THE WIZARD HUNTERS

by Martha Wells

  Florian watched him sympathetically. “I wonder if he knows what happened on their base, what that explosion was that poor woman mentioned. If we could just ask him— Oh, get the wrapper!”

  “No,” Tremaine told him firmly, rescuing the wax paper. “That’s for later, when we get desperate.” If they were here long enough, eating the paper wrappers might become a last resort.

  She turned back to the satchel, studying the ration packets without enthusiasm. There were crackers, chocolate bars, dried fruit and some unappealing tinned meats, plus two water flasks. It didn’t look like it would last them very long; they had to find a way home or reach some more hospitable place, safe from the Gardier. If there was anyplace that was safe from the Gardier. She looked at Ilias, watching Florian show him how to open a tin that the label claimed was beef. Noticing his intrigued expression, Tremaine said, “I don’t think he’s ever seen one of those before.”

  Florian frowned. “You mean one of these where you roll back the lid with the key or seen a can ever?”

  “A can ever.” She noticed there was leather lacing down the sides of his pants and the stitching she could see looked rough and uneven, not machine-made. That didn’t necessarily mean anything; there were plenty of places where people still wore homespun clothes in Ile-Rien. But he had never seen matches or cans. It was more evidence that his people hadn’t had much contact with the Gardier, anyway.

  Florian was looking thoughtful. “You know, we’ve made contact with a new civilization.”

  “A whole new world.” Like the explorers who had been the first to cross the continent of Capidara and meet the native peoples there, or voyage to the Maiutan islands. It was a little hard to realize. They’re not like fay either, they’re real people. It was still possible in some remote parts of Ile-Rien to encounter fayre creatures or hidden entrances to fayre realms. But then poor Tiamarc had proved pretty conclusively, at least to himself, that this wasn’t a fayre world. And now she and Florian seemed to have confirmed that theory. A creature of fayre wouldn’t have helped them. And when fay took human form they looked eerily perfect. They wouldn’t have scars or torn clothes. Or, she thought, watching Ilias vigorously scratch his head, do that. Not to mention using a knife with a cold iron blade and needing human food. It still didn’t tell them what the Gardier’s place in this world was.

  After two tins of meat, crackers and another package of dried fruit, Ilias was licking his fingers and looking a lot less desperate. Bits of mud had flaked off his hair, revealing straw-colored strands. Tremaine was getting an image of a seagoing people, short and compactly built, with bright blond hair.

  Frowning at Ilias, Florian said, “We should do something about that cut. It’s still bleeding.” She shifted forward to point.

  Tremaine leaned closer to study the matted hair above his temple. The mud and the flicker of candlelight made it hard to tell. She touched it tentatively and he pulled away, giving her an indignant look.

  Tremaine wiped at the blood on her fingers and reached back for the satchel, taking out the small medical kit. Ilias eyed the white enamel box warily. She opened it and he shifted away from them, grimacing at the smell of the alcohol. The look he gave her suggested that the food had been a nice gesture and all that but there was no way she was getting near him with whatever that was.

  Tremaine sat back, thinking. She didn’t want him leaving their shelter to get away from her. She asked Florian, “Can you break off a little piece of one of those chocolate bars?”

  Florian found a bar among the litter of ration packages and tore open the wrapping, capturing Ilias’s attention instantly. He might never have seen a can before, but he had learned immediately what waxpaper meant. Florian broke off a little piece and offered it to him. He edged closer to take it, sniffing it dubiously.

  Florian took another piece and nibbled it in demonstration. He tasted it and Tremaine saw his mud-coated brows lift. She said, “And there’s more where that came from if you let me look at your head.”

  He hesitated, though she could tell he knew what she meant. After a moment he grudgingly gave in, moving forward so Tremaine could reach him. She put the medical kit in her lap and scooted closer, motioning for him to lean down a little so she could reach better. She used the wet handkerchief Florian handed her to clean away the worst of the mud and dried blood around the cut on his temple, while Ilias shifted impatiently.

  Her hand brushed against his cheek, gritty from mud and beard stubble, and she felt him flinch slightly. Her hands were still cold and his skin felt hot and flushed. She hoped he didn’t have a fever. She didn’t want to risk giving him any of the sulfa drugs in the kit and she didn’t know what else to do about it. “All done,” Tremaine told him finally, giving him an awkward pat on the arm as she shifted back.

  He sat up, probing cautiously at the wound. He must have been satisfied with the result, because he twisted around and pulled the braided leather jerkin and the tattered rag under it off his shoulder. There was a nasty discolored gash on his back, just to the inside of his shoulder blade, sluggishly leaking blood. It was about three inches long and looked infected.

  “Ouch,” Tremaine murmured, leaning closer to examine it. She could see the spot where something had cut and charred the leather cords, the blood matted in them. There was mud all down his back under it and in the wound. Feeling in over her head, Tremaine turned worriedly to Florian. “Can you do anything about this?”

  Biting her lip, Florian picked up the medical kit and sorted through the packets of dried herbs. “A healing stone is really what we need, but I’ve never done one. Here’s mandrake.” She opened the paper packet, frowning furiously in thought. “I can do a general healing charm while you clean it.”

  Tremaine started to nod, then hesitated as a thought struck. “You don’t think the Gardier will hear it?”

  Florian thought about it, stirring the dried herbs with a finger. “It’s a charm, not a spell. It ... should be all right.” She nodded, and said more firmly, “I think we should do it.”

  “All right.” Tremaine looked up to see Ilias watching them both alertly. He couldn’t see the wound but it must hurt like hell, and he would be able to feel the swelling and the heat of the infection. She found some gauze in the kit and used alcohol on it, ruthlessly ignoring the strangled gasp Ilias made when she cleaned away the dried blood and dirt. He had other scars on his back, two nearly identical broad stripes that ran from the insides of his shoulder blades to down further than she felt she could go on such short acquaintance. Someone had inflicted that damage deliberately; they were far too straight, too uniform to be the product of accident. Earlier encounter with the Gardier, maybe, she thought, distracted.

  Trying to get all the mud out she found a small fragment of sharp metal and gently began to prize it free. He didn’t make a sound, though he twitched with relief when she removed it. Muttering, “That wasn’t comfortable,” she leaned over to the candle to study it.

  She rubbed the blood off on her fingers. “That’s odd.” It looked like aluminum shrapnel. Or duralumin. She had seen enough of it in the bombed areas. He must have been involved in that explosion in the Gardier base. “There was a big fire, an explosion? A big boom?” she asked, showing the fragment to Ilias. He poked it with a finger and grimaced. Tremaine glanced at Florian to see what she thought. The other woman held the crushed mandrake between her cupped hands, her eyes closed in concentration as she mouthed the words of the charm. Tremaine wiped her fingers off on her coat sleeve and went back to work.

  Finally Tremaine blinked sweat out of her eyes and said, “I think that’s it.” Ilias straightened up, craning his neck to try to see the results. The wound was mostly clean and the sluggish blood flow had no dark fragments in it. She wasn’t sure how good a job she had done but hopefully the charm would take care of anything she had missed. Just then Florian whispered a last phrase under her breath, then made a ritual gesture of casting the mandrake away.

  Ilias
turned sharply toward her, then he blinked and started to slump forward. Tremaine caught him and eased him down into her lap, supporting his head on her arm. “Is he all right?” she asked Florian anxiously. “You didn’t do something wrong?”

  “No, no,” Florian assured her, leaning over to smooth his hair back from his forehead. “If you hurt someone with magic, you know.” She brushed a few more flakes of mud away and carefully lifted his eyelids to check his pupils. “I think he was so exhausted the charm just put him under.”

  “Oh.” Relieved, Tremaine leaned back against the wall. It was darker in the crevice despite the candle and she realized the light wasn’t coming from the far end anymore. Clouds must have covered the moon. The passages around the cave harbor and the wrecked ships would be locked in utter darkness. She thought about what Florian had said about being trapped down here alone. Gerard. God, we’ve got to find him before the Gardier do. She hoped Ilias wouldn’t be out too long.

  He was a warm heavy weight in her lap. Even unconscious, his presence was comforting. The mud had worn off in enough patches to show that his skin was a warm bronze color from long exposure to the sun and there were more streaks of blond visible in the mud-coated hair. She realized there was an odd mark on his cheek just below the bone, visible now that the mud was flaking away. It was a small silver half-moon that had somehow been impressed into his skin. That’s different. He was also wearing copper-colored rings in both ears.

  Florian picked up the knife that had been stored in the cranny with the candle and the other supplies, examining it curiously. The long blade was leaf-shaped, the handle a flat hourglass of bone or horn. She set it aside and said suddenly, “With the Gardier, you weren’t afraid.”

  “No.” Tremaine took a deep breath. “I was terrified. I thought I was going to wet myself.”

  “But you acted like we were spies, like we were supposed to get captured all along.” Florian prompted hopefully, “I was actually hoping that was part of a plan I just didn’t know about.”

  “If there was a plan like that, they wouldn’t have picked me to pull it off.” Tremaine shook her head, absently drawing her fingers through Ilias’s hair. Without waking, he snuggled a little. “My family ... I had a lot of training in the theater. Sort of.”

  Florian nodded. “Was that where you learned to pick locks?”

  “Yes . . . No.” What the hell, Tremaine thought. She might as well tell Florian the whole truth. It was doubtful they would make it out of here alive anyway, so it seemed foolish to prevaricate. “My father taught me how to pick locks. Before he started the Viller Institute, he used to do things that weren’t quite legal.”

  “Oh.” Florian was struggling not to look shocked and almost managing it. “Really? Like ... what?”

  Tremaine hesitated. You are going to wish you hadn’t done this. Maybe Florian’s life had been too normal to give her any basis for understanding. Maybe Tremaine didn’t care. Maybe it was time for her to talk. “Steal things, kill people. It’s a long story.”

  Ilias drifted in and out, too wrapped in heavy sleep to make a serious effort toward consciousness. He wasn’t comfortable; there was a sharp rock grinding against his hip and the warm surface his head rested on kept moving. Two feminine voices in anxious conversation right above him was reassuring if confusing. He kept trying to hear them as Amari and Irisa. No, that can’t be right. Amari and Irisa were dead.

  Finally, the odor of decay penetrated the haze around his thoughts and everything abruptly connected. The caves, the wizards, the flying whale on fire. Giliead. He awkwardly pushed himself up and rubbed his stiff neck, grimacing at the feel of the gritty dried mud. He blinked wearily at the two women who were watching him. They looked worried. “Right, I remember. Hello,” he said, trying to sound reassuring.

  They glanced at each other and resumed their conversation. Ilias cleared his throat, shoving his hair out of his eyes. Surprised at the lack of pain from his wound, he worked his arm and shoulder, then reached around awkwardly to probe it with his fingers. What he could feel seemed to be scabbed over. Huh. Maybe it was just the piece that was still stuck in there.

  He worked his shoulder again cautiously. Maybe he had just needed the rest. And the food. I don’t even remember falling asleep.

  Then Ilias saw how far down the candle had burned. Swearing, he turned to scramble down the crevice. He hadn’t meant to sleep at all, just to let the women rest and give the howlers time to take their hunt out of this area.

  He reached the end of the crevice where it overlooked the passage leading into the bottom well of the surface shaft. All he could see was a faint glow of moonlight falling down the opening from above. It was still night at least. Relieved, he turned back to see the two girls watching him curiously. He took a deep breath. Right.

  He ruthlessly chivvied them along as they got their belongings together, then lit one of the torches from the candle. He took the knife since without it they were unarmed, but left the candle, the tinder bag and the remaining torch behind. If Giliead was still somewhere down here and stopped to check this cache, he might need them. Ilias hadn’t found a trace of him in any of the other spots they had camped on previous forays to the island and this place had been his last hope. But there were no new trail marks here and no one had disturbed the cache of supplies.

  The two women did their best to hurry, though they kept making little alarmed noises, then shushing each other. Shooing them to the end of the crevice, he helped them climb down, knowing this would be much easier if he could talk to them and explain the need for haste.

  Whatever language they spoke was just as impossible to understand as the wizards’ speech, though it sounded less abrupt and harsh, more like the way people spoke in Cirenai or Tanais. Their clothes were strangely cut, the bulky heavy fabrics obviously meant for colder weather and the dull colors an odd choice for two pretty girls. And with the strange provisions and the clever little metal boxes for food and the flint-sticks, they had to be traders from somewhere, maybe the far south. Very far south, since neither of them seemed to know what his curse mark was. If they did know, they had both been expert at concealing their reactions to it.

  If there were any more survivors from their ship . . . Hopefully the Swift picked them up, he thought, absently catching Florian’s arm when she stumbled in the dimness. She murmured something shyly and ducked her head. Tremaine, glancing back at the other girl, tripped, and Ilias just managed to catch her too.

  He would have to get them out to Dead Tree Point. If Giliead wasn’t there, then hopefully the Swift would still be waiting and he could hand them over to Halian’s care. Then go back for Giliead. He‘ll be there, he told himself firmly. And if he isn’t, I’ll find him.

  The first snag in this plan came almost immediately. They reached the surface well, dimly lit by moonlight from above. It was square-cut like the air passages and went up at an angle, the chinks and cracks in the walls bristling with ugly little plants and trailing vines. Fresh air flowed down it, carrying the clean scent of the sea. Ilias breathed deeply; he had been down here so long he had almost forgotten what real air smelled like. Both women looked relieved, pointing up the shaft and commenting to each other. But when he tried to get them to climb, they plopped down on the ground and started drawing something in the dirt.

  Ilias gritted his teeth in frustration, planted the torch and sat on his heels to try to figure out what they wanted. After a lot of extensive gesturing he finally realized the drawing was a very bad map of the way back to where he had found them, that they wanted to go back to the harbor cave, or at least to a tunnel that branched off from there. He shook his head emphatically and tried to explain, “That’s not a good place to go.” He drew a line in the opposite direction, toward the surface shaft above their heads and tapped it. “There, that’s the way out.”

  They both shook their heads just as emphatically. Tremaine wiped out his line and drew another back toward the half circle that indicated the harbor. Ho
lding on to his patience with both hands, Ilias shook his head again. “No, we can’t do that.”

  Tremaine just stared at him and Florian bit her lip. Ilias took a deep breath and tapped the circle in the dirt that represented the surface shaft again. Surely they knew what would happen if the wizards caught them all again. He was considering performing a pantomime of what exactly would occur if the howlers cornered them when Tremaine sat up straight with a thoughtful expression. Ilias tensed in hope; maybe she had finally gotten the point.

  Moving deliberately, Tremaine pointed to Florian, to herself, to the empty space next to her, then held up three fingers. Florian nodded urgently.

  Ilias drew a sharp breath. Now he understood. “Three of you.” He looked away and rubbed his forehead. “Oh, no.” So they had lost somebody down here too. He looked up to see them watching him expectantly. He pointed to himself and the empty space next to him and held up two fingers.

  Tremaine blinked as Florian nodded in sudden understanding. As the two women discussed this revelation, Ilias stared at the makeshift map, not really seeing the crudely drawn image. He had to help them. Even if they hadn’t saved his life and shared their food and tended his wounds, even if they had been openly hostile instead of friendly, he wouldn’t have left the two of them alone here. He couldn’t.

  Ilias took a deep breath, formulating and discarding alternate plans. The best option would be to get them to the meeting point on the surface and have them wait there while he went back to search for Gil and their friend. And you’re thinking as if you know Gil’s not there waiting for you. One step closer to thinking of him as dead. No, stop that, he told himself bleakly. It wouldn’t do any good. Giliead was either dead, at the meeting point, or down here somewhere following Ilias’s trail signs and trying to find him. And if it was the third option, then doubling back this way would only mean Ilias would find him sooner.

  I could move faster alone. He looked up, wondering if he could trust the women to stay where they were put, to wait for him while he went back after the others. He eyed them, noting the patient way Tremaine sat there waiting for him to give in and how Florian kept casting little glances at her for guidance. He thought in resignation, No. He couldn’t chance it. Not without being able to explain coherently and extract promises not to follow or go searching on their own.