Beyond the Pool of Stars

by Howard Andrew Jones

  Dinner consisted of preserved rations and water, and was followed by an application of more fever grass paste. Ivrian tried to rig his hammock and was embarrassed to have to call over to Rendak, who was assisting Tokello with hers. The salvager raised a hand. “In a moment.”

  But it was Kalina who swung down from a higher limb, landing dexterously along his branch.

  “What do you need help with, Writer Galanor?”

  He gestured to the tangle of netting and ropes. He’d made a thorough mess of things, mostly because he was too nervous about falling while he secured the ropes. Sixty feet looked a lot farther from above than it did from below.

  Kalina set to work, undoing knots and spreading lines, scrambling back and forth along the heavy tree limb while Ivrian watched. The lizardfolk might not be civilized, but they knew how to rig a hammock.

  He spoke quickly, for it was the first chance he’d had to try fence-mending with her. “Kalina, I think you may have misunderstood about me. I think stories are sacred, too. But my people can’t hunt for food in the cities. We have to find other ways to eat.”

  She manipulated the ropes, her back to him.

  “And I tell stories. That’s what I’m good at. Or, at least, that’s what I’m okay at. I’m trying to be better. I suppose I’m really an apprentice at everything I’m doing.”

  She finished at last and turned to him. “Your ways are different. Heltan has reminded me of that, and of how important your moneys are to you.”

  “It’s true.”

  “Jekka says that you have no god but metal.”

  He thought about that for a moment. “I suppose there’s a lot of truth to that as well. What is your god?”

  “Our god is Gozreh.” Her voice took on a reverence. “The two-part god. He breathes the wind that brings rain, and she makes the seas that give us fish. He gives us speed and cunning, and she shows us the resilience of the river.”

  Once again, Jekka joined the conversation uninvited. His voice drifted down from above. “Our god looks the other way while our people die.”

  Ivrian looked up and saw the lizard man’s face peering down at him from a hammock the color of dried leaves.

  “I used to think that he slept,” Jekka continued, “or that he had other needs, or that he worked in ways unknown to us. But I think Gozreh is lazy or forgetful, or that he prefers humans.” This gloom-filled pronouncement delivered, Jekka withdrew his head.

  “Is he always like that?” Ivrian asked.

  Kalina’s tongue flicked out delicately before she answered. “His mate and younglings died last year. He has never been the same.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that.” He honestly was, although it was difficult to imagine Jekka’s animosity might not simply be borne of unreasoning hatred.

  “Have you had younglings, Writer Galanor?” Kalina asked.

  “Me? No. And please, call me Ivrian.”

  “Ivrian. That is right. You have no younglings, but you are thinking of mating.” She stared at him with unblinking eyes.

  “No, no. I’m not interested in women. For mating, I mean.”

  There was a rustle to their left, and he saw Mirian climbing her way over. “How is everything here?” she asked. “Shipshape?”

  “It is fine now,” Kalina said. “We were just discussing the making of younglings.”

  Ivrian blushed. “I’m not really interested in younglings.” That wasn’t quite true. Ivrian liked children. “I mean, I don’t need them of my own blood.” And that wasn’t quite true either, because his mother had hinted, sometimes not so subtly, that he was going to have to marry and produce an heir, no matter his personal preferences.

  “Some among my people take pleasure with the same sex. Is that how it is with you?”

  “Sort of.” He wasn’t entirely comfortable talking openly about sexuality in front of Mirian Raas, who still lingered.

  “Some people,” Mirian said, “find talk of such matters a private thing.”

  “Oh. I did not know.” The lizard woman’s gaze swung to Mirian. “Do you have younglings, Salvager Mirian?”

  Ivrian half expected Mirian to explain that this, too, was private, but she only smiled. “No. Do you?”

  “Not yet. But Heltan and I hope. We must have others to whom we can teach the songs of our people.”

  “What of your folk back home?” Mirian asked.

  Kalina’s tone was flat. “There are no folk back home.”

  “I don’t understand,” Ivrian said.

  “This is my clan.” Kalina pointed to the row of hammocks slung above. “This is all that’s left.”

  “Only you three?” He’d had no idea.

  Kalina nodded. “Only three here. But maybe more elsewhere. The city we seek—the place our clan comes from—was but an outpost. There may yet be others of our larger clan, out there in the far green, if we can find record of where their cities are. Heltan says that the books of the city will tell us.”

  Mirian slid closer on the branch and bowed her head in a gesture reminiscent of those nods given by the lizardfolk. “I’m truly sorry, Kalina.”

  “You are kind-souled. Like your mother.”

  “Kalina,” Ivrian said, “I hope this isn’t too forward, but can’t you breed with other clans?”

  “You do not understand. We are—how do you say? Learned. The Karshnaar are ages old. When your folk still hunted with flint and stone, we had mastered steel. We sailed the waves in great black ships and gave names to the stars. We were many. Now, we are only three.”

  “I have but two in my clan,” Ivrian said. “My mother and me.”

  “Ah, but you are in a human world, and you have loyal allies and means to find gold to bring you more. We Karshnaar have no allies.”

  “You have us,” Mirian said.

  “That is good.” Kalina stared at them for a moment, expression unreadable. “It is time for sleeping now, Salvager Mirian and Writer Ivrian.” And without any more preliminary, she scampered up the trunk.

  “Your mother mentioned you were a writer,” Mirian said. “I hope you’re not thinking of writing about our expedition.”

  Ivrian felt his stomach sink. “I’m mostly a playwright,” he said. “But being out here, seeing how real people have adventures, will add some verisimilitude to anything I set down on paper.” As he said it, he realized it was true, but he wondered why he didn’t just come out and tell her his plan. Was he as much of a coward as Kellic Raas?

  “I see you’ve got the same hammock setup as your mother,” Mirian said as she looked over Kalina’s work. “Don’t forget to rub some more salve on your hands and face. Something always finds its way through the net, even one as fine as this.”

  He nodded slowly, then exchanged a good night before sliding back to the sturdy-feeling trunk where his pack was fastened. As he opened it to extract the container of salve, he berated himself for lacking the courage to be honest. Yet soon he realized that it wasn’t just cowardice that stilled his tongue, but understanding. Mirian would never let him write about her unless he proved himself first.

  Well, he could do that. Doubtless there would be other chances for distinction. There would be more rivers to cross, and the next one wouldn’t frighten him.

  He hoped.

  It proved to be loud in the jungle at night, but Ivrian woke only once, when distant screaming broke through the canopy. It went on for several long moments. It sounded human, but from what direction it came, or how far off it really was, no one could say, though they whispered of it in the darkness.

  No one thought it would be a good idea to investigate.

  After that, Ivrian had trouble sleeping. He grew more and more uncomfortable, feeling his throat was dry, and finally clambered out of his bag. He pushed the netting aside and carefully made his way to the tree bole to retrieve his waterskin. It was there that he heard a low mutter of conversation from farther up in the canopy. His mother’s voice, he thought, but he didn’t pay heed to it at f
irst, for he was taking a long swallow of water. Probably too long a swallow, really, for only the gods knew when they’d have access to clear drinking water again.

  Frowning at his own weakness, he capped the container, stowed it in his bag, and then was distracted by his mother’s low laughter. What could possibly be amusing after that horrific scream?

  Brushing a small black ant from his arm, Ivrian advanced softly to one tree limb over and looked up to where he could dimly make out a row of hammocks. He could see nothing, but by straining he heard a soft conversation underway between Mirian and his mother.

  “Of course I’m serious,” Alderra was saying. “You’re a capable and intelligent woman. And you could keep a lover. You wouldn’t be the first Sargavan couple to pretend a marriage.”

  Ivrian paled in embarrassment. Was his mother actually suggesting marrying him off to Mirian Raas? How dare she!

  Mirian laughed, which wounded him a little. “I’d think you’d want a colonial woman.”

  “I want someone of sense, so my grandchildren have sense. And I think the two of you could be friends and allies. You know he’s a brave young man.”

  “He’s got heart, I’ll give him that.”

  That was a compliment of sorts, at least.

  “He needs a strong woman to inspire him. A passionate woman.”

  “A woman to turn him from men, you mean? That doesn’t work.”

  “It can,” Alderra said. “He’s a boy still. Self-absorbed, wide-eyed. Someone like you, who sees how the world works, could guide him into adulthood.”

  Ivrian felt his nails digging into his palm. How dare his mother speak of him like that! He was most assuredly not self-absorbed! Shelyn save him—he didn’t even want his mother’s money, or her obligations!

  “When I marry, I’d rather not have a project,” Mirian said.

  “My dear, marriage is always a project. But I’m glad to hear you’re not opposed to the idea in principal.”

  “Then you’re not listening. I don’t want to battle for any man’s interest. Are you interested in a daughter-in-law or a brood mare?”

  “I’m not sure, but I think you’ve just insulted me.”

  “You badger me with proposals when we both need sleep, then take offense when I challenge you?”

  “See,” Lady Galanor said, agreeably, “you’re honest and practical.”

  “More qualities you want bred into your line?”

  “No! That was a compliment. Surely you can’t fault a woman for trying to look out for her son’s interest. I mean to make a man of him, one way or another.”

  “Boy.”

  It was a low-voiced warning call. Ivrian looked up to find the square shape of Tokello’s face looking at him from a hammock slung along a branch to the left.

  While Mirian and his mother whispered on, Tokello braced a hand on the branch and peered out of her bug netting.

  “I don’t think Mirian would like you listening in,” the healer whispered.

  “It’s not her I’m angry about.”

  Distantly, his mother said something about “shaping the boy up.”

  Tokello glanced up toward the source of the noise, then looked at Ivrian with unblinking eyes. “Sometimes you hear things you shouldn’t. Take me—I’ve heard the whole conversation. I don’t want to, but I can’t help it. I can’t sleep through everything like Gombe.”

  Sure enough, the salvager’s snoring sounded even over the omnipresent buzz of insects and the call of night animals.

  “I don’t even think that scream woke him,” Tokello said.

  “Mother’s trying to engineer my life,” Ivrian said. “She thinks I’m still a boy.”

  “She thinks you’re young. And she’s got the truth of it. If anyone could straighten a man out, it would be our Mirian.”

  The healer’s double entendre seemed to have been unintentional—Ivrian was pretty sure she hadn’t even noticed.

  “But she’s got no right,” Ivrian objected.

  “If she’s your mother, she’s got the right. It doesn’t make her right, though, boy. You seem fine to me. The gods know I’ve seen enough snot-nosed lordlings in my day wanting old Tokello to step and fetch for them. Fah! As though a fifth-generation Mulaa healer were a porter. Two of those little blue blood bastards nearly ran down my grandchild in the street last week.”

  “I’m not like that.”

  “I know.” Tokello’s tone gentled. “You hold on to that, boy, and you fight for what you believe as strongly as you fought for us back on the Daughter, as bravely as you fought that harpy, and you’ll end up all right. Now get back to your bunk and get some sleep. This night talk is foolishness.”

  Ivrian stared at her a moment longer, then nodded and moved carefully back to his own hammock. He didn’t feel entirely settled, but the healer’s words, gruff as they were, had lessened the heat of his anger.

  He shook his head as he felt fatigue washing back over him. He had to find his own way. Maybe even strike out on his own and leave Sargava—although that, too, would take money he didn’t have.

  It was all so unfair.

  As he drifted back to sleep he wondered briefly what it would be like to have Mirian in his life each day. The idea was too strange to consider for long.

  He drifted off thinking again about a handsome but useless Varisian actor he’d wasted a month on, although when he dreamed, he found himself standing before Tokello at a white altar in the sunlight.

  When the healer told him to turn and lift the veil of his bride, he did so, but found nothing there but a star-shot void full of whispering insects. As he stepped back in horror, he could hear his mother shouting to get on with it and kiss her, and he screamed as the darkness reached for him with clawed hands.

  13

  The Stone and the Mirror

  Sylena

  Sylena rarely thought of herself as fortunate, but she smiled almost gleefully as she looked up from the black stone where Kellic’s distorted image was projected.

  He’d survived. Even better, Kellic had decided to stay upon the shore rather than venture into the jungle, which made it all the more likely he wouldn’t end up dead.

  It was as though the Infernal Dukes had shown her special favor. Now the salvagers and Lady Galanor were nearly certain to get themselves killed exploring the hinterland, and she would still get a marriageable Sargavan landholder.

  She had watched much of the previous night’s events through the focus of the magical ring she’d given him, hearing almost everything Kellic himself had heard, which is why she’d set sail in the early morning, packing her goods in a rush and taking up residence once more in her “father’s” trade ship—in actuality a Chelish warship decked out as a merchant.

  Now they were two hours out from Eleder, and a weary Sylena sat at the desk in her cabin, employing the ring’s sophisticated scrying magic to obtain a navigational fix on her lover’s position. Beside her on a ring of gold was the monitor stone and a large map of the coastline, over which she dangled a crystal shot through with crimson flecks.

  Just as the crystal settled into its position, the mirror she’d hung on the cabin wall crackled with a burst of violet energies.

  Rajana. Of all the cursed luck.

  Sylena scowled and raked her hair back with her fingers, then set down the crystal and smiled at the mirror.

  The image was not quite a twin to her own, but there was no mistaking the family resemblance. Rajana had the same fair skin, but her eyebrows were more highly arched, her nose thinner. And there were no humor lines about her eyes because her sister almost never laughed. Certainly she seemed ill disposed toward laughing now.

  Rajana’s eyes took in the surroundings. “You’ve boarded a ship.”

  “Yes, of course.”

  “Perhaps you’re already on your way to Crown’s End to celebrate your success?”

  “No.” Sylena put on a brave smile. “I’m merely off to clear up the loose ends.”

  Rajan
a coolly appraised her. “Which loose ends are those, Sister?” Even in that emotionless tone, she managed to sound disappointed. But then Rajana was always disappointed.

  Sylena forced her smile wider. “Naturally, I want to carry through the assignment so as not to displease Her Infernal Majestrix—or you.”

  It wasn’t enough. Rajana’s frown deepened. “Please, Sylena, just give me the details. I called in a number of favors to buy you that storm. Did it work or not?”

  “It wrecked the ship, but Lady Galanor and the salvagers survived. They’re heading into the jungle, but they’ll probably die there.”

  Rajana slowly closed her eyes and put a hand to her head. “You’re aware that our expenditures, both in capital and in favors, are going to attract attention very, very soon? Attention we will not want.”

  Sylena managed a gay laugh. “You’re always so gloomy, Rajana! At every turn, the Sargavans grow more desperate, their task more difficult.”

  “They’re still on the expedition!” Rajana cut in.

  But Sylena went on as if she hadn’t heard. “With any luck, Lady Galanor will never return from that jungle, which will mean an end to all of her schemes.” She sniffed. “I don’t understand why we couldn’t have moved against her more obviously to begin with.”

  “Because Her Infernal Majestrix wishes subtlety in our dealings. Assassinating one of the baron’s chief advisors is hardly subtle!” Rajana breathed out. “You still haven’t explained what you’re doing on the ship. Do you have a plan?”

  “I intend to wait offshore to see whether any of them come out of the jungle. If they do, I’ll take their treasure.”

  Rajana considered her. “You’re certain where they’ll emerge?”

  “The other survivors are supposed to go in search of a ship to pick them up. I intend to be that ship.”

  Rajana’s face remained expressionless for a long moment. “That’s not a bad plan, Sister.”

  A rare compliment. Sylena bowed her head.

  “I pray that it goes well for you,” Rajana continued. “I want to wrap up this mission and return home.”