Aloren (21 page)

***

A row of old peach trees hung over the road by the sea cliffs.  I passed them every day at dawn.  They were noisy––singing, gossiping, laughing; they helped me endure the weaving.  I hummed their songs as I wrapped stems around my bleeding hands and twisted ropes of saxifrage, columbine and sorrel. 

Leode’s framework was finished: it looked more a pile of compost than a tunic; and I was almost done with Arin’s, which practice and honed skill had rendered a little more shirt-like.

The morning after the trouble with the boys I walked past the peach trees.  I was musing over the saebel’s groaning roots and rolling spheres, and when I’d gone downward a-ways I found I had no tree song to hum. 

I retraced my steps and wasted half my hour digging around the roots, climbing the branches, and kicking the trunks.  But I didn’t hear a single word or note.

They were dead in spirit, and I sat down on the path and cried.  My hair stuck to my face.  Floy sat on a bough above my head and sang so anxiously that Mordan heard her song all the way from the pool.

“They’re dead,” I said when he flew into my lap.   “All of em. I was too late to lay me hands.”

“You’d have been too young, too.”  My tunic knocked his feathers around and he looked at my chest with a rolling eye.  “You’ll get into trouble, with that rose showing.”

“I’ll get in trouble either way.”  I thought of the Gralde who had started the trouble yesterday and the human who had stopped it.  “What’s the difference, anyways?  Between humans and Elde?” 

“Arrogance,” my brother said immediately, and he stepped off my ankle.  “Arrogance is the difference.”

He started pacing, and my eyelids lowered and my mind wandered––thinking of Andrei’s face, which yesterday, dripping with mud and red from my slaps, hadn’t looked so much ugly as bewildered.  I felt a bit guilty and shifted my legs.  My brother kept on: “A tree isn’t self-sustaining.  A tree needs the sun.  We need it, too.  But humans, they think they can generate their own sunlight.”

“Like a fungus?”

“Reyna––”

“Sure wish I could.” I threw a rock at a dead tree.  “Maybe it would’ve helped them trees, too.”

“Those trees didn’t fall asleep for lack of sun.”

“They were always thirsty.”  I made a circle in the sand with my finger.  “All of them are thirsty.  And it rains plenty here.”

“It’s the river.  Be happy you haven’t got to see.”

“What’s happened to the Cheldony?”  I looked up.  “A saebel sang she was running the wrong way.  A very old saebel.  Do the old ones tell the truth?  Is the river running backwards, Mordan?”  But he wouldn’t answer, and the peach trees were just a tick in a big tally.

Since my visit to the Cheldony two years back I’d begun to notice.  The trees were tired, without energy, like old folk who stop drinking water, and dry up. But I never heard tree-song as dead as what was in those peaches along the road, and I started making visits to other trees I knew in the city.

One by one they fell silent: the magnolia on the bulwark, the locusts beneath the belltower, the apple trees in the riverside square, the maple beneath Natty’s window. 
Tired
, they said,
tired, tired, tired
.  And then a hard silence, like bare rock in winter.  Folk talked about it in brief, or not at all, as though it were too grave to take seriously.

On the day the maple fell silent I wandered along the river.  A group of men were fortifying the banks with sand and stone, hidden by the steep hill, singing heaving songs.  A clump of mountain laurel grew here, and whenever I waxed morose I would creep under them to hear the air-tales the trees traded of rain, earth, and nesting weavers.

The buds hadn’t opened yet, as though the sleepiness had spread to the outer bushes.  I crawled beneath them; their voices were faint and I tried to sing them awake:   

Wake from your slumbering, hold off your sleep,

Shake off your blanket of sluggishy whorls.

Hear ye the thundering, seek ye the deep

Of other damn rivers, ye confounded laurels.

They replied:

Only from one river may we quench thirst.

All other rivers flow bitter as tears.

Shut ye your screeching mouth, stay ye the burst

Of song from a daughter so wanting in years.

And so the arguing went, growing softer and softer, until other voices broke in:

“Is that Gireldine?”

“No.  It’s all wispy.  Like wind through the trees or water over rocks.”

“A doctor?  You should become a poet, rather.  I’m going all teary.” 

I sat up, blinking and bleary-eyed.  “You should become common, and the tears’ll be believable, at least.”

“Funny,” said Andrei. “Very funny. What are you doing?”  He pushed his head through the leaves.

“The trees ain’t singing anymore.”

“Did they ever?” he said.

“Not around you, no.” 

“Does she speak only in insults?” said Andrei to Trid.

Trid picked a bud from a bush, and popped it open.  “It’s a beautiful day,” he said, stepping between us.  “Too beautiful for a headache.” 

Andrei skirted Trid.  “Your nose looks like a cherry.  Was someone messing with you again?”  He pushed branches aside.  “What’s wrong with you, anyway?  You’ve looked terrible for weeks, and your arms are always bleeding, and you go out of your way to find trouble.”  His hair snagged on a branch. He tugged his head away and the bush shook.  “Insult me as much as you like, but it won’t make you any bigger.  Or uglier.” 

His face was flecked with sunlight.  I ripped up the dirt and scoured my cheeks with it.  “Ugly enough?” I said.

“No.”

“Trid,” I shouted, standing up, “tell him to stick his damn pecker somewhere else.”

“I’ll stick it wherever I damn well please.”

“Then don’t come running to me when it gets bitten off,” said Trid wearily.  “It’s better left alone, probably.” 

“Right. There’s something very wrong with you,” Andrei said to me.  “Who did it?”

“
Who did it?
” I sneered.  I felt fragile and hollow, like an egg with the inside blown out.  “The whole land’s dying, from the river to the sea, and it’s the river’s fault.”

“You’re making a catastrophe of nothing,” said Andrei. “The Cheldony’s drying up.  Rivers do that.  The land’s alive as ever.”  He looked at Trid.  “She’s hiding something.”

“They’ve a different notion of death.”  Then Trid pulled Andrei toward him out of the bush, and he started whispering, but not softly enough: “You think she’s going to tell
you
anything?”

“Why not?”

“You’ve got some big claws need trimming.” 

“No point––no file’s big enough,” I said, and wrapped my fingers around a branch.

Andrei glowered at me.  I glowered back and saw, behind him, a tiny girl running down the hill with a bucket.

She had a red dress and a long, black braid spinning behind her, and a white face that scrunched in panic when she lost control of her legs.  Her feet fairly flew in an effort keep her upright, faster and faster.

She slammed into Andrei’s back, bucket splatting brown goop all over his tunic. The goop came almost to my feet.  I smelled shellfish––lunch for for her father, I thought.  The little Gralde looked up at Andrei, shuddered, and began to wail.

“Lord of Light,” said Andrei.  “Get up.”  He pulled her up, gathered up the bucket, and put it in her arms.  “World doesn’t need to be any sadder.”  She went on her way, giving us three backward glances.

Andrei mopped his legs with his sleeve. When I let go of the branch my palms were full of divots. I smelled grapes, now.

“Good luck siphoning money out of Max,” said Trid to Andrei.

Andrei’s eyes were so round he looked like a hooked haddock fresh out of the water.  I thrust myself away from the laurels I had bloomed. A bough flung itself back into place, belting Trid in the stomach and throwing petals into the air. My hands were burning. I tripped over a root, scrambled to my feet, and ran. 

Twenty-Two

The metal warmed to Nefer’s Virnrayan fingers and would’ve done what he wanted if his left arm hadn’t got in the way. 

It was high summer.  The hearth glowed in the smithy, and the silver swirled in the crucible.  It looked a bit like Trid’s eyes, which were watering with embarrassment.

“Nefer,” I shouted over his hammer, “Don’t turn a blind ear––”

“Turn a deaf ear, idiot,” said Padlimaird.  He banged a pliers on the counter.  There was a silver ingot stuck to it.

“Deaf’s the only kind of ear he’s got.”  I punched Nefer in the side.

“What, now?”  Nefer looked down.  “And me stake boomin like a ripe old tower bell––” He saw Palimaird.  “Ghast, Paddy!  Hold ’er over the fire like the sensible boy you ain’t, but don’t use yer foot to pull––” 

The silver burned through the bottom of Padlimaird’s shoe.  He broke the pliers free and knocked over his brazier.  Charcoal dust choked the air and blackened Trid’s feet, and Wille chose that moment to haul two sandbags through the doorway.  The dust cleared.  The sandbags dropped to the stone.  Wille looked down at Trid’s sandals. 

“A human boy with dirty feet, sir?  Stepped right out of protocol with them feet, m’boy.  They’ll be after you with soap, scourges, and clean linen, but don’t worry––we’ve plenty of hiding places.  How bout in them acid vats?”

“Wille,” I said, “leave off chopping down the tree before he’s had a chance to provide shade.”

“Why, then,” he switched to Gralde, “what kind of seed would grow into a tree like that?”

I spoke in the common tongue.  “That concerns Nefer and not you.”

“Oh?” said Nefer.  “Let’s hear it then.”  He lit his pipe and sat down on his old stool in the space of three seconds.

After the success of my leg I’d decided Trid was a worthy medic, and I persuaded him to re-set Nefer’s left arm.  I forgot about persuading Nefer.

“A doctor?” Nefer said.  “In’t healing a woman’s job?”

“If people were less stupid”––Trid suddenly found his voice––“they’d find caring for people is something everyone ought to be interested in and anyone can do.” 

Nefer scratched his neck and looked my way. 

“Trid’s successful at whatever he tries.”  Trid’s ears glowed like the tongs around the crucible. 

“Alright,“ Nefer said.  “I’’ll give it a go.”  He looked over at Wille and Paddy. “Can ye look after the shop while I’m incapacitated?”

“Can I take a step up, Nefer?” cried Wille in Gralde.  “I need a staunch income to support me family.  They’re multiplying like rabbits.”

Nefer choked on pipe smoke.  “Got yerself into a problem?”

“Not just me.”

In an expression of ‘utmost admiration’, Wille had landed Sal with an unborn child, and they’d decided to wed.  I didn’t know what to think.  Anyway, by the time late summer arrived I had other things to think about, like the growing contingent of soldiers from Omben.

***

“The Queen’s become nervous.  They say she’s ill with it,” said my brother Tem. 

We were sitting on the shore in the shade of an overturned schooner.  The afternoon sun was so fierce I’d ripped the tunic off and gone for a swim; and when Tem found me he’d dropped a pair of knickers on my head.  They were red canvas and much too big, and I tied them around my waist with a piece of string. Now they were covered with damp sand I’d scraped from a hole.

“Of course the Queen’s become nervous,” I said.  “I’d be nervous too, tryin to feed ten thousand bloodthirsty foreigners.”

“She invited them here, Reyna.  She’s nervous about Lorila, especially Dirlan.  The millitary keeps growing over there, because the Lorilan Ravyir keeps giving that idiot, Caveira, troops, because Herist keeps recruiting more over here, and I fear it will end in war.”  Tem plucked at a sand creeper.  It shriveled beneath his talons.  “I don’t know what to do.  Situations like this don’t spring up on their own.  Someone’s plotting something.  And more frustrating, Caveira started it, but Lorila can’t afford a war––”

“I don’t know if
Caveira
started it.”

“What?”

“I dunno.”  My hair fell over my eyes.  “What  do you want me to write for you?” 

“You’re hiding something.” 

“I’m not.” 

I could’ve explained how Herist and Caveira were in collusion, but there was much I didn’t understand about all this. And Andrei still commanded my loyalty for a reason I couldn’t place. 

“How did Faiorsa get hold of all them big Ombenelvan men?”  My mouth tightened with self-loathing.

“She’s promised them something.  Something they really want.  If she doesn’t give it to them I don’t know what they’ll do.”

“What do you mean?”  I drew my legs up to my chest, which had suddenly become cold.  “Tem, what’s she promised?  What if she doesn’t give it?  What’ll happen?” 

He stepped back and shook sand off himself, and the ship groaned behind him in the wind.

“Either she’ll give it to them and we’ll have to support them and folk’ll starve this winter, or she won’t give them anything and the troops may leave.  But more likely they’ll stay, still after what she promised, and we can forget about rule by Evenalehn, because Evenalehn shan’t risk the ill will of the Southern Confederation, particularly Miachamel and Omben, and Norembry will be sucked under Southern rule via the Ombenelva.”

“God, Tem.  What are they after?  What’s she promised?  Our souls?”  I piled sand onto my knees.

“Oh, no.  She has something far more valuable.”

“Tem!” 

“Have you heard the rumors?  About the weapon, the
Aebelavadar
? ” 

I had, on dimly lit streets and in the backs of taverns. 
Aebelavadar
was a Simargh word; it meant an incomplete soul lacking a predetermined end.  A human.  But
Aebelavadars
weren’t strictly humans, and through history there had been many
Aebelavadars
. 

The
Aebelavadar
that Tem was talking about was rumored to be a beautiful and powerful weapon.  And apparently it belonged to the Queen.

“It’s true?” I said.  “She has it here?  How’d she get hold of it?”

“I’ve no idea. But the Ombenelvan government wants it. To placate a god, I’ve heard.”

“Great. So she’ll use it to pay for the Ombenelvan soldiers?”

“Maybe.”

“But then they’ll stay and we’ll go to war with Lorila?  What’s Lorila ever done?”

Tem snorted, insofar as an egret can.  “Besides flattened their Elde for centuries? Nothing that calls for invasion.”

“We’re in a pretty pickle.”

“Yes.”

“Why––” I picked sand out of my hair.  “D’you suppose she wants to go to war with Lorila?”

“Seems like it.”  He said this in so light a manner I suspected he was especially anxious about it.  “Lorila is weak, ideal for invasion––but it was a duke of Lorila that started the troops race, and am I watching the wrong men, do you think?  Should I be over in Lorila, rather than here?” 

I suddenly felt very alone.  “Stay here.  You’re needed here.”

“For now.  The letter––It’s about a hanging next week.  But you won’t want to hear it, and neither will the White-Ships. It’s to do with the Ombenelvan men, and it’s only the beginning of worse.  The garrison has it in for Nat Breldin and two others at dawn a week from today, did you know?  It’s their third attempt for Breldin, but this time they have to let them go through with it. 

“Wait,” he cried as I leapt up, slinging sand from my lap.  “Hold it.”

“What’s got into ye?”  I cast the parchment away.  “I can’t tell them to do that.”

“There’s a reason.  Listen to me, please, before you start crying.  Now sit down––there’s a good girl––and let me tell you why.  The Ombenelvan military hold an annual––sacrificial ceremony, if you will, to satisfy one of their deities.  Orshinq, it’s called.  The god they hold responsible for their military victories.  The sacrifice must be a criminal guilty of treason, desertion, and the like: all threats to a martial system believed to be divinely ordained.  Are you still with me?”

“No.  Must they bring their nasty ceremony over here?  Nat Breldin and them are Noremes.  They ain’t fit to be Ombenelvan sacrifices.”

“Reyna, I wish the whole world thought so sensibly.  But what matters to the Ombenelva is that they get traitors, no need to worry which government scratched the mark of treason into their arms. The mercenaries were intended as security, but the Queen hasn’t surrendered the weapon, and it’s touch-and-go with unpaid soldiers.  Do you understand what might happen if the city rises against the ceremony of your ten thousand bloodthirsty foreigners next week?  I fear a massacre over the death of three.  Please write what I have to tell you.”

Mordan delivered the letter the next day, and afterwards I steered clear of the quay and its streets.  I didn’t fancy an encounter with Wille, whose belligerence had probably multiplied threefold at Tem’s letter, or Hal, who knew something about where the letter had come from. 

***

On the day of the executions, my curiosity overwhelmed my good sense and I wandered toward the square with the apple trees.  My nettles had been gathering in the lough, and every few minutes I had to stop and fight the ache from my fingers and nausea from my stomach.

The light shone dim through a thin drizzle, and the lamps hissed. The estuary was hidden behind a wall of fog. Ombenelvan soldiers gathered in the middle of the square, their black cuirasses and red cloaks dim in the half-light.  Normal folk walked quickly by with a drawn hood or wooden face. 

The fog crept closer, stifling, horrible, and I looked at the gallows and stopped.  There were no gallows.  Stakes, rather, three of them, with faggots bundled round so they looked like three besom brooms.  The stakes were empty, yet.

I turned away. “A burning.” My stomach squeezed––not with the usual nausea.  “Did he know?”

“He didn’t,” said Floy.  “He couldn’t have.”

A few Elde, half-hidden in the gloom, were writing on the shop windows with muddy rags.  I ventured close to them, but not so close as Floy.

She flew back to my shoulder. “They’ll get themselves into trouble,” she said.  “Think now’s a good time to
threaten
them.  Padlimaird’s over there.  Maybe you can talk sense into him.” 

I wasn’t optimistic.  Even so, I walked over and stood behind Padlimaird and another boy with a tightly drawn cowl, and watched as they painted a window with mud.  ‘Break the bastards,’ read the caption above a skillfully drawn caricature of an Ombenelvan officer, and then the human’s name: ‘Magira Quyporel’.  The other windows were similar, except the names were, ‘Gratra Chureal’, ‘Perchevor Herist’, and someone else I couldn’t make out. 

Magira Quyporel’s stomach wasn’t quite vast enough for Padlimaird, who reached forward and painted a loopier line into the glass.

“Look what you’ve done, mongrel.”  The boy in the cowl shoved Padlimaird aside.  “Destroyed perfectly expressed sentiment and demolished a priceless work of art.”

“No, just weighed it down a bit.”  Padlimaird snapped the boy’s stomach with his kerchief.  “Gonna be smashed to pieces, anyway.”

“But folk’ll have to look at it till then––”

“Max Garvad,” I said, “what in the seven hells are you doin?”  Both boys jumped and turned round.

“Just having a bit of fun.”  His eyes shone gold through the hood. 

“Fun?” 

He must have seen my face, really seen it, because he looked down at his shoes, properly abashed; I saw that he was fingering a smooth, green stone.

“What he means is he wants to be useful to the side in the right,” said Padlimaird.  “And if he’s lookin fer fun, too, where’s the harm?”

“Right there, Paddy––” I began, but just then Wille tore round the corner with a bucket of water.  Sal came close behind with another. Wille’s slopped over the sides as he poked at Padlimaird’s chest. 

“Quebbits told me you had a head full of suet.  Turning the death of liberty into a carnival.”

“We wasn’t looking fer fun,” yelled Padlimaird.  “We’re risking our heads.”

“You’re risking a lot more heads than just your’n,” Wille said.

Sal set her bucket down.  “Come help us draw water, Padlimaird.” She took Wille’s hand.  “Some excitable fellow’s set the ice house alight.  Thought he was gonna flood the city.”

Wille addressed Padlimaird more kindly: “I won’t thrash you if you mop this window up and come help us.”  Padlimaird scowled.  Wille continued, “And this job in’t half so stinky as when some coward flooded the city long Crewald and them canal ways.  But we put things to rights with lots of willing folk.  More folk is less labor.  You should come too, Lally.  Nobody will see you.  It’s foggy.” 

I scowled with Padlimaird. 

“And what about the other scoundrel?” asked Sal, wringing her soaked skirts and taking up her bucket.  But Max had disappeared.