Oh yes, she cares all right, thought Cædmon, gloomily. Another dreamer, though. Her and Lord Lycon … Which of their dreams are we out here to chase, or to disappoint? Finding his own morale suddenly as much in need of a boost as the men’s, he put aside this troubling reflection and turned his attention back to Gudric.
“And your mam: was she okay?” he asked, kindly if a tad awkwardly.
“What? Oh … yeah. Not happy, obviously … but I heard the Queen had her moved into a better cottage near Maelswyk, closer to my uncle, and found her some easy work sewing officers’ uniforms. Can’t complain. It’s more than any other bugger would have done for us. That’s why I volunteered to take this mission for her.” That declaration impressed everyone, even Colgrim, although he expressed that sense of admiration in his typically graceless way:
“You actually wanted to come on this fucking mystery voyage to the arse end of nowhere? I always said you was mental …”
“Maybe,” replied Gudric, sombrely. “Reckon I’d have been more mental to have stayed back there to serve those damn lords who never did nothing for me but treat me like scum … I’m sorry, sir. I didn’t mean you,” he added, almost perfunctorily, to Ensign Ashbyrn. Reliving the events of his conscription seemed to have drained him of all emotion, to the point that he no longer cared whether the ensign thought he was a potential mutineer or not. Fortunately, Ashbyrn seemed perfectly indifferent as well, as he responded with a wan smile:
“Don’t worry about it, Gudric. I can’t say they ever did much for me, or maybe I wouldn’t have needed to come along either … What say we break out the mead, Mister Cædmon?” he suggested, after a troubled pause. “Let’s have a toast. To Queen Gloriana, may her mask never know rust.”
“I’ll second that one,” said Eadwulf, approvingly, while Cædmon went to fetch the cask. Gudric was clearly less than amused at the ensign’s irony, but thankfully did not push his luck. That’s the idea, lad, thought Cædmon, as he poured measures of mead into tin cups. You’re no good to the lady swinging from a yardarm, and by the sound of things she can handle herself well enough anyway when she needs to. As he was filling the last of the cups, a call came from aloft, but the words were lost in the rush of the wind and water.
“What’s that, Rothgar?” Eadwulf shouted to the watchman. “Please tell us it’s mermaids.”
“You what? What part of ‘land ahoy’ are you having trouble understanding?” shouted Rothgar, much louder than before. The mood instantly became deadly serious again, and all of the crew who were unoccupied gathered in the bow to stare at the narrow, irregular band of darkness that now occupied the western horizon. Pushing through them with his spyglass in hand, Ensign Ashbyrn reached the very foremost tip of the vessel, where he put the glass to his eye and surveyed the distant, shadowy prospect.
“Well sir? Is it Drægland?” asked Cædmon, as he joined the mariners in the bow with the cups of mead on a wooden tray. They took them eagerly enough, although with little sense of lifted spirits.
“Like I should know … but I don’t see where else it could be,” answered Ashbyrn, his voice as unenthusiastic as the crew’s expressions. “Black cliffs, weird-looking forests north and south, not a soul to be seen … There’s a river or inlet about twenty degrees north. Probably as good a place as any to anchor this old crate. We can gather some branches and leaves to conceal it … just in case. Is that for me?” he asked, as he lowered his spyglass and saw the last cup of mead on the tray. Cædmon quickly passed it to him. “Good. I could use this. Gentlemen, a new toast. To Thalassa, may she protect our ship, and to Anākai, may she protect us,” at which he drained his cup. Most of the crew had already swigged theirs, but they joined in the toast nonetheless. Cædmon could only sympathise. For the past few days I wanted nothing so much as to get my feet back on land again, but now it’s there, I’d be half inclined to turn right back around. Even at this distance, Drægland looked ominous and uninviting. The fact that it appeared to be uninhabited was of strictly limited comfort, considering the wild rumours that supplied excellent reasons why it should be so. However, he knew that this was no time for him to be giving in to the lure of superstition and gruesome pub-talk.
“Two points to starboard, Colgrim,” he shouted astern. “Take us in nice and easy.”
“I heard,” the helmsman shouted back, gruffly. “You pouring me a cup of that mead, or do I look like a bloody acolyte to you?”
“You do until we’re anchored safety, Brother Colgrim. Thalassa forbid we get smashed to splintery meat on these cliffs before the ghosts and revenants even have a chance to eat our souls.”
“Whatever. Good job keeping our morale up, by the way.”
Shit … This isn’t going to be easy.
************
Amoxtli stood at the edge of the Endless Lake, as he had often done on his eastern travels. On previous occasions, it had inspired him with a sense of sublimity which he could never find in the great cities of his native plain, for all of their wealth and grandeur. Their palaces and temples just seemed to vaunt the pride and the power of civilised society, whilst this great, shimmering emptiness seemed to belittle all its achievements, and hint at far greater truths. Although not a religious man – he had seen little enough good come from the hands of priests and rather a lot of bad – he nevertheless found that an uplifting reflection. Not so much today, though.
Squinting at the approaching shadow, now just below the horizon, he began to make out its shape more clearly. It had a thin, sinuous body with a pointed front, and a large, fluttering object like a huge flag mounted centrally on a pole. Almost like some great, one-winged bird, he thought, though even at this distance he could see that the thing was clearly man-made. It stirred his memory in no very encouraging way, calling to mind the echoes of half-remembered myths that he had once been only too glad to forget, although he was now starting to wish that he had paid better attention to them. The only thing he knew for certain was that the thing boded ill, and that he very definitely did not want to be hanging around for a closer encounter when it finally gained the shoreline.
It looks like I’ll be needing some spiritual counsel after all, he mused, gathering up his pack, his obsidian sword, and his flatbow before heading back down the narrow forest path to Atlah, which proudly if inaccurately boasted the title of the Village at the Edge of the World, if only they knew … Amoxtli was well aware that he would not find the knowledge he sought there, but he would find rest and food for his return journey, and after that I know exactly who to take this little matter to.
CHAPTER FIVE – WELCOME TO ALVENHEIM
When travelling by steam diligence, one always expected delays, and one was almost never disappointed. Still, even running at its typical worst, the Centralys Express could travel the fifteen hundred-odd kilometres from the mild south coast of Lucinia to its wild and windy northern reaches in less than two days: an unthinkable achievement only a century ago, even if it seemed mundane now, and in spite of a myriad of small inconveniences Secretary Kasimir was still on schedule for his meeting, if no more enthusiastic for it.
My, haven’t we progressed? he thought, sullenly and nauseously, as he gazed out of the tiny, misted stagecoach window at the violently shaking mountain scenery. He suspected the shaking had less to do with the terrain itself and more to do with the coach’s suspension, or lack of. The Era of Enlightenment, believe it or not, though I’d certainly struggle to believe it if I lived out here.
Back on the railroad, it had seemed to him that every hour they spent travelling north took them back in time by another few years, as the roads they passed became rougher and narrower, the towns and villages smaller and less well-planned, and the stoppages more frequent. According to Delator Maradith, who was well-versed in her criminal lore, in these remote districts it was depressingly common for highwaymen to bribe the poorly-paid RRO signallers to stage delays, while they checked out the steam diligence in case it offered them a nice, easy target.
“Which this one won’t, of course,” she had added, reassuringly. “As soon as they hear there’s a delator on board, all we’ll see of them will be a trail of piss vanishing over the horizon … begging your pardon, Lord Citizen. There’s not much effective law enforcement up in these parts, though … and there’s lots of Alvere. I really wish it weren’t the case, sir, but those two facts just don’t gel nicely.”
Well, she’ll make a fantastic diplomatic attaché, Kasimir had thought, with the bitter sarcasm of the poor long-distance traveller, but he quickly put it aside. He had not brought her along for her ambassadorial skills, after all, and if her mere presence could save him from being slaughtered by bandits en route then it was a definite plus. Still, if we can avoid flaunting her and her lovely views in front of Queen Gloriana and her ministers, that might be just as well.
By the time they had reached Wynnadunn Terminus, running fourteen hours late, Kasimir had been rather more concerned with preserving his own diplomatic skills, although he was hopeful of retaining them as long as the Alvere Queen did not approach him wearing the insignia of the Republican Railroad Office. The old silver-mining town of Wynnadunn, deep in the foothills of the Ydril Mountains, was almost on the border with Alvenheim, and that fact showed: instead of the bright galvanic arc lamps that illuminated the streets of Lyssagrad, here only a few murky gaslights along the single, dusty main street fought a valiant but hopeless battle with the night. The amenities of the tavern they slept in – or, in Kasimir’s case, laid awake shivering in – were even more primitive: the guttering candles, the itchy straw-filled bedding, and the quaint but inaccurately-named warming pans making him regret not having ordered the steam diligence to stay in the station overnight so he could have bunked down in his private coach, or possibly right up against the boiler, he had thought, while wishing for a speedy end to the freezing night.
The end came soon enough, although in no way calculated to raise his spirits. Just before dawn, following a wretched five hours of non-sleep, the local guides who had been hired to escort them on the final stage of their journey had come knocking at their door, very insistently. Kasimir had been moderately impressed, since one could spend years in the south without ever meeting anyone who would willingly disturb a delator’s sleep, but apparently one could spend centuries in the north without meeting anyone who would provide escort through Alvenheim outside of daylight hours, so if they intended to travel it was either now or wait until tomorrow. The ancient stagecoach had been quickly loaded up with his and Maradith’s luggage; the driver and the four outriders had, rather ominously, primed and loaded their muskets; and before the sun even had a fair chance to complete its ascent of the mountainous horizon, where the Ydril range struck out into northern Lucinia, they began their shaky journey up the Anghnyn Pass.
Beautiful … picturesque … spectacular … can’t wait till it’s over. For all the time and effort Kasimir had devoted to helping Alvere Citizens, as soon as they crossed the border into Alvenheim he had the distinct if irrational sense that the land itself did not want him there, and he knew that he was by no means the first person to have felt that. Several times over the years when Alvenheim had been a vassal state of the crown, then a dominion of the Republic, lords and senators had suggested building projects out here: new communities, better roads, or a railroad extension. Little had come of them. The native Alvere were unskilled in heavy construction work, and Lucinian workers seemed disturbingly prone to accidents this far north. Entire labour gangs had been lost to mysterious landslides, sudden blizzards, varg packs, snow pards hunting way below their normal altitude, and bouts of violent hysteria. It had culminated in a memorably gruesome incident fifteen years ago, when the Reform Division sent a gang of convict labourers with delator overseers to install a telegraph line between Wynnadunn and Kadar Ydril. When the work was close to completion, all contact with the team was lost until a single, wild-eyed convict came staggering into Wynnadunn, covered in blood, babbling some bizarre confession about the rest of the team having turned into demons, whom he then had to kill. That had seemed a convincing enough reason to send him to the gallows, and even more so when Prince Rowan’s men, sent to finish the installation, discovered the brutally butchered remains of their predecessors. Since that time, no-one had suggested any further development of the Alvere territory.
Still, at least they did finish the line, thought Kasimir, gratefully. The thought of being cut off from civilisation completely was deeply unsettling. Aside from the narrow, uneven dirt road and the crude log poles with the copper wire strung between them, the only man-made structures he saw were occasional Alvere temples, constructed around some of the lower mountain peaks like bizarre pointed caps. Their terraced stages were made of natural wood and stone, supported by columns and buttresses that seemed to grow from the terrain itself and entwine around and within the complex buildings. They reminded Kasimir of the miniature tree sculptures favoured by the nobles of Seraquin, albeit on a colossal scale, and hinted at a distant time when Alvere artisans had understood the laws of nature to a far deeper degree than Lucinian alchemists. Though even now, I daresay we’d struggle to explain how they managed to build those things, thought Kasimir, as they passed a particularly epic example of the style, with at least thirty cloistered terraces looming above them on twining, root-like pillars as thick as gasometers. Just look at that, and tell me the Alvere are nothing but uncultured barbarians … He regretted not having thought to bring along his camera obscura and some copper plates, although he somehow doubted that their guides would be happy to stop for a picnic while he took heliographs. In any case, for all he knew there were taboos associated with taking images of Alvere holy sites, besides which he did not much fancy ending up in a varg’s digestive tract himself.
Spectacular although the scenery was – the temples, peaks, waterfalls, and even the occasion glimpse of a glacier – it could only do so much to alleviate the boredom and discomfort of fifteen hours in their shaking wooden cage. Kasimir attempted to while away some of the time by re-reading the reports and briefings he had been given, but he only succeeded in exacerbating his travel sickness. On Maradith’s well-meant advice he tried to eat something, which did at least kill a lot of time as it was a moderately heroic struggle for him to force down tiny bites of dry rations that would not have been appetising at the best of times. An ululating howl, much too near at hand, signalled the proximity of a varg, bringing a note of unwelcome excitement to the journey, but the outriders saw it off with a few shots, causing it to flee back into the wilderness with more of its shrill, haunting cries. At least it now sounded alarmed rather than ravenous, although that did not dissuade the driver from whipping the coach-horses to an even quicker pace. While Kasimir did not disapprove of that move in principle, it had the regrettable side effect of enhancing his sense of being a bead inside a baby’s rattle. Thankfully, the horses could not keep up that furious pace for more than a few minutes, even if the driver had been in the mood for shattering the axles, and when the speed settled back to normal it seemed almost relaxing by contrast. Exhausted, Kasimir decided he could do worse than try to sleep through the remaining hours, so he curled into an almost foetal stance upon the thin leather upholstery of his bench. He held out little hope of success, but at least his stomach felt slightly less cramped in this position.
More bloody shaking … Feels different, though … Slower, softer … A voice?
“… Citizen? We’re here. Lord Citizen? Ready to move whenever you are,” said Maradith, giving his shoulder another gentle agitation.
I actually got some sleep? Sweet Alyssa, I must have been fit to collapse.
“Time to go already? If we must,” groaned Kasimir, dragging himself achingly into a sitting position. His mouth felt sticky and stale, but his stomach at any rate merely felt empty. As his vision came back into focus, he saw that Maradith merely looked a little dishevelled. “You seem disturbingly bright and fresh this morning … evening … whatever. Please
don’t tell me that you’re actually a strykolak. I’ve had quite enough shocks and starts for one day.”
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