by Don McQuinn
All nine men were of average build and height. Each wore a mustache; none had a beard. One stepped to forward. He spoke to Sylah, pointedly ignoring her companions.
“Rose Priestess. Most welcome of guests. On behalf of the Chair, I welcome you to Kos. All men will forever envy you, as all are envied who see the wonders of our lands. You are honored above all. You and your friends will sleep in the castle. My master, the Chair, has said it. This has never happened before.”
No one smiled.
Sylah looked up, beyond the shark-carved wall. Far away, high on the gap-toothed rampart of the fort’s eastern wall, the Harvester looked down at her.
Chapter 4
Conway’s impression of the castle’s interior was of smoking darkness.
Despite the brightness of the day, a fire roared in the immense fireplace across the room from the front entrance. The man standing next to it provided scale; Conway estimated one could roast a cow on the spit.
The flat ceiling was no more than seven feet high. Light came from two sources. Primary were the narrow archers’ slits that dropped vertically from near the ceiling to about chest high. There were wooden stands at each one, and wooden shutters, cunningly operated by foot levers. An archer could loose his arrow, and slam the portal shut against spear thrust or return fire. Ventilation slits admitted paler light just under the ceiling.
The combination of low ceiling, dim light, and the thick stone pillars bulked under rough wooden crossbeams generated an oppressive atmosphere.
Still, as Conway’s eyes adjusted, he saw the walls were thickly hung with bright pennants and banners. Some were ripped and torn, tattered remnants of former bright glory. Trophies, he decided. The residue of conquest.
The official who’d greeted them outside accompanied them. He wore an odd-shaped metal thing around his neck on a white cord. Lifting it to his mouth, the man demonstrated that it was a whistle. It warbled from one high note up to one higher yet, then slid back down past the original pitch. Beside Conway, Tate made a strangling noise.
“A bosun’s pipe,” she managed to whisper in Conway’s ear.
“A what?”
She spelled the word boatswain, then pronounced it again: bosun. “The bosun’s a sailor’s sailor, the man who knows lines, rigging, ship’s procedure, all that swabby stuff. That whistle was the thing they used to get attention before an announcement—like ‘All hands heave out! Reveille!’ That kind of thing.”
Before either could say more, the man was turning to them. Conway and Tate separated like children caught talking in class. The man said, “My title is Bos. The fort, including all hands who man her, is my responsibility.” Emphasizing his words, the seven men from the steps came inside to join him, as did several other people who’d obviously been waiting just outside the doors of the main room. They formed two lines behind Bos. There was a minimum of confusion, indicating that this was a routine.
Bos went on. “All officials are drawn from two groups of what you would call nobles. The inland Kossiars are administered by a Board. Here, in Harbor, the highborn are called Crew. Staff here use the ancient Crew titles. I won’t introduce you to everyone. There are a few you should know, however. This is Guns. He oversees the fighting forces of Kos. The next man is Stores. His responsibility is to advise the Chair on matters of supplies and the administrative needs of Kos. This is Emmay. He supervises law and order. These others are staff, the people who run the fort for Chair.”
He stopped, expectant, and Sylah introduced her companions. Her manner was strained, and her friends exchanged troubled glances. Nevertheless, when Sylah finished, Tate could contain herself no longer. She said, “You actually have guns?”
The man of that title frowned, puzzled. “Have? I am Guns. That’s not my name, of course. We abandon names when we take the grade.”
Tate nodded, mute. She seemed dazed.
Bos said, “The Chair has had a state room prepared for you. He assumed you’d want to stay together, so it’s one large room, with folding wood and hide partitions.”
Sylah thanked him, and he dismissed his staff. Sylah’s group followed him outside to walk the length of the courtyard. It featured a large formal garden. The centerpiece was a towering mound of white rhododendrons. The southern end of the yard featured a fountain, which fronted a tall pole that rose above the walls of the building. Rungs led to a circular shelter almost at the top.
Tate nudged Conway. “Listen, what’s hurting Sylah? What got to her?”
“I give up. One minute she was fine, the next she wasn’t. She must have seen something the rest of us missed.”
Behind them, Dodoy said, “She did. She looked up at the roof, outside, when the man with the funny name was talking. Something scared her. Why do all these people talk funny? Their voices go up, down, up, down. It’s a stupid way to talk.”
Ignoring his question, Tate said, “What did she see? What was up there?”
“I don’t know. She looked, not me.”
Conway gritted his teeth. Lengthening his stride, he pulled away from Tate and the boy.
They were almost to the end of the courtyard by then, proceeding on a brick walk under overhanging wooden balconies extended from the two stories above them. Conway remarked on the ropewalk connections between the arms of the buildings. Unanimously, they expressed the hope of avoiding them. Tate reached down to pat Oshu and Tanno. “Gut check, puppies,” she said. “We may have found something you can’t handle. Momma’s not that sure of herself, if you want the truth.” The attempted humor was brittle. The responding laughter was polite.
At the juncture of the eastern arm and the north-south arm of the castle, Bos stopped, gesturing at a door’s heavy planks. “The Chair instructs me to see that you’re comfortable, and to invite you to his presence when you’ve refreshed yourself. If you’ll eat with him, that will be in about two inches.”
Sylah was reaching for the door handle and stopped. “Inches?”
“Yes. Inches. Of time?” Bos could have been talking to a child.
“I don’t understand.”
“Inches. On the timetube.”
Sylah shook her head.
Bos raised his eyebrows. He collected himself, but contempt tainted his words. “A timetube is a water container with a hole in it. As the water drips out, the water level tells the time. A day is twenty-four inches. Everyone has one.”
“Not us.” Conway signaled the dogs to stay as he took a half step forward. “We’re too independent to jump just because someone loses his water. I suppose we’ll have to be polite, though, so you’ll supply us with one of your toys, won’t you?”
“It’s my duty.” Bos’ tone made it clear what he thought of his duty. Reaching past Sylah’s stilled hand, he opened the door. A quick blast on the bosun’s pipe caught the group by surprise. The children in the stateroom had obviously been waiting for it.
Ranging in age from about sixteen to no more than twelve, they straightened to frozen-faced attention. The tallest, a boy on the right end of the lineup, said, “We’re your hands, Rose Priestess. What instructions?”
Turning to Bos, Sylah’s voice lowered to a dangerous growl. “What are these children doing here?”
Bos said, “They’re slaves. Servants.”
Rigidly erect, Sylah examined the children. “Fourteen of you.”
Confusion crushed the boy’s confident mien. Eyes darting from Sylah to Bos, he stammered. “Two for each of you. Except the boy. Four for the stateroom. Is something wrong?”
“Not with you. Where do you sleep?”
“Five here. Outside. On the walkway. Five in the barracks. We’ll take turns.”
“Go back to your barracks. All of you.”
Stricken, the boy turned to Bos. “What have we done?”
Sylah interrupted him again, her voice so taut it threatened to crack. “Do as I say.” Struggling, she found a softer, gentler manner. “You’ve done nothing wrong. You’ll not be punished. But you must go
.”
Again, the boy sought Bos. The man nodded. His lip curled in a sneer. The children literally ran, sandals slapping the brick walkway.
With them gone, Sylah faced Bos. Blue eyes glacial, she said, “You will not assign slaves to us.”
Bos smiled, waved a hand. “If that’s what you wish.”
Sylah leaned forward, seething. “Would I say something I didn’t mean? You think my orders are mere whims? I said nothing of wishes. I told you what I will have.”
For a moment, Bos stared in disbelief. His face paled. Equally quickly, it flamed with ugly, growing blotches that melded into a furious whole. “Indeed I heard, Rose Priestess. I have your instructions. You’ll eat with the Chair?”
“We will. Please send us a timetube.”
“It’s my duty.” The door thumped solidly behind him.
“Whoo-ee!” Tate broke the silence with her low exclamation. “That was some show.”
Lifting a shaking hand to her brow, Sylah steadied herself against a heavy oak chair. Lanta was beside her instantly, sliding a shoulder under the raised arm. A moment later Sylah stood solidly alone. Without preamble, she said, “The Harvester is here. I saw her. On the roof, just before we entered this place.”
Tate glanced at Dodoy, who seemed not to have heard. Nalatan said, “You told me she went back to Church Home?” making it a question. Lanta said nothing; her hand went to her bosom, then dropped away. Conway took the wipe from his shoulder. “I think we all owe the Harvester something.”
Sylah gestured sharply. “She’s Church. You mustn’t harm her.”
Conway put the weapon down on the table beside the oak chair. “She’s tried to kill three of us. Does she have to succeed before you admit we have an obligation to return the favor?”
Sylah reached out to stroke the cold steel barrel of the wipe, trailing her fingers down its length with an almost sensual deliberation. Without looking up from the weapon, she said, “I think she’s terribly, despicably wrong. I can’t use her methods.”
Conway said, “If you lose to her because you lack the will to use whatever methods are necessary, what purpose is your ‘goodness’ then? If you won’t fight to win, why fight?”
“Can you answer for me, then, my friend?”
“Will I fight to the death for your cause? I think so. No man answers that question until the moment comes. I don’t want to be a martyr. But I won’t be a victim. The decision about when one becomes the other is mine.”
“Fair enough. Tate? Nalatan?”
Tate shrugged. “What he said: Me, too.”
Nalatan bared his teeth in a cold smile. The picked-over quality of his words suggested a secret amusement. “My master said I must help you discover the secret of the Door. I swore an oath. If I fail you, life, not death, would be punishment.”
Sylah turned from the wipe, put her hand on Lanta’s shoulder. “I won’t ask you. Church has her own demands on you. Promise me this: Whatever happens, you’ll protect yourself.”
“Only if I can do it without injuring you.”
Sylah embraced her.
A moment later the group was chattering and exploring the stateroom, pulling out the folding partitions, poking at beds, moving furniture.
All but Lanta. Overlooked, withdrawn, she stepped behind one of the partitions.
The level of trust Sylah afforded her was almost too much to bear. Church has her own demands on you. The phrase wouldn’t stop pounding in her ears. She closed her eyes, squinting so hard the muscles in her forehead were like steel across the bone. Between her breasts, the True Stone was a living firebrand.
Chapter 5
Bos appeared as the timetube dripped away the last bit of water signaling the hour. When Dodoy complained mightily about being left behind with the dogs, he sent the boy a look of sheer hatred. As for the dogs, they gravitated to a corner as far from Dodoy as possible. Mournful dark eyes watched the adults leave.
Bos led the group to the third floor of the central arm of the castle. Lanta attempted to make conversation, asking about the age of the fort.
“Several generations,” Bos answered brusquely, then, looking at her innocent curiosity, grew expansive. “There are two siahs honored in Kos. You have this word, Siah?”
Lanta nodded. “A founder, or a first leader. It’s interchangeable, because the legends are so old they get confused sometimes.”
“Not in Kos. Our history is pure. The first siah came to the coast people. His name was Skipper. He was born of the sea when she was impregnated by the east wind. When Skipper came to Kos, the people lived in ignorance. He showed them how to build, how to use the sea. Generations passed. The people of Skipper multiplied. They explored the land to the east, where they found the people of the farms. The name of their siah is lost. He formed the first Board, showed the inlanders how to irrigate, taught them about animals. Together, the two peoples united to create Kos, build Harbor, and elect the Chair.”
“Elect?”
Bos hesitated in his recitation. When he continued, there was a touch of forced enthusiasm in his tone. “For several generations, the Chair was elected. Pressures from enemies, drought, plague—many things demanded firmer, steady leadership.”
Conway interjected. “An overriding need for stability and continuity?”
Bos stopped in midstep, startled. He spun to face Conway. “Exactly. Stability and continuity. Our first permanent Chair’s words. How do you know our history?”
Dryly, Conway said, “I don’t. The notion seemed to have a familiar tone, that’s all. One hears so many things.”
Unsure how to react to Conway’s words and manner, Bos chose to deal with Lanta. “Under the hereditary Chairs, Kos has prospered as no other land. Our ships reach south beyond the land of the savage Hents. Our warmen range north to the banks of the Mother River, south to the shores of the Long Sea, and east beyond the Enemy Mountains. We are the most favored of people. Our land is sacred.”
Sylah asked quietly, “Why is this Chair so eager to deal with me, who has nothing with which to bargain?”
A vein leapt into view at the side of Bos’ neck. He acted as if he hadn’t heard, leading them the last few steps onto the top floor.
As one, they stopped abruptly. They were at the end of the central, or east-west, arm of the castle. A passageway extended its entire length. The south side, on their left, was covered with dozens of pairs of open shark’s jaws. They stretched away in silent, menacing ovals, completely covering the wall. Soft light poured in the six doors on the balcony side of the hall, to the right. The serrated triangular teeth sparkled suggestively.
Armed warmen stood beside each of the balcony doors. There were only three doors on the left side of the hall, each flanked by a pair of warmen.
Bos led the way down the long hall. At the first door on the south side, he stopped, holding up a hand for quiet. “You will ask the Chair for safe passage. It’s a formality, and he will grant it, of course. It means you’re allowed to stay in Kos.”
“What happens if he changes his mind?” Tate asked.
“Then you have to leave.” Bos enjoyed saying it.
Conway said, “And the Harvester?”
Turning away to hide any change of expression, Bos gestured them through the door. Inside, they turned right. The room, like the hall, stretched the full length of the castle. At the western end, too far away to distinguish features, a figure sat in a chair.
Tate made a low, humming sound of amazement, and Conway whispered, “Whoa.” Sylah and Lanta stared in silence.
Behind the low dais, light blasted through a rectangular window perhaps three times as wide as its height. Fragments of glass ranging in size from bits no bigger than an eye to slabs the size of serving trays were randomly leaded in place within a formal grid. Irregularly shaped, the multicolored shards vibrated with the hues of an exploded rainbow. As Bos herded them forward, the group watched how flaws and subtleties in thickness caused shifts in the color. There was cle
ar glass chemically stained to purple-blue opalescence that changed intensity at every movement of the observer. Conway and Tate knew it had to have been buried for centuries.
There was no furniture in the room. Two fireplaces flanked the window, their stone construction jutting out to complete a massive frame for the throne. Coals glowed on the grates. It occurred to Sylah that the man on the chair sat in a well-warmed nook; in front of him was a cold, damp, sea-smelling emptiness. Bos’ soft-soled boots scuffed on the polished wood floor. Sylah’s party all wore boots. Their steps echoed with almost martial precision from the walls.
On arriving in front of the dais, everyone stepped onto a thick mat of braided cording. The Chair looked down on his audience from an advantage of perhaps three feet.
Clean-shaven, dark-haired, dressed in shimmering green matching blouse and trousers, he watched the group advance impassively. Full-lipped, high cheekboned, square-jawed, he was around thirty years old. Sylah had expected a graybeard. This man exuded vitality.
His posture troubled her. Apparently relaxed, he practically sprawled in the seat, an elbow on its arm, his fist under his chin. The other arm dangled lazily, and his legs stretched out in front of him, ankles crossed. He wore a faint, reassuring smile.
The impression was a ruse.
Sylah’s training emphasized observation and analysis. More than that, however, the sisters continually emphasized what they called “the knowing.” They never completely explained it, even admitting that some seemed to have the ability more than others. Sylah felt the knowing as she listened to Bos’ ongoing introductions.
The Chair measured. He weighed. The dark eyes flicked, and Sylah knew that in a moment he’d examined the lightning weapons as closely as most people could in minutes of lifting and turning. The eyes shifted again, and her costume had been inventoried, evaluated. As had her entire being. She suddenly felt exposed, vulnerable, as if that quick vision stripped her naked. Then the eyes were gone to Lanta. A pang of anger swept Sylah; after practically undressing her, the man dismissed her.
