The Ships of Air (The Fall of Ile-Rein) (16 page)

Castor stared at him, breathing hard, his face reddening. It was an unfair blow, and Ilias was bitterly glad to see it hit the mark. Castor was a farmer rather than a warrior and had never been sought after by the young women in town. His trader wife hadn’t been able to give much for him, but she had been the only one asking, and the Finan had had to settle for a love match for their oldest son rather than the alliance with a prominent family they had been hoping for. Then Castor said with deliberate scorn, “First Giliead gets you marked, and now this.”

Ilias rounded on him, grabbing him by the shirt and yanking him forward. He said through gritted teeth, “Get out of here while you can.”

Gyan stepped into the court then, eyeing the situation. Castor threw him a wary look, backing away from Ilias. He slammed out the gate, leaving it open behind him.

Gyan came to take the bucket away from Ilias before he hurled it after Castor. He gave Ilias a penetrating look. “It may be guilt, but he means better than you think.”

Ilias shook his head. He didn’t want to hear it. Not now, anyway.

With a resigned sigh, Gyan clapped him on the shoulder and gave him a shake. “You know what’s best for yourself.”

T
remaine walked through Cineth alone in the long warm twilight. Most people were behind the dusty white clay walls of their courtyards or houses, having the evening meal or still discussing the frightening events of the day. The odor of cooking and of horse and goat manure competed with the scents of jasmine and the flowering vines that hung over the garden walls.

Though there was little resemblance, she found herself thinking of Vienne in the summer. There had been a large park called the Deval Forest, where it was always cool under the heavy canopy of trees or willow arbors, even in hot weather, and winding streams led to waterfalls and dripping grottoes. There was a small lake for bathing and boating, and anchored in it an old café on two large barges, amid little man-made islands of flowers.

Tremaine scuffed her boots in the dirt, head down, suddenly missing home with all the pain of a punch to the gut. Not the dark cold battered place she had shown Ilias, where the smell of desperation and fear and defeat had lingered in the streets. She missed the home of her memories: the theaters on the Boulevard of Flowers with all their lights lit, the beau monde in their coaches and long black motorcars drawing up in the opera circle, the raucous cafés and clubs where sultry women sang and drunken artists and their models reeled into the streets laughing, the old leather and dust and calm silence of the libraries at Lodun, the noisy markets of the little villages and towns she and Arisilde had wandered through the year after her mother died. She knew she was going to remember all this, if she lasted long enough for memory to dim, with bright points emerging like lighthouses out of a fog of misery.

But Ile-Rien was dying and would drag Cineth and the Syrnai down with it in an effort to save itself.

Tremaine reached the docks just as Ander and his men were leaving in the accident boat.
Pity I missed him,
she thought dryly. One lifeboat remained, the one waiting to pick up her and the Syprians. She walked down the dock to it, scuffing her boots on the stone. The evening breeze was cool as it came off the water, heavy with the scent of the sea. There were torches lit along the front of the Arcade, where people were still cleaning up after the attack, flickering lamps casting warm shadows from the stalls inside. Merchants who had fled earlier were still arriving to see what was left of their stock. Some worked, some stood in groups, talking and shaking their heads. Someone was playing a drum nearby, maybe on one of the boats, the rhythm weaving in and out of the sound of water lapping against the docks.

Down at the other end of the Arcade the wrecked ships still lay. Here were moored small fishing boats, the bows all painted with the elongated eyes, the bare masts bobbing gently in the slow swells. The lifeboat, even with its engine, didn’t look all that incongruous among them. One of the Rienish sailors had hung up a couple of oil-burning hurricane lanterns to throw a little light on their area of the dock.

As she reached the boat Tremaine saw Visolela’s sister and representative Pasima arrive with Pella and a few other men and women Tremaine vaguely recognized from the council. Some were carrying leather packs or woven bags. Pasima wore a dark-colored wrap draped casually and pinned at her shoulder over pants tucked into boots and a shirt. Some of the others wore similar wraps, draped and pinned or tossed back over one shoulder; it managed to look both stylish and practical for adventuring. Tremaine looked down at herself, wondering why her own outfit didn’t look that good. Even in another world, she was terrible with clothes.

The group didn’t approach the boat but stood over by the torchlit façade of the Arcade, having a conversation that looked fairly grim even from a distance. Gyan and Kias appeared next, each with a small leather shoulder pack and a scabbarded sword slung across his back. They walked up to the boat and Tremaine helped them pass their belongings over to the sailors to be stowed away. Then Kias jumped down to explore the boat, to the mild consternation of the Rienish sailors. Gyan eyed the small group around Pasima. “That’s Pasima’s cousin Cletia, Cletia’s brother Cimarus, and their second cousins Danias and Sanior,” he explained to Tremaine.

Cletia was slight and blond, with long curls that fell past her shoulders, and looked delicate next to tall, raven-haired Pasima. Cimarus was the most striking of the three men, tall and dark-haired, his long braids neatly tied back, and he looked more like Pasima than he did his sister. Danias looked terribly young, his light brown hair tied back in a thick queue, and Sanior didn’t seem much older, though his face was set in a solemn expression. Trying to resign herself to their company, Tremaine said, “I’m surprised they convinced so many to come along.”

“Well, we don’t like to travel alone,” Gyan conceded. “And Pasima won’t be looking to any Andriens or their hangers-on—that’s me, Kias and Arites—for company.”

“The more the merrier.”

Gyan snorted amusement. “I don’t think we’ll be doing much merrymaking with them.” He shook his head with a sigh, saying, “I’m off to be the peacemaker,” and walked over to join them.

Behind Tremaine in the lifeboat the three Rienish sailors were talking about different ports they had visited. Two had Vienne accents and one had a thick hill country inflection, and their voices made an interesting backdrop for the scene. Watching Kias’s explorations, one commented, “It’s a damn sight better here than the southern Bisran colonies.”

“That’s certain. These people just avoid you; they don’t throw garbage.”

A lone figure came up the dock briskly with a bag slung over his shoulder. After a moment Tremaine recognized Arites. He grinned cheerfully at her as he reached the boat, saying, “Don’t worry, they’re on the way. They were saying good-bye to Karima and Halian when I left.”

“I wasn’t worrying.” Tremaine rubbed her hands off on her shirt and realized her palms were sweating again. Maybe she was worried. Maybe she thought a rational man as Ilias seemed to be would take the chance to escape. It would explain what her stomach was doing up in her throat.

Arites dropped his bag on the stone and rocked back and forth on his heels, observing the dark water lapping against the pilings and the shapes of the other ships with apparent satisfaction. On impulse, Tremaine asked, “Arites, were you married?”

“No, I’m an orphan,” he said, with no reluctance. “My family were inland traders, and they were killed when I was a boy.”

“Oh.” Tremaine nodded slowly, the wind pulling at her hair. “By wizards?”

“Yes. It happened frequently back then. Livia had been the Chosen Vessel for Cineth, and this was just after she died. The god had Chosen Giliead already, but he was still just a boy. The Chosen Vessel for the Uplands already had a lot of territory to cover, and Tyros didn’t have a Vessel then. The gods can’t be everywhere at once either.” He looked down at her, his face calm in the light from the lanterns. “Just bad luck.”

“But how did you—Who took care of you?”

“The lawgiver’s family is supposed to adopt all orphans, but I ended up at Andrien village, even though Ranior wasn’t lawgiver anymore. Most people with problems end up at Andrien village.”

“Is that why you came? Because you owe them?”

“No.” He grinned down at her. “I just want to see new places.”

“That’s why I came too,” Kias volunteered from down in the boat behind them.

At the end of the Arcade, Ilias and Giliead suddenly pelted around the corner, running as if they were being chased by an army. Tremaine took a step toward them, alarmed. As they passed under one of the torches she saw their faces clearly and realized they were both laughing.

One of the sailors moved up beside her, asking sharply, “Something wrong?”

“I think they’re racing.” She pushed her hair back, feeling a flush of pure relief that made her face hot.

“Oh.” He stood there a moment, watching with a smile, then shook his head, turning back to the boat.

Giliead trapped Ilias against a cart someone had left in front of the Arcade. Ilias feinted, dodging Giliead’s attempt at a tackle, tripping him so the bigger man staggered into the wall. He bolted for the dock, pounding triumphantly down the stone pier with Giliead barely a step behind him. He banged into the boat, grabbing one of the stanchions to stop himself catapulting headlong into it, his earrings flashing in the lamplight. Giliead stumbled to a halt, grinning self-consciously.

“You made it,” Tremaine said foolishly.

Ilias looked flushed too, but that was probably just from the run. “Karima sent for some things from the house this afternoon; the courier got back just as we were about to give up on him.” He dropped a leather pack and a cloth bag down into the boat. He had a sword strapped across his back, the curved horn hilt sticking up over his shoulder. One of the Rienish sailors came to help stow the gear under the seats, and Arites jumped down to help. Giliead had a sword too and a couple of long cases of light wood, one almost as tall as Ilias, the other about half the size. They had both changed clothes and cleaned up: Ilias wore a rust-colored shirt, sleeveless to show off the copper armbands, and the wrap thrown over his shoulder was the color of red wine.

Gyan returned from the group around Pasima, giving Giliead a clap on the back and Ilias’s shoulder an affectionate shake. Giliead jerked his chin toward Pasima, Cimarus and their companions, asking in a low voice, “Are they coming or not?”

“She wouldn’t back out now,” Gyan said, grunting as he grabbed a stanchion and swung down into the boat. “But by the look of the others, they want to,” he added in a low voice.

Ilias hopped down, holding up a hand to help Tremaine as she clambered after him. “What’s wrong with them?” he demanded impatiently. He seemed anxious to get on the way. Tremaine couldn’t think of anything to say that didn’t sound stupid, so she kept her mouth shut.

“Now, you two have gone out beyond the reach of the gods since you got your full growth.” Gyan gave Ilias a look of mild reproof. “Those youngsters have never been farther than the next city for the trading days.”

“Are we ready?” Seaman Vende asked Tremaine. The other sailors were preparing to cast off, one of them stepping back up onto the dock to take down the lanterns.

“Five more,” Tremaine told him, having to think a moment to switch back to Rienish. She turned to Giliead. “Should we call them, or—” She stopped when she saw Pasima and her group walking toward the boat, the lamplight revealing their stiff set expressions.

This is going to be an interesting trip,
Tremaine thought grimly. “We’re ready now,” she told Vende.

T
hey survived being winched up the
Ravenna
’s side again though the Syprian newcomers shifted uneasily and looked green in the lamplight. Tremaine couldn’t blame them since the experience filled her with terror too.

She was aware that the Syprian delegates’ first close-up look at the
Ravenna
was not one guaranteed to impress. With a possibility of Gardier in the area, the ship was still in blackout, and the deck was unlit except for a few small handlamps held by the sailors. The upper decks and the great stacks looming above them were just shapes and shadows in the dimness.

They gathered on the deck in an uneasy group, Pasima and her companions separating themselves from the other Syprians and from the sailors working to get the boat swung up and locked down in the davit. Ilias drew Tremaine a little further away from them, and said, “Hey, an Argoti merchant already offered Karima a shipload of grain for two of those coins. She’s keeping one for the family.”

“That’s great.” Tremaine suppressed an urge to throw herself over the rail. She didn’t know if it was a suicidal impulse or just a rational response to the situation. “Ah, one thing. I’d rather you not tell Ander about the details of the, uh, marriage settlement.”

“Why? Will he be jealous?”

“He would be, if he had any right whatsoever to be, which he doesn’t; we talked about that before, remember?” She managed to force herself past that thought and on to the next. This was as good a time as any to try to explain the difference in Rienish society. “It’s just that in Ile-Rien, paying for someone to marry is not looked on very well.”

Tremaine knew she shouldn’t have said anything when Giliead made a faint noise in his throat, possibly an aborted, instinctive warning, then found something very interesting to look at on the deck between his boots.

She couldn’t see Ilias’s expression in the jerky light of the sailor’s handlamps, but he stared at her for a full minute. Then he said in a clipped tone, “If that’s how you want it.”

“Tremaine, can you come here a moment?” Gerard’s voice called from somewhere behind her.

Ilias walked away without another word.

Giliead stepped up beside her, and Tremaine said, “I shouldn’t have said that, should I?”

He shook his head, said under his breath, “The amount of the marriage price is…important. I’ll talk to him,” and followed Ilias.

Tremaine clapped a hand to her forehead.
I have the feeling I’m not getting laid tonight, either
.

“Tremaine!” She looked around to spot Gerard, gesturing emphatically at her in the dim light from the nearest hatch. As she made her way toward him, he said, “I’m glad you’re back. There’s a meeting in the Third Class drawing room. You’ve been asked to attend.”

“Oh, goody.” She followed Gerard’s lamp inside and up the stairs.

Tremaine winced as they turned into a dark-paneled interior corridor where the electrics were far too bright. Suddenly she found herself grabbed and hauled aside by Florian.

The other girl stared at her incredulously. “You got married!”

Tremaine nodded. “Yes.”

Florian looked worried. “But it’s a matriarchy.”

“Yes.”

“Did he have a choice?”

“I asked him—afterward—and he said ‘what?’ but everyone was talking. So maybe, no, I don’t know.” Tremaine rubbed her temples, feeling a headache coming on. “So who do you think did that, the flighty poet or the maniac?”