Out of the Waters (44 page)

“Of course not,” Varus said. He was suddenly angry when he realized that Manetho might be looking for an excuse to send a rival to brutal labor and an early death. “Don't
ever
suggest something like that to me.”

It had been bad enough to imply that the young master might be savage and unreasonable rather than the philosopher he strove to be. It was much worse to use him as a weapon against a victim who was not only undeserving of such punishment but even innocent.

Varus got to his feet. He said, “Open the—”

Before he got the rest of the sentence out, three servants were throwing open the shutters. His whole entourage—the day and night shifts together—was here in the library or in the corridor outside.

He bent to pick up the tablet which had slipped from his fingers, wondering just how far he'd gotten in his dictation. He had thought he was too tense to get to sleep and that focusing on scholarship would calm him. The plan had apparently worked better than he had hoped.

“Permit me, your lordship!” said the girl who had snatched the tablet from the floor. She put it in his hand, pressing his fingers as she did so. She must have been sleeping at the foot of his couch.

Varus didn't remember her name, though he had seen her repeatedly in the past several days. He couldn't imagine why she had been assigned to him. If in fact she had been: in a household as large as Saxa's, it was quite possible for recently purchased servants to float for weeks or months without being given specific duties.

He straightened abruptly without trying to hide his look of irritation. Just as he didn't want to be a tool of vengeance between servants, he disliked the notion of some illiterate girl using his favor to elevate herself among her fellows. She didn't even speak good Greek!

“I believe I'll go to the baths now,” Varus said to Manetho. “Or—are the baths in our gymnasium warm, by any chance?”

Saxa's little exercise ground was fully equipped, though it had rarely been used before Varus invited his friend Corylus to visit. The attached bath had a steam room and a cold pool only big enough to sit in rather than swim, but that would be sufficient to relax the stiffness of a night spent sleeping awkwardly.

Manetho smiled. “When I learned your lordship was here,” he said, gesturing to the bookcases, “I ordered the furnace to be stoked. The water should be ready now.”

You just redeemed yourself,
Varus thought. And after all, it was possible that the deputy steward hadn't had any evil motive in talking about punishments.

Aloud he said, “Have a fresh tunic brought there for me,” and started for the door. Manetho whisked out ahead of him.

Frowning, Varus added, “Manetho, do you know what happened to the slaves whom my father freed, ah, yesterday?”

“They were enrolled in a section of their own,” Manetho said. “Master Lenatus was appointed as the decurion who will lead them.”

“Ah,” said Varus, lifting his chin in understanding. His face was blank as he started downstairs toward the gymnasium at the back.

It would not do for the emperor to hear a rumor that Gaius Saxa was raising a private army of former slaves. On the other hand, Saxa's new clients had to be dealt with in some fashion, and keeping them in Carce under Lenatus was probably as safe as any choice could be. Besides, they might come in useful again.…

Varus thought of a wizard with the power to lift crystal mountains and to scour swathes of forest to bubbling rock. The emperor wasn't the worst threat which Saxa and the world faced at the moment.

*   *   *

I
NSTEAD OF HANGING
its sail from a single spar, the Atlantean ship had two booms joined separately to the mast. When they began to flap like wings, Corylus looked up to see how they were attached.

There was no joint: the booms grew out of the mast the way branches spread from a tree bole. Corylus laid his palm against the mast and felt the wood bunch and flex as though he were touching the flank of a running horse.

“Cousin?” he said. “Is this ship alive?”

The sprite turned from the bow, where she had been looking out to sea. “I suppose it's alive the same way a crystal is,” she said. “Does that matter?”

“Perhaps not at the moment,” Corylus said, a trifle sharply. The sprite's lack of curiosity disturbed him, but he had met no few human beings who also disregarded the world unless it had some immediate application to themselves. The soul of a tree which had been dust or ashes for untold thousands of years had a better reason to lack a sense of wonder.

They were far enough out over the sea that Corylus could barely see the land they had left. They had slanted upward until the keel was—he looked over the railing—about a hundred feet above the water, but they were no longer climbing. There was nothing ahead or to either side, as best he could tell.

The ancient wizard grinned at him. It didn't seem to need a talisman like those he had seen the Atlanteans in visions use when they propelled their ships.

The ship's wings beat with slow, powerful strokes like those of a vulture gaining altitude on a gray day. Corylus said, “How long can we fly before we have to land? Or—”

He knew he was being optimistic, but that didn't cost any more than anxiety would.

“—can we soar without flapping?”

The sprite looked puzzled. “How would we do that?” she said. “But we can fly as long as the sun shines. Why would you want to stop flying?”

There was no useful answer to that—because of her disinterest and his ignorance, they were talking at cross purposes—so Corylus said, “Will we get home—to my home, I mean—before sunset, Coryla?”

She shrugged. “You humans worry about time,” she said as she returned to where Corylus stood at the railing just forward of the mast. “I don't know when we'll reach the waking world. I don't know if we ever will.”

She slid her hand through the sleeve of his tunic and began fondling his chest. He took her wrist and firmly placed her arm at her side; she pouted and turned her back, but she didn't move away.

Corylus looked up. There were no clouds, but the sky itself had a pale cast that suggested haze. The sun remained bright, though not hot enough to make him wish for better shade than he had available.

“I should have thought things through before we left the beach,” Corylus said. “Does, ah, your friend know how long we must fly to get back?”

The sprite turned and glowered for an instant. Then her mood broke and she said, “I don't think he cares any more about time than I do, cousin. You humans are hard to understand.”

She walked toward the bow but threw a glance over her shoulder to show that she wasn't stalking away; he followed. “But there was nothing good about that island, not for me and certainly not for you. I'm glad you left. And—”

She raised her eyebrow.

“—what would you have done when another Cyclops came? Though I might have asked the Ancient to help. Even though you're not as friendly to me as you should be, cousin. Don't you think I'm pretty?”

“At another time I'd…,” Corylus said. “Well, I might find you very pretty. But not now, please, mistress.”

The Cyclops had almost crushed him to death, and in this place he wasn't sure he was alive to begin with.
Is my body lying on the floor of Tardus' library, turning purple and cooling?

He grinned at the thought. So long as he could imagine things being worse, the way things were didn't seem so bad. Any soldier could tell you that.

“Well,
I
think you're being silly,” the sprite said with a pout, but she wasn't really angry this time. “What else is there to do?”

“I'm going to check the food and drink,” Corylus said, removing a pin so that he could slide the wooden bolt that fastened the hatch cover. He had spoken to change the subject, but as soon as he formed the words he realized that he was very thirsty.

The shallow hold was empty except for a tank with a spigot and a net bag holding hard, fist-sized lumps that looked like plaster. He supposed they were rolls. The tank wasn't metal, wood, or pottery of any familiar sort. It had flowed like glass, but it didn't have the slick hardness of glass when Corylus tried it with his fingertip.

He turned the spigot and ran fluid into the mug of the same material chained to the tank. It was water and too tasteless to be really satisfying. He drained the cup regardless, then took one of the rolls back on deck.

“Do you need something to eat?” Corylus said to the sprite. “And there's a cask of water, too.”

She brushed the thought away moodily. “I don't eat; I can't eat. And I no longer have a tree.”

She caught his glance toward the creature in the stern and laughed. “No, not the Ancient either,” she said. “What a thought, cousin!”

At least I've cheered her up,
Corylus thought. He wondered what it would be like to be imprisoned for millennia—imprisoned forever, very likely—in a bead of glass with an inhuman sorcerer. Of course the sprite was inhuman also.…

He took a bite of the roll as he leaned over the railing, looking down. He started to chew, then stopped and spat out the mouthful. It tasted like stiff wax.

“Mistress?” he said. “What is this stuff? I thought it was food.”

“It's the food that the serfs eat on shipboard,” the sprite said without much interest. “The Minoi have fresh food, but that's probably all gone now. The ships were cast up many seasons ago, you know.”

“I see,” said Corylus. He leaned on the railing again, eyeing the roll again. His teeth had left distinct impressions, just as they would have done in wax. He might become hungry enough to eat the stuff; but though he
was
very hungry, he wasn't to that point yet.

Swells moved slowly across the face of the water, occasionally marked by flotsam. Spurts of foam suddenly flecked the surface well off to starboard.

Corylus focused on the flickers of movement: flying fish were lifting from the sea and arrowing above it for several hundred feet, slanting slightly to one side or the other of their line in the water. Following them closely were the much larger shadows of porpoises, curving up from the surface and back. Their motion reminded Corylus of a tent maker's needle as he sewed leather panels together.

He looked at the roll. “Mistress,” he said, “we don't have fishing gear or any way to make it that I can see, but I think if we get right down on the surface ahead of those fish, some of them will fly aboard. I've seen it happen before, on regular ships.”

He grinned. “Flying fish are bony,” he said, “and I don't suppose there's any way to cook them, but even fish would be better food than these rolls.”

“It doesn't sound very good to me,” Coryla said, “but if that's what you want.…”

She called to the creature in the language they shared. He barked in obvious amusement.

Corylus didn't see him change what he was doing—he simply squatted in the stern, occasionally looking over one railing or the other—but the ship slid downward as smoothly as it had risen. They were bearing to the right as well, putting them into the path of the school of fish.

Feeling triumphant, Corylus tossed the roll he held over the side. He felt a catch as the ship's keel brushed through the top of the swells. Spray flew backward on the breeze. Droplets splashed the creature, who calmly licked his golden fur smooth again.

A fish slapped onto the deck, wriggled, and flung itself back through the railing as Corylus tried to grab it. Almost immediately, two more fish came aboard. He hadn't replaced the hatch cover—from laziness, not foresight—but that allowed him to scoop first one, then the other catch into the hold.

They were each the length of his forearm. Corylus was more pleased at having come up with a clever idea than he was at the prospect of eating them raw.

“Cousin?” the sprite said. “Have you looked into the water over the stern recently?”

Corylus grimaced to be interrupted: another fish had landed on the deck and there was one caught on top of the port sail as well.

She didn't sound concerned—but she
never
sounded concerned
.

Corylus leaped past the Ancient, looking back while holding onto the inward-curving stern piece. There was only swelling water, a translucent green that darkened—

“Take us up!” he shouted. “Higher, by Hercules!”

The Ancient laughed like a chattering monkey. The sails slammed the air back and downward, thrusting the ship upward and making it heel onto its port side. Corylus grabbed the starboard railing with both hands and kept his grip though his feet skidded out behind him.

The sails flapped again. The ship wasn't gaining height—the port rail barely skimmed the tops of the swells—but they had turned at almost right angles to their previous course. The golden-furred creature continued to laugh.

It was going to let us die without saying a word!

But then, it was already dead. Presumably nothing would change for the Ancient and Coryla if the glass amulet was in the belly of a—

The sea exploded upward where the ship would have been if it had continued dawdling along catching flying fish. The head of the monster was ten or a dozen feet long in itself, and its gape was wider yet. The fangs were a foot long, back-slanting and pointed like spears.

The jaws clopped shut on spray and air. If the ship hadn't twisted to the side, they would have crushed the hull.

The monster curled to follow its prey's new course. Its head and body were a tawny bronze, with darker mottlings as though brown paint had been dripped over metal.

The eyes, prominent and well forward in the snout, glittered with what Corylus read as anger. He knew he was projecting his fear onto a beast whose small brain likely had room only for hunger. Hunger was quite enough of a threat.