Band sickness was something other than a "disease" then, more like what might be called ... a condition. As for disease, come to think about it, John could not remember seeing any of the sailors ill. Oh, there'd been a little therapeutic, post-party throwing up back at the Canarin dock. Except for that, however, everyone had been well. Apparently, a hard and lonely life at sea was a healthy one.
"Now a' course," Coluth continued, dropping his voice to a rough whisper, "if you was to get careless in the Sea Throat, and get swept in to Azare -- what used to be Azare but is now the black Band, why there, the Band sickness's worse. There, you got to go slow, 'cause you can't go fast, if you get my meaning." Coluth spit into the sea; watched the bubbles drift along side the ship.
"Heavier?"
"That's for certain. I never been there 'acourse ... after it went black." And plainly, that was the sum of what the captain was going to say on that subject!
Band sickness. Still an enigma.
On another puzzling topic, what did it mean that, instead of seeing the hulls of out bound ships "disappear" from the bottom up as they went over the arc of the earth, John could see entire ships fade to dots in the distance? Did it mean that Bandworld was ... an enormous planet, because of the planet's size, the horizon line much farther away than it would be on earth? Tapping his straining memory banks for any relevant knowledge, John remembered that, on the moon, the curve of that much smaller satellite soon cut off an astronaut's view. There were no "vistas" on the moon.
Still, in this place, if the vast distance to the horizon meant that this world was larger than earth, wouldn't gravity also be stronger? And it wasn't. If anything, hearing the captain talk about feeling "lighter" in some Bands than in others, weak gravity in Stil-de-grain could explain the "light" feeling John had been experiencing since he landed here. Weaker gravity could also account for John's "strength" -- remarked on by Golden in the dungeon and occasionally by sailors on the ship.
Of course, you would also have a non-existent horizon line if this world were (like the natives believed it to be) flat. A consideration John didn't wish to think about at the end of a long day.
Docked before down-light, hearing from the sailors of a berthed, Stil-de-grain cutter that there had been border clashes between Stil-de-grain and Realgar -- interesting! -- the dark descended to cut off John's discourse with the other's. The ship tethered to the dock, the Roamer pushed back into the sea at the end of a long rope, John Lyon did what he always did. Listened to the shrill night calls of birds and bugs and to the deeper grunts and coughs and sometimes screams of the invisible animals of the night. He also liked to hear the foreign blur of sailor-talk.
That night, John observed the same phenomena he'd noticed before. After dark, the crew paired up in twos and threes. Always the same groups. Friends? Or simply men who could understand each other's tongue after dark. And something else John had been noticing. Golden, so busy exercising most of the time that John no longer had much contact with him, seemed able to move from group to group, talking quietly with everyone. Did this mean that, unlike the others, Golden understood more than one language? John made a mental note to ask Golden about this -- provided he could get Golden away from his demanding physical regimen!
And thinking of Golden, when Golden had too much of the ship's sweet wine after an evening's meal, he would sometimes sing, the crew always after him to do that, sailors desperate for any kind of entertainment to break up the sameness of their routine. What was interesting was that, not only had Golden climbed the dungeon wall like a cat burglar and arranged their escape from the king's palace by methods that indicated detailed planning, but Golden could sing beautifully. It made John wonder what other surprises might be expected from that young man, a man who, on short acquaintance had been calculating, close mouthed, suspiciously adoring, and unbelievably stuffy. Golden. At best, a tricky piece of work!
The following morning after sun-up (which, since there was no sun, John would be advised to think of as day-break) after a breakfast of pan-fried bread and sweetened, fruit-flavored water, they had pulled the boat back to the dock via its tie-up line, untied, coiled the rope in the prow, and rowed out through the thinning, sea-bound fog to catch the first circular current of the day, one that swept them out over the water and down the coast.
Out and down ... under a changing sky. Changing from bright Stil-de-grain gold into a kind of murky gold and green, toward the edge of a solid, bright green sky band which signaled Malachite. Passing the spot on the shore where the forest of larger trees gave way to shorter trees, the place that Captain Coluth had pointed out to him as the border, John felt ... heavy.
Band sickness! The captain said there would be no mistaking it. And Coluth was right! John felt like unseen hands had strapped weights to him: to his arms, legs, chest, head.
Looking around, John could tell by the way the sailor's moved that they were also feeling weighted down, the crew shuffling about the deck more slowly than they had before.
Turning his too-heavy head to look toward the back of the boat, it was of some comfort to John to notice that even Golden had given up on jumping jacks for the moment. A sure sign that Golden, too, was lumbered with "Band sickness."
Making the effort, John shuffled toward the back of the boat, finding Golden sitting down, leaning against one of the trade boxes stashed on deck. "Tired?" John asked, not that displeased that Mr. Bodily Perfect was also feeling the strain.
"Band sickness," Golden replied matter-of-factly. Somehow, the knowledge that the "sickness" didn't seem to worry Golden any more than it had the captain, made John feel better. And ashamed of himself for enjoying Golden's discomfort.
"But it goes away," John said, glad to know something about this other world.
"You get used to it, of course," Golden corrected.
"Right. Look, Golden ..." Golden now listening intently, with the "eager to please" look of a cocker spaniel. Golden was a complex young man, no doubt of that. "I noticed that you seem to be able to talk to all the men at night. After down-light." Golden nodded. "That's ... unusual?"
"Yes, John-Lyon."
"I've been paying attention, and it seems to me that the members of the crew speak about three languages. Am I right about that?"
"I believe you are, sir. One is Still-de-grain, another Realgar, and the third Malachite."
"And are there other languages that you know?"
"I ... there are other languages, but ..."
"Cinnabar?"
"I would assume so, sir. But who has ever talked with flyers?"
"Of course." That seemed to be consistent with what John had learned of Cinnabar -- as well as anything fell into line in this odd place. "And what about Azare --- the dark or black band?"
Day by day now, the ebon sky-circle which John took to be Azare, grew before them and to the left.
"Yes, John-Lyon."
"And do you speak that, also?"
"I am ... was ... an ... entertainer, sir. I did know some Azare." Golden looked around him, turning his head as quickly as a man could who was suffering from "Band sickness," seeming suddenly to be uncomfortable. A common reaction in those speaking of the Dark Band. "But it is not ... wise ... to speak of that here."
"Why?"
"Because one might be taken for a ... spy. It is unusual enough to speak the language of more than one Band. But to speak Azare. I would only admit that to you, Sir."
"The language of the enemy."
"Just so."
"And your being an entertainer ...?" From the way Golden had climbed the dungeon wall and from all the exercising the young man did to stay in shape, John could believe him to be an acrobat.
"I performed at night, sir. And of course ...."
"At night, without the magic, someone of one band cannot understand someone of another." Golden nodded. "Traveling from Band to Band as an artist, performing after dark, you had to learn all the languages you could." Golden nodded. Simple. "And since people don't
often travel from one Band to the other because of 'Band sickness,' there's little need for the people of one Band to learn the language of the people of another." Again, the nod. John was learning some things about this "other reality," at last. "Particularly since the magic of the light translates all languages by day." The nod.
It was then that John noticed Platinia, huddled behind a bale. Sweating. With the same fearful expression on her small face she'd had in the hallway of his house. (She still held the ship's cat, however.) "What's wrong, Platinia?" he asked, clumping over to her, his legs weighted down by what felt like the body of a fat man.
"I am dying."
By this time, Golden had struggled to his feet to trail along behind. "You have Band sickness," Golden said to the girl, his voice matter-of-fact when addressing anyone but John. "That is all. No one dies from Band sickness."
"Band ... sickness?" the girl asked.
"You are feeling ... heavy?" Golden continued. The girl nodded slowly, her head obviously seeming awkward to her.
"Is this the way you felt when you were in my house?" John asked, squatting down before her, hoping he would have the strength to rise again. "In the place where we met? But even more that here?" This time, besides the nod, the look of fear on the girl's face told John that she understood.
Band sickness. Something you got when you left one Band for another. Something you got when you left one world for another.
One mystery had been solved, at least. Why Platinia was "dying" in John's world.
And what, exactly, was this "Band sickness"? A sudden loss of muscular strength as in an instant case of muscular dystrophy? (Surely something other than a medical problem. For when crossing some Bands, the captain said, you felt lighter.)
John had another thought. Could it be that the land under his feet just over the Malachite border ... thickened? That there was increased mass beneath that Band, making more of a gravitational pull on everything on the surface? And if that could be true, could it also be that John was not standing on a ball of earth beneath his feet -- a ball pulling down with the same gravitational force everywhere on its surface -- but on what the natives clearly thought of as a flat world? Everything he knew about objects in space told him that the norm was spherical suns and planets. Still ....
Considering that many things in this "other reality" didn't make sense, how much more absurd would it be to believe that this world was flat? After all, John had come to accept that there was "magic" in the daylight that allowed the natives to understand all languages -- including English. A magic that let the natives think alight a "cool" torch, but to think some other way to make a torch's "firestones" give off heat for cooking.
What remained -- hardly more than a trifle -- was the difficulty of accounting for night and day in a flat world. Or how there could be night and day without a sun. Or a night without a moon. Or a night with no stars. Or a world with little wind. Or a world that dripped rain every night. Or a day that began and ended in thick fog. Or ......
So ended that line of thought, Band sickness providing the day's excitement.
Other than that, the Roamer continued to spiral down the coast, its "heavy" crew having to put more effort into making the periodic boat shifts from one whirl to another on what had become a bright green sea. A sea the color of the Malachite sky.
Days passed. Days in which John grew accustomed to his increased weight. After all, "earth people" gained weight all the time -- if more slowly. And they got used to it, their extra weight slowing them down, perhaps, but not interrupting their lives to any great extent. So what if John had "gained" 50 - 60 pounds by crossing into Malachite? He'd get used to it. And he did.
Interestingly, John found that, relative to the others, he still had more strength. Which pleased him, childish as that was. Just what you would expect, he found himself thinking, from a dangerous "creature" like himself who was "built" to withstand the pull of a heavy gravity planet!
Stupid.
* * * * *
Chapter 15
"Another drink, lovey?" asked the short, dark bar girl, winking at Golden. Even in the middle of the day, the girl was attempting to set up her evening "appointments." Though the Mage and the girl also sat at the table, the waitress was ignoring them.
Golden had slept with women from every band and there was nothing like the strong loving of the girls of Malachite. Vaguely, through the haze of too much wine, he wondered if all men thought that way about the girls from their home Bands.
His songs, even when unaccompanied (he had to leave his harp behind) attracted women. Not wanting to lower himself in the Mage's eyes by seeming to be nothing but an inglorious entertainer, he sang only in the Mage's absence or -- regrettably -- when drunk. At this tavern and at that.
This girl had been wooed by a short piece of his own composition which, moved by too much wine, he had just sung:
What is it makes me love so true?
Your pixie face? Your devilish eyes?
I even love your playful lies!
Still -- others have these features too.
Why is it, then, I love but you?
Words the woman had apparently taken to be for her, alone.
The night before, more tipsy than he wished to remember, he had sung the old Malachite ballad in yet another inn, the song the first king had composed for his queen.
In silence alone we prove love's bliss,
The secret look, the steady kiss,
The hand that touches in the dark.
Each, in its own way, leaves love's mark.
Since the Roamer had brought them into Bice harbor fifteen up-lights ago, Golden had gotten his fill of tavern girls. And tavern food. And tavern wine. (It was a truth that the inns he frequented only served cheap wine and cheaper women: Fyfeia, Chiappia, Secchia, Valia. Even when sober, their names ran together in his mind.) For, though this was his city -- by right -- he had to keep to the seamier side of Bice. To its back-streets. To its inexpensive bars, Golden and the other two constantly on the move, sleeping in an inn a night. This was the one city where he must not attract attention; not the place to display either his purse or his many talents. And certainly not the city for drunken boasting about his royal heritage. Lithoid, the usurper, would eliminate even the lowliest of those challenging the pretender's claim to the throne.
Unable to focus on the waitress' face in the dim light, seeing a blur of bobbed, black hair, Golden waved her away.
It had not taken long for Golden to discover that coming to Malachite was a mistake. Barely inside the Bay of Bice, a military cruiser had stopped them, sending over a boarding party with sharp questions for the captain and crew, suspicious Malachite naval men picking through the cargo, the Roamer's messenger birds confiscated. Right then, Golden -- and all the others -- had suspected something was very wrong .........
Beyond the serving woman was the inn's main room. A quiet space at this time of day, filled with splintered tables and their run-down chairs, a few drunken patrons sitting on high stools at the counter across the way, the barrel-stomached barkeep serving these "regulars."
"Gim'me 'nother drin' an' make it th' good stuff, this tim'," said a scraggly haired oldster to the barman.
"I ain't ascar' 'a nobody 'ner nothin'," said another guzzler to an old man at counter-end. "This Auro's tough? Jus' let 'em come 'an I'll kick his ass!"
"Shut yo're mouth.' By th' sky-shell, you'll brin' bad luck wit' that kinda talk!" So went the drunken snatches of self important conversation that occasionally wafted across to Golden along with the stale smell of week-old beer. Though Golden saw the barkeeper through an alcoholic mist, Golden knew the man would have a bald head to go with his fat belly. One meaty hand would be poised to paw coins off the counter; the other would clutch a dirty wipe rag. They were all the same.
Upstairs were the usual sleeping rooms, Golden renting one for the night. As usual, he had to pay extra for the two additional beds that must be moved in.
"What a
bout you, mister," said the waitress, turning her too bright smile on the Mage. She would make no "appointment" with John-Lyon-Pfnaravin, either. Not if Pfnaravin continued in his curious pattern of chastity.
A strange man.
"I think I've had enough," John-Lyon-Pfnaravin was telling the waitress, smiling up at her, seeming to be oblivious to her real offer -- as the Mage seemed unaware of so many things. Though the Mage was tall to be a Malachite, dressed in a local tunic, he could pass for one. There were light-haired Malachites, though not many. Golden, of course, was back in his home band.
The girl seated beside them (also a Malachite by birth) said nothing, the waitress paying her no heed. The girl would not provide the extra income that was the waitress' desire.
And here they were, Golden in his own country; but not as its king. (Aristocrat that he was, Golden had vowed not to show his feelings of depression. Certainly, not to the Mage.)
After their escape, when Golden had first suggested to John-Lyon-Pfnaravin that they must leave Stil-de-grain for Malachite, Golden had hoped he could find a way to use the Mage's power to overthrow the usurper, Golden so eager to get to Malachite that he'd even risked lying to the Mage. For there were places in Stil-de-grain where they might have hidden. Caves in remote mountains. Secret rooms beneath inns, the price of these to include the silence of the owner. The quarters of rogues and thieves were also available at outrageous cost, where to hide in an emergency a lesson Golden had learned from the cut-throat pack who had captured him when Golden was a boy.
Instead, Golden had different plans. Once in Malachite, the Mage might demand that he, Pfnaravin, be restored as the Band's Mage. After that, as a loyal friend and follower of Pfnaravin, Golden could find himself installed in Lithoid's Palace, positioned to cause the usurper's death. Or if Pfnaravin failed to be recognized as Malachite's true Mage (John-Lyon-Pfnaravin no longer having the green Crystal of his office) the Mage might cause a revolt against the king. Either way, Golden had plans for assuming his rightful place on the throne.
Under The Stairs Page 19
