Songs of the Earth (35 page)

‘My business is my business,’ he said, and headed for the kitchen door. ‘I’m going down to the docks.’

Ignoring Darshan’s call after him, he strode along the wharf to the junction with the Greenwater. The boards squelched under his boots from all the rain, but he didn’t have to walk far before he found a skiff idling near the pier, a sodden orange pennon hanging limply in the stern indicating it was for hire. A sharp whistle
brought the waterman out of his doze and he poled his craft over to the nearest ladder.

‘Deepside docks, please.’

Masen tossed the waterman a coin and climbed down into the skiff. Without a word the man pocketed the fare, struck the little jack-staff holding his pennon and pushed off from the canal-side, poling steadily through the rain-pocked water.

It pained Masen to watch the city drifting past. He had visited the Havens many times over the years, and he had fond recollections of it, from whooping like a child to see the midnight fireworks for All Hallows to dancing until his feet bled on Fools’ Night, loving and being loved on linen sheets and silk – and once, memorably, on a priceless antique
qilim
with a flame-haired carpet merchant whilst her guests twittered and drank fine wines in the next room. All his memories of the city, from the grand salons of the Kingswater to the canalside taverns, were of laughter. He had never had memories that stung him to tears.

Despite Darshan’s brave words that Syfria would rise again, this part of it at least looked beaten. Every building was sodden to the knees, the thick white stucco already scabrous and crumbling. Many of the warehouses and stores had been torn open, either by looters or hungry people desperate for food. Those that hadn’t been ransacked had ruined merchandise piled outside, and dispirited owners leaning on brooms surveying the damage. Masen saw furs, leathers and fine furniture worth thousands simply abandoned on the dockside, too blackened and water-fouled to be of worth even to scavengers.

A few more boats were on the water today. That might have been a sign that Syfria’s keen commercial instincts were as yet undamaged, if the craft hadn’t been weighed down with hastily tied bundles and dead-eyed children. People were leaving, even though there was nowhere for them to go. The Havens was on its knees.

Storms were common in southern Syfria in the autumn. Why
had this one hit them so hard, lasted so long? He looked at the sky: still the same dull clouds pressing down, the same clammy, waterlogged air, so that he felt as if he was breathing soup. And still the rain fell, warm as tears, streaming down his face, clouds weeping for the destruction the flood had wrought.

The waterman turned his craft deftly to avoid the gilded skeleton of what had once been a pleasure-barge, then swung right onto the Kingswater. Mooring posts tilted drunkenly, their bright paint discoloured and their stylish charges now mostly in flinders. Shattered timbers projected from the murky water like bones from a stock-pot. Even the cormorants that stalked the waterways the way pigeons ruled other cities had vanished. Masen closed his eyes. He could not bear to look any more.

He opened himself to the Song and skimmed through the city’s colours looking for a familiar pattern. There were several dozen untapped talents amongst what remained of the populace, but not the shining kaleidoscope he sought. He’d made some discreet enquiries of other innkeepers, and a few of the merchants in the jewellers’ quarter, but he’d met with blank stares and shrugs for the most part. No one seemed to know the whereabouts of a silversmith called Orsene, not even the owners of the shops on either side of his. They had found his door kicked in and his workshop ransacked, and the apartment upstairs showed signs of a hasty departure. No one could say when he had last been seen.

At the head of the deepwater docks Masen thanked the boatman and hauled himself up the ladder onto the wharf. Not a single ocean-going hull remained intact. Workmen were moving about on one or two of the least-damaged craft, but their hammering and sawing had a desultory air to it, as if they saw no real point in trying to make repairs. They did not even look up when Masen walked past and onto the longest pier. He had to scramble over smashed timbers and felled masts; tangles of rigging threatened to trip his feet. Broken hulls bumped and groaned on the current but Masen kept walking, out towards the stone pillar at the end of the
pier where the western harbour light had once stood. The handsome domed light was smashed, its artfully curled and gabled metalwork now fit only for scrap, but he climbed the rain-slicked steps to the very top and set his back to the stone, staring out to sea.

This was the furthest west he’d managed to reach, and it was still nowhere near far enough. But every day at Tenth he came out here, resolute in his intent to find a ship, anything that could carry him further on his way, though every day he saw nothing on the horizon but more rainclouds. Closing his eyes, he reached for the Song.

It came to him as eagerly as ever, a fresh, bubbling, vital thing, untainted even by so much death around him. Embracing it, he sent his awareness skimming over the sullen grey waves and their awful flotsam, out as far as he could reach. Three miles, four, and nothing. With a little more effort he could reach six miles, past the horizon and well into the deep-water channels favoured by the larger merchantmen, but nothing was stirring on the sea. Teeth gritted, he pushed further, straining his meagre talent for another half a mile, another furlong, whatever precious advantage he could gain.
Nothing, nothing, nothing
.

Where had all the ships gone? The Havens was the busiest port on the southern coast. There should have been silk-boats and spice-traders from the desert, pearl-fishers from the Maling Islands – the Pearlmarket off St Caterin’s was second in importance only to Abu Nidar. Surely the storms hadn’t sunk them all? Some must have escaped, found another port—

Where were all the ships
?

He had to reach further out. He drew more of the Song and used it to push his senses beyond seven miles, though his temples throbbed ferociously and his pulse beat in his ears, his face. Jaws clenched, lips drawn back with the strain, he flung out one more silent, despairing shout …

Then he had to let go.

Panting, despite the stench in the air, he laid his head back against the wet stone and let the rain wash over his face to cool him. It was no good. He had almost burst his heart, and for what? Just more nothing. He beat his balled fists against the stone.

Goddess, he was so tired! He slept passably, ate as well as he could with what provisions the Feather had, though those supplies would soon be exhausted, yet he felt weary to the bone. He was ground down by the stench and the dreary days and the miasma of hopelessness that had settled over what had once been a vibrant, gaudy city.

Who hails?

The voice came clear and golden as a shaft of sunlight.

Masen’s eyes flew open. Someone had heard him! Somehow, somewhere, someone had heard. Reaching out, he sought the speaker’s colours.

Who hails?
she called again, her accent lyrical and alien.

My name is Masen
. He could not detect the presence of his interlocutor, but sent the image of his own colours out in the hope that she, with her greater talent, might be able to catch them.

You are far away, Masen. Your sigil is unknown to me
.

I know – please, I need your help
.

My ship is four leagues south-southwest of the pearl islands. What aid can I render you?

Four leagues off the Maling Islands? Masen gaped. She was some two hundred and thirty miles away, and yet she spoke as clearly as if she were leaning into his ear! If anyone could save him now, a sea-elf could. If she was willing.

My lady, the Veil is weakening. I must bring this news to the Guardians. I entreat you, can you give me passage west
?

The sea-elf was silent.

My lady?

When her voice returned, it was brusque, impassive.
There is pestilence in your city. We cannot approach
.

Lady, please, reconsider! The Veil concerns us all. If it is rent apart, your seas will die
. Everything
will die
.

I say again, Masen of the white city, we cannot approach. We will not approach. May the wind speed you on your way
.

Lady! Shipsinger! Please, help me!

The lady did not answer. Masen strained his ears and his senses for another word, but there was nothing to hear but the sigh of the sea, the hiss of the rain and a booming silence in his own skull.

Lady, please!

Another voice came back, sharp as a dagger.
The lady has spoken. Do not press her
.

I do not seek to press her, Shipmaster. I only beg her for her aid. I fear for the Veil, and the ending of an age
.

The Shipmaster paused, but the sense of his presence did not fade. It was cool, considering.

You are of the Guardians?

Yes, Shipmaster. I am Gatekeeper to the Order
.

You would not speak lightly of such threats, no?

Never. I am sworn to the protection of the Veil
.

Another pause.

Two days. Watch for us on the flood-tide, and be ready
.

Two wolves burst from the birchwoods and raced each other across an alpine meadow. Tails waving, tongues lolling, they charged through the long grass, snapping at each other like two cubs allowed out of the den for the first time. Back and forth they ran, criss-crossing each other’s path, jinking and turning with the sun warm on their backs and yellow birch leaves drifting through the air. Rabbits drummed alarms and scattered into the grass; partridges exploded from beneath the wolves’ feet and whirred across the pale sky. They had no reason to suspect that the two predators charging towards them were anything but real.

Damn it, she’d gone to ground again and Gair had lost track of
her. He looked round, but saw no sign of Aysha. Wind rippled the grasses, which were thick enough to hide a whole pack of wolves, but he saw nothing moving through them. His ears told him of a stream nearby, and rockfinches calling, but that was all. Lifting his muzzle he sifted the air for the musk of a she-wolf, but found nothing. So she had to be downwind. Slowing to a trot he turned towards the lower slope just as a brindle shape burst from beneath a juniper bush.

Caught you!

Her chest met his shoulder hard and bowled him over. Instinctively he twisted to grab her, but somehow she already had his ruff in her jaws and they rolled down the slope in a tangle of limbs. Claws scrabbled for purchase, bodies writhed and strained to be the one uppermost when the tumbling ended. When he finally got his feet under him and shook her off, she dropped her chin onto her paws for as long as it took him to begin to relax. In a flash she was away again, yipping with excitement.

Gair launched himself in pursuit. He had needed this. After so many days in the lecture halls and practice yards, it felt good to play. Aysha’s enthusiasm was infectious and they ran tireless rounds of tag, leaping out at each other from whatever cover the terrain provided, jumping over bushes or down from rocks, pouncing and wrestling and revelling in the agility of their borrowed shapes.

Downslope, the meadow opened out as they neared the head-waters of the river. The wind was more boisterous there, colder, edged with the promise of winter to come. He was hardly aware of it through his thick fur as they tumbled over and over through the grass. All he felt was the exhilaration of the hunt: hot breath, strong muscles bunching to leap, quick jaws ready to seize and subdue. She was more at home in this form than he; it took his full weight across her back to finally bring her down.

Aysha kicked out, digging her claws into the turf. Gair couldn’t
hold her, and before he caught a breath she’d flipped him onto his back and pinned him, her wolf-face grinning down at him.

I win!

Laughing amber eyes became blue as she released the Song, her body stretching into its usual form. Gair followed suit. He was only a second or two behind her, but it gave Aysha more than enough time to plant a kiss full on his startled mouth and be off again with her tail waving high over her back.