Kelfor- the Orthomancers

by Gillian Andrews

  I must be about halfway through my imaginary conversation when a sound interrupts my concentration.

  “—Kelfor!” I finish, out loud, startled.

  “Do you always speak to yourself?” The whisper comes from somewhere close.

  I stare around, desperate to see who was speaking. “Who is that, who is there?”

  There is movement on the other side of the window, in the open. “Not so loud, you little fool! You will bring them all down on us!”

  I lower my voice. “Who is there? Tell me!”

  The shadow turns into a face. I squint. It is the girl from yesterday. The outcast.

  “You are the girl Quondam Azrial was speaking to yesterday. Zivan.”

  I catch the flash of her teeth in the darkness. “So you were watching. Spying.”

  “Not spying!”

  “What, then? Listening without permission? Does that suit your self-importance better?”

  “I suppose I was spying.”

  “Torch said there was someone listening.”

  “Who is Torch?”

  The teeth flash again. “My son.” She tilts her head to one side. “So, Remeny, did you hear them say what I am?”

  “You are a thief.”

  “I am. Quondam Azrial has contracted my services as a thief. She has asked me to steal something.”

  “What?”

  The shadows seem to mix into each other like liquids, and then the answer comes back to me, a mere whisper:

  “You!”

  2.

  My voice now comes out as a squeak: “Me?”

  “Hush!”

  The shadow has gone. There is silence for a long, long time. I hear footsteps approach slowly. They are not those of the outcast girl, of that I am sure. She would never walk in that weighty, self-satisfied sort of way. I hold my tongue, but hope has almost overpowered me. My heart is screaming silently: Yes! Steal me!

  There is a long wait. The bindings dig into my wrists and my ankles. My arms are trembling with the strain. At last the measured footsteps continue past the building. I can breathe again.

  It is some time before I hear a small noise. The door to the reception facility is opening slowly, just far enough for a shape to slip through. Then it closes again.

  I peer into the dark, now seeing two shapes instead of one. They are advancing toward the bars. She has come with her son.

  Zivan seems able to tell him what to do without speaking. She points to one of the bars. They each lift a small bottle of liquid, and begin to let drop after drop fall onto one particular bar, just above a crossbar about a foot from the floor.

  “Why me?” I ask her.

  She shrugs. “Because you are special.”

  “Special? Why?”

  She seems surprised. “They didn’t tell you?”

  I shake my head.

  “You are the last of the orthomancers. You are one of the timeworn.”

  I am timeworn? Me? My mother didn’t tell me that. I don’t know what being an orthomancer means. It must have something to do with the amulet. Last night my mother had called it the orthomancer amulet.

  She is still hostile. “Don’t let it go to your head. It isn’t only you who is special. We are all special. My son is special too.”

  “Doesn’t he speak?”

  She shakes her head. “No, Remeny, he doesn’t speak.” Her lips are tight. “He doesn’t have to.”

  They continue to drop the valuable liquid onto the bar. Now it seems to be going faster, for the liquid is making a small indentation in the smooth surface. It is easier to attack one particular spot. Less is falling to the ground.

  I blink. Sure enough, the liquid is eating into the metal.

  “Why can’t you open that lock like you did the other one?”

  Zivan pauses, tongue slightly out, as she delicately introduces more drops into the bar. Then she answers me. “The outer door has a normal lock. For thieves – good thieves – it presents little challenge. And we are singularly good thieves, my son and I. But the lock on this cell is different. It cannot be forced. I know that well.”

  I catch my breath. “You were held here?”

  Her face darkens. I can see it even in the bad light. “I was. Six weeks. There is not a lot I couldn’t tell you about this place.” She looks around, her face suddenly grim. “About their customs.”

  I am staring. “Were you shackled to the wall all the time?”

  “At night. For the first month.”

  I lick my lips. How did she survive?

  She answers my unspoken question. “We all survived it,” she says. “They know exactly how to ensure that we do. They have had plenty of practice. Luck – in the shape of my son – was what got me out of here. Nothing else has got any of us out of here. Until now. You will be the first.”

  “I wanted to die.” I am ashamed to admit it.

  “Yes.”

  “Didn’t you want to die?”

  She puts another drop of corrosive liquid on the bar, thinking about her answer. “There was never a day I didn’t want to die. But now I want to live. Live every single moment I can as a free soul. Now Torch and I are both free. We are ... content.”

  Torch makes another sound in his throat. It does sound happier.

  There’s a faint sound and the bar suddenly curves outward, away from me. Zivan wraps a cloth around her hands, signs to Torch, and then grabs the bar and pulls it.

  At first there is no movement. Then it comes slowly toward her. She changes her hold on it and begins to force it away from the floor. At last it is more or less horizontal.

  Torch is already scrubbing the crossbar under the gap with another cloth. When he is sure there are no corrosive drops left on the metal, he walks up to the bars and slips through them as though they don’t exist.

  I sigh. I cannot do the same. I am small, but not that small. Even though he must be ten or eleven he is very slight for his age.

  He comes close to me, but he does not look me in the eyes. I think nothing of that; I am recently bereaved. It is a normal reaction.

  His thin wrists reach out to one of mine. He is fiddling with some sharp pin, which he jiggles inside the lock. There are strange patterns on the skin of his skinny arms, but the light is not good enough to see what they are, whether they are identical to the ones marring his face.

  At last the lock falls open.

  I cannot move. The boy pulls my arm down beside my side. He looks at his mother. She makes rubbing movements with her own hands. He obeys, stiffly massaging my arm. He doesn’t seem to like to touch me at all, for he stops after only a minute and turns his attention to the other side.

  It takes him less time to unfasten this one. Soon he has the ankle locks open too. I am able to step out of the rings.

  I fall off the wall. He jumps hastily out of the way, making a sort of scared sound in his throat.

  I try to smile. “It’s all right. Thank you. I didn’t mean to frighten you.”

  He moves his head from side to side. Then he runs back to the bars, leaving me to pummel my own leg muscles into working order.

  He ducks through the space. Then he turns to me and makes a small sound in his throat, his mouth open. It is clear what he wants me to do.

  I hurry over, then stop, unsure how to proceed. He has made it look easy, but though thin for my age, I am bigger than he is.

  The boy taps his head, twisting his shoulders sideways to show me the correct angle. I thread my head through the gap, and position my shoulders at right angles to the floor. Sure enough, they just fit through. I scramble with my legs, squirming around to force as much of my body through as I can.

  A strong pair of hands grasps my shoulders and pulls. I slide awkwardly through the rest of the gap and collapse in a heap on the other side.

  Both the thief and her son seem amused. She is grinning and he is making small chuffing noises, almost to himself.

  I manage to get to my feet as Zivan begins to stopper the two
bottles.

  I move closer, but she signs me to stay away.

  “This is extremely corrosive. Keep back.”

  “Your son was using it. He is younger than me.”

  “Ah,” she says, “but he is a thief. He knows how to use this. You do not.”

  “Why is he called Torch?”

  “I will show you tomorrow, when it is daylight. You wouldn’t be able to see just now. It is too dark.”

  I have to be satisfied with that.

  When we move cautiously into the moonlight Zivan looks me up and down. She seems satisfied with what she sees, for she gives a nod. “You will do. Now, make no noise. Follow me exactly. We must not be seen. We need time to reach the meeting place.”

  “What meeting place?”

  “You ask a lot of questions, Remeny. You can hardly go back to Astakarth, can you? You can’t stay in this area. You are going to Kelfor. We are all going to Kelfor.”

  My jaw drops. “Kelfor? But ... who? ... why? ... how?”

  “The quondam has arranged for a group to travel south. She is going herself, and so is Praetor Thurifer. None of us can ever go back to the City of the Seven Karths. We are to meet them about ten miles to the east of here, three hours after first light.

  “Our journey will take us over the Abaloss Rift, across the Teygar Plains, then we will cross the Great Chasm, head through the Karstik desert and down into the depths of the Rift of the Timeworn until we reach Kelfor itself.” She trips the place-names off her tongue lightly. “It should be interesting.”

  I have never heard of the Rift of the Timeworn. It sounds ancient. I ask her what it is.

  “It’s a huge network of tunnels and caverns spreading right across the planet, deep under the South Pole of Hethor,” she tells me. “It is so big that it would take a man a lifetime to explore it properly. That is where you come in. Your job is to find Kelfor in the Rift of the Timeworn. My job is to make sure you get to the rift.”

  I remember the amulet. I can’t go south without it. I explain.

  Zivan shakes her head. “No! Impossible! There isn’t time to go back. We would be caught. It must be left here.”

  “I can’t leave it. My ... my mother told me again and again not to travel without it. I’m not sure why, but if I am to find Kelfor, I will need the amulet. I have to go back.”

  Zivan and her son exchange a glance. Apparently much is said, for he comes immediately to stand by my side and she moves some paces to the north.

  “I will go,” she tells me. “You cannot. However, there is no reason why I may not go. Torch will take you to the meeting point. I can catch up later.”

  “It is hidden. Buried.”

  She shrugs. “I can find it. If it is under the cobb you lived in, it should not be difficult. You can give me a general idea.”

  Her determination is clear. She will not let me go. And, truth be known, I doubt I could stomach going back into Astakarth just now. All my muscles are still trembling with fatigue, and my mind is not far behind them.

  She looks at her son again, sternly. She is instructing him to take good care of me. He makes a vocal sighing noise to show that her non-verbal instructions are unnecessary. He has understood. He turns to me and jerks his head to the right. I nod. I will follow. He holds up one finger to his mouth. We are still within earshot of the Scoriats in the Xenokarth.

  Zivan stands watching us as we make our way out. Getting over the wall of the compound is a matter of seconds. Then she is gone, hidden behind the stone. I trail as silently as I can behind the small slim figure of her son, my thoughts in turmoil. There are not many hours of dark left.

  Torch, despite his scant years, is a good guide. As daylight comes, he makes his way deftly along the hard earth, weaving instinctively in and out of the Pallus grass which is tall enough to hide us from prying eyes. He takes me past the mud flats, continually motioning with his hand, telling me to keep my head down. There might be Scoriats bathing in the mud holes. I obey. It feels strange following this boy who is two years younger than I am, but there is an affinity between us. I trust him.

  The sun is well up by the time we come to the meeting place. Torch does not take me right up to the group. He waits about ten lengths from them, motioning me past him. He himself sits on a rock further away, staring back toward the city. It is left to me to explain where Zivan has gone, to tell them that she will rejoin us later. If she can.

  The group has been waiting in relative comfort. They all have carricks and are rocking slowly inside them. When I come up they get out. I stare. I know what a carrick is, of course, but I have never seen so many together in one place. These days they are real luxury items. I wonder where the timeworn managed to get them. For there are more carricks than people, and I realize that each of us is to have his or her own. It brings home to me that this trip must be of very great importance.

  Carricks were originally used by my ancestors, though the younger Raths have taken over the design for their new sport of pluming. They are cradles – baskets really – made of carbon nanographite. They are the size of a person, but incredibly light. Even a child can carry one on its back. They are supple but strong, and so can offer protection from many different things. Carricks are made of thin cross-crossing slats with a removable light sheet of nanographite which covers the slats. They are always a dusty tan color which makes them ideal for hiding under in dry arid land or sand. They are used to sleep in, to sand-surf on, to travel through the plumes in, and in the old days they were used to descend into the great caverns which populate the south of Hethor. Each cradle still has a ring attached to it, and at least a hundred yards of thin but strong extruded carbon nanographite rope. Carricks have to fit you. Like snail shells, new ones are needed as an Inmuri grows. They must fit snugly or they are uncomfortable and dangerous. Carricks can be dismantled and carried flat, like a pile of sticks, if necessary, though that takes time. Mostly they are carried as they are: small, upside-down boat-shaped cages. Quondam Azrial had been settled inside her carrick. She gets out – a lengthy process – and beckons me to come closer.

  “Remeny. I am sorry for your loss.” She says the words almost automatically. “Do you know why you are here?”

  “We are going to find Kelfor.”

  The quondam inclines her head. “We are. Do you know why?”

  I shake my head.

  “You are the last of the orthomancers. If we do not find Kelfor now, we never shall.” The quondam begins to pack up her carrick. She obviously feels that a sufficient explanation has been given. I stare. She starts to pack up her carrick. “Good. We can start the journey. Please take your carricks.”

  Torch and I look around. To one side, three carricks have been carefully placed side by side, two smaller than the third. I pick up the middle one of the three and slip the carry straps over my shoulders. Then we tie the two remaining carricks together so that he can carry them both. By the time we have finished he looks like a hump-backed desert tortoise carrying its young, but he is able to move. He thanks me for my help with a light chirp, similar to the sound of a Pevin warbler at dusk. I nod. I am getting used to his way of communication. I look at him as little as possible. I can tell that it makes him uncomfortable.

  We move off.

  I walk along behind Torch, who seems to feel it is his duty to protect me. He stares outward from the group, I stare at them.

  I know some of them, not all. Quondam Azrial and Praetor Thurifer, of course. Then their families. Azrial has brought her son, Furian. Furian is one of the strongest of us. He is middle-aged, but his muscles shine in the morning light. He gives me an understanding smile of welcome. I immediately sense that he is somebody I could depend upon. I give him a tentative smile back.

  Beside him, walking slowly and looking proud, is his daughter, Ammeline. When the quondam dies, Ammeline will be the next augur. She is older than me – perhaps twenty. I have only seen her from a distance before.

  She is twirling one ring of hair
around and around her finger and looking displeased to be on the trip. I think she looks very beautiful. Her eyes are deeply lined with kohl and her tunic strapped with pleated leather straps around her chest so that parts of her flesh usually hidden can be seen. I can’t help staring a little.She sees me looking, and tosses her head. “What? Never seen anyone as beautiful as me?”

  I look away hastily, but she isn’t done. She gives me a smile.

  “I don’t mind, little girl. A skulk may gaze at a Rath, as they say. Lots of people stare at me.” She gives a smile which shows many dimples. “They say I am extremely pretty. Do you think so?”

  I nod, in awe of this person. “Very.”

  “There. You are quite a sweet little thing, really, aren’t you? I daresay you will grow up almost as pretty as me, if you take care of your skin.” She peers at my face. “Although it looks to me as if it has a bit of a sallow tendency. And you are on the thin side. Hmm. Maybe not. Still, we can’t all be stunning.” She pats the curls of hair into place in a self-satisfied sort of way and walks ahead.

  My eyes follow her. She moves her hips a tiny bit more than other women, and they jiggle from side to side. I try to copy her, and nearly trip over. Nobody except Torch is watching, so in the end it doesn’t really matter. He shakes his head as if to tell me to stop being stupid. I glare back.

  Then comes Thurifer’s grandson Vannis, who will be the next gramen. He is renowned in Astakarth. Not for good things. He is beautiful, too. One of those people you can’t help staring at.

  He is irritated by my open mouth. “What do you think you’re gaping at, girl? All this is your fault. I could be back home in the compound instead of traipsing across the grasslands with a load of losers.”

  I look away, not before noticing how his eyes glitter with dislike. My own stupidly fill up. I stop blinking, forcing the eyelids to stay open to the hot air of Hethor until the tears evaporate. It would be humiliating to let this pampered young man see how truly his words had stung.

  A small whistle from Torch tells me that he has noticed. It sounds calming. I swallow, but keep on through the long grass that is taller than I am.