The Burning City (33 page)

Whandall smiled at her. Her beauty would make him drunk if he let it. “I don't know, Willow. Kreeg Miller never let me hold an ax, but I watched. I can drive ponies, and I couldn't do that once.”

But his plans—daydreams, really—hadn't run past this moment.

He said, “Lady.” He tasted the word. Pelzed's woman liked to be called that. “Lady, there's a world out there. What do you think? Could we get through?”

“Father thought so,” said Willow. “Your army came through the forest with the Lords leading you. Those old Lordkin must have chopped their way through. Whandall, you'd
better
learn to use an ax.”

“You're both crazy,” Carver said.

Whandall recognized the way Willow looked at her older brother: a contempt born of too much knowledge. “We can't stay, Carver! Whatever we have is all gone. There's a world out there—”

“I've been on the docks,” Carver said.

Willow just looked.
Huh?
Whandall said, “My brother was a sailor. What's your point?”

“I've met sailors and lookers and tellers from all up and down the coast and farther yet. All they know is, this is the town they burn down. Willow—Whandall—they don't know kinless from Lordkin from Lords.
They can't tell the difference.
We go out there, we go as thieves. Forgive me—you say
gatherers
, don't you?”

It came to Whandall that he had never believed it in the first place. He wasn't disappointed, then, to know that Carver was right. That Wanshig had told him the same. Wanshig, who held a post for three years and was then put back on the docks in Tep's Town, because he couldn't stop gathering, because he was Lordkin.

But the blood was draining from his face, and he could only look at the ground and nod.

Morth asked, “What if a magician vouched for you?”

Whandall looked up. He felt that he should be startled, somehow.

Morth of Atlantis looked no older than the last time Whandall had seen him. His clothes were inconspicuous but finer than what he had worn in Tep's Town. His hair was going gray. White to gray, waves of orange-red running through it like cloud-shadows as Whandall watched.

“Morth,” Whandall said.

“My word should be enough, I think,” Morth said. “And it would be wise if we did not get closer together.”

A magician. A water magician. Whandall felt Yangin-Atep's rage. Fear came back to Willow's eyes, and Whandall fought with Yangin-Atep. Morth must have felt the struggle. He moved away.

“So why would some random barbarian trust you?” Whandall shouted. “For that matter—” Something odd here. “Where did you
come
from?”

Bubbles in drifting smoke, a mere suggestion of huge dagger-toothed cats, were playing around Morth's feet.

“A lurking spell. It worked?” Morth looked around him, very pleased at the signs of astonishment. “There's still manna around this place. Good. We'll be safe here until we decide.”

Whandall left his knife where it was, pushed through the leather sleeve in his belt, but he hadn't forgotten it. He said, “Morth, you don't just happen to be here.”

“No, of course not. I came here because I thought you would. I almost followed you, but I guessed you must be in the middle of the Burning, so—” Smile, shrug. He saw no answering understanding, so he said, “The tattoo. I prepared it after I saw the lines in your hand. I can follow its pattern anywhere in the world. I'm hoping to follow you
out
.”

Willow exclaimed, “Out! Then you think so too! It's possible! Whandall—” She said his name almost defiantly. “Whandall, is he really a wizard?”

“Morth of Atlantis, meet the Ropewalkers and the Millers. Yes, Willow.” Her name didn't come easily. “He's a wizard. Once a famous one. I mean, look at his hair. Did you ever see such a color on an ordinary man? Morth, where have you been since—since you lost your shop?”

“I moved to the edge of the Lordshills, as a teacher. It seemed to me that Yangin-Atep had cost me everything, Burning after Burning. I had better go to where a god could find no magic. I never built another shop.”

“I saw the ash pit. Some burned skulls.”

Morth must have sensed that there was more to this than curiosity. “Yes. And in the ashes did you see an iron pot with a lid?”

“No. Wait, my brother saw that. Is it important?”

“It was my plan to get out! It was my last treasure!” Morth's fists were
clenched at his sides. “I thought cold iron was all I needed to protect it. The Burning City! It never crossed my mind that cold iron can be heated!”

The Ropewalkers and Millers were fascinated. Truly, so was Whandall.

“Well.” Morth had regained control of himself. “I never sensed the Burning. I was fooling myself about that. That afternoon I was eating lunch at my counter when I looked out the door at eight Lordkin running straight at my shop! I saw the big one cast fire from his hand, and that was all
I
needed. I went out the back.

“My last treasure was two Atlantean gold coins rich in manna. Get those out of Tep's Town and I'm a wizard again. They would have lost all magic if I hadn't stored them in a cold iron pot with a spelled lid. It was too heavy for one man to carry. I cut the handles off and made myself believe that nobody could steal—sorry, Seshmarl—
gather
it.”

Carver said, “Seshmarl?”

“It's Whandall,” Whandall admitted.

Morth said, “
Whandall
, then. The Lordkin charged into my shop. I looked back. They weren't chasing me; I slowed and watched. The big man, he picked up my pot in his two arms. I just have trouble believing how
strong
you Lordkin are.”

Whandall nodded. Morth said, “I'd seen him start fires. He was possessed of Yangin-Atep.”

Carver and Willow looked at each other.

“I still didn't think he could get the pot open until he caused the iron to burn. Hot iron doesn't stop manna flow. I saw him lift the lid and look inside. Two gold coins must have been the last thing he ever saw.”

He hardly needed to say,
And then all the magical power left behind by sunken Atlantis roared into a man possessed of the fire god.

“You just don't seem to have very good luck,” Whandall said, “with the Placehold men.” And that was how he knew he was leaving: he had spoken his family's name among strangers.

The rain stopped at evening, and by night the skyline had become a patchy red glow. The Burning continued without Whandall. The night seemed endless. Whandall made his bed on rock, wrapped in a blanket snatched from Feller's, far enough from the kinless children to make them stop
twitching.

He half woke from a dream of agony and rage. His hands were fire that reached out to spread fire like a pestilence, by touch. The Placehold was burning. He was the Placehold, he was burning, and his shape was gone alien, a crab with a long trailing, looping tail and a terrible freezing, bleeding wound somewhere near his heart.

For a long moment he knew that fires were the nerves of Yangin-Atep. He sensed all of the fires in the Valley of Smokes and two ships offshore, one cooking breakfast, one aflame. He felt his life bleeding out through Lordshills where a Warlock's Wheel had eaten away all the magic. Then it all went away like any dream and left him chilled and wet.

He gestured and the half-dead fire flared into an inferno. At least it was easy to tend a fire!

He was very aware of Willow Ropewalker not far away. Desire rose and he held it back as he would hold a door, his weight on one side, enemies on the other.

Desire and excitement. They could leave, forever. Would they leave together? “Morth!”

The wizard was on the other side of the fire, and he stayed there. Whandall had to shout. Anyone might overhear. So be it.

“What will happen? You've seen my future. Is it with”—he gestured to Willow—“them?”

Morth considered what to say. “I haven't read their future,” he said. “I don't know them well enough to do that. You may leave the Valley of Smokes. I don't know about the Millers and Ropewalkers. Further in the future, the line loops and blurs. You may return.” He studied Whandall from the other side of the fire. “I can say this. You will have a more pleasant life with friends. With people who know who you are. Consider, Seshmarl—Whandall—you're choosing a new and unknown path. Easier to walk it with others.”

“You know what I'm thinking, then?”

Morth shook his head sadly. “I know what
Lordkin
think. Actually, most Lordkin don't think at all. They just act. You're different.”

“It's hard,” Whandall said.

Morth smiled thinly. “I can't help. Anything I could do to calm you would probably kill you.”

“As you—no, as
it
, your spell—killed my father,” Whandall said.

Morth said nothing. Whandall wondered if he'd known all along. Wizard, liar, he'd killed Whandall's family. Yangin-Atep's rage boiled inside him, and Morth was gone.

Whandall heard a distant bush rustling. Flame shot high as greasewood ignited, and Whandall knew that
he'd
done that. He thought he saw a shadow beyond the flame.

“Morth!”

There was no answer.

“Whandall?” It was Carver, behind him.

“Stay away. I'm possessed of Yangin-Atep,” Whandall said.

“Where's Morth?”

“I don't know. Running.”

The night went on endlessly, and always there was the glow of fire over Tep's Town.

Daylight. Whandall, dreaming fire, snapped awake as if he were guarding the Placehold with only children for defenders.

They were in the wagon, sleeping, most of them. One kinless boy was down by the fence.

Whandall went down to shore, walking wide of that black stuff that stuck to everything. The boy was Hammer Miller. Whandall hailed him from a safe distance.

Hammer turned without surprise, one hand hidden. The other held a milk pot. “I want to get some tar,” he said.

“I can't let you go. Your sister would kill me.”

“No, not Willow. Carver might. We can sell it.”

“How do you know?”

“Everyone needs rope!”

“How much do you need?”

Hammer showed him a milk pot. “This much. I don't think I can lift it when it's full. I'll have to get Carver.”

Whandall watched how they went about it.

First they talked the problem to death.

Carver and Willow tied a rope to Hammer's waist. Then, while Hammer danced with impatience, they tied another rope to the neck of the jar and let the rope trail.

Hammer went over the fence. He walked with some care and, twelve paces out, found his feet mired.

The coyote came out of nowhere, streaking for the mired boy. Whandall touched the beast with flame. A ring of flame flashed outward. Hammer shouted and ducked. The flame just singed him before it puffed out.

Carver was cursing him. Whandall said, “Didn't think. Sorry.”

The coyote was gone. Hammer was still mired.

They pulled on the rope. He shouted. They left off long enough for him to scoop a mass of sticky black stuff into the jar, waist deep now and still sinking. They pulled again. It was hard work. Whandall joined them on the rope. Hammer tried to drag the jar after him, lost it, then caught the rope that tethered the jar and dragged it a little farther. When he could stand he braced himself and began pulling. Carver went over the fence, treading in the shallow footprints Hammer had left before he sank. Together they pulled the jar out half full.

“Enough,” Carver said.

It wasn't that much different from a raid on some shop in Maze Walkers. Lurk, spy out the territory, test the defenses. Then go for it, gathering what you can. Anything unexpected has to be fixed on the fly. Settle for what you can gather in one pass; don't go back for more.