Vergence (7 page)

“That's better,” Hurubal said, entering behind them and pulling the door shut. He pulled off his outer wrap, revealing a rich dark green cloak underneath, fastened at the front with a familiar silver clasp.

“Good,” captain Norguye said, stamping his feet. “Now I'm reckoning you'll be needing your beds, as it's the middle of the night. We're waiting on a messenger, then we'll be off.”

“I'll show you to your cabins,” Hurubal said.

For a long time Ebryn rested on his bunk in the dark, unable to sleep, his mind a collision of conflicting emotions. Now that he would be leaving Fyrenar, in perhaps a few hours, Vergence suddenly felt completely real for the first time.

He still lay awake much later in the night when the vessel cast off, and rose into the darkening sky. He could tell, even without the benefit of distinct sounds, that they were moving rapidly upwards — the gentle rise and fall shifting to a rolling motion. His insides felt as if they had been left behind, and an intolerable pressure built in his ears until he remembered Hurubal's advice to swallow often during ascents.

When he eventually managed to get to sleep, he dreamt fitfully of the first time he had sailed a small boat, single handed, down the Lus River, north of the Conant estate.

In the dream he approached the waterfall once more, desperately paddling, but pushed along by the currents in the white water. A rock caught an oar and sent it spinning away.

He pushed at the rocks above the water-line, protecting his boat, but in the last moment, as the lip of the fall approached, an eddy caught him and hurled the small boat sideways. It pulled away from him with a loud splintering sound, and he tipped over the edge, flailing backwards.

Ebryn woke, gripping his arm with one hand, and his leg with the other, the memory of pain still with him, like a whisper from the past. The sensation of falling backwards continued from his dream, and he quickly scrambled from the bed, holding onto the walls for support. Upright, he realised the sky-ship must be descending, but behind that he felt something else, a sense of floating away.

The ship jolted, and the feeling of tumbling ended abruptly. A sickly light shone through the dense pane of the small circular window, a washed out dirty yellow which seemed to drain the colour out of everything in his cabin.

Ebryn leant forward and peered through the portal, trying to make out where they might be past the distortions of the thick glass. He made out the jumbled shape of a low building a short distance away, a gradual slope rising behind it, and tall blue-white mountains in the far distance.

Grabbing his travel bag, Ebryn made his way quickly through the small vessel without encountering anybody. He found Quentyn and Hurubal waiting on the ground at the bottom of the ramp. Quentyn had dark rings under his eyes. He looked like he hadn't slept.

“Good morning to you,” Hurubal said, noticing him first.

“Ah, there you are,” Quentyn said. “If you'd been any slower, I would have sent Hurubal here to wake you up.”

“Welcome to Icisor,” Hurubal said, ignoring Quentyn.

Outside the air had an unpleasantly stale quality. A wan sun struggled to penetrate the grey haze overhead. Without the glass of the portal to look through, he could see a carpet of unfamiliar short beige stems, like tiny reeds, as numerous as grass, making a dry rattling noise as they swayed in the dusty breeze blowing from behind the vessel.

He'd never seen such a featureless, desolate looking place. How anybody tolerated living here mystified him. The building he'd seen from his cabin, fifty yards away at the edge of the flat ground, looked as if it had been cobbled together, a low stable on one side with a tumble-down shack leaning against it. The whole structure looked uncared for, miserable, uncomfortable. There was no sign of any other world-ship, or building, in any direction.

“What do we do now?” Ebryn asked.

“It is nearly evening here, so it will be getting dark soon,” Hurubal said to Ebryn. “I would caution another about night falling quickly, but that is pointless for one such as you. There's a cart coming up to take you on to your next ship.”

Hurubal had barely finished talking when a low open wagon, pulled by a team of dispirited looking horses, rumbled into sight. At the front sat an old man hunched up in a heavy coat, and a young boy, who looked no more than ten years old.

The young boy hopped off and approached them. “Which of you's is goin wi'us?”

“These two men are for you,” Hurubal said. He nodded at Ebryn. “Farewell, and journey in safety. I have no doubt we will meet again when I visit Vergence.”

A short while later they sat on a narrow bench, their feet hemmed in by an assortment of boxes and sacks. The driver, a white-haired old man, bent forward over the traces in his hands, paying no more attention to them than he might to the baggage deposited in the rear of his wagon. The boy spent the whole journey turned round, with his chin resting on the back of his seat, silently staring at them.

The old man drove them directly up the hill, following no discernible path, the large wheels crunching over the dry growth, and bouncing over tussocks with bone-jarring force every thirty yards. He wondered why people would choose to live in such an uninviting place, but decided against asking Quentyn.

As they topped the long rise Ebryn stared in astonishment. Dominating the view, a single huge world-ship, almost directly in front of them, occupied the full length of an open field. He guessed that the ship must be nearly one hundred and fifty yards long. It was at least ten times the size of Norguye's vessel, and much larger than any of the water-borne sail ships Ebryn had seen plying the northerly coast of Goresyn near Conant. The field stretched out hundreds of yards in each direction with a dozen smaller vessels anchored around the periphery.

Most activity concentrated around the large ship, with dozens of men engaged in winching wooden crates up to the deck from a wide platform at the top of an earthen ramp. Ebryn examined the ship as he followed Quentyn across the field. He was certain this was one of the giant Chochin traders he'd read about in the library, but the few basic illustrations he'd seen did nothing to capture the majestic reality of this huge vessel.

They approached from what he took to be the prow of the craft. From underneath it looked much as he would have expected a similar flat-bottomed sailing ship to look, but lacking any kind of keel for stability. The entire vessel was built from a dark brown wood, polished almost to a reflection.

Above the bulging belly Ebryn counted six rows of railings, the lower three running the full length, and the two above them spanning the middle of the vessel, sandwiched between sections of small glass portals fore and aft. Ebryn guessed there might easily be scores of cabins at each end.

Fashioned into the wood, below the lowest railing, was a single brilliant yellow stripe running along the side from one end to the other. It started from a broad curve near the front of the ship, with a large black circle in the middle, tapering gradually to a point near the stern. The whole design conspired to appear as a single huge elongated eye gazing out from the side of the ship.

Three hefty beams extended at an angle over the edge of the upper deck, each supporting partially collapsed, rusty orange-coloured, fan-shaped sails. A seemingly random assortment of brightly coloured streamers and long wind-socks, attached to each mast, stretched out on the freshening breeze.

Ebryn followed Quentyn as he manoeuvred himself gingerly around the stacked crates at the near edge of the ramp — staring fixedly at the looming bulk of the ship. From the frozen expression on his face Ebryn guessed Quentyn felt fearful the vessel would drop from the air, and crush them.

A steep enclosed walkway connected the top of the ramp to the upper deck of the ship, and next to the walkway stood a very short, round-bodied man, dressed in an elaborate garment of indigo and carmine, grinning broadly at them as they approached. He wore a uncomfortable looking triangular hat, so tall it appeared to have compressed him under its weight.

Quentyn stretched his lips into a ghastly imitation of a smile, which did nothing to conceal the obvious terror in his darting eyes. “Uhh, Captain Lim?”

Captain Lim was the first person Ebryn had seen Quentyn treat with anything more than thinly veiled contempt since they'd met. Ebryn bowed to him in the formal style.

“Greetings, honourable guests,” Lim said. “You are most welcome to my humble vessel.”

Palona

P
ALONA REACHED OUT
a languid hand to part the valance. This was her favourite part of the high market, the expensive end where the distilled exotica of a thousand worlds were gathered in one place. You never knew from one visit to the next what you might find — fine silken fabrics, fashions from Cochin or Cassadia, Tapulupatian jewellery, or some strange and colourful pet.

The valance, made from the finest material, concealed her and Jaquit from prying eyes whilst allowing her to see out — but not clearly. The merchants knew her, however, recognising her palanquin, and they bowed and rubbed their hands together as she approached, eager to persuade her down to their displays. Their burly bodyguards would usher other customers away while she looked, and often if she found something she liked they would gratefully gift it to her.

However they described the gift, a mark of respect to Ulpitor or tribute to the three-headed god, she knew her patronage influenced what those around her bought. Simply wearing a gift could all but guarantee the merchant a healthy profit, or even considerable wealth.

At eighteen, her acquaintances would regard a trip to the market unescorted as the height of daring, bordering on scandalous licentiousness. But it held a special place in her affections. It was here, almost ten years to the day, she'd found Jaquit, huddled and shivering in the gutter of a side street.

Some connection had drawn her then to notice the young girl amongst all the others. Jaquit had looked up at her without fear or self-pity, and Palona saw something beautiful there. She'd stared into those brown eyes, seeing past the rags.

She'd stubbornly refused to leave without Jaquit. It had taken a tantrum, but eventually her uncle's servants reluctantly surrendered to her demands, and brought the half starved waif with them. With her uncle's indulgence, she'd insisted they wash Jaquit, dress her in the finest clothes, and treat her like the daughter of some honoured foreign prince. From that day Palona and Jaquit were inseparable.

She'd found the journey through the market unusually dull this day. The merchants had nothing to interest her, undoubtedly reluctant to bring in new merchandise ahead of Tranquillity.

Most went through the mummery of selling what they still had, but to Palona they seemed half-hearted at best. In a matter of days this part of the market would be deserted, the merchants gone before the closure made travel to or from Vergence impossible.

For twenty-four days the city would be isolated, depending entirely on reserves stockpiled in advance. Although she'd lived in Vergence for as long as she could remember and never travelled beyond, she still found the idea of being cut off from everywhere else disturbing.

Eight bearers carried the palanquin, solid, unimaginative men with backs like oxen. In another place they would have been slaves, but here her servants were considered free men. Palona could see no benefit for the bearers in this arrangement — paid little more than the cost of a slave's upkeep, but from this they must provide for themselves and could be released from service at any time.

Accompanying them were six ambassadorial guards, and Doctor Elali.

The ambassador's guards were no longer experienced soldiers from Ulpitor, sent on comfortable postings as a reward for loyal service before retirement, but young men drawn from Kurbehzian religious orders. Olive-skinned with triple-plaited hair, and all devotees of the three-faced god.

The old guard had treated her with grizzled humour, affection even. Their replacements were impassive, humourless, indifferent. Ever alert, they watched the crowds with hard unblinking eyes, following their commander's orders unquestioningly.