The Last Of The Wilds (31 page)

For a long time now Imi was sure that something had changed. The ship no longer rocked as much and she had bailed all but a shallow puddle of water out of the hull. The muffled shouts of the raiders were different. They held a note of anticipation.

Wondering and listening had taken her mind from the ache in her arms and shoulders. Yet she feared what the change meant, and instead of boredom and exhaustion making the hours turn gradually, fear and anxiety now made their passing unbearably slow.

Suddenly the ship lurched. She dropped the bucket and fell to the floor. The seawater was warm, but welcome. Closing her eyes, she gave in to weariness.

She must have fallen asleep. When she woke again the piles of boxes and large pottery jugs stored in the hull were gone. She listened to rapid footsteps and shouted orders above. By the time the sounds subsided the patch of sky she could see had changed from blue to orange to black. It was quieter than it had been in weeks. She felt herself drifting toward sleep again…

...then she jerked awake as light filled the hull. Dragging herself up, she grasped the bucket and stooped to fill it. A pair of legs appeared, moving down the ladder into the hull. She felt her mouth go dry as she saw this was the man who led the raiders. The hull was empty except for her. What did he want?

When his feet reached the hull he stepped back. He looked at her, then back up at the deck. Another pair of legs were descending. These were covered in cloth as black as seatube ink and belonged to a man she had never seen before. As this stranger stepped off the ladder onto the uneven floor he swayed unsteadily, obviously unused to even the gentle movement of the ship.

He looked at her and his eyes widened in surprise, then he grinned at the raider. The pair began to talk as they made their way toward her.

They stopped a few steps away. She averted her gaze, disturbed by the way the stranger stared at her. His eyes moved from her feet to her head and back again. The conversation grew more animated. Suddenly the pair grasped each other’s wrists. They turned their backs and walked away.

As they disappeared onto the deck, Imi let the bucket go. She sighed and collapsed into the puddle again.

Sounds came from the ladder again. Two of the raiders entered the hull and came toward her. She scrambled to her feet, heart thundering as they loomed over her. One held a bundle of roughly woven cloth.

The other grabbed her arm and dragged her forward. As the first held out the cloth in both hands she realized it was a sack and that they intended to put her in it.

She tried to wriggle out of the first man’s grasp, but his hands were large and strong and she was too weak. Dizziness overcame her and she lost her balance. The sack went over her head. Strong hands held her as it was pulled down to her ankles. She was lifted in the air and felt the bag drawn closed below her feet.

They carried her between them. She had no energy left to struggle.

Where are they taking me? Do I care? Somewhere different to here. Perhaps somewhere better. Couldn’t be much worse than this.

Blood rushed to her head as they turned her upside down, probably to carry her up to the deck. Cooler air reached her through the sacking. She heard the sounds of footsteps on wood change to footsteps on a harder surface.

The sound of many, many voices came to her, growing louder until they were all around her.

A musty stink followed. She was dropped onto a hard surface and a door was closed, muffling the voices. Someone close by said something tersely. There was a mumbled reply then footsteps moved away.

A voice barked a word. The surface below her shifted abruptly, then she felt motion. Whatever she lay upon began to sway gently. It was nothing like the ship’s movement. She drifted into a half-conscious state, too tired to pay attention to the strange noises around her. So many voices could only mean she was among many, many landwalkers. She ought to be frightened, but she had no energy left for fear.

The voices slowly died away. For a long time there was only the sound of rhythmic steps close by. The sound of doors opening and closing eventually roused her. She felt hands lift her up, then lower her to the ground again.

Silence followed. She was vaguely aware of something fussing about near her feet. The cloth around her pulled tight, lifted her up, and she gave a yelp of surprise as she slid out of the bag.

She plunged into cool, welcome water. It helped to clear her head. Surfacing, she took in her surroundings. She was in a round pool in the middle of a round room with a domed ceiling. In the center of the pool was an odd little sculpture of a woman with a fish tail instead of legs. Like landwalkers, she had hair growing from her head.

A fish woman. Is this supposed to be an Elai?
She snorted with disgust.

The man the lead raider had brought down into the hull to see her was standing nearby, smiling. Raising his arms, he gestured to her surroundings. She couldn’t guess what he meant.

He gazed at her for a while, then backed away through an arched entrance. Reaching to one side, he grasped a gate made of metal bars and swung it closed. Still smiling, he walked away.

Imi waited until his footsteps had faded away completely, then she hauled herself out of the pool. It was not easy—the level of the water was an arm’s length below the floor and she was so tired. The effort exhausted her and she lay on the floor, panting, until her head stopped spinning.

Eventually she dragged herself to her feet and walked to the metal gate. Grabbing it, she pushed. It did not move. She examined the latch. It was held closed by some kind of metal lock. All was dark beyond it.

Of course
, she thought. Sinking to her knees, she turned to regard the pool and its ridiculous sculpture.
This is my prison now. I’m a decoration, like that statue. The staring man will probably come to look at me all the time
.

She crawled to the edge of the pool. There was nowhere shallow to lie. If she tried to sleep in there, she would drown. She would have to wake every few hours and wet her skin, or risk drying out and… She reached down and cupped some water in her hand. Bringing it to her mouth, she sipped.

Plain water
, she thought.
I wonder how long it will be before I start to sicken
.

She shook her head.
I’m too tired to think about it
. Lying down on the cool stone floor, she fell into an exhausted sleep.

Looking up from her work, Emerahl squinted into the fine rain.
A dismal day
, she thought.
But the captain is happy. We netted a fine catch
.

The high wall of the Toren cliffs loomed over them on the right. They had been much farther out to sea when they had passed the lighthouse the day before. Looking at the distant white tower, Emerahl had expected to feel regret. She had spent so long living in that remote ruin. Instead she felt repelled.

All those years living in isolation with only lowlife smugglers for neighbors. I don’t know why I didn’t die of boredom. It’s so good to be among decent, hard-working people again.

Emerahl began to turn back to the fish-gutting but a light caught her eyes and drew her attention back to the cliff. As a fold of the rock face drew back, more lights appeared. This was their destination. Yaril.

There—so she had been told—lived a young man who had been saved from drowning by The Gull but six months before. She had heard many tales of the mysterious sea boy now. Everyone who lived on the coast knew someone who could relate an encounter with The Gull. These same tales were repeated in every town. Perhaps nobody was related to the heroes and the tellers were just claiming to know them in order to tell a better tale, but these towns were small and it was possible they all knew each other, even if distantly.

In fact, it was amusing to think of them all linked by these stories.

Yaril was in plain sight now. To the fishermen it was merely a good place to sell their catch. She turned her attention back to gutting the fish. The captain had only agreed to take her to Yaril if she made herself useful. She didn’t mind the work. It kept her hands busy while she thought about all she’d learned.

As the boat drew closer to the town, the crew left the preparation of the catch to Emerahl while they navigated into a shallow bay. She hurried through the last of the fish then rose and gathered her belongings. Her clothes stank of fish and her skin was sticky from sweat and salt water. As soon as she was ashore she would book a room and wash herself and her garments.

The crew guided the boat up to a short jetty. The moment it was close enough, she leapt off. Turning back once, she gave the captain a nod of thanks before striding into Yaril.

Unlike most of the towns on the coast of Toren, Yaril did not sit at the top of the cliff. Behind the fold in the rock wall a narrow river had worn the sheer drop into a steep, broken slope. Houses had been built on this out of the same stones as the cliffs—right up to the edge of the cascading river.

It was a town with no roads, just staircases going up and down and narrow paths running across the slope. Emerahl paused to smile at a man walking down the stairs who was staring at her with open curiosity.

“Good day to you. Would there be lodging for travellers here?”

The man nodded. “The Widow Laylin has a room for rent. Number three, third level. That’s the next level up. It’s on the right.”

“Thank you.”

She continued up the stairs and turned on to one of the narrow walkways. Stopping at a house with a large number three carved into the door, she knocked. The door opened and a large middle-aged woman looked Emerahl up and down.

“I hear you have a room to let,” Emerahl said. “Is it available?”

The woman’s eyes brightened. “Yes. Come in. I’ll show it to you. What is your name?”

“Limma. Limma Curer.”

“Curer by trade as well as by name,” the woman observed.

“That’s right.”

The widow led her into a long, narrow room with a view of the bay. It was simple, but clean. Emerahl haggled the price down to a reasonable rate, then asked for water to wash in.

The woman sent her daughter away to fetch it, then turned to regard Emerahl with shrewd eyes.

“So what brings you to Yaril?”

Emerahl smiled. “I’m looking for a young man named Gherid.”

“Gherid? We have a Gherid here. Use to fish with his father until all on the boat drowned but he. Now he works for the stonecutter. Is that the one?”

“Sounds like it.”

“What you want him for?”

“I hear he tells an interesting tale.”

The woman chuckled and shook her head. “Used to. He got fed up with people picking holes in his story and won’t say a word now.”

“No?”

“Not a word. Not for money or favors.”

“Oh.” Emerahl looked around the room as if wondering what she was doing there.

“You’ve come a long way,” the woman soothed. “You may as well try. Perhaps you’ll get something out of him. I’ll take you to see him when you’re done washing.”

She left the room and the girl arrived with a pitcher of water and a large bowl soon after. Emerahl washed herself and changed into her second set of clothes, then washed her first set and dried them by drawing magic and using it to warm and stir the air around them.

When they were dry, Emerahl draped them on a chair, then tied her collection of pouches around her waist, wrapped her tawl about her and left the room.

The next room was as narrow as hers, but even longer. The space was divided into sections by screens and the farthest proved to be hiding a kitchen. There she found the widow.

“Ready?” the woman said.

Emerahl nodded.

“Come along, then. He’ll be at the stonecutter’s place.”

She followed the woman to the door, then out into the cold air. The houses, built of the same black stone, seemed to hunch against the rock wall as if afraid they might slide off into the sea below. It gave the town a sinister, anxious look, yet all the people Emerahl and the Widow Laylin passed smiled and greeted them cheerfully.

The staircase grew steadily steeper as they neared the top of the cliff. The widow had to stop three times to catch her breath.

“Wouldn’t think I lived here, would you?” she said after the third rest. “You’re doing well enough.”

Emerahl smiled. “Travelling makes you fit.”

“Must do. Here we are at last. They live at the top because it’s easier to carry his wares down than to bring them up again.”

Instead of a road there was a rubble-strewn “yard.” Emerahl followed the woman through this to where two gray-haired men were chipping away at large slabs of rock.

“Megrin,” the Widow said.

One of the men looked up. He appeared surprised to see Emerahl’s companion.

“Widow Laylin,” he replied. “Don’t often see you up here. Need any work done?”

“No, but my guest wants to have a chat with Gherid about The Gull.”

The man looked at Emerahl and straightened. She smiled as she sensed his admiration. The second man had turned to face them. He had a surprisingly young face, though it was set in a scowl. Emerahl looked closer and had to suppress a laugh. The gray in his hair was dust. He was just old enough to be considered a man.

“This is Limma,” the widow continued. “She’s a curer.”

Megrin turned to regard the young man, whose scowl deepened.

“Why do you want to talk about The Gull with me?” Gherid asked.

Emerahl met and held his eyes.

“I heard you met him.”

“So?”

“I would like to hear your story.”

“Go on, Gherid,” the widow urged. “Don’t be rude to a visitor.”

He looked at the woman, then the stonecutter. The older man nodded. Gherid sighed and shrugged in resignation. “Come with me… Limma, wasn’t it?”

“Yes.”

She followed him back to the stairs, then upward. Intense emotions began to spill from him as they climbed. Guilt and fear combined. She caught snatches of his thoughts.

...
I can’t kill her! But I must, if she
...

Alarmed, she hesitated, then drew magic and formed a shield around herself. Why would he think he might have to kill her? Did he think she would try to harm him? Or take something from him? Surely he didn’t think she could force him to give up any information he didn’t want to give.