Rowan wished that her words could fly through the air, to Wulfshaven, to whisper in Artos’s ear, to tell him that their friend was not alone after all.
A knock on the door. “Rowan?”
The steerswoman folded the letter, set it aside, and rose to open the door.
Bel, her dark eyes intent, standing with the combination of ease and alertness that Rowan knew so well from the moments just before the Outskirter entered battle; and Willam beside her, his wide copper gaze serious, determined—and deeply, immensely calm.
Will held up one hand; the little clock dangled from it. He said: “It’s time.”
18
They walked through the quiet streets of the city of Donner.
It was cold, as if near to winter, and the autumn constellations were winter-sharp, a spangling of stars high above the roof-tops. Street doors were closed, window shutters pulled tight against the chill; and most of the city was asleep.
Rowan carried a lantern, partly shuttered, in one hand. Bel carried a sack of wheat flour from the kitchen stores at the Dolphin, slung across her shoulders. Willam carried his knotted burlap sack.
Bel’s sword was slung at her back, in the fashion of the Outskirters. The sword at Rowan’s waist was borrowed from the city guards’ armory. Whatever weapons Willam possessed, if any, were not visible.
Only Bel’s footsteps sounded against the cobbles, a small sound, seeming to vanish into the cold sky. Rowan and Willam, in gum-soled boots, moved silent as ghosts.
Up ahead, at a distance: one of the city guard, behaving exactly as if on duty as night watchman. When he reached East Well he shuttered his own lantern, leaned against the well, and withdrew from inside his cuirass a small bottle. He unstopped it, sipped. Its presence served as an excuse for his lingering.
He was a lookout, one of many.
When Jannik had departed from the Dolphin, he had done so by soaring away into the sky in a magic cart that Willam called a “flier.”
The cart could bring Jannik back from the dragon fields in less than ten minutes. During the updates, Willam could not magically spy on the wizard’s movements. He would not know if Jannik returned unexpectedly.
Bel had designed a warning relay.
One person was posted in the tower of the harbormaster’s office, watching the sky to the northwest, in the direction of the dragon fields. Should she spy the bright lights of the flier, she was to shine a signal lantern at the street below. The man posted there would shine his own light to another person at an intersection farther along, and he to another, and another. The guard at the well was the last link, and would signal Bel, waiting outside the wizard’s house.
The flier was fast, but it could not outrun a flash of light.
Someone had lent Bel a wooden whistle of the sort used by the barge tenders. It would be loud enough to hear from inside the house.
As they passed the well, the three friends nodded to the guard, as one did when passing a stranger. The man quickly hid his bottle and nodded back with a trace of guilt.
All for show. No uninvolved citizen need know what would happen this night.
At the intersection they turned right, and passed by the wizard’s house. At the abandoned ruins next door they paused, glanced about, then stepped into the yard and positioned themselves against the remains of one wall.
Rowan set the lantern down, first flattening a place in the dry grass with her foot. Willam knelt beside it with his stolen clock in hand. “Four minutes,” he said.
Bel set down the wheat flour and sat on her heels. Rowan leaned back against the brick wall. Willam remained as he was, watching time flick by.
“Two minutes,” Willam said quietly.
No crickets sang; the insects had departed with the early snow, four days ago. Some small animal, a mouse perhaps, rustled in the grass, skittered past Rowan’s feet, pattered briefly in the old floorboards, and was silent.
Then: “That’s it. The updates are running.”
Rowan had half expected some sort of perceptible effect: some sound, or sight, some sense of difference. There was none. The night was cold, starry, quiet.
Bel and Willam rose, collecting their burdens; Rowan took up the lantern. Trying to move casually, they returned to the street and turned back toward Jannik’s home.
They walked up the front path; but at the portico, Willam stepped aside. “Rowan, you and I stay close to the wall,” Will said. “Bel, you stand here.” He positioned her beside and just under the overhang of the portico’s roof, facing the street, her back against a supporting pillar. “That’s an eye,” and he pointed up, at an ornamental glass boss under the small peak of the portico’s roof; Bel leaned forward to look. “The house saw us. It’s trying to tell Jannik right now, but it can’t reach him through the jammers. I can change its memory of us coming and going, but if you stay right here you’ll be out of its sight, and I won’t have to fix the part in between.”
Will turned to the wall beside the portico, set his sack on the ground, unknotted it, felt around inside, and extracted an object.
A penknife. Rowan felt an odd impulse to laugh. She had expected nothing so prosaic.
With Rowan lighting his work, Willam counted bricks from the ground up, and at twelve he prodded at one with his fingers, then began to prize it with the knife. The brick slid out, then another, and a third, with soft scrapes that seemed loud in the night-quiet, and siftings of dust. Will inserted his hand into the opening revealed and seemed to grope. There came a snick from within, and a small creak. He waved Rowan closer, to direct the light into the niche.
A small metal door stood open on a little cupboard. Within, tiny specks of light, like distant red and blue stars, and the sort of small objects that Rowan had come to associate with magic: rectangular black insects, thin lines of copper, lengths of stiff, brightly colored string, which Rowan knew from past experience possessed copper cores.
Willam peered into the niche, gingerly probing with one finger. He pulled out two of the strings, left them with part of their lengths hanging outside. “Rowan, step back.”
She did as she was told. Willam cut the strings, and waited, tensely. Nothing at all occurred.
Willam relaxed. “Good. Now . . .” He pulled from his sack a small canvas packet, untied and unrolled it. Inside lay a carefully ordered collection of tools, as tiny as a jeweler’s. He selected one; but with his hands and face and the lantern so close to the little cupboard, Rowan could no longer see what he was doing.
Rowan and Bel both startled when the front door emitted a quiet click.
The women traded a quick glance; but Willam was already sidling up to the door. Staying to one side, he reached out, turned the knob, and pushed.
Warm yellow light spilled out onto the portico. This, despite the fact that the windows of the house were dark.
Willam blinked. “I’ll fix that later; we can’t have everyone seeing it. Bel—”
The Outskirter eyed the door, and the light, suspiciously. Then she picked up the sack of flour, hefted it, and heaved it into the opening.
A soft thump as it struck the floor. They waited.
Nothing.
Willam grinned. “Good.” He replaced his tools in the packet, rolled and tied it. “I’d hate to have done all this and then get crushed by a simple deadfall.” The packet went back into his sack. “Rowan, remember: when we’re inside, don’t say a word until I tell you that it’s safe to speak.” And with no further comment he picked up his sack, stepped under the portico, and entered.
Rowan gave Bel one more glance; the Outskirter was wide-eyed. Rowan followed Willam inside.
A foyer, paneled in old oak, the flour sack resting in the center of a mat of woven rush, itself showing the effects of many dirty shoe soles. Hooks along the wall held a hooded oil-skin cloak, a heavy one of dark green wool, and a rough-knit sweater. A brass stand in a corner beside the door contained two ornamental canes and a bright green umbrella.
Rowan found herself gazing at it
in puzzlement, as if some part of her had believed that no wizard would ever need so simple a thing as an umbrella.
Willam was doing something to a wall-mounted lamp, reaching behind the frosted-glass shade. Three creaks, and the foyer went dark.
They waited for their eyes to adjust. Then Willam took the lantern and silently led Rowan inside.
The hallway lit itself on their arrival. Rowan could not decide whether this was ominous, or weirdly welcoming.
To one side: a parlor, still dark. Light from the hall lamp showed it comfortably appointed in dark blue velvet curtains, blue-green couch and armchairs, low tables, all arranged about a magnificent carved-wood hearth. To the other side, in deeper shadow, what seemed to be a formal dining room.
Willam ignored the rooms, glancing about the hall, seeking something. Rowan found it first.
She had seen one such in the fortress of Shammer and Dhree: mounted on the wall beside the dining room door, a tiny brass wheel.
She did not presume to use it herself, but waved for Will’s attention, and indicated it. It was he who turned it, and the light in the hallway dimmed to darkness.
By lantern light, Willam led on.
Down the hall, past dark rooms on both sides, their uses indiscernible in the gloom. They found the staircase, which also greeted them with light. It was too far from the foyer’s open door to show from the street. Willam allowed it to remain, and handed the lamp back to Rowan.
They climbed.
The second-storey hallway lit itself for them. Willam glanced quickly into the open doors of each room, then returned to the stairs, and indicated Up. Rowan followed him.
The light in the third-storey hall was cooler, softer, and only one door was open.
When they entered the room, there was light again, but not bright. One lantern, mounted on a stand, sent a yellow splash onto a deep, comfortable armchair. On the table beside it lay a book, an abandoned tea pot, a cup and saucer. A small but pleasant brick hearth graced the wall, its mantel displaying a huge cut-glass vase filled with a riot of dried roses and statice.
A second, smaller lamp stood on the most beautiful desk Rowan had ever seen.
It was huge, ancient, constructed of rich bird’s-eye maple, with contrasting geometric inlays of walnut and cherry. Rowan resisted the impulse to stroke it.
Willam moved behind the desk, and stood by the chair. He gazed around the room, then gave Rowan a glance whose meaning could not be misinterpreted: this was the place.
He set his sack on the floor, and opened it; from where she stood, Rowan could not see it, but she saw what he brought out as he lay each item on the desk. She watched closely.
A stack of small, flat, white rectangles, like half-sized playing cards, tied together with a bit of twine. A box, four inches by two by one, on top of which were mounted two brown wheels, their edges touching each other; on one end were two copper studs. A shallow paper cone, three inches across, its back supported by a thin metal cage. An object like a thick coin was mounted at the center of the cage, and from this trailed two more of the stiff, bright-colored strands.
The last item Willam brought out seemed by contrast the most inexplicable: merely a very small, old book, tied closed with a leather thong.
Willam picked up the paper cone by its cage, attached the free ends of the strands to the copper studs on the box. He arranged the cone to stand on its coin, open end up.
He laid out the white cards, in a single row. They were each numbered, simply, on one corner, 1 through 8.
Willam glanced around the room again, spotted something, indicated it to Rowan. She looked. Against one wall, by a bookcase: a short stepladder. She fetched it; he gestured that she should place it before the desk, and then that she should sit on it. She did so, grateful that he had thought of it. She did not care to stand for the next three hours.
When she was settled, Willam took a seat in the wizard’s own chair behind the desk. He paused, then nodded to himself, picked up the card labeled 1, and leaned close to the box.
He touched it on one side; of themselves, the wheels began to turn against each other. With careful precision he placed the card, edge-on, at the point where the wheels touched. The wheels caught the card, pulling it forward between them.
The steerswoman was glad that she had seen something like the paper cone before, when she had dismantled a magic box while in Alemeth. So, she was not surprised at what happened next.
The cone said, in the voice of the wizard Jannik: “Access.”
Rowan was, however, startled when the room replied.
From somewhere above came a voice, genderless, inflected in civilized tones, but seeming to possess no personality, no soul, no life. It said: “Password, please.”
Rowan found she was clutching the sides of the stepladder in a desperate grip, to prevent herself fleeing the room. There will be more than this, she told herself firmly, and stranger still. She forced herself to breathe smoothly, seeking calmness, detachment, and clarity of observation.
Willam had caught the card again as the wheels released it, and without hesitation took up 2, and fed it to the turning wheels. “Equinox,” Jannik said; then card 3: “Crocus.”
Card 4 caused the cone to utter: “Solstice.” Card 5: “Wild rose.”
Willam used card 2 again, repeating: “Equinox”; then, card 6: “Chrysanthemum.”
Card 4 again: “Solstice,” and Rowan found herself running through a list of plants associated with winter.
With card 7, the voice of Jannik said “Mistletoe”; but Willam glanced at the box sharply. On the second syllable, the wizard’s voice had wavered, warbled slightly. Will’s eyes narrowed.
“Not recognized,” the room said.
Willam repeated the entire process. Rowan again found herself admiring his concentration and patience.
When card 7 was being pulled between the wheels again, Will left his hand hovering above. In the middle of the word, he touched the moving card, briefly, precisely. The warbled syllable was steadied, somewhat. Then he waited, for what seemed to Rowan a long moment, but perhaps was not.
“Accepted,” the room said. “Scan, please.” Willam nodded, then took up the little book, untying the thong.
As he did so, a small, square inlay on the top of the desk slid aside. From inside emerged, unfolding, a thin metal jointed construct, insect-like, that first rose up and then angled toward Willam, and Rowan could think of nothing but the tail of a scorpion—
She was on her feet, and Willam glanced up, startled, not at the arm but at her. He held up one hand, his expression urgent, cautioning; he was not at all concerned by the strange device now pointing at him.
Rowan blinked, regained control, nodded. Willam looked significantly toward the door, then at her, questioningly. Do you want to leave?
Rowan settled down on the footstool again, in a marked manner. Willam gave her a very long, evaluating look. Rowan attempted to communicate both contrition and reassurance, which she found not at all easy with that poisonous-looking object pointing directly at her friend. But Will was reluctantly satisfied, and turned back to his work.
He opened the little book; but apparently the book itself was unimportant, as he set it aside after removing something that had been tucked protectively between its pages.
The object was about an inch square, as thin and flimsy as a slip of paper, although its color was of metal: silvery, shimmering, with rainbows refracting weirdly within, at a depth that seemed a bit greater than its actual surface.
Willam studied it closely, looked at its back, oriented it carefully, and held it up, less than an inch from the pointed end of the metal arm.
He waited. Nothing whatsoever occurred. He became disturbed, and then thoughtful. He examined the slip of silver again, back and front, considered, blinked, then shrugged in something like resignation.
Holding the slip by one corner between the thumb and forefinger of his left hand, he placed it over his own left eye, in the fash
ion of an eye patch, and leaned his face close to the point of the arm—a sight that caused Rowan to grit her teeth.
Red light emerged from the pointed tip, played across the slip of silver.
The room said: “Recognized,” and the arm backed, bent, folded, retreated, down into its enclosure. “Good evening, Jannik.”
Willam leaned back in the chair, pleased, then put away the silver slip and took up card 8.
The paper cone uttered in words oddly inflected, as if each one had been magically snatched from a different conversation: “Manual, input, only.”
“Confirmed,” the room said.
Willam relaxed, grinned across at Rowan. “We can talk now,” he said—
The desk unfolded.
Willam startled hugely, but held up a hand to Rowan, said, “Wait—”
Side panels shifted, rose, tilted, moved back, around, behind. Slabs of curly maple and walnut unfolded, spreading around Willam as if seeking to embrace him, sliding across each other, and out from beneath each other.
When the motions finally stopped, Willam sat in the center of an array of levels, like a bee in the heart of a wooden flower—or, Rowan thought, like a master musician with his collection of instruments laid out all around him, each within reach, ready for a virtuoso performance.
Willam raised his brows. “This is interesting . . .,” he said in a dubious tone.
“I take it you weren’t expecting that?”
“No . . . I just hope I can recognize what I need. It has to be the most convenient . . .” He looked down. A section of the top of the desk had tilted toward him and shifted down to nearly rest in his lap. “This looks like the place to start.” He looked up. “Are you all right? Because this is going to get a lot stranger.”
Rowan surprised herself by laughing, if somewhat weakly. “I believe I shall be disappointed if it doesn’t.”
“All right.” He passed his hands lightly across the surface in his lap, as if feeling for something. He found it, whatever it was, nodded satisfaction, and then arranged his hands carefully, and Rowan was reminded even more sharply of a musician. Willam seemed poised, like someone about to execute a complex composition on some keyboard instrument: a pump organ, perhaps.
The Language of Power Page 28