Servant of the Dragon Page 32

  Just naturally cantankerous, Cashel decided. Well, a lot of people were. He sighed and looked the portal over.

  The door had no latch or bar, just a vertical staple on either side for a handgrip. The lower half of the grip was polished by use. Landure hadn't spent his time outside with his sword drawn. He must have ruled his Underworld the way Cashel tended sheep, always present to keep an eye on them and to take care of things when they got into some foolishness or other.

  Cashel stepped into the cavern. For as far as he could see there was just rock with no marking except for a patch of damp just at the edge of the light. That was going to be a problem, now that he thought about it: the light. Still, Landure had gotten along--and Colva too, it seemed like--so Cashel would. Maybe Krias would guide him.

  Cashel put his left hand on the inner staple and pulled the door closed. The door swung easily once he got it moving to start with. He wondered what the builders used for hinges to carry so much weight without binding.

  Come to think, he wondered who the builders were.

  The bronze door closed with a soft thump. The fit between jamb and valve was so close that they trapped air in-between for a cushion.

  It wasn't a cave any more. Light as red as rusted iron shone all around him. Everything had changed.

  Cashel stood on an outcrop overlooking a pine-covered valley. He could see for, well, as far as he'd ever seen. It was like looking out to sea from the pastures south of Barca's Hamlet, but he was a lot higher up here.

  He glanced over his shoulder. Now the door was set into the face of a bluff that pretty much mirrored what he'd seen from the outside. Stunted pines and rhododendrons grew from the rock face, though they didn't look quite right. The limbs were a little too sinuous, and he'd never seen a pine with bark as smooth as the one bobbing just above his head. Well, you had to expect differences when you travelled.

  "I suppose you're wondering where the light comes from, aren't you?" Krias said.

  Cashel thought about it. "No," he said, "but I'm glad it's here. I'd been wondering about that."

  He coughed, clearing his throat. The air still had a touch of sulphur to it; it nipped at the back of nose when he breathed. He guessed he'd get used to it. The trees looked healthy enough, even if they were a bit funny.

  "Do I just head down there and follow the river?" Cashel asked, pointing his staff toward what looked like a reasonable track into the valley. He didn't see a river, but that was what you got at the bottom of valleys.

  Cashel could get around on the rocks, but he wasn't an enthusiastic climber. It wasn't a matter of strength or a head for heights; it was simply weight. He crumbled niches and knobs that supported smaller fellows just fine.

  "You don't care, do you?" Krias said. The demon sounded really amazed instead of just being peevish. "Here you go into what you think is a cave and you don't care where the light comes from! It doesn't come from anywhere! It's a part of the Underworld, like the rocks and everything else except the monsters. It's part of their cage!"

  "Oh," said Cashel. It didn't sound like he was going to get an answer to his question, so he started down the slope. He'd thought carrying the quarterstaff might be a problem, but when he butted it in the roots of trees below him, it braced his body as he climbed down.

  "You're going to drive me mad!" Krias said.

  Cashel didn't say he was sorry--which would've been a lie--but he tried not to smile too broadly either. That happened a lot, people going into shrieking rages because Cashel wouldn't get mad at them. Krias didn't realize that he was playing an old tune that Cashel had learned long since to counterpoint.

  Things chattered in the trees, but they didn't sound much like the woodland creatures Cashel knew from home. They didn't sound like anything he wanted to get to know, either. One sort clicked like rattling bones, and the rest hooted like owls that knew something nasty about you.

  Cashel gripped a little dogwood, gave it a firm tug to make sure its roots would stay anchored, and let himself down another long step. Just below was a proper ledge, so big it had grass growing. After that the slope eased enough that he'd be able to walk normally.

  He thought about Landure the Guardian, who hadn't been dressed for rock climbing during the brief time he and Cashel knew one another. Of course he might have changed into a short tunic and taken off those silly boots before he entered the cave, but the long sword was at best going to get in the way.

  "What did Landure do, Master Krias?" Cashel asked as he stepped onto the ledge and caught his breath for a moment. "Climbing down into the valley, I mean? Did he have a different route?"

  He wriggled his toes. The roots of the plants who'd first colonized the rock trapped grit and wind-blown dust, creating a more welcoming terrain for later comers. You couldn't call the result sod, but it felt pretty good nonetheless.

  "Landure didn't walk like a sheep-boy!" Krias said. "He was a great wizard. He floated through the air with his arms crossed."

  "Ah," said Cashel, nodding. He should've guessed it'd be something like that.

  He stepped off the end of the ledge carefully, thrusting his staff in front of him. It might not be steep enough now that he'd break his neck, but he could still make himself no end of fool if he slipped. Rolling downslope like a round of cheese wouldn't be the way to meet any of the locals either. Colva had been bad enough, and Cashel didn't doubt there could be worse where she came from.

  "You could fly too, you know," Krias piped unexpectedly. "Sail majestically over the treetops."

  "What?" said Cashel. "This is fine. I'm not a wizard."

  He walked on, keeping his staff pointed well out in front of him, but he didn't worry any more that he was going to fall. He was just being careful, as usual.

  "I'm a demon with powers beyond your imagining!" Krias said. "I can make you fly!"

  Cashel grinned. He might not have much imagination, but he'd seen things since he left home that he didn't think a puny little fellow like Krias was going to better. Aloud he said, "Oh, I don't mind walking. I just wondered about Landure."

  Krias gabbled to himself. He sounded like a cote full of doves going to sleep, only madder.

  If he'd asked, Cashel would've explained that he wanted to have his feet planted if it came to trouble, and from what Krias himself had said it was going to do that sooner or later. Cashel didn't volunteer that because Krias was the sort who'd jeer at whatever reason Cashel gave him; and anyway, Cashel didn't generally volunteer what he was thinking.

  He'd gotten down into the forest proper. It was mostly pine like it had seemed from above, but there were red maples too and dogwoods where the taller trees let light through. There were outcrops of bare rock, too, as well as places where moss had found a lodging but nothing larger was able to. The moss wriggled under Cashel's toes in a fashion that struck him as a little too active for a small plant.

  He heard music. It was a fluting sound, very pure and sweet. Usually high notes like those didn't travel far in a forest, but Cashel was pretty sure that this wasn't a usual forest.

  "What's that noise, Krias?" Cashel asked. He'd been about to rest the staff over his shoulder as he walked, but the sound made him change his mind. He kept the sturdy length of hickory in both hands, slanted crossways.

  "I know and you're going to learn, sheep-boy!" the ring cried gleefully. "Oh! you will! You're going to wish you'd never come down to the Underworld!"

  Cashel thought about that. The horn--or was it just a throat, a singer loud enough to sound like a horn?--continued to call. The golden notes seemed to come from several different directions, but that might have been tricks of echoes.

  Cashel could imagine he wouldn't like what he found in the Underworld, that was true. But that he'd regret coming? No, that wouldn't happen. This was the direction that took him closer to Sharina. He couldn't imagine going any way but that one.

  "Well, aren't you going to ask me what it is?" Krias said, pouting because Cashel hadn't begged or yelled or whateve
r for the information.

  "That's all right," Cashel said. "I guess I'll learn before long."

  Sure, he'd have liked to know what was calling--that's why he'd asked in the first place. But you didn't get anywhere by playing silly games with folks who wanted to be difficult. Trying to wheedle the ring into telling would be as big a waste of time as chasing a chicken around the house when you wanted dinner. Much better to drop a pinch of oats between your spread feet while you sat on the back step.

  And wring the bird's fool neck when she came to peck up the food.

  Cashel grinned. He wondered if you could stew a demon. Krias would probably taste worse than a fish crow.

  This was an open forest, not much different from the woodland owned in common by the householders of Barca's Hamlet. There dead limbs were gathered--and dead trees felled--for fuel, while hogs rooting for mast kept the undergrowth clear. Maybe the same thing was going on here, but Cashel would've smelled woodsmoke if he'd been anywhere close to Barca's Hamlet.

  He didn't smell the sulphur either, but his throat was dry and getting drier so he knew it hadn't gone away. That was the thing about a really bad stink: it didn't take long before you didn't notice it any more. Ermand or-Pile didn't mind how his tanyard smelled, but any other villager who came close gagged at the stench of urine, alum, and rotting fat.

  Cashel caught movement out of the corners of his eyes. Things were flitting between the trees, though it seemed more like they were flitting within the trees some of the time. Were they women? But then, Colva had looked like a woman when he first met her.

  The horns had stopped calling. Now Cashel heard plucked strings and somebody singing to the tune. He couldn't make out the words.

  Cashel gave his quarterstaff a practice spin, in front of him and then over his head. The ferrules swept in a graceful figure-8, smooth as butter. Cashel crossed his wrists, swapped hands, and repeated the set of movements to bring the staff back just as it was when he started.

  He was glad there wasn't much undergrowth. A quarterstaff takes up a lot of room even at rest, and when seven feet of iron-capped hickory is moving at the speed Cashel's thick wrists could bring it to--Duzi knew, you wouldn't be able to see for ivy leaves and splinters of saplings!

  "So, you're going to fight them with your stick, sheep-boy?" Krias said.

  "I'm not going to fight anybody if I can help it," Cashel said, slowing his breathing back down to where it ought to be. It wasn't so much the exercise of whirling the quarterstaff that made Cashel's heart race as the chance he was coming to the fight he'd told Krias--truthfully--that he wasn't looking for.

  Cashel never had gone looking for a fight. But he'd never turned his back on one that came to him, either.

  Ahead of him was the gurgle of water moving over rocks at a good clip. That was the sort of sound that fooled you. It didn't seem loud, but it smothered all the other noises usually warned you about things you couldn't--

  A man stepped out of the forest in front of Cashel. Stepped out of a giant beech tree? But maybe he'd just been in the shade beside it. He carried a bow made of gold instead of ashwood or yew, and the arrows in his quiver had silver shafts. He was tall but not as tall as Cashel, and his build was as slim and supple as a young girl's.

  "Greetings, stranger," he said. "We People don't get many visitors."

  His eyes kept drifting toward the iron ferrules of Cashel's staff and the glint of Krias on his little finger. The fellow had the same expression as old Kifer did, sitting in a corner of Reise's tap room staring at his neighbors drinking jacks of ale that Kifer couldn't afford since he'd drunk away his land and lived by casual labor.

  Cashel spread his legs. He turned his head slightly, side to side; nothing furtive, just openly checking to see if he had more company.

  He did. There were at least four hands-full of them, males and equally-willowy females, standing in a wide circle among the trees. Only the first would have been within reach of Cashel's quarterstaff.

  "Good day, sir," Cashel said. "I'm Cashel or-Kenset, and I'm just passing through this region. I don't intend to trouble you."

  The strangers were bare-chested, wearing kilts cut to hang lower on their right leg than the left. Most of them held golden bows like the fellow who'd greeted Cashel. Three had slender horns coiled over one shoulder and about their chests; these had swords thrust beneath their girdles. The blades writhed like snakes.

  Only one of the group was unarmed, a lanky boy with a shock of red hair instead of the golden curls of the others. He carried a double-strung lyre, and he glared in disgust at Cashel.

  "I am Wella, Cashel," said the man who'd greeted him first. He stared at the ring with hungry eyes. "We People are honored by your presence. You must stay with us tonight so that we can feast you as you deserve."

  One of the females stepped toward Cashel, her slim-fingered hand reaching out as if to touch something perfect and fragile. He saw the movement and turned quickly. She sprang back immediately, smiling.

  "I...," Cashel said. He didn't want to spend any longer with the People than it took his legs to carry him away; but there were a lot of them, and they had bows. He thought of asking Krias what to do, but he couldn't trust the demon to say anything helpful. Besides, the People were already a bit too interested in the ring.

  "Come, Cashel," Wella said, stretching out the hand that didn't hold his bow. "Come to the home of the People."

  Cashel moved slightly; the quarterstaff bobbed its iron cap a hair's breadth closer to Wella. He jerked back, his topaz eyes blazing.

  "Elfin, lead our guest," Wella said.

  The youth with the lyre stepped forward and put his hand on Cashel's arm. "Come, heavy person," Elfin said. His voice was as pure as the sound of ice cracking in a hard winter. "Come and we People will treat you as we should."

  "Well, I guess I need to eat somewhere," Cashel said. The youth's touch was reassuringly warm. Cashel had expected something smooth and metallic, somehow.

  The People turned and started off through the forest. Cashel was in the midst of the party; Elfin's fingers never left his biceps.

  "I know and you're going to learn," chimed the ring's tiny voice.

  "How old are you, my pretty little miss?" sang Chalcus at one of the mutineers' pair of driftwood fires. "How old are you, sweet marrow?"

  Ilna thought of Garric's piping; and turned her thoughts back, because there was no sense and less joy in the direction they were going. Four sailors danced on the sand, their hands on their hips and their legs kicking high. The only accompaniment came from another man with miniature cymbals made from hollowed nutshells on his thumbs and forefingers. He clacked them together, giving the beat with his right hand and a complex rustling counterpoint with the other.

  "If I don't die of a broken heart," Chalcus sang, now in a falsetto, "I'm sixteen come tomorrow."

  Ilna looked down at the child sleeping beside her. Merota had a bit of her cloak's hem in her mouth and was chewing it as she dreamed. Ilna thought of tugging the cloth free, but there wasn't any real harm in what the girl was doing.

  Ilna sighed also. She had to remind herself to pass over the many things might be wrong but didn't do any harm. And some of them weren't wrong, even though Ilna os-Kenset thought they were. Her head accepted that, but her heart would never believe it as long as she lived.

  There was nothing wrong with the music, for example. Ilna wasn't in a mood to listen to it, though, and unlike Merota she wasn't so wrung out by the day's events that she could sleep despite it.

  The provisions intended for Lord Tadai and his suite had still been aboard when Mastyn sprang his mutiny. Tonight the sailors had eaten food they'd never known existed--eaten some and wasted more, actually. To sailors from the south coast of Ornifal, eggs preserved in a sauce of rotted sheep's entrails were simply rotten eggs, while the tastes of the royal court ran to far more exotic dishes than that.

  Ilna smiled faintly. Prince Garric's taste in food wasn't that different
from the sailors', actually, though the one was heavier on mutton with porridge and the other on porridge with fish. The courtiers were appalled.

  Tadai's wines had found universal acceptance, though. The vintages came from all over the Isles, some of them spiced and many fermented from fruits other than grapes, but that made no matter. The sailors' attitude seemed to be that when you'd drunk enough, it didn't matter if the stuff smelled like worms had died in the vat. The party would be going on till dawn. Vonculo and the other leaders would have their work cut out to get the ships relaunched by midday.

  Ilna stood, glanced again to be sure Merota was still quiet, and walked toward the fire at the other end of the long crescent. Behind her a dozen sailors joined Chalcus to chorus, "Ti di diddly di, ti diddle do!"

  It didn't disturb Ilna to hear other people having fun. Her lips quirked in an almost-smile. It shouldn't disturb her, at least.

  Vonculo and four other sailors sat around the fire at the other end of the islet. They'd knocked the top off the long-necked jug that stood upright in the sand beside them, but the atmosphere here was in dismal contrast to that of the larger grouping.

  Ilna had no intention of joining Vonculo. The common sailors were fools and presently drunk besides, but they'd still be better company than the men who planned this nonsense.

  For now, all Ilna intended was to put distance between herself and noisy happiness until she mastered her anger enough to go back and sleep beside Merota. She didn't expect to be happy. Some people were, some people weren't. It didn't seem to matter what happened around them--it was how they were made inside.

  Cashel was happy. Not all the time, but more of the time than any other person Ilna had met. She supposed that she and her brother had a normal amount of happiness between them; but you weren't going to mistake a garment with black and white stripes for a gray one.

  Just now Ilna was furious at the world; and that in turn made her angry with herself for such a foolish reaction. Clouds didn't care who they rained on, and the world didn't care that Ilna os-Kenset saw life as a tangle of yarn greater than any human being could be expected to sort out.