She'd bathed and gotten someone in the Guards to change the dressing on her hurt cheek, but the bruises all around the area still looked dark and angry. "You know Pnak and Barrelstave have been itching for years to put Tir under a Council of Regency- ever since Alde socialized seed wheat instead of letting people speculate in it. If they can discredit Ingold-"
"Don't start on me, spook." He dropped in the corner the bundle of his grubby traveling clothes he'd changed out of in Alde's rooms and went to stand beside her. "Lemme have a look at that."
She turned her face obediently, unmoving while he peeled back the dressing. The bruises were fading some, but the bite itself didn't look like it was healing.
Malnutrition, Rudy thought. Spells of healing, even those of a master like Ingold, could only go so far without nutrients to work from.
Still, there was something about the discoloration that he didn't like.
"You manage to get in touch with Thoth?" she asked, and Rudy nodded. The interview-after Alde had slipped into sleep in his arms, long after the shouting in the Council chamber was done-had troubled him, partly for the obvious reasons and partly with a kind of subconscious worry, a tip-of-the-tongue sense of something deeply wrong.
The Gettlesand mage had looked as harried as it was possible for that sardonic, vulturine scribe to look, and although the sky beyond the windows of his rockpile hermitage-built against the outer wall of the old Black Rock Keep, for the wizards there did not as a rule sleep within the Keep walls-still held light, there had been an oddly bleached or faded appearance to the whole image, like a photograph badly exposed.
Thoth had disclaimed knowledge of gaboogoos-pronouncing the word in much the way a housewife might remove a dead mouse from the family casserole-but his yellow eyes had narrowed, and his spindle-knuckled fingers stirred in the gray sleeves of his robe.
"The dogs have barked all around the Keep, night after night for a fortnight past," he said. "Gray and Nila, when they spoke to us for the last time from the slopes of the Devil's Grandmother, said they had seen some kind of creature there."
"Gray and Nila?" Rudy recalled the two women, part of the original Wizards' Corps in the war against the Dark.
"What were they doing up on the Devil's Grandmother? Wasn't that the volcano that ...?"
"They followed the... the track, the spoor, of the power we sensed in the ground," Thoth said. "They were on the western slope of the mountain when it erupted. They spoke of things there, pale creatures that walked through Wards and illusion as if they were not there, whose tracks they found 'round their camp every morning."
Rudy shivered, remembering the ghostly shapes in the dark among the pines. He found himself hoping that wherever Ingold was, he was watching his back.
Hesitantly, because like everybody but Ingold he was a little afraid of Thoth, he said, "Could somebody-some wizard we don't know about-have been... I dunno, tapping the energy of the volcano, maybe? Drawing on it, the way Ingold or you would draw on the energy within the earth-lines or the stars?"
"Considering that he or she would have had to be directly on top of the volcano to derive benefit from such an exercise," the Serpentmage replied dryly, "such a source of power would have obvious limitations. And what wizard would be operating in the wilderness, without contact with human communities? Still," he added, tilting his head in a fashion that made him more than ever resemble some strange wise member of the buzzard clan, "it would not do harm to speak to Shadow of the Moon and ask him whether the shamans of the plains have heard aught."
The insectile fingers refolded themselves into another pattern. In the virulent light the old man's sunken features seemed skull-like, worn and weary under the bald curve of his brow.
"It is an ill time," Thoth said at length. "The Raiders move down from the far north, and settlers from the Alketch have been plaguing our herds. They say fever and civil war ride unchecked through those countries, that famine rules on the Emperor's throne and the cities have become infernos of lawlessness, blood, and smoke. Tirkenson deems it too perilous to send cattle toward Sarda Pass to your aid. It were folly, he says, to waste the lives of our riders only to feed our enemies. Brother Wend and the Lady Ilae have agreed to journey to Renweth, that you may not be without magic. It is true that we have been remiss; someone should have gone to you long ere this. Will this serve?"
"Well, Alde may get back with you on the cattle." Rudy rubbed his chin, still smarting from the razor, and glanced over at Minalde's sleeping form. "But thank Wend and llae, and tell 'em they'll be more than welcome. You guys had any luck with finding mageborn kids? Ingold and I have been watching..."
He fell silent, remembering that the Keep was over a dozen children shorter than it had been a week ago.
Thoth shook his gleaming head. "We gave the Dark too little credit in that," he said softly. "I begin to wonder whether we do these... gaboogoos, as you call them... enough."
Another damn thing to worry about, Rudy had thought as the crystal faded. I'll have to hire a secretary to keep track of them.
Standing now beside Gil in the deep late-night silence of the Keep, he remembered the conversation again, and his uneasiness returned.
Walking back to the workroom through the ebon stillness, the images of the gaboogoos had returned to him, the tall, vicious, palely glowing monstrosities that had pursued him over the mountainside, and the little kneehigh creature that had stood in the doorway of that room on fifth north, eyeless head turned in his direction as if it could, in fact, see.
"So who's this Saint Bounty?"
"Huh?" Rudy snapped back to reality. He realized she and Ingold had been gone for nearly two months. He'd kept them up on gossip and events, but there were always things he hadn't thought to mention. "Oh, him."
He moved aside one of the terra-cotta pots in which Ingold had been nursing seedling roses for years. Only two varieties had survived the downfall of civilization, and one of them didn't look any too robust.
Rudy had been baby-sitting them all spring, feeding them little bits of stinking fish and conjuring miniature spells to keep them warm. "His statues have been showing up all over the north half of the fifth level, around the Biggars and the Wickets and the other trailer-park types up there. I don't know who started it. Fat guy with a basket of food just who you'd figure to get popular when we're all looking at starvation. You're the saint expert."
"Well, yes, I am." Her eyes were thoughtful, cold and very blue in the dazzle of the glowstones. "And I've never heard of the guy. I asked Maia. He said there was no Saint Bounty in the official calendar, nor was there any local saint of that name he knows about. And I don't like the color of his robe."
"His robe?" Rudy had gotten used to Gil's trick of fixing her attention on bizarre tangents, clues visible to a scholar that even a wizard might miss. It was one of the things she had in common with Ingold, who was popularly considered to be slightly mad. But even so...
"The iconography of saints is very stylized." Gil carefully rolled up the scroll she had been studying, tied it, and carried it and her notes across to the big iron-bound oak cupboard. Rudy could see that her notes were almost entirely in the flowing bookhand of the Wathe, interspersed here and there with English, which neither of them used much anymore. "It's a teaching tool for the illiterate. There's a reason behind every image, every color, every tchotchke..."
"Gil- Shalos?" Shadows moved in the doorway that led through to the Guards' watchroom, the pale flower of a quatrefoil on dark clothing, and long ivory braids with dark fragments of bone woven into them, framing a narrow face.
The Icefalcon came in, carrying something in a scrap of burlap through which dirty brown fluid had soaked. If the whole Keep hadn't been faintly redolent of salvaged carrion, Rudy would have had more warning of his approach. "I had to wrench these from the Council's regulators of meat. I trust you're sufficiently grateful." "Kill anybody over it?" Gil carried it to the table.
"And have to clean my sword hilt again?" G
il grinned and picked apart the wrappings.
"Yuckers," Rudy said.
"Up your nose, punk." She turned one of the hacked-off limbs thoughtfully. It looked like the front leg of a wolverine, but there was something badly wrong with the proportion of it: too long in bone, the claws widened into short spades. "You seen tracks of this one?"
The White Raider nodded, hand resting lightly on the hilt of his sword. "The whole valley went under snow during the storm, but I saw this track during the winter, though I never saw the things themselves. Perhaps three, maybe four, all told, in the Vale."
"Always near the slunch?"
The Icefalcon nodded. He looked little the worse for the climb up from the Settlements, nor for days of hunting the woods for storm-kills. He carried two or three fresh bruises, from that evening's training session. Rudy privately suspected he was an android.
"I told Ingold of it, during the snows." He folded his arms and looked down over Gil's shoulder as she sorted through the other objects in the cloth: paws and limbs, mostly, but there was the head of something that might have been a woodchuck.
Gil considered the remains for a moment more, then went to fetch the remains of the thing that had attacked her in Penambra from the cupboard where they were stored. Rudy glanced across the table at the Guard and asked, "That wasn't you who saw Ingold leave the settlement last night, was it?" If anyone had been able to see through the wizard's illusions, it would have been the Icefalcon, but it was very unlike that cold- blooded young killer to mention such a thing, and certainly not to the daughter of Varkis Hogshearer.
The Icefalcon shook his head. "His name was spoken among the men today on the way up the mountain," he said. He moved a glowstone out of Gil's tidy circle, making patterns of them around the sticky bundle and its horrid contents. "Many things were said of him, most of them stupid, but no one spoke of his leaving the camp." "Then how the hell did-"
"What about insects in the slunch?" Gil came back to the table, set the crusted hempen wrappings of the Penambra thing down with a sodden thwack. "The slunch worms don't seem to attack crops."
"I've seen them," the Icefalcon said. He had a very soft voice, light like a young boy's, and seldom spoke above a whisper. His silvery eyes were without expression as he studied Gil's face, but he asked, "Are you well? I'll be returning to the Settlements at dawn. Everything in Manse and Carpont will be well and truly rotting, but there will be seed grain at least, and metal, do we get there before bandits do. Will you be all right?"
"Fine." It was a lie. Rudy could see that and so could the Icefalcon, for the tall warrior put his hand to the uninjured side of Gil's face and turned it to the light. He stood for a time, considering her, resembling a longlimbed pale cheetah but slightly less human. Then he turned to Rudy and said, "Look after her." He melted away into the shadows. At no time, Rudy realized, had he used his right hand or moved it out of reach of his sword hilt.
"I really am fine." Gil's voice was very small. She had turned her back on him, her head half bowed as she sorted through a revolting collection of animal parts with her dark hair half hiding her face.
In her baggy, too-big black clothing, she had a fragile look, like an alley cat in a hard winter. There was a tension in her, too, as if she were perpetually braced, perpetually fighting something or ready to fight something; a look of pain, a series of lines around eyes and brows and mouth, that went past the wound on the side of her face.
Her tone returned to business almost with her next breath. "Have you had time to look at any of this?"
"In between my painting class and ballet practice, you mean?"
In the quick beauty of her grin he saw the shy girl peek out from behind the warrior's
armor, then duck away to safety, again. As if half ashamed of appearing human, she turned her attention quickly back to the mess before her. "Ingold collected most of this during the salvage. The Icefalcon's helped me a lot in woodcraft, but you're the naturalist. Any of it look familiar?"
Rudy shook his head. "That's the whole problem, spook. Like the old man said, nobody's ever seen any of those critters before."
He stepped close to look, nevertheless, drawing his knife and scraping at the slimy meat. Under Ingold's guidance he'd boiled and disassembled and reassembled dozens of animal carcasses the way he used to break down cars, fascinated by the delicate interfitting of muscle and sinew and bone.
"I was a historian, not a biologist," Gil said, probing with her fingers. "But if you're an economic determinist, you pick up a little bit of science when you study stuff like climatology and demographics. Look at this one, the way it's put together. Look at the foot bones and the elbow joint."
"Weird." Rudy turned the limb over in sticky fingers. "You got the back foot of this thing?"
She produced it from another corner of the table, scraped to the tendons. He held it close to the clustered glowstones, then summoned a brilliance of witchlight around him as well. "I've never seen this kind of deformation in the center of the bone shank. Look, it's on every one of the long bones, from the radius right down to the carpals. But from the joints I'd say this was some kind of rabbit."
"That's what I thought, too." Gil perched on a corner of the table, wiped her hands on the corner of a rag. "Now, that furry slug thing Ingold found in the woods after the storm, when you skin it down and chop out the fat, you find leg bones. Here's the skull. It's really deformed, look here. Same texture as the long bones of the rabbit, but most of that deformation's cartilage. Look at the teeth."
"Ferret," Rudy said immediately. "Holy cow-pies."
He set the greasy skull down next to the deformed rabbit feet. "But that takes thousands of years. Thousands of generations."
"Hundreds of thousands," Gil said. She crossed to fetch a basin and ewer from the sideboard, dunked her hands in the chilly water. The magelight showed up the harsh lines around her eyes, turned the bruises livid along cheekbone and chin. "Even with a really intensive program of selective breeding-like if you're trying to breed down to a teacup poodle-you're looking at fifteen or twenty years at the very least."
Rudy shook his head wonderingly. "Fifteen or twenty years' work for a teacup poodle. Some people need to get a life."
The wound made her grin lopsided, and it faded quickly. "So you're saying... what? Somebody's breeding these things? Who the hell would do that?" He'd said that before, he thought. Recently. Gray and Nila, standing on the slopes of the Devil's Grandmother... The deep pulse of anger in the ground...
"It's not that simple." She touched one of the roses, came back to his side. "You feel the quake a few hours ago?"
He shook his head. A few hours ago he'd been in bed, half blind with exhaustion, Minalde weeping in his arms.
"It wasn't a big one." She nodded toward the scrying table. "Here in the Keep you could barely feel it at all. See if it was caused by another volcano someplace."
It took a long time. Hours-Rudy wasn't sure. Though it could not be used for communication, the scrying table's range was greater than a small stone's, and the images that stirred within the central crystal were larger, clearer, tiny landscapes that absorbed the mind.
Using the table, scenes were visible to Rudy that would have been impossible to see in a smaller gem, people and places appearing sometimes without prior knowledge or any will of the scryer, displaying things unknown.
Staring into the glimmering depths, Rudy let his mind drift, first infinitely deep, then out across the arid wastes of Gettlesand and the burned-out, ash-white ruin of upland forest on the slopes of the Devil's Grandmother; over the Bones of God and the Sawtooth Mountains; then out to the Seaward Mountains, wreathed still by the limmerance of forgotten spells.
He saw green icebergs floating in oceans the color of asphalt; endless continents of slow- moving glacial pack. Warriors rode in a fragile line below the white cliffs of glacier; islands smoked in the heaving sea.
At last he saw in the south the tall cordillera of some unknown land, pale
with drought and unwonted cold, plastered with unbroken miles of pus-colored slunch that stirred with uneasy, obscene movement. The trees on the mountainside were burning for miles, and dust and heat roiled skyward like the mushroom clouds of a holocaust of hydrogen bombs. The sky was black. Endless miles of tarry, starless, daytime black. "Got it."
He looked up, aware for the first time that his head ached. Gil had tidied away the bones, save for two or three sets, and was making notes again. By the heap of wax tablets at her elbow, she had been doing this for hours.
"Somewhere way the hell in the south, maybe even on some other continent. Big. The ash-fall looks about the size of Texas."
The square, sensitive lips tightened to a single cold line. "That's how many this year? Six? Eight? That we know about?" "Something like that."
"I wish I knew the statistical likelihood of that many volcanic eruptions in six months-or in thirty-six months, because the first couple of eruptions Ingold commented on were about three years ago. The summer before we found the first slunch up in Gae."
"Makes sense," Rudy said with a shrug. "Wherever it comes from, slunch is a cold-weather thing. The ice storm ripped it to hell at ground zero, but it didn't kill it. It was like you'd left a piece of plastic out overnight. Nedra Hornbeam tells me there's patches of it growing all the way down the pass now, little spots like that..." His fingers circled to something the size of a U.S. silver dollar. "She thinks the wind carried it, but I don't know."
Gil shook her head. "It's the cold, not physical seeding. And something else the Icefalcon told me: the tracks he's seen around the slunch, the really weird ones, are mostly rabbit-" She touched the aberrant bones. "-and ferret-" Her thin fingers brushed another. "-and wolverine."
Rudy was silent, filled with the sense he had so often in talking to Ingold, of following a dancing light over unseen ground in darkness. As if someone had handed him a pile of jigsaw puzzle pieces, which put together would form a message he really didn't want to read.
04 Mother Of Winter d-4 Page 13
