The thin stream of filth spilled out of the broken pipe and onto the sand. Once, the pipe had extended far out into the breakers. But time and storms had eaten at it. Now, at low tide it spilled into a series of filthy pools and then trickled into the sea. Occasional seagulls swooped and picked, their mournful cries echoing in the mouth of the pipe, where a scared, hungry and bitter boy waited. The pipe-mouth circle of sky blue faded, becoming tinted here and there with orange and violet cloud streaks. It would be dark soon, and then he would set out.
The mountains . . . how would he get there? All the roads and trails would be watched. He also had no food, no way of carrying water, and a desert to cross. But he was a city child, to whom the distances on the map meant little, and the realities of crossing the desert meant nothing at all. He would follow the dry valley that the map described as the Syrah River. There would be no patrols, for there was no road there, and surely he would have finished crossing the desert by morning.
The sun sank at last in torn gossamer pink streamers of vague cloud. Keilin stepped out into the purple twilight, stretching his cramped limbs. After a hundred yards or so he stopped and washed his hands, legs and feet in the surf margin. Even half-wet the walk to the mouth of the valley was pleasant. The sand was still warm on the beach, as was the gentle night breeze.
When Keilin reached the rocky point which had been shown as the mouth of the river, he set off inland across the farmlands. He was city bred, but when he stumbled across a melon in a field he did manage to recognize it.
Keilin picked five melons, and carrying them in his shirt, he marched resolutely away from the sea, and onwards into the valley. Soon the fields gave way to short grass. The tussocks became further apart as he went on, and then there was just dry sand crunching underfoot. He walked, and walked, and walked. The moon rose slowly ahead of him. Eventually the boy could go no further. He sat down with his back to a rock. A cold dry wind blew down the valley. Taking a melon out of his shirt, Keilin tried to work out how to get into it without a knife.
Finally he settled for cracking the fruit against a stone. The hard outer peel split, showering him with seeds. Eagerly he scraped these aside and bit into the flesh. It was surprisingly hard, totally lacking in the sweet succulence he'd expected. It had less taste than the paper he had chewed on, on hungry days in the library. There was moisture, but not much. The only melons he'd ever tasted before had been two he'd stolen in the marketplace. Belatedly he remembered the housewives pressing and smelling them. Keilin worked things through in his quick mind: ripe fruit would be on the market, not still in the fields. Doggedly he ate on, resisting the temptation to try the other melons. It filled his belly. It gave some moisture. It did nothing for his sore feet, but it did lift his spirits considerably.
He had meant to sit for just a few minutes and then press on, but sleep came on silent feet and stole his consciousness. Sheer cold eventually cut through his exhaustion, waking him to stare wide-eyed at the panoply of stars above him. The moon was edging down, and in the darkness and clear sky, Keilin suddenly saw just what a crowded heaven it really was. The smoky sky of Port Tinarana had never allowed him to see one tenth of its icy splendor. Besides, the nights were working time, not stargazing time. He knew what stars were, having read incredulously about them. He'd laughed at the ignorant masses who believed them to be the lights in the windows of God's house. Now it didn't seem so funny. Ah well, perhaps if the mountains didn't offer refuge, he could travel to those stars and find a safe place somewhere.
Stiffly he rose to his feet, and began to walk onward. The night grew still colder as he trudged on. Gradually the sky began to pale in front of him, fading the stars and showing the stark outlines of steep, barren hillsides. Then, when Keilin was sure that he could get no colder and still continue walking, came the miracle of a desert sunrise. Within minutes the colors of the landscape went from grays and blues to sharp reds, yellows and browns, still razor sharp and clear in the night-chilled dry air.
Now that it was light, Keilin could see that the valley bottom was in fact a wide, dry river bed, braided with banks of water-polished and size-sorted stones. Had Keilin been desert-wise, he would have seen that the place was, compared to the surrounding hills, full of life. The sand was patterned with the tracks of insects and birds. There were a few dead-looking tufts of grass and weed stalks among the stones. On the margins of the stream bed were occasional near-leafless bushes, their twigs full of cruel thorns. Despite the thorns, there were signs that something grazed on them. Succulent plants, their flat leaves stonelike, were actually common. But the boy did not see this. To his city eyes it just looked like the outskirts of hell. However, the sun at least was welcome, licking down to warm his numb feet. The mountains surely could not be far now? He'd lost some time by sleeping, but surely by midmorning he'd be there?
Midmorning came . . . and went. The sun he'd welcomed had built up to scorching strength. Not a breath of air moved between the red cliffs of the valley. The cliffs themselves however seemed to shiver. Keilin's feet felt as though they'd never be cool again. Each step on the burning surface was a small agony. He'd learned to avoid dark stones, picking his way across the lighter ones. There was no sign of any mountains. Finally, in the meager shade of a water-cut overhang on the dry river's edge, he stopped. He ate a body-warmed melon, even sucking the limited juice from around the pips, and then drifted into an uneasy sleep. When he woke again it was nearly sundown, and his mouth and throat were mercilessly dry. He sucked and chewed at the pulp of the third melon, dragging out its limited moisture, struggling to swallow the near tasteless muck, ending up spitting out most of it. Still, he was determined. He walked on, and kept going all night, although the terrain became steeper and rougher.
The fourth melon proved a rare bonus. Near ripe, and far more juicy. The fifth and last had been a bitter disappointment after it. The boy had had the sense to find deep shade and sleep in that, but now, with his supplies exhausted, he began to realize that he might end before the desert did. He'd woken in the midafternoon too thirsty to sleep. It had taken him a while to work out what was different about the harsh desert light. High above, the sky was patched with great lumbering castles of white cloud. If only . . . if only it would rain.
His longing for water chilled the jewel on his chest. The fear that that cooling caused just seemed to worsen it. Damn! Damn! Damn! The whiners thought him dead. He couldn't let them find him again. Not here. There was no possible place to hide. He forced himself to be calm, to think it all through. The jewelled pendant was magical. He knew that. It seemed only to work when he was emotionally stirred up; and then only for some emotions. Hatred did nothing, but fear had some effect; however, real potency seemed related to sex and its brew of emotions and desires. The things it whisked out of nowhere were not consciously chosen by him, but their nature did seem to have some connection to the circumstance. The jewels his first fear had materialized. The mattresses his fall from the library window had produced. The thought of the girl on the mattress dragged out a tension-easing smile. She'd been so preoccupied with her own body that it had taken her a good few moments to realize she was no longer in the privacy of her bedroom. That she hadn't screamed the street down was a miracle of sorts. With one horrified, embarrassed look at him, she'd stifled her screech, grabbed a sheet to cover her nudity and left at a blind run. He'd often wondered if she'd got home, and how she'd explained the missing mattress. He'd often been tempted to try and recall her, and wished he'd had more of a chance to do something on their abrupt meeting. She'd been the subject of many fantasies, abruptly shut down because of the cooling of the jewel. He knew experimentation was impossible. When the thing was used, the whiners always came, trying to kill him.
Well, when he was sure he was going to die anyway, he'd try using the jewel. In the meanwhile he would keep walking. The mountains couldn't be far now, could they? As for the jewel, well, if it could stay cool, perhaps it might help his burning mouth? He pushed it in between his lips.
It was cool. Cool enough to start some saliva rising from an inner well. As soon as the jewel was wet there came the weirdest of sensations. Vastness. Memory. Great seas of it. A terrible war threatening even the existence of life itself. Flight: A huge hand reaching for the stars, and then, when the stars had been almost within grasp, the memory of treachery as black and bitter as gall. Overlying all of this was a powerful, desperate calling. He could see the place: There were endless plains of intense whiteness, and a mountain, no place of trees and streams, but a towering white monolith, ribbed with broken gray rock standing in the middle of the limitless white plains. It was bone-freezing cold, and the air was thin and biting.
Using the pendant's chain he pulled the jewel plug out of his mouth. The feeling was gone, cut off as if by a knife. He was still in the heat of the desert. It must have been some kind of illusion, he decided, eyeing the jewel suspiciously. Yet, despite the warm dry air, he was shivering. And there was a powerful compulsion to go to the white plains, even though he had no idea where they were. Shaking himself, Keilin set off again, thirst gradually washing away other concerns.
Some fifty miles away the clouds hit higher, cooler slopes. Thunderheads began forming, and soon heavy driving rain was washing down the bare hillsides. The first that Keilin knew of it was hearing a distant rumble in the valley. He'd read of lions. Would they live out here? Fear plucked at him, enough to begin to chill the jewel against his chest. But . . . surely there was no water for animals? It was only when the roaring came closer, growing louder and more constant that it dawned on him. It was water, lots of it. His moment of relief was overwhelmed by the realization that he had to get out of the middle of the riverbed, fast.
Like a brown wall it came, thundering closer, as Keilin scrambled for the red rocky slopes, running as fast as he could, calling on the last of his reserves. Minutes later he sat panting on a high rock, looking down on the flood. Soon he dared to creep down and drink the muddy water. Perhaps there was hope after all. Perhaps he could reach the cool green valleys in the mountains of his dreams.
"What's yer name, missy?" With a shock the small Princess realized that the shifty looking man was attempting to distract her from his advance. His attempts at surreptitiously edging forward were laughable. Except . . . she didn't want to laugh. Her stomach muscles tensed, and she reached a small hand up to finger her earlobe. It was all she could do not to run, and not for all the will in the world could she stop herself from biting her lower lip before she replied. Her nervousness had given her an instant to think. If he knew who she was he would see her as a valuable trade item, to be guarded every instant. She'd better play some other part.
Her potential role models were rather limited. If she pretended to be an aristocrat's daughter it would suggest she had some value, and might be ransomed. The fellow would certainly tie her up . . . It would have to be someone from the lower orders then. A maid perhaps? She had always been attended by maids. She knew that there were also parlor maids and kitchen maids, but she'd never given much attention to any of them. They just were, in the way that air was. You didn't notice what they did, or how they behaved. They were trained to be inobtrusive. If they weren't they . . . went.
She could only think of three women of the lower classes to whom she'd truly paid attention. Firstly, her herbal poisons instructress, who had been positively ancient—at least fifty—and who, despite her resemblance to the bad ones in the fairy tales, one very carefully didn't call a witch. Secondly, the two high-class whores who had taught her about bed arts. She didn't think a young poisoner would be well received, so—she'd be a young whore. After all, she knew the theory, and she'd have him in thrall very rapidly.
She dropped her chin forward, cocked her head sideways, and raised her eyebrows coquettishly, "Bella, handsome. What's yours, then?"
"Hur! Best if yer don't know, sweetie." He was standing over her now. She was aware of just how big and coarse he really was.
He reached for her, and she steeled herself not to shrink. He pulled her to her feet, fondling her breasts as he did so. Shael decided to change roles very rapidly. The theory was one thing; even watching the practical demonstrations from her hidden vantage had been all right. She knew how she was supposed to respond. Her body just wasn't ready to cooperate.
She pulled away from him, struggling to get free of the thick arms, "Please . . . please don't. You'll get a good ransom for me if I'm, uh, not . . . not hurt. Please, can't you just let me go and . . . give me something to eat."
Her reaction only made him hold her more tightly. The struggle seemed to excite him. He laughed, pushing her down onto the thick mat of grass and sedges. "Don't gi' me that crap! It won't hurt you, ducky, and I'll give yer something fine to eat . . . afterwards." His knee forced her thighs apart. He imprisoned both of her frantically clawing little hands in one of his large powerful ones. With the other hand he tore her skirt and underclothes away. His stinking breath was hot on her face. As he fumbled at his own belt, Shael decided that the theory was absolutely and totally unlike the practical experience.
And suddenly anger, wild searing anger, ripped through her, replacing the panic and fear. She was a Royal Princess. She was Cru, dammit, not some peasant trull to be abused like this! His fumbling hand was trying to open her, to guide his blindly thrusting manhood. She spat up into his face. Then again into his half-closed eye, and then, as he turned his face away, she lunged up and bit his neck with all her strength. She felt her teeth meet as he pulled away from her. She tried to roll away from the buffeting slap. "You fuckin' bitch!" It made her head reel, but despite this she knew what she had to do while she had the chance. As he'd slapped her, his one knee had come off the ground. Her leg had slid under it. Her thighs were well-trained and strong, and she lifted her knee with all the force she could muster.
The would-be rapist reeled back, his grasp on her hands slackening, as he put a sheltering hand over his testicles. He'd fallen half sideways, off her. "I'll kill yer for this!" He bellowed in pain. As he spoke, a raking set of claws stabbed at his eyes . . . and she was rolling away. He dived at her, but she had had time to pull her knees up under her chin. There was no science in it, but the double-footed, instinctive kick caught him in the solar plexus. The force of the kick, plus his own momentum, emptied his lungs with an explosive whuf! and sprawled him sideways next to her. The stream was beside them. And it was full of rocks. She seized one with both hands, and brought it down on his head as hard as she could. He lay still, blood sluggishly oozing through his dirty hair. For a moment Shael was still too. Then she pounded his head several more times, before dropping the rock, her hands shaking. Only then did she spit out the piece of his flesh that she still had in her mouth.
"That," she said, after a long, long moment, with her voice quivering, "is what you get for trying to rape the daughter of the Tyrant, you . . . you . . ." Words failed her. The best she could manage was "pig!"
The anger that had carried her through her furious defense was over now, and the fear was beginning to steal back. She'd been lucky. If . . . if she hadn't won, he'd probably have killed her . . . afterwards. After a few moments her self-possession came back. He'd dropped his bag as he'd advanced on her. She walked over to it and opened it. Looted tawdry bits of silk; a few scraps of ornamental silver, probably stolen from a temple somewhere; a bone-handled dagger with a broken tip and . . . a pie. She stood, pie and knife in hand, when she heard a groan from behind her.
He was sitting up, blood still running down his face, which was contorted in a mixture of hatred and pain. Panic took her. She turned and ran.
She sat down in a brake of tall trees. It was a place of great natural beauty, the stream falling through a series of musical, lacy cascades into sunlight and leaf-shadow dappled pools. At this stage Shael only saw it as a place to hide. After a panting rest she began to take stock: What did she have, besides a black eye, a ripped skirt, a next-to-useless dagger, and a pie that she'd yet to find a chance to eat? What should she do now? Shapstone lay far behind. She'd seen no signs of the Morkth pursuit. But he was still after her. She shuddered. At least . . . she thought he was still after her. She hadn't seen him behind her for a while.
This side of Shapstone had been sparsely farmed, mostly just sheep-grazing lands, and the Morkth had burned the only two cottages she'd seen so far. So where should she go?
The sharp crack of a breaking stick, audible even above the water music, cut through her reverie. He had succeeded in following her. And his face, now a mask of scratches and dried blood, was flushed with pursuit . . . and triumph. "Thought I didn't 'ear you, little Princess!" He spat the last word out. "Those I'm goin' ta sell you to won't care what shape you're in. It'd make a good story for the alehouses. I'll be the man that finally screwed the world's ultimate royal bitch! I'm gonna make you suffer!"
Shael shakily held the dagger in front of her. She dropped the pie, her other hand fingering her bangles nervously. Suddenly she was aware of intense cold under her sweating fingers. This was what she'd felt in her apartments when Lord Blis had grabbed her. The picture of that scene leapt through the window of her mind.
The corpses fell and tumbled between them. Almost as an afterthought the majordomo's severed head popped out of thin air, and bounced against the man's legs. The deserter and would-be rapist staggered back. For a moment they stood frozen. Then he swore, his voice rising in sudden fear, "Motherfu—!"
Shael didn't stop to see what would happen next. She was already running when the air was hammered with a terrific booming sound. The leaves shook. Looking over her shoulder she saw a Morkth platecraft dropping stonelike onto the spot where she'd been a minute before. The terrible purple flare of their weapons drove her to dive deep into a bramble thicket, and to burrow down into it, too frightened even to pull away from the myriad needle points that pressed at her flesh.
It was perhaps half an hour later when she slowly began to extricate herself from the brambles, with much tearing and scratching. The birds were singing again and it seemed as if nothing had ever disturbed the tranquillity of this spot. She crept cautiously back to where she had been.
He would never chase her again. Not with a fist-sized hole seared through his chest. At the same time she could not take any of his garments to replace those he'd torn. The clothes had been very thoroughly taken apart, including every possible stitch and seam. Even his boots had been dismembered. A few coins from a slit-open neck pouch lay beside him. The other bodies too had been similarly searched. The sight of Blis's purple-mottled body was nearly too much for her. She turned away, and looked down at her bracelets. It was that one, she was sure. The one she didn't like very much. It was the old-looking one with its snaky double helix pattern and that chilly black stone, the stone with the oil-on-water surface which seemed to shift as she looked at it.
With sudden insight she realized that this was what the Morkth had been looking for. It was this bracelet that had had such unpredictable magiclike effects. But to use it was to summon the Morkth, too.
She picked up the pie, miraculously still intact, and walked away. There was much to think about, but she wanted to do it elsewhere. An hour later she was seated with her back to the wall of a burned-out shepherd's hut. The place had been fired, but not looted. Looting was not the Morkth way. The roof had burned, as had some of the rude furniture. But the moldy blanket from under the stone shelf had not. She would have something to sleep under tonight. There was food. Now to eat, and then sleep. The thought of food shut out all other ideas, even the horrors of the past twenty-four hours.
Shael bit into the pie with the sort of greed that she had never shown for even the most rare of sweetmeats. The crust was crumbly and rather stale, but the inside was full of tart fruit. She was more than two-thirds through it when she recognized the purple juice dripping off her fingers. She gagged. It had been almost inevitable. Bilberry preserve was common hereabouts.
She was hungry and more pragmatic the next morning, after an amazingly good night's sleep. She'd tossed and turned on the finest feather beds before. Now a few armfuls of heather and a smelly blanket had seemed wonderful. She brushed away the tiny black ants that had been making the most of her discarded dinner, and ate it herself. Sleep and food had done much to restore her mind's tone. She sat and looked at the bangle, thinking.
It gave her a direction of travel. Here she had what was potentially a source of riches and power, if she could use it where they could not reach her. Her background had taught her more about the Morkth than most humans cared to know. She knew, for instance that there were two factions of Morkth, and that their internecine fight was more bitter than their hatred of humanity. She also knew they struggled with high altitudes and low temperatures. Their attacks were almost always limited to the coastal cities and the fertile lowland plains. Therefore she would go to the mountains. She could see the purple line of them from here.
S'kith too had thought he would aim for the mountains. He had needed a goal, a geographical target of some kind. Now these lower life forms were hounding him in such a fashion that he began to doubt if he would ever reach the blue jaggedness he could see before him.