Beyond the Pool of Stars Page 9

  His mother opened the door to their cabin and shone her lantern into the tiny space.

  There was barely enough room to slide in sideways. Ivrian spied their storage chests under the bottom bunk and a small porthole beside the top berth. His mother hung the lantern on a hook high on the bunk’s post.

  “I call lower bunk,” his mother declared sprightly. “A perk of age.” She grinned. “I’m going topside. I need to be in on this meeting.”

  “Can I come with you?”

  “No, son. This information is on a need-to-know basis. And you don’t need to know, yet.”

  “Oh.” Ivrian was a little disappointed.

  His mother squeezed his shoulder. “I’ll tell you all about it later. For now, settle in and get a good night’s sleep. It’ll be your last one on a mattress for weeks. I’ll try not to wake you when I return.” She raised a hand in farewell before stepping out, closing the door behind her.

  Ivrian reexamined the cramped surroundings. He could hear the pad of feet on the decks above and occasional low voices, but he had no idea what was happening up there or how he’d describe it in his account. He doubted readers would be interested in seeing a cabin described in any great detail. What would he do, go on about the shades of wood grain or the precise size of the porthole?

  Fortunately, he’d been on enough trips he could fake the steps of this departure. Easy enough to imagine the rattle of lines as the sails swung down, the muscled sailors straining to heave up the anchor, the billow of the sails as they swung to meet the wind.

  He patted the upper berth. There was very little mattress, but at least it was stuffed with clean-smelling straw. There were two blankets, both of which felt superfluous in the stifling cabin, so he folded one into a pillow and then took off his pack.

  He set it on his mother’s bunk. Constructed of sealskin, the pack was clearly new. What wasn’t immediately obvious was that it also bore a powerful enchantment. His mother had personally invested in five of the packs, one for each professional salvager and each Galanor. Every pack opened onto far more internal space than was apparent from the outside—a sorcerous trick. And no matter how much weight was added to one, they’d never feel heavier than five pounds. Ideally suited, his mother had said with a smile, for transporting a fortune in gems.

  Right now, all that Ivrian’s pack held was his portable writing desk, which he withdrew and contemplated with pleasure. Nonmagical, it was still a small marvel, complete with hinged top to double the workspace size and a wealth of small drawers that held his inkwell, quills, sharpeners, and paper. While nowhere near the expense of the magical haversacks, it had still seemed an extravagance, and he’d been delighted when his mother presented it to him.

  There didn’t look to be enough room to sit upright on the top bunk, so he climbed onto his mother’s, rested the desk in his lap, and began to record his impressions of everything that had happened that evening. He was distracted as he felt the ship surge forward like a great beast let free from its leash.

  Ivrian couldn’t help grinning with a sense of exhilaration as the ship rose and fell over the wave swells. They were underway.

  Once his notes were complete, he packed up the writing gear, his fingers lingering lovingly on the dark polished mahogany of the desk before restoring it to the haversack. He then stared out the porthole for a while. Mostly he saw endless waves under a velvet, star-shot sky, but under the silver moon he beheld the jagged outline of the Lizard Kings: a weathered series of huge reptilian heads carved out of a line of reefs northeast of Smuggler’s Shiv. They reared out of the waves as though behemoths stood sentinel along the deep ocean beds. He’d glimpsed them only once before, and had been a little disappointed, for most had been softened by wind, wave, and rain. By night they were more fearsome, and it gave him a satisfying thrill imagining what they must have looked like in ancient times.

  With the Kings receding, he reached into one of the haversack’s side pockets and carefully removed his second treasure—an autographed copy of Ailson Kindler’s best work, the outstanding In the Council of Corpses.

  It was a first run of the first edition, with the misnumbered second folio, which made it even more valuable. He’d leave it on the ship rather than taking it into the jungle, of course. Now that he realized how little they’d actually be on board, he felt silly having brought it. Still, it was always a pleasure to soak in Kindler’s prose. He’d give a lot to write with such luscious, evocative phrases. Every time he tried, though, it sounded too forced, as though he were a child jumping and waving his arms to get attention.

  He read the familiar pages for a good hour or more before fatigue crept in. Mother still hadn’t returned to tell him about the meeting. He resolved not to worry about it. There was always the morning. Besides, she had told him it was vital to catch sleep when one could while on an expedition, and he was more and more beginning to sense she knew her business.

  He restored his treasure to the sealskin, dragged the heavy chest out from under the bunk to store his pack and shoes, unbuttoned his shirt, and climbed into the bunk. Already he was thinking of the strange coast that lay ahead. His mother had said something about an inland trek and a secret pool, so he fell to sleep with visions of an ancient city built of emerald blocks, choked in greenery and gleaming with golden idols shaped like lizardfolk.

  So soundly did he sleep that he never heard his mother return, nor the rising winds and lash of rain and the shouts of sailors.

  He didn’t wake at all until the ship slammed into the reef.

  9

  Landfall

  Mirian

  Mirian woke in the darkness to the sound of the weather bell. The vessel rocked madly, and the decks creaked and trembled under the press of rain. Thunder rumbled, and a sheet of lightning outside the porthole blinded her.

  She threw off her coverlet and sank down on one knee to yank her sea chest out from under her bunk.

  The Leopard rolled forward to aft, which meant it remained under a modicum of control. Akimba was a seasoned captain with a hand-picked crew—these sailors knew the way of the seas and would do their best to keep their ship afloat.

  But the gods didn’t always care about the fates of individual men and women. Mirian took the key from about her neck and threw open the chest, guiding herself by the frequent slashes of lightning.

  Within lay most of her gear, well ordered so that she might have found what she sought without light, if need be. There were changes of clothes, her survival pack, a satchel stocked with tiny vials filled with antidotes for jungle poisons, fine tools, and a watertight pouch of eel hide where she kept her Pathfinder journal, ink, and pens.

  It likewise held her equipment belt and sword belt, both of which she buckled into place. She then threw on a light, hooded rain cape given to her by a Bas’o aunt, restored the chest, and hurried from the cabin.

  Beyond the door, the storm was a monster that tore at the sky with lightning fingers and shrieked at those who dared ride the waves.

  The sails were reefed, of course. Canvas raised in these winds would not only be useless; it’d be shredded.

  The rain lashed her as she crossed the plunging deck. The ship rode down a valley of water and crashed into a wave higher than the ship itself. Water foamed over the prow, but the Leopard rose and the ocean ran back out of the scuppers.

  Mirian found Akimba at the wheel. The lantern beside him had burned out, and no one had troubled to relight it.

  He caught her eye as she steadied herself on the post where the weather bell hung.

  “It’s not safe up here!” He shouted over the storm.

  “I can handle myself,” Mirian shouted back. “How bad is it?”

  “We’re taking a lot of water.”

  “I’ll get my people to help.”

  Akimba shook his head. “Plenty of hands for the pumps.”

  She steadied herself as the Red Leopard climbed a smaller wave, then rushed down another. Beyond the occasional flash o
f lightning rolled black sea and storm clouds in every direction.

  Akimba motioned her close. As she leaned in, he spoke into her ear. “Might put guards on your fr— lizardfolk. The crew thinks this is their fault.”

  Mirian frowned.

  “They say frillbacks are unlucky.”

  She steadied herself as they hit another rough wave, one that left the deck ankle deep in water before the Leopard bore on and spray flung from her sides.

  “You know the time?” she asked. “Or our course?”

  “Coming on half past five bells. The wind was with us until the storm hit. We’re still north by northwest, and veering north.”

  “We weren’t that far south of the Kaava!”

  “That’s what I’m afraid of. I’ll handle it,” Akimba added. “Now get below. See to your people.”

  Mirian clapped his shoulder before she left him.

  Rather than a lantern, she took a glow stone from her pouch and whispered it to light as she started down the gangway. The stone was small and flat, one of several her father had recovered from a wreck a few years ago, after her own departure. By its light she saw not only the gangway, but her brother, braced miserably against it.

  Kellic had put on the same gentleman’s dining pants, boots, and blue short-sleeved shirt he’d been wearing last night, as though he were headed for an evening on the town. His pallor now had less to do with any potion and much more to do with seasickness. Judging from his misaligned shirt buttons, he’d dressed in the dark.

  “Mirian,” he said with a groan. “What’s going on?”

  “A storm. You’d best get back to your cabin.”

  He shook his head. He’d been defiant ever since she’d returned from the jungle with the lizardfolk, and increasingly ill-tempered when she refused to divulge her plans. It had driven a further wedge between them. How could she persuade him she trusted him when it was so clear that she didn’t? All she could repeat was that she’d been sworn to secrecy by Lady Galanor, which hadn’t impressed Kellic.

  “Go on,” she said. “Look at you. You’re going to throw up any second.”

  “Where are you going?”

  “To check on our team.”

  “That’s what Tokello said.”

  Her brother and the healer shared the final passenger cabin. Every other passenger but the Galanors were in the vast and mostly empty cargo hold.

  “Come on, then.” If nothing else, maybe the healer could give him something to settle his stomach.

  They maneuvered through the warren of little side doors and then sternward into the cargo bay below the weather deck.

  Were this a normal voyage, the lower decks would be crammed not just with hammocks but with supplies and cargo. Owing to the nearness of their destination and its purpose, barrels and chests were at a minimum, leaving ample space.

  She stepped around the gangway to the lower deck where she even now heard the steady clank and cursing of the crew working the bilge pumps. Most ships leaked, and when a ship was tossed like theirs, it leaked all the more. Probably a quarter of the crew was working below, taking turns on the hand cranks.

  She walked easily over the wildly rocking planks, passing between close-hung hammocks where sailors turned fitfully. Another glow stone was a yellow beacon by the door that led to the forecastle, and it was there her own team was stationed, on the starboard side along with all three of the lizardfolk. The Karshnaar hammocks hung empty. Kalina lay curled against the bulkhead, her long, inhuman foot clawed securely into ropes that lashed a barrel to the bulkhead.

  Heltan sat beside her, still and quiet. It was only after they’d supplied them with beds and canopies for the courtyard that she’d understood Heltan and Kalina were mated, for they slept together. They also tended to linger near one another, occasionally touching fingertips.

  Jekka watched Mirian approach, his eyes seeming to glow with malevolence. He studied her the way her old gray cat had watched her father’s blue-crested parrot, as though he held back from killing only because there were too many witnesses. She’d heard almost nothing from him from the time they’d arrived at her home.

  Heltan turned his head to face her as she walked up. “Salvager Mirian,” he said, “and Salvager Kellic. Good early morning to you.”

  Heltan was always formal and polite; he had invented titles for them based upon their occupation, apparently a lizardfolk custom.

  “Chronicler Heltan,” she said.

  Gombe lay in the nearest hammock, snoring fitfully. Rendak had one of their chests open and was rooting through it. Tokello crouched beside him. She looked a little pale herself, and seemed to be whispering under her breath. A prayer to Gozreh, Mirian realized, muttered over and over.

  She put a hand to the woman’s massive shoulder. “You feeling all right, Tokello?”

  “I hate the damned storms,” she whispered, then rolled her eyes heavenward. “No offense, Gozreh. I know we all have days when we need to let it out, and your purpose is mysterious. Far be it from me to question—”

  The rest of the healer’s words were drowned out by another huge crash of thunder.

  “Do you have anything to settle Kellic’s stomach?” Mirian asked her. “He’s feeling a little ill.”

  “I’m fine,” Kellic said.

  “Are you sure?”

  “I’m fine,” her brother insisted.

  The ship rolled and Tokello steadied herself. “I have something that will settle him, but it will also put him under. And if Gozreh keeps working his way, we may have to swim. May he see fit not to do that,” she said with a further flash of holy signs.

  Kellic blanched further.

  “I don’t think it will come to that.” Mirian tried to steady the healer with a calming hand. She moved on to Rendak, Kellic lingering at her rear like an ill-tempered shadow.

  “I’m readying the gear,” the mate said to her unanswered question.

  “Why?” Kellic asked. “We can’t even see the coast, let alone drop anchor.”

  “In case the ship goes down,” Mirian whispered.

  Kellic’s eyes bugged. He looked more frightened than ever, which was a little exasperating. He wore the water-breathing ring recovered from their father’s corpse. Rendak and Gombe had air bottles. Tokello didn’t even have one of those, because the things were damned expensive and she never went overboard in any case. The emergency plan had always been to band together underwater to pass the bottles back and forth, but it would be hard going in the depths of the sea, at night.

  Just because you could breathe water didn’t mean you wouldn’t exhaust yourself getting to shore, provided you could find it.

  And providing there wasn’t something down there hunting you.

  Mirian stepped over to check on the lizardfolk. Jekka stared. Kalina slept. Heltan bowed his head in acknowledgment.

  “Has there been any trouble here?” she asked. Akimba’s warning aside, no one seemed to be bothering them

  “No,” Heltan answered. “You come to check the safety of your clan and allies. That is wise.”

  “They are not her clan,” Jekka corrected softly. “They are slaves.”

  Mirian stiffened. “They work for me.”

  “She twists meaning, like all of them,” Jekka told his brother.

  She supposed he could have spoken in his own language, but Jekka was astonishingly like a human tough trying to provoke reaction.

  And Heltan spoke swiftly, just as would a human diplomat eager to keep the peace. “Perhaps my brother has confusion. He says they who serve you are slaves. I think they are lesser clan.”

  “They’re neither. They choose to work for my family, and can come and go as they please. My family pays them,” she added, “so that they can afford food, shelter, and goods of their own.”

  “An interesting idea,” Heltan said.

  Rendak crossed to stand beside her. He was a few inches shorter than Mirian herself, and in the loose-fitting pants and tight shirt there was no mis
sing that he was built of corded muscle, even if his belly was shielded by a layer of fat.

  “What she means,” he said, “is that Tokello and I have chosen to stay with the Raas family for almost ten years. There was no finer salvager than Leovan Raas, Pharasma preserve his soul, and his daughter’s forged in the same mold.”

  Mirian couldn’t help noticing that he made no mention of Kellic, and she held off glancing over to check if her brother listened.

  “It is always about coins,” Jekka said softly to his brother. He then considered the humans once more. “Our loyalty is to blood, not metal.”

  Rendak was amiable and quick-thinking, but he could also be a little temperamental. “Now wait just a moment.”

  The ship rocked and dipped. They heard the wash of water over the decks and every one of them looked up to the joists. But the ship rose once more, and the wave washed away.

  Rendak resumed as if there’d been no interruption. “Leo paid for my services. But he earned my loyalty because he was a good leader. Like Mirian.” Then, belatedly, “And her brother.”

  Jekka’s hostility was faintly tempered now with curiosity. “What happens to your loyalty without the metal she pays?”

  “I’ve served the family in lean times, too,” Rendak said. He didn’t mention this was one of them.

  “In our cities,” Mirian explained, “people need money to eat, and to buy clothes. Different clans specialize in providing different things. And our blood ties are smaller than yours.”

  Jekka’s teeth showed at that; Heltan put a hand to his brother’s shoulder.

  Mirian pretended she hadn’t noticed. “When my clan takes in metal, we share it out with those we trust so that they can buy food, and clothes, and whatever else they need.”

  “Such as Crown’s End whiskey,” Heltan suggested. The lizardfolk had a great fondness for the alcohol, although it didn’t actually seem to have any effect upon him.

  Rendak laughed, and a little of the tension left his shoulders.