The Bitterbynde Trilogy

by Cecilia Dart-Thornton

  He ached for peace and sleep, but first he would catch a glimpse of those Above the Dock, so that if perchance he dreamed, which he never did, he would dream of perfumed beauty and sweet music. Torches sputtered in sconces, shedding fitful splodges of light in the stairwell. With taltry pulled well forward to overshadow his face, it was simple to slip from darkness to darkness up the stairs and surprisingly easy to climb swiftly without gasping for breath.

  On reaching an outer chamber of the Greayte Banqueting Hall, the would-be spy awaited his moment, then walked quickly through the open door as if on an errand, sidestepping behind an arras.

  Under a vaulted ceiling of intersecting arches, long lines of dancers met and parted, crossed and separated again, in a solemn elegance of black and silver and pale blue. Spilled wine and gravy stained white linen tablecloths. Candles burned low, dripping their milky wax onto the silverware. Servants pulled the shutters closed against the cool airs of after midnight and the forest’s weird noises. The lilt of violins and pipes swirled.

  He watched, a delighted smile twisting his swollen lips.

  Noticing him, a seated visitor gestured blearily for more wine. His glance alighted on a full pitcher; he brought it and was thus drawn into service among the tables until by mischance he found himself at a trestle occupied by several Master teachers of the Seventh House, who recognized him.

  He sighed, then faced them squarely, even pushing the taltry back a little. He did not cower. His bold stance was intended to say:

  “I have worked my bones to the marrow while you took your leisure. I am tired to my heart, and I am tired of cringing like your cur. Do your worst now—I die with dignity.”

  But, intoxicated, they only waved him away, except for Master Mortier.

  “Come here to me.”

  Mortier put down the pointed knife with which he had been picking at the carcass of a small woodland bird. He beckoned. His surcoat and sleeves were splashed with food, his forehead flushed and beaded with fine droplets. Again he beckoned. The lad stepped closer, defiance in every line of his attitude. The man leaned forward confidentially, unsteadily. His breath stank, and with his soft, pouting lips he reminded the boy of the slimy creatures he had discovered under wet stones in the lower stories of the Tower, where the water-pipes had been leaking for years.

  “Lad, fear not, for I mean you no harm. A coin for you if you answer me truly, yea or nay.” The tutor’s eyes narrowed. “Do you fear the shang unstorm?”

  The youth began to shake his head, spied a glint in the man’s eyes, and changed to a nod, but too late. Mortier smiled.

  “Do not lie to me, lad. You have no fear of it.” He leaned back.

  “Most people are nobody, and you are even more of a nobody than most. Be my errand-boy and rise above your station. You are the lad I need. Pod waxes obstinate. From this night, you shall be my page. Go now and wait in my chambers.”

  The new page paid him a deep and exaggerated bow, turning his face away lest his rage should be read thereon. His lips shaped the words Mortier, thou slug. To his ears, the music of the wedding feast had turned to a jangling of rusty iron, a clanking of chains, and a screech of hunting owls in the night.

  Out of the hall he fled and down the stairs. From the wide flights he passed as he descended, into the narrow spirals where the treads were worn down in the middle. Down and down he hastened, stopping only once, at Floor Five, to collect a small parcel from a niche.

  “How do you always find me?” croaked Pod from a hole in the cellar wall where he rolled, inebriated. “I go deeper and deeper, but you always find me. I don’t like you. Mayhap it is you I am hiding from, eh? Something stole your voice, something stole your face and your past. I think some curse shadows you. How do I know that?” he rambled. “I am Pod the Henker, and I know. You understand nothing of this place, this”—he spread out his thin arms in the watery glow of a rushlight—“this world. Hearken, I will tell you.” He leaned forward, somewhat incoherent.

  “The Windships they sail the tree-heads, the eotaurs they tread the skies for the twelve Houses, the Towers they rise up over the known lands of Erith, and the lands of Erith be the lands of men, but also of unseelie wights you cannot even dream of, that harm and haunt us. The King-Emperor rules in Caermelor Palace and courtiers all around, and he the sovereign of all Erith, possessing riches beyond telling. The world’s wind blows through the empty courts of ruined cities. The shang wind blows through our heads and makes nightmares for us to look at. But I don’t fear the shang, not I.”

  He leaned back, staring at the wall’s utter blackness.

  “Some fear it, some don’t. It be like spiders.” He paused. “And some spiders be poisonous, and some be not.” He paused again. The whites of his eyes gleamed. The listener hearkened, trying to make sense of these ramblings.

  “My lord Pouchguts fears it. Fears it to the death. And so he tries to rule it, to get power over the shang and over unseelie wights. With his books of lore and black candles and blood. He was to become a wizard, one time, but they threw him out of the College of the Nine Arts. He was caught treatying with unseelie things, trying to buy the power he lacked. He tries to bind me to serve him.” Pod shuddered. “And serve him I do, sometimes, but still his fear grows. Now he prepares me to go down into the forest. To bargain with them. But no, I shall not go, when the time comes. And you, you are no better! You also would make me go there! The shang I do not fear. But the things in the forest, in the dark of night—ah! ’Twould be better to jump from the topmost turret than face them, oh yes indeed.”

  Without warning he sat bolt upright. His face sharpened with urgent horror, his eyes clouded like muddy pools.

  “Terrible things happen out there! A person could get lost, could pass right out of knowledge. Beware of footsteps in the night and dark wings that beat against the windows. Beware of the Hunt! Beware of water, wind, and stone! I warn you.” His voice cracked and subsided into a kind of droning hum.

  Mortier’s potential page made hand-signs. Pod looked vapid. The mute one slapped his hand to his head in a gesture of frustration and flung his sack to the floor. Wrapped food and a leather bottle spilled out.

  “Run away? No!” squeaked Pod, abruptly lucid—and then, rapidly, “Well, yes, then. You will never give up. You want to save me, eh? Then follow me. No doubt you mean to try the merchant ship hanging off the dock. ’Twould be a fine night to stow away on board, would it not? And sail away above this accursed forest. Now, while the wedding feast draws to a close and most are sleeping or too busy or too drunk to notice us. Let us go.”

  Too weary and grateful to wonder at the other’s sudden sobriety and change of heart, the youth slung the sack across his back and followed Pod up dank and winding backstairs from twenty feet belowground to the wide dock 112 feet above.

  It was well past midnight—almost dawn. Strains of melodies still drifted from above. The Tower stood silhouetted against an ice-crystal moon on lavender gauze. Land and sea lay sprawled below, a relief cast in pewter. The Windship City of Gilvaris Tarv bobbed at anchor over the mooring-yard, yellow lamps swinging from her rigging. Baffle bows, mooring-lines, and two gangplanks joined her to the dock. Barrels and crates stood piled beside bollards, but no guards or crew were to be seen. The surplus viands and liquors from the Stormrider feast had proved too strong a temptation.

  Pod limped painfully up a swaying gangplank, dragging his foot. Despite his disability he moved quietly. His companion pressed close behind, darting glances into the shadows on all sides. Moonlight behind the masts and yards made intricate cobwebs of the shrouds and stays.

  They reached the deck with a minimum of noise and cast about for a suitable hiding place. From an open hatch, a companionway led down toward a lower deck from which a second ladder led farther down to the dark well of the hold.

  “You go first,” urged Pod.

  The mute youth descended both ladders and waited, looking up. Presently Pod’s voice whispered down through the
gloom:

  “I am going back. I will not do it. Go into peril without Pod.”

  The lad in the hold dropped the sack and began to climb, furiously. Pod’s uneven footsteps thudded on the lower deck, then the upper ladder. Hands grasped his ankles.

  “Let me go,” he croaked. “I was drunk—I did not—”

  “Hoy, what’s amiss?” a deep voice queried. “Who’s there?”

  Pod yelped, felt his ankles freed. He reached the top of the companionway, crawled from the hatch, and made for the boarding ramp at high speed. A commotion ensued, out of which a sailor brought a lantern, holding it high.

  “By thunder, there be something unseelie on the gangplank!”

  “Catch it! Kill it!”

  “Search the ship for others. Check the hold!”

  Burly aeronauts began to swarm over the Windship and the dock. But Pod was gone—gone to some secret hole in the Tower wall.

  And no intruders were found anywhere else on the ship.

  In the morning, the City of Gilvaris Tarv sailed with the wind’s change.

  3

  THE WINDSHIPS

  Sail and Swordplay

  The pine grows high, the holly low, the Windships sail where eagles go. A hundred feet above the ground ship’s timbers make the only sound. Our roads have never felt the wheel, the tallest treetops brush the keel. Amongst the spruce and fir we go, while birch and yew lie far below. Like ocean’s reefs the mountains rise, where birds are fishes of the skies. Like foaming billows, clouds roll by, and currents wrack the windy sky. On tides of light we chart our run and ride the highways of the sun—To aeronauts of mist and air, ’tis only fools who live down there.

  SKYFARERS’ SHANTY

  Out of the pale predawn light emerged the rim of the world, painted with the hasty brushstrokes of clouds. It was suddenly split by the rearing bowsprit before sinking out of sight altogether. A moment later it soared up once more as the Windship struck an air pocket and dropped suddenly. Blinking away sleepiness, able aeronaut Ared Sandover felt his innards rise with the familiar thrill of falling, as if the deck left him momentarily suspended, and the surging lift that followed when it scooped him up again. The sun’s first rays gilded a vast and endless view of undulating greenery, of tossing treetops.

  Bells clanged to signal the half hour. Sandover took the wheel, pulling back slightly to tilt the elevator and lift the prow. Beside the wheel the aileron levers were locked into position. The sails cracked taut, bellied full of wind, and to the steersman it felt as if the spoked wheel beneath his hands were the heart of some spirited thoroughbred. Elated, he stood firm at his task despite the bucking timbers beneath his feet, keeping one eye on the compass, glancing at the rise and fall of the terrain and the approaching line of cumulonimbus building up along the nearby coast. The City of Gilvaris Tarv lifted gracefully over the surging foliage, elegant as a white swan. The taller trees rose so high alongside that Sandover could look straight in among their branches. On the bow the forest canopy fanned out, while overhead on top of the masts the ensigns of Eldaraigne and the Cresny-Beaulais Line fluttered in the morning light.

  At seven bells the relieving watch came out of the fo’c’sle and a savory tang drifted from the galley. Scanning the approaching weather, the captain gave orders to reduce sail, and the first mate cried, “Haul away on the clews! Sailors clewed and bunted up the sails from the deck.

  “Main upper topsail it is, lads,” shouted the first mate. “Aloft and stow!”

  Oblivious of the fickle gulfs of air below, Sandover climbed the ratlines. After reaching the futtock shrouds, he swung out and over, stepping on up the topmast. There was no chance to look down; the boots of the man in front of him were disappearing quickly, and the man below was wasting no time, either.

  As he stepped carefully from shrouds to yard, the sail boiled and bounced around his face; he and the other hands leaned over and lugged it up in great folds. Embracing it with both arms, they shoved it under their bellies and sprawled across it to hold it there until it was lashed. Over the curve of the yardarm Sandover caught a giddy glimpse of a forest lake far below. The ship’s reflection was trapped in it.

  Belowdecks, among the bulk of stacked cargo, the stowaway adjusted the bale-cloth he had rigged to hold him in the angle of a massive wooden rib curving around the hold. A couple of loose casks rolled; wine gulped in them. Stone jars knocked and rattled inside crates. Footsteps drummed on the deck overhead; beams creaked, rope slapped. His bundle of belongings sculled about. He dozed in snatches, ready to take evasive action should he hear the sound of boots descending the companionway.

  His body ached from the tension of the hours of search, when he had wedged himself up under the hold’s ceiling, arms and legs braced against the supports. They had searched the deck area thoroughly but, as he had hoped, had not thought to look up to where he sweated and strained right above their heads. To relax, even for an instant, would have been to drop down on top of them, and now his sinews felt the aftermath of the effort. Stowaways were not looked upon kindly. If he were to be discovered, the punishment would likely be severe. Thirst troubled him, but he dared not drink more than a few sips from his leather bottle, not knowing where to find more water or how long the voyage would take to wherever the ship was bound. Not even scummy bilge moistened these decks; no waves slapped the hull, no spray rattled into the sails—the only waters that would caress this ship were the rain, the mist, and the cloud-vapor that condensed in her moisture-scoops, collecting in the ballast-tanks.

  A dragon figureheaded this three-masted clipper, full-rigged with square sails on all masts. Four stubby wooden wings projected from her hull. Mounted in their cases below them, small but strong sildron-powered propellers whirred. Ailerons occasionally tilted along the following edge of each wing as the helmsman made small adjustments to the ship’s course. The ailerons were not the main source of stability, since sildron remained at a constant height above the ground and the ship would not roll unless driven above a steep incline; but they were required, along with the rudder, to make changes of direction.

  A Windship could sail swiftly in the same direction as the wind or steadily across the wind. But like its cousins on the water, it could not sail directly into the wind’s eye and had to tack. As powerful as the propellers were, they could not fight against the wind; their role was to impart maneuverability and added speed under the right conditions. Iron being anathema to sildron, these engines were held together with cordage and glue; they were incapable of undergoing the strain of high speeds or large loads without bursting apart.

  Her rig was what harnessed the wind’s power to drive the vessel forward, and the working of it through the changes of wind and weather required skill, hard work, and constant attention, for the wind was always altering course, and higher up the masts, it blew from different directions.

  She sailed a predetermined course at an altitude of 150 feet, this height having been set by the amount of andalum shielding rolled back from the sildron inside the double hull. As cargo was unloaded or loaded at various ports of call, the shipmaster would ensure that the shields were rolled in or out to compensate for the changes in the ship’s weight. It was every shipmaster’s desire to sail as close to the designated altitude as possible and to reach each destination as fast as possible, without deviating, at least officially, from the legal trade routes. Windship routes and altitudes were carefully chosen by the Sky Moot to enable vessels to voyage with maximum efficiency and safety. Many mountain peaks jutted up well over four thousand feet. Around them the Tarv would have to navigate; to travel at lower altitude would mean more and wider obstacles, but she could not rise much higher without the purer-grade sildron used by swifter and more expensive Windships. There was also the Law of Quadrants, which dictated that Windships of her class bound in a certain direction must maintain a particular altitude to minimize the risk of collision. So, at 150 feet she sped along with a bonnetful of wind, sometimes brushed by the tops of
pine, alder, and spruce as she crossed the Greayte Western Forest on her voyage southeast, bound for the city, her namesake.

  The winds of the cold front escaped into the northeast without much hampering the Windship’s progress, and by sunset she soared out over the edge of the forest and began to pass over the meathenlands, a prosperous region of farmed countryside and small villages. Sheep scattered like thistledown before her shadow. A thick layer of altocumulus tesselated the skies like acres of teasel-tufts, reflecting hues of peach and amber.

  These lands were patch-counterpanes of meadows and tilled fields edged with the green brocade of hedgerows and winding ribbons of lanes. The ship sailed through the night and docked next morning for half a day at Stockton Wood Interchange Turret for fresh water and cargo to be brought on board—grain, cheese, wool, salt beef, and beans. At that time the stowaway had to hide again, wedged among the supporting beams of the overhead deck.

  Naught saw he of the Turret with its few inhabitants—little more than a slender column with landing platforms set at each level and each direction. Naught saw he of the village of Stockton Wood or of the green fields and patterned red soil that passed below. He knew only the restless twilight of the Windship’s distended belly. From time to time, aeronauts would be sent below to check that the cargo was shipshape and had not come loose from its lashings, and that was what led, inevitably, to his discovery.

  Able aeronaut Sandover dragged him up the companionways past several faces screwed up in astonishment. He stumbled, blinking, onto the quarterdeck and stood transfixed, looking up at the monumental wooden trees that rose forever above his head, tapering into a dazzling sky and decorated by the cordage of sailing; fathoms of standing and running rigging; halliards, sheets, foot-ropes, ratlines, tackles, shrouds, stays and braces, buntlines, clewlines, and downhauls. Sails bellied from the yards, and the flags of the Cresny-Beaulais Line fluttered from the mastheads.