The Gate of Gods (Fall of the Ile-Rien)

by Martha Wells

  No, really? Tremaine thought, rolling her eyes. There were some quiet comments exchanged in the audience, then Delphane continued, “Of course we know now the barrier must be maintained through use of the crystals. Now if anyone has any thoughts…”

  After an interminable period, the meeting broke up for a short interval. Tremaine suspected it was to give the older members of the Capidaran delegation a chance to retreat to one of the retiring rooms where there were working radiators. She noted that Ixion had guards who conducted him away, burly young men in Capidaran dress militia uniforms of red and gray. There was also an older man with old-fashioned muttonchop whiskers, dressed in a well-tailored civilian suit, who would be a sorcerer, and a correct young woman in a dark dress who must be his assistant or apprentice. Tremaine snorted to herself in disgust. Small use that would be if Ixion decided to make trouble.

  She caught up with Gerard out in the foyer in time to hear him tell Averi, “I think that demonstrated that Ixion’s claims are completely false. Even under mild provocation, he couldn’t keep himself from making a threat.”

  “Yes, but I hardly think what Valiarde said was mild provocation,” Colonel Averi pointed out wearily. “The man is impossible.”

  Well, yes, Tremaine mentally agreed. She looked around, noting that Nicholas was not only impossible but absent, off on his next mission. It looked suspiciously as if he had only shown up for the meeting to invite Ixion into that confrontation. She stopped abruptly, letting Gerard and the colonel draw ahead of her, wondering if that were the case. He would have had to know that Ixion would be there, she thought, annoyance turning to anger. And he didn’t tell us…. But she didn’t see how he could have known; they had only been in Capidara two weeks, surely not even Nicholas could have set up a spy network in that time. Unless he already had one in place, and he just had to find it again….

  “Tremaine, if you have a moment.” Giaren stepped up to her, opening a brown cardboard portfolio. He was a young man, dressed very correctly, with his hair slicked back. He was Niles’s assistant in the Viller Institute, though he wasn’t a sorcerer himself. “I thought you might want some of these.”

  The portfolio was filled with photographs. Tremaine took the first he handed her, diverted. “You took these?”

  “Yes.” He paged through the others, selecting a few. “I’ve been using the camera to help catalog the Institute’s experiments with the spheres and it seemed natural to take some exposures of the Ravenna. Though,” he admitted, apparently realizing just how many photographs were in the portfolio, “I seem to have gotten a bit out of hand.”

  The black-and-white image Tremaine held was grainy but she recognized the Ravenna’s boat deck immediately. It had to have been taken when they were disembarking at Capistown port; the long hulls of the lifeboats that nearly made a roof over the deck were swung out in their davits and a crowd of refugees and sailors milled around the railings. Back against the wall, Giliead was seated on the steps that led up to one of the hatches, Ilias at his feet. Many of the other figures were a little blurry as the camera had caught them in motion; the two Syprians, sitting still, were in sharper focus.

  There was a hard edge to Giliead’s face and his expression was guarded and suspicious. Ilias looked more relaxed but still watchful. His hair had come mostly loose from his queue and hung down past his shoulders in a mane of curls and tangles. The lack of color muted the effect of their Syprian clothes, but the sleeveless shirts and jerkins, the leather boots and braid, armbands and earrings and the pants with lacing rather than buttons still looked exotically different from the dungarees or tweed or pullovers that everyone else seemed to be wearing.

  From this distance the curse mark branded into Ilias’s cheek was just a glint of metallic light against his skin.

  She sorted through the other photographs, finding one of the ship’s officers posed rather stiffly in the wheelhouse, and one of Gerard and Niles, Gerard’s dark head bent down near Niles’s sleek blond one, their backs half-turned toward the camera and their attitude that of conspirators. So the last great sorcerers of Ile-Rien will be remembered to posterity, she thought dryly, if there is a posterity. But the next was of Arites, sitting cross-legged on the floor of a lounge she didn’t recognize, his parchment sheets in his lap and his wooden pen in his hand, gazing earnestly up at someone standing over him. His braids were loose and his hair was falling into his eyes, making him look much younger than he was. Had been.

  Giaren must have read her expression. He said quietly, “That’s the young man who was killed, isn’t it?”

  Tremaine let out her breath, ignoring the tightness in her chest. “Yes. One of them.”

  Giaren cleared his throat and sorted through the folder of photos again, changing the subject. “I thought I had one of your father, but it didn’t develop.”

  Tremaine nodded ruefully. “It’s the silver nitrate in the film stock. He doesn’t show up on it.”

  Giaren stared at her blankly.

  “That was a joke,” she added belatedly.

  “Oh.” He sounded relieved.

  Ilias was waiting for Tremaine out in the drafty hall, sitting on a wooden bench. He wore a borrowed dark blue naval officer’s greatcoat that mostly concealed his Syprian clothes: a sleeveless shirt, dark-colored pants and boots of dyed and stamped leather. He also wore a white gold ring on a thong around his neck, a wedding gift from Tremaine. The copper and leather armbands were hidden by the coat and the copper disk earrings were buried in his hair.

  Seeing him under the brighter electrics of the hallway gave Tremaine a slight shock. He was pale and there were bruised hollows beneath his eyes, and he looked ill. Or more correctly, he looked like someone accustomed to living his life outdoors in hard physical activity who now had little to do, was trapped inside most of the time, couldn’t sleep for the noise, hadn’t seen the sun in days and could hardly breathe the bad air.

  The Syprians hated Capidara. Capistown was crowded onto a hilly narrow peninsula that sheltered the large harbor, so land was at a premium. Buildings of brown brick or weathered stone, crammed with businesses or flats, stood several stories tall, blocking out the winter daylight from the narrow streets. And, unlike Vienne, there had been no room to expand and no great building projects in the recent past to widen the main avenues and turn old byways that had been little more than footpaths into real roads. The streets here were perpetually crowded with wagon and automobile traffic and a constant din of shouting and engines and horns.

  The Ravenna wasn’t the most aromatic of transports but the cool clean wind of the Syprians’ world had swept the steamship odors away through most of the trip. Even Tremaine, used to cities and automobiles, could smell the stink of smoke here; it was making all the Syprians ill and the cold and damp didn’t help either. Gyan, oldest of the Syprians who had followed them from Cineth, had been unable to stand it and was staying on the Ravenna, where the air was fresher and the ship’s heating system kept the cold at bay. Danias, the youngest Syprian, had been sent with Gyan, partly to get him out of the city and partly because Syprians couldn’t contemplate going anywhere alone. Pasima and the rest of her contingent—Cletia, Cimarus and Sanior— had separate quarters in the Port Authority, which kept the interfamily fighting to a minimum.

  The Ravenna was anchored near the mouth of the harbor, as Capistown’s deep-water docks were crowded with their own big ships, unable to leave port because of the Gardier’s attacks on their regular routes.

  Another Rienish Vernaire Solar liner, the Queen Falaise, was docked there also, having been trapped here by the war. She was now being loaded with supplies and weapons for the embattled troops in Parscia, and had had one of her grand ballrooms turned into a circle chamber for the etheric world-gate spell.

  Tremaine dropped down onto the bench next to Ilias, saying, “Don’t laugh at the hat.”

  She didn’t manage to provoke a smile, though Ilias leaned against her, close enough to rest his shoulder against hers f
or a moment, a Syprian gesture that could be a greeting or an offer and request for reassurance. “Well?” he asked. “How did it go?”

  “That depends on which side you’re on.”

  He lifted a brow. “That badly.”

  “Yes.” She hesitated. “I need to tell you…”

  “Ixion’s found himself a lawgiver who thinks he can use Ixion against the Gardier,” Ilias interrupted grimly.

  “That’s… exactly it.”

  Ilias just looked tired and resigned. “We’ve been expecting it. He manipulates people. Even without curses, he’s good at it.”

  Tremaine took a deep breath, searching for reassurance to offer and not finding any. Giliead, the god of Cineth’s Chosen Vessel and the only one who had been capable of communicating with the single Gardier crystal they had captured, had already flatly refused to help unless Ixion was executed. What this was going to do to the fledgling Rienish-Syprian alliance Tremaine didn’t want to consider. Given the way Syprians hated and feared magic and sorcerers, it had been a miracle the alliance had even progressed this far.

  Two women passing down the corridor, dressed in the height of Capidaran fashion, were staring at them with sharp critical expressions. Capidarans could be astonishingly provincial at times, even here in their largest city, and many seemed to regard the Syprians dubiously. Perhaps because they were too like the native inhabitants of this area, forced out to make way for the Capidarans. Tremaine stared back, widening her eyes slightly, and was rewarded when both women looked hurriedly away. She turned to Ilias to find him watching her quizzically. He asked, “How do you do that?”

  “What? Oh.” She shook her head slightly. Things you learn in a mental asylum. “It’s a talent.”

  Gerard stopped in front of them, preoccupied and harried. “Hello, Ilias. Tremaine, we’re starting again.”

  “Oh, goody,” she said mock-brightly, and got to her feet.

  Ilias watched them go. The hall was cold, but he didn’t want to go back to their room in the building across the street. It was cold too.

  He wasn’t used to having nothing to do. Even when he and Giliead were home at Andrien, there was always something that needed to be done. A fishing boat with a leaky hull, a fence to repair. There seemed to be so much that needed doing here, but none of it could be done by him. He felt useless.

  Then he saw Pasima coming up the corridor and felt worse. She was a tall woman from the coastal Syprian strain, wearing a dark-colored stole pinned at her shoulder, mostly concealing the colors of her Syprian clothes. Her dark hair was braided back from her face, and while her features were a little less finely cut than those of her beautiful sister Visolela, men still turned to follow her progress as she walked past.

  Ilias knew she would sail by him without a glance, so it took him a moment to realize those were her boots with the red-stamped leather planted on the floor in front of him. He looked up at her, startled and wary. Her face was set in hard lines and white from long days of tension. She sat down on the bench, almost close enough to touch. Startled, Ilias shifted away, just to make it clear he didn’t find her presence any favor. “Someone might see you,” he told her, making no effort to keep the sarcasm out of his tone.

  She watched him critically, long enough to make the back of his neck prickle, though he just looked back at her and refused to break the silence. Then she said, conversationally, “You really think this foreign woman wants you?”

  He could have done without that. He said dryly, “Curse marks don’t make any difference between the legs.” The silver brand on his cheek, given to any Syprian who survived a wizard’s curse, made him a pariah in the Syrnai. His status was a little better since Tremaine had married him, but not in the eyes of people like Pasima.

  She shook her head, as if he hadn’t spoken. “You aren’t like their men, you don’t know the first thing about living in a city like this. The only reason she took you was to get Giliead’s help. If he continues to refuse to help her people, you should ask yourself how long you’ll have a place here.”

  Arguing with her was pointless. Saying she was right that he couldn’t live here but that for the rest there were some things you had to take on trust was worse than pointless. He said through gritted teeth, “What do you want?”

  Pasima took a sharp breath. “I want you to talk to Giliead.”

  Ilias looked away, tightening his jaw. Of course she did. “You can talk to him yourself.”

  “He won’t listen to me.” She shifted forward, lowering her voice, though there was no one in the corridor who could understand Syrnaic. “You know what will happen if he goes back to Cineth.”

  “What could happen,” Ilias corrected, unable to help himself.

  “I don’t want him to be hurt.”

  He snorted and eyed her skeptically.

  Her face tightened with offense. “He’s my brother by marriage. If you don’t believe I have any concern for him, at least believe I don’t want the disgrace to fall on my family.”

  Ilias met her eyes. Maybe it was true. Family honor was vitally important to Pasima. Grudgingly, he said, “What do you want to say to him?”

  She took a deep breath. “That he should stay here. Not return home.”

  Ilias stared at her, his brows drawing together incredulously. He had said the same thing to Giliead himself already, and though they both knew it wasn’t possible, he still couldn’t quite get it out of his head. Hearing Pasima echo it was unnerving. “He can’t do that.”

  She shook her head as if he had made some silly emotional protest, not understanding. “He would be safe. Safe from the god’s punishment, at least,” she amended, perhaps remembering that none of them were safe, now that the Gardier could cross worlds wherever they wanted.

  “He has to know what will happen,” he told her, annoyed. Surely no matter what she thought of Giliead, she could understand that.

  “He should accept it, stay here, and let the god choose another Vessel,” she insisted.

  Oh, now I see. Ilias smiled sourly. “The god won’t choose another Vessel while Giliead lives.”

  Pasima frowned in disbelief. “How do you know that?”

  “It’s in the Journals.” Gathered by various poets through the years, the Journals told the stories of all the Vessels, their life histories, the wizards they had fought and killed, details about the different curses they had encountered. Everything they knew about the gods. Most people didn’t bother to read the whole text, as the poets usually excerpted the more entertaining stories. But Ilias had had to do something on all the long nights Giliead had set himself to study, so he had read them too. “There’s a story about Liatres, a Vessel from Syigoth. He was injured in a battle on the Outer Islands and couldn’t walk. He lived for years after, but the god didn’t choose the Vessel to replace him until he died.” Arites had been writing Giliead’s journal, Ilias recalled suddenly. He didn’t know if the older parts had been copied and sent to the poets in Syrneth yet or not. The newest part must be mixed up with the story Arites had been writing of the Ravenna’s voyage. Though if things went the way they feared, Giliead’s journal might not be a story Arites would have much wanted to tell.

  Pasima sat back, her brows knit. Ilias felt a flash of pity for her. He said, “There’s nothing anyone can do about it now. We have to wait and see what the god will do.”

  Her face set, the lines of strain around her finely shaped mouth deeply etched. “There’s a reason our ancestors decided to mark the cursed. Maybe it’s Giliead’s continued association with you that made this happen.” She stood abruptly. “You should stay here and let him return alone.”

  Pasima didn’t stay to take in his stung expression, already turning on her heel, striding away down the cold corridor. Ilias looked at the mud-stained stitching on his boots, gritting his teeth until his jaw hurt. Why did you even talk to her? What is wrong with you?

  When he looked up, Nicholas Valiarde was standing over him. He wore Rienish clothing, all
in black, most of it concealed by a long black coat. Oh good, it’s my crazy father-in-law, Ilias thought in resignation. This day was just getting better and better. Nicholas said, “Come with me.”

  Ilias eyed him. “No.”

  An eyebrow lifted slightly. “You only take orders from my daughter?”

  Ilias lifted a brow right back at him. “Yes.”

  Unexpectedly, Nicholas’s mouth quirked in amusement. He sat down on the bench, sweeping his coattails out of the way. “I see.”

  A test, Ilias thought sourly. That was about all he needed. Then he realized Nicholas had spoken Syrnaic. “You got the god-sphere to give you our language.” It came out sounding like an accusation. The special sphere, the one that the wizard Arisilde lived in, had given Tremaine, Gerard, Ander and Florian the ability to speak Syrnaic when they had first come to Cineth. They had discovered later how to get it to give the ability to speak Aelin, the Gardier language. At least Nicholas had learned that one the hard way, by living among the Gardier.

  “It seemed easiest.” Nicholas regarded him for a long moment. “I have an appointment to view a house in town. Do you want to accompany me?”

  Ilias frowned, not certain he understood. “A house?”

  “Gerard needs a place to make further experiments with the sphere. And I’m assuming you and the others find the accommodations in the refugee hostel as uncomfortable as I do.” He watched one of the Capidaran warriors with a shooting stick propped on his shoulder stride down the hall.

  Ilias thought it over, considering briefly the idea that Nicholas might mean to kill him. At this point, anything would be a welcome distraction. He shrugged. “I’ll come.”

  Ilias had walked along the harbor with the others, usually to look wistfully at the Ravenna, but he had only gone into the city a few times, and not very far. The noise and stink of smoke was bad enough inside the port.