The Bitterbynde Trilogy (90 page)

‘As I was saying, the Stormriders' unrivaled reputation for performing death-defying acts has achieved its pinnacle, methinks, with this latest rumour from Isse Tower which has at last reached the Court.'

‘The tale of my brave ride to Ilian during the storms of Imbrol?' The vulture puffed out its chest. ‘True, many attempting such a hazardous undertaking would have perished, but I—'

‘No. The tale of the Stormriders who stood balanced on sildron, four hundred feet above the ground, wearing no flying-harness or safety ropes.'

Ustorix afforded no reply.

‘Zounds, what a feat,' expounded Rohain, warming to her topic. ‘We all asked ourselves,
what manner of men are these
? There is naught so charming as a man of heroism and bravery, one who can perform acts of great daring and remain icy cool. Do you not agree, my lady Heligea?'

‘Certainly,' replied that lady, who until now had exhibited only bored sullenness.

‘One must indeed respect such a man,' persisted Rohain. ‘One must adore him. Pray, leave me not in suspense—who were the perpetrators of this rumoured exploit?'

‘A couple of the servants,' drawled Heligea insouciantly, before her brother could reply. ‘Grod Sheepshorn and Tren Spatchwort.'

The knuckles of Ustorix whitened, like a range of snowy peaks. Gimlet-eyed, he shot a glance of pure hatred at Heligea.

‘Servants!' Rohain smiled. ‘Well, if the servants are so remarkable, the masters by rights must be doubly so. I suppose 'tis quite a common feat among Stormriders. No doubt you practice it every day. Dearly would I love to witness such a valorous act!'

Am I becoming another Dianella? Oh, but the vulture deserves this, and more
.

‘May I watch
you
at this trick, my lord?' Rohain asked sweetly. ‘It would be something to tell them, at Court.'

Ustorix's face had grayed. He cleared his throat, attempting a thin smile. The object of his adoration gazed at him expectantly.

‘Assuredly …'

‘Delightful,' she said, raising her wineglass in salute. ‘I look forward to it. By the by, where are these dauntless servants to be found, this Tron Cocksfoot and Garth Sheepsgate?'

‘One of them enlisted. The other—well, I am told he joined the crew of a Windship,' advised Heligea, who seemed to keep herself informed about all events both Below the dock and Above.

‘Was there not talk of some other servant,' Rohain continued airily, inwardly remarking on her new persona's ability to dissimulate. ‘A deformed lad with yellow hair?'

‘It is surprising how much talk of Isse Tower's servants reaches the Court,' purred Heligea. ‘One wonders how, since Relayers would hardly bother. Yes, there was once one such as Your Ladyship describes. I know not whence he came, nor where he went. Nobody knows.'

‘Unfortunately, there may be no time for the sildron demonstration,' grittily interjected Ustorix. ‘I had planned to throw the Tower and demesnes open to my lady for a tour of inspection tomorrow, should my lady so condescend.'

‘Such an undertaking must prove diverting, but do not deny me, my lord, I pray you! I am certain there will be enough time for other amusements. It is not necessary for me to leave here until I receive word of the King-Emperor's return to Caermelor.'

And so it was arranged. Before her visit came to an end, the Lady Rohain would be granted the entertainment she desired.

Keeping company with Isse Tower's masters soon palled. After dinner, Rohain pleaded travel fatigue and retired to her rooms. There she instructed Viviana to go discreetly among the Tower servants.

‘Find an old drudge-woman called Grethet. She works on Floor Five, around the furnaces. There must be no fuss—concoct some story that I've heard she's skilled at healing and wish to ask her advice, or some such explanation. And discover all you can about another servant who once worked here—a lad, yellow-haired, misshapen.'

Shang harbingers prickled Rohain's scalp as she stood in the doorway watching Viviana, gray-cloaked, flit like a thought to the lift-well. There, the lady's maid rang the bell and waited. From the deeps, the cage could be heard clunking upward on its rails. The wrought-iron gates slid apart and Dolvach Trenchwhistle burst forth beefily, followed by a quartet of chambermaids bearing laden trays. On beholding Rohain, the Head Housekeeper came to a sudden halt.

‘Oh, er, my lady,' she stammered with a curtsy, ‘I was just comin' ter see if there'd be anything Your Ladyship might be wantin'.'

‘No. Only peace.'

‘Yes, m'lady. Very good, m'lady.'

Dolvach Trenchwhistle turned back toward the lift.

‘Trenchwhistle!'

‘Yes, m'lady?'

‘Carry that tray for that little chambermaid. It is too heavy for her. I am surprised at you. At Court, we hear everything. I had been told that the Head Housekeeper treated her underlings as she would nurture the finest roses. Do not disappoint me.'

‘Yes, m'lady. Forgive me, m'lady.'

Flustered, the Head Housekeeper blundered into a tray, knocking it against the wall. Half the contents spilled. She muttered imprecations. As the lift-gates closed, she crooned aggressively to Viviana, ‘And what might you be wantin' downstairs my dear?'

Rohain's skin tautened. The air smacked of lightning. Her dark-dyed hair, relieved of the fur turban, lifted of its own accord. She was alone in her chambers in the Tower.

Her door opened onto a wide passage, at one end of which stood a pair of high and narrow portals. She walked to them, pushed them apart. They gave onto a balcony with a dominite balustrade. Spoutings sprouted winged gargoyles, their tongues protruding. The cool night wind shouldered its way past, bringing a whiff of the sea that knocked at memory's gates. Down below at the dock, the
Harper's Carp
bobbed, waiting to return to Caermelor with the afternoon breeze, since it could not be spared from duty. The Greayte Southern Star winked like an emerald beacon gemming the horizon. It being the middle of the month, the moon was full. A silver note sounded from somewhere in the crenellations overhead. An impossible silhouette flew across the moon's face—a Stormrider coming in from a Run.

The unstorm travelled close in his wake. Rohain watched it cover the forest, far below, with tiny firefly glows, here and there shining brighter where a tableau pulsed. Isse Harbour was transformed into a carpet of gaudy fish-scales, green and gold. A real Seaship lay at anchor there. A ghostly galleon foundered off the headland, like the Seaship in a song Sianadh had once sung about a vessel caught in the Ringstorm:

‘If ye go forth into the north ye'll see her evermore—

The ship and crew so brave and true, do perish o'er and o'er.

Outlin'd in gold from top to hold, each clew and spar and cleat—

She founders ever and again in terrible repeat.'

‘From whence come I?' Rohain said softly. ‘From beyond the Ringstorm? Could it be that I sailed from unknown lands beyond the girdle of outrageous winds, and survived?'

The unstorm's terrible splendor rolled by. She walked back toward her chambers but had not yet reached the tall doors when a disquieting occurrence took place, a jarring note in the paean of her triumphant return to Isse Tower.

Almost soundlessly, out of the moonshadows, something limped rapidly across the passageway.

‘Stop!' she reprimanded.

It checked, for the space of a heartbeat, then backed away.

‘Pod—it is Pod, isn't it?'

A hoarse sob broke from a throat.

‘You! You back again! I told you to leave me alone,' Pod gasped. ‘Go away. Go from here. You might bring doom on this place.'

‘You know me?' She was incredulous. ‘But how—'

‘Yes, I know you. You used to live here. Now you have come back. Come back to bring ruin on us all.'

‘No, I have not—' but she knew herself to be at his mercy. Pod alone knew her, instantly, when in her altered persona she had scarcely known herself. It lent him a certain power.

‘Grethet,' she said. ‘Tell her to come to me. Prithee.'

‘Cannot do that.'

‘Why not? I shall pay you.'

‘I do not want
your
tainted gold. Anyway, the crone's dead—Grethet's cold in her grave.'

With that, Pod limped to some hitherto unnoticed slot in a wall and sidled into it. Rohain called into the darkness after him but he did not reappear. Perhaps he was lying …

Clouds ate up the moon and a rapid wind slammed the doors shut.

‘A rum and gloomy lot they are, m'lady,' announced Viviana, ‘the servants here. All save three of them—the old codger they call the Storyteller, he's all right, and there is a rather strapping strapper among them, by the name of Pennyrigg. He knows how to laugh, at least, not like the rest. And one little girl—she seems ever so nice—name of Caitri Lendoon.'

‘The daughter of the Keeper of the Keys.'

‘How clever is my lady, to know all the names of the servants!'

‘The yellow-haired lad—what did they say about him?'

‘Where he came from and where he has gone are mysteries.'

‘What did you find out about Grethet?'

‘Why, she died, they told me. That's all they said.'

Rohain fell silent. Eventually, she sighed. She must not reveal her grief. Inwardly she was crying, aching for the sake of the old woman who had roughly nurtured her, and who had been the last possible link to her old life.

‘'Tis late, my lady,' said Viviana gently. ‘Oughtn't you to be abed?'

‘I suppose so. You were long away, Via, what else did you hear?'

‘Well, the Storyteller, he told a couple of wondrous interesting tales. I could not help listening. He has a way with him; he reels his listeners in like fishes, so to speak.'

‘Yes. Maybe that old Grethet had a story too. It will never be told now.'

The tidings of Grethet's demise caused Rohain to despair about her future. What course should she choose now? She could not return to Caermelor or Arcune. In the absence of any other plans she resolved to remain at Isse Tower until inspiration or opportunity should present itself.

They walked in the demesnes: Rohain, Ustorix, Viviana, the captain and first mate of the
Harper's Carp
, numerous hangers-on and attendants, and the disconsolate Heligea dressed in black with silver buttons. The solemn shadow of the Tower unrolled itself across the Road and fell into the Harbour. Gulls scourged a cloudridden sky.

At Rohain's side, Ustorix raved grandiosely. ‘These are the hattocking-circuits, m'lady of the Sorrows,' he proclaimed, giving an expansive wave. ‘Smithy and stables are over that way. All that you can see is under my sway. Isse is the keystone of the entire Relay network, and without the network the Kingdom grinds to a halt, the Empire stalls.

‘Yeoman Riders, operating at an altitude of three hundred feet, are the younger Sons of the House. They ride for us on miscellaneous errands, or Relay for simple folk with urgent personal messages and enough coin scraped together to pay the fee. The largest squadron, the Regimental, makes its runs at four hundred feet. These are the mercantile wings. They Relay for wealthy merchants, who lavish upon them the appropriate deference and reimbursement, being dependent on our goodwill.' He turned eagerly to Rohain. ‘Knowledge is power,' he proclaimed, as though he had invented the phrase. The merchant who learns of enterprises early might send his own ships ahead to catch his rivals' trade. He who is blessed with first tidings of a shortage might buy up that commodity before prices rise!'

Absently, Rohain acknowledged his words.

‘The Noblesse Squadron, of course,' he ranted, ‘rides sky for the peers of the realm—their assigned altitude of five hundred feet is second only to the fastest and highest ranked, the Royals, also known as the King's Emissaries, who are entrusted with state business.'

Rohain stifled a yawn.

‘Would my lady like to see the ornamental gardens?' suggested Heligea halfheartedly, diverting attention from her brother.

The visitor's eyes had meanwhile alighted elsewhere. ‘For what purpose are those long buildings roofed with slate tiles?'

‘They are the workshops of our wizard,' smoothly replied Heligea, ‘Zimmuth, who was introduced to my lady at dinner. Most dull and cluttered are his sheds. Now, the gardens—'

‘Let us visit the workshops.'

The interior of Zimmuth's main lair was grossly cluttered. Springs, alembics, coils of copper tubing, buckled sheets of metal, gear systems both rack-and-pinion and epicyclic, pendulums, levers, cams, cranks, differentials, bearings, pulleys, assorted tools, and stone jars containing alkahest and corrosive substances crowded every horizontal surface. The well-thumbed pages of a couple of ephemerides flapped weakly, held down by embossed leather bookmarks. Magnetic compasses, theodolites, telescopes, and pocket sundials had been shoved arbitrarily into worn wooden cases with specially shaped satin-lined compartments. Constructions resembling metal innards ticked and whirred. An impossibly configured planetarium dangled from the roof-beams, hitting the heads of all who passed under it. In one corner a clock struck fifteen and fell over with a
sproing
.

Men in skullcaps, with stained taltries and disfigured faces, hammered and filed and sawed. Zimmuth waxed enthusiastic, buzzing like an obsessed bee.

‘The sildron hoister project is over here,' he spouted, ‘a new and more efficient lift system. And here is a modern skimmer being built. We had another but it blew asunder in the end. You understand, sildron and andalum will not bind to any other metal—these types of rotors tend to fly apart eventually, like the propellers of Windships. There is inherent instability. And yet I predict that every Tower shall have one someday. And over there, we are developing an improved andalum girth for eotaurs, to make the onhebbing easier.'