And across from the jetty was another precipice and another pair of steps: At the top was a castle or a fortress or a fortified town or — but Tabnath Lo could not conjecture what else it might be, let alone what it was; it was built more into the side of the precipice than on top of it; and banners waved along its walls and there were many walls, and it seemed to him as he stood and gazed and murmured that he could recall no such place at all, nor lake nor sea nor walled place, nor even (now he came to think upon it) any such fields of flowers or lane of velvet trees — it seemed to him as he stood amazed that a strange and muted music drifted across, rising and swelling and falling upon the breeze, if there were a breeze: great gongs and shawms and trumpets and pipes and kettledrums. He saw no menfigures but he saw a long, long dock at the foot of the hillface.
And he watched as something like a bat’s wing fluttered up and then another and another and another until a whole line of them all along the wharf or dock and then this moved out upon the water and he saw at last that they were sails and a bridge was moving out upon the water — not a dock at all — a bridge all built upon a floating foundation of small, small boats — a bridge which swung out from the shore and, pushed by the black batwing sails, moved across its angle and turned upon its curve and cut the dappled surface of the water. A bridge pushed by a breeze.
Only … was there a breeze?
And all this while the man watching upon the summit of the hill seemed to hear the sound of a strange music, cymbals and serpents and sackbuts, great gongs and shawms and trumpets and drums and pipes and horns: now swelling, now receding.
And then the end of the bridge touched against the piles of the jetty. It was not a perfect fit, and no doubt was not intended to be: the bridge was just that longer that the jetty prevented its passing any farther. And so it stopped. There was no manfigure upon it. Then there were two. The batwings luffed and flapped. Then they filled. Slowly the end of the bridge swung away from the wharf and slowly the merchant and his mute walked along the floating bridge that walked upon the water. The wind which had sent it was now the wind that fetched it. Or was it another wind? Or was there any wind at all? The walls of the castellated fortress-building-city marched along the hill and swarmed down almost to the lip of the lake. The walls were of gray stone bordered and patterned with red stone. And great black pines trooped down to the water.
“This may have been unwise,” the merchant said, musingly, as much to himself as to his mute. “But I had such a yearning to hear that exceedingly strange music that — ” He stopped. He compressed his face. “Strange,” he said. “Strange. Strange. I do not hear it now. How strange.”
The bridge ground against the piles and bumped and butted. Merchant Lo started to step ashore. The mute took his arm, the mute shook his head, he hissed, he beckoned, he held back. But Lo said; “There is no other choice, my mute. The bridge, I am quite sure, will not return with us, without we step ashore and do what is expected of us … whatever that may be … whatever time it takes.
“And therefore we may as well begin to do it now.”
They stepped ashore. The air was filled with cleanly pinesmell and a fainter scent of woodsmoke and the odor of the clean lake (if lake it was) itself.
“So, spies,” said a voice behind them. They turned in an instant to see six men armed with swordpikes held at the ready, and a seventh who had no arms. “So, spies,” said this one. And for the moment said no more. His gray hair was cropped thin, and lay like a helmet upon his head. The six soldiers or guardsmen might have been of another race altogether: dull of color and of eye, tall, somewhat stooping, long of arm and leg and slack of belly and pendulous of lip, ears huge and protruding, with fleshy and sagging lobes; and their teeth were long and crooked and yellow.
“Golemeem!” exclaimed Tabnath Lo. Then, blinking: “We are no spies.”
The graypoll said, “That were a new thing, if spies were to declare that they were spies. Spies deny, ever, that they are spies — you deny that you are spies — therefore it follows that you are spies. Besides which, you were seen standing on the opposite side and looking at this side, which is spying. Furthermore, you crossed over to this side, where you have no legitimate business, and whither you were not invited. Moreover, he who listens distinctly heard a voice saying, Espy out the land — ”
“It was not I. It was not I.”
“Ah, so. Was it he?” — indicating the mute.
“No, he — ”
“Well, then. It was not he, therefore it was you. A voice is heard demanding, Espy out the land, and you appear and do it. And also a voice had been heard saying something else. It was heard saying, Allitu … Allitu … Allitu … Ahah. Yes. Just so.” For Tabnath Lo had changed color. The graypoll looked at him with keen, derisive interest. “Just so, spy. Your occupation, you see, is known. And so, for that matter, is your purpose. You know it, I know it, but in order that you may know for sure that I know it, I shall declare it to you.”
He paused, smiled thinly. “You are an agent and a forerunner of that Prime Deceiver which deluded and deluders term The Cap of Grace.”
Despair turned Lo’s heart heavy as the golem-guards bound his hands with thongs of white leather. But he reflected that a forerunner implies an aftercomer, and his heart grew lighter.
• • •
That long, dark cold afternoon in Shindar’s Port (was it as far away in time as in space? or did it only seem so?) had really begun with the pouch-eyed stranger sitting across the sluttered table at the hot-wine shop. He smelled of the sea and his worn clothes had salt-spray dried upon them, but mariner clearly he was not. Perhaps he was that rare thing, an augur both learned and sincere, or perhaps a marred merchant over-given to metaphysic or similar arcane speculation. “You look, Stranger, as though you’d seen Leviathan,” Stag said, half-wondering why he bothered to speak.
The other man looked up. His face twitched. “Let us not open Rahab’s mouth,” he said, voice low.
Stag grunted. “Well, then, and as we have opened our own,” he said, “let’s put something hot in them: Wine-boiler, two here — ”
Scrips and scraps of this and that had they talked, and nudged sundry subjects and passed on to and passed on through others. Now and then a gleam and a sparkle lit up eyes, but not for long. Stag’s mind wandered, the other talked, some noise sounded, not loud enough to jar the speaker, it yet snapped Stag back into an awareness of what was being spoken.
“This world of ours, seemingly so self-contained,” the man with the pouched eyes was saying, “is actually nothing of the sort. Our island-globe, seemingly so stable and perpetual, is actually poised forever on the brink of dissolution and destruction. At every time and from every direction — including directions of which you cannot conceive — blows are aimed at our world, and each blow is warded off by an interposing and invisible shield. Should that shield slip, would an intrusion upon the natural order of things occur? It might seem so. But suppose the natural order of things requires and contains a provision that this shield must sometimes slip? — For sometimes slip it does: first occurs starflux to warn us; next is what is called earthflux — ”
“That is what it is called,” Stag, now totally attentive, broke in upon the man’s words; “but what is it, truly?”
The man with the pouched eyes sighed and was a while silent. Then he said, in a low, low voice, “In truth, only those, perhaps, who have lived through it can say. It has not come to pass in your time nor mine — yet. Pray it never does.”
He repeated, “Pray it never does….” Presently he went away, and Stag did not see him again.
Chapter Twenty-Six
Shindar’s Port is perhaps not really at the world’s end, but it does well enough. South of it lies a sea so studded with rocks like great black teeth that no vessel larger than a ship’s boat could possibly pass: and no ship’s boat could live an instant in those angry seas whose waves roar and dash themselves upon the rocks in incessant endeavor. Perhaps, inde
ed, they are engaged in rushing for the Rim of the World in order to lose themselves over the side; or, indeed, perhaps their agitation comes from another cause and they themselves from another direction, if that contrary legend be true, that their source sees them rushing down upon the Rim of the World … which, says that same legend, they must eventually wear away….
But the soft, damp airs of the Great Valley which inclines like some vast scoop from Shindar’s Mountains to Shindar’s Port produce fleeces of unequalled texture — or perhaps the merit lies in the sweet grasses on which the sheep crop — or perhaps it is after all the softness and dampness of the air which gives the grasses their special qualities; who knows? From the often snowbound forests which lie the other side of the mountains are brought, year after year, bales of furpelts whose thickness and sleekness are unequalled.
Shindar’s Lands have neither lord nor king nor syndics nor bailiffs, but the clansmen, both sheepherds and trappers, elect their own Courts; these courts distribute and redistribute, lustrum by lustrum, the rights of grazing and trapping; they hold the Great Sales and they direct the affairs of Shindar’s Port, whither and whence the ships proceed with grain and wine and oil, or with the wool or skins gotten in trade. It is astonishing how many ships can be fitted neatly and without crowding within the stone breakwaters of Shindar’s Port, and it is astonishing how quietly the roughest seamasters submit to the direction of the portwardens. It was not always so. Brawling and violence was once common enough, and one year a coalition of foreign mariners seized the Port and held it for that year and for the next.
And then the Shindari from both sides of the mountains came down, came down with deliberate speed, traveling by night and in the daylight concealing themselves in the innumerable sheepfolds of the Great Valley. They took the Port and, sparing but one out of every five, they burned the foreign ships: and on each fifth vessel they placed, disarmed, its own crew and the crews of the four others; and they sent them off, forbidding that they ever return. The following season there were fewer ships, the year after there were more than ever before. But only one of the attainted vessels ever dared come back, and it was promptly sunk. Since then there had been little trouble at Shindar’s Port, there in the chill southern end of the world.
Many tales are told there, rumors and reports slide back and forth across the wet tables as swiftly as the mugs of hot wine; stories of wars between the sheydeem and the men-beneath-the-sea, of the corsairs and the wreckers, of cities sacked and loot as cheap as stockfish, of syndicates and partnerships formed (or formable) to adventure upon strange errands — or, upon common — stories of the deaths of kings, of great hoards of gold found here and there, of vessels plucked apart by dragons and by were-whales. They lie about ordinary things and are suspected of lying, they give true account of extraordinary things and are often believed, sometimes they are secretive and sometimes they sketch rough maps for all to see. Often they talk about the Cap of Grace. Oftener they talk about women. There are not many available to them there, at that rough harbor at the world’s end, and though long voyages do sharpen appetites not even appetite can bring for more than a moment forgetfulness that the worn trulls who have plied their abrasive trade in every port upon the coast are anything other than what they are — that is, worn trulls. A man often emerges from their cribs hungrier than he went in.
Stag sat at a table crowded with fellow-captains, sullen for no reasons good enough that he could think of, gulping now and then at the hot, honeyed wine; hating all the hairy, smelly, loud-lipped shipsmasters whom, and not so long ago, he had envied. It had been a bad time coming down, his vessel had met with unseasonable bad winds, with the result that he would be the last to be loaded: with the further and inevitable result that he would certainly meet with seasonably bad winds upon his return. Enough to put any man in a temper. But. Still. Bad winds were tangible things. He had fought them, complied with them, beaten them, won away from them before. It was not this alone that weighed him down, caused him to keep his mouth pressed shut except when letting wine into it. It was his ancient, well-remembered enemy, the black hag which could ride him by either day or night, be he gaunt-bellied or full. It was a bad thing, bad enough it would have been had he known a reason for it. But he knew none. He had worked and fought his way up from ship’s boy to ship’s master. Endured hungers and thirsts and submitted to outrage, pain, and fear. Had agreed and not just once to do three men’s work for two men’s pay. Gone days without sleep and more days than that without food or water or even the black comfort of soon and certain death. Had known sure hopes to be proven false and true friends to prove themselves falser. No longer depended on anything except his own strength. Knew it to be his one sure friend. By it and by nothing else, not by comeraderie, not by fortune, but by his own mind and power and steadfastness, had achieved what he was now: any man’s equal and no man’s subordinate: the master of the ship which he owned.
And a fine, good ship she was, too.
He had won her hulk in a wrestling-match which had left him stiff and bruised for months. He had spent a full year in selecting planks to replace the bad old ones, appearing in every woodyard for hundreds of leagues about, paying unheard of prices to get what he wanted even if they had been promised to and paid for by others. He had rebuilt her, plank by plank himself, caulked her and pitched her, stood over the ropemakers and the sail-makers, hired augurs to select the best day for cutting her mast-tree and cutting it himself and floating it down two lakes and a river to the sea; shaped the spar and smoothed it and stepped it in. He had accepted no charter until, having sailed her back and forth, in good weather and in bad, for months, he had observed her needs and supplied them; had learned her faults and corrected them. And he had already refused offers to purchase and to trade her, more than he could remember how many. He had put into her all his wealth and all his strength and all his knowledge. And now, thinking about her, how good she was, how much men envied him for her, her beauty and her skill, he slowly felt the black hag depart from him.
“What do you know about it?” someone shouted, almost in his ear. He blinked, slid his mug across to the servitor who had come round again with the ladle and the steaming pot.
“More than you do, sonny!”
“I’m not that young nor you so old — ”
“ — earned my ship, didn’t inherit her, so — ”
A drunken old fool and a drunken young one — so Stag, with a half-indifferent glance, summed up the sorry quarrel. But the others were egging them on.
“I’ve sailed rings around Leviathan, I’ve — ”
“What do you know about — ”
“I’ve seen Rahab’s vent and — ”
Time to be getting on, Stag thought. But the wine was so hot, there was so little to do until his turn came to load. He shrugged, sipped.
“What do you know about the shoals — ”
“ — seen more shoals than — ”
“ — graven bones — ”
“ — had a rich uncle, so he thinks that — ”
“ — made your money selling pretty boys to — ” The quarrel then descended into personalities, somehow the quarrel spread, some master mariners supporting the graynosed senior and some the redbearded junior. Who nonetheless continued to shout and curse at each other: when the wine is in, the wit is out. Like children they hurled names, like children they exchanged boasts. Graynose thrust his hand into his tunic and pulled out a tiny pouch on a thong and shouted, “Got a stone here that was robbed from the dragon-hoard of Smarasderagd himself, could buy you and sell you, thousand times — ” And so of course what must redbeard do but copy the gesture and improve upon the boast and in went his hand and out came his hand and he waved his own bitty pouch and shouted, “I’ve got a stone here from the border of the Cap of Grace and it’s — ” His mouth moved but his words were lost in the roar of laughter which went up all around, but mostly and most loudly and most loathsomely from graynose himself.
Redb
eard spat in his face. The table went over. The benches went down. The benches swung up. The benches started to crash down. Everyone was struggling, fighting, stamping, shouting. Redbeard lay in a corner with his mouth opening and closing like a fish’s mouth and his hands struggling to push himself up but his hands kept slipping because of the blood all around him and in a moment he had stopped trying. Because it was his blood.
By that time everyone on his feet was out the door or going out the door, Stag among them, not the first and not the last. The wineboiler was shrilling for the portwardens. The wind was cold from the grayblack sea. The wind was sharp from the sharp black rocks. Not the wind and not the rocks were as sharp as the knife which had given redbeard a second mouth in his throat and stained his beard a redder shade by far. Stag had caught him as he staggered and held him as he slumped and Stag’s hands had made futile movements, useless gestures. He knew that redbeard was as good as in the Cool Gray Realm as though the man were already in it. He let him slide, he even may have (may have: it was all so swift, so sudden, and so swift) may have eased him a bit as he slid — what difference? no difference — and he turned to go, turned and ran as all the others were running, but with this difference between him and them: that most of them had nothing in their hands and one man may still have had a knife in his hands but Stag had a tiny leather pouch in his one hand and he clenched it and his other hand as he turned down a stonewalled alley and behind him the oo-oo-oo-ing of the portwardens’ convoluted trumpet-shells.
The Island Under the Earth Page 11
