A future that hadn’t existed the instant before The Lady’s Gift, now twisting around her beautiful boy, consuming him like tendrils of black smoke. And why did she think of smoke, Kait chided herself, but she knew the answer full well. Anything of Insom’s—everything of Tiler’s Hold—
Might be tainted by it.
Ferden gazed fondly at his great-nephew. “M’guess’n it’ll be a while some, laddie, ’fore yer a master mage.”
“Aie,” Leksand replied, blushing. He rolled up the letter to return to the box, latched that, then tucked it carefully by his side. “Would there be more of those wonderful meat pies?” he asked, a boy again and hungry.
“Haven’t you noticed? We’ve slowed down.” Pylor’s apprentice pulled back her curtain. “There’ll be a proper meal soon.”
Seeing buildings, not trees or fields, Kait and Ferden did the same, staring out as avidly as Leksand. They’d slowed, if not enough to make it easy to see details. Kait gained a blurred impression of brick walls and busy walkways, of lights in windows and the smell of fish. The carriage wheels rolled gaily over cobbles, in tune with the urgent clipclop of hooves.
“Nor Hold.” The damesen left her curtain drawn. “You’ll see little of it. To reach the canal, we turn into the market.”
Explaining the fish.
* * *
The barge coasted to a stop with a final surge and suck of water that added to the ever-present stink. Pylor Ternfeather pressed her square to her nostrils, drawing breath through its pocket of finely crushed carbon. Fresh, they called the water of Tananen’s canals and rivers. She’d no idea why. The greasy opaque stuff was rank as any swamp, befouled and bordered by piles of dung and smothering green.
“Not long now, Damesen,” Dolren promised. He lifted his gaze to her midriff, then dropped it again.
Unreassured, she looked to where the captain of Insom’s guards stood arguing with a group of locals over passage. Her cousin had insisted on his show; here was the consequence. No one was impressed by her rank or his caravan. People inland considered those from Tiler’s to be merchants, corrupted by the outside and greed. They’d be taxed at every stop and receive no courtesy for the trouble.
Docks were being linked to the barge from both shores, creating a bridge. Not long now. Around her people stirred, preparing to cross once the chains were secured. Wagons with children. Flocks of sheep. Those on foot and those on horseback. Chaos, albeit a practiced one, though there was no telling who else wanted to be on board when the barge went on its way.
Insom would have sent an ample purse; the captain should prevail. “Do what you can to hurry this up, Dolren,” she ordered wearily. Anything, to gain a moment’s peace.
Alone, Pylor walked to the edge of the cobblestones, separated from the drop to the canal by a hedge, bare-branched with hairy little buds. A stunted tree fought to hold onto the bank. Abandoned bird nests clung to its forks. Gulls cried and circled overhead, drawn by the bustle, and she gazed up, grateful for their presence though these inland birds were lesser and soiled, their voices foreign to her ears.
One caught her eye, larger and bright. As if her attention was a summons, it swooped lazily down to land near her feet, then waddled bold as could be toward her as if expecting scraps.
She readied her cane to fend it aside.
Its bill gaped, mouth wide and red-lined, and words came out. “Cousin. Listen to me. Do not make a sound—”
Insom’s voice. Pylor closed her eyes and the illusion that he stood here, speaking to her, was perfect.
“—until I say. Only then answer me. This is our chance. They ignore me now. I’ve done what they wanted. I pray this is the end of it—”
Blessed Goddess, the end of what? What new madness was this?
“—I never wanted you part of it. Forgive me, Py. Soon you’ll understand why—why I did—why I had no choice. My gifts. The boy. They must reach the school. You must see to it, at any cost. They ignore me for now, but they watch you. Tell me you’ll do this. Promise me, Py. Say it!” And the voice changed, became strange and shrill. “Say it! Say it!”
Her eyes shot open. “I will. I promise.”
The bill snapped shut, as if swallowing her vow. The gull waddled away a step or two, then opened its wings.
And the darkness beneath was no proper shadow, but moving, twisting streams of black.
Her cane dropped from numb fingers.
With a flash of an evil yellow-ringed eye, the gull lifted into the air with great beats of its wings. Turned, heading for Tiler’s Hold.
Who awaited her answer? What?
“Cousin,” she whispered, tears in her eyes. “Foolish dearest cousin. What have you done?”
* * *
The clouds thinned, afforded a glimpse of the waning sun. Lower than he’d thought, but that was the way of fall. It crept up, stealing the light. A bit more each day until you forgot what it was to feel warmth on bared skin, until you huddled close by the fire, too cold to sleep, afraid if you did the fire would go out and you’d die, frozen in place, a forgotten fool to be found in spring and scare the children.
Maudlin, was he? Grimacing, Maleonarial put his thoughts and newly strong back into his task. “Leave be. I’ve got him.”
“As do I,” Domozuk insisted, though he struggled with his share of the weight as they lowered their charge to the deck. “Gently!”
Maleonarial did what he could, Saeleonarial being uncooperatively stiff, as corpses were wont to become, and worse, bent at the middle as though still over a horse.
Once satisfied, they covered the body with more seemly blankets, among the gifts from those gathered to watch. They hadn’t included supper and the mage had his doubts the barge crew was prepared to feed them, quick as they’d been to take the jewels.
Then again, “What about them?” He aimed a thumb at the caravan just arrived on the hold side of the floating bridge.
Domozuk glanced over his shoulder, then stared. “How—that’s the hold lord’s carriage. From Tiler’s.” His voice turned rough. “What’s he doing here?”
Insom the First, he’d met. Maleonarial had no idea who led the hold now, nor cared. His stomach growled. “They’ll have food.”
“We’ve no room.” Domozuk swept up his trusty stick and pennant, striding forth into battle. “No room!” he shouted, waving the pennant furiously. “Go back!”
Harn came up to stand beside Maleonarial. “Sir. Should he do that?”
The mage shrugged. “A scribemaster’s funeral procession takes precedence over hold business. A lord’s,” he qualified. Never over the daughter’s. Not when She could choose to act through Her Designate.
A sidelong, too wise look. Grown, had Harn. “We’re hardly a procession, sir, are we.”
Maleonarial put an arm across the younger man’s shoulders. “What we are, my good Harneonarial? Tired and hungry. For our stomachs’ sake, hope Dom doesn’t scare them off. The right company could have provisions to spare.”
“Yes, sir. It’s a big barge after all.”
“N’big’nuff,” Rid grumbled. “N’f they bring teams.”
“Compromise,” Maleonarial replied. “We left our stock, they leave theirs.” They’d sold the made-horses before boarding. Unsaid, he’d have to create more at Alden.
The Hag kept winning.
Like the rest of Tananen’s barges, this was a massive rectangle, walled waist-high, with gates on both sides and added rails to bow and stern. Barges were constructed of wood written to resist damp rot, though no magic appeared able to prevent the growth of slime below the waterline, resulting in laborious maintenance come the freeze. The barge’s crew of four lived in a shed to the stern.
The gates were presently lowered as ramps. Cargo, under canvas, filled a third of the deck, leaving a wide center aisle. There were rings to secure tents, if desired, af
ter the deck was hosed clean of the leavings of bridge traffic.
Traffic that had to move quickly. A barge’s schedule was unalterable, being set by those who cared nothing for those using it.
By custom, passengers ready to disembark and any freight destined for a hold moved first. It wasn’t unknown for the crew to toss a sluggish passenger over the side. Once the deck was clear, those on shore coming to the hold rushed to be across docks and barge before the bargemaster’s flag lifted.
Being the signal for those leaving the hold to cross next, a line ended when the bargemaster’s flag dropped, turning bridge back to barge. New passengers and any freight then promptly loaded, having paid the fee in advance.
Unless you arrived with the body of the scribemaster. The bargemaster had allowed their procession, humble or no, to board ahead of all else. They’d kept to the right of the bow, out of the flow of those crossing.
Seen by it. News of his return—of a mage crowned with hundreds of bells, yet possessing the face of a young man—would speed across Tananen. What they’d make of it, and him?
He couldn’t begin to guess.
“Time to find a hood,” Maleonarial muttered, then shook his head.
Bells laughed.
As if that would be enough.
* * *
Saeleonarial was dead.
Kait sat in the carriage, hands in her lap. Did the news warrant her last made-thrush? No, she decided. However grievous, the scribemaster’s death was of less import to Tiler’s Hold Daughter than knowing his replacement, and far less than whatever she might learn of the Fell.
The death announcement would reach Wendealyon regardless, Insom’s troop being sent back. There wasn’t room on the barge for them, not with the scribemaster’s procession and cargo already on board, and the damesen had been adamant. She would accompany Saeleonarial to the school, along with her carriage and the freight wagons, servants, and drivers. They’d arrange for new made-horses at Alden.
Anyone else at Nor’s Hold who’d thought to take this barge could, in Tercle’s triumphant summation, “Spin on their thumbs till tomorrow’s.”
Bribes? Having watched Pylor, Kait doubted any were necessary. She’d been shaken by the news. Had clung, briefly, to the servant with the pennant, who’d stopped shouting at the sight of her to hurry over and bow low. Her discourse with him and the bargemaster had been brief.
Setting all in motion. “Might we go out, Momma?” Leksand asked, eyes pleading.
The carriage gave another lurch. Someone shouted. “Once they’re done,” she replied rather breathlessly. It shouldn’t take much longer to secure the vehicles, then remove the teams. Mustn’t.
For barges don’t wait.
Magic is everywhere, but not everyone sees.
Watch the barges ply the waters crossing Tananen’s heartland. Pay attention. Dismiss the cries of gulls, the shouts of those at work, the smells and works of people—
For the canals are the dancers’,
And what travels them has wings.
* * *
Her heart thudded in her chest and Pylor refused to look into any face, certain hers would reveal the dreadful truth.
That she obeyed a madman and no good would come of it, nothing good at all—
The rail at the bow stopped her. She clutched it with both hands, though her wounded finger protested, and leaned forward, staring down, seeing nothing, not even a future.
She heard gulls overhead and shuddered.
Was another his?
Now, the scribemaster dead. Insom’s fault. And who’d be next? She should have ordered those in her care to stay behind: her people, Tiler’s people, Tercle, odious Dolren, the elderly uncle, even Kait. Would have, but for the sickening certainty they’d be no safer at home. What was she to do?
“You’re just in time.”
Pylor froze at the unfamiliar voice, then straightened to regard the stranger beside her. One of the crew, by his slovenly garb. A hood shaded his face and paired black braids hung over his chest. “In time for what?”
A hand, cleaner than she’d expected, swept out in invitation to the canal.
For the singer was rising.
Sheer, singers were, so if you didn’t look at the right time, by the soft light of sun’s rise or set, you’d miss the delicate amber tracery of vein and cartilage, and notice only the burst of expected color. Russet, for this barge, filling the way ahead like an enormous flag, announcing a departure that wouldn’t be stopped.
As great wings rose into the air.
Then drove down.
The barge quivered to life. Chains dropped away and gates slammed shut. Pylor held on.
Russet rose again.
Drove down.
Water pushed aside, cleaved by the bow as the ungainly barge leapt forward against the current. Air billowed to either side, trembling empty twigs, rattling bare stems. She’d always stayed inside a carriage or tent as the barge moved. Missed this—
“Such power,” Pylor exclaimed, forgetting her worries, that she wasn’t alone.
“Look down. To the water.”
She did. Dark waves rolled up against the wood, breaking in creamy foam laced with debris. At that edge, a series of large metal rings protruded. Gripping those, huge black—
“Are those claws?”
“That’s how they tow the barges.”
“Then they could let go. Why don’t they?”
“No one knows. Like the dancers, singers suit themselves.” Within the hood, a square chin showed. She glimpsed curved lips and a dimpled, clean-shaven cheek. “To our gain, so long as we keep to their time, not ours, and are willing to stop where they decide.”
“Now you speak nonsense,” she bristled. “Barges go from hold to hold, and stop only at ports.”
“True,” he replied easily. “No less true, ports and holds were built where the singers stop. Does it matter which?”
Ports dictated by wisps. Schedules by whim. Her cousin—Pylor felt undone, her world tilting on a skewed axis, and grew angry at it all. “Of course it matters. What you’re saying—it’s unmanageable. Out of control.” Like Insom.
“Most magic is.” He turned away, leaning on the rail to gaze through sheer wings into a russet-tinged distance, revelations done.
Pylor collected herself; considered him. A cultured voice. The ease, talking with her. This wasn’t a member of the crew, but a fellow passenger, making this man part of the funeral procession. “Your pardon, sir. May I ask you about Saeleonarial?”
A nod.
“I’m Damesen Ternfeather of Tiler’s Hold. I counted the scribemaster my friend, as well as colleague.” She tried in vain to find eyes within the hood’s shadow, an expression to read. “Saeleonarial left my company in good health, I swear it. Please, the truth of this. How did he die?”
Silence stretched, filled with the lap of wave and slough of air through uncanny wings; convinced he wouldn’t answer, she prepared to excuse herself.
Then, “Sael died as does every mage, Damesen.” Hands gripped the rail beside hers. “The Goddess took her fee.”
“And—” Didn’t she know already, by Leorealyon’s absence? She had to be sure. “Her Witness? Tiler’s acolyte?”
“Her life was forfeit before she left the hold.” He turned and walked away.
Pylor stared out through wings that owed nothing to any mage, that pulled a barge for reasons no one knew, and wished she were done with Insom’s bidding. Done with magic.
She welcomed the return of anger. Putting her back to the singer, Pylor headed to the freight wagons.
The tail gate of one was lowered. Inside was an impromptu but effective kitchen as well as supplies and extra harness. On the gate, travel trays were being filled and distributed, steam rising from mugs and reheated soups. The rest was cold fare, but
ample.
Dolren Keeperson lurked nearby, his attempt to look too busy to help fooling no one here.
Pylor smiled to herself, then put on a stern expression. “Dolren.”
He whirled around, bowed clumsily. “Damesen. I was seeing to your supper.”
She didn’t need the cloud building in Tercle’s face to know the lie, but the man had his uses. “I thank you for your concern, but I’ve a more important task for you. Please see to it, personally, that those who accompany the scribemaster are fed first, and well, then the barge crew and our guests from Woodshaven.”
“But—”
“Without the guard, we’ve rations to spare.”
“Twice over, Damesen,” crowed the driver turned cook; Bense Groomson was his name, she recalled. He and his sister drove the freight wagons, their brother indeed a groom. All three were cheerful and boisterous people, willing to do other jobs when they’d no teams, as now. Bense handed Dolren a full tray, stacking another on top. “Careful—”
The unfortunate Dolren having staggered.
“—and come back quick for the rest.”
“Thank you, Dolren,” Pylor said warmly.
He squinted at her through the steam, as though suspicious of approval, then gave a wan smile. “My pleasure to serve, Damesen.”
“Then get to it,” Tercle suggested pleasantly, scowling till he left, then gave Pylor a keen look. “No need for you to wait around, Damesen. I’ll bring ours to the carriage.”
She nodded and walked away.
Supper was the least courtesy deserved by those escorting Saeleonarial’s body home; feeding those responsible for their travel, a prudent generosity.
Enlisting Dolren? Other than the pleasure of watching the man forced to labor greater than his tongue and ears, he was the only one left of their company who might know Insom had ordered her kept from his cargo.
The Gossamer Mage Page 15
