by David Drake
"Hush, child," Ilna said. After she spoke it occurred to her to hope she'd been gentle about it, but that wasn't as important as other things.
They were harvesting the grain with cradles, scythes with a wicker tray to hold the stalks as the blade severed them. A woman followed each man. She removed the stalks from the cradle, then bound them with a twist of rye straw and set the bundle in the little cart she pulled behind her.
Every motion was normal, familiar in general thrust to any peasant in a county where grain was grown. The sum of the motions was wrong, because the crew was only harvesting.
They weren't a team, chattering to one another about the quality of the crop, the heat, the fever that had gotten into Sincarf's hogs and whether it was going to spread through the borough. Twenty individuals sheared their way down the field, with no more interaction than so many stones bouncing in a rockslide.
"Their clothes are ragged," Merota said very softly.
"Their skin's ragged, child," Chalcus said. "They're dead men, they are, though they're moving well enough."
"The insects are dead also," Ilna said. "They fly and crawl, but they're dead. I think we should return to the ships and do whatever's required to convince Vonculo to leave at once."
"Aye," said the chanteyman. "I for one haven't seen any gold lying in the streets."
He nodded to Ilna. "Perhaps you'll lead and I'll take my leisure at the back, mistress?" he said.
"Yes, all right," Ilna said. She set off at a swinging pace through the orchard, down an aisle alongside the one they'd taken in the other direction.
It was hard to tell from which direction they were threatened. Chalcus apparently thought the rear was the place of danger. Ilna suspected it could be anywhere, in the ground or the air they breathed, but since they had to walk in some order it didn't matter.
It was almost a relief to reach the brush that screened the orchard. Ilna twisted sideways to slide through the narrow jaws of the path.
"A moment, dears," said Chalcus. "There's something on the road now. We can wait a moment more."
A procession was making its way up the broken roadway from the south. A battalion of corpses dressed as footmen preceded a pair of open-topped carriages, each drawn by eight skeletal horses. Despite their large wheels, the vehicles rocked and sometimes yawed so far to one side or the other that they threatened to tip over.
Pairs of women danced in the beds of the carriages. They'd been women, at least, before death claimed them. The slime of ages stained their clothing, but even at this distance Ilna could see that they were dressed as only princesses could afford. Their jewels and gold winked and glittered in the rising sun.
One of the dancers wore bracelets set with rubies and diamonds from right wrist to right elbow. At one time her left forearm might have been similarly bedizened, but that limb was only bones and the sinews connecting them. The crabs had been at her.
At the end of the parade of death was a sexless figure who neither walked nor rode: its arms were crossed before its chest, and its slippered feet floated above the road's surface. Its hooded robe was black wool, and soot mixed with grease covered the exposed skin.
The figure was as motionless as a statue carved from coal, and as evil to look on as a boil oozing pus.
"We'll go now," said Ilna clearly. It wasn't a question. Her companions fell in behind her without comment, though at least Chalcus probably wondered where the edge in her voice had come from.
Ilna's fingers played with the silk noose, forming it into quick, complex knots and loosing them almost before they appeared. Aloud, because not to speak would have meant she feared to admit the truth, Ilna said, "Looking at that fellow--the wizard, I suppose he is. I was reminded of seeing myself in the mirror when I lived in Erdin not so very long ago."
"But I don't think, milady," said Chalcus easily, "that you'll ever see that reflection in the future. And I very much doubt the one back there will see any face but the one he wears at present. Not so?"
"We'll hope it's so," Ilna said. She snorted. "Yes, of course; I'll make it so. On my soul, I will!"
She stepped out of the brush onto the mud beach. The tide had begun to fall, though it was still much higher than when Ilna and her companions first landed.
"The ships are gone," she said in a clear voice that was only a hair louder than it needed to be for Chalcus to hear her.
"Are we in the--" the chanteyman said, stepping to Ilna's side. In embarrassment he added almost as part of the same sentence, "Yes, of course we are; and I shouldn't even have needed my late friend Sinou as a signpost to remind me that Ilna os-Kenset wouldn't lead me wrong."
He strode toward the water, then paused and called over his shoulder, "Stay close, little one; and you too, mistress, if you please."
"Come," said Ilna, but Merota was already scurrying after Chalcus. He looked down the beach to southward.
"There they are," Chalcus said. "Just rounding the headland."
Ilna shaded her eyes with her right hand. The ships were moving with minute, jerky motions. One was still fully visible, while only the curved sternpost of the other showed around the edge of the high cliffs south of the landfall.
"I don't see anyone on deck," Ilna said, wondering if only her ignorance made the vessel's appearance seem so wrong. "And the oars aren't moving."
"Look at the color around the hulls, dear one," said Chalcus. "That's not the sun on waves, you know."
"Ah," said Ilna. "No, it's the shells of the Great Ones. And they're towing the ships."
Cashel wiped sweat from his forehead with his sleeve. The green light didn't come from any sun, so he couldn't say the sun was hot today; but he was hot, he'd tell the world!
A poppy grew, goodness knew how, from a crack in the stony soil. Cashel guessed the petals'd be bright red under normal light, but here they were mostly brown. It was still a treat to see them.
He'd first thought he saw a half dozen dark-skinned men in a circle up ahead, waiting for him. Closer up he could tell they were trees, though the spindly limbs didn't look as big as the gnarled trunks should support. There was a knob right above where the branches sprayed out, too.
"Those trees really do look like people," he said to Krias, just being friendly. Cashel talked to the sheep he was tending also. He wasn't sure they understood him, but the sheep seemed to like being noticed; and he wasn't sure they didn't understand, either.
"Well, they ought to," said the ring demon, "since that's what they are. What they were till they didn't hold their tongues when they should've, that is. That was a mistake they won't be able to make again!"
Cashel sighed to hear the gusto in the demon's voice. Those fellows--were they women as well as men? Cashel decided he didn't want to know--might have deserved what they got, but it wasn't something you ought to be pleased about. Well, he guessed the world had as much right to have a Krias as it did a Cashel.
There was a flat gleam in the middle of the trees. Cashel didn't want to get his hopes up, but if that was water it'd be welcome indeed. He'd been eating the shaved root of the tree that attacked him. It had an oily richness, but plain water would go down a treat.
Rather than ask about the maybe-water, Cashel said, "Did those fellows get on the wrong side of a wizard, then, Master Krias?"
"That might have happened," the demon replied with a tart smugness that made Cashel think of Sharina's mother Lora; not a woman he or anybody else he knew had ever cared for. "Or it might have been a God, because in the Underworld more things visit than any sheep-boy could imagine. Or it just possibly was a demon who wasn't always trapped in a sapphire on a fool's finger, you know."
"Ah," said Cashel. Well, he didn't want to get into the rights and wrongs of a business that'd probably happened longer ago than even Garric had read about. Especially not with Krias doing the telling.
He cleared his throat. "That looks like a pool of water," he said.
"Oh, there's water there, all right," Krias said. "You won
't like the taste, but it won't kill you. Getting it out of the middle of the tar it lies on, that may kill you."
Cashel stopped a few paces out from the trees. The water shimmered--green with the sky's reflection and pretty awful to look at--in the middle of a greater expanse of tar. That had crusted in a coating of dust, but Cashel knew chances were it was soft underneath and Duzi knew how deep.
He thought for a moment, then said, "Master Krias? Are the trees going to attack if I go near them?"
"Worried, sheep-boy?"
"No," Cashel said truthfully. "But I like to know what's going on before I get into it."
Krias sniffed. "Them? No, they won't attack anybody. Least of all somebody wearing me."
"I'm glad to hear that," Cashel said, walking to the edge of the tar. The pool of rainwater was still a long double pace, left heel to left heel, beyond where he stood.
Cashel thought he'd heard one of trees sigh as he passed through them, but that could've been imagination. They weren't a familiar kind, but their spines and horny bark were a lot like what he'd seen in dry country elsewhere.
The light was fading; it'd be pitch dark soon. There wasn't a moon down here any more than there was a sun, nor was there anything that'd pass for moonlight.
"It's going to get cold tonight, I shouldn't wonder," Cashel said as he unreeved the strap that bound his water bottle to his belt. Even empty it was a sturdy piece of stoneware, sealed with a pale cream glaze. He uncorked it.
"So build a fire!" Krias said. "And if you've forgotten how since last night, I'll light it for you. Just break off some branches."
Cashel wound the strap around one end of the quarterstaff. He looked at the nearest trees. They were ugly things for a fact.
"I don't guess I'll do that," he said. "I've been cold often enough before."
Cashel backed a little from the edge of the tar and lay flat. He moved with cautious deliberation, as he always did unless he saw a need for haste. Cashel saw the need for haste so rarely that many folk assumed he couldn't move fast. Those who presumed on such a belief often had broken bones or worse to pay them for their mistake.
He slid his staff forward and held the mouth of the water bottle under the surface of the shallow pool. He didn't need Krias to tell him it'd taste awful, but it had been a hot day and there was no reason to expect a change tomorrow.
"You could burn chunks of dried tar, I suppose," Krias muttered. "You'd want to sleep upwind, but I guess you'd do that anyhow. Of course if you're too sensitive to use the dead twigs lying around for kindling, you'll never get the asphalt to light without my help."
Cashel lifted the staff and filled bottle, then got to his feet with his usual slow grace. He looked down at the sapphire. "Thank you, Master Krias," he said. "I wouldn't have thought of that."
"Of course you wouldn't, sheep-boy!" the demon shrilled. "Of course you wouldn't!"
The water was just as foul as Cashel'd expected. He hoped he'd be able to wash the bottle clean when he next found a clear spring. He grinned.
"What do you have to laugh about?" Krias demanded.
"I'm getting ahead of myself," Cashel said. "I should've been hoping I'd find a clear spring, not wondering whether I could wash my bottle in it."
He took another swig and added, "But this will do."
He wondered what Sharina was drinking now. He'd be able to ask her soon enough, he supposed.
Still grinning, Cashel used the side of his foot to scuff clear an arc of ground not far from the pool. The hard soil was covered with stones, mostly flat and about the size of a duck-egg sliced the long way. They were all right to walk on--they didn't have sharp edges--but he'd prefer not to sleep on them since he had the choice.
Duzi, the soil was hard. Cashel drew his knife and used the broad point for a mattock to break up a patch big enough to cradle his hip bone.
"I can do that," Krias said. "I can make you a feather bed to sleep on, sheep-boy."
"This is fine," Cashel said, scooping the dirt away with his palm and the back of the knife blade. He didn't like anything soft under him when he slept. He'd heard feather beds were warm, but so were the wool blankets his sister wove.
Krias muttered. Cashel couldn't make out the words, but he could guess them. Pretty much the same sort of words the demon used most times and most places, which you'd think would get old after a while. It didn't seem to, though; not with demons nor that sort of people either one.
Cashel made a little fireset from fallen wood on the inside of the arc he'd cleared. The twigs wept a sap that hardened clear, and some of them had dead leaves still attached.
The pool's surface cracked when it hardened. Cashel levered fist-sized chunks loose, then put them close to the wood. He was as careful as he could not to get the sticky blackness underneath onto the blade of his knife. The trees' coarse bark would clean the iron a treat, but he didn't think he'd do that do that either. There'd be other trees farther on, he figured. Trees that were just trees.
Cashel used one of the desert stones to tick sparks from the back of his knife into a bed of punk. He carried a small flint in his wallet, but the local rocks were plenty hard enough and a better size to use. The punk lit the twigs into a quick, hot flame which in turn got the tar going.
The tar burned deep red with a lot of oily smoke. The air had cooled off fast when it got dark. Cashel was glad of the warmth, but the whiff he'd gotten when he lit the fire made him hope the mild breeze didn't change direction while he was sleeping.
"Good night, Master Krias," he said. He settled himself with the crook of his right arm for a pillow and his left hand grasping his quarterstaff at the balance.
"Good night indeed!" Krias said. "Or any other kind of night. I hope you don't think that I care whether it's dark or light outside?"
Cashel wondered what the demon did care about. Something, that was for sure. Krias wouldn't be so prickly if there wasn't something bothering him. Asking wouldn't bring anything more than an insult, though; and it wasn't Cashel's habit to go prying into other people's affairs.
The ring's mutterings were a lot like cicadas chirping when you got used to them. Smiling and thinking of Sharina, Cashel drifted off into sleep.
He wasn't sure what waked him or how long he'd slept. The fire was burning much the way it had been when it first fully caught; the chunks of tar grew smaller, but they didn't form ash that smothered the open flame the way wood did.
Cashel wasn't alone any more. The trees from around the pond now stood close together across the fire from him.
"Ah," Cashel said, rising onto his elbow. He didn't jump to his feet nor lift the quarterstaff. Krias had said they wouldn't attack him; and they hadn't, after all, when they walked past him sleeping.
Clearing his throat, Cashel said, "It's a cold night, sure enough. Would you like me to put some more wood on the fire? Fuel, I mean."
The trees didn't move or make a sound. He'd have thought they'd grown right where they were if he didn't know better.
"Do you expect them to answer you, sheep-boy?" Krias said.
"Well, I wasn't sure," said Cashel. To the trees he went on, "Good night to you, sirs. And ladies, if, you know; if you are."
Somewhere in the distance he thought he heard Elfin singing. It could have been the wind, though. It was a pretty sound, whatever it was.
Cashel turned himself end for end, putting his left side down this time. It was a cold night for fair!
When the sky brightened at what would have been dawn in the upper world, the fire had burned out and the trees were back where he'd first seen them. It might have been a dream.
Cashel refilled his water bottle. Before he walked on in the direction Krias indicated, he tapped his forelock in salute to the grove.
Chapter Sixteen
"Please," said Merota as the ships disappeared around the point of land. She looked from Ilna to Chalcus with pleading eyes; very young, very controlled, and very frightened. "What should we do?"
Th
e chanteyman laughed. "I'd be inclined to say that you've as much judgment on the matter as I do, child, but I won't lay that burden on your young shoulders."
He glanced at Ilna and raised an eyebrow. "Mistress?"
"Can we sail a ship off this island by ourselves?" she asked crisply. "Can you sail us off by yourself, that is? I know nothing of the business."
"Build a boat and sail it off, that'd be," Chalcus said, frowning toward the horizon as he considered the question. "Yes, if I had long enough and I knew that our lives depended on just that thing; but I think the better choice is that we leave on the Terror with enough others aboard to crew her. Even if the others are Vonculo and the widdifus who believed his tales of treasure."
"Then let's follow," Ilna said. "Back up on the ridge, I think; the waves are washing that headland, and the cliff looks too steep for me to climb."
They had very little information; that meant weaving it into a plan was simpler. Standing on mud to stare at an empty sea was as complete a waste of time as Ilna could imagine, and the chances were that she and her companions had only a little time.
"Well said," said Chalcus. "But I'll lead, I think."
The chanteyman walked as fast as he could, though his legs were more at home on shipboard than on land. Merota had to scramble to keep up, but she didn't complain. Indeed, the child would probably have been treading on Chalcus' heels out of nervousness if he'd not been pressing.
Ilna followed without difficulty. She was used to walking quickly; and if she didn't have the stride of her long-legged friend Sharina, she could certainly match that of a sailor!
Merota was red-faced when they reached the ridgeline again, but that was more excitement than exhaustion. The child was glad simply to be moving when she was frightened. She hadn't learned that blind action was as likely to take you into hidden danger as out of it.
Ilna did know that; but she felt better for stretching her legs as well. She grinned. Another proof that she was human, she supposed. It was a pity that usually when she thought that, she also thought she was being foolish.
With Chalcus continuing in the lead they followed the ridge to the left, southward. The harvesters were still at work in the barley, but the wizard and his procession of corpses were by now out of sight.
