Raven's Ladder (42 page)

Jordam wrapped one hand around the grip of a shield, another around his spear. He had fought upon this bridge before. It had not gone well.

The stranger was a beastman not unlike himself—large, apelike, with a jutting jaw, a hound’s nose, and powerful arms. And he could see now that the beastman would not attack them. It had collapsed on the bridge, sick and wounded as if it had barely escaped from a battle. It moaned and feebly groped at the air beside Jordam’s head as they passed beneath the dark span.

“What did it say?” Cal-raven whispered beneath the blanket.

Jordam did not answer. He only stood and sniffed the air, his ears twitching as if searching for some kind of news in the hush.

A few hours later, the moonlight a sickly yellow through the ever-present haze, Cal-raven took cover again to escape the bombardment of heavy, droning insects.

“Jordam,” he asked, “do you really think we can get the prisoners out?”

“Bel’s plan—boats. rrFlat, hidden boats. Row them up the river at night. O-raya’s boy can get prisoners to the boats. Underground. Not many Cent Regus there. But dangerous. rrMust work fast.”

“Are you sure these other beastmen will help us?”

“Some,” he said. “Weak beastmen. Bad legs from too many lashings. Can’t run. But good arms. rrRow hard. Treasure promised them freedom. They like O-raya’s colors. Makes them think the Treasure is more powerful than the chieftain.”

“Auralia’s colors—you have some of them there, in the Core?”

“You will see.” Jordam scratched at his arm.

“What is happening to you?”

Jordam shrugged. “Change.”

Deep in the Core, Jordam could move among the chieftain’s servants without being questioned or suspected. None of them seemed to recognize him as one of those four brothers who had caused such trouble for the chieftain during the last winter. He still smelled like the Cent Regus, so long as
he layered himself in their reeking, rotting skins and cloaks. He still spoke like them to his own kind, even if he whispered in careful, clumsy Common to the slaves.

But he was changing. His mane had thinned considerably, and patches of his head were bare. Similarly, the ragged fur of his legs and arms was shedding. His dark claws had grown brittle; three had crumbled from the tips of his fingers, and all the claws that once jutted out from his toes had come off in his running.

And then there was the matter of his skin. The bumps, white and sore, had spread across his body so that he had been forced to go without any woodscloak for a time. When the blisters burst, dried, and disintegrated, the skin all around those wounds had gone crisp and cracking, then fallen away. The new skin was smoother and softer—copper colored, even freckled. Sometimes when he scratched it, it seemed to shine.

The water from Auralia’s well sharpened his thoughts, illuminated his memories. It was helping him to despise the very thought of the Essence that had once fueled his bloodthirst.

Partayn was the first one he had rescued. The endeavor had been easy, as the Cent Regus had no reason to suspect it. The trouble had come when they reached open ground. The feelers, sensing something uncorrupted by the Essence, had burst through and tried to seize Partayn. Jordam fought them back with a torch and a blade.

Later, as he hollowed out another boat from a tree in the Cragavar, west of Deep Lake, a whistle had sounded from Tilianpurth in the valley below.

He had learned to respond to this whistle—one carved from a tiny white stone into the shape of an oceandragon’s skull. Just as he had learned what to do when he saw a white flag raised over Tilianpurth. He had known to go to Bel Amica. There he had found another white flag flying over a campsite near a bridge.

A soldier, Henryk, had met him there. Deuneroi’s father. Deuneroi, who had died at Mordafey’s hands in the ruins of Abascar. It had been difficult for Jordam to sit in Henryk’s tent, for he was overcome with shame.

Henryk had explained that House Bel Amica was still too dangerous for
Jordam. The Seers would have him killed. Ryllion would destroy him. But the queen herself had faced him to thank him for bringing home her son.

It had been the most fleeting of meetings, the queen scratching and twitching and whimpering like a nervous pup. But Cyndere had embraced him and wept into his mane. And together they had plotted how to bring out more prisoners from the Core. Cyndere had shown him the whistle and told him to bring water to Bel Amica if he heard it.

And so in his shelter of woven shell-bark stalks high in the trees just southwest of Tilianpurth, he had listened. During the day, as he carved a fleet of light boats to match those Cyndere had shown him, he listened. And now he often ventured back into Cent Regus territory on the prongbull he had tamed, speaking only with the ale boy and the woman that Skell Wra called Treasure.

“Treasure,” he muttered, shaking his head.

Cal-raven stirred.

Jordam said, “If others find us going in, must make you look like a slave. I captured you. rrBringing you to the chieftain.”

“I have an idea,” said Cal-raven, and for the first time Jordam heard him laugh—a strange sound in this wilderness. “I should do what I do best.” He raised his hands as if they were weapons drawn for battle. “Stone people.”

N
o, I’m done with Abascar.” Wynn put another damp, sweet-smelling barrel of Bel Amican syrup onto the cargo sled, then sat on its edge. To Tabor Jan, he looked like a wet rat in the warm rain. Dark circles under his eyes were a burglar’s mask.

“That bad, huh?” Tabor Jan set the birdcage down and sat beside him on the sled so he could speak quietly with the boy, their conversation cloaked by the wavewash against the docks, the bumping of the boats, and the weary loaders’ profanity.

The yearning for sleep had begun to confuse him. While he had to admit that the Kneader had drawn the pain out of his body, something inside him still strained for slumber. If only she could have worked on his aching eyeballs.
I think I’ve seen too much
.

“I coulda saved Cal-raven if he’d let me,” Wynn was saying, bitterness in his bark. “He knows that, and yet he left me here doing meaningless work.” He gestured to the barrels as if they were a pile of vawn dung.

Tabor Jan shrugged. “You have to earn his trust with simple things before you’re given anything complicated. And so far you haven’t convinced him.”

He pulled his pipe from his pocket, stuffed some honeyweed into the bowl, then started searching the pockets of his watchman’s jacket for a spark-stick. “And what do you mean—
meaningless work?
You’re sharp enough to see what he’s done. He’s planted spies all over Bel Amica. You’re Abascar’s eyes and ears at the harbor caves. He could have thrown you to the wolves for
your insolence, but he gave you an important position in the game. This is where you prove yourself, Wynn. Pay attention.” He lit the pipe, and the honeyweed flared.

Wynn turned his nose away. “How do I prove myself here? I’m an invisible cargo boy.”

“I know an ale boy who carried barrels around Abascar for years, Wynn. After all those seemingly insignificant errands, he played a heroic role during Abascar’s calamity. That’s because he’d been paying attention. Now they call him Rescue.”

Wynn was silent. The story clearly impressed him, as he owed his own life to its hero.

“Looking back, it’s like Rescue was training all along. He’s down in the Cent Regus Core, trying to rescue prisoners. So pay attention, Wynn. Watch for your moment to serve.” Tabor Jan suddenly heard his own message and began scanning the scene around him. “You see, Wynn, I don’t like it any more than you do. But Cal-raven’s risking the future of House Abascar on a vision he’s been given by the Keeper. He can’t afford surprises. He needs you to be vigilant, watching for any—”

“You don’t drink what he’s drinkin’, do ya?” Wynn snapped. “The Keeper’s just kids’ play. I outgrowed that stuff ages ago. And besides, if something really was watchin’ us, well…”

The captain knew that Wynn was thinking of his sister, Cortie. It had been a difficult moment when Wynn had asked him about Cortie. He hadn’t said a word about the Deathweeds that had taken her. She was “missing”—that was all.

He drew sweet smoke into his mouth, tasted its burn in his nose and on the back of his tongue. “I suspect we’re all wrong about a great deal in this world. I admit, it’s harder to believe than not to.”

“It’s ridiculous. You ever seen the Keeper? Or a Northchild?”

Tabor Jan blew out a long stream of curling smoke and wished he could float away on it. “You ever seen the wind?” he asked. “No, I’ve never seen the Keeper outside of dreams. And I never saw those amazing colors that Auralia showed House Abascar. But kick me in the gut if I go calling Cal-raven a liar.”

A voice from the boat slapped Wynn back to work. He tromped to the wavering raft and lifted another barrel to his chest. Tabor Jan took the birdcage and tried to look like a watchman on duty.

“What’s in these tubs anyway?”

“Syrup, I think. From the islands. Syrup. Nuts. Grains. Cider. Seeds. Gemstones. I’ve moved it all.” The way he said it, like someone who’d worked these docks a lifetime, made Tabor Jan shoot smoke through his nose.

A line of soldiers attending to a cargo flat at another dock began marching in a line to the mouth of a tunnel, burdened by heavy bags. A burly guard let them pass into a tunnel in Bel Amica’s foundation. Tabor Jan eyed the guard and considered requesting passage. But the guard’s answer was in his scowl and in the nasty, barbed club in his hand. Even his hair appeared threatening, braided in long thin ropes with metal barbs.

“That’s Balax,” said Wynn.

Tabor Jan walked back to the sled and sat down. “What does Balax guard?”

The boy did not look up, muttering out of the side of his mouth. “The loaders call it the Punchbowl. It’s where King Helpryn used to build his ships in secret. He liked surprises. He’d sail them out when they were ready, and everybody’d be amazed. Now only Ryllion’s best patrol soldiers go in there. And Seers sometimes.”

“What’re they building in there?” he mused. “And what’s in those bags they’re carrying?”

“The loaders say it’s oil. Really smelly oil. Before I worked here, they dropped a bag, and it broke. Those who didn’t jump in the water quick were knocked flat and slept for three days.”

“Slumberseed oil.” Tabor Jan smiled. “Think they’d sell me some?”

The guard suddenly looked troubled, and it was easy to see why. A painted woman draped in beads and veils had come dancing down the stairs from the marketplace, and now she tiptoed gleefully toward him. He crossed his arms to discourage her. But she placed her bejeweled hands on his shoulders.

“That’s Gelina,” Wynn grumbled. “Sometimes Balax goes inside with her and the others take his place.”

Tabor Jan regarded two other guards who sat slumped against one another, sleeping.

“I hate her perfume,” Wynn groaned. “Makes my skin turn red.”

“She’s approached you like this?”

“Not like that, no. But she’s lonely. She asked if maybe she could go with us when the Abascar people move on to a new house. She’s not thinking straight, you see.”

As if he’d been bitten, Balax shouted and knocked Gelina down so that she curled like an injured bird. Tabor Jan fought the instinct to rush to her side. She climbed awkwardly to her feet, found her balance, and staggered toward the stairway, her chains of gems clattering like a beaded curtain.

Tabor Jan ambled toward the guard, holding the birdcage by its hook in his left hand, his right open and close to the knife hilt.

Balax regarded him with annoyance. “The Abascar captain.” He glanced at the birdcage, and a pale scar that ran from his left eye to the corner of his mouth twitched. “I see you’ve found a task that suits your strengths.” He spoke as if he were chewing a gob of root-gum.

“The tetherwings?” He fought the urge to boast that Partayn himself had assigned him to carry them. “Oh, they’re sick. I’m supposed to take them to old Myrton for treatment. Otherwise, they might not do their job in the wild. And you? What’s your assignment?”

The guard crossed his arms again and answered officiously. “Seers’ business.”

“I thought you answered to Ryllion.”

Balax seemed suddenly afflicted by an itch on the back of his neck. “Think you understand how it all works, do you? You don’t want to meddle in Ryllion’s affairs, bird-man. I swept some teeth off the dock yesterday after Ryllion delivered a scolding.”

“You’ll do anything he says, then?”

“I’d scrub his vawn’s hindquarters if it would please him. He’s Bel Amica’s future.”

“Interesting. The name I’d heard was Partayn.”

The guard’s eyes flashed. “Here’s a secret,” he muttered. “Houses aren’t ruled by half-crazy singers. They’re ruled by strength. You’ll see.”

Tabor Jan felt an urge to distance himself, and right away. “Look,” he said, “I need to get a message to an Abascar soldier who’s gone into the Punchbowl. That’s why I came down to—”

“No Abascars have passed me.” Balax’s teeth flashed nothing like a grin. “You’re confused.”

“Sorry. Must have misunderstood.” He looked over Balax’s shoulder into the tunnel’s darkness.

Choo?
hooted one of the tetherwings. Tabor Jan looked down in amazement.

Balax shifted closer to partially block his view. “Get those birds out of here. And keep your mouth shut about this place. Ryllion wouldn’t want you spoiling his surprise for the queen. I’d rather not sweep up your teeth.”

Choo?
said another tetherwing.

Tabor Jan whisked the birdcage away and headed to the stairs.

Halfway up, he was startled by a pile of seashells and beads that suddenly approached. “And what can Gelina offer you tonight, good Abascar captain?” she sang suggestively.

The impulse to raise his sleeve to his nose was almost irresistible. “Funny you should ask. I need some help.”

“You’ll find,” she said with a lascivious grin, “that I’m very, very helpful, so long as you offer me some help in return.” She jingled a coin purse that was pinned to one of those seashell chains.