The Larion Senators e-3

by Rob Scott

  ‘Oh, I can get inside lots of dreams,’ Milla said. ‘Once you can do it, the dreams are all about the same. The ash dream is a little easier, because no one can make you leave.’

  The three men shared a worried look. ‘What do you mean, Pepperweed?’ Steven pressed.

  ‘In the ash dream, the person is living the dream, instead of just watching it happen.’

  ‘But I was living those dreams too,’ Steven asked, ‘wasn’t I?’

  ‘It’s not the same,’ Milla explained. ‘If you wanted to, you could have made me leave, or changed the puppy into something else, something that you picked from your own mind, but in the ash dream, you can’t do that.’

  ‘Jesus,’ Steven whispered, then asked, ‘Could you hear me when we were running? I remember talking to you – well, to the puppy – while I was running that race with all those people.’

  Milla giggled. ‘Of course I could hear you, silly. I was there with you.’

  ‘But if I wanted to, I could have made you into something else? An iced doughnut, or a flying pig?’

  Milla burst out laughing; her animated sticks did a collective leap and some of the driest ones shattered when they crashed down. ‘A flying pig?’ she giggled. ‘That’s funny. I’ve never seen one of them.’

  ‘But I could have, right? And that would have pushed you out of my dream?’

  ‘Yes,’ she said, bored with her stick races now. She looked at Steven.

  ‘How did you find me, Milla?’ he asked.

  ‘What do you mean?’ She stood up and walked across to the little desk they were grouped around.

  ‘I wasn’t in the ash dream,’ Steven said. ‘I was sick and dreaming, but it wasn’t the ash dream. What made you come looking for me?’

  ‘I found you by mistake,’ Milla said, then asked, ‘is there anything to drink? I’m thirsty.’

  ‘Just a moment, Pepperweed,’ Alen said, ‘and we’ll get you a drink. But tell us how you found Steven when he was sick.’

  She pouted endearingly and said impatiently, ‘I was looking for Gilmour. Hannah and Hoyt and you wanted to know when he was going to get to the inn, so I was searching for him. I talked to him that time and I knew what he felt like, even from pretty far away. I’m good at that-’

  ‘Not like the ice,’ Steven teased.

  ‘No,’ Milla smiled back, her momentary irritation forgotten, ‘I can’t do ice. But I was looking for Gilmour that day but I found the other magic.’

  ‘My magic?’ Steven said.

  ‘No, I can’t find you, ever,’ Milla said. ‘It was the magic from those bugs. I hadn’t felt them before, but that morning, they were really loud.’

  ‘Loud?’

  ‘Easy to hear,’ Milla tried to explain. ‘There were two of them, right?’

  ‘Right,’ Gilmour said.

  ‘And one that had died,’ Milla went on. ‘They were looking for that one right before they bit Steven and hurt that other man…’

  ‘Marrin,’ Gilmour added, then asked the question all three of them were thinking. ‘Pepperweed, could you get inside Mark Jenkins’ dreams? Or maybe show one of us how to do it?’

  ‘Yup,’ she said, ‘but only if he goes to sleep.’

  ‘Shit,’ Steven said. ‘I hadn’t thought of that.’

  ‘That’s a bad word!’ Milla was indignant. ‘Hannah told me that even though she’s not at home, she shouldn’t say that word.’

  Steven raised his hands in surrender. ‘She’s right. Sorry.’

  ‘Could you show us? Me?’ Alen asked.

  ‘You want to learn how?’ Milla asked.

  ‘I read that book last night,’ Alen said, ‘and I think I know how to do it, but Mark would be one of the hardest people to follow. So I want to learn how to do it like you do, as a puppy, or maybe a kitten or even a little mouse on the floor.’

  ‘A mouse!’ Milla shrieked excitedly, ‘yes, let’s be a mouse if you want to!’

  ‘I do, Pepperweed.’ Alen clapped his hands. ‘Now, how do I know if Mark is sleeping?’

  ‘I’ll show you,’ Milla said, ‘but can we get a drink first?’

  ‘Of course, a drink.’ He took her hand and led her from the cabin, saying, ‘We’ll see if Hoyt or Kellin have something nice to drink.’

  When they were gone, Steven asked, ‘Have you ever heard of any of this?’

  ‘It wasn’t my bailiwick,’ Gilmour said. ‘I’m sure Nerak and Pikan would have been involved in this sort of work, but my department was more concerned with education than magic. I had access to Lessek’s scroll library, as did Kantu, but last night was the first time either of us had ever read through these writings.’ He flipped absently through the spell book. ‘There’s so much more here than just the ash dream, but there must be a reason why Lessek organised this book around this particular spell.’

  ‘I can’t make most of it out,’ Steven admitted, ‘but if you think about how textbooks are organised, there’s generally a key theme around which the rest of the chapter is written and every time you learn something new, a bit of extra information is added, like building a wall.’

  ‘And they all relate to the main topic, the cornerstone idea.’

  ‘So do you think the ash dream was the key concept around which Lessek organised his work? Did his research spring from this one place, from the ability to see inside the minds of others as they slept?’ Steven was disappointed. He had developed a feeling about the Larion founder, and this theory didn’t live up to his idea of Lessek as a powerful yet compassionate magician and teacher.

  ‘I don’t know,’ Gilmour said, ‘but from what I know of Lessek and his work, if he did see the ash dream as a cornerstone construct of Larion magic, we have only seen it from the most narrow of perspectives.’

  ‘This dirty, wrong-feeling perspective that an otherwise intrusive and voyeuristic spell could be so important?’

  ‘Unless it was used for teaching, like you suggested last night,’ Gilmour said.

  ‘Unless that, I guess.’ Steven wasn’t convinced. They hadn’t delved deeply enough; something was missing; it was seventeen minutes past two in New York and he prayed they would decipher it all in time.

  THE RUN SOUTH

  ‘Cast off that mooring line,’ shouted Captain Ford. It was ten past eight by Mark’s old watch and the Morning Star was still lashed to the two-aven buoy in Pellia Harbour. They had overstayed their welcome by an hour – he credited his generous bribe for that – but now time was running out. ‘Pel!’ he cried again, ‘don’t you see him coming? Cast it off now! I don’t want to be answering any more questions.’

  In the fading twilight they could see the harbourmaster’s ketch approaching, slowly but inexorably making its way through the maze of boats moored off the wharf.

  ‘Aye aye, Captain,’ Pel shouted as he hurried to untie the brig-sloop. He waved a cheery thanks to the harbourmaster and called, ‘See you next time through!’

  The Malakasian official gave a half-hearted salute and watched as the incoming tide carried the Morning Star upriver a ways. He considered something, then dug in his tunic for a tempine. ‘Come about, Jon,’ he finally ordered, peeling the fruit. ‘One more time around and then it’s home for both of us.’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ the boy replied, still looking at the brig-sloop. ‘Funny the way they’re just drifting, isn’t it?’

  The harbourmaster chewed contentedly; another day was over. ‘They saw us coming, Jon, that’s all; he didn’t want to pay extra for going overtime. They’re drifting because they probably weren’t ready to get under way just yet.’

  ‘Yes, sir. Strange that he’s already setting topsails, though.’

  ‘What’s that?’ The harbourmaster turned to watch the brig-sloop set her tops and topmains. The ship was running upriver, showing no sign of tacking beyond the headlands. ‘But he said he had a long journey ahead of him.’

  ‘I heard him, too,’ the boy said, ‘but I don’t know how long a journey a boat that big can make
along this river, maybe just up beyond the palace and back, and what’s that? A couple of days for them? Rutters! Look at them go! That’s a fast ship!’

  The harbourmaster wasn’t listening. The captain, if he even was their captain, had been lying. ‘Jon, run us in to the wharf, now – hurry on with you!’

  By one twenty-five the navy ship had tacked east and was running up on the Morning Star. She was visible only by her watchlights; probably a schooner with enough sheets on her to overtake a typhoon. The tide had run in, carrying the brig-sloop upriver for the past two avens, but as slack water approached, the winds slowed and the current pushed back against Captain Ford’s best efforts to run a beeline south from Pellia.

  ‘What time is it?’ he called from the quarterdeck.

  ‘It’s about one-thirty,’ Steven shouted back, ‘less than two avens before we can disappear.’

  ‘That’s too much time,’ he replied, checking their stern. The schooner was bearing down on them and within an aven, it would be within hailing distance, and at that point, there would be nothing he could do. For now, he could play dumb, claim that he had no idea the navy was after him – why would they be? He paged through viable excuses in his head: just running with the tide while he made repairs, testing a new rudder, breaking in a new crew; just about any excuse would free them, because they were doing nothing wrong, nor hauling anything illegal – apart from partisan sorcerers, a Welstar Palace fugitive and an outlaw text from Prince Malagon’s personal library, of course. With Steven and the others gone, however, it would be a different story: they could board him, search his ship, interrogate the crew and all he need to do was tell them, come on, make yourselves at home; we’re just testing this new rudder before we head for Orindale.

  ‘Two avens,’ he muttered to himself. ‘How, by all the gods of the Northern Forest, do we avoid being boarded for two avens?’

  Pel climbed to the quarterdeck and reported, ‘That’s all the sheet we can get on her, Captain.’

  ‘Nice job, Pel,’ he said generously. ‘How long until slack tide?’

  ‘Half an aven, maybe less,’ the young sailor said, looking cold and weak with exhaustion. None of them had slept much over the past two days, but while the others were huddled together below, devising a plan to seal the Fold for ever, Pel had been up on deck, out in the wind and weather, keeping the Morning Star on course.

  ‘Half an aven,’ Captain Ford echoed, ‘good. That’s what I was thinking.’

  ‘We’re going to lose this tailwind, though,’ he added. ‘When the tide turns, the wind’ll change. This is no front blowing us south.’

  ‘I know, I know, but he’ll lose the wind, too.’

  Less than half an aven later, the southern tidal flow slowed to a trickle, and with it went the Morning Star’s tailwind. Slack tide: on the coast it would have meant half an aven of dead water, but here, the Welstar River took over. Captain Ford was talking to himself as he considered the limp sheets and the following naval patrol. ‘One chance. That’s it. We have to turn east and run back north beyond the city, but we can’t look like we’re running, son of a raving whore!’

  Still at the helm, he was glad to see Steven appear on deck. ‘Our list of excuses remains good,’ Captain Ford said. ‘We’re putting her through her paces before heading for the Northeast Channel. Why’d we turn and run downriver? Why not? We needed a bit of time and the tide was coming in, right? When we hit slack water, we turned and headed for the open sea. Simple, believable… and yet still likely to have me hanged and my boat pressed into the Malakasian navy.’

  Now that it was the middle of the night, Steven could safely be on deck. ‘You’re fine,’ he said. ‘With us gone, you’ve got nothing to hide; just don’t do anything that looks suspicious.’

  ‘Easier said than done, my friend,’ Captain Ford replied. He felt the brig-sloop turning slowly beneath his boots. He checked the schooner, cursed the river and shouted, ‘Pel! Kellin! Garec! We’re coming about, let’s go! Let’s go! I want to make a hard left.’

  ‘Sir, the barges!’ Pel’s voice rang out.

  ‘You think I don’t see them?’ The captain wiped his face on his cloak. ‘Come about, on my order!’ He left the helm to Steven and crossed to the port rail, listening through the darkness for the armada of massive barges plying the river. The broad, flat-bottomed vessels were loaded with crates, lumber, even quarried stone. Passing between them at night was just about the most insane decision he could make. But given the circumstances, it might give them time to escape. The sailors tailing might be interested in the brig-sloop, perhaps even angry with her apparently oblivious captain, but he doubted they would risk death to investigate a boat that had, thus far, done essentially nothing wrong. His mood was turning sour; he retook the helm.

  ‘Captain, this is what I meant by doing something suspicious,’ Steven pointed out. ‘I’m just wondering what happens if one of those barges runs into us by accident while we’re cutting across traffic like a drunken teenager. I’ve been hoping for a chance to use a bit of magic before I get to Jones Beach, but turning away a five-hundred-ton barge loaded with masonry is more test than I need.’

  ‘If you don’t mind, I need to concentrate.’ Captain Ford watched upriver, timing the barge traffic, counting the watchlights and estimating the distances between them.

  Alen and Gilmour emerged and Steven jumped down to join them, leaving the quarterdeck to the captain.

  ‘What’s happening?’ Gilmour asked. ‘We can see the navy boat’s still following.’

  ‘We’re taking steps to avoid them now,’ Steven said and gestured towards the centre of the river. ‘I think the idea is that if we can reach the east bank, we can run north through the city, with the river and the tide at our backs-’

  ‘And the schooner won’t follow us-’ Gilmour said.

  ‘Because he’d have to be out of his mind,’ Alen finished.

  ‘That about sums it up.’ Steven watched Pel and Kellin hurry amidships. Garec, who had picked up some rudimentary sailing skills, thanks largely to Kellin, helped where he could. Hoyt and Milla were asleep in the forward cabin, quite unaware that they might soon be swimming to shore.

  Brexan, looking bleary-eyed, clomped up to them and asked, ‘What’s all the rutting shouting?’

  ‘Oh, nothing much,’ Garec said cheerfully, ‘but since you’re up, would you mind giving a hand over here?’ He was wrestling with a line affixed, through a system of pulleys, to the main spar.

  Brexan traced the line to its terminus, high in the rigging. ‘What by all the gods in the Northern Forest are you doing?’ she cried, suddenly wide awake.

  ‘Crossing the road,’ Garec said, chuckling nervously.

  Alen moved to the gunwale, watching as a veritable fleet of big-boned vessels cruised north. To Steven, he said diffidently, ‘Do you think you could…’

  ‘I have no idea,’ Steven read his mind. ‘It would be like moving a mountain.’

  ‘A moving mountain,’ Gilmour added.

  ‘What time is it, anyway?’ Alen squinted at Steven’s wrist in the torchlight.

  ‘About twenty to three. We need another hour and a half.’

  ‘If we live through the next five minutes.’

  *

  Captain Ford waited, feeling the Morning Star drift lazily towards the centre of the river. He watched, holding his breath, as a barge passed by like a floating island. From this distance he could see the crew, lined up on the port rail, staring at the madmen on the tiny sloop. Some were shouting, waving him off, or gesturing wildly with storm lanterns. Others stood in mute amazement as the Morning Star bobbed in the barge’s wake like a child’s toy. As the great vessel slipped past, averting catastrophe by just a few paces, the silence was broken as her captain, in a towering rage, shrieked insults across the bow. ‘Rutting demonpissing horsecock! Are you mad? Trying to get yourself killed, you whoring motherhumper? If I see you in Pellia, I’ll rip your miserable head from your shoulders, I swear I w
ill!’

  Captain Ford ignored him, pulling the brig-sloop around and shouting himself, ‘Now, Pel, Kellin, Garec, come about! Haul, gods rut you raw, haul away!’

  With Kellin and Pel on the foremast, Garec and Brexan on the main, the partisan crew bent low with the effort of turning the brig-sloop in a hard tack straight across the river. Steven, Gilmour and Alen leaped to join them, glad to have something to do, to distract themselves from the next barge in line, another flat-bottomed monster loaded to the gunwales. Already they could hear their crew shouting and cursing, trying to turn their own ship to avoid the maniac in the way.

  ‘We’re not going to make it,’ Garec grunted, heaving at the main yard. ‘Even if we get her turned, there’s no wind. We’re already drifting downriver.’

  Steven let go the line and Garec stumbled, almost falling. He grappled with the rope as it slid across the planks. ‘A bit of warning next time!’ he shouted as Steven ran for the quarterdeck, mouthing apologies as he went.

  ‘What? You have other plans?’ The bowman tried digging his toes into the deck, clawing for any purchase on the icy wood.

  ‘We need wind!’ Steven cried.

  ‘Steven, no!’ Captain Ford shouted, suddenly realising what he meant to do, ‘wait! You’ll rip their arms off!’

  ‘What?’ Steven shouted, ‘why?’

  ‘Garec, Pel!’ Captain Ford cried, ‘belay those lines – now! ’

  ‘But we’re not all the way over!’ Pel shouted.

  ‘Do it now! Both of you!’

  Garec scrambled to obey and the main yard spun until the line went taut. He glanced up, saw the barge bearing down on them, her watchlights glowing like the eyes of a river demon, and screamed, ‘Now, Steven, now!’

  Captain Ford had stood at the helm when Gilmour had filled the brig-sloop’s sails with hurricane-force wind and together, they had saved the ship, bouncing her off the mud reef. It had astounded him that anyone could be so powerful as to harness the very wind to his bidding.

  But when Steven Taylor raised his hands to the main sheet, Captain Ford felt as though the Morning Star was about to spring from the water and take flight.