Boarmus sighed again. He couldn’t remember when the last time was he had slept soundly, without waking, without lunging up, heart pounding, terrified, thinking the ghosts were about to eat him—or already had. “Thank you.”
The box blinked a light beam, showing him the couch against the far wall. It was hard, and too narrow, but Boarmus didn’t care. He collapsed upon it, shutting his eyes firmly. He had done everything he could do. Jacent was still back in Enarae, pretending that Boarmus was there with him, entering Boarmus’s credit code at one establishment or another, ordering food and drink in Boarmus’s name. Perhaps it would be enough. Maybe the thing in the Core was very busy right now. Trying to kill Danivon, maybe. Trying to kill Fringe Owldark. Maybe it was so busy it wouldn’t detect the subterfuge. Maybe it wouldn’t come looking for him for a while.
When he slept, however, he groaned in his sleep, dreaming of being torn apart by something he couldn’t see, couldn’t hear, couldn’t avoid, couldn’t understand.
Upstream from Molock, Nela and Bertran found the captain walking along the deck, repeatedly hanging over the side to stare at the hull, shaking his head the while as he had done now and then since leaving Salt Maresh. He was obviously anxious about something.
“What’s the matter?” Bertran asked him.
“We’re riding lower than we should,” he muttered. “Ever since Shallow. I’ve had the men down in the hold searching for a leak, but we find no water coming in. I thought some monster gaver might be hanging on the bottom. They’ll do that sometimes….”
“Monster gaver? How big?”
“Girl, I’ve seen them come rearing sail-high out of the river, the length of ten men laid end to end. Once, when I was a mere boy, I saw one take the top watch off the mast with its teeth. Seldom they get that size, true, the young ones being hunted as they are for their hides, but I’ve seen it happen. Howsoever, we’ve run ropes under the hull, and there’s no gaver there, monster or otherwise. I’ve taken this old lady up and down the river for half my life, and I know how she rides depending on what we’re carrying. It’s as though something in the cargo is heavier than it should be, but I supervised the loading myself and nothing seemed out of the usual.”
He was more annoyed than anxious, but still he continued his search, leaning over to peer at the waterline. It seemed a small matter to the twins despite his obvious concern, and eventually he seemed to agree for he threw up his hands and made a note in his pocket file.
He pointed to the shore they were approaching, saying: “After this next tack, as we come near the south shore, we’ll turn back downstream to Du-you, the main Derbeckian port. It’s near impossible either to go straight across the Floh this time of year, or to come into the harbor from downstream. Coming from upstream is far easier on the men at the sweeps.”
“Why do we have to stop at Derbeck at all?” asked Nela as they joined the others at the bow.
“Cargo,” the captain said, shrugging.” Sorry for the delay, but it’s business. I have grain and fiber from Shallow and dried fish from Salt Maresh for my factor in Houmfon, and we’ll pick up preserved fruit from the highland orchards.”
“We had to stop here anyhow,” said Danivon. “Not long ago I got a message from Boarmus. We’re to investigate something or other in Derbeck. Unofficially.”
“We’re not going to show ourselves as Enforcers, are we?” asked Fringe.
“No. Molock was the last official visit. From here on, we’re only showmen.”
They separated, he silent, she silent, both of them concentrating (though for different reasons) on the snap and billow of the sails, the rattle of chain, the whistle of the wind in the lines, both of them hearing words, what he had said to her, what she had said to him; what he (she) should have said, instead; what she (he) would not say again.
The high Molockian shore receded behind them, its red-clay banks dark as blood above the leaden ripples of the river. Slowly the Derbeckian shore drew nearer, swampy and grown up with waving sedges and taller reeds as far inland as they could see.
When the reed beds were only an arrow’s flight away, the ship turned lazily on the current and went downstream, held bow-on by the six men plying the two long sweeps at the stern. “Hauuu,” they cried as they pushed hard against the weight of the river. “Lah,” as they raised the blade high. Then silence for two beats as the sweep was swung wide for another stroke. It became an endless slow march, full of pauses. “Hauuu-lah.” Three, four. “Hauuu-lah.” Quiet, quiet.
The top-mast watch first saw the boat, almost a gossle boat so round and clumsy it was, lurching out at them from among the reed beds.
“Boat ho,” he cried.
They crowded the rail to see the tiny craft spinning crazily toward them, like a water beetle, rowed by two uncoordinated paddlers sitting either side of a female passenger. One man was squat and dark, the woman and the other man were lean and sandy-skinned, with something familiar seeming about them. It was the dark man who waved at them, shouting words they could scarcely hear over the river sounds.
“Ho … stop … ’mergency….”
“That’s Ghatoun, sir,” said the deck officer to the captain. “Head of an encampment along here. We traded fruit and grain for reed mats, last trip.”
“I see him, deckman. Tell the men to drop anchor.”
“Aye, sir.”
Jory and Asner were speaking together urgently, leaning so far over the rail Fringe thought they would fall. She grasped Jory’s shirt, holding the old woman down. Came a clangor of chain as the aft anchor went down, a rattle of sweeps brought aboard, the softer rustle of a rope ladder against the side. Then Ghatoun came clambering over the rail near where they stood, murmuring urgently to the captain.
“Scouts say … chimi-hounds scouring the reeds…. These two … not Derbeckian. Border crossers, maybe…. Supervisors, maybe. Don’t want trouble….”
Fringe cocked her head at Nela and Bertran. The other man and the woman were wearily climbing over the rail, moving like old people or folk tired to the point of exhaustion.
“Cafferty!” cried Jory. “And Latibor!”
“Jory,” whispered the man with a ghost of a smile.
“These people belong to you?” asked the captain, turning to the old woman.
“Oh, my, yes,” said Jory. “Our dear friends! Come to such a pass. Fled for their lives, I’ve no doubt.”
The two nodded hesitantly, their eyes roaming over the others on deck but returning always to Jory with mingled wonder and satisfaction. They had not expected to find her here, so much was obvious.
“How fortunate we came along!” Jory cried. “You two come below with me. You need to lie down. You need some food.”
“They’ve had food,” complained Ghatoun. “And a lie down. Some days of both, they’ve had, and some days more they no doubt need, but I can’t keep them in the village with the chimi-hounds about. Old Man Daddy’s dead, and there’s some big hoofaraw going on that brings the hounds out, beating the riverbanks.”
Jory gave Asner a significant look as she escorted the two strangers below.
“Your good sense and kindness shouldn’t go unrewarded,” said Asner. “What do you think? A hundred derbecki? A thousand?”
Ghatoun flushed. “A hundred would more than pay for their keep. A thousand would likely get me killed.”
“A hundred then.” Asner rummaged in his pockets and brought forth a handful of metal, all shapes, all sizes. He plowed the pile with a fingertip, at last finding two silvery coins that suited him. These he handed to Ghatoun.
“Will your people say anything when the chimi-hounds come?”
“And run the risk of getting slaughtered! Don’t be a fool, man. We wouldn’ta lasted a year if we had people so silly as that!”
“That’s good to hear,” Asner said with a smile. “Peace and joy, Ghatoun.”
“An unlikely hope with chimi-hounds abroad!” commented the headman. “On your way, now, lest someone see you
anchored here and ask why! And keep those folks hid while you’re in Du-you, just in case any in Derbeck are interested in them.”
Ghatoun was back in his awkward craft and halfway to the reed beds before the anchor was hauled up and the sweeps deployed. The little boat disappeared into the reeds as the Dove moved again downriver toward Du-you.
Asner confronted the three Enforcers, all of whom were glaring at him.
“Border crossers?” demanded Danivon. “Were they border crossers, Asner?” Danivon felt himself close to panic. He smelled something, something dreadful and maimed and old. He smelled death and didn’t know what to do about it.
Asner shook his head. “Well, now, can’t quite say, can I? Last time I saw them, they were headed downriver toward Shallow. Shallow’s a freeport, so they could go there. Possibly they were castaways, that’s all. Nothing illicit about being a castaway.”
“Downriver from where?” asked Fringe. “When you saw them last.”
“Downriver from upriver,” said Asner. “Obviously. Since that’s where we were at the time.”
“Thrasis? Beanfields?” demanded Curvis.
“A bit farther up than that.”
“In the unexplored region?”
“Well, that’s what you say. We don’t think of it as unexplored. We know pretty much what’s there, don’t you know, having been there for some time.”
“What place?”
“Noplace. That’s what I said before. Noplace. Has no name. Why do people all the time have to go about naming places? Impudent, that’s what it is. How do you know what the name of a place is?”
“Whatever it’s called, it has no supervision from Tolerance,” said Curvis. “No monitors, no systems, no Enforcers assigned duty there….”
“No doubt true,” agreed Asner, nodding his head in a not-at-all-sympathetic manner. “Which isn’t our fault. Not mine, not Cafferty’s. Or Latibor’s. Or Jory’s. With all you’ve got to worry about on the rest of Elsewhere, I don’t see why you’d be eager to lay your hands on noplace.”
Danivon smoldered, but Fringe said, “He’s right, Danivon. Your nose told you they were to go along, and this is why. They already know what’s up there.”
“How’d you get there?” Danivon demanded. “To begin with?”
Asner shrugged. “It’s home, Danivon Luze. Cafferty and Latibor came there as children.”
“Noplace?”
“Right. Noplace. Some noplace or other.” He brushed himself ostentatiously, as though to rid himself of their suspicions, then stumped away to the ladder, calling Jory’s name as he went.
9
When Sepel794DZ said the dinks might find it difficult to access the sensory recordings Boarmus had brought, he had conveyed nothing of the patience and skill the operation required. Boarmus was exhausted. His sleep, though full of fearful dreams, was deep, and while he slept the dinks prodded and poked, burrowed through old files, queried ancient systems, until at last they were able to get into the ancient recordings. As Boarmus said, he had picked sensory data left by five individuals: Thob and Breaze and Bland and Clore. And Jordel of Hemerlane.
As chance would have it, the first recording they got into had been left behind by Breaze, Orimar Breaze.
They saw him as he saw himself. A handsome, white-haired man, strolling among age-gentled walls set in an early spring, trees just budding, their trembling lace spread across time-softened stones, themselves dripping with viny green.
He hears voices raised in song:
“Brannigan we sing to thee.”
He hears and feels water splashing. He touches the wetness on his cheeks, feeling the separate droplets, like jewels on his skin.
“Fountain of diversity.”
“I am Orimar Breaze, chairman of the Great Question Committee, elder statesman of academe, appointed by the almighty Chancellors to the referendum on curriculum reform, prize-winning author of the greatest erotic work of my century, Jorub and Andacine.” So he thinks to himself, liking the sound of the words as he murmurs them, contented to be what he is. “Jorub and Andacine,” he says again. “A seminal work.”
The dinks feel what he felt, hear what he heard. They are proud to be Orimar Breaze who is not like other men. Not like other women. Who is far and away superior to most men, even to many of those here at Brannigan Galaxity, great BG.
Orimar Breaze is on his way to class. Today he will bring the beautiful young into this parklike burgeoning, seat them on the sward, and then stand before them, a first edition of Jorub and Andacine open in his hands. He will read aloud, his voice a mellifluous torrent sweeping them along.
Oh, Brannigan:
It is his mistress, his wife. It is his forum, his stage. It is himself, made manifest.
Vast auditoria reverberating to words deathless as Scripture. Laboratories where genius falls thick as pollen, packed with potentiality. Hallways vibrant with scuttering youth, with striding maturity, and so on and so on and so on….
“Brannigan we sing to thee….”
Eyes, bright eyes, the young liquid eyes sparkling between fringed lids, unlined foreheads shining like little marble monuments, sweet mouths curved into succulent questions. Here they are, seated cross-legged on the grass. “Illuminated one,” they cry. “Tell … tell me … tell me everything!”
Brannigan Galaxity.
A thousand colleges, each with its own history, its own traditions, its own glories to recount….
“… tell me everything,” they cry.
He warms at the heat of their voices, feels the excitement of their excitement. Oh, he can teach them things they will never learn from anyone else.
And he loves the names they have for him, the girls particularly. “Magister.” “Sweet teacher.” “Lord of my heart and mind.” Who was it had called him that? No matter. There would be others … others.
Ah, the feel of that young skin against his own.
Ah, the surge of adoration from them to him.
Ah, the surge of … of knowledge pouring out of him to them, his body pressed … himself pressed…. That was in the library, the great library, among the books, she and him.
Brannigan Galaxity:
Libraries sprawling in wandering tunnels of stone across continents of lawn. The infinite distance of painted ceilings where faded figures out of forgotten legends disport themselves …
They were not the only ones disporting themselves!
[Tourists come here to see the murals. He has never really approved of that. Not in Brannigan, which should be sacrosanct, which should exclude the chattering throngs who stroll along, staring upward, spilling meat sauce upon the mosaics. Oh, they should go away! Depart! This is no place for laity. This is where …]
… legends disport themselves. Is that Wisdom teaching the multitude? Or the Queen of who-was-it? issuing thingummies? …
… where the body is pressed … himself pressed … All that working away inside like sparkling wine, bubbling up, pure joy, delight, glory! Glorious these days, these ageless words, these students forever young! Glorious to hear the breathless voice whispering his name. “There he is, Orimar! Teacher! Lover! Oh, Orimar!”
Here twisting stairs clattering beneath niagaras of pounding feet. There dim corridors, endless as roads, running into vaulted passages that grow silent….
He does not like silence. Not when he is alone in it.
No matter. All that is here is also in Files, incorruptible.
Incorruptible. He is incorruptible.
Listen to them, the sweet things, gathered before him on
the sward, their voices whispering his name, “Oh, Orimar Breaze!” Oh, he relishes it still, in this place, just as he always has.
Though there is one among this group who is not looking at him! One there, to the side, who is not responsive. This has happened before. It is happening again!
When he has dismissed the others, he focuses upon that one. “Come,” he says. “What is this? You don’t seem to be e
njoying the seminar, dearest girl.”
She has no reason to reject him. Isn’t Orimar one of the illuminati, after all? One of the emeriti, the …
“May thy Golden Towers rise as a beacon for the wise….”
“You need to extend yourself. Be one with the group.”
She says something noncommittal. He sees scorn in her eyes. “Old man,” her eyes say. “I know you, old man.”
What right has she to look at him like that?
He dismisses her, his voice like cutting ice. She will not last, not at Brannigan. He will see to that. One negative report is all it takes, and she may be assured she has earned it from him.
“Immortal may thy children be …”
Brannigan, whose emeriti stand in glittering rows along the Halls of Tomorrow, preserved in impenetrable vitreon until the hour they will be raised from senescence into eternal youth …
What right had she to think him an old man!
He would summon her to his office. He would give her one more chance.
She is there, before him, her face closed, her eyes shut. He suggests that she do … a certain humiliating, undignified thing.
She does not even answer.
Enough then. She has earned her dismissal. Oh, for some other world. Some world in which she could not refuse him in this fashion. A world in which refusal would be sufficient grounds for discipline!
“Brannigan, Great Brannigan! Brannigan Galaxity!”
Discipline is what that one wants. What she needs. And Orimar could give it to her. He can feel it in himself. Hot. All simmering up, full of lusts. He would strike. He would hurt. He would reduce her to a quivering mass. Eventually he would dispose of her while she still screamed and begged for another chance, just one more chance. He would smile. He would shake his head. Too late.
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