The Ships of Air (The Fall of Ile-Rein) (6 page)

Giliead looked impressed. So did Gerard, for that matter. The wizard said, “Did she? I suppose accidents will—Anyway, let me take you to see Ixion.”

T
hey went down this time, past endless metal corridors and places where heavy pipes covered the ceilings. Except for the steady movement underfoot you could forget you were on a ship. The air had a slightly bitter metallic taint to it but it wasn’t hot and moved as if there was a strong draft somewhere. The passages were as complex as the caves under the Isle of Storms. Ilias groaned under his breath, wishing they could leave trail signs. He kept telling himself if this ship was inhabited by anything other than people, the Rienish surely would have mentioned it.

There were trail signs of a kind; down here they were painted on the slick gray metal walls or doors and on the decks above they were embossed in what looked like copper or brass. If they stayed here any length of time, learning to read the markings would become imperative, but right now Ilias couldn’t see any pattern to them at all.

“How many wizards are aboard?” Giliead asked Gerard suddenly.

“Niles and I are the only Lodun-trained sorcerers on the ship that I know of.” Gerard glanced over his shoulder as they left a stairwell for a narrow corridor. Before they had left the room at the top of the ship, he had picked up a familiar battered leather bag and now carried it slung over his shoulder; it held the sphere, the Rienish god-thing. “There are a few others assigned to the Institute whose training was interrupted by the war, like Florian. The ship did stop to pick up more passengers at Chaire before creating the etheric world-gate; there may be some among them as well.” He hesitated. “I was told that when the border fell, the Queen released all sorcerers from army service to flee to Parscia or Capidara. I’m…not certain how many would have made it.”

Ilias glanced back at Giliead, who was unhelpfully wearing his stony expression. The thought of unknown wizards aboard made his nerves jump, but he reminded himself again it was different for the Rienish.

Gerard added more briskly, “I meant to tell you, I’ve spoken to Colonel Averi and Captain Marais and as soon as the storm passes and we’re certain we’ve evaded the Gardier gunboat, we’ll head back toward the mainland and put you all ashore somewhere near Cineth.” He added hastily, “But not near enough to alarm anyone in the city. You’ll have to let us know what would be a suitable spot.”

Ilias hesitated, not sure if they should say anything about the idea of an alliance yet or wait for Halian. He felt out of his depth. Brow furrowed, Giliead said, “We were hoping you would stay to talk to Nicanor and Visolela.”

“Really?” Gerard turned to regard them, his face serious. “We had assumed that would be impossible because of your beliefs.”

Giliead shrugged slightly. “It’s not…impossible.”

Gerard gave him a thoughtful nod. “I see. I’ll speak to the military commander about it.”

As they moved on, Ilias exchanged a guarded look with Giliead. At least it had been suggested and Ilias supposed that was all he and Giliead could do without stepping on Nicanor’s sensitive toes. Halian’s idea seemed only common sense, but considering how much trouble the council had had with the very idea of wizards as allies, they had a steep hill to climb.

More sailors, men and women both, came and went down here, either dressed in the now familiar blue or stripped to brief white shirts stained with sweat and some dark foul-smelling stuff. They passed through a room where three men stood guard, all armed with the weapons that shot metal pellets to kill at a distance. The Gardier used these too, but the Rienish insisted they didn’t need curses to work, but a black powder made from various metals. As deadly as the weapons were, they might as well have used curses.

“Here we are.” Gerard stopped in front of a heavy door with a round glass window in the center. “The wards I placed around Ixion should keep him inside. Considering I used the sphere and that Niles has augmented my efforts with his own wards, it should be secure.” Gerard rubbed his forehead, letting out his breath. “Of course, we also have the armed guards.”

Giliead held out his hand to the door. “I can feel the curses—
spells
.” He added the Rienish word a little self-consciously. From what he had told Ilias, Giliead and the others owed their lives to Gerard; if he hadn’t given them a curse to immobilize Ixion, they would never have gotten out of the Gardier cells. Not without making a demon’s bargain with Ixion himself.

Giliead stepped up to look through the glass and Gerard told him, “Niles and I believe your first instinct was entirely correct. Attempting to kill him would have been a mistake; I think if this body is still viable, the spell to transfer his consciousness won’t initiate. Such a spell couldn’t be cast in the usual way; it would have to be triggered by the sorcerer’s death or severe injury.” He hesitated, then gestured absently. “If he can somehow trigger it on his own, we won’t know until he does it.”

Giliead nodded thoughtfully. He held his hand close to the door without quite touching it. “It’s cold. Is that part of what’s keeping him inside?”

“No, that’s actually not magic. This room is connected to one of the ship’s refrigeration units. They create the cold.” Gerard eyed the door. “We thought if we made it somewhat uncomfortable for him, he might be encouraged to break cover.”

Giliead’s mouth twisted ruefully and Ilias thought,
Won’t that be fun.
He would have preferred it if Ixion never broke cover.

Giliead stood back so Ilias could look. Wary of what he might see, he stepped up to peer through the glass, feeling the cold radiating from the door. He saw a small metal-walled room, brightly lit. Ixion’s new body, still clad in the brown Gardier clothing, lay on the bare floor. The skin on his face had a white waxy look and his features were blunt, like melted clay. From what they could tell, Ixion had grown this body in his vats, much the same way he had made the howlers, the grend, and the other creatures he had created to populate the island. It looked uncannily like his real body, the one Giliead had decapitated last year.

Ilias stepped back, ignoring the cold knot in his stomach. It was just a body, locked in a room and held helpless by Rienish curses, but thinking that didn’t seem to help. “So when can we kill him? When we’re far from the island?” He looked at Gerard.

Gerard glanced at Giliead and let out his breath. Ilias sensed he wasn’t going to like the answer; Gerard looked exactly like a healer who was about to tell you that your leg had to come off. Giliead folded his arms and stared at the floor, as if he suspected what was coming. Gerard said slowly, “The problem is that this kind of spell is outside our experience. The books—and the people—who would be able to help are back in Ile-Rien, in the city of Lodun, trapped behind a Gardier blockade. And I suppose Ile-Rien itself has been overrun by now.” He shook his head, as if just remembering, as if the idea was still unreal. He cleared his throat and his gaze turned thoughtful. “One solution might be for us to take Ixion back to our world.”

Ilias ran a hand through his hair, looking away.
And if he escapes and finds his way back?
He knew Gerard was trying to help, but the thought of Ixion off alive somewhere, still plotting, with them helpless to do anything about it, was the last thing he needed.

Expressionless, Giliead said, “We’ll think about it.” After a moment, he added belatedly, “Thank you.”

Ilias heard quick footsteps out in the corridor and Niles, the other wizard, leaned into the room, his face flushed. In Rienish he spoke hurriedly to Gerard, who answered in the same language, sounding exasperated. Niles replied and they argued back and forth for a moment.

Finally, Gerard turned to them, looking both harassed and enthusiastic. “Niles believes he has an idea for protecting the ship against the Gardier’s disruption spell. It sounds unconventional, but—We can’t afford to be choosy at the moment. Can you find your own way back?”

Giliead nodded, saying, “Good luck,” as Gerard hurried away. Then he turned to Ilias, his face drawn in concern, taking breath to speak. Ilias interrupted him briskly with, “One of us should stay here. They don’t know what he’s like.” He didn’t want to talk about Ixion, not anymore, not right now. “I’ll take the first turn, you go get some sleep.”

Giliead hesitated, then obviously decided to accept the change of subject. He nodded, absently looking around for the door to the corridor.

“You know the way back, right?” Ilias asked, suddenly not sure if he did himself.

Giliead shrugged and gave him a farewell clap on the shoulder. “No, but I wanted a better look around, anyway.”

T
remaine woke from a dream about being on the train to Parscia with Florian’s mother to find herself staring at an unfamiliar metal ceiling painted a cheery yellow. Through the bed she could feel the rolling movement and remembered she was on the
Ravenna
. The distant howl of the wind, muffled and rendered impotent by so much metal and wood, told her the Gardier’s storm still pursued them.

She sat up in the narrow maid’s bed, recognizing the warm lump next to her as Dyani. The girl was curled up around a pillow, sound asleep. Gyan was in the bed against the opposite wall, buried under a blanket and snoring faintly. There was a clock built into the paneled wall, but it was electric, powered by the ship’s system. It would have started up with the generators and she doubted anyone had bothered to go around setting the clocks in the passenger cabins. Tremaine scratched her head vigorously and tried to get her brain to focus. She needed to find out what time it was, where they were, what the hell was going on.

She climbed out over the other girl and stood, stretching carefully.
Oh, God, I hurt
. She had been relatively fit and used to hard work after her stint with the Siege Aid, but after the past few days her muscles ached down to the bone. She felt bleary and incompetent as she opened the door and stumbled out.

Everyone seemed to be asleep, piled in the beds, with those who couldn’t fit stretched out on the floor. Some of them had decided to shed their clothes and Tremaine, used to spending time backstage at theaters, regarded all the bare skin with bemusement. The lights she had turned on earlier still burned; she realized the Syprians wouldn’t have wanted to touch the switches. It didn’t matter as the electric glow, softened by frosted glass, didn’t seem to be keeping anyone awake. The air was warm but not too musty or close, despite all the people in the suite. She stopped in the dining area, reaching up to adjust the small vent near the ceiling. It was a round bakelite orifice spewing air, with a metal lever to turn the inner ring to cool or warm, or to close it off entirely. The draft from it was strong; it might be outside air, funneled through the ventilation system by the ship’s own movement. There were fans mounted on some of the walls as well.

She continued on, pausing at the raised threshold of the bathroom. It was the only room nobody was sleeping in.
You could have a bath
, she thought, tempted.
With hot water and soap
. She didn’t think she was awake enough yet to make that serious a decision. She stepped in to get a drink of water from the tap, finding one of the small china tumblers still there though someone had carried off the matching carafe. Several pairs of boots were drying on the black-and-white tiles, the patched leather dyed in soft colors or stamped with fanciful designs. She leaned on the sink, looking into the mirror. Her mousy brown hair was getting shaggy and she pulled it back for an unobstructed view of her face.
No, still don’t recognize that person
, she thought, resigned. Especially now, when she should be pale from the Vienne winter. Whoever that was in the mirror, her cheeks had a sprinkle of freckles and red patches from riding and sailing under this world’s bright summer sun, as well as a nice patchwork of greenish yellow bruises. Giving up the unproductive self-scrutiny, she went back out into the main room.

In the sitting area Halian was stretched out on the couch, his face buried in a pillow. Giliead was still awake, sitting on the floor with his back propped against one of the chairs. His face drawn and thoughtful, he was staring absently into the foyer where the door to the corridor stood open. As he glanced up at her, Tremaine asked, “This is going to seem like an odd question, but is it day or night?”

“It’s night,” he told her, his voice low to keep from waking the others. “The storm is starting to die down.”

She settled on the floor, cross-legged, and yawned. She wasn’t sure how he knew that about the storm, unless he could tell it from the sound of the wind. She propped her chin on her hand, watching him. His long braided hair, the soft sun-faded colors of his worn clothes, made an interesting contrast with the smooth yellow upholstery and elegant lines of the armchair behind him. “Couldn’t you sleep?”

“I did for a while. Too much to think about.” He looked at the door again as two Rienish sailors passed in agitated conversation. “I was wondering what your people are like.”

That was too abstract a concept to be discussing at this hour. But Tremaine found herself saying, “I don’t know what my people are like anymore. I used to know, before the war. When it started, it seemed like the cities, the country just…stopped.” Like Lodun, trapped inside its defenses by the Gardier’s spells, perhaps not even realizing yet that Ile-Rien had fallen. “Things that were important to us just stopped.”

Giliead accepted that with a nod, without demanding further explanation. This was probably the longest private conversation she had had with him so far. From his expression he was turning her words over thoughtfully. Did all Syprians accept people at face value or was it just the Andrien family, she wondered. They all acted as if not understanding you was their problem, not yours. She looked around, distracted. “Where’s Ilias?”

“He’s with the others guarding Ixion. He’s worried about what we’re going to do about him.” Giliead shook his head uneasily and it was obvious Ilias wasn’t the only one who was worried. “Even if we take Ixion far from the island before we kill him, we won’t know if it’s worked or not. Not until he comes back again.”

“I hadn’t thought of that.” Tremaine felt a little chill settle in her stomach. It was the kind of problem Arisilde had been excellent at solving. But all they had left of Arisilde was what remained in the sphere. The other powerful sorcerers who might have helped were trapped or dead at Lodun, trapped or dead at the overrun Aderassi front, and if the Gardier had reached Vienne by now, trapped or dead there too. “Couldn’t Gerard think of anything?”

Giliead’s expression grew a little less distant. He shrugged slightly and said, “He’s offered to take Ixion along when you go back to your land. And we appreciate the offer, but it would be better if we could get rid of him ourselves. If Ilias could see it was done and over.” He hesitated, then added a touch stiffly, “He has nightmares.”

And again, Ilias isn’t the only one who’d like to see it done and over,
Tremaine thought, watching his face. Under the worry, Giliead looked guilty. That had never been something her father had suffered from.
If you don’t care for the consequences then don’t commit the crime,
Nicholas had said once, years ago when she was too young to understand that he meant it literally. But not everybody understood what the consequences were likely to be. And not everybody had a choice.
And you don’t know how he felt after your mother was killed,
some traitor voice said. She shook herself, pushing the uncomfortable thoughts away. “I have nightmares too, sometimes,” she said, though her dream of the
Ravenna
sinking seemed far away now.

Giliead shook his head, ready to change the subject. “Gerard also said as soon as the storm clears and the Gardier leave the area, the ship will turn inland and they’ll put us ashore where we can reach Cineth easily. Then you’ll leave.”

Tremaine frowned, rubbing her eyes.
I was afraid of that
. “Without stopping at Cineth?”

“Maybe.” He looked at her, his face serious. “We told him we want an alliance, your people with ours.”

Tremaine nodded slowly. As the Gardier had used the island as a staging area for raids on the Ile-Rien coast, it would make an excellent spot for Rienish troops to prepare to retake the country. They could use both spheres, Arisilde’s and the one Niles had built, to open gateways to the coast or further inland, slipping spies, ships, armies through the etheric world-gates. If any Rienish armies had survived. They could still do it without Cineth’s cooperation, but Tremaine didn’t want to break that tenuous tie. “You think Nicanor and the others would go for this? An alliance with a world of wizards?”

Giliead looked away with a resigned expression. “I’ve given up trying to guess what Nicanor and Visolela will or won’t do. But Halian seems to think so.”

Tremaine frowned, trying to read his expression. “But we think Halian’s an optimist.”

A
t first the Rienish guards tried to talk to Ilias, but realizing that was impossible, they fell to talking among themselves. He suspected they would like to ask about what they were guarding; he was just as glad they couldn’t.

He had taken a seat on a wooden bench bolted to the wall and leaned back, stretching his legs out. He was beginning to get used to the feel of being underground, the metal walls, the strange noises and acrid scents in the air, though combined with the roll of a ship at sea it was passing strange. But as tired as he was, he didn’t feel like dozing off.
Not with that thing only one wall away,
he thought, eyeing the door to Ixion’s prison. One of the guards, studying him thoughtfully and perhaps too accurately reading his expression, went to the glass window to check on the wizard’s sprawled body.

For years Ilias and Giliead had never known what Ixion looked like. The wizard had been too canny to ever face Giliead directly, sending creatures or laying subtle curse traps for him instead. Then the search had led them to a mountain village stalked by a curseling; the instant the survivors had described it they had known it was something Ixion was responsible for. It had fur and claws like an animal, but metal and wooden parts had been meshed with its flesh. It had killed the family of a man named Licias, one of the few who had been trying to hunt it. With his help they had destroyed the creature but Licias had been wounded. He was still suffering the loss of his family, alone in the village and not seeming to have many friends there. So they had taken him back to Cineth and Andrien House.

And he had been Ixion in disguise.

We should have asked more questions,
Ilias thought, not for the first time, as he stared at the floor.
We should have found out he was new to the village, that no one saw the family he said the curseling killed.
But even if they had, would it have really made them suspicious of Licias? He had lived at Andrien in apparent friendship for months before he had finally revealed what and who he was.

Thinking about it, Ilias was beginning to wonder if the things the Rienish did, the way they used curses to build and cure and protect, was the way it was supposed to be. If Syprian wizards like Ixion had somehow looked at those things through a distorted glass, twisting them out of their original purpose into something terrible. It wasn’t an idea he wanted to share with anybody but Giliead. Even Halian might think it was too extreme.

He glanced up as Gerard and Niles turned into the room, arguing animatedly in Rienish. Niles carried a leather-bound case over to the metal door that sealed Ixion’s prison. Sitting on his heels to open the case, he took out several little glass pots and jars. Ilias sat up, feeling uneasy, but the containers seemed to hold various colored powders rather than anything disgusting. “What’s he doing?” he asked Gerard.

Gerard sat next to him, holding the sphere in his lap and watching the other wizard critically. “If Niles is right—and of course he insists that he is—the chamber we’ve warded for Ixion will need to be excluded from this spell. Channeling the sphere’s protective ability throughout the ship may interfere with the wards already in place. Those that shield the ship from view from overhead won’t matter at a moment like that, but I’d rather not have the containment wards tampered with.”

“Me neither.” Ilias still didn’t understand all the different Rienish words for curses, but he thought he had the idea. Niles took a sheaf of papers from his jacket and began drawing lines and circles at the base of the door, using the colored powders from the jars. As he added something from another container that looked like gold filings, Gerard made a critical comment in Rienish and got a sharp reply back.

Ilias eyed the sphere a little warily. “Is it really true there’s somebody in there? Somebody you knew—know.”

Gerard regarded the copper-colored ball with a kind of rueful resignation. “It seems so, unfortunately.” He adjusted the glass pieces he wore over his eyes. “Arisilde was a very powerful sorcerer in Ile-Rien. He and Tremaine’s father had been friends since they both attended the University of Lodun—that’s a place for education, in history, law and medicine and many other things as well as for sorcery. He built this sphere after the design invented by Tremaine’s foster grandfather, Edouard Viller.” He took a deep breath, turning the tarnished metal ball over thoughtfully. Inside it something clunked. “Viller wasn’t a sorcerer himself. He intended the spheres to allow a person with no magical ability to perform simple spells. But each sphere had to be charged by a sorcerer before it would work properly. The metal even seems to retain something of that sorcerer’s essence. In the end Viller was never able to construct a sphere that would work unless the wielder had some small magical talent, no matter how slight.” He shook his head, preoccupied. “Arisilde was the only one who could successfully duplicate the design, until Niles managed it with the sphere he constructed.”

Ilias wet his lips. He was still trying to cope with the idea of wizards having friends, and presumably families, like normal people. “So he built it. How did he get inside it?”

Gerard absently rubbed at the tarnish with his sleeve. There was pain etched on his face as he contemplated the fate of the man he had known. “Arisilde might have been attempting to return from here to our world. Perhaps something happened during the transition, such as an attack by the Gardier, and the sphere he was using was destroyed. In an attempt to save himself, Arisilde somehow sent his soul and his consciousness into this sphere, which was stored at the Valiarde family home. This is Tremaine’s theory, based on the sphere’s responses toward her and its increasing abilities. It is just a theory.” He glanced up, shaking his head grimly. “But after Gervas’s revelation that the Gardier’s crystal devices actually contain the souls of imprisoned sorcerers, it seems all too likely.”