Moving Water (17 page)

Her mouth curled. “Thank you.” The triumph was almost obscene. “Now I see why you called me incompetent. But of course, I didn't know.”

Horror ripped across his face. He plunged to his feet. And stopped.

She was poised for escape. His eyes were writhing flares of moss, leaf, laurel green, laced with dazzling white. But they were turned inward, upon the forge of thought.

He put a hand to his brow. Very slowly, it dropped.

Making it a prayer, committing all to a wholly unsure gamble, he said, “Imsar . . . Math.”

Then he looked at her.

“Then,” he said, quiet as fate itself, “you know it now.”

For one instant her eyes flickered with what could have been fear. Then they swung on me.

“My trusted captain,” she purred. “Who let a traitor walk out of this prison. Under his very nose.”

“Who had no choice,” he cut in quick as lightning. “I'm an aedr too.”

The meteors flared. “Who ate my bread. Took my wages. Swore my oath of fealty. And schemed to suborn my guard.”

I flinched. Beryx's voice slashed, “Moriana, let him alone!”

She spun on him. “Why?”

“Because”—and contempt appeared at last—“you're giving a perfect demonstration of Ammath. From devilry to pettiness. You couldn't bait a bear, so you want to skin a mouse.”

Her skirts made a white and ruby comet in her wake. She whipped round in the arch. “It may interest you,” she hissed, “to know your smuggling failed. They caught him in Darrior. He's dead!”

* * * * *

It was a long time before I dared look at Beryx, and when I did, I dared not ask the question that hovered on my lips.

He was still watching the arch. His eyes were quenched, not merely opaque but dulled black, and there was fatigue, discouragement, a poignant sorrow in his face.

At last he turned away. Slowly, he brought the stool in reach and sat down, shoulders bowed. Finally he looked at me and said with that courage which can admit mistakes, “It's true.”

I could not, did not want to reply. He gazed past me, into a distance beyond my reach.

“They tortured him,” he murmured. The pity was strong as pain. “Poor little fop.”

Into my mind rose a sharp, concrete image of a city gate, shreds of a body dangled on the wheel, morvallin circling for carrion above frustrated dogs. Perhaps it came from his Sight, but it was enough to sting me into speech. Pain for him, Thephor, myself, became wrath that had to be assuaged.

I said harshly, “Why?”

He did not fence. He answered wearily, “Math says, Keep faith even with unfaith. Could I have turned her away?”

“You needn't have—” The full enormity recoiled on me. “The biggest baboon who ever wrecked an army knows better than to blab like that! And to tell her about the Well—I thought you meant to
help
Assharral!”

He made a little throwaway gesture. “I don't think I can make you see.” It was fatigue, not rancor. “When Ammath seeks, Math finds. If you—”

“To the pits with Math! I'm talking plain commonsense!”

“You can't. Not in this. I—Look, Alkir. She tried to kill me with that fever, and it rid me of Hawge's sting. That I've carried seventy years. She sought Ammath, I found Math. Don't you see?”

“No—all I see is that you blindly—insanely!—took her on trust, and she rolled you up. Horse, foot and camp!”

He straightened, summoning strength to deal with me among the rest. I should have pitied him, but I could not. “Explain that!” I said.

He sighed. Then he said, “I had to take her on trust. Or break trust myself. I had to tell her the truth. Because lies are Ammath. If you don't hold to good, you become evil. That's the real defeat.”

“So she flogs you off every field by using your beliefs against you! You're hamstrung by the very thing you're fighting for!”

“Perhaps,” he said heavily. “But she does know, now, about Math.”

“And about the Well! All about the Well!”

“Yes. I . . . I can't explain.” He sank his head in his hand. “Velandryxe . . . the sayings tell you, over and over, that it seems madness. The supreme wisdom looks like foolishness.”

“The foolishness I see. The wisdom I don't.”

“I had to tell her about the Well. Or deny truth. And once she knew, I couldn't wipe it out. Or fight it. And I know it looks like a disaster, so in the end I had to take a monumental risk, and hope Velandryxe will bear it out.”

“How?”

“Ammath has to end. And with such power as the Well—that I can't master—perhaps the only thing that can end it is the Well itself.”

“What? How?”

“Math fears to act. Ammath doesn't. Now she knows what the Well can really do, she might try something so vile that—it will be the one thing too much. That will break the Well's power. It would fit with Velandryxe. The supreme foolishness. Admit the truth, do nothing, allow her to misuse power. So Math refrains, and Ammath acts, and Ammath too great to be destroyed overreaches and destroys itself. Just like the sting and the fever. Do you understand?”

“No!”

His shoulders bent. Quietly, humbly, he said, “I suppose not.”

I looked at him sitting there, worsted in battle, blood on his hands, betrayed by his own good faith, patiently accepting recrimination and abuse and desertion, and a mountain fell on my neck. Gevos, the mare—and now a third time I had upbraided when I should have upheld, wounded when I should have salved, broken faith I should have kept.

In bitter pain I said, “You should know better than that.”

His head came up. The smile was almost tender. “Fylghjos,” he said, “you're too like me. You blame yourself worse than anyone else.”

I could not speak. He was still smiling, giving the comfort I had refused, ungrudging as if I had never wounded him.

“Yes,” he said, “crazy, and the remotest chance, and pure blind hope. But that's Velandryxe. Inyx—a friend of mine—used to say, ‘Lose every battle but the last.' ” The smile became that indomitable laughter. “We're doing pretty well with the rest.”

* * * * *

Feeling raw, hunted and desperate, I went home to Zem and Zam's inevitable. “When is Sir Scarface coming back?” then passed a night of fearful dreams in which the Lady flung Beryx from the Morhyrne, or I drowned him for her in Los Morryan, or Callissa chased me with a cleaver for letting him die of cold, or I tried to light the brazier and the entire vault collapsed. It seemed an uncovenanted mercy when I crept out next day to find Zyphryr Coryan apparently unaltered, quite intact. I would have sacrificed, if I still had anywhere to offer it.

Three days passed, by which time I half-wished doom would fall and be done. Third night was my vault sentry-watch. I left after supper, to Callissa's silent protest, but as I closed the garden gate a woman's voice hissed, “Captain! Alkir!”

I whipped about. A hand beckoned, the moon sparked on thillians. I backed. A mincing court accent chattered, “It's all right, quite safe. . . .” In anguish, “Oh,
come
over here!”

Hand on sword, I sidled cross-street. The moon flashed on eyes painted like targets, a grotesque pole of hair. “It's me, Klyra. You know me. I have to talk to you!”

Instinctively we both looked behind. She gabbled under her breath, “You're in with him and you'll be able to tell him, straighten it out . . . if she knew she'd—I don't know what she'd do, you mustn't breathe a word—”

“Don't babble,” I muttered. “What am I supposed to tell who?”

“Him. The wizard.” Her hand twittered on my arm, I felt the talon-like nails. “About the Lady. These last three days she's been impossible. . . .”

“Come to the Treasury,” I said, “and tell him yourself.”

Before shifting a woman I had sooner try to dislodge Phaxian skirmishers. We compromised, amid squeals and frou-frou to wake the Morhyrne, on a bench under the garden keerphar. When she finally subsided, I asked, “What is it I'm to say?”

“The Lady.” She clutched for thoughts flyaway as her frivolous gold-mesh bag. “She's . . . she's been summoning all the governors. Poor Havath, he's Nervia, he was quaking, I had to lend him smelling salts. . . . When he got in, the Lady says, ‘Do you approve my orders? Have I ever given you cause to hate me? Are you happy in your post?' I ask you! As if you'd dare say otherwise, not that she isn't a good mistress and I'll not hear a word against her, but—well, you know what I mean.

“And the chief priests, she had them up yesterday. ‘Do you approve of my worship?' she says. ‘Of course,' they say. Or in so many words. ‘You don't think it's bad?' They have conniptions. Well, I mean, they would, wouldn't they, it's their life, and can you imagine not worshipping the Lady, I'd not know what to do with myself, and the high days, the people love them—she had them up too. A fish-gutter and a tanner, you couldn't credit the stink. . . . ‘Do you believe,' she says, ‘I am immortal? Do you think that's wrong?' I tell you, the poor boobies hadn't a clue.

“And then she calls Mavash and Zabek, and she says, ‘Do you think we need a Council?'— ‘Council?' they say. ‘So you can advise me,' she says. I ask you, Captain, have you ever seen a general look faint? Then she gets Kreo and Tamon, Cup-bearer and First below the Throne, and she says, ‘Do you want to go home to your estates?' And Kreo just appointed, and everyone knows Tamon can't
bear
Gjerven, all those swamps. . . . Then I'm watching the dressers, you wouldn't credit how they treat those gowns if they're not stood over—she comes up behind me, I'm sure
I
needed smelling salts that time.

“ ‘Klyra,' she says, ‘are you happy here?'

“ ‘Happy?” I say. ‘Why, ma'am, whatever—whyever wouldn't I be? Highest women's post at court?'—‘You wouldn't,' she says, ‘rather be in Darrior?'—‘Darrior!' I say. ‘You think the court's worthwhile?' she says. ‘You don't think I'm wasting your life?' Well, really, I could have hugged her, she looked so forlorn. ‘Dear Lady,' I say, ‘of course not. The court's my life.' She gives a sort of nod and goes away. But. . . .”

She paused for extra drama and leant forward. “That's only the shell of the egg. Yesterday, high banquet, Kreo's on her right, I was next to him. When the oysters come in, she loves them, she didn't touch a one—‘Kreo,' she says, ‘if you wanted to marry me, what would you do?'

“Well, the poor man nearly falls through his chair. Says the proper things, too unworthy, never think of it. ‘But suppose,' she says, ‘you were—Zass of Phaxia—how would you go about it then?'

“Of course, he has some wits, or he'd not be where he is. ‘Most high,' he says, ‘I would begin with gifts. The best spices of Eakring Ithyrx, the most precious gems, the rarest rarities. Then poets to hymn your beauty. Musicians.' He's getting into the swing of it. ‘Painters. Jewelers with lovely things. I'd ransack Phaxia. Then I'd—I'd make peace, and arrange a court visit. Balls, masques, entertainments, dress up the palace fit for you.' Dreadful barrack, I've heard it is. ‘I would worship at your feet. I might abandon Phaxia, if you were heartless, and become a beggar at your gate—'

“ ‘Yes, yes, that's enough,' she says. I'd have been pleased, I'm sure. Then Timya, she's chief tiring Lady, she told me, when she was taking off the coronal, a proper puzzle that one is—the Lady looks in the mirror like she's never had one before.

“ ‘Timya,' she says, ‘I
am
beautiful. . . .' Running her hands up through her hair. ‘Yes, ma'am,' says Timya, wondering if she's in her wits.
Every-
body knows she is, she's never had a thing to fear from anyone that ever came to court.

“But she sort of smiles at herself. Mocking, you'd say. ‘Too beautiful,' she says, ‘to change.' —‘Ma'am,' says Timya, thinking, Sakes, what's the matter with her? ‘You won't change, you know that. You're immortal.'

“ ‘Yes,' she says after a while. You'd think she'd only just been told. ‘I am.' Now wait a moment Captain it may sound tittle-tattle but if you knew the Lady like I do. . . . We were up in the bower, I like going there, the difference, only a minute and whoosh! time to change. . . . The Lady, she's not like I've ever seen her. Can't sit still. Tramping round, really, I couldn't set a stitch. Then out of the blue she says to me, ‘The wizard. What did you think of him?'

“ ‘Think?' I say. ‘I think he's the crudest, most brazen—'

“ ‘Oh, yes.' And she giggles. ‘It was your scent-ball, I forgot. Phera, what did you think of him?'

“Phera's chief maid. ‘Ugly,' she says. ‘That awful scar. Just like you said, ma'am. A bear.'

“ ‘Ugly?' she says. Sounds quite startled. Phera knots her tongue.

“ ‘Yes,' the Lady says after a bit. ‘He is. Ugly. Insolent. Arrogant. Preposterous. How dare he!' Captain, I've been at court a dozen years, I've seen her rages, but this was all different. Most times nothing shows, you just
know
. But this time . . . she starts storming round, then she catches up her sleeve—Nervian silk, best Tasmarn work, hazian sewn, oh, that dress was the pride of my heart—in her
teeth!
Rip! And her face red as lythian leaves and, ‘How dare he? How DARE he? I'll have him strangled! Crucified! I'll—' Rip! I tell you, we didn't know whether to run or pray. ‘Preach at me!' Her fan's on the seat, she snaps it in half, crack! ‘Sanctimonious beggar! Pious fraud! . . .
Oh, I might even marry you!
How dare he! How
dare
he! I'll, I'll. . . .' Off down the stairs like a whirlwind, we didn't know where to look. And Phera—too big for her shoes, that one, someday she'll trip—she says to me behind her hand, ‘If it wasn't him, and wasn't our Lady, I'd say, It's a case with her.' ”