by M J Engh
“Well, since they didn't take our food, we can eat while we wonder,” said Repnomar. But with one bad hand and one bad wrist, and a trickle of blood into the corner of her eye, she was clumsy at getting out the food, and the Warden had to bandage her wounds as well as he could, and share out the rations. It was not quite true that the Quicksilver People (to call them that for lack of another name) had taken nothing but rope and knives and stove; they had taken the Warden's bowstring too, and even the spare bowstring coiled at the bottom of his quiver; but they had left his arrows, and with the point of one of these he cut mouthfuls for the Captain's easier eating.
“If we had the stove,” he observed ruefully, “we could melt a way out.”
Even untied, neither of them could have stood upright here. The cave or tunnel in which they lay was so low that when Lethgro straightened himself on hands and knees his head almost touched the roof. It was wide enough—perhaps twice the Captain's height—and half again as long. It made Repnomar think of the underwater caves in the cliffs below Rotl, walls and floor and roof smooth, stony, curving, uneasy with shifting colors in the strange half-light of under-Soll; except that these were not stone but naked ice, and the light the steady light of the Exile's torch. Yet there was an underwater feel about this place, everything somehow slowed and muffled by that low, glossy roof hung looping and ponderous so close above their hunched shoulders, so that she felt unreasonably that her ears and lungs would burst from the long pressure on them.
For there was no way out. At one end there was an opening of sorts, wide enough for the Warden to have crawled through without trouble if it had not been closed with a tight-meshed net of stout cords. “And somehow they've made it fast all around the edges,” said the Captain, when she had hitched herself across the floor to inspect it.
“Frozen into the ice,” said the Warden—gloomily enough, for this seemed to him an unduly permanent manner of closing a door.
“We have your arrows,” Repnomar said briskly. “(And that's a good question, Lethgro, why they left them to us.) What are we waiting for?” So they took each an arrow and began to saw at the cords. But the cutting edges of the arrowheads were small, and this work dulled them, for the cords were very tough. “And I don't want to blunt them all,” Lethgro said grimly. “We may have other use for them.”
“Another good question,” said Repnomar, ignoring this, “is what they make this cordage out of. And still another is how the devil they tie these knots.” She had gone back to working at the rope that bound her ankles, prying at the knots with her arrow point—not an easy business with her wounds, but easier than sawing at the entrance net.
The Warden gave a grunt of satisfaction, for one of the cords had just given way. But in cutting one cord he had blunted two arrowheads, and it was clear that the cords were too many and the arrows too few. But he said nothing, and took another arrow, thinking it better to work than to despair.
So they went on with it, sawing and prying, no sound in that dead-ended tunnel but their steady breath, and the faint rasp of arrowhead on cord, and now and again the Captain's muttered curses or the Warden's muttered prayer, and Broz whining in his sleep; till at last Repnomar's head sank onto her raised knees as she worked, and her eyes closed; for her poisoned doze had more wearied than refreshed her, and they were all in sad need of sleep. Seeing this, the Warden labored to keep his own eyes open, and to force some opening through that wall of strings, now sawing at the meshes, now chipping at the ice about their roots, and sometimes (more to rouse himself than in hope of doing good) throwing his shoulder against it with what force he could muster in that awkward space. And a kind of dull hope began to glow in him, like a fire banked with ashes, for with these various assaults the net began to loosen.
He had got so far and no further when without warning something stung his cheek. For the moment he was too stupid with weariness to take note of it; but an instant later there was a little twinge in the hand with which he was sawing at a mesh, and looking down he saw a dainty sliver of bone that hung by its barbed point from the heel of his palm. Then he understood, and knocked it loose, and flung himself with a bellow headlong at the net; but it held, and he jerked back from it again and crouched with an arrow grasped in each hand, ready to stab with them as long as he could stay awake to do it.
The Captain had roused at that outraged bellow; but after her first start of waking, she lay still, seeing how the wind stood and thinking by playing dead to be spared another of those little darts that washed the mind so blank. But she reckoned without the cautiousness of the Quicksilver People. There was a flicker of motion on the other side of the net, and then the darts were flying. She threw her arms around her head, trying to shield bare skin where she could, and indeed most of the darts buried themselves harmlessly in her clothing; but some struck home, in scalp or neck or hand, and as she slapped them away her brain spun drunkenly, and she heard the heavy thud of the Warden falling sideways onto the ice.
It might be, the Captain reflected later, that you could get used to poison, as you could get used to sleeping in the dark. This time, she had no sooner begun to come to herself than she remembered all that had happened before the darts had struck—strangely, it was true, like things remembered from a dream—and indeed it was as if she had not quite slept, for she recollected dimly a crowding of little bodies around her, small paws that turned her and lifted her head, the touch of a cord at her throat, so that she supposed hopefully that on the fourth or fifth trial she might be able to stay awake entirely.
This, however, was small consolation at present. One thing she could not remember was when the light had gone out. Another was how they had come outside again. Outside they clearly were, for she felt loose snow beneath her and chill air and a sense of openness all around. She found herself half-squatted on all fours, like a crouching beast, and the darkness around her prickled with little movements—rustle of snow, faint click that might be claw on ice, sudden glints that were like polished jewels flashing up out of ooze as a current washes them, but that were in fact (it came to her suddenly) eyes catching a light from behind her—and close at hand she heard harsh breathings that she trusted were from Broz and the Warden. She turned her head and saw light indeed, that came through a hole which must be the cave mouth, fringed as it seemed with a heavy lacework of netting that stood black against the glow.
But she had little time to see and none to reflect; for as she turned, something grasped at her throat, tugging and tightening, and before she could draw breath she was sprawled headlong and choking, with her face in the snow. And it was now she learned, as she strove to get her hands to her neck and pluck away what strangled her, that her wrists were shackled by a length of rope to her ankles.
Indeed, as Repnomar remarked later to the Warden, she might never have drawn a breath again (for it took a moment to realize that if she could not get her hands to her neck, she could still get her neck to her hands, and in that moment the darkness was closing down on her brain) except for the stretchiness of the cordage. For as soon as the pull on the other end slackened, which it quickly did, the tightened noose around her throat relaxed, and with a great heave of her lungs she breathed again.
“And I might have got the nooses off then and there, Lethgro,” the Captain insisted, “if—”
“If they hadn't known what they were doing,” Lethgro interrupted. “Don't you see, Rep, we're not the first beasts they've herded.”
“Or hunted,” Repnomar agreed readily enough. For it was clear that the Quicksilver People could handle a rope with a skill she would have admired in a sailor. “Do you think they mean to eat us, or breed us?”
“Either way,” said Lethgro, “let's hope they decide to fatten us up for it.”
It gave them some pleasure to talk as they traveled, and any pleasure was welcome, for the going was hard enough. They shambled four-footed like beasts indeed (though no beast, the Warden reflected, could have been so awkward), going sometimes on hands a
nd knees, sometimes on hands and feet, and again rising to walk two-footed, but not as humans walk, for the short ropes kept their hands bobbing below their knees and their backs arched steeply. Broz had an easier time of it, being already accustomed to traveling on all fours, and being besides not hobbled; but he was sadly puzzled to find his Captain and the Warden at his own height, and much distressed by the nooses around his neck.
For they were each harnessed not with a single noose but with two, the lines held apparently by keepers on opposite sides; and this arrangement they had all quickly learned to bear with a show of patience. The Quicksilver People played their captives like hooked fish, keeping the lines just tight enough to urge them forward, so long as they made no struggle. But if one of them turned restive, trying to hold back or (as the Captain learned by experiment) to lunge forward, then instantly a noose yanked tight; and that fierce pinch on the windpipe was marvelously effective at quelling any such tendency to roam.
It seemed clear, too, that the Quicksilver People could see in the dark; for, however surreptitiously the Warden or the Captain might move, there was always that horrible yank just as a head was coming near a hand, so that very soon they gave it up and determined to wait for better opportunity.
Traveling doubled over like this, they made only poor time; but the Quicksilvers seemed to be in no hurry, never urging them to greater speed so long as they kept moving at all. How many there were, managing the ropes or carrying the gear or circling around them in the dark, they could not tell, except that, as the Warden said wryly, “It's the whole pack.”
So it seemed. All around them flowed a musical conversation of whistles and chirps. Now and again a little furry hand suddenly patted one or another of them on back or side, startling Broz sometimes to a yelp, and then was gone. Sometimes even, for a moment, they saw flitting glints of silver-gray as the torchbeam swung into their sight and swung away again.
For the torch was still with them, or rather behind them, its beam jouncing so capriciously through all directions that the Captain concluded it must be slung loose from some furry neck or shoulder. “And that makes no sense,” she added in a tone of complaint (for this cramped and uncomfortable style of travel had put her in poor temper). “Why should they bring it at all if they make no use of it?”
But the Warden answered, “If they can see in the dark, what use do they have for a torch?” and after a minute's thought the Captain agreed with this, saying, “It may be they don't even notice the light.” And after another minute added, “That's why they left us the torch at first and took your bowstrings. They took what they understood. And most certainly they understand cordage.”
“And knives,” Lethgro said somewhat ominously. “They took our knives, remember.” He ruminated for a moment. “But by that principle, Rep, which I trust is sound, they don't understand arrows. If I could get my bowstring back—and my hands free—”
Indeed he still had his quiver on his shoulder, though nearly empty now, for to his sorrow some of the arrows had slid out during the handling the Quicksilver People had given him, and where these were now he did not know; but (as Repnomar reported to him after a glimpse in the swinging torchbeam) only two were left in the quiver.
“And since they took the stove,” the Warden went on, easing himself down to hands and knees again (for he had been shuffling along on his feet while he pinched and pummeled his hands to warm them) “they must understand warmth. And if we ever stop to rest, I hope we'll get some of it.”
The Captain gave him no answer. She was pursing her lips to a whistle—not one other private whistles of surprise or consideration, but a high, loud signal whistle that brought an answering whine from Broz and set off a sudden tumult in the Quicksilver troop. All headway stopped; their birdlike voices came clustering swiftly around the Captain, their quick paws and hard little shoulders nudging her away from Broz and the Warden. But after a few minutes the pressing circle of bodies loosened, the chorused pipings died away to the scattered calls that had milled around them through all the journey so far, and the Captain swallowed gratefully, for she had spent these minutes in expectation of a tightening noose.
Now the ropes tugged gently, and they all moved forward. “What was that about, Repnomar?” the Warden asked presently (in a low voice, not wanting to draw more attention), and the Captain answered, “Crows,” adding after a little, “Chances are they're following the light already. But it doesn't hurt to make it even likelier.”
Here Lethgro felt one of his nooses urging him sidelong away from the Captain, and he followed docilely, wondering what good shipcrows were likely to be to them here but not disposed to argue, either with the Captain or the rope.
“Sooner or later we'll have to stop,” the Captain said loudly (not knowing how far away from her the Warden might be now in the dark). “And with a little luck—” Here, however, the feel of the rope at her neck warned her, and she broke off.
As it happened, the halt came soon. The torch's waving beam flashed slantwise back and forth across a swelling mound of white, so that the Warden grunted in pain of soul, foreseeing what it would be like to scramble thus hobbled through deep snow; but at the foot of this snowbank they drew up, and there was a great bustle of movement and twittering voices all around. The Captain and the Warden squatted close together, and Broz leaned trembling against their knees. Those who held their tethers kept their heads well up with a steady, gentle pulling, but let them huddle together as closely as they liked, so that they might have worked at leisure on the knots that hobbled wrists to ankles, if their hands had not been now too stiff with cold to do more than fumble. The Quicksilver People seemed to be busy at something; but, since the torchbeam now pointed steadily into the emptiness behind them, they had no glimpse of what the business was.
“They're spreading out,” the Warden said presently, and added low, “Now what are you up to, Rep?”
For the Captain, with certain careful contortions, had managed to fish a stub of clay pencil from her pocket, and a shred of paper, and was trying to write. This, in the darkness and with near-frozen fingers, was no easy thing; but she stuck to it, twisting her clumsy hands between her shoes to wake some feeling in them, and warming them against her belly. She did not answer the Warden, except with a busy grunt; but in a few minutes she lifted her face and split the air with a long, keen whistle.
This time both nooses tightened on her throat at once, pinching off the whistle in an unwholesome cluck that raised hackles on Broz's neck and the Warden's. But this time the Warden, lunging upward on his toes, contrived to get two fingers of one hand between her neck and the ropes, and so eased the pressure on her windpipe, so that when one of the crows came flapping over their heads, calling irritably as it searched for its Captain in the dark, she had voice to croak out her whereabouts.
“It was a fool thing, Rep,” the Warden told her later. “They could have stopped you with one of their darts, or strangled us both to death, and caught the crow, too.”
“Better steer into the storm than be driven onto the rocks,” said Repnomar. “And they didn't stop me.”
Indeed the Quicksilver People, though they clustered around the Captain as before (and though this time the Warden was dragged away from her with some violence to his neck), made no attempt to interfere as she spat on her scrap of paper and clamped it around the crow's leg, nor when she flung the bird upward as best she might—a pitiful jerk of her fettered hands—crying out to it to find the Exile. For the Warden, it was a strange business in the dark, the crow never seen but only heard by its cries and its wingbeats, the red agony at his throat, the press and twitter of Quicksilvers around him, and Broz's growls of fear and fury. But after what seemed a time of agitated conversation, both he and the Captain were hustled a little way to one side and thrust like sacks of cargo against a wall that was not so hard as ice, and Broz dumped with a yelp beside them. It was here, when they found themselves left in peace for the time being, that the Warden called Repno
mar's doing a fool thing, and she gave him her answer.
Fool thing or no, it was nothing to make Lethgro think less well of the Captain. Indeed any chance of rescue, however tiny, seemed worth a bit of strangling. But he could not hide from himself how small a chance it was. It was not likely, to begin with, that the crow had understood instructions so unexpected and given in such unseemly haste. It was not likely, if it had understood, that it would find the Exile. It was not likely, if it did find him, that he would find the message still clinging to its leg—or, if it was there, be able to read it. And beyond all other “ifs” there was the Exile himself. At this point in his thoughts, the Warden heaved a sigh that pained his battered throat.
He placed more hope, though still little enough, in their own efforts; and so, he judged, did Repnomar, for she said no more of crows or Exile. Instead, “While we're in here,” she said, “maybe we can contrive to eat.”
For it was clear that they were in some shelter, where little outside sound could reach them; and huddling together so, they began to feel warmer, or at least less frozen. The nooses were still at their necks, and at least a few Quicksilvers close by, for they heard their sweet chirps and now and then a whisper of movement. They knew, too, which way the entrance lay, for a dim ghost of light told them that the torch still burned outside it.
“I'll lay it on your knee,” the Warden said.
“Don't forget Broz,” she answered.
Indeed eating was no simple matter, though they still had some of the Exile's rations in their pockets. The Quicksilver People seemed to care little enough what movements they made, so long as no hand came near any neck; so that Lethgro was able to pull a chunk of food from his pocket and set it on Repnomar's knee, and another chunk for Broz, after which it was up to them to mouth it as best they could. Broz, having the use of his paws, had the easiest time of it; for the stuff was tough and chewy, and required holding if you meant to bite off a mouthful. In the end, Repnomar managed hers by squeezing it between her raised knees and gnawing at it, and Lethgro did the same.
