Ison of the Isles

by Ives Gilman, Carolyn

  After leaving, Spaeth stood for a few moments outside in the rain and the churned-up mud. There was a vast, unlocalized pain around her. It seemed everywhere—in the ground beneath her, in the smoky air. As if the entire island were aching. No, all the Isles together.

  She drew her hood further over her face and walked down to the rocky beach.

  Here, apart from the people, she could feel again the breathing of the sea. The mountains that sheltered the bay were shawled in mist. She listened, trying to feel the sleeping island around her. It was not the deep sleep of the drugged, as she had always supposed; it was only a light doze. She wondered what Roah was dreaming about.

  A wave batted at her toes with white paws. Spaeth stopped, staring at it. “What do you want?” she said sharply. She had thought the sea would never speak to her again.

  The receding wave hissed in the pebbles. “So,” it said, “do you have what you wanted?”

  What had she wanted?

  Once—when last she had listened to the voice that now spoke to her—she had wanted to span the circles—to pass, as it were, into another state of being: to become dangerous. All of that seemed bitterly futile now. She was trapped, like all of her race, in dependence.

  “I want things back the way they were,” she whispered. “Before any of this happened.”

  White fangs bit at the rocks. “Silly girl. You could have it. I could help you. I could set you free.”

  Was that really what she wanted now? To be without lures and entanglements, without longing, without all their precious, poignant humanity?

  “Then he would never be cured,” she said, her voice barely a whisper.

  “Doting fool. He will never be cured anyway. How could you not know that? You made him what he is, you and your precious Goth. You create a being as dangerous as that, then think your good intentions will tame it. Just like Lashnurai. Do you think he cares that you’ve given up your freedom for him? He’s Ison now; it’s all he needs from you.”

  For a moment she wondered if it could be true. Could the forgiveness of dhota be blinding her so badly? She tried to think clearly.

  “I have to get back,” she said.

  A wave pounced over her feet, and clung to her ankles. “No. Think of your land. He has abandoned you, and all of these people as well. No one is going to save them, unless you do.”

  “This is too big for me,” she said, looking down the beach, at all its thousand campfires. “I can’t.”

  “Yes, you can. You just have to think beyond dhota. The world has outgrown it.”

  Nathaway’s donkey cart was returning down the path, a few sticks of wood in the back. When he pulled up, Tway met him and helped carry the wood into Wilne’s hovel. As Spaeth came up, Tway was saying, “We’ve got to find better shelter for them. Can’t you talk to Tiarch again?”

  “It won’t do any good,” he said. “There’s no money; it’s all going to the Navy.”

  As they rode together back toward the city, Spaeth thought of the Inning fleet bearing down on Yora. Their cruelty would mar it forever. Before they were through, the kind little island that had reared her would be gone. And after that they would go to Thimish, and then Ekra, and then they would be at Lashnish.

  She looked out into the harbour. Ripplewill was there.

  She knew what she had to do.

  *

  There was a series of flashes out of the night. “Give me that signal lamp, Cory,” Torr said. The tin shutter clattered as he worked it. There were more flashes from across the waves. “Prepare to take in sail,” Torr said.

  They saw three lamps flare, outlining the triangle of bowsprit and main yardarms on the other boat. “Bring her alongside, Galber,” Torr called back to the sailor at the helm.

  When they came in earshot, the challenge came out of the night: “What boat is that?”

  “Ripplewill,” Torr called. “Is that you, Gort? Haven’t they hanged you yet?”

  “Torr! I thought you’d be in prison by now,” the answer came.

  “Where’s Dorn?” Torr asked.

  “Harbourdown,” Gort answered. “His whole fleet’s there. They’ll be glad to see you.”

  “What are they up to?”

  “You’ll have to ask him that.”

  Torr turned to Spaeth. “You want to stop and talk to Dorn?”

  Spaeth had told no one her purpose. Now she felt a mix of impatience and dread. “Ask where the Inning fleet is,” she said.

  Torr relayed the question. “Somewhere between here and Bute,” the answer came. “If it’s been as calm where they are as it’s been here, they’re not moving much.”

  That was Ridwit’s doing, Spaeth knew. She had promised to delay them.

  “All right, we’ll stop and learn Dorn’s plans,” Spaeth said.

  The bay at Harbourdown was a thicket of masts. All the small ships of Dorn’s fleet were there: cutters and sloops, here and there a fishing scow with gunports hastily cut in its hull. As they threaded through, the water inky underneath, Spaeth noted with a dark resentment that Dorn had left Yora undefended in order to protect Thimish.

  The Vagabond was brightly lit, and ships’ boats were clustered round her, as if some council were going on. When the Ripplewill came alongside, Spaeth threw back her hood so they could see who it was. There was a sudden flurry of activity on deck when they saw her.

  As she swung herself up onto the Vagabond’s slightly higher deck, Dorn was just emerging from his cabin. He surveyed her with an expression that was part suspicion, part hunger. He waited for her to speak.

  “I have come to help you,” she said.

  A look of slow triumph dawned on his scarred face. “So,” he said, “even the Onan couldn’t stand it.”

  The implied criticism of Harg made the blood rush hot to her face. But she only said, “I want no harm to come to Yora.”

  He gestured for her to follow him below, then lumbered ahead, moving stiffly. It struck her how much he had aged in the past year.

  The aft cabin was crowded with the unshaven, wildly dressed captains of his fleet. The smell of stale beer mingled with the fumes of the oil lamps and pipes. Their eyes were all on her, demanding.

  Dorn said, “We were going to move out tomorrow, weather willing.”

  “To attack the Inning fleet?” Spaeth asked.

  The pirate gave her a long, appraising look. At last he said, “To do what harm we can.”

  “They are stronger than you, you know.”

  Dorn’s face was stony. “We don’t have much choice. Our Ison doesn’t see fit to defend his own people.”

  Spaeth wanted to gouge his eyes out. She crossed her arms tight to keep them from seeing her shake. “Well, I will bring you help,” she said. “Let me go ahead of you, to Yora. There is a place where I need to be.”

  “What place?” Dorn asked, his eyes narrow.

  “The skull of Hannako.”

  They all knew what she was up to then. Unwilling glances darted between them, half hopeful, half fearful. They had been thieves and plunderers, but none had ever collaborated with the Mundua and Ashwin.

  “We have no choice,” Spaeth said softly. “We must make use of what allies we can.”

  “Well,” Dorn said, “you are the Heir of Gilgen.”

  Spaeth felt a sudden, hysterical urge to laugh. She held it back.

  “Don’t leave Harbourdown till noon,” she told them. “Then, come to Yora.”

  When she clambered back onto the Ripplewill’s deck, Torr said, “Well?”

  “Take me to Yora,” Spaeth said.

  *

  The Inning fleet had been becalmed for two days and a night, only miles from their goal. At sunset of the second day the ships were spread widely across the glassy ocean, but all still within si
gnalling distance of at least one other ship. By dawn, the flagship Pragmatic was by herself. Her sails drooped limply, her masts traced aimless circles in the sky as she wallowed on a near-invisible swell.

  And a strange dawn it was, orange as autumn in the east, black as death to the west. The air was close and oppressive. Down in the waist, a clutch of Torna seamen lined the port rail, staring at the cloud bank approaching from beyond Spole, from the untamed ocean. When Goth came on deck, several of them cast glances in his direction that he had rarely seen from a Torna face.

  Up on the quarterdeck, Admiral Talley was quizzing Bellack, the Torna sailing master, about their location. His questions fell in a brisk staccato, precise as a snare drum, dispelling the atmosphere of dread that enveloped the rest of the ship.

  When at last Talley dismissed Bellack, the man passed Goth on his way to the companion ladder. He paused and said in a low tone, “Do you know what that is, Ehir?” He nodded at the west.

  Goth shook his head.

  Talley came up, and the sailing master left. “Superstitious yokels,” the Inning said dismissively. “They’re sure some gods or other are after us.”

  Goth said nothing. He was virtually certain they were right. The only questions in his mind were who had roused the Mundua and the Ashwin, and what he ought to do about it.

  It should have been a simple question. Maintaining the balance, and controlling the forces of derangement, had always been the purpose of his existence. But that was in another world, a world that lay ruined in the bone heaps and ashes the Innings had left behind. Everything had become so wildly skewed in this nightmare tour of the South Chain that the gods no longer seemed as dire an evil as mankind did.

  As the bank of clouds drew closer they could see silent flashes of lightning illuminating it in patches. There was still not a breath of air, but Bellack ordered the sails furled. Talley called him up to the quarterdeck.

  The master glanced apprehensively at the storm. Faraway crows’ feet of lightning were flickering between cloud and sea. Goth had rarely seen the Thunderers reveal their presence so plainly. “We won’t dare climb the masts once that hits, sir,” he said. “We’ll be lucky if we’re not charred to cinders.”

  Through his own unease, Goth could not help but think how balanced that would be, in a way: that Corbin Talley’s bones should lie charred at the bottom of the sea. It seemed almost to fit the Innings’ ideal of justice.

  The Admiral glanced up to the towering masthead, and scanned the flat plain of sea all round. Goth wondered if he finally felt at the mercy of a greater power.

  “Have we any copper aboard?” he asked.

  Bellack stared. “Yes, sir,” he answered slowly. “We carry sheets to patch the sheathing on the hull.”

  “I want you to cut me some long strips, no more than an inch wide. And we’ll need something pointed, made of iron. A bayonet should do.”

  Bellack still stood, trying to comprehend, so Talley said impatiently, “Here, I’ll direct the work. Show me where the copper is.”

  They went below together. Goth watched as the rumour spread around the ship: their Admiral had some Inning magic up his sleeve.

  The first outrider clouds hurried overhead, windy smudges on the sky; but at sea level the unnatural stillness prevailed. Goth gazed into the blackness, feathered now with lightning, and tried feeling the exalted calm of surrender. Let your mind float like a leaf on the surface of this, as well, he told himself. He knew now that he was going to do nothing. Nothing but strive to face death lightly.

  The cloud was looming over them by the time Talley reemerged on deck with his metal instruments. He called for someone to climb up and attach the bayonet to the tip of the mainmast. The sailors looked upward and shrank away, so he picked out an agile young boy who had often amused them by his acrobatics in the rigging, and handed him the spike. “Do it,” he said.

  The boy glanced up and swallowed, but they could all tell he was more afraid of Talley than the Ashwin. He stuck the bayonet in his belt and went to mount the ratlines.

  His form seemed terribly small outlined against the sky. As he reached the topgallant spar, a ball of lightning rolled across the underside of the cloud above like a drop of water clinging to the bottom of a basin. Goth imagined the sky above them as a brimming vat of lightning beginning to leak.

  A bolt sizzled down not half a mile off, yellowing the sea till it steamed. The clap of thunder hit like a blow. Now the boy was at the top of the mast, lashing the spike in place. He finished and turned to climb down, but Talley ordered, “Stay there!” He had been directing another group of topmen to nail the copper strips to the mast, overlapping the ends. Now he picked one man out to carry up a strip to the masthead. “Wire it securely to the bayonet,” he instructed.

  The man was only halfway up when the lightning hit—a mere flick, an almost casual blow. The boy waiting at the peak convulsed and fell backwards, but after several yards his body caught in the rigging, smoking.

  Talley glanced up and saw what had happened, but did not react. The man on the topsail spar was staring in horror at his young crewmate dangling in the ropes. He reached out to try and shake him loose.

  “Leave it,” Talley shouted peremptorily. “Go finish the job.” The man moved rigidly to obey. It was as if the seamen had no more will than the parts of a machine, and Talley was their motor.

  Soon they had the copper running all the way from the bayonet spike to the deck, then out and down the hull to the sea. The men scrambled down as soon as Talley gave the word, breathless at their own safety. The Pragmatic rolled on the swell, armed with her Inning magic, and flying a corpse in her rigging like a flag.

  They were in the thick of the thundernest now. The air was black as night, but all around the lightning forked down, reflected in the sea, wreathing them in a deadly garland. The burned air smarted in their noses.

  A lightning bolt sheared the sky, aimed straight at them. Everyone on deck ducked, blinded, then stunned by the deafening crash. But there was no crack of splintering wood, and though men were standing by with buckets and sand, no fire blazed up. The lightning had passed harmlessly down the copper strip into the sea.

  Talley looked up to inspect his handiwork. “Check the copper for melted spots,” he said, and they saw the deck and mast were scorched all around the metal. The men’s spirits, which had been so low, brightened at this proof of Inning superiority.

  Another bolt came, aimed this time at the foremast; but at the last moment it was deflected toward the mainmast, as if the spike attracted it. The sky bellowed in fury.

  The Ashwin were truly angry now, but it was as if Talley’s device cast a spell of impotency in a magic radius all around the ship. The men were shouting and mocking the sky now.

  Talley came up to stand beside Goth. “How did you know to do that?” Goth asked.

  “I read about something like it,” Talley said. “It’s been tried on steeples ashore.”

  Goth looked upward. There, beyond the clouds, the Thunderers clashed their brassy wings in impotent rage. It was as if Talley had created another circle around them where no god could reach.

  *

  Ridwit snarled, every hair erect. “They have escaped!” she said. Tiny lightning bolts ran across her back.

  At her side, Spaeth said bitingly, “What sort of hunter are you? Track them down.”

  They stood in a night-black landscape of translucent hills that flickered deep in their hearts with light. From where she stood at the Whispering Stones, Spaeth could see a thousand rolling, tumbled hills. The subterranean flashes that lit them were of all different colours: yellow, blue-white, a cloudy, frosted red. The ground she stood on was a transparent sand, like ground-up glass; but when she moved her feet it snapped and sparked with electricity. She suspected that if she were to run her fingers through that sand they would co
me away bleeding.

  Ridwit turned amber eyes on her. “I know where they are. But they are fighting back.”

  “How?” Spaeth scoffed. “They haven’t the knowledge.”

  “They’re not in any of our circles,” Ridwit said. “They’re in that circle of their own, that Inning circle barred off from all the others. We can’t get through while they stay there.”

  “Trick them across the threshold, then.”

  “How?”

  “The way you always do it! Use their fear. Use their guilt. Use anything in them that is uncured. Do it, or you’ll get no reward from me.”

  Ridwit bared her teeth hungrily at that, and turned back to her task.

  *

  The mast tops and yardarms were glowing. Fingers of ghostly light reached out into the air, shifting like something alive. The seamen shielded their faces from it.

  “Fools!” Talley said, irritated at their ignorance. “It only means the storm is letting up.”

  And, as before, he was right. Soon there were gaps in the black clouds above, and to the west the sky was light, reflected in the sea.

  But it was like no sky or sea they had ever seen. Not the blue and windy roadway they had hoped for. Bulbous, heavy clouds hung above, ruddily lit with a sunset glow, though it should have been plain day. Below, the sea was glossy—a vast, viscous pool of red.

  Talley had gone below, leaving Bellack in charge. The master’s face was sweaty and flushed as he looked out at the transformed landscape. The sailors around him had fallen silent.

  “It’s blood,” someone said, voicing what they all were thinking. They had seen so much of it in the South Chain. It had drenched them, and now the universe had sent it back to drown them.

  “Set the topsails,” Bellack ordered his men, then muttered, “Get us out of here.”

  They mounted the rigging gingerly, though it no longer glowed. Unbidden, two men disentangled the corpse from the rigging and lowered it by rope to the deck.

  Her sails filled, but the Pragmatic seemed to make little headway through the thick red liquid. “It’s clotting around the hull,” a sailor called.