The Waters Rising (36 page)

“And I?”

“Do you know all the location signs your father used for his birds?”

“Yes,” she replied. “He gave me a complete list of them.”

“Since it seems things here at the abbey aren’t as straightforward as we’d thought, it would be good to know who and what places the abbey stays in touch with. Ask to visit the loft keeper here. His name’s Solo Winger. Tell whoever you ask that you spent a lot of time in Justinian’s bird lofts and would like to see the abbey’s. I wrote down all the signs I could remember from Woldsgard,” he said, and dug a bit of paper out of a pocket.

“If you’re wondering, I already know Merhaven is on my list.”

“Good enough, but we still need to find out if Winger has birds from anyplace that Woldsgard doesn’t.” He sat back for a moment, thinking. “Even if Bear left here and a message came from him saying the way to Merhaven was safe, we couldn’t rely on that information. We would need to make our own inquiry of Merhaven.”

“How would we get an answer if we were on the way?”

“That’s why I want to find out what birds they have here. If they have birds from someplace between here and Merhaven, we could take a Merhaven bird with us and ask them to reply to the in-between place. If there is one.”

Xulai said fretfully, “There are so many puzzles.”

“Quite a few,” he said, ticking them off on his fingers. “There’s the waters rising, the Sea King, the enmity of the duchess and probably the prior, the unknown status of the abbot, the inimical posture of King Gahls, the oddities of the refugees upon the long road to the highlands, the status of Benjobz and his expanding stables, and how in the devil did the duchess get to Benjobz and her consort get here to the abbey the same time as we did?”

“Without being seen on the road. All this is my fault,” she whispered. “I’ve got you all involved in this mess . . .”

“Oh, Xulai! Nonsense. You’d have to be three times your age to have caused half that many snarls! My whole life has been full of puzzles! They were puzzles just as convoluted as these, and many of them happened back at a time when I was barely conscious of them. Somehow, I survived, and we will survive this time as well. Meantime, ask questions, casually. Someone must know why all these houses are vacant. See what you can learn from the bird man. And . . . do you suppose that librarian—what did you say his name was?”

“Wordswell.”

“Do you suppose he knows anything about the Sea King? Like who or what or where he is? Like who or what constitutes his armies? Little details like that?”

I
t was already late, but Xulai had gained the impression that Wordswell spent most of his nights at the library, so she asked for a guide to take her there. On the way, they encountered the prior, who stopped them.

“It is late to be wandering, Daughter.” His tone was admonitory.

“I have an errand at the library, Elder Brother. Also, do I need someone’s permission to visit the bird lofts? The duke mentioned that you have fine ones and that I should see them while I am here.”

He raised one nostril in slight distaste. “Ah, I can’t imagine why. The man who keeps the birds, a creature named Winger, is a simpleton. Certainly he is illiterate, so you are unlikely to get sensible information from him. However, if your guardian has recommended it to you, there is no reason why not. By all means, go when you like.”

He nodded magisterially and went off down the corridor, while Xulai and her guide continued to the library. “He doesn’t think much of the bird keeper,” remarked Xulai.

“Nor of anyone who gets their hands dirty,” said the guide. “Prior, he’s a very superior kind of man. Got all that gold on him so we all know it.” And his left eye flickered in what might actually have been a wink.

Once at the library, she sent the guide to tell Precious Wind where she was and that she would be back shortly. Wordswell was indeed among the stacks, high among the towering shelves, perched on a ladder, a book propped half-open before him.

Xulai called, “Don’t come down, Elder Brother. But would you direct me to whatever books might tell me something about the Sea King?”

He ignored her suggestion that he stay where he was and clambered down as though he had spent all his life climbing things, trees to begin with, no doubt, followed by anything vertical that was of interest.

“I can tell you more quickly than the books can,” he said in a half whisper, throwing a quick look around the vast room to see if anyone else was there. “I wouldn’t, ordinarily, but I sometimes get these feelings about passing on information. A kind of itch; one that says, ‘Tell this person about X,’ or ‘Tell this person about Z because he needs to know.’ I felt very strongly the other night that you needed to know about the Sea King, so I’ve been burrowing.”

“That was very kind of you.”

“Well, it may have been. Or it may prove to be regrettable. One never knows, does one? Tell the wrong person the wrong thing, and it’s a disaster. Still, one must chance it at times. At any rate, the Sea King: He is of the cephalopod race. His reputation parallels or is equivalent to that of the kraken. Of course, the kraken is supposed to be mountainous in size, and the Sea King is said to have conversed with human beings; it’s unlikely that both are true—I find it difficult to visualize speaking with a mountain. He is said to have arisen sometime within the last several thousand years—I mean the Sea King, not the kraken—as we have no record mentioning him before that time, though krakens go far, far back in time. We have no idea whether the Sea King has been one individual during all that time or a succession of individuals. We don’t know if there are any others like him. Or her. We say ‘Sea King,’ but it could just as likely be a queen. He or she issues orders through human servants who live on certain islands in his or her domain. When the abbey sent emissaries to meet with him or her, it was with these human representatives that they met. The humans retired at intervals to receive directions from the Sea King, but our ambassadors never saw him or her.

“We know a few things he or she has done. He or she has offered an enormous reward to any persons or creatures who invent ways to clean up the great chancre in the Western Sea. The chancre lies south of Tingawa and some way east. It is a continent-sized human junk pile left over from the days of the ease machines, and it is proving impossible to get rid of. It is poisonous. It leaks into the oceans. It is extremely difficult to dismantle into parts. The latest effort has been to determine whether the whole mass or large chunks of it can be moved over a chain of submarine volcanoes which
might
be able to incinerate it. Whales, I think, were to be the motive force—whales and possibly some sailing ships on the surface. Meantime, the Tingawans are trying to determine if the incineration would cause more trouble than leaving it alone or possibly towing it over one of the ocean deeps, weighting it down, and then causing subsea avalanches to cover it.

“We know the Sea King has done everything possible to keep oceangoing traffic and fishing at a minimum, so the chancre cannot grow and sea populations cannot be wiped out by nets. Wooden sailing ships are tolerated because they are what is called
biodegradable.
That means they rot. Rot is good. It is very important that things rot. No doubt whatever force created life included rot as a necessary concomitant. Presumably, we can have steamships if they rot properly when they wear out. Our records tell us of steamships in the far past and we still know how to make steam engines—we have one in the laundry here to wash the linens, as a matter of fact. The abbot said it really wasn’t an ease machine because it uses natural steam, from the great rock below us—but we are forbidden to carry certain cargoes or have ships made of metal or moved by any kind of engine that burns what was called
fossil fuels.
Of course, such ships or cargoes are virtually impossible to create in these days. Oil is rare and far too useful to burn. No, the old ease-machine ships are gone, along with all those who knew how to run them.

“All in all, everything the Sea King has done seems to me to be perfectly sensible and justifiable from the point of view of any sea creature, though it’s made life inconvenient for a good many humans. I, however, having read everything available, cannot imagine any reason why the Sea King would make it difficult for you to travel in a small sailing vessel, islet to islet, to Tingawa. The Tingawans are said to be on a good terms with the creature.”

“So if I can get safely to Merhaven . . .”

“You should have no difficulty going west from there. Getting to Merhaven itself is the problem. We have reports of brigands, of wandering bands of lawless men, of patrols sent by King Gahls who kill first and ask who you are later, and of strange creatures no one has seen before emanating from the Old Dark House in the woods south of Wold.”

“All the way up here? On the heights?”

“
Here
isn’t that far,” said Wordswell with a frown. “It’s not noticeable except on a map, but the abbey is almost directly east of the Old Dark House. From Lake Riversmeet, the road to Wellsport runs almost true west, but the road to Eastwatch Tower and then up the heights gradually swings to the northeast. At the top of the falls, the road runs southeast for a way toward Benjobz, but it gradually turns due south. The Wilderbrook road from there continues south to begin with, but it winds around a lot and the abbey is actually west of Benjobz. The four points—the Old Dark House, the top of the cliff road, Benjobz, and the abbey—make a squashed rectangle, and the side between the Old Dark House and the abbey is by far the shortest side. To the west, beyond the strip of forest we can see from here, the land steps steadily downward with no great cliff to climb and no great waterfalls, either.”

“Then why in the name of good sense do people use that dreadful road up the cliff face near the falls?” asked Xulai.

“Because the slope west of us was once mined for metal. It’s like a huge sponge full of shafts and bores and holes that collapse without warning, besides being poisonously barren because of the chemicals that were used either in the mines or in processing the ore. You’ve heard of the Dragdown Swamps? That’s just another name for what that huge sponge turns into when it rains for a long time, or when we have heavy snow in winter and it all melts at once. It’s evil country. It’s begotten many evil stories. People say that some of the old mine ease machines are still alive down there, that they can be heard talking to one another.”

Xulai stood with her mouth slightly open, as though to give the ideas her mind was being flooded with a route to escape. After a long moment, she murmured, “So, if a creature knew of a safe path through this dangerous country, he or she could get from the Old Dark House up here to the abbey in a relatively short time?”

“Oh, my, yes, if he or she knew a way.”

Xulai would not have bet a flibbity-bit that the Duchess of Altamont did not know a way, which meant Jenger knew it, which was why Jenger had been able to talk to Bear across the wall of the abbey.

“Anything else?” asked Wordswell.

She nodded, her face serious. “Can you lend me something on cephalopods? The most authoritative thing you have from the Before Times.”

“You do know the books are not supposed to leave the library.”

“Can you check to see when was the last time anyone asked for any of them, or it, or whatever?”

Wordswell stalked across the room to a large file full of tiny drawers and began pulling them out, one, then the one below, then the one below that. “Cephalopods,” he murmured to himself or to her or to the air. “Cephalopods. The oceanic biology teacher spent about a week in here reading up on them . . . about ten years ago.”

“No one since?”

He shook his head, giving her a conspiratorial look over the tops of his spectacles.

“I doubt anyone would miss one book, would they?”

He blinked. “I doubt they would. Things get mis-shelved from time to time.”

“Just one,” she said. “The best one.”

“You understand it’s a copy of a copy. The original would have been dust by now.”

He moved the ladder, went up the ladder, came back down the ladder. The book was encased in an oiled wooden box that fit it very tightly and excluded almost all air from around it. The book inside was bound in leather and printed on a special kind of paper that lasted for a very long time. The title shone in gold on the cover:
Cephalopods.
Below it was a design of tentacles, twined around one another like a thousand noodles, and from the center of the design, two very human-seeming eyes stared at her, glinting in the candlelight. “I think I’m supposed to do this,” said Wordswell. “I have such notions.”

“If it’s any help to you, sir, I think you are supposed to give it to me.” Wrapping it loosely in her coat, she left the library and returned to Abasio’s wagon, somewhat surprised at knowing the way, less so when she realized the fisher had been directing her all along.

The trouble with reading secretly was that she was very seldom alone. While Oldwife would think little of her having a schoolbook to read at night, Precious Wind would be curious, and she might mention it to Bear. Strangely enough, Abasio was still sitting by the fire, as though waiting for her.

She unpacked the book. “I need to read this.”

He leafed through a few pages. “You’ll need a very long time.”