Moss and lichen began to appear, clinging to the walls. The passage turned, kinked down, began to level out. Patches of ferns, long-limbed and green, clumped at its edges. Clairet mouthed them, setting frondy shadows dancing. Jehan’s mouth was dry. He did not know how far they must travel before they found more water. Better to wait. Another twist, and he stumbled, distracted by his thirst. He put a hand out to the wall and found it moist. Moss, ferns…He unslung the canteen and took a few careful sips. Clairet must be thirsty, too. He would need to water her soon. On again, toward that light. The passage began to widen, its floor becoming more pebble than bare rock. Clairet’s hoofs shirred and clipped on it. The light was changing, taking on a tinge of green, a taste of…of what? He didn’t know. A sourness, like winter melon.
From ahead, something whispered, sibilant, soft. He stopped. His hand found the stone chip in his pocket, squeezed it. Not a voice, not even really a sound, more the shadow of one—a hiss, a shift, a memory. Yulana’s whiskers tickled his cheek. He hesitated, felt the cool of teeth against his skin and moved forward. The passage bore right and came to a halt. In front of him opened a cavern. Its roof sloped steeply up, green-amber light fading into darkness, littered with the faintest hint of stars. The walls spread away from him, tricked out in ferns, murmuring to themselves in the moist breeze. He could not see the far side. He stood in the entrance, Clairet beside him, and neither twin protested. Those were stars overhead, stars he knew. There was the spearhead, the sickle, the potter. He asked, “Where are we?”
The ferret on his shoulder hopped down onto Clairet’s back. The other steadied herself and jumped to the floor. Her fur shimmered, and she shook herself and changed. He looked away as she groped in the saddlebags for her tunic. She said, “It’s the boundary. The beach.”
“The beach?” He sniffed. Iron and yeast and growth, yes, but not salt. He said, “I can’t smell the sea.”
“The sea isn’t here.” She caught at his hand. Her fingers were callused. “Come on. Don’t loiter.”
“But, Julana…”
“Yelena.”
“Yelena.” It simply wasn’t possible to tell them apart. “If it’s a beach then surely…?”
“Hurry!”
“Wait.” Hurry or no hurry, Clairet needed water. He unhooked her water bowl from the saddle and poured a good part of the contents of his spare canteen into it. “Clairet has to drink.” Yelena scowled at him, but she waited, twisting from side to side, while the pony drank.
As soon as the pony lifted her head, Yelena tugged at him again. “Walk now. Ask questions in the boat. Bad things live here.” She strode away from him, long fast strides.
“Bad things?” Struggling to stow the bowl, he followed. His hand tried to drift to his saber, but he pulled it back. He looked about him. Pebbles and ferns and dimness. There could be anything out there, waiting in the fringes of vision. “Bad how?”
Yelena shrugged. “Watchers. Hunters, maybe. It depends.”
“On what?”
“Things. We move.”
That was no help at all. He checked the hilt of his sword. Underfoot, the pebbles cracked and crunched. Impossible to disguise their presence on such terrain. Tension twined up his spine. Beside him, Clairet placed her hoofs carefully. Her hearing, her sense of smell were both more acute than his. She would notice any danger that approached them. He patted her neck. On top of the bags, the other twin—Julana—dozed. Yelena stalked in front of him, her bare feet almost silent. Hard not to jump at every pebble that clinked, at every ripple in the ferns.
The whispering noise was building. It shivered over the beach, sighing and rattling. Water—it must be. Water through stones, waves combing the strand. The sea is not here. If not the sea, then what? A lake? A river? He peered into the dimness: in the distance he could just make out a darker patch. He caught up to Yelena. He said, “What makes that noise?”
“It’s the nature of this place.”
“What does that mean?”
She looked at him, eyes blank. She did not understand him, it appeared. It was not a question she recognized. He shook his head. “Never mind. Where’s Aude?”
“Not here. This is the border. Come. Mustn’t draw attention.”
Another hundred yards. He was certain, now, that some dark mass lay up ahead. It extended away, green-gray and matte in the low light. The stars made no reflections in it. They drew closer to the dark mass, and he stumbled to a halt, gasping.
Not a sea. Not water at all. From the edge of the beach moss extended out across the cavern floor, greens piled on grays and yellows, humping up and giving way, a living plant–portrait of water. And from it came that slow shingle murmur. Clairet dropped her nose to sniff an outlying frond and the clump drew back from her. On her back, Julana stretched, yawned, and jumped down onto the pebbles. Jehan sank to a squat. Under his hands, the stones were damp and slightly warm. They could not cross this moss on foot. Anything could lie under it: ravines, sinkholes, bogs. He had seen marshes on the southeastern side of the Brass City, fetid heaving places full of gas and treachery. A man needed a reliable guide—or a skinful of cheap gin—to venture into it. And there, the lights and sounds of the Brass City could offer some clues. Here was only dankness and twilight and the distant cavern walls. He said, “It’s not possible.”
“Marcellan crossed,” Yelena said. “The boat is here. We’ll find it.”
In the Brass City marshes there were people, mainly women, who eked out a living poling flat bottomed punts, transporting goods and occasional passengers across the shorter stretches and retrieving corpses from the wider parts. But their trade could be plied only during the rains or at slack water. At other times, the mud lay too heavy. He could not imagine that punts could make headway in this chaos of vegetation. He rubbed at his neck, then, rising, took a long gulp of water from the canteen. He poured more into Clairet’s shallow leather bowl and held it for her while she drank again. Then he offered the canteen to Yelena. “Water?”
“No need.”
He hooked the canteen back into place and took a few minutes to shed his outer layers. Stripped to shirtsleeves, he felt his thirst recede. Yelena said, “We move now.” They walked along the edge of the moss sea, Yelena leading. Julana hopped and bounded at her ankles, diving sideways now and then after a particularly alluring pebble, leaping back as an adventurous tendril teased her.
They had promised water. Jehan hesitated. He said, “My canteens…You said there’d be a chance to refill them.” Moss needed moisture to grow, but it might be hard to find and purify in all this. “What I have won’t last long.”
“There’ll be water.” Yelena looked back at him. “You worry too much.”
He crunched after her along the shoreline. The pebbles shifted and cracked. The moss lapped at his boots. In front of him, Julana zigged across his path for the fifth or sixth time. He had to keep his eyes lowered, keeping track of her, lest he trip.
Perhaps that was why he failed to notice the boat. Underfoot, Julana came to a sudden halt, making him stumble into Clairet’s flank. He put out a hand to steady himself and looked up.
At first, he thought it an outcrop of rock. Slick black, it cut into the beach, solid and sharp. Half its length rested on the moss, shimmering. The sides were striated, lines of paler crystal tracing slow curves. Its tip tilted upward, like the neck of some waterbird. As the moss stirred, it rocked gently.
It should not be possible. A boat of stone. By the prow, Yelena said, “Boat.”
“But…” he said, and stopped. The longer he stared, the more boatlike it became. It was about twelve feet long, maybe five feet at its widest part. He moved closer. The interior was hollow, for all the world like a wooden boat, with a couple of stone bars crossing it. There were no oars, no mast, no punt pole. It was as unlikely as women who were ferrets, as a door that opened into a mythic domain. He set his shoulders against his disbelief and said, “How do we get Clairet on board?”
Yelena
stooped to gather her sister, dropping her onto the boat rail. She leaped down to nose at the inner part. Yelena said, “Pony is smart.” Smarter than he was, her tone implied. At this moment, he could believe that. She continued, “Haste now. We’re too easily seen.”
He unloaded the pony, lowering the saddlebags into the boat. He half-expected the moss to splash and slop under them, but they landed with a muffled thump and lay dry and still. He considered the stone bars—seats? Would they lift out? He tested one, and it shifted. It was wedged in tight, its edges damp and hard to grip. He fished for his gloves, and tugged again, bracing himself as best he could on the loose stones. Yelena said, “Hurry.”
“Help me lift this.”
Her nose wrinkled, eyes screwing up in irritation. But she came around to his side and put her small hands to the plank. Her nails were thick and curved, striking sparks from the stone. From somewhere he could hear a whirring, a low burring to counterpoint the swish-hiss of mossy waves.
“They’re coming,” Yelena said. “They’ve noticed us. Move, now.”
He pulled harder, and the bar came free with a splintering crack. He staggered, feet slipping, stumbling into the moss. It caught at his ankles, soft and clinging. Yelena was peering up the strand, toward the distant cavern wall. The buzzing had grown louder. He asked, “What is that?”
“Watchers.” Her voice quivered. “Too much noise. Too many stops. They sensed us.” A shiver of dark fur snaked down her spine. If she changed now…
He heaved the plank around to rest diagonally against the prow. Julana came underneath it, peering up at him. The drop into the boat was maybe two feet. Could Clairet negotiate it safely? He looked over his shoulder into the gloom. Something out there…a rattle of stone on stone, a whirr, a shimmer of different darkness. His carbine was in the bottom of the boat with the saddlebags. Behind him, Clairet whickered. Julana rose to her hind legs and chattered. Hard on her heels, Yelena murmured something soft, low, between her teeth. Clairet pulled her head up and began to climb the ramp. He stepped back; her flank brushed him as she reached the top and then stepped, neatly, into the boat. The moss received her, steadying, rebalancing. Her ears flickered at him, back and forth, a pony wink.
“Push now,” Yelena said, snapping his attention back to her. Her hands were now wrapped around one side of the boat, shoving at it. He copied her, feet sliding for grip in the moss. The plank dropped free and sank silently into the moss. The rattling was ever louder, building to a roar, like roof tiles clattering groundward in a storm. He gritted his teeth, pushed harder, felt his feet sink deeper into the moss. Tendrils crawled up his boots, reaching cool fingers down inside them. Wind pushed at him; he shivered under it, pushing and pushing as the twilight dimmed into darkness and the rattling became a thunder of wings. He looked up, and his hands dropped to his sides.
From the cavern wall swept a chaos of iridescent hard shapes, in green and dark red and yellow. Jehan reached for his sword. Around his feet, the moss slopped and shifted, clogging. Yeasty air caught in his throat, making him cough. He began to turn, and his feet slid from under him. He dropped to hands and knees, the partly drawn sword hitting him in the midriff. The clatter of wings deepened, driving shadow over them.
Yelena hauled at his arms. He wallowed in the moss, hands sinking. Her fingers dug in, and she heaved him to his knees. “Up. Up!” He could find no way to rise. There was nothing to push against. He tried to draw his knees farther under him and felt himself slip deeper. He had to get out of this. He had to find Aude. He’d be no use to her drowned, if a man could drown in this stuff. Yelena jerked at him. If he could get a hand to the boat…He wrenched the left one free. The creatures came closer. He groped for the boat, felt his fingertips brush its side. A little farther…Moss caked his legs to midthigh. Floundering, he kicked out, and his hand closed on the boat rail. He hauled and felt its solidity pull him forward. Yelena shoved him, and he rushed forward, lifted by a wave of moss to tumble headfirst into the bottom of the boat. Overhead, wings thrummed and rattled. He struggled to sit, felt the boat shudder under him, and pitched forward. The boat lifted, and he grabbed for the side, banging his hip. The stone chip dug into him, through the fabric of his trousers, and he steadied himself.
Yelena landed beside him, eyes bright and feral, feet light and quick on the surface of the internal moss. It held her, neat and light. The boat slid outward, prow moving from under the shadow. Around it, outside it, moss lifted, rocked. The boat juddered and picked up speed. He looked back. The watchers, whatever they were, hung dark and low over the shore. Not a wingtip, not an antenna extended out over the sea of moss. He exhaled and let his shoulders slump. His sword bumped his hip. He said, “Those things…”
“They belong to the rock. This isn’t their domain.”
“And now?”
Yelena sank cross-legged onto the moss and grinned her sharp grin. “The boat takes us. Sleep now, man thing. Time to rest.”
16
WorldBelow
THREE DAYS PASSED. In the Court of the Fallows, Marcellan worked at the loom or wandered the small garden, watching the birds that passed overhead or roosted on the peaked roofs. The twins tumbled at his ankles, pouncing on fallen leaves, chasing imaginary prey across the flower beds, or curled on his lap to watch him weave. He talked to them as he worked, told them stories of the busy human lands of WorldAbove, of great cities built in stone or mud brick or wood, of great flotillas of boats, of humans quarreling, playing, learning. The twins listened, sleepy eyed. Humans wanted such odd things, did such odd things. “Shiny stones are fun to play with,” Julana said, “but you can’t eat them.”
Shirai arrived early on the fourth morning, square and neat in his court uniform. The twins exchanged glances. Shirai was first among the Cadre, deepest in the Grass King’s counsels. The Grass King chose him to bear all the most important orders. That could be bad. On the other hand, Shirai, of all the Cadre, was the kindest. He said, “The Grass King has made his decision. You’re summoned to his presence.”
“Ah.” Marcellan rose to his feet. “Let me wash, and I’m ready.” He was still dressed in the worn clothing in which he had arrived. Now, he splashed water on his face, ran a hand over his hair, and turned. “There.”
A royal summons would have created a flurry of preparation in the quarters of any courtier or senior official. Servants would have been sent running for perfumes; the finest robes would have been lifted from their silk-lined chests; hair would have been oiled and styled, faces painted, fingers and arms, ankles and ears hung with jewels. Acolytes would have loitered in corners, offering advice or seeking favors. The summoned would progress by the most public route, head high, courting the admiration of everyone they passed. Marcellan seemed unaware of any of that. In his rough human garb, he smiled and nodded to servants polishing floors and carrying message trays, stopped to ask questions of horrified passing clerks and lingered in each courtyard they passed to smell flowers and admire foliage. “How far does the Rice Palace extend?” he asked Shirai as they left the Great Court of the Pear Blossoms and began the long walk down the winding Corridor of Bronze Tiles. Two members of Shirai’s Stone Banner fell in step behind him. The twins scurried in their wake, galloping and tumbling from corner to corner, diving between the ankles of maids carrying piles of linen, pausing here and there to chew on the edge of a hanging, the fringe of a robe. Marcellan smiled at them from time to time. The courtiers and bannermen and servants, long used to the twins, hissed or cursed or ignored them, according to their own nature.
Bannermen—this time belonging to the Fire Banner—guarded the entrance to the Autumn Afternoon Receiving Room. They stood to attention and saluted Shirai as he passed. It was a long pale chamber, plastered in pale green and corn gold, its flags overlaid here and there with green patterned rugs. The great lattices that made up its south wall stood ajar, letting in the scents of orange and frangipani from the gardens beyond. The Grass King sat cross-legged on a low cushioned b
ench, studying a roll of parchment that a chamberlain had laid before him. His intimates—the Master of Renders, the Great Officer of the Granaries, the Fourth Lord of the Western Loams—knelt at their lesser tables. As Shirai’s small procession entered, the Grass King looked up and smiled. Shirai stepped forward and bowed.
It was a good smile. The twins let out a breath they did not know they were holding. The Grass King gestured to the chamberlain to roll up and take away the scroll.
He said, “I have thought over your presence.”
Marcellan had neither bowed nor kneeled. He stood, face impassive, watching the Grass King’s face. The courtiers to either side looked sidelong at one another or raised their sleeve to hide their expressions.
The Grass King continued, “My lands do not protest your presence. My rocks and soils are not pained by your passage. Therefore,” and he clapped his hands. The chamberlain drew a small bamboo tally stick from a sleeve and handed it to him. “I have decided to grant you freedom of movement within my palace.”
“Thank you.” Now, Marcellan bowed, a small movement from his neck.
“There are conditions.” The Grass King turned the tally stick over in his fingers. “One of the Cadre, or three bannermen chosen by them will accompany you at all times, and if they forbid a place to you, you will not question that, nor will you try at a later time to gain access to it. You will respect the requests of my courtiers and officers for privacy, as and when they make them. My personal suites and those of my concubines are closed to you. You may walk or ride in the palace fields and woodlands but not beyond them. If you do not wish to respect these conditions, then you may remain, but you will not be permitted to pass outside the boundaries of the Court of the Fallows.”
The Grass King’s Concubine Page 19
