The Silences of Home

by The Silences of Home (v5. 0) (epub)

  NINETEEN

  Leish no longer looked like himself. Sometimes, in the shadows of first light or dusk, Mallesh’s gaze would fall on his brother and continue on before snapping back again. I do not recognize him any more, Mallesh thought. I do not know him any more. This Leish was a gaunt, stooped man who kept his head lowered as if anticipating a blow. His skin looked worn, even though Mallesh soaked it every day in the mud and water the selkesh gathered from the jungle that had trapped them since they left the sea. Others were ailing as well, and several had died, their bodies weakened from the ocean voyage and unable to absorb the fruits and water of this strange land. Leish was not like them, Mallesh knew; he was not tormented by an ailment of the body but by the song he heard in his mind.

  “I can hear nothing else,” Leish had said a few days after they had hidden their boats along the coast near their landing place. “Not our land or the sea we crossed. Not even this jungle. I can hardly hear the words I speak aloud. Can you hear me? Mallesh?” His hands sought and gripped Mallesh’s until he tugged them away.

  Mallesh heard what all the selkesh but Leish did: the hot dry place beyond the jungle, and the hum of the water and people there. But to Mallesh and the others the notes were one great noise. He tried to separate the strands, to see them clearly, each alone—but he could not. Only Leish saw them; so it was Leish who led the selkesh army.

  “I hear the water beneath the sand. I hear how it will take us to the tall city.” His eyes were wild. Mallesh tried, once, to recall what Leish had looked like beneath the water of Nasranesh, spinning in bubbles of laughter as Mallesh pursued him. He could not remember; it was as if this Leish had never smiled or swum. Mallesh said to the others, “My brother will guide us to our new place”—but he thought, This is not my brother.

  The selkesh scrambled after Leish, over fallen rotten trunks and through pools of stagnant water. When he halted, they halted with him. Mallesh watched them watching Leish, and he shuddered because he thought he might hate this man who was no longer his brother. “Follow me!” Mallesh cried, so loudly that they would have to look at him. They did, though quickly, glancingly—so he called even more loudly, until it seemed he had no voice at all beneath the strangling leaves and vines.

  He tended to Leish at night—washed his flaking skin, placed slivers of fruit between his lips. And Mallesh spoke to him, his voice lowered to a whisper he knew no one else would hear. “We’ve met no people since those fishers on the coast, whom you told me not to kill. There’s been no one else. Why? Why are there no people in this land?” Beasts howled and water dripped onto broad flat leaves. “And when will this cursed jungle end? Are you silent now because you no longer have answers to give me?”

  Mallesh whispered, night after night—until one night Leish lifted his head and said a word. Mallesh drew back from him sharply, so that water sloshed in the skin he held. They were kneeling within a ring of plants whose stems and leaf veins glowed silver. Leish’s eyes were wide and bright. He rasped the word again, and this time Mallesh heard it.

  “Tomorrow.”

  Mallesh had imagined hearing this word; he had felt a surge of excitement and joy in his imaginings. Now, on his knees in the jungle mud, he heard the word and looked at the man who had spoken it, and he felt only dread.

  The selkesh army came to the edge of the jungle at dusk. The massive trees had been dwindling around them all day. Now they were gone, replaced by crooked cacti and jumbled boulders and sand that seemed scarlet, washed by the sky. A road curved away beside them, leading around the jungle, and stretched out broad and flat before them. The road glittered. The selkesh discovered when they set their feet upon it that it was made of crystal-flecked stone.

  Mallesh noticed none of this, when he stepped beyond the last straggling line of trees; he saw only the sheen of what lay at the end of the road. Towers: now he knew what this word meant, though they were still small with distance. A smooth and gleaming wall (a word that until now had meant something crumbling beneath the sea, or short and squat and made of river stones, mud, reeds). And there beneath what his eyes showed him was the song of this place, abruptly clear after weeks of confusion. Water and green, above and beneath; gentle, delicate notes spread amongst the roar of sand.

  Mallesh laughed. His men turned to him, some of them beginning to smile. He cried, “Behold, children of Nasran, our home in the west! Hear how it shines—hear how it calls to us, awaiting us as Nasran foretold. We hear its glorious song as no others can. Truly, we have been chosen for greatness!” He paused to draw breath from his heaving chest. “Let us stay here until we are all assembled. We shall linger for a time among the trees and decide how we will approach—for until now I have not seen this city and so have not been able to—”

  Mallesh stopped speaking as Leish brushed past him. Leish, tall and unbowed, walking, not shambling. He strode out almost to the road and stood there alone, dark against the sky that was ablaze. The selkesh watched him. Mallesh felt the weight of their awe and expectancy, and he trembled with anger—but he, too, watched Leish. And when Leish did not move, even as sunset faded into blue-black and stars, Mallesh went to stand beside him.

  “What do you think of our new place?” he said, just loudly enough that some of those behind them could hear. Normal words—words that would shape and strengthen.

  “Our place?” Leish’s voice was still rough, but it sounded familiar now, like the seasong Mallesh could still hear, faintly, behind them. He cleared his throat.

  “It’s beautiful, isn’t it? I can imagine how Nasran felt when she led our ancestors out of the ocean and beheld the earth and trees for the first time My joy too is—”

  “Mallesh,” Leish said. He turned and Mallesh saw tears in his eyes and in the new, deep creases of his cheeks. “Do you remember when you were a child and you first saw the place whose song you’d only heard before? Was it the northern river branches?”

  Mallesh frowned. “No. The spring that begins on the slopes of the mountains.” He crossed his arms over his chest and looked back at the city, which was just a blot against the sky.

  “Do you remember how you felt when you saw the spring? That place you’d only heard until then?”

  “Excited,” Mallesh said. “Of course. I don’t remember, exactly.” Though he did, suddenly, vividly, and his heart began to hammer as it had when he was eight and full of wonder. “But why ask me this?” he went on quickly, digging his fingers into his upper arms. “You should be thinking only of what is happening now—especially since you’re obviously stronger. And why is this? Why are you stronger—what do you hear? What—”

  “Mallesh,” Leish said, and Mallesh stiffened at this second, gentle interruption. “I remember what you said when you saw your first song-place. You told me that it was so beautiful you could hardly look at it, and that you wanted to protect it forever. That’s how I feel about this place. Now that I can see it.”

  “Excellent,” Mallesh said before Leish’s words could echo and twist in his head. “Then we desire the same thing.” He looked away from his brother’s eyes. “Now that you’re feeling better, you’ll be able to assist me in planning our attack. I’ll send some scouts in to discover what they can about the central building—and I plan on a night approach, perhaps a group at a time. . . .” He squinted into the distance, but the city was invisible. Wind hissed across his skin. It was very cold, and he rubbed at his forearms. We’ll go back among the trees where it’s warmer. Maybe make a small fire. Use the last of the mud and refill our waterskins—who knows when we’ll find—

  “Help,” Leish said. “Help me lie down—I can’t. . . .” He wobbled, then sagged. Mallesh caught and clutched him.

  “He is much recovered,” Mallesh called as he led Leish back to the sheltering trees. “He will soon be himself again.” The nearest selkesh murmured this news to the ones who stood behind them. Mallesh heard his words shiver and change and dissolve away from h
im.

  “Can you hear a way in?” he whispered a few moments later, as he dribbled water onto Leish’s bare arms and chest. “Is there somewhere closer that we can all stay until we’re ready?”

  Leish was silent for a long time—long enough for Mallesh to soak his skin and wrap his clothes back on. “Yes,” Leish said at last, so softly that Mallesh could hardly hear him. “Tomorrow.”

  Baldhron was sure the Queenswoman guard hadn’t seen him, even though he had set a statue rocking on its base as he squeezed behind it. He pressed his back against the corridor wall and his cheek against the ivy-wound likeness of the Eighteenth Queen. After a few moments he eased his face around the statue and parted the ivy with his left hand. As he watched, the Queensguard stretched, twirling her bow by its tip, then scraped at a crack in the wall with her dagger. She straightened when she heard (as Baldhron did) the sound of sandals slapping on stone. The door beside her opened only an instant later.

  Ladhra did not even glance at the Queensguard as she walked into the hallway. Baldhron waited until the guard had gone back to chiselling at the wall before he slipped out from behind the statue and followed Ladhra.

  “My Princess,” he said when he was a pace behind her. She flinched and half-turned, and he smiled.

  “Baldhron,” she said. “Not content to ambush me in the Queenswood, now? Careful—I’ll have to warn my guards about you.”

  “Ah yes, your guards.” She began to walk again; he hurried to match her stride. “The one back there looks especially fierce. Perhaps she’d yawn in my face?”

  Ladhra snapped, “What do you want this time, Baldhron?”

  “What I always want,” he said, trying to keep his words light and smooth. “To see you when you’re not surrounded by people. Now that your friend Lanara’s gone, this is an easier thing to do.” Lanara’s departure had in fact profoundly annoyed him. Ever since the arrival of the selkesh, he had included her in his plans of conquest. He would thrust the relevant scrolls into her hands; he would watch her read and crumble.

  Salanne, daughter of Bralhon, has died at Queen Galha’s command (from a wound taken in a skirmish, the official account will say). I have determined that her husband Creont suspects that his wife and consort-scribe, Malhan, engaged in illicit relations—but he shows no signs of suspecting the circumstances of her death. Their daughter remains a close confidant of the Princess; the Queen obviously has no desire to extend her revenge to the child. The Queen has not yet punished Malhan. I believe she will not. He is her memory and her future, and she would suffer if he were not with her. Only Salanne and her family will suffer now.

  Lanara’s distress could no longer be a component of Baldhron’s greater victory. He chewed at his lower lip, looking away from Ladhra’s face as he did so. He saw that she was holding a piece of folded parchment. “A letter,” he said, steeping his voice in a glee he nearly felt, “from the very same Lanara?”

  “No.” She pressed the parchment against her side, frowning. “Not that you need or deserve to know this.”

  “Ah,” he said, “I see: you and she have quarrelled? I do hope she’s still able to do your mother the Queen’s good work with wisdom and courage?”

  Ladhra rounded on him and stepped forward at the same time, so that he was forced to fall back several paces. Again the wall was at his back. He straightened his spine against the stone and looked at the curve of her dark cheek and the moist gleam of teeth between her lips.

  “I have no idea,” she said, and he smelled sweetleaves and mint on her breath, “how you possibly expect me to welcome your company when you persist in being so unpleasant to me. I have told you, both in writing and in conversation, that I do not return your affections. Your insistence on forcing your company upon me is incomprehensible.” She stepped back. A deep, gasping breath escaped him before he could stifle it. Come, now, he told himself, you control these meetings, not her. Show no weakness.

  “I never mean to offend,” he said. “Only to impress upon you the constancy of my esteem.”

  She made a sound very much like a growl. “Baldhron, I know . . . I know. Please—it would be kinder to both of us if you left me alone. Truly. Just. . . .” She rolled her eyes and turned on her heel, then looked back at him. “And I know you have better things to do than lurk about waiting for me. For instance, shouldn’t you be at your lessons now?”

  “My lessons,” he said, “yes, indeed I should—” but she was already walking away from him, very quickly, clutching the letter so tightly in her right hand that the parchment crumpled. He smiled again.

  He did not go to his lessons. He was always exhilarated and desperate, both, after he saw her. He could not possibly take himself to the Scribeslibrary, where he would have to bend over carefully selected texts, words that were hollow and wrong, where Galha’s consort-scribe would blather about truth, wisdom, and the glorious line of Queens. No: he would descend to the only place where the perfumed stench of the palace could not reach him.

  Pentaran was on guard duty again. “So,” Baldhron said, gesturing impatiently for the man to follow him into the library, “have there been any new entries these past few days?”

  “Only a partial one,” Pentaran said, hardly stammering this time. “There are rumours of a Queensfolk revolt in the west—no supplies, some sort of sickness, violent local tribes. Nothing’s been confirmed yet. Calhia’s waiting for word from the scribe in Blenniquant City. There’s been nothing from the palace, of course.”

  Baldhron walked out to the middle of the bridge, his favourite vantage point since it was higher than the ledges along the walls. Pentaran sat down at his feet. After a moment Baldhron joined him, thinking, not for the first time, I must allow a certain degree of equality. Let him think he can be at ease with me, if it makes him more loyal. He peered down at his reflection, which seemed very close; the water was high now that the autumn rains had come. He and Pentaran were silent. When a splash sounded from the tunnel that led south from the reservoir, it sounded very loud.

  “A fish, maybe, or a frog,” Pentaran said, but he frowned. He leaned over and said, “If it’s a large fish, it might be slow—we could—” and then his reflection and Baldhron’s shattered as creatures rose from the water.

  Pentaran shouted as they surfaced, ranks of them, filling the pool and the southern passageway. He tried to scramble to his feet but Baldhron held him by the wrist and hissed, “No—stay like this; don’t let them think you’re threatening them.” Pentaran stayed, though he made another noise, this one more strangled than the last, and put one shaking hand on the dagger in his belt.

  Baldhron thought, The southern tunnel runs beneath the city wall. It is desert on the other side. Desert pierced by well shafts. He was pleased by the clarity of these thoughts and by the calm he felt. I have never seen these creatures—not even in the marketplace. They are strangers. He looked down at them and smiled, though he did not let it touch his lips.

  Their skin was green-brown and deeply lined, like a turtle’s. Their eyes were round and white, and their mouths were round as well, though Baldhron could not tell if this was just from exertion. But they are like men, he thought, noting their long wet hair, the cloth that wound around their necks and chests and upper arms. He waited. The upturned head of the one beneath him was nearly touching his right foot. Water dripped from the water-men’s hair and chins—the only sound, and it echoed from the glass-encrusted walls.

  At last there was a different sound: the strokes of a body moving with its head and arms held above the water. Baldhron watched the water-man swim to the eastern wall. He pulled himself out of the pool, and Baldhron saw that the cloth strips wrapped his body down to mid-thigh, that he was strikingly tall, and that there were webs between his fingers and toes.

  Other water-men, all equally tall, emerged from the water. Soon the ledges on both sides of the pool were lined with them. They all looked at the man who seemed to be their l
eader—all except for one. This man sat with his back against the wall beneath the thirty-second hanging sack. Baldhron noticed him because he was so motionless and because he seemed different—paler, thinner, the cloth strips loose around his body. He was looking up at the lanterns and the walls; he did not appear to be blinking.

  The leader drew a short hooked dagger from the cloth over his chest, not taking his eyes from Baldhron’s. He spoke two bubbling, frothing words. Baldhron watched his lips stop moving, but the words pulsed on. I know—I understand, he thought, and he reeled, in memory, through the marketplace and the Scribeslibrary until he remembered. These sound like fishfolk words. Not exactly the same, but close enough to the language he had studied to be comprehensible. As the water-men began to pull an assortment of small weapons out of somewhere (scabbard-pouches within the layers of cloth?), Baldhron swallowed and wiped his palms slowly on his tunic.

  “Kill,” the leader said again, more loudly, and stepped onto the bridge.

  TWENTY

  “Stop! Wait!”

  Mallesh stopped. He heard the selkesh behind and below him murmur, but he looked only at the slight, pale man on the bridge. The man who had spoken words Mallesh knew. Mallesh waited, curiosity overcoming for a moment the need for a first kill in this new place.

  I will see what they say, he thought. This cannot hurt us. There are only two of them, both quite small. Mallesh himself felt swollen with strength. The underground swim had been exhilarating; he had not realized how exhausted he had been since they had left the ocean. This water was very deep, and so cold that his teeth ached after he drank it. He had rolled his body over and over in it, after Leish had led them to the desert well and down (such a narrow, crumbling tunnel—but they had heard the pebbles dislodged by their feet splashing far beneath them and had slithered quickly on into the earth).