Master of the Cauldron (6 page)

They were in the extensive gardens of the mansion where Garric was meeting with the dignitaries from Sandrakkan. Buildings and gardens alike were in ruins: the walls shattered, colonnades thrown down, and briars choking the planters meant for exotic flowers. All around them soldiers were chopping brush, clearing places to sleep, and at the same time providing themselves with firewood.

Because the military surveyors hadn't had an opportunity to lay out the camp before the troops arrived, Ilna heard a number of heated arguments between officers of units competing for some desirable attribute: a stretch of level ground, a well that wasn't choked with rubble, or perhaps a large tree that offered both dignity and a vantage point to the troops who controlled it.

A ewe bleated irritably from nearby. It'd come around the blunt finger of granite and found its path was blocked by soldiers cutting a drainage ditch to guide water around their campsite in case of a storm.

Chalcus looked at the sheep and chuckled. “If she's not mutton stew by the morning,” he said, “then our friend Garric will have good reason to congratulate himself on his army's discipline…and were I to bet, I'd say that she'll be wandering about being irritated at all these strange men till we take ourselves off.”

“It was your suggestion that we land on this island, wasn't it, Chalcus?” Ilna said, looking about her. She didn't much care about her surroundings so long as they allowed her to weave—or at least knot patterns—but she was aware of them.

Sheep had grazed the slopes fairly clear, but the rock piles where buildings had been thrown down were overgrown with the wild descendents of ornamental shrubs. The few trees grew in places that were hard to get to. Woodcutters must visit the island regularly.

The soil was trampled bare there in the back part of the garden, which a shepherd had used for his byre. Wool clung to stones and in the brush growing around them. Most of the tufts were unweathered; the fellow must've penned his flock there before taking them on barges to the main
land just ahead of the royal fleet's arrival. The handful of ewes still wandering on Volita were the ones who'd been too skittish to gather up quickly before the shepherd fled.

“Aye, I did,” the sailor replied, his tone guarded though not defensive. “When I heard the prince—” he nodded toward the curved wall beyond which the conference was taking place “—wanted a spot where an army could wait without causing too much bother with the local citizens, I mentioned that nobody's spent the night on Volita in the past thousand years save shepherds and sheep. And—”

Chalcus grinned engagingly, as though the next comment were of no great moment.

“—maybe a few pirates, doing business with folk in Erdin who preferred their neighbors not know the sort of men they went to for cargoes at a good price.”

Ilna looked around again. She set the notebook on the moss and took the hank of cords from her left sleeve to give her fingers something to do. The lowering sun painted odd shadows on the face of granite spike behind them.

“The Demon, it's called,” Chalcus remarked. “Though it was a quiet enough neighbor to the pirates, or so I believe.”

“You never saw anything wrong here?” Ilna said. She knew she sounded sharp, but she always sounded sharp. Chalcus understood her well enough not to take offense at a question asked without the ribbons and lace that people in general tied their words up in.

“No, dear one, I did not,” Chalcus said calmly. “Some of our folk heard sounds in the night, but that wasn't a marvel. They'd mostly done things that cause men troubles in the hours after the wine's worn off and before the sun rises. Eh?”

Ilna shrugged. “I never thought drink would make the things I've done not have happened,” she said. “And if it caused me to lose control—”

She gave a tiny, metallic chuckle, then went on, “I was going to say, ‘Who knows what I might do?' But in fact I know very well.”

Merota was peering at the waist-high crosswall that the shepherd'd built to separate his byre from the front portion of the extensive garden. He'd laid the wall with pieces of the ruins themselves: facing blocks, masses of cemented rubble from the cores of walls, and broken statues. It'd probably been a one-man job, since the only really heavy stones were column barrels that an individual could've rolled into place.

Merota was staying in plain view as they'd told her to do. Ilna directed quick glances toward the girl, while Chalcus occasionally shifted to keep Merota in the corner of his eye. Though they were being careful, there wasn't any reason to expect more danger there than might have occurred back in the palace in Valles.

“I was wondering, dear one…” Chalcus said, his eyes wandering to avoid meeting Ilna's. “Have you given thought to the future?”

“Blaise is east of here, isn't it?” Ilna said, frowning to understand the sailor's point. “I suppose we'll go there, even though Count Lerdoc's friendly. And then we'll go back to Valles.”

Ilna'd known more about far places when she was growing up than most people in Barca's Hamlet did. Her weavings were luxury stuff even before Hell taught her how to let or bind the cosmos itself. Ilna hadn't learned geography, however, but rather what the tastes of the folk in Erdin and Piscine and especially in Valles on Ornifal were, the people who bought clothing to demonstrate their wealth and taste.

“Prince Garric will likely visit the Count of Blaise, in the courteous fashion that the great and powerful of this world have with one another, that's true,” Chalcus said with an edge to his voice. “But what I was wondering, dear one, was of our future, yours and mine together—for it will be together, you know that, for so long as you'll have me.”

Ilna sniffed. “Which will be as long as I live and you live,” she said sharply. “What would you have me say? That I'll weave when I have leisure to and do such other business as will help my friends—that's what
I
think of the future.”

“And when you say help your friends…,” Chalcus said. He'd taken out his dagger again and was flipping it from hand to hand. His eyes watched Merota squirm through a wisteria whose stems were as thick as her waist. “You mean help Prince Garric for the kingdom's sake, where it may be that your skills count for more than a squadron of ships, not so?”

“Yes,” said Ilna. “So. As I've done in the past. As we've done together in the past.”

She paused, trying to read meaning in the profile that the sailor kept resolutely toward her.

“Is it wrong that I do that, do you think?” she went on. Her voice was growing harder, more clipped, despite her wish that it not. “For I'll tell you frankly, Master Chalcus,
I
don't think it's wrong!”

Chalcus laughed easily, sliding the dagger back into its sheath. “It's not wrong at all, dear heart,” he said. “Whoever rules the kingdom will always have a use for such as you; and for me as well, it may be. But if the kingdom uses us at the kingdom's need, there'll come a day when the kingdom has used us up.”

Ilna shrugged. She'd felt the tension drain away as soon as she learned that the questions weren't going in the direction she'd feared a moment previously.

“I don't care about kingdoms,” she said. “I've never met one. But if Garric wants my help, or Sharina, or my brother…”

She smiled, suddenly warm in a fashion that she never could've imagined until the past year changed most of the things she'd learned in the previous eighteen. “Or if
you
want my help, Master Chalcus,” she said, “then you'll have whatever I can give. If that means being used up, then I can't say I care. I did enough harm to other people at one time in my life that I won't complain about the cost to me of making amends.”

“Well, dear heart,” Chalcus said, grinning broadly again. “I'm an honest sailor with nothing on his conscience. But a man who looked a good deal like me sailed in past years with the Lataaene pirates…and I shouldn't wonder if that man did terrible things in his time.”

“Chalcus?” Merota called. She was clinging to an ancient wisteria that grew where the rubble wall met the finished stones of the garden's original boundary, now half-tumbled. “Why's this statue black? It's basalt! Nobody carves statues out of basalt, do they?”

Chalcus squeezed Ilna's right hand with his left and rose to his feet. “I've never seen such, child,” he said as he stepped toward the girl. “Basalt has too coarse a grain, I'd have said; though I suppose sculptors can be struck by freaks as surely as honest sailors who wake up with a girl's name tattooed over their heart and no idea who she might be.”

“I scarcely think you can stay that drunk long enough to carve a statue,” Ilna said tartly as she followed Chalcus, setting the cords back in her sleeve.

She didn't like stone, just as other people didn't like snakes or spiders; but there was a good deal of stone in the world, so she didn't cringe when she had to deal with it. Likewise there was a sufficient number of people in the world that Ilna didn't like, and she dealt with them too when that was required.

The wisteria flowed upward into a mushroom of green tendrils. The curve of the shrub's three thick stems looked almost natural, but where they bound the black stone figure at the heart of their knot—

“Merota, step back!” Ilna said. “Chalcus, you too. Let me look at this.”

In this warm weather Merota was wearing only her inner tunic—normal for a peasant but not up to Mistress Kaline's standards of what was proper for a young noblewoman in public. If the governess managed to get up, she'd be very testy; though of course she was usually very testy.

The tunic was woven from a fine grade of wool, but it was sturdy enough that it didn't tear when Chalcus grabbed a handful and jerked Merota around behind him. His sword was a curved flicker in his right hand. Instead of looking at the wisteria as Ilna did, Chalcus kept his head turning to watch for dangers in all directions.

“It's all right!” Ilna snapped. All she wanted was to concentrate on the problem, but by asking people to get out of the way she'd managed to alarm them. “It's a puzzle, that's all. I just don't want you confusing it.”

Faugh! That wasn't what she should've said either! But time to apologize later
…

The statue had fallen facedown. The wisteria grew around both sides of the chest, with the third stem curving up between the basalt legs.

Ilna squatted, trying to make sense of the pattern. The size of the enveloping vine showed that the statue had been there long before the shepherd built his crosswall; indeed, he might have chosen the line simply to use the tree-sized shrub to anchor one end.

The wisteria was natural and had nothing to do with the reason the black statue was there. The way it grew, however, had been shaped by the same forces that bound the statue, the same spell that bound the statue….

Ilna rose and turned. The soldiers at work just the other side of the garden wall weren't paying attention to the civilians.

“You there!” she said to the man just straightening from chopping roots that his fellows couldn't shovel through. “Lend me that hand axe, if you would!”

“This, mistress?” the soldier said, looking from Ilna to his hatchet with a puzzled expression.

“Yes, you ninny!” Ilna said. She regretted the word as it came out of her mouth, but he
was
a ninny. “The axe, please!”

Chalcus lifted away the tool with a graceful sweep of his left hand. He hadn't sheathed his sword, but he now held it unobtrusively down along his right leg.

“I can—” he said as he held the axe toward but not quite
to
Ilna.

“You may not!” Ilna said. She snatched the axe with a good deal less grace than Chalcus had displayed. “If this isn't done in
just
the right way, we'll crush it instead of freeing it. Just give me a little room!”

Tenoctris talked of seeing the forces with which wizards work. She'd explained that wizards focused the lines of force with words and symbols, and with objects that'd soaked those forces into their substance. The best focus of all was the lifeblood pumping from a severed throat, but only the strongest could even hope to control forces of the volume
that
created. From Ilna's observation, even the very strong were usually wrong when they thought they were that powerful.

Ilna couldn't see threads of force, but in this case she could follow the distortion they caused in the way the vine grew. It was like following the path of a cat through high grass by the waving seed heads.

She judged her spot, then chopped twice. The axe flicked out a thumb-deep wedge of bark and fibrous wood. She'd split kindling every day with a hatchet very similar to this one, and her loom's shuttle and beater board kept her wrists and forearms strong.

After the initial cut, Ilna edged around to get the angle she needed for the stem on the other side of the statue's torso. That meant climbing onto the knee-high remnant of the garden wall and bracing her left arm on the stem. She could go much deeper this time since by scoring the first stem she'd relieved the stresses that'd otherwise have been building opposite her strokes.

The stem began to wobble beneath her left hand. Wisteria this old tended to be more brittle than ordinary trees of the same thickness. Ilna paused, leaning back to take stock. Smiling, she stepped to the left side of the statue. The stem between its legs wasn't really part of the pattern; it was there for the same reason a blue thread and a yellow thread laid together made the person seeing them think of green.

Chalcus, holding Merota's hand, moved around to the side Ilna had just left. The child had a wide-eyed expression; if she'd been offended by the sailor's quick manhandling, there was no sign of it.