Crocker’s head broke the surface. He gulped air and let himself slide under the water again. He came up splashing a moment later, shaking himself with pure, animal pleasure. The wevicat took one look at the man’s head bobbing in the water and, with a lightening snap of its tail, leaped. The cat’s body flashed through the air in a graceful arc and plunged in feet first almost on top of the man.
The next thing Crocker knew he was being hauled bodily out of the pool, his entire right shoulder and much of his right side wedged firmly in the wevicat’s mouth. The cat dropped him on the springy turf and stood dripping over him, looking gaunt and skeletal in its sopping coat.
Crocker’s round-eyed fright gave way to laughter when—after he’d checked himself to make sure he was not bleeding from several score puncture wounds—he realized the wevicat had not attacked him. Rather, it had rescued him. It thought you were drowning, explained the voice. He shuddered involuntarily, thinking about all those razor-tipped teeth piercing his soft flesh. But the animal had been extremely gentle, cradling him as it would one of its own cubs.
He climbed to his feet and looped his arms around the big cat’s neck and pushed against it with all his might. The beast stepped backwards, and they both tumbled into the pool where Crocker began whooping and splashing, kicking up the water and flinging handfuls into the wevicat’s face.
The cat growled lightly and slapped out at the man with huge paws, pouncing and rolling, knocking him down or trying to catch him as he dove. Once Crocker climbed on the creature’s back, and the wevicat spun in circles trying to dislodge him. Crocker noticed, however, that the animal was careful to keep its ebony claws sheathed.
After their watery rollick, the two dragged themselves from the pool and flopped down on the bank. The air was a thick blanket, causing skin and fur to dry slowly. They lay side by side and listened to the night sounds creep into the evening stillness as the twilight chorus limbered its voice. Some of the sounds Crocker could identify: the eerie, echoing howls belonged to fat, flightless birds high in the upper levels of the forest; the gnawing chatters and barks were those of fuzzy tree rats; the gurgling squeaks and coos were tiny, wide-eyed lemurlike primates. The rest of the pips, croaks, hoots, gabbles, snorts, and startling yelps belonged to a large assortment of unseen mammalian throats of various sizes.
Crocker listened to the sounds as he had each night, and for the first time felt totally secure among them. Peace seemed to flow directly from the imperturbable presence of the great cat beside him. A bond had formed between them; they had hunted together, shared meat, and played together. An emptiness he had not even known existed had been filled in the man. He put out his hand and felt the sleek warmth of the beast beside him and stroked it gently; the cat loosed a deep, resonant purr that droned sleepy contentment. Night closed its fist around them, and they slept.
TWENTY-FOUR
Fourteen ships lay at anchor on the glass-smooth sea. Prindahl’s mirrored face reflected the long, low hulls of blue and white and green. The sun’s first rays stained the early morning sky watery blue. The day was but a promise; yet scores of Fieri already lined the shore, and more streamed down to the water’s edge with the approach of dawn.
Yarden was among the first. Having found it impossible to sleep, she and Ianni had come to the shore to await the Preceptor’s arrival. They joined those who had held vigil, marking the occasion with laughter and song through the night. The eve of leave-taking was a festive time, a time of keen anticipation and fond remembrance.
Flickering campfires dotted the shoreline, illuminating the ring of excited faces around each one. In between songs and stories, baskets of food were shared to keep up the revelers’ strength.
The jovial mood reminded Yarden of Christmases she had known as a youngster, when the house had filled with relatives and friends, and the children had been allowed to stay awake late into the night to welcome the joyous day with gifts and games. This observation made Yarden pensive; it had been a long time since she had thought about her Earth life, a life that was now, quite literally, light years away.
It was still early when the Preceptor appeared; clothed in her sky-blue travel garb and attended by three Mentors, she greeted her people as she passed slowly among them, accepting their best wishes for the journey. Yarden watched as the regal figure made her way to the foremost of the tethered boats, expecting a ceremony of some sort—a speech perhaps, or a christening. At very least, a prayer offered up for safe passage.
Instead, the Preceptor and her party merely boarded the vessel and took their places on deck. This was a signal to all the others who were waiting to go aboard. Instantly the crowd surged forward, and each of the fourteen ships rocked as their wide decks filled with passengers.
Yarden was swept forward with all the others and found herself standing in shallow water gazing up at a mast pointing skyward, its furled red sails bright against the new sky. Ianni, who had been right beside her only moments before, was nowhere in sight. Fieri clamored around her and called to their friends finding places on deck. She was trapped among a happy host and for a moment feared she would miss boarding altogether.
“Ianni!” she called. “Ianni, where are you?”
A voice sounded above her. “Yarden, what are you doing down there? Are you coming with us?”
She turned and looked up to see Pizzle’s elfin grin beaming down at her over the rail. Next to him stood a young woman who smiled prettily. “You’re Yarden?” she asked. “One of the Travelers?”
Yarden nodded and said, “I’m looking for my friend, Ianni. We were to board together, but I seem to have taken a wrong turn somewhere.”
“Here, hold on,” said Pizzle. “I’ll get you aboard.”
“What about Ianni—” began Yarden, but Pizzle had disappeared already. She sighed and ducked back into the crowd in an attempt to force her way to the gangplank, lost her footing, and fell backward with a splash. She was hauled onto her feet by nearby Fieri, who took her predicament in such good humor that it was difficult for Yarden not to laugh too.
“Now what are you doing?” Pizzle found her squeezing water from her clothes and hair. “Come on.” He led her through the throng and pushed her up the gangplank. “What did you say your friend’s name was?”
“Ianni,” said Yarden. “I’m not sure if this is the boat we’re supposed to be on or not …”
“Not to worry—I’m sort of second-in-command here, unofficially. I’ll find you a place.” He dashed back through the press around the gangplank and pulled Yarden along in his wake. People were eager yet considerate despite the excitement, and let them pass.
“We were supposed to meet Gerdes, my teacher, here,” Yarden explained as they stepped off the gangplank and onto the deck. “I’ll never find them now.”
“Your teacher?”
“I’m studying painting. That is, I’m going to start.”
“Going to be an artist, huh? Real nice,” remarked Pizzle. “Let’s talk about it later. I’m helping Preben—he’s got command of this boat, and we’re second in line. We’ve got to make ready to cast off.”
“Wait! What about Ianni and Gerdes?”
Pizzle darted into the milling throng on deck and called back, “Later—we’ll find them later.”
Yarden sighed and looked around helplessly, hoping to spot one or the other of her friends. She fluffed her wet clothes and wished she could start the day over.
“Yarden?”
She turned and saw the woman who had been standing next to Pizzle at the rail. “I’m Starla,” the stranger said. “Please don’t be concerned for your friends. You’ll find them.”
“But how? I don’t see them anywhere. They’ll be looking for me.”
“They’ll find you.” The young woman smiled again, and Yarden felt some of the tension leave her.
“I suppose you’re right,” Yarden admitted, relaxing just a little.
“It’s a very long journey. We’ll stop often along the way. I
f they are not on this boat, you’ll find them on one of the others.”
“Yes, of course.” Yarden smiled at her own silliness. “I wasn’t thinking. I can join them later.” She noticed the young woman studying her intently and grew suddenly self-conscious.
“Forgive my forwardness,” said Starla simply. “But you are very beautiful and I—”
Yarden guessed what the young Fieri woman was trying to say. She had encountered it elsewhere. “You are curious about what a female Traveler would look like?”
“Yes. And there is another reason …” Starla hesitated and then, when she saw that Yarden really wanted to know, said, “Asquith has said he finds me beautiful—”
“As you are,” Yarden assured her.
“And he has described you as a very beautiful woman. I merely wanted to see …” She hesitated, glancing up at Yarden from under her long lashes.
“To see his definition? And I must look a sight—standing here dripping all over the deck.” To Starla’s puzzled look she added, “Never mind, I understand.”
“I hope I have not offended you.”
Yarden smiled warmly. “How could I be offended? It seems Pizzle has a good eye. We should both feel complimented.”
“You are very kind. I can find you some dry clothes.”
Just then Pizzle returned. “Hey, you’ve met. Great! Yarden, I’ve got it fixed for you. We’re a little jammed up—all the ships are full to capacity. But you can share with Starla until you get back in touch with your friends. Okay?”
“Fine. Starla has explained already.”
“Come on, let’s get a place at the rail. Look—” He cast an eye to the top of the mast where a thin red banner fluttered in the rising breeze. “We’re about to cast off. You won’t want to miss this.”
“What is it?” Yarden followed them to the rail and found a place next to Pizzle.
“It’s the send-off. Preben told me about it.”
The barge ahead of them had unfurled its great triangular sail of royal blue. It fluttered lightly and then puffed. The boat began to draw slowly away from the shore, turning out into deeper water.
A rippling of fabric sounded above them; Yarden turned to see a crimson sail shaking itself out and filling with the breeze. Then they were gliding away, taking a position behind and a little to one side of the first boat. The third vessel came on in its turn and all the rest, one by one, until all were under sail.
They passed along the shoreline and came to a place where rounded hills tumbled gently to deep water. The boats came close to the steep banks, and Yarden saw that the hills were lined with people. Fieri in small groups scattered over the hills from the heights right down to the water’s edge, stood watching them quietly. The passengers aboard the barges fell silent. Yarden felt her pulse quicken with expectation.
Then, as if on signal, the multitude gathered on the hillsides began swaying slowly and singing, lifting their arms and waving. Some had bright squares of cloth which they held aloft in the breeze as they moved. Their song was a simple, rising, falling, melodic chant, sung slowly, over and over, as the hillside host swayed, some with linked arms and others with outspread arms, and all facing the rising sun and the ships moving slowly away.
The Fieri song sounded clear over the still water:
With peace we send
you on your way;
In peace your journey wend.
Protector lend
fair wind this day.
And joy to your journey’s end.
The words were simple, but together with the plaintive melody—sung over and over in the style of a round, one hillside starting the tune and the next picking it up and beginning again when the first reached the end of the stanza, repeated again and again, from hillside to hillside—altogether it created a beautifully evocative and moving ceremony: the colorful ships plying slowly along green-cloaked hills lined with Fieri, faces bright in the rising sun, singing their loved ones away with a gentle blessing.
Yarden listened, enchanted by the simple beauty of it, drinking in every nuance of the experience. When she looked along the rail, she saw more than a few eyes shining with tears and noticed her own misting over as well. “It kind of gets to you,” Pizzle sniffed.
The boats slid away from the hills; and although many of the singers followed along the shore, they were soon outdistanced and the song faded on the morning wind. “Wonderful,” sighed Yarden; she felt as if she were coming out of a dream. “I wouldn’t have missed this for the world.”
“These people grow on you,” said Pizzle. Yarden noted the way he stared at Starla when he spoke. “There’s no doubt about it. This is going to be some trip.”
Morning came to the Starwatch level of Nilokerus Hage, although Treet, in his sense-numbed stupor, did not comprehend the gray lightening of the great crystal panes above him. He did understand that the floor he lay upon was cold and hard and that his body ached in as many places as it was possible for a human body to hurt.
He had lain here all his life, it seemed. He could not remember a time when his body had not ached and he had not huddled on the cold stone of a strange doorway. This being the case, he saw little sense in moving. And anyway, moving might make the pain worse.
He drowsed and woke and drowsed again. He dreamed that some Nilokerus guards came and trundled him off to their distant torture chambers, glad for another chance at tormenting him. In his dream he heard the crackle of electricity as they tuned their instruments of torture. Faces drifted in and out of his dream—one face in particular: round and lightly wrinkled, with concern in lively green eyes. A woman’s face. How odd.
Treet puzzled over this endlessly. It was to him the riddle of the universe. Why a woman’s face? Who was she? Where had she come from? What did she want? Why had she joined his torturers?
There were voices, too. Rest … rest, they said. You are safe … safe … nothing can happen … happen … to you … safe … sleep … sleep …
There was comfort in these voices, reverberating as they did inside his head. Treet grasped the comfort and hugged it to him. Such solace was difficult to find in this world and must not be shunned. Cast it roughly aside and it might never return.
Treet hung for the longest time lightly suspended between the conscious world and the unconscious, sometimes more in one than the other, but never totally in either. Thoughts came infrequently into his mental never-never land, and those that did were flimsy, awkward things, insubstantial as phantom butterflies.
He thought about a dark-haired woman with a face made of rain; a great, troubling hole in the ground filled with broken glass; a thundering, yellow sky that burned and burned forever; a man who wore a turtle’s shell on his back and hid from the sun. These and other whimsical images floated through his lazy awareness.
Far back in the further recess of his mind throbbed a sense of urgency: a charge had been given him; he had a duty to perform. Time was slipping away. The sense was anesthetized, the urgency dulled. But it was there, a clockwork, muffled and slowed though still ticking … ticking … ticking.
TWENTY-FIVE
“Tell me, Mrukk, what did Hladik say when he died?” Jamrog reclined lazily in his chair, features slack, eyes half-lidded from the effects of the flash he’d been sampling all day. His hagerobe was carelessly draped over his lean frame. A young woman heated souile in an enameled jar over a small brazier.
The chief of the Mors Ultima studied the Supreme Director carefully, wondering, not for the first time, what kind of man his master was. Certainly he showed little of the restraint or discipline that had helped propel him into the Supreme Director’s kraam; he had given in to his vices so quickly. That showed weakness. Mrukk detested weakness in any form.
“He invoked your name, Hage Leader,” replied Mrukk.
“How considerate,” smirked Jamrog. “To think of me at the moment of his demise.” He giggled obscenely at his joke, his head lolling from side to side as his body shook. “I did not kno
w I inspired such devotion.”
Mrukk stood stiffly, eyes narrowed as his cold heart calculated: a quick blade thrust between the ribs—what would be the outcome of such an action?
“Here, Mrukk,” said Jamrog, offering a souile cup from the lacquered tray held by his nubile companion. “A drink to Hladik’s memory. Our loss is Trabant’s gain, seh?”
Mrukk took the cup, held it between two fingers, and lifted it to his lips as Jamrog did. The warm liquor touched the tip of his tongue and no more. He replaced the cup on the tray. Jamrog lifted himself to his feet, swayed, and gathered his robe around him. “Come, Mrukk, walk with me.”
They turned, moved out from under the multicolored canopy, and strolled into the Supreme Director’s garden. “I have another task for you, Commander,” said Jamrog when they were out of eavesdropping range. “One of the Directors challenged me before the Threl yesterday—as much as insinuated that I had no right to take Hladik’s life.” He paused, but Mrukk said nothing, so he continued. “I cannot countenance such flagrant impertinence. If left unchecked, it soon renders the office of Supreme Director impotent. I will not be made impotent, Mrukk, do you understand me?”
“I understand. Which traitor challenged you?”
“Rumon.” Jamrog said the word as if tasting his revenge in the sound of it. “I think a lesson similar to Hladik’s would be instructive. See to it, Mrukk.”
“As you will, Supreme Director.” The fierce Mrukk stopped and faced his master. “Is that all?”
“Yes, for the time being. However, I expect you will be very busy in the days to come. To tell you the truth, I suspect a plot against me by members of the Threl. You will inform me when the Invisibles have gathered the proper evidence. No doubt your men welcome the opportunity to prove their loyalty and express gratitude to their Hage Leader for his recent generosity.”
Empyrion II: The Siege of Dome Page 15
