack up and managed to extend it far enough for him to catch hold of the strap.
Agilely as a treecat he swarmed up the vine, disappearing in seconds over the edge of the platform. Almost immediately he came down and stretched out a hand. “Take it slow. Don’t try jumping or you’ll end up to your waist in the muck.”
Aleytys shuddered. Moving with exaggerated care, she pried loose her fingers from the mast and leaned over to catch hold of his hand. She got out of the boat and onto the laddervine with an ease that surprised her. “Hey, you think I’m getting used to this?”
“Come on. The air’s a lot better up there.”
The platform was about ten meters square, with a bark hut sitting modestly
in the center. The packs and the waterskin were piled in a heap beside the reed mat that shielded the doorway. Aleytys took a deep breath for the first time in the last several minutes. A relatively cool, clean breeze swept across the platform, stirring the debris that lay haphazardly all over the sunbleached reed matting. Pieces of bone. Tattered leaves. Bird droppings. Other fragments too small to be identified. She kicked fretfully at the mess, then stretched and sighed.
Gwynnor came backing out of the hut, a battered twig broom in one hand. Brushing the dust and cobwebs off his short fur, he pointed at the platform, then the hut. “You want to clean that or that?”
“I was never that great with heights.” She looked at the hut, then up at the sky where dark clouds were beginning to gather. “How watertight do you think the hut is?”
“It’s old. About time for the traders to build a new one.”
“In other words, we better look forward to a damp night.”
The sun was still up when they finished clearing the lay-by. As Gwynnor relieved himself over the edge of the platform, his urine arching wide, Aleytys rummaged in his pack and pulled out the firebowl and its grill. He came back as she was piling small twigs in the hollow and making sure the rounded bottom didn’t make contact with the highly combustible reeds.
“Feel better?”
He grinned. “It gives a man a proud feeling.”
“Lord of all you survey.” She scraped a match over the metal and set the fire burning. “After you wash, maybe you can dig out the waybread and the smoked meat.” Gradually, she fed more and more of the twigs until she had a little crackling blaze. Then she fitted the grill in place over the bowl and set the waterpot on it.
Gwynnor came quietly up behind her. He reached over her shoulder with the bread and meat.
“Thanks.” She took the food then looked up at the lowering sky. “How long before it rains?”
He knelt beside her, the flames setting, sliding crimson gleams in his short silvery fur and the abundant grey curls clustering over his head. “It comes when it comes.”
“You’re a big help.”
“What difference does it make?” He tore a mouthful from the loaf and began chewing at the dense, tough, flavor-filled bread.
Aleytys yawned, feeling comfortably tired even after her long sleep. “You’re right. Why worry about what I can’t change.”
As the small fire played warmth over their faces, they chewed placidly in a companionable silence until they finished the bread and meat. The water boiled and Aleytys tipped in the cha leaves, swirled them around vigorously, then poured the steaming liquid into the two mugs.
Sipping at the cha, they moved to the western edge of the platform and sat crosslegged, watching the sun dip slowly behind the treetops. The sunset was spectacular, the dark rain clouds flushing gold, then crimson, then purple, then slowly darkening as the last tip of the rusty sun vanished.
“Aleytys.”
“Mmmh?”
“This morning. What was wrong?”
She swirled the dregs of the cha, watching the leaf fragments circle the bottom of the cup. “A mourning time,” she said slowly. “The cludair were so relieved when I left. I couldn’t help remembering that I had no home. No place where I really belong. I liked them, you know.”
“I know.”
“I thought they liked me.”
He touched her arm. “They did, Aleytys. Tipylexne, Qilasc, all of them, they felt you were a friend.”
“Still … they were happy when we left. That hurt.” She fell silent again, eyes fixed blindly on the mug, now held still between her palms.
When she spoke again, her words came slowly, the syllables dragging under the heavy weight of her desolation. “I haven’t cried like that for two years. I cried a little in nightmares but was dry-eyed in the day. I think I was mourning for my lost innocence, for the friends of my childhood I’ll never see again, for the three men I have loved and used to their destruction.” She set the mug beside her and began rubbing her palms up and down over her thighs. “Vajd … father of my baby, my first lover, my teacher and my conscience. Any goodness I have in me I owe to him. He had his eyes torn from his head because of me. I went from him to Miks Stavver, my starthief. A loner and a clever man. I used him. I forced him on pain of insanity to go searching for my stolen baby. He didn’t want to do that. I wonder where he is now, if he found my Sharl, my baby. From him I went to my gentle nayid Burash. He … I … I saw him burned to ash half a meter from me when he ran to warn me of danger. My god, he ran out and the guard burned him. Two steps from me. Two damn steps.” She looked down at Gwynnor’s hand resting on her arm. “You see what happens to men who try to help me.” Shaking off his touch, she rubbed her hands across her face. “Well, that’s it. All the terrors and needs and wretchednesses that add up to my being in this place at this time. And it all landed on me this morning.”
He nodded. “I know a little about losing friends. And lovers.”
“Your teacher.”
“Yes.” He held her hand between his, his higher body temperature making a pool of comforting warmth around her fingers. “You’re going on?”
“What else can I do? I have to find my baby.”
“How long are you going to be in the city?”
“Depends on how soon I can get on a ship. A day. A week. A month.” She shrugged. “It’s hard to make plans without data. What about you?”
“I have to make peace with my family, see what’s happening around home. Do a little thinking.” A few large drops struck against his back. “Rain’s here.”
She laughed unsteadily. “It announces itself.”
Together they drowned the last embers of the fire, and pushed everything else into the hut, leaving only the water pot and the mugs out to catch as much water as they could.
Book II:
THE CITY
Chapter I
Gwynnor swung the tiller, aiming the boat across the current toward the blunt wharf. As the boat slid neatly beside the landing, Aleytys stepped out and snubbed the bow rope about the mooring post. Gwynnor watched her straighten and toss her head back, letting the brisk sea breeze blow through her bright hair. He smiled at the unconscious ease with which she coped with the problems of moving in a touchy boat. Two weeks sailing had done that for her. He bent forward and swung her pack onto the heavy planking.
“End of the line.” Her voice was hoarse. She looked at him sadly.
“You remember what I told you?” He felt a sudden reluctance to let her go.
She nodded. “Up the stairs.” Turning away, she swung a hand toward the wooden stairway crawling up the cliffside in repeated uneven zigzags. “Then past the market and past cerddtown. To the monorail. The road splits there, going one way to the port and the other to Star Street. And the rest of the city is dangerous for me. I should keep away from it.”
He looked down, his fingers playing with the tiller bar and plucking at the rope. Then he lifted his head. “Cast off the rope, Aleytys.” As the boat swung away from the wharf, he called, “Good faring.”
Letting the boat drift slowly toward midchannel, he watched her climbing up the cliff, moving from landing to landing, looking back continually, her body getting smaller and smaller until the last detail he could make out was the shining red-gold of her hair. She halted momentarily as she reached the top, waved a last time, then disappeared.
Gwynnor rubbed his hands over his face, then got briskly to work, letting the boom swing out to take maximum advantage of the brisk following wind.
It was very early, the sun a fingernail clipping on the horizon behind him. The morning sea breeze was fresh and steady, coming in off the ocean, blowing west where he wanted to go. He wound the sheets around a cleat and settled at the tiller, keeping watch for snags and sandbars though the Company kept this part of the river dredged free. They liked their vegetables and meat fresh and plentiful.
He chuckled. Less than a month before he’d have found only evil
in this dredging. A destruction of things as they always had been. He felt immensely older, even wiser, though that made him smile a little at himself. But he had changed and he felt the change was an improvement.
The morning passed pleasantly and quickly. A little before noon he reached the landing of Derwyn grawh, his home village. He tied up in the shadow of a pair of ancient wrinkled oaks, two of the many that gave the village its name. After making sure the boat was neatly tucked away close to the bank, he slung the pack over his shoulder and strolled slowly along the pale tan sand of the rutted roadway.
The road curved out around the planting of cyforedd trees set in a gentle arc between river and village to protect the people from the caprices of wandering water demons. The dry, tart smell of their fluttering clusters of long, thin, green-grey needles, their papery many-pieced bark, brought intense and painful memories tumbling back.
He stopped by the tree nearest the road and touched the trunk for luck. His back turned to the village, he lingered there, stripping loose small fragments of brittle bark, sniffing with a painful pleasure at the sharp, biting scent of the needles. Too many hard words were said at the time he left, words difficult to unsay now.
But time was passing. He shrugged the pack a little higher on his shoulder, took a deep breath, then stepped back into the middle of the road.
He turned the first bend. Rhisiart’s house. Gwynnor frowned. The iorweg vine climbing over the rustic stone wall was torn and turning brown. In one place the wall itself was broken, the tumbled stones lying haphazardly about, some even sitting out in the road with a two-week film of green lichen spreading over them.
The gate was broken, with only the bottom hinge to hold the shattered, charred timbers in place. And there were weeds growing between the flags that led past the house to the smithy. Weeds? In Rhisiart’s yard? Modlen would never … Modlen? Feeling a chill congealing in his middle, he moved on, walking more quickly, almost running.
He glanced along the roadway before he turned into Blodeuyn’s lane, intending to see his father before he went on into the village for news. The village square was empty. Shaking his head, he jogged down the lane toward the family farm.