Dark Heart Part 42

The agreement was struck in an instant, and the power the G.o.ds loosed through him was like nothing in his experience. His own power had strength, he knew, greater than that of almost anyone who had ever lived, but he had been easily surpa.s.sed by that of the Undying Man, who burned with a white-hot flame. But the G.o.ds, ah, the G.o.ds seemed to compress the power of all the worlds into his veins as they pulled through him: the lasting impression was not of strength, or fire, but incalculable weight. Of something so heavy that to be overwhelmed by it would pull one down, down through the world, through the universe and out into the nothingness of the void, to fall forever. Such power!

Patience over long, long years, and an instant of boldness, won him his prize. He s.n.a.t.c.hed at the ragged edge of their concentrated might, drawing off the merest filament and attaching it to himself. A conduit of raw energy from beyond the wall of the world, threaded through the hole the G.o.ds have made.

For the first time, Husk thinks, the ledger is balanced, is more than balanced. He would have endured all the suffering, ten times the suffering, for a chance such as this. No longer does he have to battle for every breath; no longer is he forced to steal life from those around him. Oh yes, Husk is happy.

But there are important implications for his new state. He cannot allow the G.o.ds to achieve their goals. Once they have left the void and returned to the world, his source of power will vanish. They must be kept alive and on the far side of the great rent in the world-wall. Husk is realistic enough to know that this state of affairs cannot continue forever, but there is a critical moment ahead, some incalculable time in the future, when he will no longer need the power of the G.o.ds. The energy he is absorbing will become self-sustaining. He will be able to make his own hole in the worldwall and draw directly from the void beyond.

He has regrets, if a new G.o.d can be said to have regrets. If only he had risked more, he laments. Had he grabbed a larger filament the process would be swifter. He was afraid at the time, unknowing of the power and sensitivity of the G.o.ds, frightened that even the tiny filament he took would be noticed. But it was not. How large a piece of their power could he have stolen? Might he already be independent of them? Caution and courage are not bedfellows: he did well even to think of stealing fire from the G.o.ds. No use berating himself. After all, the only thing required now is patience.

So, ought he to continue with his plan? Are the Stone, the Blood and the Emperor's hate necessary any longer? No, they are not. But he will cultivate them anyway. The G.o.ds would rightly suspect any deviation from his plan. They know what he wants, and are interested in how he will achieve it. He has revealed as little as possible, but the Daughter-by far the smarter of the two-seems to grasp what he intends to do. Certainly both G.o.ds now know why three groups of people, one from Faltha, one from Bhrudwo and one from Elamaq, are approaching Andratan.

But there is a problem. His spikes are interfering with the G.o.ds' own plans. The spikes are slivers of pure magic, and interact in unpredictable ways with the movement of the G.o.ds through the ever-enlarging holes in the world. In fact, they have in some strange manner been drawing the attention of the G.o.ds. The Son wants all the spikes destroyed, while the Daughter is content to let them survive as long as they do not coalesce. She wants the three groups kept ignorant of the G.o.ds' real intentions, but the Son does not believe this possible.

The humans do not comprehend the mechanism by which the G.o.ds intend to break into the world. Lenares has a dim understanding, but they will keep her apart from the others-at least, Husk and the Daughter intend this. The Son seeks to kill her. Husk will prevent this, for a time at least. Lenares, after all, is his main threat, for she also has a filament connected to a G.o.d. Of course, unlike him, she does not realise what she has in her hand. Nor, he hopes, does she have the magic to exploit it. He was certain of this until recently, but events at the Umerta house have cast doubt on this. Lenares, a daughter of a pract.i.tioner of the old magic. Who could have known? From the Hanseia Hills, no less. Perhaps this Lenares is an unconscious pract.i.tioner herself. That would explain a great deal.

None of his spikes, nor any of those travelling with them, even Lenares with her numbers, truly understands what is happening. The worldwall is comprised of the lives-the thoughts, actions and, above all, the intersections-of all those in the world. Remove the worldwall, everybody dies and the world is open to the void. In order to penetrate the worldwall, lives must be destroyed before their time, their threads burned away, their nodes torn out. When the holes are made large enough, the G.o.ds will come through and live again.

Their plan is simple: to reach through the holes and kill as many people as possible, thus enlarging the holes. Up until now they have used the natural world against those they wished to destroy. While they continue to do this, and natural disasters follow wherever the G.o.ds go, Husk suspects they intend to use other means in future. He is almost certain he has already seen one of these means in action.

The G.o.ds will kill as many people as it takes. But they will keep a connection to the void beyond, so maintaining their G.o.dhood, and will, they believe, be the first G.o.ds to live in the world. Well, each believes they will destroy the other and be the only G.o.d to live on earth.

They are both wrong.

Husk smiles to himself at the surprise in store for them.

FISHERMAN.

CHAPTER 18.

ON THE OCEAN.

WHEN IT HAD COME to it, the choice had been easy. They would travel by sea.

It was, after all, what they knew. None of them had been as far north as Sayonae, on whose docks they now stood, and everyone they had asked had told them the same thing: there was no way through the formidable jungles of Patina Padouk. Arathe hadn't wanted to board a s.h.i.+p; her experience coming north from Fossa to Raceme had cured her of any desire for sea travel. But none of the others had objected to Noetos's plan.

Sautea had money enough to cover their pa.s.sage, but only in steerage cla.s.s. Staggeringly, his life savings, which he always kept in a small bag on a string around his neck, could not get them better pa.s.sage, no matter how aggressively he and Noetos bargained. The autumn waters were dangerous, Noetos knew that, but he had antic.i.p.ated that fares would therefore be reduced during this period. On the contrary, the s.h.i.+p's captain explained. Since no one else was prepared to make the run, he could charge whatever he liked. It was only his generosity, he said, that saw rates this affordable. The fisherman had watched Sautea's money disappear into the captain's pocket with real regret. Noetos offered the older man his thanks, but he brushed it off.

'At the rates you paid, I couldn't have afforded the widow Nellas until I was ninety anyway.'

'I saw the way she looked at you,' Noetos countered. 'I'm sure she would have given you a discount.'

The captain leered at them. 'If you're looking for that sort of service, bring some money aboard s.h.i.+p.'

'Thanks,' said Noetos, 'but you have already taken practically everything we have.'

The man grunted, then left them, called away by his first mate. Something to do with repairs to one of the sails.

Noetos didn't know what to make of the s.h.i.+p's captain. The surprisingly sophisticated man was also the s.h.i.+p's owner, a conjunction uncommon on the Fisher Coast, but apparently more common in the prosperous north, especially in Malayu and around the Northern Roads. He was a Raceman, so he said, though Noetos had not heard of his family, the Kidsons. 'Named after the son of a goat who first bought a boat,' the captain had joked.

The joking ceased when Noetos told him that the city had suffered a calamity. He did not elaborate, save to mention the whirlwinds, though he did not indicate they were anything other than a natural phenomenon. For a time Captain Kidson talked of sailing south to see what could be done, but he eventually admitted his schedule would not allow it, and his family had not lived there for several generations.

The trip north at this time of year, Kidson told them, would likely be unpleasant even for the experienced sailors, due to the autumn storms. Noetos knew that for his children and the miners it would be terrible, especially if they were followed by one of the so-called holes in the world. But he also knew there was no other way. They had to go north. Someone had to give answer for what had happened to them.

The first mate beckoned them up the gangplank. Seren and Tumar carried their gear, most of which had been acc.u.mulated on the road north in exchange for work. The others followed, Dagla at their head, his eyes darting left and right excitedly, taking in everything about this new experience. Noetos admired the lad's att.i.tude. If I was planning to continue fis.h.i.+ng, this is a man I'd seek to hire. Noetos scratched his red beard as he followed his children on board: he'd not thought of life after Andratan in quite some time.

'Look, Noetos,' Dagla said happily. 'Always wanted to go on a boat. M'father promised me he'd take me one day, but the tunnel collapsed an' he never did.'

The young miner constantly came out with such things. If he'd done one good thing on this path he'd taken, rescuing Dagla was it.

Their accommodation was neither as poor as he'd feared or as good as he'd hoped. Bunks were stacked three high, built into the hull of the s.h.i.+p, but thick curtains provided a degree of modesty. Steerage pa.s.sengers were supposed to spend most of their time aboard in the thirty-foot s.p.a.ce between the two rows of bunks: here they would eat, on trestle tables set up for the purpose, anch.o.r.ed to the floor by leather straps; in the evenings the tables were cleared away and games, dances and other pursuits were encouraged. Food-the most important part of any s.h.i.+pboard journey-promised to be monotonous, consisting of preserved meat, oatmeal and s.h.i.+p's biscuit. Noetos had noticed live animals on board, but no meat or produce seemed likely to make it past cabin cla.s.s.

The s.h.i.+p was called the MF Conch. Kidson had explained his family tradition of naming their Malayu Factor s.h.i.+ps after seash.e.l.ls: the Periwinkle and the Clam plied the route between Malayu and the northern Astralagus ports; and the pride of his fleet, the galleon Nautilus, ran the dangerous but profitable route from Malayu to Andratan and return, under a charter from the Undying Man himself. Four s.h.i.+ps, yet he chose to make this one his own, Noetos thought, and wondered why. The Conch was nothing exceptional: a three-master clearly designed for cargo, with two large holds packed with goods and two smaller holds adapted for paying pa.s.sengers. About two hundred tons excluding cargo, Noetos estimated, and a hundred pa.s.sengers, seventy of them in steerage. He'd seen s.h.i.+ps in better condition, having spent much of his childhood playing around the Raceme wharves, but he'd seen far worse. As a rule pa.s.senger s.h.i.+ps were kept in better shape than cargo s.h.i.+ps, and this was a fairly good example of the latter. The Conch would perform well on the open sea.

Depending, of course, on the crew. Noetos would take a close interest in the performance of the hired hands. On the days his father and his tutors had demanded too much, or had been too stuffy for words, he'd imagined himself running away to sea. To tell the truth he had never liked the sea, but during those days it had seemed infinitely preferable to studying in overhot rooms, trying to stay awake amid the drone of irrelevant voices.

As the days pa.s.sed he began to look with fondness on his stuffy childhood studies. Below decks was oven-like, an unbearable cauldron of smells, noise and sweat. Crying children and grunting adults, both seemingly unaware of travelling in company, kept his nights virtually sleepless. Days were punctuated by hunger and sudden fights: there appeared to be two families aboard determined to revenge themselves on each other for some past wrong, and nothing Noetos said to either group would dissuade them. Altogether unsatisfactory; and the crew would do nothing about it. Considered, indeed, the voyage to be rather a tame one.

'Wait till you bin attacked by freeboarders, or had ta deal with an outbreak of pox,' said the first mate when Noetos asked for some intervention. 'Let 'lone the storms.'

He asked if he could help the crew. He'd be willing to do anything to escape the boredom weighing him down, he told them, anything to keep him above decks. They turned him down, claiming there was nothing for an unskilled hand to do. 'I'm not tellin' one of my men to look after you while y'do a job he could do in half the time,' the first mate explained. 'Now, you've had yer time on deck. Back down you go.'

On the fifth day out from port Noetos found himself staring at one of the s.h.i.+p's slatterns. There were three of them, girls hired by the captain to entertain the single men who could afford them. Noetos was familiar with the concept, but this was the first time he'd come across it as an adult: he'd been too young in Raceme to notice them, and Fossa had strict laws about such things. The girls generally kept to cabin cla.s.s, where there was sufficient coin, but were occasionally hired by men-and once, to everyone's scandal, a woman-in steerage. Over the first few days of the voyage families swapped places with the single men, until, when one descended the narrow ladder, families occupied the bunks on the left, single men the right. The curtains kept out the sights-thankfully, Noetos told himself-but not the sounds. Vigorous and seemingly never-ending, they served as a pointed reminder of what he had lost; and, to be honest, what he had never had.

The youngest girl sat on one of the long benches at the table on which dinner would soon be served, rearranging herself after her latest encounter. Oddly, she reminded him of the cosmographer girl-an improbable comparison. Lenares had surely never made noises such as had recently issued from a nearby bunk, nor had she worn such a world-weary expression as this girl, Sai, now displayed on her fraying face.

So what was it? There was something about the eyes, the way they looked right through a person, penetrating to an unwelcome depth, as though she knew all one's secrets. The hair colour was different: this girl wore her hair red and frizzled, but both were so plainly artificial her hair might well be similar to the cosmographer's long pale locks. There-she took an end of her hair and stuck it firmly between nose and mouth, the exact comfort-habit he'd noticed Lenares do. And there were other mannerisms. And her smile. Uncanny.

Anyone would think you've developed a fondness for young foreign halfwits, he told himself angrily. Given the activity he'd just listened to, no wonder his thoughts drifted in such ways.

He rose from his bunk and made to leave. He could see Anomer and Arathe playing cards down the far end of the room; he'd join them. Though he had a mild distaste for cards, for gambling of any sort, it would lead his mind away from uncomfortable roads.

'Ho, fisherman,' the girl said cheerfully. Noetos was not sure how he'd earned the nickname; no doubt one of the others had been telling stories. 'What've you been doing? Casting your net on your own? I could help you with that.'

'I haven't heard it called that,' he said genially, brus.h.i.+ng past her.

'I doubt you've heard it called anything for a long time,' she said, her eyes narrowing. 'I'm right, aren't I?'

He stopped and gave her an angry look, but did not deter her.

'I've seen you staring at me, eyes all over me. Make an honest man of yourself and take me to your bunk.'

'I've been staring at you, Miss Sai, because you remind me of someone.'

He wanted to end the conversation, to move on, especially when he knew others were listening from behind their curtains; but, paradoxically, he could not find it in him to be rude to her. Such a direct, desperate occupation: how could he brush her off?

She laughed. Genuine, unaffected. So much like Lenares, for a moment he was sure he could not be imagining it. 'They all say that, fisherman. It's part of the art. We learn to be whoever you want us to be: mothers, daughters, absent lovers.'

'It's an art? You are trained?' Drawn in despite himself, Noetos sat on the bench opposite her.

'Oooh, yes,' she said, batting her eyelids and wiggling her hips, so obviously coquettish they both laughed. 'Training on the job mostly, and most of it ain't fun,' she said, all seriousness for a moment. 'So your pole don't need greasing?'

'No, Miss Sai, it doesn't. I can't deny I'd appreciate release, but that's all it would be. And you don't even get that, for all your acting to the contrary. I've seen you abovedecks: as much mopping and cleaning for your employer as bedwork, it seems to me.'

'Look at the bright side,' she said. 'I get to make the beds and to lie in them.' Another laugh, but this one was definitely forced.

'Ah well, fisherman, take that pole o' yours off with you; I believe there's a gentleman in cabin cla.s.s who needs his little doggie taken for a walk. I'll see you again, I'm sure.' She smiled at him.

'And I'll hear you about, Miss Sai,' he responded.

Her smile fell, but she nodded politely and made her way up the ladder to the hatch. His last glimpse of her was panties and petticoats. He sighed, and went to find his children.

His relations.h.i.+p with Anomer and Arathe had improved markedly aboard the Conch. He supposed it to be because he was no longer leading; the s.h.i.+p took them to a predetermined destination and there were no decisions to be made, hence no conflict. Problems deferred, not solved, he was honest enough to acknowledge, but he made the most of their willingness to talk with him.

On the seventh day from Sayonae, Arathe sought him out. He had learned enough of her peculiar language that he no longer needed her brother to interpret; conversation was still slow-though not as slow as that awful first day in Fossa. She sat down on the side of the bunk, pulled the curtain closed and began to talk.

As she told him what was on her mind, he found himself looking at her, really looking at her, for the first time in a month or more. His memories of her as a willowy, fair-skinned child would never leave him, he knew, but more recent images of a dumpy, hollow-eyed wreck were gradually being replaced. She had lost weight, her eyes had lost that dark, unhealthy colour, and she again began to approximate the girl he knew, albeit with a maturity not entirely flattering. Not surprising, given how she'd achieved it.

'I'm sorry, Arathe, forgive me, but I wasn't listening,' he said. 'I was thinking about you, and how you've coped with what happened to you in Andratan.'

'I think about that too,' she signalled. 'My'-the next word was difficult, but he interpreted it as 'rememberings'-'my rememberings hurt me, but not as much as they once did. I want to talk about one remembering with you, but now is not the time.'

'Your mother?'

She grimaced, and he knew he'd guessed right.

'Why not now?'

'Because the voice in my head has started speaking again,' she signed.

A feeling of revulsion swept over him. Andratan had stolen his daughter's innocence, and would have taken her life but for her courage. And now it lurked in her mind, not only as awful memories but as an actual voice, trying to steer her to destruction. A voice most probably linked to the G.o.ds who were trying to kill her.

It was so unfair. How could his beautiful daughter, his firstborn, have attracted such a curse?

'What is it saying?' he asked with a heavy heart.

'It talks about Miss Sai,' she said.

This simple statement took many minutes to communicate: the symbols she used to indicate the slattern's name were impenetrable at first, and then for a while Noetos thought the voice was suggesting some sort of unnatural congress. It took him some time to overcome his outrage.

'Why, Arathe? Why would the voice talk about the slattern? What is it saying?'

'I do not know yet. It wants me to observe her. Father, do you have any idea why the voice might make this request?'

'Why haven't you spoken to Anomer? You're closer to him than to me.'

She did not deny the point. 'Because I think Anomer desires her,' she signalled.

'What man aboard this vessel does not?' Noetos replied. 'We are a captive audience, treated daily to a display designed to inflame us. I know of married men who have tried to manoeuvre their families away from their bunks so they can conduct a liaison with Miss Sai. Just last night two men fought over her.' He smiled grimly. 'She's good at her job, it seems.'

'That's what the voice says too. It seems very curious about her. It asks me much the same questions it asked about Lenares.'

Noetos grunted in surprise. 'That's odd. I talked with her a while ago, and was struck by the resemblance.'

'I don't see it.'

'Well, there's clearly no connection. Lenares is from another continent. Besides, she has, shall we say, difficulties getting on with people. I don't see any evidence of that with Miss Sai.'

Arathe laughed, a strange, gurgling sound, but it did him good to hear it. She's getting better, I know she is.

Now there was only the matter of Opuntia to deal with, and, once he had sorted it out, he would have his children's hearts once again.

The storm came during the second week at sea. It began as mare's tails high in the sky, followed by a vast radial pattern of cloud emanating from the north. Noetos didn't need the redoubled activity from the crew to tell him what was coming. In the afternoon of the next day he saw a purple bruise on the horizon, one that grew rapidly and spread its mouth widely, dragging the darkness behind it.

'Arathe says it's not a G.o.d-made storm,' Anomer said to Noetos.

'Doesn't have to be,' the fisherman replied. 'Autumn storms from the north are fearful things. Perhaps that is why our pa.s.sage cost so much. Not every captain would risk a journey in this season.'

Privately he wondered whether the storm was entirely natural. Maybe the G.o.ds had become cleverer, and had learned the trick of disguising themselves, now they knew that people were aware of their machinations. Their journey had taken a predictable turn, sounding like every fireside tale of adventures at sea. The fugitive went out on the ocean, and the wind came, and the storm battered the boat until the s.h.i.+p's crew cried out, 'What are we to do?' And the sea G.o.d Alkuon said: 'Throw me the man among you, the man who seeks to escape from me; throw only him and I will let the rest of you live.' So they took the man up and consigned him to the deep; and immediately his head sank below the waves, all was calm and the storm vanished. As the storm bore down upon them now, their election to journey by sea did not seem so sensible an idea.

The storm blew for two full days and into the third. Noetos and Captain Kidson were the only two aboard not to be taken ill: many of the duties done by the crew fell to them. The fisherman found himself out in the worst of the weather, tying down the longboat after it came loose, reefing in the sails on the mizzenmast, attending to a cracked bowsprit, and, most often, wrestling with a recalcitrant wheel. It sometimes took their combined strength to head the Conch into the waves, and one of them had always to be on hand in case the s.h.i.+p should be turned broadside to the tremendous swells.

On the afternoon of the third day the two men slapped each other on the back with relief. The sea still heaved, the rain still fell, but the troughs were not as deep and the rain came at an angle, not horizontally. The worst was over.

Kidson was a sight. His hair was matted with grime and salt, his face red and briny, his clothes soaked, even his oilskin sodden, stuck to his wiry frame. Noetos expected he appeared exactly the same. The man beckoned Noetos to follow him. After a slow and careful transit of the deck, they ended up in the captain's cabin.

'Go rouse the first mate,' Kidson told the cabin boy. 'It's his s.h.i.+p for a watch. Fisherman 'n' me are going to get ourselves drunk. And fetch Miss Sai. Tell her to clean up first.'

The boy rushed off.

'Wish that old son of a goat had stuck to collectin' sh.e.l.ls, not boats,' the captain said, smiling, and Noetos nodded. 'You're some sailor. I know you say you've never been aboard a deep-drawing s.h.i.+p before, but you made yourself useful while those miserable sons o' besoms spent their time decoratin' their rooms with yesterday's swill. I'm grateful, sir, grateful. Here, have a drink.'

Kidson drew a mug from a cupboard and poured a full measure into it. 'Stout stuff, this. Too good for a smuggler like me. You might like it, though.'

Noetos took a sip, partly out of in-bred politeness, but mostly to hide the surprise on his face.

Kidson raised his eyebrows. 'You knew about the smuggling, right? I'm sure you did. No one goes out in the autumn unless the stakes are high. And they're high, all right. Silks from southern Jasweyah, sewn into the most exquisite garments, so I'm told.' He stopped and looked at Noetos's bemused face. 'You didn't know? You came up on deck and risked your life with no expectation of reward?'

The fisherman found himself able to talk. 'The reward I wanted was to see my son and daughter again. I needed no greater incentive, Captain Kidson.'

The captain nodded. 'As you say. Yet I have an offer for you. I've been watching you these past two days, racking my brain, trying to figure out where I've seen you before. I thought it must have been Raceme, on the few times I came to call at that port, but why would a lowly fisherman have come to my attention? Then I pegged it. The Summer Palace. You're as near as spit the image of the old governor. You're his son, aren't you? The sole survivor of the infamous ma.s.sacre.' He sat back, waiting for a reaction.

'You claim to recognise someone from a brief meeting with his father more than twenty years ago?'