Wheel of the Infinite (5 page)

The Ariaden had been unable to resist including puppets, and Firac’s sons Thae and Tirin appeared each with one of the big walking puppets. These were elaborate contraptions that fastened to the operator at the feet and waist, and could be manipulated with rods held in the operators’ hands. The troupe owned larger ones that took two operators, one sitting on the other’s shoulders, but these were relatively small and only towered a few feet over the boys’ heads.

The appearance of the puppets, the light wooden bodies brightly painted and the distorted heads with their clacking jaws, brought the curious boatmen over. Drawn by the laughter and applause of the Mahlindi, a party of wealthier travellers, probably passengers from the barge that was weathering the bad currents, came down from the post. Most of these people had never seen the elaborate Ariaden puppets before and there was much whispered commentary in the crowd. Someone else was drawn by the noise as well.

Maskelle looked for him, and saw him finally just beyond the reach of the torches, sitting on the grass and watching. It gave her more information about him, though it was nothing that made any particular sense. She wasn’t sure how a Sitanese outcast could have seen kiradi theater before, but he got the joke that even passed the Mahlindi by, the one that appeared to be an innocuous remark about idle hands and was actually a subtle innuendo implying masturbation, to the point where he actually fell over on his side with laughter.

A burst of applause made Maskelle glance at the stage. At first she thought the figure crossing in front of Therasa and Dona’s scene was a child, escaped from some parent in the audience. It was a puppet.

“Great Days in the Dawn of Life,” Maskelle swore, starting to her feet.
How did that damn thing get out
? She circled the crowd hastily, coming up on the wagon that formed the stage right entrance. She caught Rastim as he pelted into her and dragged him behind the wagon.

“I don’t know,” he whispered frantically, answering the question she hadn’t had the chance to ask yet. “Thae and Tirin got the Aldosi out of their boxes, but they know better, they would never—”

“I know they wouldn’t.” Maskelle leaned around the wagon to peer at the stage. The animate puppet was standing, staring out at the audience, the painted face expressionless. Therasa and Doria were still saying their lines, but they were casually putting distance between themselves and the puppet. The crowd still thought it was part of the show; to people unused to puppets, the one that was walking by itself was no more miraculous than the two that had been controlled by the young boys. Firac and Gardick were standing out of sight of the crowd near the wagon marking the opposite end of the stage; Firac was holding a net. Maskelle shook her head. That wasn’t going to do much good.

All the Ariaden puppets had names: the Aldosi were the two big walking puppets Thae and Tirin were working. The one that was working itself had been Gisar, a clown puppet manipulated by strings pulled from above. Gisar had had the misfortune to be on stage during a performance that had offended a powerful magister in the eastern province of Corvalent. It was how Maskelle had first met Rastim and the other Ariaden.

Gisar now lived locked in a box hung beneath Rastim’s wagon and sealed by all the protective symbols Maskelle knew to put on it. It had been getting stronger, the particular nature of the curse put on it making its malevolence grow with time instead of fade. It must have been able to manipulate one or both of the boys from inside its box, so when they had thought they were only unpacking the Aldosi puppets, they had opened Gisar’s container as well.

“You’ll have to go and get it,” Rastim whispered.

“I know that.” It hadn’t done anything yet, but possibly it was biding its time, waiting for her. Across the length of the stage she caught Firac’s eye. When she had his attention, she stepped out away from the wagon.

“Wait,” Rastim said urgently. He gestured rapidly to the others on stage. Ariaden actors had a sign language, used for communicating silently during the complex performances. Doria suddenly clapped her hands and gestured extravagantly stage left, saying something about the townspeople’s dancing festival. Firac, Gardick, and Killia gamboled onto the stage, followed by the two boys with the Aldosi puppets. Firac whirled the net over his head, looking as much like an escaped madman as a celebratory dancer.

The puppet Gisar stared at them, backing away from the trap. Maskelle darted onto the stage in the confusion and it sensed her presence immediately, turning to come at her with its hands upraised and wooden fingers curved into claws. It ran at her, and she thumped it in the chest with her staff, sending the light body tumbling back. Firac dropped his net over it, and in another moment, Maskelle, Firac, and Gardick were dragging the creature offstage. The audience applauded happily.

Rastim and Old Mali ran around behind the other wagons to join them, and between the five of them they managed to drag the thing back to Rastim’s wagon and bundle it back into its crate without drawing any unwelcome attention. Almost everyone in the post must be watching the play by now and assuming any odd activity to be connected with it.

Maskelle drew the seals again, in wax and in coalblack, trying to ignore the knocking and rustling inside the heavy box.

“How did it get out?‘” Gardick demanded, still breathing hard from the struggle. The puppet had managed to bite his hand and Old Mali was digging the splinters out for him.

The noises quieted as Maskelle made the final sign and she sat back on her heels. “See where the last seal was scrubbed off? It made someone do that and then made him forget what he did. With the unpacking you all were doing for the play, it could have been anyone. It’s not such a hard thing, when someone’s opening boxes, to make him open just one more.”

“Not such a hard thing,” Firac muttered uneasily. “Then why didn’t it do it before?”

Maskelle glanced at Rastim’s worried face. “It’s getting stronger.”

Gardick swore and Firac moaned. “But we’re closer to Duvalpore and the chief priest,” Rastim said quickly. “In a few days it’ll all be over.”

Gardick said grimly, “If we’re still alive then. Ow!” The last was to Old Mali, who must have dug a bit deeper than strictly necessary for the last splinter.

“What we need,” Maskelle said, cutting across the growing argument, “is a lock with a key. I’ll keep the key.”

“Use the one on the moneybox,” Firac suggested. “There won’t be much to steal, not after we pay our fees here.”

Swearing under his breath, Rastim fetched the lock and Maskelle fixed it on the box’s latch. Further discussion was put off by Doria and Therasa, repeating their last exchange at a shout so Firac and Gardick would hear their cues. Everyone bolted off and Maskelle followed more slowly, shaking her head. She would like to think that the puppet’s escape was the source of her earlier disquiet, but she had the feeling it was only a portion of it and the greater part was still to come.

Maskelle went back to her position at the rear of the audience. She looked for her swordsman, but he was nowhere to be seen.

Near the end of the performance, when most of the Ariaden were on stage, something drew Maskelle’s eyes to the bank below the outpost. The light from the lamps along the balconies didn’t fall there and the shadows were deep. . . .
The light
. Maskelle sat up abruptly. There should be smaller lamps attached to the pilings, so a boat passing down the river during the night wouldn’t be in danger of striking them. There had been lamps, the last time she had noticed.

She got to her feet, her knees cracking in protest at her long immobility, and made a wide circle around the audience, out of the torchlight. The boatmen were playing dice with the Mahlindi’s guards and drivers in the very back, and none of them looked up as she passed.

It was very dark near the bank, the shadow of the outpost blocking what little moonlight escaped past the clouds. She only knew how near she was by the sound of the river and the mud squelching underfoot. She found the water steps that led down to the bridges under the post, crept down them to the first piling. She ran her hands around the rough splintered surface until she felt the cracked globe of the lamp; the glass was still warm.

So something came out of the river and put out the lamps
, she thought, finding the steps again with her staff and climbing back up the bank.
But where is it now
?

The play had ended and the troupe were taking bows, the Mahlindi thumping their feet and shouting to show their appreciation. Maskelle moved away from the outpost as the crowd dispersed. She saw the factor’s assistant gesture emphatically at the pilings, calling an order to someone, and others ran to relight the safety lamps.

Maskelle withdrew all the way to the edge of the trees, where she had a view of the whole camp. There was a group around the factor’s assistant now, pointing at each other and talking angrily; she took it that some blame was being passed around for allowing the lamps to go out. It would be nice to believe it was an accident or negligence, but she didn’t think she was so lucky.

It was late and the camp quieted down rapidly. The Ariaden were the first to retire, cranking down the shutters on their wagons against insects and the threat of rain. The boatmen went back to their boats, and the Mahlindi and the other travellers gradually withdrew into their own wagons, the drivers wrapping up in blankets and stretching out on the seats or tailgates. The factor’s guards were all stationed inside the post: the Mahlindi had sentries, but they were all watching the merchants’ cargo wagons.

Maskelle paid special attention to a trader’s wagon nearby. Before retiring he filled a lamp with oil from a large gourd that hung on the sideboard of his wagon. He had also banked his cooking fire badly. Water spirits could be driven off by fire, especially if they could be lured too far away from a source of running water.

A little time passed and the lights inside the outpost went out, one by one.

Sitting on the damp ground under a breadfruit tree, in the dark and quiet, Maskelle began to feel the night come alive around her. She felt the wind breathe through the heavy leaves above her, felt the impatient river water lap and tug at the pilings and the ropes, felt the weight of the wagons on the ground, the stamp of the oxen’s feet. Felt that she wasn’t alone.

He was about twenty feet from her, crouching at the base of a tree at the edge of the compound.
Hah
, she thought, easing silently to her feet.

She made it to within five feet of him before his head turned sharply. “Surprise,” Maskelle said, a barely voiced whisper.

She had surprised her swordsman this time, she felt, and annoyed him too, though it was too dark to read his expression. He was sitting among the knobs at the base of an old cypress, the sheathed siri on the ground in front of him. This close to him she could still sense the scent of the Temple of the Sare on him, from when he had bathed in the sacred baray. He didn’t say anything as she settled next to him, but after a moment he evidently decided not to hold it against her, and whispered, “It hasn’t moved since it came out of the river.”

Maskelle hadn’t expected to see whatever spirit had come ashore during the play, at least not until it moved into the compound. “How long have you been watching it?”

She could feel him looking at her. “Since the middle of the play.” Shifting to face forward again, he added, “I saw the lamps go out too.”

She decided not to correct his impression that she had seen the lamps blown out and not belatedly noticed the absence of light. She scanned the bank, but still couldn’t see where the damn thing was. Giving in, she said, “Where is it?”

There was a snort of exasperation and he leaned closer to her to point. “There, next to the boat with the broken hull, in the reeds,” he said.

She squinted. She could see the beached boat, a narrow-hulled slip used for quick travel. There was a crack in the hull and it had been left abandoned in the reeds on the bank, far from the occupied boats. After a moment she was able to discern a shape crouching near the bow. She gave the man next to her a sideways look, impressed. She had known it was somewhere along the bank, but she would never have seen it on her own, not without the Adversary’s help.

“What is it waiting for?” he asked, still watching her.

“Me,” she said, and stood slowly.

As soon as she stretched her senses toward it, it moved. It stood too and came toward her up the bank. A large dark shape, at least the size of a big man and roughly human-shaped, but its form seemed to flow and shift with the shadows. Maskelle frowned, staring incredulously. Water spirits were small, the size of children. They were little, gray-green creatures, dangerous to sleeping people or animals, but easily frightened by fire.

The man beside her stood, his sheathed sword in one hand. “Magic would be helpful now,” he suggested, eyeing the thing that stalked up the bank.

“I’m not a wizard, I’m a priestess,” Maskelle said, not taking her eyes off the creature.
It’s not a water spirit
. It was something new.
Ancestors, what a thought. After all this time, I’d have sworn I’d seen everything
. It was within thirty feet of them now and she hastily rearranged her plans. “Get it to follow you back through the trees.”

“Fine.” He sounded exasperated.

“It’s not human,” she cautioned him, as he started to move away.

There was a lamp hanging from a post at the top of the water steps, one of those the factor’s assistant had relit. As the shape from the river drew near it, the light reflected off and through it, as though the creature was made of black glass. The flame winked out as the thing passed.

Her swordsman stopped long enough to say, “No, really?” before slipping away.

Maskelle moved back into the trees, watching his progress. He went down toward the river, coming at the creature from the side and slightly behind it. She saw him bend and scoop up something from the ground, then shy it at the creature’s back.

Maskelle glanced upwards, appealing to the Infinite.
He threw a rock at it. Rastim could have done that
.

The creature didn’t so much turn around as reverse its direction, moving with the smooth rapidity of
rushing water, abruptly closing the distance between itself and the man. He dodged backward, made sure its attention was focused on him, then bolted for the trees.

Maskelle moved rapidly herself, tucking her staff back among the cypress knobs and running toward the compound. She went to the sloppy trader’s wagon she had spotted earlier and found the large gourd tied to the sideboard. Sniffing it to make sure it contained lamp oil, she cut it free, slicing a finger in her haste and need for silence. Then she found a metal cup abandoned nearby and scooped up a quantity of coals from the banked fire.

When she came back around the wagons, she saw the creature had halted at the edge of the trees, but the swordsman stopped and threw another rock at it, and it couldn’t resist the challenge. It flowed forward, losing some of its shape as it crossed the invisible boundary into the forest.

Very good
, Maskelle thought. At least it behaved like a water spirit. Maybe it also scented the temple on the swordsman, just the way she had. She followed hurriedly as it moved further into the trees, wedging the gourd under her arm so she could work the cork out while still keeping hold of the cup, which was steadily burning her hand.

She caught up to them just as her swordsman turned at bay in a little clearing. The creature rushed for him, still eerily silent, and he ducked and dodged, turning and catching it with an upward stroke of the siri that would have disemboweled a man. The metal split the black surface with no discernible effect.
Rastim couldn‘t have done that
, Maskelle thought, impressed.

She crouched down, dumping gourd and cup on the ground, knowing he couldn’t keep that up for long. She tore her sleeve off and shoved it into the open neck of the gourd, then held the cup up to it.
This better work
.

She looked up in time to see her swordsman bowled over backward as the water creature rushed him. It towered over him, and she shouted, “Over here! You’ve got the wrong one!”

It hesitated for a breath then rushed back toward her.

She had time for the thought that it hadn’t seemed to move this fast when it was after someone else. The rag caught when the creature was right on top of her and she slung the gourd into it, throwing the cup after it for good measure. The gourd dissolved when it passed through the creature’s surface, the oil spreading out in a cloudy wave over it. She ducked an angry swipe from a limb, and for a moment she thought the oil hadn’t had time to catch. Then fire swept up the surface and the creature tore away, thrashing and whirling.

Maskelle scrambled back. The creature was a cloudy mass of dark swirling vapor, fire running in glowing rivulets over its surface. It heaved and struggled, losing more of its shape every moment, until it burst and vanished in a spray of water.

Maskelle scrubbed the droplets off her face with her remaining sleeve. The water tasted muddy and foul, like the bottom of the river. Across the clearing, her swordsman rolled to his feet and came toward her. He stared at her, breathing hard, then said, “That wasn’t enough heat to boil away all that water.”

Maskelle sighed. She would have preferred to be admired for her cleverness instead of questioned for her lack of logic. Sucking on her cut finger, she said, “That was its own stupidity. It panicked and dissipated itself.” She shook her head. “It shouldn’t have followed you in here, it should have stayed out there and made me come after it. But there’s not much brain mixed into all that water.”
Thank the Ancestors for once
. “It wasn’t an ordinary water spirit, so we’re lucky this worked at all.”

He looked down at the disappearing puddle, then knelt and ran his hand over the grass curiously, cupping the water in his palm. “How does it kill people?”

“The little ones lay down on sleeping people and drown them. This one . . . could do just about anything it wanted, I think.”

He glanced up at her, then shook the moisture off his hand.

Maskelle started to speak, but the words caught in her throat. The sense of alarm was urgent again, was more intense with every breath.
Idiot, this was a distraction
. “There’s something else.”

He stood. “Where?”

She was already running back toward the compound, crashing through brush and tripping over roots. She swung by the cypress to grab up her staff, then ran flat out across the open ground toward the Ariaden’s camp. As she reached the edge of it, she heard the tailgate of a wagon creak.

As soon as she rounded the bulk of Firac’s wagon, she saw it. There was a figure standing on the now open tailgate of her wagon.

She was too far away. The figure turned toward her, raised its hand. Then her swordsman tore around the back of Rastim’s wagon, coming at the intruder from behind, catching it in a tackle and dragging it off the tailgate.

She reached them a moment later. Her swordsman was holding the furiously struggling figure face down. Maskelle moved around, trying to get a better look at the intruder as he twisted his head back and forth in the wet grass, choking with rage. And it was a “he” she saw, and not an “it.” He was dressed in torn and dirty trousers like a fieldworker and he was wire-thin, the bones standing out in his outflung arms. There were no old rank designs on the scalp beneath the stringy dark hair, and there was no disguising the rough and calloused skin from long hours at outdoor labor. One of his outstretched hands was clutching a small silver-glass globe.

Maskelle’s brows knit. “Bastard sons of pigs,” she muttered. The Ariaden, the Mahlindi, the boatmen, everyone inside the post, they all would have been killed. She could feel the power inside the glass straining to break free, even as the fieldworker strained to break free from his captor. She stepped close and caught a handful of the boy’s greasy hair. He twisted away and spat at her, but she had already seen what she needed to see. The pupils of his eyes were as silver-grey as the surface of the globe, opaque and solid, not like human eyes at all.

Rastim tumbled out of his wagon and moved to stand beside her, scratching his head and looking down at their unwelcome visitor. Heads were peering out from the other wagons. She stepped back and said, “Kill him.”

There was a shocked word of protest from someone and Rastim stared at her.

Maskelle ignored him, looking down at the man who had caught the boy, preventing him from breaking the globe and setting the curse loose on the compound. He hadn’t bothered to draw the siri, which was sheathed again at his belt. He had his knees planted on the boy’s shoulders, keeping him pinned to the ground.

The others were silent now, aghast or baffled. The boy hadn’t reacted to Maskelle’s words, though she had spoken in Kushorit, except to make the same gasping, snarling noises he had made since he had been caught. Of course, in
Teachings
, the philosopher Arabad had theorized that speech was impossible without a soul.
So the old fool was right about something
, Maskelle thought dryly.
I should write him a letter
. She said, “Whoever sent him here tied his soul to the curse in the globe. He’s already dead, his body just doesn’t realize it yet.” It was an old magic, older than the temples, and a foul one.