A Gathering Of Stones dost-3

by Jo Clayton

  It was as quiet as it was cold, as if they flew in a reality all their own, as if they were the only beings alive in it. His eyelids grew heavy, it was harder and harder to stay awake though he knew if he slept with Trithil there, sitting loose and ready, he’d wake up hitting the water below. He blinked at the direction-finder, made a small adjustment to the course and sat scowling at his hands because he didn’t want to scowl at Trithil and let her guess what he was thinking.

  “Lazul.” Fingers touched his arm.

  He looked down, then at her. “Hands in your lap, if you don’t mind.”

  She dropped her eyes, looked momentarily distressed-which he didn’t believe at all. “Do you know the attributes of Klukesharna?”

  “Why?”

  “She cleanses and heals. She unlocks possibility. If you use her properly, she will leach the poison out of you.”

  “And you, of course.”

  “Oh no, for me there’s no need. I came into this under other pressures.”

  “Oh?”

  “Which I do not plan to enumerate.”

  “Then why’d you say that?”

  “I don’t want to go back to Arsuid.” She bit her lip, stared unhappily at a heap of clouds rising like whipped cream in front of them, a little off to one side. He watched her, appreciating the performance. It was flawless, but he didn’t believe a word or a nuance. “I want Klukesharna.” Her voice was low and musing, liquid lovely tones blending with the nearly inaudible hum of the liftfield. “I think it will be easier to take it from you than from the Ystaffel. I’ll do whatever I can to get us beyond Coquoquin’s reach, you can trust that, Lazul or whatever your name is. I don’t play games with gods, they make up the rules as they go and the rules always favor them.” She smiled at him, her blue eyes even bluer in the light from the console. “Like the Ystaffel, in their despicable way. There isn’t any antidote, did you know that?”

  “I suspected it.”

  “I’m a fool.” She shook her silver head. “You planned all along to use Khikesharna.” She brooded a moment, then looked startled. “Even the fight over the horses? Twisty man.” A trill of laughter, another shake of her head. “You conned them. Got them to set up relay mounts at five stages along the river. You aren’t going to use any but the ones at Kuitse-ots, are you. The rest are dust in the eyes.”

  He shrugged. “Whatever happened, I’d need transport.

  Horses can go where you point them, a river sticks to its bed. What are you?”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “A Great Talisman is useless to most people, except for its symbolic value. And when I say symbolic value, I do not mean gold; you haven’t a hope of selling it. And you’d have to be witch, wizard, magus or sorceror to milk its power. You’re none of those. We know our own kind. We smell the Talent on those that have it. And none of the Talented would follow your particular profession or, to be blunt, be any good at it. You’re very good.”

  “I don’t see why you say that. I’m no good with you.”

  “Circumstances, trau Esmoon. The discipline of my craft. You did some fancy footwork round my question. What are you?”

  “Call me a visitor who wants to go home.”

  “Demon?”

  “It’s a matter of definition, isn’t it. I prefer visitor.”

  “No doubt.” He spoke absently. There was a new note in the field hum, a whine that appeared and disappeared, appeared again. His Reshaping was starting to unravel. He scowled at the counter; the reading said they’d come about twenty kilometers, which meant Waystop Kuitse-ots was still about ten kilometers off. It’d be a long walk if he had to set the sled down now, though at least they were finally over land not water. The whine started again, louder this time; it was like a circular saw chewing through hardwood.

  “What’s happening?”

  “Nothing much, trau Esmoon. It’s just we’re about to be sitting on a flocking mattress with the flying characteristics of a rock.” He put the sled into a long slant, took it down through the clouds, down and down, laboring, making horrible noises, down and down until it lurched along five feet off the ground. The rain had stopped, the air was chill and damp and gray with dawn. He leveled the sled and sent it forward at its maximum speed. “Keep watch for me. I can’t leave this. Yell if we’re going to hit something solid. Can you see in this murk?”

  “I can see. Yell what?”

  “How the hell do I know? Think of something.”

  “What about a road?”

  “You see one?”

  “No.”

  “Don’t bother me then. Keep your mouth shut till you got something to say.” A crack crept in jags across the face of the console, moving between gauges and readouts. He smelled burning feathers, swore at the sled, willing it to keep its shape. As he fought the dissolution, he gave an ear to Trithil’s murmurs.

  “Tree, swing right. Good. Missed it. Another tree… wait… wait… swing left… now! Missed it. Brush ahead, don’t bother turning, we’ll scrape over it, no problem… I think…” The sled lurched and there was a loud crackling as they sheared the top inch off several bushes. Then they were clear. “Oh. There is a road, Laz. Angle about thirty degrees to your right. Good, you’ve got it. This must be the post road, it’s graveled and ditched.”

  Danny Blue was too busy to answer her. He drew power from the sinks and sent it coursing through the frame to hold the Reshaping as long as he could; on and on the sled went, slowing as the crystals deteriorated, dropping lower and lower until they barely cleared the gravel. Two kilometers, five, seven, eight… then they were crawling along, moving as fast as a man could walk with arthritis and a broken leg. He held it together and held it… nine… nine and a half… With a flare of light as the remaining energy stored in the sinks was released, the sled turned to mush under him; the rags of the Transforms vanished like dry ice sublimating. The sled jolted to the ground, throwing him onto a console that dissolved into charred cloth and smoldering feathers.

  ##

  Danny got to his feet, brushing bits of feather off his vest. The pallet was a sodden mess. Simms had rolled over onto Felsrawg and was snoring heavily. Felsrawg lay with limbs sprawling, head rolled back, breathing through her mouth; she was alive but not lovely. Slimy with rain and mud, the silk cord had slipped off several of the pouches; they’d tumbled over the two thieves and spilled into the ditch at the side of the road. Elegant and immaculate, silver slippers unsmutched by the mud and the gelid dew coating every surface, Trithil Esmoon was standing on the gravel, sniffing fastidiously at the unsavory scene.

  The sky was heavily overcast, but the rain had stopped-for the moment at least. The east was bloody with sunrise and there was enough light to see for some distance around.

  A GATHERING OF STONES 271 Low brush grew in mangy patches on the far side of the ditch. A scatter of wild plum trees with naked branches poked from the brush. There were other patches of trees dotted about the rolling grasslands, dull trees with a few mudbrown leaves still clinging to their branches. Across the road there was a low stone wall, a field of withered yellow-brown grass with a herd of dun cattle grazing in the distance. There were no houses or other buildings anywhere in sight, though the Waystop should be less than half a mile south along the road.

  Danny rubbed the back of his neck as he looked round at the dreary land. Empty land. “Stay here. I’ll bring the horses back.”

  “No. I don’t think so.”

  “What?”

  “You understand me. Where the talisman goes, I go.”

  “You think I wouldn’t come back?”

  “Lazul, ah Laz.”

  “Hmm.” He squatted beside the pallet, opened one of the pouches, looked inside, dropped that one and picked up another. When he found his own, he began pulling things out, transferring and discarding until he had what he wanted in one pouch. He tied on a blanket roll, frowned. He undid the straps on another roll and shook out the blankets. He started to drop them over Felsrawg and
Simms, changed his mind and got to his feet. “Help me shift them onto the pallet, straighten them out some.” 44whyr,

  “Do it.”

  “Needn’t be so prickly, Laz, I was just asking what you intended for them.” She waited while he dumped the gear off the pallet and spread out the blankets in its place; wrinkling her nose with distaste, she grasped Felsrawg’s ankles and helped move her onto the blankets, then straightened and watched with avid curiosity as Danny fussed with the thief’s clothing, opening her shirt at the neck, pulling loose awkward twists and catches. He folded her hands over her ribs, put a wadded shirt under her head. “You’re laying her out like a corpse, you expect her to be one?”

  “Sooner or later, we’re all corpses.”

  “Speak for yourself, mortal man.”

  He grunted. “Help me move Simms.”

  When Danny had Simms straightened out and positioned, he covered them both, shoulder to feet, with more blankets, tucked the edges under them. He collected their gear and piled it around them.

  “This is a waste of time, you know,” Trithil said. “They’ll be after us as soon as they wake.”

  “Take a walk, I’ll catch up with you.”

  “Haven’t you something to do first?”

  “What?”

  “Klukesharna. The poison.”

  “Klukeshama stays where she is as long as I’m in Lewinkob lands. The moment I take her from the shielding, Coquoquin will be here. You want that?”

  She shuddered. “No indeed.” She collected her own gear, slid the pouch strap over her shoulder. “No, that would be a very bad thing.” She looked down at the sleepers. “You said mid-morning.”

  “Take a walk. Now.”

  “It’s stupid not to kill them now.”

  “You want to join them?”

  “You think you could handle me like that?”

  “You want to find out?”

  “Don’t be a fool, I’m on your side, man.”

  “Nice to know. You’ve got two seconds to start walking or I drop you.”

  She shrugged. “You could try, but that’d likely bring Coquoquin and I’d lose a lot more. All right. Be sure you do come. I can get very unpleasant when I’m disappointed.”

  He watched her walk away. I bet you can, he thought. He looked down at Felsrawg and Simms. She’s right, you’ll be after me, you’ve got no choice, but I’m not a murderer and I don’t plan to become one. I’ll play the game my own way and take my chances. However, there’s no point being a total fool. He shut his eyes, thought a moment, then began weaving a stasis web about them, once again melding the experience of his two half-sires, crafting a dome over them that would hold them unmoving and untouchable for the next several days. He wasn’t all that sure exactly how long the stasis would last, two days or a week, it didn’t matter, he was buying himself time to get out of Lewinkob lands and free the talisman to his uses. After that, let them try.

  The sun had cleared the peaks of the Dhia Asatas, the wind was shredding the clouds and exposing patches of sky; the day wasn’t brightening so much as pushing the horizon back. The land around him was brown and gray and blanched, even the naked sky looked dingy. Danny shouldered his gear, breathed in that chill air and felt suddenly lighter than those vanishing clouds. Klukesharna was his and in a day or so the poison would be out of him, he was free, finally free of the Chained God’s hook and on the way to reclaiming his Talent. Whistling a tune from one of Daniel’s more ancient memories, he started after Trithil.

  THE REBIRTHING: PHASE THREE

  The stones are moving.

  I: Brann/Jaril

  Having run full out into the geniod trap, Brann and Jaril are on their way to Havi Kudush to steal Churrikyoo from the Great Temple of Amortis so they can ransom Yaril from the grip of Palami Kumindri and her coterie.

  1

  The Mutri-mab went skipping about the deck of the pilgrim barge, holy fool in whiteface and fluttering ribbons. He leaped to the forerail and capered perilously back and forth on that narrow slippery pole, then struck a pose. When he was satisfied with the attention he had drawn to himself, he began beating two hardwood rods together, making a staccato melodious background to his chant. “Hone your wit,” he sang in a powerful tenor:

  Hone your wit with alacrity

  Romp and revel, gaiety

  Wait for thee, for us

  In Havi Kudush Ah sing Amortis

  More ah more ah more than this

  Ecstasy, amour and bliss Ah, ah Amortis, she

  Waits for thee, for us

  In Havi Kudush

  Don your slippers, dance for me

  Tipsy wanton jubilee

  Waits for thee, for us

  In Havi Kudush Ah sing Amortis

  More ah more a more than this

  Ecstasy, amour and bliss…

  Brann pulled the heavy black veil tighter about her and wondered how stupid she was, coming here into Amortis’ heartland. The two times she’d run into Amortis, she and the Blues, Yaril and Jaril had combined to whip the tail of the god. Her only hope was evading Amortis’ notice. Unfortunately, the way things had worked out, it was near the end of the pilgrimage season and she didn’t have masses of people to vanish into. Jaril stirred against her leg; since pilgrims didn’t travel with watchpets, he couldn’t be a hound again, nor could he continue as her M’darjin page, servants weren’t permitted in Havi Kudush-not as servants, though they could come as pilgrims. So he was being her invalid son; the disguise concealed his oddities and provided an excuse for her.

  She stroked his soft hair, smiled down at him, understanding all too well his impatience, his restlessness. He wanted Yaril freed as soon as possible. He wanted to fly in, take the talisman and rush back to trade it for his sister. He knew he couldn’t do that, but the need was always there, an itch under his skin. And there were other strains, things she felt in him but couldn’t find a way to ask about. There was an uneasiness in him now, needs that were growing toward explosion. She remembered his outburst in the cave and was furious at her helplessness. There was nothing she could do to ease him. She listened with half an ear to the chant swelling about her, the chorus of the paean to Amortis the Mutri-mab was singing. She joined in that chorus after a few minutes because she didn’t want to be conspicuous in her silence. Not just worry about Yaril. Puberty, he said, a kind of puberty. He needs his people, he’s ripe for mating, but Yard’s the only female of his kind in this reality. His more than sister, his twin. It’s a recipe for disaster, she thought, one might even say tragedy. No more procrastination, I have to see them home. Even thinking about it hurt so much, she knew she’d bleed until she was empty when that knot was broken; two hundred years, more, they’d been her children, her nurslings, bonded to her mind and body. But what choice had she? Children leave you. That’s the way things are.

  Jaril sensed something of her trouble, nestled closer, trying to comfort her without words.

  “Not much longer,” she said. Her voice was lost in the singing of the other passengers, but even if one of them heard her, it’d mean nothing; it was the kind of thing anyone would say.

  *Have you figured out how, Bramble?* There was a tinge of bitterness in the mindvoice; he trusted her, but he was afraid of Amortis and deeply angry at Maksim for letting them down.

  “Don’t,” she murmured. “There are ears who can hear that shouldn’t.” She sighed. “No, I haven’t. I don’t know enough. Look ahead, Jay, there’s the Holy Rock, we’ll be there by dawn. We’ll look around and see what’s what.”

  The Rock rose like a broaching whale out of the stony plain-the Tark-that stretched from the misty reedmarsh where three rivers met to the southern reaches of the Dhia Asatas. At the highest point of the Rock, the three-tiered Sihbaraburj thrust up black and massive against the sunset. Above it the sky was still dark blue with poufs of cloud dotted across it, clouds that ranged from a pale coral overhead to vermilion in the west where the sun floated in a sea of molten gold. Havi Kudush t
he holy city. Harmony-tongued Kudush where pious hands hauled in tons and tons of warm gold bricks and laid them in a thousand thousand courses, brick on brick, slanted inward to make the three-step, truncated pyramid that was the Sihbaraburj, Temple to Amortis, that was the Heart of Phras, a made-mountain honeycombed with twenty thousand chambers where the Priest-Servants lived, where the Holy Harlots made worship, where healers and seers made promises that were sometimes kept, where dancers and singers, song makers and music makers lived and worked, where there were artisans of all sorts, goldsmiths and silversmiths, workers in bronze and copper, gem cutters and stone cutters, potters and weavers, painters, embroiderers, lace makers and so on, all of them creating marvels for the honor of Amortis-and the coin they got from selling their work to pilgrims as offerings or souvenirs. Havi Kudush the holy city. Its feasts flow with fat and milk, its storehouses bring rejoicing. Fill your belly, the hymns command, day and night make merry, let every day be full of joy, dance and make music, this is the pure bright land where all things are celebrant and celebrated, dance and make music, praise Amortis bringer of joy, praise her in pleasure and delight.

  The barge halted when the sun dropped out of sight, changed teams and went on. The draft oxen plodded steadily along the towpath, used to the dark as was the drover boy riding the offside ox, flicking his limber stick at the bobbing rumps when the plodding slowed too much. On the barge the pilgrims settled to sleep behind canvas windbreaks. The Mutri-mab sat on the forerail and played sleepy tunes on his flute. The river whispered along the sides, tinkling, shimmering murmurs that lied about the heaviness of the silt-laden water which in the daylight ran thick and red with the mud of three rivers and the marsh. Jaril lay wrapped in a blanket he neither needed nor wanted but wore like a mask to keep off the eyes of the other travelers. He was sunk in that coma he called sleep, a shutting down of his systems, a hoarding of the sunlight he drank during the day. Brann lay beside him, but she couldn’t sleep.