The Stars Asunder: A New Novel of the Mageworlds (5 page)

Read The Stars Asunder: A New Novel of the Mageworlds Online

Authors: Debra Doyle,James D. Macdonald

BOOK: The Stars Asunder: A New Novel of the Mageworlds
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His words were reassuring, but his face still looked troubled. Something about the weather was bothering him—and that in itself, thought Narin, was significant.
“Captain,” she said, “with your permission, I’d like to consult with the First of the Ridkil Point Circle.”
“Of course,” Soba replied.
He gestured toward the bridge-to-bridge wireless, and Narin made the connection. The First of the Ridkil Point Circle was on a fishing boat around fifty miles to the south, drawing up from another part of the same shoal of greyfish.
“No, we’ve felt nothing,” he said, in answer to Narin’s query. “The line squall passed us, but there’s nothing out of the ordinary going on with the
eiran
hereabouts.”
“Thanks,” Narin said. “Keep your feelings open, just the same. This is unchancy, I think.”
“I’ll do that. You too.”
The sound of the wireless carrier wave was drowned out by a sudden exclamation. The quartermaster was staring at the hard-shell barometer on the charthouse bulkhead, looking from the gleaming glass instrument to the weather repeater and back again.
“Cap’n,” he said, “something funny’s going on here. This box”—he nodded at the weather readout—“says that everything’s fine, no trouble anywhere. But
this
one”—he pointed to the mechanical barometer—“says that the pressure’s heading for the basement.”
“What’s the update time on the repeater?” Soba asked.
“Minus fifteen.”
“Extrapolated data, then,” Soba said. “Next real info in fifteen more.”
He stepped over to look at the barometer for himself. Narin, following him, saw that the quartermaster had spoken true: The needle was swinging downward so fast she could see it moving. The recording thermometer, which plotted sea and air temperatures on a scrolling graph—a useful tool for knowing when the fishing would be good and what species to expect—showed a steady rise, and the hygrometer registered humidity at 99%. Outside the pilothouse the wind was dead calm, the waves flattening in the stillness.
Narin felt a trickle of sweat down her spine that wasn’t caused by the heat and the damp air. Soba appeared to feel the same way. He pushed the reload button on the weather satellite repeater. The data there didn’t change—and it still didn’t reflect what the
Dance
’s local instruments were showing. The time-to-next-pass counter clicked from thirteen minutes over to twelve.
Soba walked back over to the wireless and switched it to the general circuit that all the Amisket captains listened to.
“This is Soba on
Dance-and-Be-Joyful,”
he said. “Check your local weather instruments. I think satellite weather’s giving us a bad readout.”
A moment later, a response came back from Murhad, captain of
First-Light-of-Morning.
“Bugger me naked! What are you going to do?”
“Secure for high seas,” Soba told him. “Run for port. And ask our Circle for luck.”
Narin could recognize a departure cue when she heard one. She left Soba giving orders to the helm and climbed down from the pilothouse to where Kas and Tam were waiting.
On the working deck, some of the
Dance
’s sailors were striking the last catch below, while others hauled the booms inboard and lashed them to cleats. The engines began throbbing with a deeper note, and the smoke coming out of the
Dance
’s funnel turned to black. Shadows chased themselves across the deck as the trawler came about, her wake tracing a white arc in the sea, changing course to run east.
“Get Laros,” Narin said. “Robes and staves, everyone. Meet me in the meditation room. We have work to do.”
 
Year 1116 E. R.
 
ERAASI: WESTERN FISHING GROUNDS
ILDAON: ILDAON STARPORT
 
In the
Dance’s
forepeak, where the bulkheads narrowed between the hold and the peak tank, the Amisket Circle knelt in meditation. The overhead lamp in its vapor-tight fixture gave them a steady light, but
Dance-and-Be-Joyful
was pitching heavily—first lifting up at the bow, then pausing at the crest of each wave and sliding forward into the trough.
Each time, a brief moment of near-weightlessness would lift Narin from the deckplates during the downward slide. Then she would be thrown forward by the heavy impact at the bottom of the trough, while the
Dance
shuddered around her like an animal and the metal above her head resounded with the boom of green water over the trawler’s bow. In the next instant, she would be pressed down again as the ship tilted bow-upward at the sky, coming out from beneath tons of streaming water to ride the next wave’s lifting crest before tilting into another slide.
The lifting and dropping continued without mercy, and the booming of the waves drowned out all but the strongest and most focused thought. Narin did the best she could—one hand gripping her staff, and the other holding onto a stanchion to keep from being tossed into the other members of her Circle while she worked to see where, in this tumult of wind and water, the
eiran
led.
Where the fleet sat, the lines were tangled. Not far off, she could detect the Circles from Demnag and Ridkil Point at their workings: Demnag trying to ease the storm, Ridkil Point trying to predict what would come. Narin herself was seeking only to understand. She thought she could detect a pattern somewhere on the edge of their current location, hidden in the surface randomness, and with knowledge of the pattern would come awareness of what ought to be done.
“Listen,” Kasaly said, her voice breaking into Narin’s concentration. “Trouble.”
Narin listened. Kas was right; something had changed on the ship. Somewhere aft, a heavy clanging started as a bulkhead-mounted piece of gear began to swing from side to side. The ship’s roll—the seesaw movement that caused the
Dance
to tilt from side to side at the same time as she was pitching up and down—grew suddenly more precipitous. The overhead bulb in the meditation chamber flickered once, then returned at half strength.
The change in the light brought Tam and Laros out of their meditation as well.
“Dropped the load,” Tam said. He looked grave, and with reason. If the
Dance
lost power, she lost steering, and if the trawler lost steering, she could turn broadside to the waves—and if that happened, they were all done for.
“Soba knows enough to put out a sea anchor and head her into the wind,” Narin said. “But losing power isn’t the only kind of trouble.”
“Could you see anything?” Laros asked.
“I saw a pattern,” Narin said. “A made pattern—but not our making. Did any of you feel it?”
“Yes,” Kas said. “It’s the luck.”
The high sound of wind howling in the
Dance
’s rigging penetrated even this far down in the belly of the ship. The noise made Narin’s teeth hurt and her nerves tingle. She pushed herself to her feet, still grasping the stanchion with her left hand.
“We brought the fish,” she said, “and the fish brought us here. This is all our doing.”
Kas shook her head. “No. The luck pattern is different; it’s not an echo of our working.”
“I’m going topside. I need to talk with the captain.”
“We’ll come with you,” Tam said. “Times like this, we need to keep as close together as we can.”
Narin opened the water tight door of the Circle’s compartment and made her way out into the white-painted passageway leading aft. Outside the meditation chamber, the force of the storm was even more apparent. The metal skin of the ship trembled with the blows of the waves, and as Narin climbed to the main deck the rungs of the ladder alternately pressed hard against her feet and then dropped away as the ship pitched.
The water tight hatch at the top of the ladder had been dogged down. Narin spun the wheel and pushed the hatch up until it locked. A cascade of salt water, blood warm, splashed over her as she pulled and pushed her way through—the midships passageway was awash, the water coming in through a non-tight door on the next level above and pouring down.
Narin helped Tam, Laros, and Kas clamber through after her, then dropped and dogged the hatch. “Wait for me here,” she said. “I’m going up to the pilothouse.”
She climbed the internal ladder to the pilothouse. When she reached the top, she paused, appalled.
By the
Dance
’s chronometer the time was still late afternoon, but the sky was nighttime-dark. Lightning came in vivid purple and blue-white strokes, each flash revealing swirling clouds and water lashed to foam. Salt spray blasted against the pilothouse windows. Somebody had been seasick not long before; the acid smell of fresh vomit burned in her nose.
A glance at the barometer showed the needle hard against the leftmost peg. The atmospheric pressure was lower than the instrument had been designed to measure. While Narin stood there, gripping a handhold for support, the
Dance
slid into another trough, burying her bow completely in the water. Then, ponderously, she raised herself again.
Captain Soba sat in his chair on the starboard side. He had strapped himself into place and held onto the chair arms with tight hands. Outside the windows of the pilothouse the lightning flickered, providing almost constant illumination. Thunder roared; wind shrieked in the rigging. The deck ran with water where the spray was forced past the gaskets of the pilothouse windows.
Narin turned to look at the weather readout. It was blank and dark. “Captain,” she said.
“Hello, Narin,” he replied. “Come to bring me news?”
“Come looking for it,” she said. “What happened to the weather repeater?”
“Lost it when we lost the antennae. Lost the wireless and the imaging when we found out the hard way that we had corrosion in the side of the superstructure. A big wave knocked the receiver room out.”
“They all look like big waves to me,” Narin said. “Anything from the rest of the fleet?”
“General distress call from
First-Light-of-Morning,”
the Captain said. “Lost the signal before we could get a position on her. Lost our own communications right after that.” He peered through the lightning-flashed, water-running windows. “Not that I have too good an idea where we are ourselves, exactly. If there’s anything you and your people can do—”
“Understood, Cap’n,” Narin said, and went back down the internal ladder to where her Circle waited in the passageway below. “Things are looking bad topside,” she said. “We have to do a working.”
“Where?” Tam asked. “Things haven’t gotten any better down here, either—word came while you were gone that there’s solid flooding below. We aren’t getting back into the chamber any time soon.”
“Then we’ll do it on the weather decks, out on the fantail.”
“In these seas?” Kas demanded. “We’ll be killed!”
Narin looked at her. “That’s the point, isn’t it?”
“You heard the First,” said Tam. “A storm like this, we won’t get away with anything less.”
They shuffled aft, bracing themselves with their hands against the bulkheads. “What’s our intention?” Tam asked Narin as they went.
“The pattern here is too great for us to break. We have to slip it. Not quell the storm—just bring as many ships and crews home as possible. That much, we can do.”
Laros reached the aft door. “As the universe wills,” he said, and pulled up the lever.
The door pulled out, sucked by the wind, and slammed against the after bulkhead of the deckhouse. The noise was lost in the clamor of thunder and wind that awaited them.
 
 
’Rekhe peered at the inside of the vehicle. In the light from the street lamps, he could make out at least three passengers, all wearing dark green ship’s livery piped and faced with dull gold—the colors of the sus-Dariv fleet-family.
He hesitated, uncertain whether to take the sus-Dariv up on their invitation or not. He couldn’t see the luck-lines any more. The bright light of the street lamps had dispersed them, or had dazzled his vision so that he couldn’t make them out. But Elaeli had a hand on his sleeve and was pulling him forward—she must have found the empty streets more unnerving than she let on, if the mere sound of a Hanilat accent could be so reassuring.
He decided to get into the vehicle first just the same, so that Elaeli wouldn’t have to sit next to one of the strangers. Not everyone from Hanilat was a friend, and the sus-Dariv family had no alliance that he knew of with the sus-Peledaen.
The trio in the vehicle were all young, not much past apprentice age. ‘Rekhe didn’t know enough about the sus-Dariv markings to be certain of their rank, but they seemed friendly. The one sitting in back had an insulated picnic-box on the seat beside him—he took out a couple of cans and handed them to ’Rekhe and Elaeli.
“’S a cold night,” he said. “You look like you could use a warmup.”
’Rekhe took the can but didn’t open it. “I don’t know—”
“What’s the matter?” The sus-Dariv’s voice took on a faint note of belligerence. “You sus-Peledaen too good to drink with the rest of us?”
“No, no.” ’Rekhe unsealed the can and took a tentative swallow. The liquid inside was hot and sweet, with an astringent overtaste and a definite kick going down. It reminded him of the mulled sweetroot cider he’d tasted once on a family trip to Eraasi’s northern interior, only quite a bit stronger. After the long walk in the cold and dark, the drink felt good. “What is this? Something local?”
“’S ‘guggle,’” said the sus-Dariv who’d given him the can. “Something like that, anyhow.”
“
‘Guukl,’
” said the driver. ’Rekhe thought for a moment that the man was hiccuping, and belatedly realized that he must be the linguist in the group. Not a particularly sober linguist, however; he had one hand on the controls of the vehicle and the other wrapped around his own can of
guukl.
The car speeded up and slewed around a corner onto another, narrower street. ’Rekhe groped for safety webbing, but didn’t find any. To cover up his nervousness, he took a long pull of the hot
guukl.
“That’s the way!” said his seatmate. “Here … have another.”
’Rekhe shook his head, but the gesture went unheeded. Before he could muster a more effective reply, he had a container in each hand, one mostly empty and the other full.
“I’m Macse,” said the sus-Dariv who was handing out the cans of drink. “That’s Freo and Tuob up front.”
“I’m Tuob,” the driver said. He tilted back his can of
guukl
and drained it, then swung the vehicle’s front door open partway, tossed out the empty, and reached back to get another can from the ever-generous Macse.
“You sure you know where the place is?” asked the second passenger in the front seat—Freo, presumably.
“Yeah, I’m sure,” Tuob said. “Gotta be around here somewhere.” He speeded up.
“This doesn’t look like the way to the spaceport,” Elaeli said nervously. The buildings had opened out into a dimly-lit, monochromatic tangle of bridges and overpasses. Other vehicles were moving on the streets in this part of the city, but their lights were a long way away.
“Don’ worry,” Macse said. “We’re dropping by the party first, ’s all.”
“Party?” Elaeli’s question sounded casual, but the back seat of the vehicle was cramped enough that ’Rekhe could feel her tension. “Whose?”
“Some of the guys who’ve been here before,” said Freo. “They rented a place for the week, so we don’t have to stay in the hostel.”
“Th’ hostel’s a pit,” Macse explained.
Elaeli giggled. “That’s the truth,” she said, and ’Rekhe felt her tension easing. He let himself relax as well—the
eiran
were faintly visible again, here in the darkened interior of the vehicle, and he felt strongly that following them was the right thing to do. He drank some more
guukl.
To his surprise, the first can turned up dry. He put the empty down on the floor between his feet, and popped the seal on his second. The thought occurred to him that not only hadn’t he had anything to drink in a long time, he hadn’t had anything to eat since breakfast. The
guukl
was hitting him harder than he expected, and he liked the feeling. So did Elaeli, apparently; she was sitting closer beside him than strictly necessary, with her head leaning on his shoulder.

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