The Merman's Children (16 page)

Niels raised his eyes from the ground and said in a kind of desperation, “That's nothing, Tauno. It's my debt to you that is immeasurable.”

A grim smile: “For what, my friend? That you faced hardship and peril of life again and again in a cause that was not yours? That you have worse before you?”

“How? Wealth; everything it means, an end to want and toil and groveling for my kinfolk—Margrete, Yria, of course, but will I not be amply rewarded as well?”

“Hm. I'm not learned in earthling ways, but I can guess what odds are against you; and if you fail, men will give you an ending far more terrible than any the ocean or its monsters could. Have you thought about this, Niels?” Tauno demanded. “Truly thought about it? I ask on Yria's account, lest she be dragged down too; but also on yours.”

Steadiness came over the young man. “Yes, I have,” he said. “You know whom it is that in my heart I serve. Well, I would not serve her badly, so I've spent every free hour making plans. Ingeborg will be my first counselor, she's more worldly-wise, but she'll not be the only one. What happens lies with God, yet I am hopeful.” He drew breath. “You know, don't you, that rashness would destroy us? We must make sure of every step ere we take it.”

“Aye. When might you be done? In a year?”

Niels frowned and plucked at his wispy beard. “I would guess longer. Surely for me to establish myself—but that's not what you want to hear about, is it? Yria…if all goes well…we
might
have her ransomed in a year. It depends on what allies we can find, you see.…Oh, say that a twelvemonth hence we'll know better how things are going.”

Tauno nodded. “As you like, Eyjan and I will return then for news.”

Niels' mouth fell open. “You'll be gone that long?”

“Why should we linger, when we'd fain be searching for our people?”

Niels gulped hard. His hands wrestled. In a while he could ask: “Where will you seek?”

“West,” said Tauno, more softly than heretofore. “Toward Greenland. Hauau and I spoke of this, one moonlit night in the sea. He has foreknowledge. About me it was hazy; but he did say there was a whisper in his skull, that somewhere thither, a part of my fate lies waiting.”

Sunlight blinked upon him, to turn his head amber. As if that recalled him to the everyday, he shrugged and finished, “It's a reasonable direction. We may learn something helpful along the way, as at Iceland.”

“You'll not lead Eyjan into danger, will you?” Niels implored.

Tauno rapped forth a laugh. “She's hard to keep out of it.” After regarding the countenance before him, he added, “Let's not borrow trouble. Enough comes as a free gift. Let's plan how we may meet again.”

Niels threw himself into that matter as if escaping. Talk went back and forth. The siblings must needs inform him when they arrived, and thereafter wait for him to come. This was a bad spot for them to do so. It had little cover ashore; if Alsmen in fishing boats glimpsed them, that would awaken dangerous gossip. For his part, Niels would be taking ample risks whenever he came back to raise more gold. Best that otherwise he do nothing overly remarkable in neighborhoods where he was known—and he was bound to become noticed throughout the kingdom.

They decided on the island of Bomholm, away off in the Baltic Sea. Tauno knew and liked the place, which had but few clusters of settlement. Niels had been to that fief of the Lund archbishopric too, on an earlier trip, and there met an old salt, crusty and trusty, who owned a boat in Sandvig. Let the merman's children seek him out, passing themselves off as human foreigners, and give him a carefully worded message. For payment—they had both donned golden arm coils, off which bits could be sliced—he should be willing to go to Denmark, track Niels down, and deliver the report.

“Next year, if we are alive—aye!” said Tauno. He and his comrade handselled it.

Ingeborg and Hauau stood among wet swirls that an unseen sun turned silvery. The Kattegat leaped at their feet.

“I maun be awa' the noo, ere the weather breaks and reveals us,” he told her. The scheme was for him to steer
Herning
well out, then turn the cog loose, to smash beyond recognition on a Norse or Swedish coast where nobody knew her anyway. Meanwhile a gray seal would be swimming toward Sule Skerry.

She embraced him, forgetful of the fishy stench that rubbed off on her gown. “Will I ever see you again?” she asked through tears.

Surprise made fluid the heavy features, the blocky, shaggy frame. “Och, lass, why'd ye wish that?”

“Because you, you are good,” she stammered. “Kind, caring——How many care, in this world…or beyond?”

“Wha' gowk yon halfling be,” Hauau sighed. “But nay, Ingeborg, seas will sunder us.”

“You could come back sometime. If everything goes well—I'll have me an island or a strip of beach to dwell on——”

He clasped her by the waist and looked long into her eyes. “Are ye that lanely?”

“You are.”

“And ye think we might tegither——” He shook his head. “Nay, my jo. Ye hae your ain doom, I hae mine.”

“B-before those claim us——”

“Nay, I said.” He fell quiet. Mist blew by, waters murmured.

At last, slowly, as if each word were a burden: “Wha' I hae found dear in ye is your mortal womanness. But my second sight—och, I dinna ken, for 'tis all blurred, yet—o' a sudden I grow frightened o' ye. Such strangeness blaws doon the wind, oot o' your tomorrow.”

He let her go and trod backward. “Forgi' me,” he mumbled, his palms raised as though in defense. “I shouldna hae spoken. Farewell, Ingeborg.” He turned and walked from her.

“Whilst I beget my son,” he called through a drifting curtain of mist, “I will be thinking o' ye.”

She heard him wade outward. She heard him swim. When the fog had lifted, the ship was on the horizon.

There could be no real leavetaking. Persons had done what they were able, two by two, before the anchor sank. Niels and Ingeborg gazed north until the last sight of their lovers was lost among waves. Heaven stood open; rays from the west made waters blaze; distant and black winged a flight of cormorants.

He shook himself. “Well,” he said, “if we want to reach Als before dark, best we start off.”

They meant to sleep that night in her hut. If it had been torn down during her absence, maybe Father Knud would share his roof. In the morning they must confront the terrestrial world, but at least that could begin among folk who knew them.

Ingeborg fell into step. Sand scrunched underfoot. “Remember,” she said, “at first, let me carry most of the speech. You're not used to lies.”

He grimaced. “Especially lies to those who trust me.”

“Whereas a whore is faithless.”

So harsh was her tone that he broke stride and swung his head—stiffly, in his weariness—around for a glance at her. She stared straight down their path. “I meant no harm,” he blurted.

“I know,” she said as if by rote. “However, do curb your tongue until you're out of this dream you're awash in, and have your judgment back.”

He flushed. “Yes, I miss Eyjan, that's a loss which flenses, but—oh——”

She relented, reached up to stroke his hair as they walked, said mildly, “Later you, the man of us, will take the lead. It's only that I know men in Hadsund who I think will aid us for a pinch of gold, without asking many questions…and tell us somewhat about men of power whom we'll approach afterward. We've talked of this erenow.”

“Indeed.”

“Nevertheless, best we keep sure that we're in full understanding, you and I.” Her laughter was brittle. “Has Faerie ever held anything more outlandish than our intent?”

They trudged on south.

Book Three

TUPILAK

I

A
FEW
leagues inland from the Adriatic coast, hills began swelling into mountains. That rise, the edge of the Svilaja Planina, was also the border of the district, reaching further on into the true highlands, for whose peace the zhupan Ivan Subitj was responsible. Yet his castle did not stand near the middle of it, but at Skradin, not far at all from Shibenik. Partly this was because the village was the largest community in the zhupe, partly so that if need be he could summon quick help from the town. Besides, little warding was generally required; much of the country was wilderness, and the dwellers peaceable. Indeed, this was a wholly different world from the littoral, its ships and cities and outlook to the West. Here ancient ways endured, and ancient things.

Father Tomislav seemed to embody them as he passed through Skradin. He stumped along faster than would have been awaited in a man so burly. His oaken staff would be a fearsome weapon were he ever attacked. The cassock he had tucked up above dusty old boots was of the coarsest linsey-woolsey, faded and darned. The rosary that swung at his side, making the crucifix bounce, was of wooden beads carved by a peasant. His face was likewise of the peasantry, broad, round-nosed, weather-beaten, small russet eyes a-twinkle over the high cheekbones, scant gray hair but a grizzled bush of beard spilling over the chest almost to the paunch. His hands were big and calloused.

As he passed down the street, he received many hails from people. He replied boomingly, save when a child would skip near enough for him to rumple its locks. A few persons called—had he learned something about the aliens, were they dangerous, what did they portend? “You'll hear in time, in God's good time,” he told them, without pause in his stride. “Meanwhile, have no fear. We've sturdy saints looking after us.”

At the castle, a sentry notified him, “The zhupan said he will meet you in the Falcon Chamber.” Tomislav nodded and bustled on across the cobbles of the courtyard, into the keep. This was a minor fortress built of tawny limestone quarried nearby more than a hundred years ago; it lacked glass, proper chimneys, any modern comfort. At the north end it sported a watchtower, below whose roof was a room whence men could look widely over the landscape and sometimes loose their hawks. There, too, they could talk in private.

Having climbed, Tomislav leaned out for the view while he puffed. Below him was the daily tumult, servants, artisans, dogs, poultry, sound of voices and footfalls and clattering metal, whiffs of smoke and dung and bread in the oven. Beyond were grainfields mellowing toward harvest, a-ripple under a breeze that sent a few clouds white across blue overhead. Birds filled the sky, doves, crows, thrushes, rooks, larks. On the southern horizon, wildwood made a green wall to cut off all but a glimpse of the lake.

His gaze sought back along the Krka that, passing by Skradin, emptied into yonder water. A mile outside the village, some apple trees grew by the stream, fenced off lest pigs take fallen fruit or boys take unfallen. Tomislav saw the helm and lancehead of a horseman flash beside the rails. More guards surrounded the entire orchard. Under its leaves, the strangers sat captive.

Steps on the staircase caused the priest to turn around. The zhupan entered—a tall man, craggy-featured, the scar of a sword-slash twisting his mouth and seaming his cheek on the left. He wore his white-shot black hair at shoulder length but trimmed his beard close. His garb was as usual, an embroidered blouse, breeks tucked into half-boots, a dagger at his belt, no jewelry.

“God give you a good day,” Tomislav greeted with a sign of blessing. He would have said the same to the humblest old granny.

“That may depend on you as well,” Ivan Subitj replied wryly.

Tomislav could not quite halt a scowl when the castle chaplain, Father Petar, came in behind. This was a gaunt fellow who seldom smiled. The priests exchanged stiff nods.

“Well, have you a useful word for us?” Ivan demanded.

Tomislav grew more hesitant than was his wont. “I may or I may not. My wits don't reach to understanding this thing at once.”

“Scarcely a surprise,” Petar snapped. “My son, I warned you it was a waste of time sending for…for one whose pastorate huddles afar in the woods. No offense, Tomislav. I hope you will agree this is a matter for learned doctors to study, for the Ban or perhaps the King's own regents to decide about.”

“We'd not hear from them soon,” Ivan said. “Meanwhile, we've more than a hundred eldritch incomers to guard and feed. It strains us, keeping them, not to speak of the unease their presence wakens in the commoners.”

“What have you learned from Shibenik?” Tomislav inquired.

Ivan shrugged. “What I told you, however briefly, when you arrived yesterday. A foundering wreck of a foreign ship; dead bodies of this race, and of what appear to be Italians—likeliest Venetians—that must have fought them; that's what the satnik's men collected. Wisely, he's taken steps to keep news from spreading. The corpses were buried in secret, the soldiers got strict orders to say nothing to anybody. Rumors are bound to spread regardless, but we can hope they'll stay mere rumors and die out after a while.”

“Save here,” Petar muttered, and ran fingers through his blond beard. His other hand sent clicks along his rosary.

“Yes. Well, not much traffic goes in or out of Skradin,” Ivan said. “I've sent a request for help—food and reinforcements—but had no answer yet. Doubtless the satnik has a letter on its way to Ban Pavle, asking for instructions, and is wary of acting till he hears. This leaves me holding the entire burden, wherefore I seek what counsel I can get.”

“From anybody whatsoever?” Petar scoffed.

Tomislav bristled, gripped hard his staff, and growled back, “What would
your
advice be?”

“Safest to slay them” Petar said. “They may or may not be human, but Christian they surely are not—not Catholics of the Western rite, mauger that one of them knows Latin, nor of ours; not Orthodox schismatics, not even of the abominable Bogomil heresy, not even Jews or paynim.” His voice grew high; between the chill stone walls, he sweated. “Naked, shameless, seen freely copulating…why, the very heathen have some decency, some kind of marriage.…And nothing like a prayer, a sacrifice, any act of worship, nothing like that has been observed among them in their plight.”