Beyond the Gate (The Golden Queen) (Volume 2)

by David Farland

  Ceravanne took the seed gratefully, held it close to her chest as if it were precious. The Bock reached out his long fingers, cradled them around her hair so that she looked as if she were caught in the bushes, and then the Bock leaned forward. His face overshadowed hers, and he kissed her softly on the lips.

  Ceravanne wept.

  Orick sneaked back to Gallen and Maggie, unwilling to tear the Bock and the Tharrin away from each other. In moments, Ceravanne came out of the back room and placed the seed in her pack, then ate a brief breakfast.

  When she finished, she hugged the giant Rougaire and said, “You can see us off at the dock, but afterward I need you to go to the City of Life. Tell the Immortals there that the Lord Protector has come, and that we have gone to confront the Inhuman. If our task is not accomplished by mid-winter, they will have to prepare for war in the spring.”

  The giant nodded, and they made one last quick search of the room.

  Ceravanne wrapped her hair back with a red rag, then pulled her hood forward low over her eyes. She got some soot from a corner, dusted it on her cheeks and under her eyes, making her look worn and wasted. Obviously, she was assuming a disguise.

  “Won’t people recognize you as a Tharrin?” Gallen said.

  “Most people alive today on this world have never seen a Tharrin,” Ceravanne said. “And so I tell them that I am a Domorian dancing girl. They look much like the Tharrin. But few people ever even question me about my race. I wear a young body, and children are often ignored, invisible.”

  She pulled her hood up, affected a slumped posture, a slightly altered body language that somehow completed her disguise. Orick was amazed at the transformation.

  Then they hurried out of the warehouse into the streets, and crept to the docks in a dawn fog so thick that they could not see a dozen paces ahead.

  It felt good to be on the road again with Gallen and Maggie and a Tharrin, and Orick was somehow eager for action, so he was disappointed when they reached the docks without incident and were able to quickly purchase berths on the second ship they found heading toward Babel.

  Because of the thick fog, they had to take the purser’s word as to the seaworthiness of the ship; he described it as a lofty five-masted clipper—a worthy ship whose wood held no worm, a ship that could outrun pirates.

  So with trepidation they left the docks as several crewmen rowed them to the ship in the fog. The Bock and Rougaire stood on the docks and waved goodbye, seeming to recede into the mist.

  Once aboard the ship, the purser escorted them to their berths in three of the six small cabins near the captain’s quarters, then excused himself to handle other business.

  A brief inspection showed that the ship was all they had been promised—comfortable, immaculate. The ship was already heavily laden with goods, so Orick and Maggie went up to the weather deck in the fog and watched one last time for sign of the Inhuman. Dozens of sailors came aboard in small boats, many of them obviously drunk.

  “Watch for a man with bright yellow skin,” Maggie breathed into Orick’s ear, and Orick sat, listening to the creaking timbers of the ship, the water slapping against the hull. Certainly, most of the crew was made up of an eccentric lot. Dozens of small, bald men with red skin came aboard wearing little more than breechcloths and knife belts. They were filled with nervous energy and were soon everywhere, manning the lines, checking the ties. A dozen grim-faced giants in leather tunics, all armed with oversized bastard swords, seemed relegated to the more strenuous tasks of hoisting sails.

  Other crewmen were more eccentric-tall men with tremendously large pale yellow eyes. Black men with horny growths sticking up under their long white hair. Two men with black hooded cloaks came in the last boat, so tightly bundled that they looked as if they wanted their faces hidden, and Orick strained to see the color of their skin. When they climbed up the ladder to the main deck, they moved with incredible swiftness. He glimpsed bare arms the color of slate. One had tattooed his right hand red.

  The men passed Orick and Maggie on their way below deck, and Orick caught a glint of their eyes—a deep purple. The second of the pair bore a tattoo of a white spider between his eyes.

  And though neither man had the markings that Orick sought, he found that the hair on his neck raised just a bit, and he fought the urge to turn and see if the men were staring at him. When at last he did turn, they had gone off into the fog, yet he wondered what those men might be able to see with such eyes.

  When the last sailors boarded the ship, Maggie breathed a sigh of relief. “Thank heaven,” she whispered. “Not a yellow man nor one of those bat people among the lot.”

  The crew weighed anchors and hoisted a single sail, and the ship slid out of port slowly, still under cover of the thick fog.

  And Orick soon forgot the chill he’d felt at the sight of the dark-cloaked men. Now that they were away, he found that his heart was light. He heard children laughing out over the water, and spotted some tots—little girls and boys swimming among the many jellyfish alongside the ship. He was amazed at the children’s speed, till he noticed that they wore no clothes, and they had tails like fishes.

  “Hello!” Orick called to them, and the children laughed and waved at him and Maggie, shouting, “Hello, funny man! Hello, funny lady!” Then one of them threw a jellyfish and they all dove deep, as if they were afraid that he and Maggie would hurl rocks at them.

  “Oh, do you think they’ll come back?” Maggie cried in delight, and they watched the white-tipped waves for a time, but saw no more of the water children.

  Maggie and Orick ambled over the decks for the next half hour till they reached the open sea, where the air swirled and the oppressive fog was left behind.

  Orick’s spirits soared as they came out under blue skies. The giants began hoisting all sails, and when they filled with air, the ship suddenly surged over the water.

  Orick glanced up to the white sails, full of wind, his heart thrilling, just as three giant bat shapes swooped out of the fog to land in the rigging.

  He cringed and Maggie cried out, and they moved a bit to see where the creatures went. All three of them scurried to a roofed crow’s nest, where they began to cover their eyes with their wings, hiding from the sun.

  One of them shouted, “All clear! Night watch out!” then blew a seaman’s whistle.

  Orick had heard that voice dozens of times in the fog, but never realized that it came from one of the loathsome batlike scouts.

  “Hah, they’re just part of the crew,” Maggie laughed in mock relief. “Who better to sit watch in the crow’s nest?”

  “A crow would be better,” Orick growled, recalling how the scouts had blown their little seaman’s whistles in town. “I don’t like the looks of them!”

  “You can’t damn them for their looks,” Maggie said, studying the creatures as they huddled in their dark nest.

  Her red hair was flying in the wind, and she brushed it out of her face. “Just because they’re scouts, it doesn’t mean they’re Inhuman.”

  “But it does mean that they’re ugly, and I’d just as soon not have their kind near me!” Orick grumbled. “I’ve seen no good from them.”

  Maggie whispered, “Speak softer. There’s no telling how well they hear.” She bent closer, and Orick listened tight. “Orick, those things may not be Inhuman, but it’s just as possible that they are. We’re on a ship full of people from Babel, and it’s likely that at least one of them, and probably more, are Inhuman.”

  Orick grumbled, turned away, and padded over the deck, his claws scratching the well-scrubbed planks. Maggie’s voice had sounded calm enough when she talked of the creatures, but Orick noticed how quick Maggie was to follow at his heels.

  That evening, Orick and the others dined at the captain’s table. The dinner was a fine feast, with a unique wine that both stimulated the mind and elevated the mood, and along with it they had plates of candied meats, five types of melon, sweet rolls, and breads with cheese baked in them. Ori
ck was delighted, for he seldom found a table larger than his appetite.

  In the captain’s cabin, the brass lamps kept the room well lit, and the captain had only two other guests at the table—a fat merchant and a shy albino girl.

  Captain Aherly sat at the far end of the table from Orick, with a steward boy in a gray smock at one shoulder and his nervous bodyguard at the other.

  They made polite conversation for a while at dinner, and Orick was plainly curious about the other guests at the table, so he was almost relieved when the captain said to Gallen, “I’ve never heard someone who spoke quite the way you and your friends do.”

  “They’re from the village of Soorary, in the north,” Ceravanne put in, covering for them.

  “Ah, a far country,” the captain said, plainly trying to disguise the fact that he wasn’t satisfied. “So, do you travel to Babel on business, or pleasure?”

  “Adventure,” Gallen said. “My friends and I are out to see the world, and I understand that a lot of it is south of here.”

  “Hah.” The captain laughed. “Well, if you’re going south, there are some sights that will have your eyes popping out.”

  “What of our other guests?” Gallen asked. “Why are you aboard?” The albino girl, a shy girl who had not spoken all evening, looked to the merchant as if asking him to speak, but when he remained silent for too long, she leaned forward and said softly, “I went to the City of Life, for Downing.”

  Ceravanne supplied the proper response. “You seek resurrection? I hope you were judged worthy!”

  The girl looked away demurely. “I was not. They read my memories, but felt that my contribution to society does not merit—” She choked off the words.

  Orick felt a small shock go around the table, and wondered what it would be like to be judged unworthy of future life. It would be as bad as getting a death sentence, he decided.

  “You are young yet,” Ceravanne said. “Redouble your efforts. All is not lost. I am but a lowly Domorian dancer, yet I got the Rebirth.”

  The young woman looked at Ceravanne, gratitude in her pink eyes. “As one whose skin is young, but whose eyes are old, I appreciate your reassurance. But—I am considered to be a great teacher among my people. I have worked so hard. I don’t know what more I can do.…”

  She abruptly drew her head back, a graceful gesture, like the movement of a deer in a forest, and Orick realized that she was not shy or reticent as a personality quirk, but that her timidness went much deeper. Her life might well be defined by it.

  “Be kind and generous, as is your nature,” Ceravanne offered. “It is said that the Immortals value such more than other accomplishments.”

  The albino woman lowered her eyes, blinking them as a sign of acceptance.

  “Perhaps, instead more life, seek meaningful death,” the captain’s bodyguard said, pacing across the room. The guard, a woman named Tallea, was like a panther, stalking to and fro, and she spoke in quick, sharp tones, as if unable to slow her speech down. She was well muscled and wore a short sword on her right hip and a dueling trident on her left. Her decorative tunic of gray with blue animal figures was covered by a thin leather vest. All in all, her clothes seemed to be merely functional rather than protective. Despite her pacing and her bunched muscles, she seemed serene.

  “A meaningful death?” Gallen asked.

  Tallea paced across the room, flexing her hands. She wore many rings of topaz and emerald. “Among Roamers, death is accepted. It comes to all, even those who run long, as Immortals do. They say, is duty of young to live, to care for herd. But when you old, is duty to die, to free others from caring for you. Death, like life, should have purpose. So, seek meaningful death.”

  “And how would you do that?” Gallen asked.

  “Life has meaning only if serve something greater than selves. Give life in service.”

  “You mean, in battle?” Gallen asked.

  The woman half nodded, half shook her head. “Maybe. Or in work.” Captain Aherly laughed. “You must forgive Tallea. She is a pure-bred Caldurian, but she is also a devotee of the Roamers, with their odd ways.”

  “Why do you want to be reborn as a Roamer?” Ceravanne asked.

  The woman turned, her dark hair flying. “Peace. Caldurians never at peace.” She turned away, began pacing. “And what great thing do you serve?” Ceravanne asked.

  The Caldurian woman shot a glance over her shoulder, a bright-eyed, mocking look. “I raised in wilderness of Moree, but I left. I serve truth.”

  There was an uncomfortable silence at the mention of Moree. By saying she’d left to serve truth, the woman seemed to be openly siding against the Inhuman, and none of the others at the table would dare be so bold. The burly merchant who was sitting beside Orick spoke evenly. “My name is Zell’a Cree. I’m a trader myself. For fifteen years now, I’ve been traveling.”

  “And what do you sell?” Gallen asked.

  “Oh, this and that,” Zell’a Cree said. “It used to be that trade was good between continents, but now, most folks don’t want to go to Babel. I keep thinking it’s time to get out of there, come home and settle down.”

  “So you are human?” Orick asked, somehow unnerved by the man. All evening, Orick had found that Zell’a Cree sat a bit too close. And now, his tone of voice was off—too mellifluous. The women had just been talking about death and hope, their deepest fears. Yet this man’s tone hinted that such things did not bother him. It struck Orick that the man lacked social graces, or some quality that Orick couldn’t quite name. At the very least, he didn’t know when to keep his mouth shut.

  “Yes,” Zell’a Cree said, affirming his humanity.

  “Liar,” Gallen countered, unaccountably furious at the man.

  The fellow raised an eyebrow, but did not recoil at the accusation. Gallen raised a hand, as if to strike him.

  Zell’a Cree just looked at him calmly. His pupils did not constrict. He did not tremble or sweat.

  “You’re not human,” Gallen said. “You don’t even know how to fake it. You have no fear at all, do you?”

  “Here, now,” the captain said. “We all have our secrets. I make it a policy never to dig too deeply into the private lives of my passengers. A man’s subspecies is his own business. Why, I even have a pair of Tekkar aboard—the black-hearted devils.”

  Gallen put his fist down, but carefully watched the burly Zell’a Cree.

  “Tekkar?” Ceravanne asked, and Orick could tell by the tone of her voice that these Tekkar had a nasty reputation.

  The captain’s face took on a closed look. “Aye, two of them. I invited them to dinner, but they declined, so they’re holed up in their cabin. They said that they too went to the City of Life, seeking the Downing.”

  “But you think they have other schemes in mind?” Gallen asked.

  “A Tekkar?” Captain Aherly laughed. “You think they would get the rebirth? Weasels will sooner get reborn as doves.”

  “Is this what things have come to?” Ceravanne asked. “You knowingly transport agents of the Inhuman?”

  “It’s not something I can prove or disprove,” Captain Aherly said. “I may suspect that a man is a scoundrel, but even the guards at the City of Life will turn no man back who desires the Downing. As long as we keep the gates of the city open to all, I can’t prove that the Tekkar have no business in Northland.”

  “I suspect,” Ceravanne said, “that the Immortals would have closed those gates to the Tekkar—if not for the presence of the dronon. Now that the dronon have fled, the Tekkar will not be allowed into the northlands.”

  “A shame, a shame,” Captain Aherly said, “that things had to come to this. Ah, it’s not like the old days, when the Tharrin judged men honestly, and there was goodwill among the peoples.”

  “You believe there ever was such a time?” Zell’a Cree said. “Some say that it is a myth.”

  “The harbor at Tylee has old dry-docking facilities for a hundred vessels,” Aherly said. “But I’v
e never seen more than ten ships put up at any one time. There must have been more people coming and going, not too long ago.”

  “It’s true. There was never such fear or animosity between peoples when I was young,” Ceravanne said. “The gates to the City of Life were unguarded, as were the ports. People traded freely, and it seemed we were rich.”

  “If ever there was such a time, it is long past,” Zell’a Cree said. “You were born after the dronon came,” Ceravanne said. “Ask the old ones you meet, they will tell you. Our world was at peace.”

  “Yes,” Captain Aherly said. “It’s true that we had some peace, an unequal peace. There was always peace in Northland. But even without the dronon, it was harder to come by in the south. You can’t let people like the Tekkar mix with folks like … the Champlianne here”—he waved to the albino woman—“and hope to have any peace. You might as well raise wolves in the rabbit pen.”

  “Yet even the Champlianne had the faithful Caldurians to protect them,” Ceravanne said, looking up to the warrior woman who paced the floor. “And as long as the Caldurians are strong, there can be peace again. Especially now that the dronon have fled.”

  “Ah, the dronon have fled but the Inhuman remains,” Aherly said. “And I fear that those who desire peace will be swept away before it. Those who have just come from the City of Life say they have seen preparations for war. Armies gathering in Northland.”

  Maggie gasped, unable to hide her astonishment.

  “It makes sense,” Zell’a Cree said. “With the dronon gone, someone will have to take charge.”

  “I have heard this rumor, too,” Ceravanne admitted reluctantly, eyeing Gallen for his reaction. “But mark my words, the Immortals will not let their human soldiers cross the oceans. They will not carry their war to the Inhuman, whatever the provocation.”

  “Pity, Inhuman does not feel same,” the Caldurian guard said. “No one has counted people of Babel, but they outnumber humans. They will strike first, and they will strike hard. Humans can’t stand against them.”

  “You seem certain,” Ceravanne said, setting down her fork, watching the Caldurian for a confirmation.