Land and Overland - Omnibus (70 page)

"I still repudiate all religious belief," he announced to the darkness, calling on the act of speaking aloud to help imprint his thinking on the coming days and years.

"In doing so I am being totally logical. How do I know I'm being totally logical? Because the Alternists preach that only the soul, the spiritual
essence,
ventures along the High Path. It is an article of faith that there is no continuance of memory—otherwise every man, woman and child would be burdened beyond endurance with recollections of previous existences. It is obvious that Sondeweere remembers me and every circumstance of our lives—therefore she cannot be an Alternist reincarnation.

"As well as that, there are no known instances of those who have passed on communicating with those who remain. And Sondeweere herself referred to my one-and-only life, which … which does not really prove anything … but if we all have only one life, and she
spoke
to me, that proves her life has not ended…

"Sondeweere is physically alive somewhere!"

Bartan shivered and took a longer drink, blurrily elated and overwhelmed at the same time. His momentous discovery had brought many questions in its wake, questions of a kind he was not accustomed to dealing with. Why was he persuaded that Sondeweere was on Farland and not, as was much more likely, in another part of his own world? Was it that the apparition had been so intimately associated with the image of the green planet, or had the strange voiceless message from her been layered with meanings not contained in the bare words? And if she were on Farland—how had she been transported? And why? Was it something to do with the inexplicable lights he had seen on the night of her disappearance? And, granting the other suppositions, what had given her the miraculous ability to speak to him across thousands of miles of space?

And—most pressing of all—now that he had been vouchsafed the new knowledge, what was he going to do with it? What action was he going to take?

Bartan grinned, staring glassily into the darkness. The last question had been the only one to which he could easily supply an answer.

It was obvious that he had to go to Farland and bring Sondeweere home!

"Your wife was abducted!" Reeve Majin Karrodall's cry of astonishment was followed by an attentive silence among the tavern's other customers.

Bartan nodded. "That's what I said."

Karrodall moved closer to him, hand dropping to the hilt of his smallsword. "Do you know who did it? Do you know where she is?"

"I don't know who was responsible, but I know where she is," Bartan said. "My wife is living on Farland."

Some of those nearby emitted gleeful sniggers and the group around him began to increase in size. Karrodall gave them an impatient glance, his red face deepening in colour, before he narrowed his eyes at Bartan.

"Did you say Farland? Are you talking about Farland … in the sky?"

"I am indeed talking about the planet Farland," Bartan said solemnly. He reached for the alepot which had been set out for him, overbalanced and had to grasp the table for a moment of support.

"You'd better sit down before you fall down." Karrodall waited until Bartan lowered himself on to a bench. "Bartan, is this more of Trinchil's teachings? Are you trying to say your wife has died and travelled the High Path?"

"I'm saying she is alive. On Farland." Bartan drank deeply from the alepot. "Is that so hard to understand?"

Karrodall straddled the bench. "What's hard to understand is why you let yourself into a condition which so ill becomes you. You look terrible, you stink—and not only of bad wine—and now you are so soused that your talk is that of a madman. I have told you this before, Bartan, but you must quit the Haunt before it is too late."

"I have already done so," Bartan said, wiping froth from his lips with the back of a hand. "I'll never set foot there again."

"At least that is
one
sensible decision on your part. Where will you go?"

"Have I not said?" Bartan surveyed the ring of gleefully incredulous faces. "Why, I'm going to Farland to rescue my wife."

There was an outbreak of laughter which the reeve's authority could no longer hold in check. More men crowded around Bartan, while others hurried away to spread the word of the unexpected sport which was to be had at the tavern. Somebody slid a fresh tankard into place in front of Bartan.

The plump, limping figure of Otler approached the group, shouldered his way in and said, "But, my friend, how do you
know
that your wife has taken up residence on Farland?"

"She told me three nights ago. She spoke to me."

Otler nudged the man beside him. "The woman looked as though she had a healthy set of bellows, but they must have been better than we knew. What do you say, Alsorn?"

The remark disturbed Bartan's alcoholic composure. He grabbed Otler's shirt and tried to pull him down on to the bench, but the reeve thrust them apart and swung a warning finger between the two men.

"All I meant," Otler complained, tucking his shirt back into his breeches, "was that Farland is a long way off." He brightened up as a witticism occurred to him. "I mean, that's what Farland means, isn't it?
Far
-land!"

"Being in your company is an education in itself," Bartan said. "Sondeweere appeared to me in a vision. She spoke to me in a vision."

Again there was a burst of merriment, and Bartan—stupefied though he was—recognised that he had only succeeded in making himself a figure of fun.

"Gentlemen," he said, rising unsteadily to his feet. "I have tarried here too long, and soon I must depart for the noble city of Prad. I have spent the past two days repairing and refurbishing my wagon—therefore the journey should not be overly prolonged—but nevertheless I will have need of money along the way for the purchase of food and perhaps just a little wine or brandy." He nodded in acknowledgment of an ironic cheer.

"My airboat is on the wagon outside—it needs only a new gasbag—and in addition I have brought some good furniture and tools. Who will give me a hundred royals for the lot?"

Some of the listeners moved away to inspect what was undoubtedly a bargain, but others were more interested in prolonging the entertainment. "You haven't told us how you propose to reach Farland," a hollow-cheeked merchant said. "Will you shoot yourself out of a cannon?"

"I have as yet little idea how to make the flight, and that is why I must begin my journey by going to Prad. There is one man there who knows more about journeying through the sky than any other, and I shall seek him out."

"What is his name?"

"Maraquine," Bartan said. "Sky Marshal Lord Toller Maraquine."

"I'm sure he'll be very glad to see you," Otler said, nodding in mock-approval. "His lordship and you will make a fine pair."

"Enough of this!" Karrodall gripped Bartan's arm and forcibly drew him away from the group. "Bartan, it grieves me to see you thus, with all your drunken babbling about Farland and visions … and now this talk of trying to approach the King-slayer. You can't be serious about that."

"Why not?" Striving to look dignified, Bartan prised the reeve's fingers off his arm. "Now that the war is ending Lord Toller will have no further use for his fortresses in the sky. When he hears my proposal to fly one of them to Farland—bearing the flag of Kolcorron, mark you—he will doubtless be pleased to give me his patronage."

"I am sorry for you," Karrodall remarked sadly. "I am truly sorry for you."

As he travelled to the east Bartan kept an eye on the horizon ahead, and eventually was rewarded with his first sight of Land in along time.

In the beginning the sister world appeared as a curving sliver of pale light atop the distant mountains, then as the journey progressed it gradually rose higher to become a glowing dome. The nights grew noticeably longer as Land encroached upon more and more of the sun's path. As the planet continued its upward drift, to show a semi-circle and more, the outlines of the continents and oceans became clearly visible, evocations of lost histories.

Eventually there came the time when Land's lower edge lifted clear of the horizon, creating a narrow gap through which the rising sun could pour mingling rays of multi-coloured fire. The diurnal pattern of light and darkness, familiar to born Kolcorronians, was beginning to re-establish itself, although at this stage foreday was extremely brief. For Bartan—journeying alone in dusty landscapes—the occasion was a significant one, worth commemorating with extra measures of brandy.

He knew that when foreday and aftday reached a balance he would be close to the city of Prad, and from that moment onwards his future would be in the hands of a stranger.

A great deal of thought and effort had been put into making the garden look as though it had been established for centuries. Some of the statues had been deliberately chipped to give them semblance of antiquity, and the walls and stone benches were artificially weathered with corrosive fluids. The flowers and shrubs had either been grown from seeds brought from Land, or were native varieties which closely resembled those of the Old World.

In a way Toller Maraquine sympathised with the intent—he could imagine that being in the garden would help counterbalance the aching emptiness of the sunset hour—but he had to wonder at the psychology involved. King Chakkell's personal achievements since arriving on Overland would guarantee him a place in history, but somehow that was not enough to satisfy him. He obviously craved all that his predecessors had enjoyed—not only power itself, but the trappings and emblems of power. Identical motivation had just brought about the death of the King of the New Men, reinforcing Toller's belief that he would never be able to comprehend the mentality of those who needed to rule others.

"I am well pleased with the outcome," King Chakkell said, stroking his paunch as he walked, as though having enjoyed a banquet. "The expense of it all was proving a great drain on our resources, but now—with Rassamarden dead—I can rid myself of all those floating fortresses. We will drop them on Land and, with any luck, kill a few more of the diseased upstarts."

"I don't think that would be a good idea," Toller said impulsively.

"What is wrong with it? They have to fall somewhere—and surely better on them than on us."

"I say the defences should be maintained." Toller knew he would be called upon to marshal logical arguments, but was having difficulty in concentrating his thoughts on impersonal matters such as the strategies of war. He and Berise had landed their skyship only hours earlier—and now it was necessary for him to speak to his wife.

Chakkell spread his arms, halting their progress through the garden. "What do you say, Zavotle?"

liven Zavotle, who had a hand pressed into his stomach, looked blank. "I beg your pardon, Majesty—what was the question?"

Chakkell scowled at him. "What's the matter with you these days? You seem more preoccupied with your gut than with anything I have to say. Are you ill?"

"It's just a touch of the bile, Majesty," Zavotle said. "It may be that the food from the royal kitchen is too rich for my blood."

"In that case your stomach has reason to be grateful to me—I propose to dismantle the aerial defence screen and drop the fortresses on Land. What do you say to that?"

"It would advertise our lack of defences to the enemy."

"What does it matter if they lack the means or the will to attack?"

"Rassamarden's successor could be just as ambitious," Toller said. "The Landers may yet send another fleet."

"After the total destruction of the last one?"

Toller could see that the King was becoming impatient, but he did not want to yield. "In my opinion we should retain all the fighters, plus enough stations to support them and their pilots." To his surprise Chakkell gave a hearty laugh.

"I see your game!" Chakkell said jovially, slapping him on the shoulder. "You still haven't grown up, Maraquine. You always have to have a new plaything. The fighters are your toys and the weightless zone is your playground, and you want
me
to go on footing the bill. Isn't that it?"

"Certainly not, Majesty." Toller made no attempt to hide the fact that he was offended. Gesalla had often spoken to him in a similar vein, and he …
Gesalla! I have betrayed our love, and now I must confess to you. If only I can win your forgiveness I swear to you that I will never again…

"Mind you," Chakkell went on, "I have a certain sympathy with your viewpoint now that I have met your little playmate."

"Majesty, if you are referring to Skycaptain Narrinder I…"

"Come now, Maraquine! Don't try to tell me you haven't bedded that little beauty." Chakkell was enjoying himself, eagerly resuming the private game now that he had discovered an unexpected area of vulnerability in his opponent. "It's obvious, man! It's written all over your face! What do you say, Zavotle?"

Thoughtfully massaging his stomach, Zavotle said, "It seems to me that if we burned the command stations and fortresses, the ashes could fall anywhere without harming us or betraying information to the enemy."

"That's an excellent thought, Zavotle—and I thank you for it—but you have not addressed the subject."

"I dare not, Majesty," Zavotle said humorously. "To do so I would either have to disagree with a King or insult a nobleman who has a reputation for reacting violently in such instances."

Toller gave him an amiable nod. "What you're saying is that a man's private life should be his own."

"Private
life?" Chakkell shook his brown-domed head in amusement. "Toller Maraquine, my old adversary, my old friend, my old court jester—you cannot row upstream and downstream at the same time. Messengers in fallbags preceded your arrival in Prad by days, and the news of your honeymoon flight with the delectable Skycaptain Narrinder has travelled far and wide.

"She has become a national heroine, and you—once
again
—have become a national hero. In the taverns your union has already been blessed with a million beery libations. My subjects, most of whom appear to be romantic dolts, seem to see you as a couple chosen for each other by destiny, but none of them is faced with the unenviable task of explaining that to the Lady Gesalla. As for myself, I almost think I would rather go against Karkarand."