Singer from the Sea (25 page)

She squirmed out and went to ask Garth to take a look at this. He cut a sapling and used it to push his own lantern in far enough to see the grille, took off his gloves to feel the air, and nodded thoughtfully a time or two.

“I’d say this could be a vent for the storage vaults below Havenor. Though they’ve no doubt grown in the telling, according to reliable people, they started out as extensive natural caverns that have been enlarged ever since the first settlers. I never thought much about it before, but it stands to reason they would need to let some air out and pull fresh air in. Or, the grille could have been put here in the long past to prevent someone’s falling into
a chasm with a hot spring. Either way, I see no reason you shouldn’t take advantage of the warmth. You’ll sleep better for it, won’t you, Imogene?”

“Yes,” she said, after a moment, recollecting that she was now Imogene. “But there’s a sound. Like something moving.”

“It’s warm,” he said. “And it’s moist. No doubt siren-lizards or tivvies appreciate warmth, as you will if you put your bed in this recess. Tivvies are harmless and you’ll be well hidden.”

“You are welcome to share the warm,” she said, smiling wearily at him. “It’s long enough for both of us.”

He patted her shoulder. “The horse won’t fit, and we dare not leave the horse out of our calculations. No, the horse and I will be out there, and you’ll be in here, safe, and we’ll both get on with our journey as soon as conditions permit.”

They shared bowls of soup beside Garth’s fire. When he had finished, Garth set his bowl on a convenient rock, leaned forward and said urgently, “Imogene, this unforeseen happening makes me believe we need an agreement in case of emergency. Your horse going lame has taught us that even good plans can go awry, so it would be best for us to be prepared.”

“Of course,” she said. “I understand.”

“You are Imogene Sentith. You will need to remember your name, and that you are my eldest daughter and that I will be distraught over your absence. You have a brother, Ivan, and a sister, Ivy. Your brother is a stripling of fourteen, your sister a child of twelve.”

“Do I look anything like your daughter?”

“No, my dear, you’re much prettier, but then, no one here has ever seen Imogene.”

“Why are you doing this, Honorable Sentith?”

“Not honorable, child, just plain Sentith, though I think you’d better get into the habit of calling me Papa.”

“Papa,” she said obediently, feeling the word twist upon her tongue as if it had changed identities. “And do you call me Imogene?”

“No, I call you Imma, and I hug you often, which you must not mind, for while I admire young women a good
deal, I am faithful to my good wife, Ivalee, and I shall not bother you with unwanted attentions.” He said this in a grave and bumbling voice, nodding his head, thus doubling his assurances.

“I didn’t think you would.” Genevieve smiled. “I should know about the town where we live, shouldn’t I?”

“There is little to tell about Weirmills. It is in a valley protected from both warm southerly winds and cold northers by the surrounding mountains, but it receives a good deal of rain, which makes the meadows burst with bloom, a good thing for the business of a perfumer, which is what I am. Weirmills is a little place, getting its name from the great weir built across the river to provide power to the weaving mills on either side.”

“And our house?”

“The shop, a small one, is in the front of the ground floor, with our kitchen and living room behind it. We sell dried herbs and fresh ones, plus all sorts of herbal and floral attars and oils and mixed fragrances. Upstairs are the bedrooms, four of them, one for you, one for Ivy, one for Ivan, and one for your mother and me. We have good plumbing in Weirmills, for our people are wise enough to know it does not take technology but only determination to have clean water and a sensible disposal of waste, so there is a bathhouse and flush latrine at the back.”

“And what are we doing out here on the road, Papa?”

“Well, we’re on our way back home from Upland, where I’ve been bargaining with the Glass Masters for several thousand bottles to be sent down the Merdune Lagoon in the spring.”

“What sort of bottles?”

“This sort,” he said, taking one from his pocket and passing it to her. The tiny thing was as long as her little finger, shaped like a teardrop stopped at the tip with a brilliant gem of colored glass through which the firelight glittered. “That’s what they call their sparkle bottle. The stops come in different colors.”

“So the Glass Master story is real?”

“Oh, yes, my dear. The story is real. When you must lie, my dear, lie as little as possible. That way you’ll have the least to remember.”

“And what did I do all day while you were meeting with the glass blowers?”

“You had a very bad cold, and you stayed the whole time in the little house I rented at the Crags—which is a kind of hostelry—nursing your poor stuffed-up head.”

She laughed. “That’s easy to remember. It was a dull little house with two bedrooms and a common room. I saw no one, did nothing, went nowhere, right?”

“Exactly. A dull little house with a smoky fireplace. You couldn’t taste anything, so you weren’t even hungry. And we arrived after dark, so no one saw you, and some days later, we left before dawn, so no one saw you then, either. If you wish, you may speak resentfully about all that, coming so far from Weirmills, to see so little.”

He nodded, still thoughtful, while Genevieve made sure everything she had used was cleaned and put away. Garth, on the other hand, left his bowl and cup and spoon where they could be seen.

“You need to know the route,” he said, as she was about to wish him good night. “The road we are on leads to Upland, with a fork to the right at the north pass road, a long, winding roadway to the coast, and south along the coast road is the litüe town of Midling Wells. If we are separated, one from the other, we will meet there, in Midling Wells, at Fentwig’s house. And, if we are separated, you must think of some innocent way it could have happened.”

“I will think of something if needed, and I will meet you in Midling Wells,” she agreed, wondering how in heaven’s name she was supposed to get there if separated from her only guide. “At Fentwig’s House. Well then, good night.”

“Good morning,” he said, with a glance at the glowing sky. “Rest easy. I will wake you when it is safe to go on.”

She went back to her cave, spread her bedding into the warm recess, and crawled into it gratefully. The recess had been smoothed, either by man or nature, and though the surface was hard, she soon fell asleep. Some hours later, she was wakened by voices coming from outside.

“Get up, I say. You! What’s your name?”

“Why, sir, I am Garth Sentith.”

“What are you doing here?”

“I’m on my way home to Merdune from a business trip to the Glass Masters in Upland.”

“This isn’t the road to Merdune! You should have taken the north pass road.”

“If I’d gone directly, yes sir, but I stopped a day in Havenor, to buy a gift for my wife.”

“And where’s that?”

“In my pack, sir. And be careful with it, please, for it’s breakable.”

There was a moment’s silence, during which Genevieve climbed out of her bedding to retrieve all of her belongings and bring them into her tunnel. From the light at the cave entrance, which fell high on the south side but not at all on the left, she thought it was probably midmorning.

“Pah, a looking-glass,” said one of the voices.

The other said, “Have you seen anyone on the road? Particularly a young woman? On foot or ahorse?”

“No,” said Garth, “but then, I’ve been asleep.”

“Well, merchant, get yourself packed up. We’re on our way north and we’ll escort you to the north pass.”

“I don’t want to trouble you, sir. And I’d like a bit of breakfast before starting out …”

“Pack yourself up, I say, and go hungry until you’re at the border. That is, unless you want to interfere with the orders of the Marshal …”

“And the Prince,” said the other voice. “Both of ‘em are set on finding this young person, and to do it ex-pee-dishus-lee, we’re to clear the roads and keep them clear, all the way to the borders.”

“That’s it,” said the first man. “Consider yourself part of the clearance.”

“Of course, of course,” said Garth.

The lighter voice said, “Meantime, we’d best look around. Be sure this one’s alone.”

“Oh, he’s alone, right enough. One horse, one rider, one pack.”

“Can’t tell from that. He might be cleverer than he looks.”

“It’s you want to be cleverer. Go, waste your time, I don’t care.”

Panting with dismay, Genevieve, wriggled back toward the grille, pulling bedding and belongings along with her. It was farther than she had thought, but she kept wriggling feet first, deeper into the recess expecting to encounter the grille with her feet. Suddenly she realized there was nothing beneath her lower legs, nothing her feet could find on any side, and as she started to ease her way back, her ankles were firmly grasped by someone or something, and before she could make up her mind whether screaming would be a good thing or a bad thing, she was pulled down the tunnel and out, like a cork from a bottle, while someone whispered fiercely in her ear, “Shhh. Don’t make a sound.”

Since the someone was busy gagging her, there was no significant sound she could make. Her bedding was pulled down on top of her, and the saddle and pack on top of that, and she heard the unmistakable sound of metal being latched.

“There,” said the voice in her ear, “the grille’s locked! Even if they find the cave, they won’t find you, not if you hush and quit struggling.”

Genevieve reminded herself that she did not wish to be found by either the Marshal or the Prince, and stopped struggling.

Outside in the cave, someone bashed about. “Hey, Gar-ton! Come see this!”

Other shouts, murmurs, finally the sound of someone approaching the grille. “It’s shut off back here! There’s a grille over it.”

“Probably an old mine shaft,” said the same voice that had accosted Garth.

“But it’s warm, Garton.”

“Thunkle, you’re an idiot, you know that. Of course it’s warm. There’s warm springs all over High Haven. The whole valley was a volcano once.”

“Oh,” said Thunkle. “I forgot.”

“Is it old? The grille?”

“It’s rusty.”

“Well, then. There’s nobody there, is there?”

“No.”

“Then come on. We’ve got this fellow to see to the border, and we don’t want to waste any more time.”

Sound receded. In the stillness, Genevieve felt herself carried, heaved, then dropped carelessly, her head crashing against an unyielding surface.

“Watch it,” cried a voice. “She’s not a sack of potatoes!”

“I tripped,” said someone else, sulkily.

Genevieve didn’t care. The blow had been the final insult, and she felt herself going away, somewhere else, into a buzzing darkness where there was nothing at all to think about.

When she regained any perception at all, it was of movement, her body being slowly jostled as she was moved by wheels. She could not move or speak, but she could see:

Dim light far up and gray. Massive things at either side. Darkness mostly.

She could hear:

At least two wheels on the cart squeaked slightly, dissonantly, like an insect chirp. Slow drip of water into a pool, each plunking drop making its own tiny echo, the ripples spreading, reaching the edges and returning to intersect the new plunk to make an interference of wavelets. Something peeping, a lizard, perhaps, signaling others of its kind.

She was crumpled uncomfortably on the floor of a vehicle that moved among mountains, their edges obscuring then revealing the dismal light, like moons behind mist.

The place smelled of dust. As the vehicle trundled along, it created a little cloud of dust that went with them, enveloping them. The vehicle made a sudden turn, and her head banged against something hard. She whimpered.

“It’s all right,” said someone. “We won’t hurt you.”

She hadn’t thought they would, until then. The reassurance had the opposite effect from the one intended. She was sure they would hurt her, or that one of them would. The one who had spoken. There was something viscous in that voice, a gelatinous insincerity. And the other one? If the first did something evil to her, would the other concur? Or watch, interested? Passive? She trembled.

“No,” said a younger voice. “We really won’t hurt
you. You don’t need to shiver all over like that. The only reason we tied you up was so you wouldn’t make any noise.”

A rough hand patted her, as one might pat a dog. This touch did what the voice had not, reassured her. It wasn’t the touch of a … well, that kind of touch. She turned her head a little, letting one eye see higher up. Shadows against that far gray light. A massive carved throne, high in the sky against the light. A curlicued bedstead? A rocking horse? A great swag of bunting from one precipice to another. A man up there, poised to leap. No, it had to be a statue of a man, holding a bow, a man with wings holding a bow, dark against the high gray light.

None of it made any sense. She relaxed, letting it happen. The water sound grew louder,
plunket… plunket… plunket …
and the wheels began to swish through a shallow pool, a wide, wide pool that reflected light from above, ripples fleeing from their wheels. Obviously, they were underground. In a cavern. Just as those men had said, the ones who’d been looking for her.

Far above her, to one side, a balloon hung limply from the ceiling, its basket dangling, slightly tipped. She had seen a balloon like that at a provincial festival, filled with hot air, round as an apple against the blue. People had paid to go up in it, to see the world from on high. It had to be pulled down by a capstan, but it always floated up again, when the bellows were applied to its little fire basket full of coals. She had much wanted to go up, but her father had said no. Such activities were for commoners, those easily amused by novelty.

The light grew slightly brighter the farther they went. They passed a precipice of doors stacked one on another, some upright, most recumbent, doors paneled, painted, carved; doors of gilt and metal, reaching from the level of her eyes into the far, dim upness of the place. They entered a chasm between escarpments of carpets, rolled, flat, folded, draped down the sides, lengthy runners twisted into rough garlands hung in catenary curves up the sides of the carpet cliffs. Then, abruptly, they left the rug chasm and came into an open space.