The Larion Senators

by Rob Scott; Jay Gordon

  ‘So no, then,’ Brexan said.

  ‘No, what?’

  ‘No, Nerak probably wouldn’t have helped us banish this evil essence and seal off the Fold.’

  ‘No,’ Gilmour shook his head, ‘most likely not.’

  Brexan felt the cold seep inside her cloak. ‘I’ll get us some tecan,’ she said, shivering.

  ‘That would be nice,’ Gilmour said, glad for the change of topic. ‘Biggest mugs you can find.’

  Warmed by the morning brew and empowered by the truths Brexan and Kellin had forced him to examine while kedging the Morning Star off the Malakasian shoal, Gilmour Stow of Estrad excused himself from the chilly partisans still watching the fogbank for Garec and Marrin and tiptoed into the companionway leading to his berth, and the leatherbound book of Lessek’s writings. Gilmour rarely felt old, but this morning, despite living inside the youngest host he had purloined in nearly a thousand Twinmoons, his body was stiff, cramped, feeling as if it might disintegrate without warning. His shoulders were sore; his lower back ached. One knee was inflamed, while the other had stiffened with the dampness and fog. His fingers felt swollen, clumsy and arthritic, and his eyes were a beat slow, managing to focus on what he had been seeing a step or two after it had fallen behind him. Being two thousand Twinmoons old was not normally physically gruelling – if it was, Gilmour would have been worn to the bone, dead several times over. Instead, it was an intellectual distance run, a tiresome and wearying adventure, and this morning, with his shortcomings and challenges neatly outlined by the curious freedom fighters, Gilmour felt the emotional exhaustion in every muscle and bone in his body.

  It was a symptom of his fatigue; he knew that, and he knew that a few avens’ sleep would have him back in fighting form. But he hadn’t been able to rest; he wanted to finish just one last thing before retiring for the day. Then, he would sleep until the dinner aven, resting like the dead. Or the very nearly dead, anyway, he thought with a wry smile.

  But first, he had to read that book, despite his aches and pains. It hadn’t been the actual book lashing out at him; first it had been Nerak, then Mark. The book hadn’t done it… I hope not, anyway. There was no reason to fear the writings. He had explained that to Brexan just moments earlier: the book wasn’t power per se; the book was knowledge, understanding, and whether or not it told him anything useful this morning, Gilmour didn’t care. It wasn’t useful information he required; it was confidence. His conversation with the freedom fighters had kindled a tiny bundle of hope, just a faint glow, wrapped in the protective layers he invariably applied whenever hope was all he had. But this morning, Gilmour wanted more; he wanted to feel that hope burgeon into a comforting blaze, something to keep him warm for the few days it would take Captain Doren Ford and his skeleton crew to see them into Pellia.

  ‘Just read the damned book,’ he murmured to himself. ‘What can happen? Mark won’t notice; we’re too close already, and he’s following the tan-bak. Even I can feel the tan-bak when I search for her. She’s like a bloody beacon in a storm out there. He won’t bother looking here; we’re nowhere near the Northeast Channel, essentially invisible, so there’s no excuse. Just read the whoring thing, and then go to bed.’

  Crunch.

  His tired eyes had overlooked it, brought it into focus a moment too late for his mind to care, but when his foot came down on it, Gilmour stopped to see what he had stepped on.

  It was an insect – a roach? A beetle, maybe? He scraped up what he could, but he hadn’t been the first to step on it.

  It’s just a bug, old man. Leave it, and go get your reading done.

  But something was wrong. Gilmour felt the warmth leave his body, that quiet glimmer of hope fading. He absentmindedly tugged at one of his earlobes and then felt around inside his ear, tentatively, as if afraid of what he might discover.

  The spell book forgotten, his fatigue ignored yet again, Gilmour tucked the insect’s remains inside his tunic and went back on deck.

  Alen and Milla walked along the riverfront quay, heading for the Hunter’s Glade, a quiet café that served a cheap midday meal and whose proprietor, a childless woman named Gisella, fawned on the little sorceress as if Milla was a member of her own family. Alen had found the café one evening while seeking information about barge traffic along the Welstar River. When Gisella discovered that Alen had a little girl, she insisted he bring Milla around. ‘Children eat free for the Twinmoon,’ she had said, brushing clouds of flour from her apron. ‘My sister has three boys, three! Can you imagine the noise when that lot comes for dinner? Rutters!’

  Alen had felt a pang of sorrow for Gisella, who seemed a pleasant enough woman; he was sorry she’d not been able to have children, and he promised to return with Milla.

  Now, Milla’s hand securely clasped in his, he felt some of his own trepidation rub off; perhaps it wouldn’t be so bad to work with the child prodigy over the next two hundred Twinmoons.

  ‘Are we going to Gisella’s?’ Milla skipped beside him, careful to avoid icy patches.

  ‘I thought you might want to go back there,’ Alen smiled.

  ‘She’s fun, and I like those biscuits, the warm ones. They’re so big.’

  ‘Big as your head!’ Alen pretended to struggle beneath the weight of a giant pastry.

  ‘Can we bring one back for Hoyt?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Is he going to die?’ Milla twirled a length of ribbon around her finger.

  ‘No, Pepperweed. He’s going to be just fine.’ Alen tried to sound convincing.

  ‘But there’s a new hole in his shoulder,’ the little girl said sadly. ‘One of those soldiers stuck him with a sword.’

  ‘That’s almost all better, sweetie. The querlis is fixing that hole right up.’

  ‘But not the other one,’ she was quick to point out.

  ‘I know, Pepperweed.’

  ‘Do you think Gilmour will be able to help him?’

  ‘That’s a funny thing to ask.’

  ‘Because he’s almost here,’ Milla said.

  ‘How do you know? Can you sense him out there?’ Alen knelt beside her, ignoring the damp seeping through his leggings.

  ‘You know how we felt that big crash from Falkan a while ago?’ Milla whispered as if sharing a secret. ‘It’s like that, only a lot quieter.’

  ‘It must be.’ He looked around, thinking perhaps his former colleague might be coming up the quay to join them. ‘I can’t feel him at all.’

  ‘Well, it’s hard, because he’s really quiet, but I know where to find him, because I held him that time outside the room.’

  ‘Like you did with me and Hoyt in the wagons?’

  ‘I had to with you and Hoyt, because those Seron things were coming so fast, and you two were dreaming about fireplaces and pretty girls.’ Milla snorted with laughter. ‘But, yes, just like that.’

  ‘Any idea where he is, Pepperweed?’ Alen aligned his finger with hers and Milla wrapped them both in the ribbon.

  ‘A little bit that way.’ She pointed southeast, across the inlet and along the coast.

  ‘Are you sure?’ Alen asked, ‘because if he’s coming by sea, he would have to come from that way.’ He pointed northeast, where deep water met a wall of atolls and shallow islands in the Northern Archipelago. ‘Everyone coming on the water this Twinmoon has to come that way.’

  ‘Nope.’ Milla shook her head, her scribbled curls jouncing. Not Gilmour. He’s coming from over there, around that piece of ground sticking out in the water.’

  ‘All right, Pepperweed, we’ll watch for him from that way. And to answer your question: yes, I hope that Gilmour can help Hoyt, or help me help Hoyt get better.’

  They walked for a while in silence. Milla stopped to consider, then hopped over a coil of mooring hawser some docker had left along the wharf. Beside them, the Welstar River was a steely grey ribbon.

  ‘Nice jump,’ Alen said, retaking her hand, ‘but be careful. You don’t want to fall in.’


  ‘I know,’ Milla shivered. ‘It’s so cold it made my head hurt, and my skin was like it didn’t feel anything.’

  ‘Numb.’

  ‘Numb,’ Milla echoed. ‘So I had to warm it up, or I would have been too scared to swim.’

  ‘I hear you did a good job swimming.’

  Milla beamed. ‘I swam the scramble, just like Hannah showed me, but she calls it the dog-paddle, or something like that. I did have to hurt that one man, though – I didn’t want to, but he was going to stab Hoyt, and maybe Hannah, too. So I made him stop.’ Her lip started to tremble.

  Alen picked her up and, holding her close, whispered, ‘Don’t you worry about it, Pepperweed, not for one more day. Those men were going to take you back to Welstar Palace.’

  ‘Back to Rabeth and the others?’ She looked cross. ‘But I don’t want to go back there. I want to go home to Mama and to find Resta with Hoyt.’

  ‘Resta?’

  ‘You know: Resta the Wonderdog, who writes his name and sings songs.’

  ‘Yes, of course, how could I have forgotten?’

  A pair of barges laden with tarpaulin-covered crates moved slowly towards Welstar Palace. Milla waved at one of the sailors. ‘You don’t think those other soldiers are going to come and find me?’

  ‘Not after what you did to them.’

  ‘That was Hoyt’s idea,’ Milla said. ‘I didn’t know if I could do it, but Hannah helped me to come up with a good story, and I just told it to those men, the ones with the hurt legs, and they thought it was true.’

  ‘And Erynn too, right?’

  ‘She was even easier,’ Milla said. ‘I just make her think that Karel had taken me away because he was mad at her for being in love with Hoyt.’

  ‘That’s silly, isn’t it?’ Alen blew into his cupped hands; Milla mimicked him, warming her fingers.

  ‘Hoyt’s too old, anyway.’

  ‘I’m sure he’ll be glad you think that way, Pepperweed.’

  She giggled. ‘Hoyt’s silly.’

  ‘That is an interesting trick you did, though. I wish I knew how to do that one,’ Alen said. ‘Did Nerak teach you that one: helping people to remember things the wrong way?’

  ‘No.’ Milla wiped her nose on her cloak. ‘It was Hoyt. He told me to try it, and so I did. It was hard at first, because those other soldiers were shouting. So it was hard to think about how to do it.’

  ‘I’m impressed,’ Alen said, ‘but Milla, please don’t try that one on me or the others, all right?’

  ‘All right.’ Milla didn’t seem to care. ‘Are we there yet? I’m cold.’

  While the Hunter’s Glade did indeed have enormous biscuits, some the size of a child’s head, Milla’s favourite thing about visiting Gisella were her dogs. The lonely café owner had two, a big old wolf-like creature, and a small, feisty creature with a mass of tight curls, a fiery temper and a soft spot for children. As soon as they arrived at the café, Milla rushed over to the dogs and the three of them rolled and wrestled until, exhausted, she joined Alen at their small table near the fireplace. After devouring whatever delicacy Gisella had prepared for her, Milla donned her cloak, kissed the barmaid on the nose and climb into Alen’s arms for the journey back to the Wayfarer. After most visits, Milla was asleep before they rounded the first corner.

  This aven, the little girl didn’t sleep. Alen?’ she asked, a tiny voice in the twilight air.

  ‘What is it, Pepperweed?’

  ‘I sent those dogs to the wagons, too.’

  ‘I know you did, Pepperweed.’

  ‘Was that a wrong thing to do?’

  ‘You saved me and Hoyt,’ he said, ‘so no, I don’t think it was wrong.’

  ‘But some of those soldiers—’

  ‘They were all fine.’ Alen stopped her with the lie he and Hoyt had prepared. ‘Hoyt and I were watching while we sneaked away, and when the dogs left, all those soldiers were fine.’ She had been so upset at killing the Malakasian sergeant; knowing she had wiped out an entire platoon of Seron warriors would be too much for Milla to handle right now. He changed the subject, saying, ‘Can I ask you something?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘How do you do it? How do you get those dogs inside our dreams? Hannah, Hoyt, and I all dreamed about dogs – the same dog, from Southport, the one you sent after Hannah when she came across the Fold. How did you get the dog to follow your orders, and how did you get the same dog to fit so perfectly into our dreams?’

  ‘It’s the way those ashes work.’ Milla didn’t lift her head from his shoulder.

  ‘The ashes?’

  ‘The ash dream,’ she yawned into his ear.

  ‘What is that, Pepperweed?’ He was getting more confused, not less.

  ‘The dream you get from the trees.’

  Ashes, Alen thought, ashes – yes, there were ashes in the fire grate in Durham, and Hannah mentioned ashes from her father’s cigarettes. Hoyt remembered me smoking, although I never did, and Churn smelled the ashes of his family’s burning homestead. The ash dream? Dreams of ashes? It doesn’t make sense.

  He asked, ‘So why did we all dream about ashes, Pepperweed?’

  ‘You dream about your life. I put in the dog for fun. It isn’t hard to do.’

  ‘So where do the ashes come from?’

  ‘From whoever wants you to know about ashes. She must be putting the ashes in there.’

  ‘She?’

  ‘Or he. I don’t know.’

  ‘So the ash dream is a dream about ashes?’ Alen couldn’t hide his confusion.

  Milla giggled, snuggling closer to ward off the cold. ‘No, crazy. The ash dream is the dream that comes from the trees. The ashes are in your dream, because someone put them there.’

  ‘Like your dog.’

  ‘Yup.’

  ‘Because he … or she … wanted me to think about ashes?’

  ‘Wanted you to know the name of the dream, probably.’

  He propped her a bit higher on his hip. ‘Go to sleep now, Milla. I’ll wake you when we get back to the Wayfarer.’

  ‘All right,’ she yawned. ‘Did you remember Hoyt’s biscuit?’

  ‘And one for Hannah,’ Alen said, feeling her breath tickle his neck.

  ‘That’s good,’ she whispered and drifted off.

  Plodding through the Pellia twilight, Alen analysed what he knew, trying to uncover something salient they had overlooked. So the ash dream is how someone, Nerak probably, referred to the hypnotic state one experiences in the Forest of Ghosts. Milla sent the dog to follow us, then worked him into our dreams, probably without Nerak knowing, or he would have been rutting furious with her for tipping us off. So why the ashes? Was that you, Fantus? What are you trying to tell me? I know it’s the tree bark, but why? What’s the point of shipping it here?

  He was still thinking it all through when he arrived back at the Wayfarer Inn. Morgan and Illia Kestral, both working behind the bar, waved to him genially, deeply thankful that they had saved Erynn from Karel, the crazed young soldier, who had kidnapped their daughter and Milla before killing himself. If you only knew, Alen thought. He gestured to Milla and then the stairs: I’ll be right down, just need to take her up.

  ‘You need a beer?’ Morgan whispered.

  ‘Please,’ Alen whispered back. An aven or two alone might help him stumble on something he had missed.

  INVISIBLE SENTRIES

  At Gilmour’s call, Steven shouted, ‘On my way!’ and left Kellin and Garec chatting amiably. Brexan went off to find Captain Ford on the quarterdeck.

  Passage along the Malakasian coast had been tiresome. The captain and crew of the Morning Star had pushed, pulled, dragged and kedged the little brig-sloop over and through all manner of hazards. Miraculously, the ship remained seaworthy, despite her battered appearance, and finally she rode a high tide through the last of the islands to join an armada of small fishing vessels, trawlers and booacore boats, mostly, working the coastline south of the capital. Steven prayed they had shaved
enough time off the Northeast Channel to reach Pellia before Mark and the hijacked frigates.

  ‘What is it?’ he asked, catching his breath.

  Gilmour pointed. ‘See that rocky point on the horizon with the pines running almost out to the end? If my memory and Captain Ford’s charts are correct, that’s the last slip of land separating us from the Welstar River inlet—’

  ‘And Pellia.’

  ‘And Pellia,’ Gilmour agreed. ‘If you look northeast, about as far out as you can on the horizon …’ He pointed again.

  Steven sighted along his forearm but couldn’t see anything. ‘Sorry, but most of us don’t sharpen our eyesight with Larion magic.’

  ‘Trust me,’ Gilmour said, ‘it’s there.’

  ‘What’s there? A ship?’

  ‘Topsails, anyway. If it was a ship, we’d be in trouble. For now, it’s just her sails; she hasn’t come hull-up yet. When she does, her lookouts will spot us.’

  Steven understood. ‘So it’s time to get hidden.’ He paused, then admitted, ‘I don’t think that I can hide us well enough to cross the inlet and make way into the harbour unseen. This is an awfully big boat to make disappear. And anyway, you know as well as I do that my cloaking spells don’t really make us invisible; they just help people overlook us.’

  ‘I understand,’ Gilmour assured him, ‘and I also understand that there are a lot of people in Pellia, and many of them will see us approach. What I want you to concentrate on is keeping us camouflaged while we sail inside the blockade. Once we’ve passed that, anyone on shore will assume we’ve been cleared to moor.’

  ‘And that’s the closest ship, way out there?’

  ‘For now, yes, but when we round this point, there will be a number of smaller boats, shallow-drafting boats, working the inlet. Those are my main concern.’

  ‘Why aren’t they on this side of the point?’

  ‘Because no one of any threat or consequence could possibly get a large ship through here. No invading army approaches in a skiff.’ Gilmour smiled. ‘We were lucky to find Captain Ford.’