The Promise of the Child (23 page)

“Legal issues are not my area of expertise,” he said carefully, refilling their cups, “but I can make sure the Intermediary is fair.”

Eranthis smiled at Lycaste encouragingly as he sat down beside her, sensitive enough not to draw attention to his arrival. Impatiens nodded at him, perhaps a little coldly, then engaged Pamianthe.

“Business has been slow this summer, Pamian, and I've covered all the work he's missed out on. If it's a financial matter, let me deal with it.”

Pamianthe sniffed, thoughtful. “We'll arrange it when the Intermediary arrives.”

Lycaste tried to meet Pentas's eye, but it didn't seem possible. He tousled Briza's hair awkwardly and excused himself.

*

He swayed while he pissed, the alcohol reaching him at last, not bothering to aim into the central drain. Most of the waste that left him had evaporated on contact with the warm air anyway; it was only a matter of sweeping the handful of leftover yellow salts into the grate, which he did at last after studying his reflection once more.

Their excited voices echoed into Impatiens's steam-chamber, muffled from the toy-strewn garden. Before he escaped, he'd witnessed the boy leaving his father's lap to sit upon Callistemon's knee. Lycaste didn't know what to think.

The sounds of their voices drifted steadily along the corridor. Some were nothing but whispers, the last snags of which crept breathily into the chamber; perhaps related to him. Lycaste paused at the sink, his hands in the water, leaving them to sit pale crimson under the surface. He could hear them all so clearly outside, he knew that anyone entering the tower would be quite loud. He pulled his hands quickly out of the bowl and stood there, peering through the arch at the quiet blue hallway where driftwood from the storm lay stacked against the wall in a tied bundle. There might never be another chance.

He stepped out into the passageway, thankfully clear of toys. Impatiens's large stride had crushed too many in the past, adding a growing list of obscenities to the boy's vocabulary.

Lycaste knew the rooms they all slept in, leaving two spare options for a guest on the floor above. At the top of the stairs, however, it was easy to spot the chamber Callistemon had claimed. The painted round door was open to reveal a small space containing a large hammock draped with tousled linen. Lycaste walked in, smelling a hint of some exotic foodstuff, spiced and foul. The one window arch opened onto the garden, and he ducked to make sure anyone glancing up wouldn't see him there, almost hitting his head on the handle of a tall wooden cupboard. The room looked empty enough, the sheets on the hammock thrown back casually, the small table bare. He began to think perhaps the man had brought no extra luggage at all.

Something was different. Sweat popped out on his brow; there were voices in the tower. He hadn't heard them for all his concentration. Two people talking softly. They were climbing the steps to his floor.

Lycaste jumped to his feet, knowing in the simple room that his only choice was the cupboard he'd almost hit his head on. He dashed inside, cramming his arms and legs sideways to fit between two widely spaced shelves and scrabbling to close the door, which had no inside handle. Cursing it under his breath, Lycaste reached a finger around the edge, swinging it closed just as the two voices arrived at the landing.

Darkness pocked with warm light. He held his breath.

“I knew he'd come back.”

“Do you think he's still in love with you?” asked the second voice, Callistemon's.

“I expect so. What? Don't laugh, you'll see.”

“Such modesty.”

“Close the door.”

Sounds in the room, like the gentle slop of a foot on wet sand. He had a slip of daylight to peer through, seeing nothing but blank wall. By her third word he'd known it was Pentas, not her sister, in the chamber. The hammock creaked as they sat down together, Callistemon's muffled pleasure exorcising any last slip of doubt as to what they might be doing. She giggled, sucking her lips away.

Steadying his palm against the splintered wooden side of the closet, Lycaste tried to see through the crack in the door. He felt sick, winded, trapped. A moist click of teeth connecting as she kissed him back, and, breaking from the suction, the hint of a breath, a longing pant. The worst sound of them all. He scraped his fingers delicately along the rough fissures in the wood, his ears trained to them, unable to stop hearing. He knew what hell was supposed to be, Pentas had explained the concept to him herself along with her theories on spirits; but that wasn't quite right. Hell was this.

Callistemon's voice, close in a whisper. “We ought to get back.”

“All right. Just for a little while, I hope.”

“Just for a little while.”

“I think I'll wait—I'd rather not see him.”

Lycaste squeezed his eyes shut.

“Here?”

“No, come up to my room when he's gone.”

“What if he asks?”

“Why do you care so much all of a sudden? Make something up.”

*

Lycaste sat on the hammock, looking at the cupboard he'd been in, only a few feet away. Inside he'd found a travelling case, nestled up behind where he'd been sitting. It lay now in his lap, hardly noticed.

Leaving quietly from the far side of the house, he walked quickly through a patch of wild sunflowers still bent from the storm and headed for the borders of the forest, the luggage clutched under his arm. He could barely think, seeing only what was in front of him as he sprinted through the deepening foliage and into the trees. Darkness fell swiftly, the twilight augmented in the shadowy world, and Lycaste knew his only real option was Elcholtzia. Bright flowers, soft spots of colour in the gloom, became his distance markers, the dark blue light a negative space in the wilderness.

It was not long before the chattering began around him. The whisperers were excited, he could hear them yammering, shouting, perhaps goading him. Quick galloping motion on either side, brighter forms in the woods strobing through the trees. At the junction between two angled black trunks, he thought he saw something, a small person, duck behind a tree, but it was gone when he turned back to look. Fear won outright and he ran faster, one arm thrust before him to shield his eyes while the other clutched the case. A clearing ahead allowed him to see where the palm trees blocked his path, and he wove through them and into its open space, stopping hopelessly in its tangled centre. The sky above was surprisingly bright, still glowing from a sun long gone; the colourless circle of trees teemed with sound, guttural words and exclamations, roiling inhuman laughs and screams.

Lycaste saw with wide eyes that staccato movement again as bodies lighter than the woods circled and peered into the clearing at him, their details indistinct, just colours in the dark. He held the case in front of him with both hands, muscles straining in his shaking arms, ready to swing it at anything that came.

The cries blended into a language woven with familiarity just beyond his understanding. Then with a fright he heard his name. It came from just one place, but soon it was being repeated in the voices to his left as well, then his right. Finally from behind he heard one of them say it, and understood; they weren't repeating at all, they were talking about him.
Lycaste.
It was even pronounced without accent, exactly as he would introduce himself. Perhaps they knew him better, far better, than he had imagined.

Something stood just inside the clearing. It could have been a dangling branch, but he knew it wasn't. Then it moved minutely, cavorting a few paces closer, and he shuddered, crying out wordlessly. The talking ceased. The creature stopped.

“Get away!” he shouted, trying to project his voice.

The voices whispered. The figure scampered closer, stopping every few paces. It became more distinct in the grass, but the darkness was almost complete.

“
Away!”

It crept forward. He saw eyes illuminated in the starlight.

“Lycaste.”

He started at the rasping voice. “Yes?”

The eyes searched his face. Lycaste could see the outline of its body now. Something mammalian, lithe and sinuous.

The creatures began to yell. Lycaste looked around, flinching at the moist touch of their ambassador as it softly took his hand.

The Fall

Lycaste awoke to the booming of the forge in the courtyard, yesterday's events slotting neatly back into his memory in a bitter instant, the empty peace of sleep over for another day. He wished he could sleep more, and struggled with the embroidered sheets, piling them on top of himself to bring the darkness back. But the blind warmth only magnified his memories until he was back in that cupboard again, forced to listen to Pentas's gentle panting, the sucking of their lips. He threw the sheets off and swung his legs out of bed to peer through the window and judge the Quarter. It was late again, almost cool, the sky tinged with colour.

They had taken him quickly along paths that only they knew, he and his guide scampering behind, his hand securely gripped. Once more Lycaste thought he saw the pale, manlike form walking with them, just to one side, disappearing when they reached the gate.

He'd told Elcholtzia everything, his hunched body flushing in waves of colour as he spoke. Lycaste had not expected support but it took little to persuade the old man to help him; he had his reasons, but whatever they were, he would not say.

At the window, he watched the black swallows flitting for a few moments more, then followed the sound down to a semi-submerged pit in the walled courtyard, like a small amphitheatre. Sparks flew and snagged on the early-evening wind as Elcholtzia beat at a chisel held against the case's lock. The tiny engravings glowed in angry orange blotches under the hammer blows, flashes rebounding from their edges, but did not dent.

The tracery on the surface of the lock was a jigsaw of segments, engraved to a standard neither of them could believe was man-made. Countless writhing figures made up a tall and long-limbed tree, its eaves drooping and coiling around a straight trunk to form a composition so complex as to be almost impossible for the eye to follow. Each unique leaf, of which there must have been thousands, looked expertly engraved, even those as small as a stitch of cloth. Snaking through the branches and around each figure was a strip of lettering in High Second, lettering that appeared to be names in a family tree. And, at the top of the tree:
Callistemon Pallidus Berenzargol, Second Prince
.

The two had pondered the workings of the design the night before but had not been able to move any of the sections individually, either by force or through careful logic. Lycaste had been little help with the latter, his mind muddled and tired.

They had tried tongs and hammers, but the elaborate lock-seal wouldn't budge, its dull metal hardly marking even under the hardest blow, the tiny scrapes and nicks on its surface the only sign that anyone had even attempted to break it.

Lycaste sighed a long, breathy sigh as he entered the courtyard, sitting down on the steps.

“How did you know he wouldn't come after me last night?” he asked Elcholtzia, not looking at the old man.

“I have bars on the doors.”

Lycaste was surprised, glancing up at him finally. “Why?”

Elcholtzia patted Lycaste's shoulder, helping him to his feet with a skinny arm. “I've had them as long as I can remember.” He dropped the long hammer and stared up at the evening blue. “Anyway, the day's almost gone.”

Lycaste watched the last of the swallows, their cries echoing from the walls, then glanced back to Elcholtzia. He looked all wasted sinew in the hot, open bowl, the hollows of his body a brighter red with reflected sweat.

“You'll want something to eat, I suppose?” the old man said.

“I can't eat,” he said, returning his gaze to the glowing metal. His face was tight and hot from the forge's glare.

Elcholtzia nodded and sniffed, looking back at the glowing design on the case. “The lock won't open like this.”

“No.” Lycaste shrugged and picked up the hammer from the ash-soft floor. Elcholtzia stepped back.

He strained to lift the tool, realising at once the other man's wiry strength. The hammer wavered at the top of the swing, and he almost lost his grip before slamming it down on the chisel set in its vice. The blow jarred his wrists and he swore, the cooling red metal indifferent to a force that would certainly have killed a man.

“Have you tried melting it completely? Just throwing it in there?” Lycaste asked, rubbing his arms.

“While you were asleep. But I took it out again because I was worried about the contents.”

Lycaste spun the hammer on the ground, head down, making soft, blown circles in the ash. He didn't like being awake. The state demanded too much anger and sadness from him. He had a mind to return to bed, despite the still unanswered questions.

“Elcholtzia?”

“Hmm?”

Lycaste released the hammer, the wooden handle bouncing on the ground, and sat again. He remembered how Elcholtzia had greeted the creatures like old friends as their long, disjointed hands stretched into the hall for their reward, illuminated only to the elbow, afraid of the light. “I saw someone, among the whisperers last night.”

“Oh yes?”

“A man—or something that looked like one.”

Elcholtzia licked his lips thoughtfully. “There are a few who stop and live among them, from time to time.”

“
Live
with them?” Lycaste asked. “How?”

“The whisperers—” The old man shrugged, as if thinking of staying silent, before resuming. “The whisperers are our cousins, not too dissimilar from us. They welcome pilgrims from strange places, just as those in the eastern Menyanthes welcomed me when I was a boy.”

Lycaste studied him, on the verge of asking more, when Elcholtzia straightened, breathing in deeply.