The Wide World's End (15 page)

“Good of you.”

“It was Noreê's idea.” He turned to Deor. “I know why you say what you say. But there is more to her than you know.”

Deor raised his mug in salute. “I honor you for defending your friend, Illion.”

“It's not just that. It's about justice.”

“Aha, but what about that thing you people are always saying? ‘I don't judge; I defend.'”

“Perhaps I'm in the wrong line of work,” said Illion. “I like justice, when I can get it.” He turned back to Morlock. “What do you think of the thing, Morlock the Maker?”

“I think this gem did not grow in the veins of the ground,” Morlock said thoughtfully. “There are makers in the unguarded lands who can do work like this, but they are mostly dwarves.”

“Unlikely that they would take a commission from a dragon. Or do you think this was stolen?”

“No, I think it was crafted to be a vessel of power for Rulgân in particular. It vibrates with draconic force.”

“And therefore . . .” Illion said, and waited.

Morlock didn't speak.

Jordel said, “You can't suppose that someone in the Wardlands made it for him?”

“I have supposed it,” Illion said, “and it's not impossible, you know. The Wardlands are wide and there are many people in them, thinking their own thoughts and going their own ways. Maybe someone's path brought them to this. But no, I think there's something else even likelier.”

“Old Ambrosius, of course,” said Sundra. “What do you say, Morlock?”

“Yes. I think so.” Morlock tossed the dragonstone back to Illion.

Illion was startled, but quick of hand. He caught the stone and said, “That's odd. I thought you would want this.”

“Keep it,” Morlock suggested, “in case Rulgân launches another attack against the Wardlands. But I think Kelat will be of more use to me. That is, if he can travel.”

“Oh ho!” Deor said. “The evening's work has taken shape, I guess. We're going to break into the lockhouse, kidnap Kelat, and carry him back to the unguarded lands for a dragon hunt. Am I wrong,
harven
?”

“No,” said Morlock.

“Yes,” said Aloê, “about one thing. That is the night's work, not the evening's. If my husband is going on a deadly mission into the unguarded lands, you will need to spend a pair of hours preparing for the journey. And he needs to spend that time with me.”

“
Ath, rokhlan!
” Deor said, bowing low. “
Ev xemennen akkram hav!
”

Aloê stood and offered Morlock her hand. He rose and took it. She led him from the room, heedless of Naevros' carefully averted eyes.

C
HAPTER
S
IX

A Parting; a Meeting

Among other things, Aloê said, “I love you” and “You are in danger” and “They think you could be king.”

He did not answer the first in words at all, nor did she need him to. To the second he said, “There is no safe place anywhere. It may be we only choose where and when to meet the end.” To the third he said, “What?”

“Lernaion said it, after the Battle of Tunglskin. Earno called him a liar. I was half dead at the time, but I remember hearing it.”

Morlock sat silent, thinking. “This explains some things Lernaion has said to me of late.”

“Such as?”

“False courtesies, as if I were his senior in the Graith. As if he need ask my permission for things. As if I were king, I guess.”

“Who do you think the Graith listens to more—especially after today?”

“Let them listen. When I talk, I have things that need saying. But I am not king, nor am I even Summoner of the City. I don't wish to be, Aloê.”

She turned away from him on the bed and drew a coverlet over her naked shoulders. “Why not?”

“Why not?” he repeated, astonished.

“You heard me!” She turned and glared at him. “It's not like you to waste words, beloved. I say, ‘Why not?' and I want your answer.”

“No one person should have supreme power in the land. Attempting it is grounds for exile. It is why my
ruthen
father was exiled, Aloê.”

“So what?”

“It doesn't matter to you? It matters to me.”

“Say, then, you will not be king. You will be High Vocate of the Wardlands, leader of our Graith, and no more.”

“King in all but name? Why would I want that?”

“Don't you want people to see that you are. . . .”

“That I'm what?”

“Better than everyone else!”

“I'm not. And I will not follow in my father's footsteps.”

“You followed them into the Graith.”

“To be a better Guardian than he was. A better man.”

“And you are. Don't you think I know that? Don't you think everyone does?”

He was silent for a long time and she said, “I've shocked you.”

“No,” he said slowly. “We have lived together for a century, Aloê. We have met, heart to heart and mind to mind in rapture many times. I knew you were ambitious. I didn't know it took this precise form, though.”

“You should think about your choices, beloved.”

“I have made my choice, Aloê.”

“No, beloved. You may have one before you that you don't understand yet.”

“Tell me.”

Her golden eyes searched his face. “You're not angry at me? If we're going to fight, let's fight. I don't need an ironic fencing match just now.”

“I'm not angry. You see many things I would never see. Tell me.”

“What if your choice is between ruling the Wardlands or being exiled from them, with no third option? What then?”

“I can't see how that would happen.”

“If people think you
could
breach the First Decree, they may exile you before you have the chance.”

“Not without giving me a chance to defend myself.”

“Are you joking?”

“No. That's what I think.”

She was silent for a while. Then she said, “I won't go with you.”

He shrugged uneasily. “Of course not. You must stay here to avenge Earno.”

“Thank you for that, too, but that's not what I mean. If they exile you, I'll stay here. My life is here.”

He bowed his head and thought long before he spoke. Finally he said, “That is what I would want for you. To be here, to do your work, to have your life.”

“That's what you would want for
me
. What would you want for
yourself
?”

“You,” he said, smiling.

“Then we both can't have what we want.”

He shook his head. “It won't come to that.”

“If it does. . . .”

“If it does, you have told me. Have you nothing else to tell me before I leave for the end of the world?”

She did, but not in words. Their mouths were busy otherwise for an hour or so.

Morlock took a run through the rain room, put on clean clothes, and descended to the atrium of Tower Ambrose. Deor was waiting there with two packs. Morlock looked at them dubiously. One seemed too large. The other was larger.

“You always leave it to me to pack,” Deor began.

“And some call Illion ‘the Wise.'”

“Yes and—Was that irony at my expense,
harven
?”

“Everyone is accusing me of irony.”

“That doesn't seem to be an answer. Oh, never mind. I want you to look over your pack. I don't want any snide looks if I forgot to pack your favorite razor or something.”

Morlock grumbled at the gigantic backpack, evidently meant for him. “I hate a heavy backpack,” he said.

“Who doesn't? I've given you the barest necessities.”

Morlock unlaced the pack and began to search through it. Then he just dumped the contents on the floor of the atrium and began selecting items for repacking. He took flatbread, dried meat, and a waterbottle and put aside all other foodstuffs. A firemaker, a few tools, three books, and a bedroll completed his kit. He laced up the considerably lighter backpack and called for Walking Shelf to gather up the rest and take it away.

Deor sighed. “I suppose you'll want to go through mine as well?”

Morlock shook his head. What Deor carried was his business. But Morlock did not propose to spend the rest of his life wandering in the unguarded lands: the barest necessities would do.

“Shall we wait for Aloê?” Deor said uncertainly, as Morlock bound his sword and a stabbing spear in their scabbards to the frame of the backpack.

Morlock thought of Aloê as he had last seen her: her dark face angry under a bright glaze of tears. He shook his head.

Deor shrugged and shouldered his own backpack. They went out through the front door, which closed and locked behind them.

As they stepped into the street they both looked back and saw Aloê standing on the balcony above the door, a shadow framed by the dim light behind her.

“Hurry back,” she said.

“All right,” said Morlock, and turned away. He felt then he was walking away from everything that mattered to him.

Around the side were the modest stables of Tower Ambrose, and when Morlock stopped by them Deor said, “Oh, no. Not on one of those things.”

“We must cross the city as fast as we can. What do you propose?”

“What do I propose? I propose that you, the master of all makers, fashion some sort of device that enables a man or a dwarf or even both to travel a decent distance in some way that preserves their dignity and comfort and that in no way involves contact with vicious, sweaty, herbivorous beasts!”

As Deor raved, Morlock was already opening the stable doors. Reluctantly, Deor assisted in saddling a couple of herbivorous beasts, a horse named Nimber for Morlock and a pony named Trundle for Deor. They cantered west along the River Road southwest for a while, then took the Vintners' Way due west. The road was unlit except by Chariot and Trumpeter, both red and gloomy over the western horizon: it was the last day of the month of Marrying. But the way was clear and they travelled steadily until Tower Ambrose was lost among the thicket of towers reaching into the starlit sky.

Vintners' Way ran west into mountain country, and they followed it through the ruinous western wall of the city into the neighborhoods beyond as far as the nightmare-painted streets of Fungustown.

“I never like coming here at night,” Deor whispered. “Or in twilight. Or in the daytime.”

Morlock grunted.

The only building lit up in Fungustown was the lockhouse. It had been a block of apartments when it was built. Noreê and her attendant-thains had not changed the walls at all, but simply put the prisoners in the windowless basement.

Morlock reined in Nimber two streets away from the lockhouse, or tried to. The horse didn't seem to want to stop, so in the end he simply undid the bindings on his pack and jumped off with it. Deor, with an undeniable degree of smugness, brought Trundle to a halt. He was about to give Morlock a demonstration of how to secure his steed with reins to a lampless lamp post, but before he got a chance to speak Trundle shook loose and followed Nimber up the dark street.