He slowed to a walk, thrust his hands deep into the folds of his cloak. The alley was strange to him but it had a downward slope, and so, unless it was a cul-de-sac, led down to the Inner Hole, where his ship was, in Shindar’s Port. And if it should prove to be a cul-de-sac, then he would calmly turn and walk slowly back. He was no longer part of any murderous scene.
The alley did prove to be a cul-de-sac. The last building had, hanging in front of it, a small sack stuffed with wool, and it danced in the wind that now and then swept in gusts down the narrow way. A pillow: a lodginghouse: he rapped on the door. It opened so suddenly that he stood back, alarmed. Then, observing that the latchstring was inordinately long and stretched out of his sight, he entered.
“Close it behind ye,” a thin voice said. She was old and looked ill and sat by the fire. The door closed and she let the cord drop to the side of the chair it was fastened to. “Common-room, or sole?” Almost automatically, she cocked her head and simpered at him. The look passed in a moment, but it told him enough. “Sole,” he said, and fished her a bit of copper and tossed it in her lap. She gestured, she turned her head back to the fire. What did she see in it? The faces of men beyond count? the dreams she might have dreamed before beginning the slow descent to whatever shabby whorehouse at the world’s end had seen her last days of pretended desirability?
He turned the door of the tiny room on its pivot and swung the bar in place. A thin spear of light lit the chamber, lit on the dirty pile of fleeces and the thin pillow, its floc pounded into lumps, lit the waterjug and the two pots. He opened his still-clenched fist. He opened the tiny pouch with his teeth, tearing and sawing at the sinews which sewed it, ripping the rag which concealed a wad of flax and …
… something else …
… for around its border were set those which shone like gleamwood in the daytime and like the sun at night …
It was only a fragment, and it was not a stone. Impossible to tell what it was, or what it might be. But now, here, in a dim, dim, dimness halfway between daylight and dark, it gave off a visible light, and it seemed to him that this light was indeed halfway between that of gleamwood and sunshine. And yet was neither. And yet was something else. It felt well, lying in his hand. It felt comfortable. Was it indeed what that fool redbeard had said? Was there indeed truth to all that legendry? How much of it could be true? That he now held something in his hand which was so strange, in itself was no proof.
But, what was proof? Few would deny that there was a Cap of Grace, though none whom he had met had ever claimed to have seen it. Few, indeed, would be bold enough to define it and to stand firm in defense of such a definition. It was a crown of dazzling glory — said one relation — it was as subtle as the wind which gently ruffled the hair and only the pure in heart could see it — was another; it lay coiled like a serpent upon the branch of a tree in a dragon-guarded woods, and might drop upon the head of any who passed beneath — if any could manage to pass beneath; it lay buried deep beneath a thousand slabs of adamantine stone in an island in a lake of boiling blood; it quested to and fro, awaiting its hour; it might be had by any man or woman or child who had the gift to recognize it; it hid itself within a thousand disguises and only the sagest of the sage might unravel them all; it bestowed the heart’s desire; it gave riches beyond price or meed or count; it-Many things were said of it.
And among the things which were said of it, or sung of it, or chanted about it, was that it might indeed be known for what it was: for around its border were set those which shone like gleamwood in the daytime and like the sun at night. Yet, despite all this, and despite what he now held in his hand, who had ever seen gleamwood shine in the daytime? and who had ever seen the sun shine at night? Stag was not naturally given either to piety or to credulity, he lived in a pragmatic world, and the thought stayed in his mind, as firm as flint between the teeth, that it was at least as likely that the ancient and oft-quoted lines had been inspired by something perhaps much like or even identical to that which he held in his hand, and engrafted onto the legend of the other wonder, as that the other wonder was true and that the Cap of Grace was indeed bordered about by things of which he held a single fragment. Still, and yet, and still. He did hold a wonder. It did feel well…. It was curious how it felt….
Was it grace he felt? What did grace feel like? Was it something strong enough to benefit all the world? Would it not be wonder enough if it benefited any single person in the world? Conceive the relationship of this fragment to the whole, and then imagine this fragment to be itself entire … imagine an unknown but certainly a large number of them, enough to border about a cap … if such was but the border, what must the rest be like? … and then try to conjecture what it must be like to wear that rest … to have the Cap of Grace upon one’s own head! If he were an object of envy and respect because of the ownership of one boat, imagine how men would look upon him if he owned the Cap of Grace: imagine … imagine … imagine….
And if he were to imagine, what purpose would there be in merely imagining that whatever the rest of this not-quite-stone might be or where it might be or where its other fragments might be, that it be unique and sole … a curiosity of value, no doubt … but merely a curiosity: what of it then? Not so much, then. The master of the sea’s best ship of its size had no time to spend on thinking of or pursuing after the merely curious or the merely good. But suppose that, somehow, somehow, that witless wittold redbeard was for once in his fool’s life correct? All men did agree that there was a something called the Cap of Grace. One might doubt, deny, or question this aspect or that facet of the stories told about it: but to deny the whole existence of it would be to assume either that all mankind was duped or that all mankind was conspired to dupe him, Stag, so —
So, then, what did he know about this thing in his hand which felt so well, with its slow and singular shine and beam and glow? Redbeard had had it. What did he know about redbeard? His name would be easily enough brought back to mind. Where he had been or might have been could be doubtless learned, to an extent at least, in the wake of all the babble and gossip sure to follow on his sudden death. Clearly he hadn’t talked before about his tiny treasure, judging by the astonished and totally unbelieving laughter which came upon his declaration. No one else had heard, then, or even suspected — A fool the man had been, without many qualities or virtues, but one might at any rate respect the successful — until then-effort (and for him it must have been a great effort) which it must have taken for him never before to have given open boast about it. So: there were things he could, with luck, learn later. But what had he already learned?
Standing in that dark and dim and dirty sliver of a room, almost as cold as the street outside, he sent his mind back to that scene in the winehouse … pity that he’d been so slumped in his own black bile that he hadn’t listened with full attention. Still …
What had been said?
“… stone … robbed from the dragon-hoard of Smarasderagd himself …” No, that — Smarasderagd, the emerauld-loving dragon — No, that had been said by the graynosed older captain: and very imprudently, too; but that was his own problem. A cavern full of emeraulds: tempting … dragon-guard … not so tempting … another matter … forget that. What had been said before? His black eyebrows contracted and formed one black bar across his face. So —
“What do you know about the shoals — ”
“ — seen more shoals than — ”
“ — graven bones — ”
“ — had a rich uncle …”
He grunted. Could that be it? Could the fragment in the pouch have been a heritage from redbeard’s uncle, whoever he was? In which case graven bones in which case the trail must graven bones the trail must go back at least another generation and graven bones, be damned! Be damned to graven bones! Why did the phrase keep tripping him up? Graven bones? And graven bones? Who had ever heard of such things? What could it mean? To be sure, where there were shoals there’d be likely bones, bones of those wh
ose ships had foundered, but who would engrave them and why? Not redbeard, surely. He saw the weak and angered face before his mind’s eye, saw the rather loose lips moving, moving, little droplets of wine, heard the lips saying, saying. What do you know about the shoals’ graven bones? No. Not that. There was a gap, a word lost. The shoals and graven bones? The shoals or graven bones …?
His mouth fell open and he took a faltering step. It was as though something had struck him a blow inside his head. Of course! Oh, and ah, of course; of course! Of course!
“What do you know of The Shoals of Brazen Stones?”
Chapter Twenty-Seven
They were fortunate on the voyage up the coast from Shindar’s Port; the seasonally bad winds were rather only mildly bad. Once, indeed, they heard the faint and rolling thunderous echo which — it seemed certainly to come from further off to sea and not at all from land — which could only have been Rahab, roaring forth her love and desire and ceaseless quest for Leviathan: but her they did not see. Stag had thus time to spare for thought and conjecture and for the rolling and unrolling of his charts.
The Shoals of Brazen Stones…. Their approximate location was known, their extent and limitations a matter for surmise, and likely enough these changed in breadth and they certainly did in depth. At certain or rather at uncertain times they lay deep enough below the surface so as to give (at least in sundry areas) no hint of their presence, and to allow ships to pass over, unknowing. In other areas or at other times it was easy enough to see them, or to see and hear the waters breaking over them. It was the inbetweens which were the difficulties. Tales were told of vessels sailing on unvexed and innocent, only and suddenly to hear a noise like a hundred thousand boiling caldrons, to see the seas erupt before, behind, around, and under them, to feel the shock not alone of the angry and unsettled waters but of the stones themselves as they struck against the hull … pounded against the hull … like the stones of massed and hidden ballasters and catapults … broke in upon the bottoms and the sides of the ships …
Sometimes these things had happened. Sometimes the nomad parts of the shoals rose slowly, slowly. Sometimes a ship was cradled from beneath so gently and yet so firmly that the sails still strained whilst all around the waters had ebbed away and the gleam and the glisten was not that of waves but of the glittering sheeny smooth-stones themselves. Sometimes it had been possible to move the ship’s company off in the ship’s boat, dragged and portaged to open water. Sometimes vessels had been released without harm, the shoals subsiding as safely as they had ascended. Sometimes starvation, fugitives sometimes caught by onrushing and inrushing waters as they straggled and struggled impatiently afoot, sometimes rapinage by boarders. Sometimes rescue by knowledgeable islanders.
But these tales had accumulated over the course of centuries. It was known that south of Cape Sand and north of Fleet River and east of the Isles of Doves, the Shoals of Brazen Stones were never seen — never, ever, never. Wise mariners accordingly made shift to keep without this triangle. Within lay a few islands whose trade was left to the hands and skill of their own inhabitants. Or —
— had been.
Or — putting the matter another way — a new trade had been growing, or an old trade had found new headquarters. “I’ve pirated in my time,” said Stag’s bosun, a man perhaps two years older than his captain and the cultivator of long moustachioes but no beard; “but gave it up because I couldn’t stand the waste of it all. It could be done as neat and systematic as any other trade, but … somehow … it isn’t. Fight and take, or fight and flee, or fight and be killed or sold — that’s fair enough. Killing a man for the pleasure of, I can see that, too, though it’s not to my general taste. But — killing a man just because he’s around to be killed, what’s the sense to that? I can see that it might be fun to spread the ground with spices just to walk upon, if you’d made your choice you’d rather do that than sell it or use it. But those clods would walk around on a hold full of spices simply because they’d ripped the sacks open and it had spilled out. Why had they ripped the sacks open? Because they’d been ripping. And they went on ripping. Not all are like that. Most are. I’m not. Fell into the way of it by accident, one voyage. Gave it up by choice. Silly sort of game. No wonder they all end up badly.”
He had as much to say on the subject as might be reasonable to ask. Could tell, and did, about the year the Yellow Fleet took Buri-Ad, and wore itself out in one uninterrupted debauch which lasted four full months; till the remnant of the inhabitants arose one dawnlight and attacked the remnant of the Fleet: only one escaping: a ship’s boy who disguised himself as a girl, put on a dirty shift and smeared his face with grease and ashes and affected a limp. Related the attack of the corsair-vessel Kraken’s Egg upon the honest trader Meteor Lamp, out of Silverstrand, with a humdrum cargo; by who-knows-for-what-reason, the Lamp had captured the Egg, and the victorious crew, bedazzled at the sight of the richness in the hold, determined on the spot to go a-pirating themselves. Told of the thieves’ villages on the miserable and marshy stretch of Mainland coast which had in the course of time worked themselves up to the possession of a robbers’ fleet and transferred their headquarters to an island in or around the Shoals of Brazen Stones, where they were safe forever — or at least for now — from the intermittent attentions of the Syndics of the Sea.
“Island,” said Stag, tapping his fingers on the bit of shipsbread and the wad of pressed raisins which lay, half-gnawed, on the bench beside him. “What island’s that?”
“Allitu, it’s called.”
“Hard to reach, I suppose. Goes without saying.”
“There are pilots.”
Deep-dug fingers, released, had left white marks on the Captain’s ruddy cheek. “Oh, ah, there are pilots. I didn’t say, Hard to find. I said, Hard to reach. Let out the reefs,” he said, with no pause at all. “Aye,” said the bosun, calling out the order even as he bounded up to see it was carried out.
The sail slapped once, then leaned, unhindered, full away from the wind. The ship’s clean hull slid more swiftly over the yielding sea. A slate-colored porpoise tore its surface, once, twice, thrice, sank slowly, vanished. Perhaps it had found the bit of bread Stag had tossed it. Without the need to give that order just then he might have found it awkward to change the conversation. Sooner or later the bosun would have to know. Someone else would have to know. It could hardly be done by a man alone.
Wasteful? It need not be wasteful. Once, in the mazy passageways of the Secret Gardens in Rysathian Wace, he had sought the woman for whom he had paid — for the privilege of seeking whom in those close-kept mazeways he had paid. All the ways looked alike to him. Now and then he thought he scented a hint of a perfume, or heard the shadow of a breath or the ghost of a light tread. Then he saw the merest wisp of cloth caught upon a rose-thorn at one entering-way: thence he had departed down that flowery lane, had found her, caught her, possessed her (unprotesting) on the yielding turf.
So now he found himself, so to speak, wandering down another and quite different mazeway. Could the fragment now concealed upon his own person, as it had once been on the murdered redbeard’s, could not this fragment be compared to the fragment of cloth? And on what mazeway was it indicated? if not the one which led to Allitu?
There he was determined to follow, going in his own good ship, the goodliest ship he had ever seen on any sea. But between resolution and resolve, between resolve and resolution, between commencement and conclusion, what changes may there not be: what rocks, what shoals, what shifting winds, what captivities, and what escapes. And; most and most-inclusive of all: what changes. Between Shindar’s Port and Allitu he had met his present woman. And in that instant, marked by no visible reefs, torn by no tangible winds, all had been changed forever.
And now he found himself in a strange land following a strange and sixlimbed creature down a strange trail, probably no nearer to the Cap of Grace than ever he had been, perhaps no nearer than he would ever be. But he lived, he was
aware of the running sap in the trees and the pulsing blood in all his veins, he felt the breeze cooling the small sweat upon his back and riffling the small hairs upon his head. Things were not as he had wanted them, nor was he content with them the way they were right then; but he lived, he was alive, he did not despair, he did not even show astonishment when he saw the two children sitting upon a rock and regarding their dirty toes as they swung their feet to and fro and to and fro.
He turned his head to say something, he knew not exactly what he would have said, to the silvery old sixy whose sniffing and whose spooring had led them here — but once more the ancient centaur had led them and left them, and was not to be seen in all that wild, wild wood.
“Trenny and Darda,” he said. “Darda and Trenny.”
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Gortecas the Augur paused in his belaboring of the tree. Had he heard the dwarf say anything? “What?” he called. “What?” Out of the corner of his eye, did he see a shadow? If so, it was not there now. He gave a swift glance upward. Had he just now gotten a glimpse of something flying? Not really the right shape for a bird, far too large for a bat? If so, it was not there now. “What,” he said to himself, with a grim chuckle, “has that hangman dwarf grown wings?” — Did his mirth echo back to him, grim … and ghostly? Was there that shadow again? Was there another …
He took the treebranch up again and with deliberate speed circumscribed an almost entire circle around the trunk of the tree. Then he hiked up his robe and unfastened from his waist-gardle a bagget which showed signs here and there of having once been rich and red and costly cloth, but was for the most part now quite darkened by sweat and dirt. He reached his hand into it and drew out a small net of fine meshing. Next, and without lifting up his head, he searched about, espied a low bush near his feet, and broke off a withe, which he stripped of leaves with his fingers and thrust it and pushed it into and through the hemming till its end protruded out of one opening next to the opening out of which its end stuck. Then he squatted and then he held out his hand.
The Island Under the Earth Page 12
