The Black Star (Book 3) (41 page)

Dante stopped on the steps. The streets were packed with people, but none of them seemed in a hurry. In fact, they were all seated or in the process of sitting down, talking, laughing, passing small plates of food back and forth. Part of him wanted to find out what was going on, but a much hungrier part wanted to return to the inn and read.

He headed down the steps and toward the inn, keeping close to the buildings. They drew many looks: some curious, a few hostile.

"These people are mad," Lew whispered.

"They look peaceful enough to me," Dante said.

"Not them." Lew gestured back at the stoll. "
Them!
"

"For believing something different than us? Then everyone outside Gask is a raving lunatic. As are many Gaskans. To be on the safe side, you'd better not leave Narashtovik. Hell, you'd probably better never leave your room."

"Don't tell me you believe what he said!"

"Did you hear what was at the heart of Mikkel's story?" Dante stepped around a blanket held down by a dozen gabbing people. "Arawn doesn't need our uninterrupted praise. He keeps himself at a remove, where he has the best perspective to judge. We'd be wise to look to him for inspiration."

As they walked, several groups invited them to sit down and share their meal, but Dante feigned an inability to understand, shaking his head and smiling blandly. He and the others were still wearing their Spirish garb and this seemed to exempt them from whatever mass ritual was taking place.

They got to the inn. Out front, the innkeeper waved to them, seated among a gaggle of people whose dress marked them as being from all corners of the land. Dante almost walked past, but the innkeeper got up and stood in his path, gesturing to their blanket.

"What's happening?" Dante said. "Is it a holiday?"

The man cocked his head. "It's Sit. Now sit."

It seemed important, and it was never a bad idea to get on the good side of the one providing your food and bed, so he sat on the blanket and was treated to rice-stuffed grape leaves, apricot tarts, and a thorough explanation of Sit, a twice-daily ritual where the entire city dropped whatever it was doing to encamp in the streets, share a snack, and catch up with each other. This struck Dante as a big waste of time, but the locals spoke of people who didn't follow the custom with the same air of disapproval you'd use to discuss someone who made a habit of going to the market without wearing pants.

Half an hour after the afternoon Sit began, and mere minutes after Dante had joined it, a blue flag was hoisted from the stoll down the street. People stood, dusted themselves off, waved goodbye, and picked their business up where it had left off. Dante climbed up to his room and threw himself into his new book.

Though he found it much simpler to read a foreign language than to speak it—speech was a mangled mush, but reading let you concentrate on each word—the diction of the
Cycle of Jeren
didn't exactly match the colloquial speech of modern Wesleans. Even Ast struggled with it. They hadn't gotten far by the time Somburr and Cee returned from the street.

"Any progress?" Cee said.

Dante marked his place and held up the book. "They use a different
Cycle
. It diverged from ours a long time back. I'm hoping its history includes mention of Cellen. Once I'm a little better versed with it, I'll go back to speak to the priest again."

"I see. Got a minute to try something else?"

It could take days of reading before he felt well-versed enough in
Jeren
to go back to Mikkel. To Dante, that just meant he had
less
time to spare. The thought of sacrificing any of it curdled him with annoyance.

"Is this something Somburr could take care of?" he said.

"You're better at it," Somburr said. "If this is as delicate as I think it is, I'd rather not compromise our chances of success."

That was cryptic and paranoid, but then again, it was Somburr. Dante set down the book. "Success at what?"

"Here." Cee handed him a rat. It was dead, though not obviously so. "Follow me."

He slung his cloak over his shoulders and followed her downstairs. "What's going on?"

"We need eyeballs. Attached to something less conspicuous than a person."

Getting the picture, he drew on the nether and sent it flowing into the rat. It twitched in his pocket. He sent his sight to its, just to test the link, and got a big eyeful of nothing. He frowned, directed it to stick its head out of his pocket, then tried again. His sight leapt downward, showing a blank sandstone wall.

After a couple of turns, Cee stopped in front of an unmarked door. "Leave it here."

He set the rat on the ground. Cee went inside the door and took a back staircase to the roof of the building. She hunched down and moved to the knee-high wall enclosing the roof. Three stories below, the cramped street was almost pitch black.

"You see that doorway?" she whispered, pointing across the way. "Next time someone goes through it, send the rat in after them."

"What's this about? We could spend hours up here until someone goes through it."

"Wrong," Somburr murmured. "One of them is coming now."

He ducked below the retaining wall. Dante followed suit, then delved into the rat's vision. A woman walked down the alley, hands in the pockets of her loose white trousers. She stopped in front of the door Cee had indicated. Dante edged the rat closer. The woman unlocked the door and moved inside. The rat skittered after her into a tight, dark room. It tucked itself into a corner.

The woman closed the door and stood in the silence. After pausing several seconds, she opened the cover on the lantern she'd been carrying, bathing the room in weak light. She moved to a frieze on the wall. A line of round white pebbles bordered it top and bottom. She touched one of the bottom stones, then the one to its right, then the one to its left.

A soft grinding noise sounded from below. A hole opened in the floor as a stone panel swung away into the darkness. The woman stepped onto the ladder down.

"What the hell?" Dante said on the roof.

"What?" Cee said.

"Quiet. It's my turn to be mysterious."

The woman shrank from sight a rung at a time. As soon as her head dropped beneath floor level, Dante sent the rat in after her. It clung tight to the ladder's side. The lantern bobbed on the woman's hip, shining onto a platform a few feet further down. She stepped onto it, reached for a rope looped around a pulley, and cranked the stone panel back into place above her head.

A stone staircase descended from the platform. Dante let the woman get a head start, then sent the rat down after her. Sand gritted beneath its paws. The rat's perspective made it difficult to tell for sure, but after what felt like about three flights of stairs, the creature scampered out into a dim cavern. And not a natural one. The floor was paved with bricks. Sand lay thick in their cracks and seams. Buildings loomed in the darkness, looking terribly ancient yet well-preserved.

But what drew his eye was the address posts in front of each one.

He withdrew his sight from the rat and grinned at Cee. "I think you've found our missing building."

20

The first thing Blays did was yell at the fish. The second thing he did was wonder if fish had ears. The third thing he did was take a deep breath and swim as fast as he could toward the grinder and the snail it was busy harassing.

The fish was so intent on its would-be meal that it didn't notice him until he was within three feet. It floated to the side, regarding him without fear. He reached for the snail, careful of its spines, and pulled. It stuck to the rock, then popped free.

The grinder darted in for a bite. Blays swiped at it with his spear. It darted back, hovering out of reach, then turned its tail and flashed away.

He kicked upward toward the waning light. Something brushed his hand. He jerked it back and the snail spun from his grip, wobbling toward the ocean floor. Blays shouted out, bubbles flowing past his face, and brought up his foot, catching the snail on the flat of his fin. He snatched it up and surfaced, holding it aloft.

"Is this it?" he said. "Please, please tell me this is it."

Minn's grin burst across her face. "You are currently holding a kellevurt."

"I am? Now what do I do with it?"

"Well, I would either kill it or bring it to shore before it stings you."

At that, he almost dropped it again. For the moment, however, it had sucked itself into its shell. He paddled toward land, keeping both eyes pinned on it for any sign of fangs, stingers, or probosces. His fin kicked sand. He found his footing and slapped ashore, holding the kellevurt away from his body.

"What's next?" he said. "Do some sort of blessing? An incantation? Or do we wait for Ro to come and cast the spell?"

Minn eyed him. She reached into the oiled leather pouch she'd carried with her at all times and removed a hooked knife and a delicately curved spoon. She took the snail from him and jabbed it with the knife. A bit of fluid dribbled to the sand. She let a few moments pass, then jabbed the knife inside the shell and sawed in a circle. She removed the knife, inserted the spoon, and withdrew a slimy mass of snail and guts.

She held it out to him. "Chow down."

He tapped his thumbnail against his teeth. "Is this really necessary?"

"This is what the People do."

"Does it help connect you to the power of the shell?"

"Could be. It will certainly help you remember this moment."

He moved an inch closer to the damp tube of goo she was offering him. "What about its venom?"

"Harmless when ingested. It's only dangerous when it stings you."

He still couldn't tell if she was joking, but there was only one way to find out. He pinched the tail of the de-shelled snail, tipped back his head, and dropped it in his mouth. He'd intended to swallow it whole, but it was now obvious that would choke him to death. He chomped down, slashing his jaw back and forth to shear it in half. Saltwater and bitter juice filled his mouth. He chewed quickly, got half down, gagged, decided gagging was better than holding the rest of it in his mouth for any longer, and swallowed.

"That'll freshen your breath," he said, eyes watering. "How about a celebratory kiss?"

She looked disgusted, then decided this was hilarious. "Well done. Even if it took you until the very last moment we were here."

"Yes, it was a true display of skills, paddling about in the ocean until I happened on one at random."

"Finding a kellevurt might not be a skill," she admitted. "But persistence is."

"Where do you come up with all these pearls of wisdom?"

"By lazing around in the ocean all day, obviously."

He thought there might be some ritual to finalize things or "seal" the shell to him or what have you, but Minn dried off, dressed, and headed toward the cabin. There, she cleaned out the shell and rubbed it with a cloth.

While she did this, he built up a fire, then sat back from the flames. "Now what?"

She fixed him with a look of great significance. "Now, you make dinner."

He thought this was unfair, given that he was a victorious champion and all, but he was hungrier than the grinder had been. He cooked up some fish they'd caught at dawn.

"I suppose you want to get right to it," Minn said once they'd finished their meal.

"It had crossed my mind."

"There's something to be said for anticipation."

"Waiting only makes things stale and moldy." He moved to the table and picked up the empty shell. It was heavy, solid. His feelings toward it were the confused ambivalence he felt after slaying a worthy foe on the battlefield: elation for his triumph, but sadness that such a rare creature had been removed from the world. "I'm tired. We can wait until tomorrow. But can you at least tell me how it works?"

She stood and moved beside him, considering the shell. "In many ways, I have no idea whatsoever. Here's what we do know about the kellevurt. It's a scavenger. One that prefers its dead fresh. So does the nether."

"Wolves and buzzards eat carrion, too. But I've never heard of a sorcerer lusting after their bones. For that matter, I've spent long enough staring into tide pools to know that crabs eat dead junk all day, too."

"But they eat mere flesh. The kellevurt seems to feed on not only the meat, but also on the nether drawn to it."

"Why?" Blays drew back his head. "Don't tell me they're snails with sorcerous powers."

"Not that I've seen," she said, amused. "I can't tell you why they do it. Or how they alone of all creatures—that we know about—do so. All I can tell you is they seem to store it in their shells. If you have one of those shells, you can draw on what they've collected."

"Yeah, but the shadows are in everything, right? Why don't I just go pick up a rock and draw on
its
nether?"

"You could. But it wouldn't give you much to work with. It's vastly more concentrated in the shells."

"Makes sense. I guess." He turned the shell over in his hand. "So why does it work best for the person who found it?"

"I have no idea, Blays. I'm not an expert on the supernatural qualities of aquatic snails."

"Just trying to understand."

"Wonderful. Meanwhile, in the practical realm, you lack the ability to generate power. This will provide a source of it for you. With any luck, by observing how it provides that power, you'll learn to draw on more of it for yourself."

He tapped one of its spines. "Thank you for having the patience to field my endless questions."

She smiled wryly. "Maybe I'm frustrated that I don't know all the answers. One of the others might know more. They're older than I am, you know."

He shot up his eyebrows. "I hadn't noticed."

She grabbed his collar and pulled his shirt over his face. He clutched the shell tight, careful not to drop it until the assault was over.

Prowling the waters until the last of the light had taken a lot of out of him, and he slept later than intended, waking mid-morning. Minn served him breakfast. After, he helped clean out the house (for what good it would do; by the next time the People of the Pocket came here, weather and animals would have rendered it filthy again). Once this was done, they carried their few belongings down to the beach. Minn spotted the boat first, pointing out its sail.