The Song of Andiene (3 page)

He had worked on other men’s boats for a share of what they brought in—they had let him work from sheer pity, he thought sometimes—till he was strong and old enough to go out to sea by himself.

And he had not done much better working alone. He looked around the one room they lived in and grimly appraised its flaws. The roof would not hold through one more rain—it had begun to leak in the summer-ending storms. That meant a trip inland to gather blaggorn straw, and more time spent thatching, and that would be the time when the fish were running their best, the height of the autumn year.

The mud-brick crumbled constantly, not that it mattered if one thought of cleanliness. How clean could a dirt floor be kept? But if the roof gave way, the walls might melt and crumble to nothing in one hard rain.

The net that Hammel was knotting spread halfway across the floor. It would bring a fair fistful of coins when it was done—unless it had to replace Ilbran’s own, too old and weakened to be used much longer.

And Kare Maya … he looked at his mother with sudden grief as he saw the gold of her hair darkening itself to gray. She was too young—and the lace that she knotted was held too close to her eyes—especially since it was yet early evening. That lace would be ten days work and bring them the worth of two meals, he knew bitterly.

He sprang to his feet and paced across the room, four strides, turn at the wall, four strides, turn, four strides, turn. Out there was a fugitive with a price on her head that would let them live without work for two years, or lighten their life for twenty.

What had Ranes Reji and his kind ever done for him but lay high taxes and speak of war? The new king was doubtless no better, but what of it?
Let the sea-coursers tear one another
, he thought.
All we can do is stand apart from their quarrels.

His father and mother were people of honor. They would not agree to the betrayal of a defenseless fugitive. What lie could he tell them to explain where he had found wealth? He would be willing to take the burden of betrayal on himself, if they would not know.

He had only to stretch out his hand and he would have no more dread of the illness that would keep him idle long enough to starve. There had been good times lately. It had been four years since they had starved. That year, they could have lived on the fish he had caught, a wearisome diet, but good enough. But the fish had to be sold for money to pay the king’s taxes, and when that was done, they had no food. That was the year his sister died.

“Stop your walking,” said his father suddenly. “You could have been at the king’s palace had you walked in a straight line.” Ilbran settled himself on a straw mat on the floor. “That is better,” Hammel said.

“Maya,” Ilbran said, “have you been outside this day to hear the news?”

“No, love,” his mother answered. “I was with your father. What news is there that touches us? Is there war? Is that what concerns you?”

“No war, only death.” He told them what he had heard that day from lord, herald, and merchant. They listened gravely. “What do you think?”

“The poor, poor people,” said his mother. “We are better off here than they were in their palace. Let us hope that Nahil Reji will be good.”

“Good? What can you mean by ‘good’ when he begins like this?”

“What your mother means,” said his father, “is that he will not raise the taxes, or wage war. What is it to us if lord kills king with every changing of the sky?”

“Truly, it should not matter, sire,” Ilbran said formally. He rose and pulled the door flap aside, a piece of sea-courser hide hung across the opening. The sun had set. Yellow light showed through cracks in the doors and windows of the houses around him. “I shall come back soon,” he said, and pulled the door flap closed behind him.

He had made his decision. Kin was more than charity. He would hide the betrayal money—use it only when necessary. Could he even call it betrayal? She had not asked for shelter, nor had he made any covenant with her.

No use to quibble and try to make his deeds seem better. But the money—how could he explain it? He could tell some tale of othermen’s money that he found on the beach. They might believe that. Stories were told of such luck, but always stories of strangers.

He walked rapidly through the streets, seeking the squares near the king’s palace, where the soldiers would be gathered. He passed patrols, walking in pairs through the streets. That was too dangerous. He would tell his story to an officer, someone high enough to be trusted not to cheat him out of the reward.

Ilbran came out in a deserted square. The starweb lit it brightly. This was no place he wished to see. His steps had led him astray, but to a grimly appropriate place. Tall stake and long chain, in a wide empty space … this was where the traitors died. “Death by pitch and fire,” the herald had cried. The pitch clung but burned slowly, so that they danced on the end of their chain for a long time, with the crowd watching and laughing.

He pushed aside his shameful and sickening memories. Even now, if someone discovered the girl hiding under his boat, his life might be forfeit, and his father’s and mother’s too, uselessly. As for the girl, it would be a quick death for her, no long-drawn-out torture. He turned his steps toward the lights and voices, the quarter where people still were gathered.

The noise grew louder, and voices harsh and angry. A man was being questioned. But by the time that Ilbran reached the place where the guards stood, all questioning had been forgotten. The man lay on the ground, doubled up, futilely trying to protect himself from their kicks.

At last, a guard left his pleasant task, and strode over to where Ilbran stood. “What are you doing, loitering here?”

Although he was the smaller man, he had a sword. Ilbran tried to disguise his contempt. “A man may walk where he pleases on Festival day.”

The other man hesitated. On Festival day, there were little enough ways to judge a man’s wealth and birth. In the dim starlight and torchlight, it was almost impossible. His thoughts were clear to be read on his face. He weighed the disgrace and demotion to be suffered if he picked a quarrel with a nobleman, against the shame he would earn if he did not punish impudence from a lesser one.

Ilbran waited, filled with rage at the soldiers, at himself. He longed for a reason to fight. Maybe the other man saw those emotions flicker in his eyes. Whatever the reason, he backed a step away, speaking harshly. “Mind your own business, or you’ll find yourself in more trouble than you can handle,” and he walked back to a prey that was easier to deal with.

Ilbran stood watching the guards. Their victim was still conscious, but poor entertainment, not even trying to protect himself now. They began to drift away. Ilbran looked at them in despairing anger. They were nothing but filth, not worthy to wear the saffron robes of the polluted corpse-carriers who carried the dead out to the rocks. He slipped away down a side street. There was nausea in his belly as though he had received some of those blows. His throat burned with acid. He leaned heavily against the blank windowless side of a building, fighting back tears of rage, of self-pity, of self-contempt. He had been ready to demean himself to those brutes—present himself before them, bowing and kissing the dirt and saying—“If you please, I think I can help you with your duties.”

A man approached him, slipping silently through the night, not in Festival dress, but swaddled in a thick all-enveloping gray cloak. Ilbran recognized a grizane, and flattened himself against the wall to give him as wide a path as possible.

But the man, or otherman, as he might be, veered toward him. His footsteps padded silently; the only noise was the faint rustling of his robe. Ilbran stayed where he was, too proud to run in panic like some little child. The grizane stood in front of him, a bulky figure in the heavy robes. His hands, as they emerged from the sleeves, were tiny, wrinkled, and claw like, old-looking beyond belief. Nothing could be seen of his face but the faint glint of eyes, far back under a deep hood.

They stood like that for some time, Ilbran not daring to move, scarcely daring to breathe. At last, the grizane spoke, in an almost-whisper, although down the whole length of the street there was no one else to hear him. “Whatever choice you make, it will bring you sorrow.” Then he turned and walked swiftly away.

Chapter 3

The waves tore at the rocks, a familiar sound to Ilbran as he stood at the foot of the sea-cliff. The sheltered harbor where the king’s ships rested lay to the north. It was bright-night at its fullest, and the stars netted themselves into patterns he did not recognize. The pattern had broken in the summer heat, and turned to single stars sprinkled across the night-blue sky. But now that coolness and rain had come again, they had spread their tendrils to weave a design more intricate than spiderweb.

The grizanes studied such things, and claimed that the fate of the world was knotted into that web. Ilbran shivered suddenly, though the night was warm. He was not one who studied such things, nor did he wish to. Had the grizane read his fate that way, seen him knotted in that web like a spider’s prey?

A light flickered in the distance. Ilbran stiffened to wary attention. The light swung in great circles across the sand as it came nearer, a torch soaked in earth oil, to judge from its blue-white glory. Who carried it, soldiers?

There would be footprints leading to Ilbran’s boat. And if he were seen hiding and the girl had been found—he might lose his life—a coward’s death—to lose without ever having had a chance to win. He thought back to what the grizane had said; it rang in his ears like a curse. “Whatever choice you make, it will bring you sorrow.”

Boldness was best. He stood up before the light touched him, and called out, “Ha, friend, what are you seeking?”

The torchlight swung in a semi-circle, caught him, wavered on past, then returned. “I’m looking for a girl,” was the answer.

Ilbran kept to his pose of unconcern. “Do you think you’ll find one on the beach?”

“You never can tell. I lost one here a year ago. Said she’d never speak to me again, and she never did. If I lost one here, I might find one.”

Ilbran fought back relieved laughter. Laswit logic! He could see the other man’s face now—see the foolish amiable smile, and smell the laswit smoke that clung to his clothes. He held the torch unsteadily—it would set his hair on fire if he were not careful.

Ilbran stepped to the other man’s side, and slapped him on the shoulder. “Come! You won’t find what you’re searching for here. They’re still dancing in the city. Let me take the torch.”

With a gentle but firm grasp on the other man’s shoulder, he was able to urge him along. Little to be read from tracks in the dry sand, but to be safe and confuse the trail as much as he could, he led the other man close to the boat—so close that he tripped.

“By the Leader of my fathers!” The stranger glared at Ilbran. “Are you so drunk that you can’t see where you’re going?”

Ilbran spoke meekly to him, and led him south, to the easier path. It was wider and less steep, but still, guiding the man’s uncertain steps took all of Ilbran’s attention. Fear of death by torture, thoughts of traitorousness, thoughts of his duty to care for his family, were all forgotten in the simple necessity of keeping the drunken stranger from dragging the two of them over the cliff.

But they reached the top safely and Ilbran coaxed him on through the winding streets. The light of a bonfire drew them to the quarter where Festival still went on. The Great Dance had ended long ago; the dancers had abandoned their slow pattern-weaving. Now they circled and spun to the quick and flirting rhythm of drum-beat and shrill pipes. Ilbran’s chance-met acquaintance stumbled forward, and a girl with a wine-stained and torn festival robe, and many-colored cords braided into her pale hair, broke away from the group and pulled him into the dance.

Another girl caught at Ilbran’s arm. Her gold-brown skin and light-brown hair spoke of mixed southern blood. She looked up into his face and laughed, trying to draw him toward the dance. Around her wrists were wide metal bands, too thick and plain to be bracelets; she was one of the catlens, who carried their defenses with them always. He could see the heavy white scars where those claws had been welded onto her wrists.

These ones would dance away the night, and leave at last, two by two. Ilbran suddenly felt a great longing for sweet ordinary life, for someone’s love, but not tonight, of all nights. He tried to break away gently, making a joke of it.

“Choose some braver one, lady,” he said. “I fear your claws.”

That was a mistake. She giggled and clenched her fist a little, to make the brazen claws spring out from between her fingers, hooked and sharp. She ran them lightly down his arm. They drew fine lines of blood.

“Gently, my lady.” Through his exasperation and impatience, he could see the humor of this predicament, if it were only happening at some other time. “Let me go. You’ll find another who’s more to your liking.” The girl was clinging to him out of sheer maliciousness, he was sure. He had no illusions of irresistible charm.

He pried her fingers loose from his wrist, like prying a shellfish loose from a rock. He had no wish to offend her, and besides, he had a healthy respect for those claws. As he pulled loose one hand, the other one locked itself around his wrist. This was a game with rules, a puzzle he had to solve—to find some way to escape.

He pried loose her fingers again, but this time he caught hold of one slim wrist, then the other one—he held them both in one hand, stroked her soft hair with the other, then stooped and kissed her, a long sweet kiss. When he straightened up and released her hands she smiled at him, but when he turned and walked away she did not follow after him. He turned and looked back from some little distance. She had rejoined the dance. The moving figures seemed misshapen, almost unhuman, as the firelight cast their long shadows against the walls.

The streets were lonely, dark, and silent, all the long ways that led back to his boat on the empty beach. He prayed that the fugitive would be gone, gone to a place of safety, away from him and his.