I curled up, just to rest—and woke to another set of rumbling wheels. Not that it could have been long, but the lights of the steamers against the thicket and trunks made me squirm even flatter to the ground until all three were past and rumbling down to the guarded bridge.
I thought about the place-sliding. Could I use it to at least get past the bridge?
That wouldn’t be a problem, but I’d have to be careful where I ended up. The old Herfidian had been a worn-out trade town, dying bit by bit, and the enemy’s destruction of the western part had probably just hastened the inevitable. Off in the older eastern part had been the metalworks where the smiths had built the land steamers and freighters, using the river mills for power.
Supposedly, Jerz Davniads’s grandfather had made his fortune by developing a strain of oilseed plants from which etheline was distilled. Idly, I first wondered what had happened to the great oilseed plantations of the north, then briefly wished I had an etheline heater. But wishing was not about to deliver me a heater, and the soldiers below would spot the light anyway.
I sighed and put on my pack. Then, sitting in the hollow behind a fir trunk, partly sheltered from the evening wind that still bore the bitter cold-burnt odor of enemy destruction, I tried to call up the red-blue-gold-black crossroads of my mind. This time, surprisingly, I could summon the image easily, and with almost no effort I dropped behind the black curtain of no-time.
East Herfidian was no longer just metalworking, but an armed camp. Combat-ready ConFeds patrolled the streets. The metalworkers were busy now, apparently repairing military equipment. Seeing from behind the curtain was a strain, and East Herfidian did not appeal to me.
What about further east, toward Jillriko, or Halfprince?
I let my mind carry my seemingly disembodied self farther east, farther from Bremarlyn, farther from Inequital. The Eastern Highway
itself seemed more permanent, as if it stretched through time, than the trees or buildings.
Half of Jillriko was gone, and the town looked nearly deserted.
Halfprince also looked empty.
Beyond Halfprince were the marshes, the damps, where the Faiyren River emerged from several creeks and the marshes before twisting downward and back to Jillriko.
Hot springs intertwined with the creeks, and a mist often covered the small valleys, especially in winter.
My view from behind the black curtain began to flicker, and I could tell that I was running out of time. The damps looked more hospitable than two deserted towns and one ConFed camp. So I looked for a clearing … or something …
—and dropped heavily into mushy grass anchored in mud.
With the darkness spinning around me, I took a deep breath. My eyes cleared, although the bushes were dark shapes against the darker shadows of the trees. The mud and grass underfoot comprised a shadow carpet whose different elements could be felt, but not seen.
Chhhiccciiii.
The sound of the grossjay reassured me as I squished toward drier ground, just looking for a place to sit down.
The odors of mud, swamp, rotting wood and plants filled my head, almost with a jolt compared to the cold no-sense feeling that accompanied my undertime travel.
My boots were holding up well to the mud, tramping, and wet, but the clothing looked more like a shapeless working outfit than the sharp-creased dress uniform that I had worn to the Academy on a morning not that long ago.
As I eased my way from the muddy grass up onto a hillock, the stillness made me edgy. Silence meant people, and the kind of people that went to the damps were not the kind I wanted to meet in the dark. As if I had any choice about it.
My vision began to spin again, and I sat down on the ground, next to a spindly fir. My attempt to rest was too late, and I could feel the darkness sweep over me, even darker than the oncoming night.
“WHERE’D HE COME from?”
“Steps start in the middle of the grass …”
“Must be the Enemy.”
At first I thought the voices were from a dream, but I could feel my back and shoulders aching, and I wanted to shiver in the cold. Besides, it was clearly light. Had I slept through the night?
Where was I? Then I remembered my attempt to avoid the ConFeds at Herfidian … the damps. I was lying somewhere in the damps, recovering from an excess of my mental sliding from place to place. My head was splitting. Even the faint light of dawn was hard on my closed eyes.
“Too young for them, and he’s human. One of the spacers said They had four arms and were like giants. That’s what Lyron said.”
“Damned witch, then.”
“Pretty young for that.”
“Witches always look young.”
“Ever seen a witch?”
Slitting my eyes, I tried to see who was discussing me so coldly, as if I were not even there.
“He’s waking up!”
“Open your eyes, boy—slow-like, and keep your hands in the clear.”
I did exactly as I was told.
Two bearded men and a woman stood there. They all had long hair. One of the men had crossbow aimed at my midsection. A crossbow—for Verlyt’s sake.
“Looks old, but it works, faster than you could blink your eyes and disappear.” That was the woman. Her hair was dirtier than the shapeless man’s jumpsuit she wore, and it looked like it had been dragged through most of the mud of the damps.
The stench that came from the three made the odor of rotting vegetation smell clean.
“Why, you here?” Neither man was more than a shade taller than I was, but the one with the dirty white beard had shoulders like an ancient smith’s, and his voice rumbled.
“Trying to avoid the ConFeds.”
“The ConFeds? Near here?” The two men exchanged glances.
“Not that near. They’ve taken over Herfidian, and they’re sending armed steamers along all the roads.”
“Why would they do that?” Her voice was sharp, almost shrill, and I could see that her teeth were rotten. That proved she was not just lower class, but maybe criminal as well.
I stretched, slowly, still watching the man with the crossbow, and eased into a more comfortable sitting position. My head throbbed with each movement, and my stomach heaved.
“You sick?” asked the woman.
“No. Hungry. Tired. Damned little sleep, and less food.”
“Where’s your family, boy? Those clothes cost some.”
“Gone. Dead … I think … Enemy … while I was coming home from school …”
“No other kin?” This came from the younger man, the first time he had spoken.
“A cousin in Inequital.”
“Why’d you leave home? What town?”
“The marines were burning and looting …”
Again, the three exchanged worried looks.
“What town?” snapped the woman.
“Bremarlyn …” I didn’t know about the burning and looting, but they shouldn’t have, either.
“Far way to come on foot …”
“He didn’t come on foot! Damned witch.” That was the older man, who kept the crossbow steady on me.
I just sat there, head throbbing, without enough energy to move, trying to keep from puking my empty guts out.
“He’s no witch,” concluded the woman, “or not much of one. Good witch could have disappeared twice by now.”
“What?”
“How?”
“You took your eyes off him twice. That’s all it takes, just an eye-blink.” She stared at me. “So do you help us, or does Vran kill you, and we turn you into a couple of days’ rations?”
I shrugged, knowing that the sweat was beading up on my forehead. “Rather help you, given the choice.”
“For now, boy, you got the choice. Hold out on us, and you won’t wake some fine morning. My name’s Sylvie. That’s Vran. And that’s Weasel. It’s not his name, but he hasn’t told us his real name, and we don’t ask.”
“Sammis,” I volunteered.
“Sam will do.”
I hated Sam, but now wasn’t the time to be choosy. “Fine. Can I stand up?”
“No. You stand up that green, and you’ll rip your guts out.” From beneath her shapeless garments, she pulled a brown shape and extended it. “It’s tough, but your teeth are young.”
Tough wasn’t the word for the morsel of travel bread, and it had flecks of mold which I brushed away. But after the second bite, my headache lost its edge, and my stomach began to quiet.
“Slower …” commanded Sylvie. “You want to lose that, too?”
I obliged her, even though Vran had lowered the crossbow. The small piece of bread would make me feel better, but it wasn’t about to provide enough energy for me to leave the company of the three, one way or another. Feeling the looseness of my trousers, I was beginning to realize that my unusual travel took energy, a lot of energy. And I didn’t have any. So I chewed, very slowly and very carefully.
My headache subsided to a dull ache, and my guts postponed any further protests.
“Up,” grunted Vran.
I eased myself to my feet, still feeling weak.
“What’s in the pack?”
“Not much.”
“Good to carry forage, boy,” said Sylvie.
I didn’t like the way she looked at me, or the way she said “boy,” as if there were something more implied. I shrugged. “Where to?”
“That way.” Vran gestured with the crossbow toward a gradual slope up from where we stood, not that anything in the damps was particularly far above the marshlands.
With one slow step after another, my guts and head still filled with a dull ache, my feet found their way up a narrow path that was all but invisible.
In time, I stood beside a lean-to sheltered by an ancient boulder and an interwoven black thorn thicket. The limbs composing the frame of the lean-to were a mixture of smoothed, dark and ancient wood, and greener partly leaved branches clearly added later to something that had been abandoned until recently.
“Not much, but hard to find. Out of the winds, even the big ones, boy. Not that I wouldn’t mind a bit more warmth on a cold night.”
I shivered.
“Sylvie … the kid’s hungry and cold, and you’re treating him like raw meat.” The man called Weasel spoke for the first time, and his tone
was more cultured than that of the other two. His voice was harder, though.
“Jealous now, Weasel?”
Weasel snorted.
“Then take him with you, and find us something to eat.”
I sat down on a fallen and half-rotten log and waited to see what they would say. While the hunger pangs in my stomach had lessened, the light-headedness persisted.
“He’s in no shape to go far …”
“You won’t either,” rumbled Vran through his tangled and dirty white beard. He lifted the crossbow, then let it drop.
The man called Weasel looked calmly at Vran. “You rely on weapons too much.” Then, without waiting for a reaction, his eyes fixed on me. “And you, young man, have clearly never been exposed to real danger. Not until recently. Can you stand?”
“I think so.”
“Then stand, and let us see what forage we can find.”
I took a deep breath, letting it out slowly, and eased to my feet. The light-headedness was replaced with a subdued headache, and my stomach growled.
“Let’s go.”
I let my steps follow Weasel’s. Before we had edged our way back along the narrow path and through the swamp firs, I could see the reason for his name. Athletic as I had been at school, I felt like an ox trundling after him. His footsteps were silent, while each step of mine sounded with hisses and crackles.
We wound down toward the marsh itself. There the swamp grasses surrounded an expanse of open water.
Weasel looked back, studied me, and motioned for us to stop. “Verlyt-damned idea for you to be on your feet.”
I agreed, but saying so wasn’t going to do me much good. So I didn’t.
Weasel rummaged through his shapeless jacket. “Catch.”
It was a battered but almost ripe and unspoiled chyst.
“Just eat it slowly. Little bites. Real little bites.”
I nodded and took one bite. Weasel watched. Almost as soon as I had swallowed the first bite, I could feel the headache lifting. My stomach growled.
Weasel nodded. “Hypoglycemic.”
“What?”
“Blood sugar. Too low, and you don’t function. Probably runs in … your family.” He grinned a nasty grin. “But that will be our little secret, won’t it, young man?”
“If you say so. I don’t think I have much choice at this point.” So far as I could see, I had no skills, not like a tradesman or apprentice. I couldn’t use my place-diving ability without regular meals, and I had no way to leave the damps without food.
“You don’t. Vran would like to use that crossbow on you.”
I couldn’t help shivering.
“It’s not that bad. Vran … he just wants to show who’s boss.”
I took another small bite of the chyst.
“You look like you could take another step or two. Watch how I put my feet down, and try to do the same. You’re not as noisy as Vran, but anyone could still hear you coming, and you don’t carry a crossbow like him. Try to keep your head down more.”
Attempting to emulate his footsteps, I followed as we skirted the highest swamp grass in a round-about trip toward the northern end of the marsh. Every once in a while, I took another small bite of the chyst.
Weasel had to wait for me more than once, but he never said anything, just turned and went on once I caught up. Finally we came to a spot where the barely perceptible trail vanished. He nodded at me, then walked straight toward the marsh.
I shrugged and followed, trying to find the firm footing Weasel used. I was successful in gnawing the chyst right down to the seeds, but not in always finding firm footing.
Squuuushhh.
Weasel turned and glared.
I held up my hands apologetically.
He shook his head sadly and turned, brushing through the shoulder-high grass so quietly that he sounded like the faintest of breezes. I sounded like a winter storm.
He was easing a woven basketlike structure from the waters of an inlet off the main part of the small lake in the center of the marsh. Inside were several objects.
Up came a second basket box, also with several creatures inside.
Weasel pulled a worn sack from his belt and emptied each basket in turn.
Both baskets went back into the water.
“There’s actually enough for all of us tonight.”
“Enough what?” I kept my voice low.
“Crayfish.”
“Crayfish?”
“Sort of like freshwater lobsters.”
I knew about both lobsters and crayfish. I just wasn’t certain how
hungry I was. Then my stomach growled, and I remembered that I had eaten the chyst, bite by bite, down to the seeds.
“Still hungry, Sam?”
I nodded reluctantly.
Weasel looked around, then started back along a different route.
I couldn’t see the new route either, and I was beginning to sweat under the heavy cloak as even the damps warmed up in the midday.
Abruptly, Weasel stopped. At first, nothing caught my eye, but in the midst of the swamp grass was a greenish cactuslike plant. I watched as he bared a bulbous greenish-brown root and sliced a chunk out of it, splitting the chunk in two. The inside was whitish.
“Here.”
“What is it?” I took the slimy chunk of root.
“Kind of swamp lily, but the root’s mostly starch. Tastes like sawdust, but it’s good for you.” He used his knife to cut a small chunk and put it in his mouth. Even his lips puckered a bit. “Didn’t say it tasted good, Sam. I said it was good for you.”
I used my knife to cut a small chunk of the waxy white root. I looked at it. My stomach growled. I looked at it again, and my stomach growled again. So I ate it.
The swamp lily tasted like waxy sawdust, except I would have preferred the sawdust. And each piece seemed to swell as I chewed it. I had to make a special effort to swallow each bit. But it all stayed down, and my stomach stopped growling.
“Enough. Let’s get back before Vran gets upset and starts looking for a reason to use that crossbow.”
I had almost—almost—forgotten the broad-shouldered old man with the ancient weapon.
We were nearly halfway back to the hidden campsite before I realized that my headache was gone and that my stomach had stopped growling, but I still wasn’t about to recommend swamp lily root except in dire circumstances.