Mad Ship (60 page)

“I do not see that you took great hurt from it,” he declared defensively. “You are walking and talking and being as cruel to me as you always were. You women make so much of this! After all, it is what men naturally do to women. It is what you were made for, but refused to grant me!” He plucked petulantly at his blankets and muttered, “Rape is nothing but an idea women created, to pretend that a man can steal what you have an infinite supply of. You took no permanent harm from it. It was a rough jest, I admit, and ill considered … but I do not deserve to die for it.” He turned his head and faced the bulkhead. “No doubt when I am dead, you will experience more of it,” he pointed out with childish satisfaction.

Only the truth of his last statement kept her from killing him at that moment. The depth of her contempt for him was suddenly boundless. He had no concept of what he had done to her; worse, he seemed incapable of understanding it. That this was the son of the wise and gentle Satrap who had made her a Companion was inconceivable. She pondered what she must do to ensure her survival. He inadvertently gave her the answer.

“I suppose I must give you presents and honors and bribes before you will take care of me.” He sniffled a little.

“Exactly.” Her voice was cold. She would be the most expensive whore he had ever created. She went to a desk that was securely fastened to the bulkhead. She unburdened it of discarded clothing and a forgotten plate of moldy dainties. She found parchment, a pen and ink. She set them out, then dragged a chair across to seat herself. The change in her posture reminded her of how her whole body ached. She paused, frowning to herself. Going to the door, she jerked it open. The sailor on duty there looked at her questioningly. She made her voice imperious.

“The Satrap requires a bath. Have his tub brought, with clean towels, and buckets of hot water. Very quickly.” She shut the door before he could react.

She returned to the desk and took up her pen.

“Oh, I do not wish a hot bath. I am too weary as it is. Cannot you wash me where I lie?”

Perhaps she’d allow him to use the water when she was finished with it. “Be quiet. I’m trying to think,” she told him. She took up the pen and closed her eyes for a moment, composing her thoughts.

“What are you doing?” Satrap Cosgo asked.

“Drawing up a document for you to sign. Be quiet!” She considered terms. She was inventing a whole new position for herself, as the Satrap’s permanent envoy to Bingtown. She would need a salary, and allowance for suitable quarters and servants. She inked in a generous but not outrageous amount. How much power should she allot to herself, she wondered, as her pen inscribed the flowing characters on the parchment?

“I’m thirsty,” he whispered hoarsely.

“When I am finished, and you have signed this, then I will get you some water,” she told him reasonably. In fact, he did not seem very ill to her. She suspected it was a combination of some true illness, sea-sickness, and wine and pleasure herbs. Put that with a lack of servants and Companions fawning over him, and he believed he was dying. Fine. It well suited her purposes that he believe he was dying. Her pen paused for an instant in its flight and she tilted her head as she considered. There were emetics and purges in the medical stores he had brought with them. Perhaps, in the course of “caring” for him, she could see that he did not recover too swiftly. She needed him alive, but only as far as Bingtown.

She set her pen aside. “Perhaps I should take time to prepare a remedy for you,” she conceded graciously.

                                                                                                                                                                                    
HIGH SUMMER

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                        
THE
RINGSGOLD

THE TANGLE HAD GROWN. MAULKIN SEEMED TO TAKE
both pleasure and pride in this. Shreever had more mixed feelings. While the larger contingency of serpents that traveled with them now assured greater protection against predators, it meant that food supplies had to be shared. She would have felt better if more of the serpents were sentient, but many of those who followed the tangle were feral creatures who gathered with them only out of instinct.

As they traveled and hunted together, Maulkin closely observed the feral serpents. Any that showed signs of promise were seized when the tangle paused for rest. Kelaro and Sessurea usually overpowered the chosen target, bearing him down and letting him struggle against their combined weight and strength until he was gasping. Then Maulkin would join them, to shake loose his toxins and weave his body through the winding loops of the memory dance while they demanded that the newcomer recall his own name. Sometimes it worked, sometimes it did not. Not all of those who could recall their own names were able to retain their identities for long. Some remained simple, or drifted back into their animalistic ways by the next tide. But some few did recover and hold on to higher thought. There were even a few who followed the tangle aimlessly for a few days, and then suddenly recalled both names and civilized manners. The core group of serpents had grown to twenty-three, while easily twice that number ghosted behind them. It was a large tangle. Even the most generous provider could not keep them all satisfied.

Every rest period, they pondered the future. Maulkin’s answers seldom satisfied them. He spoke as plainly as he could, and yet the words were confusing. Shreever could sense his own bewilderment behind his prophecies; her hearts went out to him. Sometimes she feared that the others might turn on him out of frustration. She almost longed for the days when it was only herself and Sessurea and Maulkin, seeking for those answers. When she whispered as much to Maulkin one evening, he rebuked her. “Our folk have dwindled. Confusion besets us from all sides. If any of us are to survive, we must gather as many as we can. It is the simplest law of the Plenty. A multitude must be born for a few to survive.”

“Born,” she said, the question unspoken.

“The recombination of old lives into new lives. It is what we all hear summoning us. Our time to be serpents is over. We must find She Who Remembers. That one will guide us, to where we can seek rebirth as new creatures.”

His words made her shudder her whole length, but with dread or anticipation, she could not say. Others had drawn close to hear his words. Their questions swarmed thick as capelin on a moonlit tide.

“What sort of new creatures?”

“How can we be reborn?”

“Why is our time over?”

“Who will remember for us?”

Maulkin’s great copper eyes spun slowly. Color rippled his length. He struggled. She could sense it, and wondered if the others did as well. He strained to reach beyond himself, grasping at knowledge and bringing back only disconnected fragments. It drained him more than a full day of traveling. She also sensed that he was as discontented with his fragmentary answers as the others were.

“We will be as we once were. The memories you cannot understand, the dreams that frighten, come from that time. When they come to you, do not chase them away. Ponder them. Pursue them into the open and share them.” He paused, and when he spoke again, it was more slowly and with less certainty. “We are long past due to change, so long past due that I fear something has gone terribly wrong. Someone will remember for us. Others will come to protect us and guide us. We will know them. They will know us.”

“The silver provider,” Sessurea asked quietly. “We followed, but she knew us not.”

Sylic twined uneasily through the heart of the resting tangle. “Silver. Silver-gray,” he hissed. “Do you remember, Kelaro? Xecres found the great silver-gray creature and called us to follow it.”

“I do not recall that,” Kelaro trumpeted softly. He opened and closed his huge silver eyes. They spun with shifting color. “Except, perhaps, as a dream. A bad dream.”

“It attacked us when we gathered close around it. It threw long teeth at us.” Sylic turned a slow knot through his length, pausing when he came to a scar gouged deep. The scales that had grown over it were thick and uneven. “It bit me here,” the scarlet whispered hoarsely. “It bit me but it did not devour me.” He turned to look deep into Kelaro’s eyes, as if seeking confirmation. “You tore its tooth from my flesh for me. It had pierced me and it stayed in me, festering.”

Kelaro lidded his gaze. “I do not recall,” he replied regretfully.

A rippling ran the length of Maulkin’s body. His false-eyes shone brighter than they had in a very long time. “The silver being attacked you?” he asked incredulously. “He attacked you!” Anger was a rip tide in his voice. “How could it be that one who gives off the smell of memories turns on those who come to him for help?” He lashed his great head back and forth, his mane coming erect with toxins. “I do not understand!” he suddenly bellowed out. “There are no memories of this, not even the taste of a memory! How can it be that these things happen? Where is She Who Remembers?”

“Perhaps they forgot,” Tellur said with black humor. The slender green minstrel had not gained much strength since he had recalled his own name. The effort of maintaining his identity seemed to consume all his energy. How he had been before he had forgotten himself, no one could say. Now he was a dour-humored, sharp-tongued whip. Despite recalling who he had been, he could seldom bring himself to sing.

Maulkin whipped about suddenly to face him. His mane was full standing, his colors rippling. “They forgot?” he roared in outraged astonishment. “Have you seen this in a memory or dream? Do you recall a song that speaks of a time when all forget?”

Tellur sleeked his mane to his throat, making himself smaller and less significant. “It was a jest, great one. An evil jest from a sour minstrel. I beg pardon for it.”

“A jest with perhaps a grain of truth in it. Many of us have forgotten. Could the ones who remember, the memory keepers of us all, have likewise failed in their tasks?”

A despondent silence greeted his question. If it was so, it meant they were abandoned. They had no future save to wander, until one by one their minds failed and grew dark. The serpents gripped one another tighter, holding fast to what little future might remain to them. Maulkin abruptly tugged free of them all. He turned an immense circle and then began a series of slow looping turns. “Think with me!” he invited them all. “Let us consider if this could be true. It could account for much. Sessurea, Shreever and I saw a silver being, one that smelled like She Who Remembers. She ignored us. Kelaro and Sylic saw a silver-gray creature. When Xecres, the leader of their tangle, sought memories of him, he attacked them.” He whipped his body about suddenly to confront the others. “Is that so different from how you all behaved, as you lost your memories? Did not you ignore one another, not replying to my questions? Did not you even attack your fellows as you vied for food?” He arched backwards, revealing his white underbelly as he flashed past them. “It is so clear!” he trumpeted. “The minstrel has seen through to the heart of it. They have forgotten! We must force them to remember us!”

The tangle was silent, awe-stricken. Even the mindless serpents who gathered in random tangles of their own at rest times had disengaged to watch Maulkin’s jubilant dance. The wonder that shone in so many eyes shamed Shreever, but her doubt was too strong. She voiced it. “How? How can we make them recall us?”

Maulkin suddenly darted at her. He looped her, wrapped her, and drew her forth from the tangle to join in his sensual weaving. She tasted his toxins as she moved beside him. They were besotted with joy, intoxicatingly free. “Just as we have re-awakened the others. We shall seek one, confront one, and demand that that one name its name.”

As she had danced with him, entwined and intoxicated, it had been so easy to believe it was possible. They would seek out one of the silver creatures who smelled like memories, force it to remember its purpose and to share its memories with them. And then … then they would all be saved. Somehow.

Now, as she looked up at the shape passing between them and the light, she wondered. They had been days seeking a silver. Once they had caught the scent of one, Maulkin had allowed them only brief pauses for rest. Their purposeful pursuit had near exhausted some of them. Slender Tellur had lost color and bulk. Many of the feral serpents had dropped behind as Maulkin sustained the pace. Perhaps they would catch up with them later; perhaps they would never see them again. For now, Shreever had thoughts only for the bulky creature that moved purposefully above them.

The tangle ghosted along in his shadow. Now that they had actually caught up with him, even Maulkin seemed daunted by their task. In bulk, the silver creature far surpassed any of the serpents. In length, he was the equal of even Kelaro.

“What will we do now?” Tellur asked bluntly. “We cannot wrap such a creature and drag it down. It would be like wrestling a whale!”

“Actually, that would not be an impossible task,” Kelaro observed with the confidence of his size. He brought his mane up aggressively. “It would be a battle, but there are many of us. We would prevail.”

“We shall not begin with force,” Maulkin informed him. Shreever watched him gather his strength. Sometimes it seemed to her that the spark of his vitality burned as brightly as ever, but that his physical being dwindled as it burned. She wished she could convince him to conserve himself, but that unending argument was best not begun. The prophet-seer stretched himself to his full length. A swift ripple undulated his whole body, waking his false-eyes to bright gold. Slowly his ruff blossomed about his throat, until every spine of his mane stood stiff and welling venom. His great copper eyes spun with purpose. “Await my call,” he directed them.

They obeyed as he left them and swam up toward the great silver shape.

This one was not a provider. He had not the taint of old blood and waste to him that was the hallmark of the hulks who bestowed flesh upon them. This creature moved more swiftly, though he had neither fins nor flippers that Shreever could discern. He had a single flipper-like appendage at the back of his rounded belly, but he did not appear to use it to move. Rather he slid through the Plenty effortlessly, with his upper body basking in the Lack. Maulkin matched his pace. He did not seem to have gills, eyes or a mane, but Maulkin hailed him anyway. “Maulkin’s tangle gives you greeting. We have traveled far, in search of One Who Remembers. Are not you such a one?”

He gave no sign of hearing Maulkin. His speed did not slow nor vary. His scent did not change. It was as if he were completely unaware of the serpent. For a time, Maulkin kept pace with him, waiting patiently. He hailed him again, but again there was no response. He suddenly lashed himself to greater speed, to place himself ahead of the silver one. Then, with a shuddering shake of his mane, he released a stunning cloud of toxin.

The creature passed through it without even slowing. He seemed unfazed by the toxins. It was only after he had passed that Shreever sensed something from him; a thin shivering from the silvery body, a faint scent of uneasiness. It was so slight a reaction, scarcely a response at all, but still she took courage from it. He might pretend to ignore them, but he was aware of them all the same.

Maulkin felt the same, for he suddenly whipped his body in front of the creature, where he must pause or collide with him. “I am Maulkin of Maulkin’s tangle! I do demand your name!”

He struck Maulkin. He ran him down as if he were kelp. But Maulkin was not kelp, to be brushed aside. “I demand your name!” he bellowed. He flung his full length against the silver creature. His tangle followed him. They could not wrap the silver one, though they tried. They could nudge and bump him. Cobalt Kelaro even rammed him, striking a blow that near stunned the serpent, while Sessurea battered the creature’s single flipper. Every member of the tangle released their most potent toxins, so that they passed through cloud after cloud of their own poisons. Their attack slowed and baffled the great creature. He hesitated in his course. Shreever heard shrill keening. Did he sing into the Lack, even under the full light of the sun? Disoriented and gasping in the wild array of toxins, she rose to lift her head out into the Lack.

It was there she found his face and flippers, unlike any she had ever beheld. He had no mane, but spread great white wings above him, like a gull coming to rest on the face of the Plenty. Parasites infested his body. They hopped and clung to his upper body and wings, making shrill cries. At the sight of her, their agitation increased. Emboldened, she lifted as much of her length up as she could. She flung herself into the gray one’s face. “Who are you?” she trumpeted. She shook her own small mane, lashing him with her stinging cells, spattering him with her toxins. “Say your name! Shreever of Maulkin’s tangle demands that you remember for her!”

He cried out as her toxins struck him. He lifted his flippers to his face and pawed at himself. The parasites scampered madly over his back, trumpeting in their tiny voices. The silver one suddenly leaned far over. Shreever thought he would dive to escape her; then she saw that it was not by his own will that this was done. Maulkin had united his tangle’s efforts. Their combined force pushed upon him, making him wallow far to one side. His white wing clipped the water. A parasite fell, buzzing shrilly, into the Plenty. One of the feral serpents surged forward to snatch it up.

They had only to be shown once. The entire school of them then converged on the silver one. With a violence that surely Maulkin had never intended, they battered and rocked the creature. He cried out wildly and swung his flippers about in frantic efforts to strike his attackers. This only enraged the feral serpents more. They added their undisciplined toxins to those already clouding the Plenty. Fish stun and shark repellent battered her senses. The feral serpents were doing most of the work now, while Maulkin and his tangle circled the embattled creature, repeating over and over their demands for his name. More and more of the parasites plummeted into the water. The creature’s great white wings flapped wildly as they dipped into the Plenty, first on one side and then the other. Finally, when the creature was laid over almost completely on his side, Kelaro flung his great length out of the Plenty. He crashed down on the creature’s unprotected flank. Swiftly other serpents joined him, both sentient and feral. Some leaped up to seize his stiff limbs and fluttering wings. The silver creature tried to roll back, but there were too many of them. He could not overcome them. Their weight overwhelmed him and drew him under, away from the Lack and deeper into the Plenty. As they pulled him down, the parasites tried to leap free of him, but snapping jaws awaited every one of them.