by Don McQuinn
Domel made a face. There’d be no more wild-dog hunts for him.
That life was over. It would end with honor, at least. Domel was suddenly aware he still carried his sword bared. Lashing the weapon back and forth, plunging it into the darkness before him, he hurried his pace, invigorated.
When he came through the door into the firelit room, his wife sat in a chair to the right of the hearth. Leaping upright, she clasped both hands at her breast. Fear contorted her features. On the other flank of the fireplace, Domel’s youngest son kicked back his chair. He rose quickly, snatching up a sword. For two hammering heartbeats, the trio stood frozen. Domel broke the silence. “It’s me, you fools. Who did you expect?”
His wife went on the attack. “You startled us. What’s the matter with you?” Her accusatory gaze went to the sword in his hand.
Covering sheepishness with a display of irritation, Domel slammed the weapon into its sheath. “Dogs. Attacked me. Worse every day.” He dropped into the chair vacated by his wife, put his hands to the fire’s warmth. “There’s worse trouble than that, though.” He paused, reaching down to unlace soaked boots. His son seized the opportunity to speak.
“We know.” The two words drummed like an ultimatum.
Domel masked inner turmoil. “What do you know?”
The son flinched. His mother was made of sterner stuff. “Rendo saw the way Lorso looked at you tonight. What have you done to offend him so? Rendo said he looked murderous.”
“Nothing. I did nothing. It was Tears of Jade.” Domel stopped, looking from one to the other. Their rejection was palpable. The import broke over him like a god-wave, the legendary roaring wall from the sea that crushed all before it.
“They’re going to kill me, send me to the god. We can’t stay.”
His wife choked, finally made words. “We’ve done nothing. We made no sin.”
Not daring to shout, Domel could only try to project his urgency. “Do you think either of them cares what you’ve done or not done? Didn’t you hear me? They mean to send me to the god, then rule the Skan between them. They’ll kill Rendo and his brothers next. Lorso is coming. Tonight. Now.”
Rendo stepped back. “I can work with Lorso. So can my brothers. They don’t even live with you anymore. We haven’t offended him.” Domel’s wife scurried to stand beside her son.
Domel was surprised and pleased at the clarity of his thinking. Sorrow for departure was only the deep, familiar pain of a wound. Shoving wife and son aside, he jammed extra clothing in a waterproof bag. To his wife, he said, “Tell them where I’ve gone. It may save your life. I’m going to the sacred mountain, claiming sanctuary. Remind Lorso no one can touch me there.”
“You’ll have to come down for food. He’ll wait.”
“It’s my only chance.” Domel shouldered the bag, rushed to the door. There was no reason to peer out. If there was anyone there, he’d find out. If anyone was coming, the flash of light from the door would only warn them of his presence. He faced his wife and son briefly. “My crime was to listen to Tears of Jade. My sin was ambition. Trust was my mistake. You, Rendo: Pray you live to understand.”
The door thudded behind him as he dove forward, rolling to the side. The soggy ground absorbed his fall. Rain deadened the faint sound of impact and his scrabbling crawl away from the cabin. He stopped. His sword reached into the darkness, seeking.
Pursuers weren’t after him yet. He rose. Moving in a crouch, he set out. Soon, he slowed. His wife was right; even if he reached the god’s mountaintop, starvation would eventually force him to confront Lorso.
What good was a god’s sanctuary if it merely delayed the will of men?
The trail to Sosolassa’s mountain paralleled the arm of the sea that reached to the Skan village. Blasphemous thoughts would reach the god. There would come a tentacle oozing up onto the beach. Inland. Black as night. Domel’s mind saw it. Toothed suckers trembled at the thought of warm blood. The tentacle was probably already ahead, waiting. Tears of Jade would never let him reach sanctuary provided by the very god she spoke for.
That didn’t make sense. Why didn’t she strike when he was listening outside her window? And what did she care about his carefully woven net of obligations and secret knowledge? Couldn’t the god tell her what was in everyone’s mind?
Every step shriveled Domel’s faith a bit more. All his life, the demands and rewards of the god, as spoken through Tears of Jade, provided a satisfying existence. Now that the god’s demand was for his life, Domel examined his devotion with a somewhat enhanced focus. Had he wanted to believe? Or followed a code that served his needs?
The whole thing made his head hurt.
If the god was there, he was already sentenced to be weighted and thrown to the sea and Sosolassa’s slave barracks. If the god was fallible, why should a Skan warrior stand and wait to be butchered for him?
Domel’s heart pounded with a heady, daring rhythm. There was excited purpose in his step when he turned toward the harbor. Soon he was close enough to identify small balancebars nodding sleepily on the restless waters.
There were guards, of course. Slaves, chained to posts, required to sound warning horns and alert the Skan to any raids or unexpected storms. Alertness was life to the slaves. Raiders killed them in order to preserve surprise; if the slaves failed to warn the Skan, they died for their failure.
Foul weather helped cover Domel’s stealthy advance. Knowing where the guard would be, he came at the huddled figure from landward. Before striking, Domel hesitated. There was something disturbing about the indistinct form. A helmet. Under the rags the man affected to keep out the weather, he wore a helmet. Domel cursed under his breath. There was probably a leather vest, as well. It all combined with the man’s curled-up position to complicate a silent killing stroke. Slowly, gathering himself, Domel came fully erect. The sword climbed higher, hanging in the night like an axe.
The cloth bundled over the helmet dulled the clash of metals. The shrill screech of steel cleaving steel could have been the dying gasp of small night prey. The brittle rattle of the dead slave’s chain sounded offended.
Pitching his bag into the closest balancebar, Domel slashed the mooring line. The rocking, rolling hull stirred memories, reflexes. The coarse rasp of braided leather line paying out through a fist filled him with reminiscence. Brine-soaked cedar smelled intoxicating. The wild, terrible sound of his war cry strained in his throat. He pictured himself washed by the resounding echoes.
For one flashing instant, he thought of his family. There had been good years there.
The boat yawed. The mast creaked, a seductive whisper. The outrigger eased back into the water with a barely audible kiss. Domel paddled out to the Throat. He released the yards, hoisted the sail slowly, steadily. There was no pop of wind-stressed cloth, no warning splurge from sudden acceleration. Stealthily, the balancebar knifed seaward.
Domel thought he was just about abreast of his own cabin when the unmistakable gold-gleaming rectangle of an opened door split the night. Light skipped across the water’s chopped blackness. Domel slid behind the gunwale, even as he jeered at himself. He was far beyond anyone’s vision.
Except Tears of Jade’s. And Sosolassa’s. Doubt crowded his mind. And fear. He remembered things. Terrible. Inexplicable.
Ahead, churning silver marked the waves of open sea. Laughter shrilled in the rigging. Heavier chuckling, the sound of secret knowing, drummed from the sail. The balancebar skimmed along. A different scent came to Domel, the unmistakable smell of the full, awesome ocean, its waters free as sky, massively indifferent to land or man.
As the small boat approached, the curling, crashing crests became white forms against the blackness. Some were blunt, irregular. Some were pointed. Domel thought of them as teeth grinding and gnashing in frenzy.
Sosolassa’s sea.
Chapter 17
The device gleamed in the sun. Polished brass and copper vied with waxed oak. Spoked iron-shod wheels seemed eager to ro
ll.
The crowd surrounding it at a respectful distance stared. Reactions were varied; some faces showed amusement. Most displayed nervous apprehension. There were a few, however, who seemed to need to share their opinions. They moved with furtive hostility, always intent on Leclerc. Speaking softly, quickly, then passing on, they left a wake of troubled thoughtfulness. Occasionally blatant hatred surfaced, like some putrid bubble bursting.
Leclerc fussed over his newest creation. For all its bright, shiny beauty, the apparatus was an odd-looking thing. Essentially a low-slung, long wagon, the bed was actually a rectangular, pitch-sealed wooden box, slightly less than knee-deep. The box was full of water. A leather hose leading to one of the many wells on the castle grounds assured a ready resupply.
Two tanklike structures, one at the front and one at the back end of the wagon bed, stood with their bottom third in the water. A slimmer, tubular article rose vertically to one side of them; it was centered at the edge of the box. Between the shorter twin tanks—they were about waist-high—stood a sturdy oak stanchion about a third taller yet. A beam was centered on an axle near the top of the stanchion. There were long handles near the ends of the beam. Dropping vertically from the same beam were two vertical posts; these were attached to the top center of what appeared to be lids fitted inside the twin tanks.
The single tube centered between the tanks had unusual features, as well. It was actually two pieces. The narrower top was sleeved into the larger bottom half. A leather gasket sealed the joint. At its upper limit, the slimmer tube became two branches that reached out and then turned back toward each other, creating a flattened circle that looked like two opposing horseshoes. Where the branches joined each other, a nozzle pointed at the sky.
Copper pipes, under the water, connected the bases of the two large tanks with the base of the narrower.
Platforms at the back and front of the shallow wooden tank were obviously intended for someone to stand there, with access to the beam-end handles. A similar platform projected from the side of the wagon next to the tall, slim tube.
Gan and his party arrived. They circled the entire thing curiously. If he noted the whisperers in the crowd he gave no sign. He touched a copper tank. Smiling apology at Leclerc, he wiped away the resulting fingerprint with the tail of his leather vest.
Nalatan came to the rear of the wagon, reached a hand up to one of the horizontal beam handles. He voiced the obvious question. “What is it?”
Instead of answering directly, an excited Leclerc said, “You’ll see. I want you to stand on the platform at the front end. I’ll get on the back. When I say ‘push,’ you push down on at handle as hard as you can. That’ll raise this end. See how it pivots on that stanchion in the middle? Once your end is down, I’ll pull mine down. Then you do the same. Understood?”
Nalatan looked dubious. “We make the beam go up and down?”
“Exactly.”
“Why?”
“You’ll see.” Leclerc’s nervous gesture sent Nalatan up onto the forward perch. Leclerc himself moved to the narrow tube. Gripping the top, he twisted. It pivoted until it was nearly horizontal. He hurried back to his handle. At his signal, Nalatan pushed down. Leclerc’s end rose. He pulled it down. The vertical arms attached to the beams lifted smaller diameter copper tubes from within the larger tanks, then plunged them back. Wet leather squealed. The machine wheezed, shuddered. Hollow burbling sounds rumbled from the twin tanks. The single narrow tube trembled. There was a sudden gelatinous cough, a monstrous hawking.
Crammed into the confining nozzle, pressured by all the power Leclerc and Nalatan could muster, water erupted from the machine. It jetted over the crowd, splattered against the castle wall, and peeled back as spray. Yelling people dashed to escape. Leclerc raced for the nozzle. Laughing uproariously, Nalatan continued straining at his work. Leclerc pushed the nozzle so the water arced up over the castle wall. On the other side sheep registered startled disapproval.
The dry part of the watching crowd applauded and laughed excitedly. The reaction of the sprayed participants was more mixed in nature. Gan, dripping, guffawing, hurried to Leclerc, slapping him on the back. “You said it moved water, but I’m still amazed. How do you do it?”
Glowing with pride, Leclerc explained. “It’s just a pump. The two things that fit inside the large tanks are pistons. Make them go up and down, and they force water into the third tank, then out through that nozzle. Compression does the trick. Imagine four men on a pump like that. Or six.”
“What’s the purpose?” Emso crowded to the front of the spectators. He was wet, and not amused.
Leclerc answered easily. “Putting out fires. A few of these and we’re in less danger of having the place burn behind us while we defend the walls.”
“If we’re defending the walls, who’s going to work those handles? Anyhow, Ola’s mostly brick and stone. You’ve wasted our best metal smiths’ time for weeks. They could have been casting arrowheads, making chain mail.”
“I showed you how to make more, better steel, remember? My coke oven made that possible. The men who made this pump learned things; circumference, diameter, radius. This device started a whole apprentice program. You’ll have arrowheads.”
Emso looked ill and angry at the same time. “You made them learn? What are those things you said? Did you do to the smiths what your friends are doing with the Chosens? You did that to men?”
“I taught them. Is that the word that’s choking you? Yes, I taught. To help us all. Even you.” Leclerc couldn’t resist throwing a taunt into his confession.
Pale, expressionless, Emso stared into Leclerc’s eyes for several heartbeats. The entire gathering held its breath. As Emso exhaled, the collective sigh of the crowd was audible. Then Emso said, “Because you are friend to Gan Moondark, I won’t use the name we put to magic makers. But I warn you, never say you help me. Not me.” His glance flicked at Gan, too quickly to be called a defiance.
Distressed by conflict between trusted companions, Gan saw only the most obvious part of the problem. He hurried to Emso. “Careful, old friend; be calm. Leclerc only did what was necessary to build his…” He checked, looked helplessly to Leclerc.
“Pump.” Leclerc spat the word.
Gan turned back to Emso, repeated the word. “His pump. I know it’s against the old ways, but look what the new ways bring us. Fire’s the worst thing that can happen to town or castle. We can fight it better.”
Emso was inscrutable. “You’re my leader. Since you came to this side of the Enemy Mountains, I’ve followed you. Ever you make changes. Ever you’ve been right.”
Gan’s laughter was relieved. “I’ve been right because you made it so. Now, tell the truth; if Leclerc had brought us some new weapon, wouldn’t you be more enthusiastic? What better weapon than something to save lives, buildings?”
“There are many ways to lose even such a large thing as a city.” Emso’s glance at Gan was as cryptic as his remark. Still, his lips moved in a tight smile. “But I think only of combat, of spring and those coming to destroy you.”
“We’ll be ready. Even this new thing may be a weapon.”
Emso bobbed his head and left, examining the crowd. There were those who met his eye. Something passed between them. Leclerc could only think of it as approval. He jumped when Nalatan spoke behind him. “You’ve angered Emso.”
“Emso’s always angry. You know that.”
“Angry at the world. When such a man concentrates on one person, it’s a heavy force.”
Leclerc was determined to keep the conversation light. “The rest of you should appreciate me, then.” He moved to disconnect the pump hose, hoping Nalatan would take the hint and go about his own business.
The move failed. Nalatan joined him, hauling in the leather hose, coiling it. “Emso’s confused. He holds to the old ways. Your tribe breaks the restrictions imposed by generations before us.”
“You don’t seem to mind all of us.” The words were gone bef
ore Leclerc thought of their full import. He stammered, “I’m sorry. I wasn’t thinking. I promised myself—everyone did—we wouldn’t say anything that might make you think about…” Dismay closed off the words.
Nalatan acknowledged the mangled apology. “I understand, Louis. Truly. You think I’m not aware that no one mentions Donnacee? Or Lanta? Do you really believe I don’t see the smirks, hear the whispers?”
“How can you stand it?” Leclerc threw down the hose lashings in the now empty wooden box, abandoned pretense. “What keeps you from killing some of these idiots who think what’s happened is funny?”
“Those contemptibles? I would shame myself.” He flashed a smile. Leclerc felt the frustration behind it like a cold edge laid across his throat. He was grateful for Nalatan’s continued explanation. “When I left Church to marry my Donnacee, I changed myself. I thought that was so for her, as well.”
Watching Nalatan, so outwardly contained, so inwardly agonized, made Leclerc wish he could grab Tate by the shoulders and shake some sense into her. No one should treat another person the way she was treating Nalatan.
In the same steady voice, Nalatan said, “She’s much like Emso, you know? He’s completely caught in what he believes. Donnacee doesn’t see herself that clearly. Emso wants to protect his beliefs. Donnacee wants to find what her beliefs are.”
“You’re a very understanding man.”
Thoughtful, Nalatan looked off to the east. “I understand Donnacee. I don’t care if anyone else does. I tell myself I don’t care what anyone says or thinks of me, of us. But sometimes the questions come. What if something happens to her? What if I wake up some morning and I do care what someone says? What will Nalatan say of the old ways then? What of Nalatan’s soul?” He walked away without looking back, leaving Leclerc to wonder if the words were meant to be heard at all.
