The Feline Wizard (31 page)

There were no dunes here, nor even very much sand—only hardpacked ground, bright here and there with salt-pans. There was actually plant life, but only outcrops of thorny brush, dry now but ready to bloom if rain came.

It had been a very long time since that happened.

The river of stones twisted across that wasteland, miles and miles to a distant range of mountains from which it flowed.

Anthony shuddered. “How could there ever have been life here?”

“There is water,” Panyat told him, “but it flows deep under the ground.”

“We cannot drink it when it is hidden,” Balkis said in despair.

Anthony, scanning the landscape with narrowed eyes, remarked, “Perhaps there is a way to climb down to it—how else would people know it is there?”

Balkis searched, too, hope resurgent, before shaking her head sadly. “I see no cave, nor any other way to journey downward.”

“Nonetheless, there is such,” Panyat told them. “Let us each gather a few pieces of driftwood, for if we can find that stream, we may be able to ride it.”

Balkis shuddered. “I have no wish to climb out among those stones again—nor will my ankle stand it!”

“Nor shall it have to,” Panyat returned. “The smaller branches are torn off the trees and cast up on the banks.” He proved his point by bringing each of them a driftwood staff. Leaning on them, they each managed to find a few good-sized branches about five feet long lying by the banks. They dragged them as Panyat led the way along a winding track, barely discernible in the hard-packed earth, to the lee of a huge boulder—and there, to their surprise, they saw a cave, a scooped-out declivity whose bottom lay below the ground.

Panyat took the sticks and tossed them in. They fell with a clatter that seemed to go on a long time, and Balkis paled. “How are we to descend so far?”

“Very carefully,” Panyat answered, “especially with those turned ankles. But the way is easy enough, though rough.”

They followed him into the cave, stepping down gingerly— and discovered a sort of staircase probing deep into the earth, made of slabs of rock and shelves of shale. The height of the steps was uneven, their depth varied from a few inches to several feet, and Balkis asked, as she sat down to descend a particularly high step, “Did people build this?”

“I think not,” said Panyat. “Even the ancients would have made it more even. I would guess that the gods made this staircase and cared little about human convenience—but it will take us down to the stream. Be glad we will not have to climb back up laden with waterskins, as did the traders who showed me this.”

Balkis shuddered at the thought, and was very glad indeed.

The stairs curved slowly in a great, uneven spiral, and the sunlight stayed with them almost to the bottom, though it became gray and dim. Finally Panyat encountered their driftwood and sent it clattering farther down—but before he did, he broke off a two-foot limb and asked Anthony, “Can you light this with your flint and steel?”

“Gladly.” Anthony took some tow from his pack, struck sparks into it, nursed the flame to life, then held the tip of the branch in until fire caught firmly. Stamping out the tow, he gave the branch to Panyat, who held it high as he led the way down.

They followed into a darkness lit only by the torch. It gleamed on the stone walls about them—there wasn't much space to light, really. After a few minutes, they heard a gurgling sound, which grew louder as the daylight faded. Then, suddenly, the walls fell away and the torchlight glowed alone in the darkness—but at their feet, it showed them a shelf of rock and the winking turbulent mass of a flowing river.

Panyat stepped forward and the torch lit the curve of a tunnel overhead—only ten feet high at the midpoint, no doubt gnawed out by the stream itself. Stone icicles hung from it here and there, glittering in the torchlight. They could see that it was more of a brook than a river, perhaps twelve feet wide but flowing quickly.

“So this is an underground stream.” Anthony's voice was hushed, awed.

Balkis knew how he felt. There was something of the feel of a church in the solitude of the place, but something more of the awe of the underworld; she half expected to see Charon poling his boat toward them to take them into Hades. She shuddered at the thought and spoke briskly. “Well, we shall not lack for drink—but I thirst.” She knelt by the bank—with difficulty, leaning on her staff—dipped up a handful of water and drank. The water was icy cold and tasted of the rocks through which it ran, but it was infinitely refreshing. “Shall we bother filling our waterskins?”

“Let us wait until we have come to the end of the river.” Anthony turned to Panyat. “The ledge runs the whole course of the stream, does it not?”

“I know not,” the Pytanian said, “for I have not yet followed it.”

“Yet?” Balkis echoed him.

“It seems a more pleasant way to travel than slogging through the wasteland,” Panyat offered, “at least, as long as our torches last.”

“Well, we have brought enough wood to last us several
days,” Anthony said judiciously. “I presume, though, that we are going to make a boat of most of it.”

“That was my thought, yes,” Panyat said.

“I mislike journeying into darkness when I know not what awaits me,” Balkis said, her voice hollow.

“Oh, the river rises past the mountains,” Panyat told her. “We know where it goes—but we also know it is the only water between the sandy sea and the foothills. If we had camels to carry bags and bags of water, why, we might manage—but since we have only our own legs …”

“And two of them are injured,” Anthony finished for him. “I see your wisdom, Panyat. Well, let us set about lashing these sticks together.” He took the coil of rope out of his pack.

Anthony was clever with his knots, and had clearly done this often. Bound together, the driftwood made a raft that was just big enough to carry them all safely. Anthony crouched, holding onto the raft, and said, “Climb aboard now, and we will be on our way.”

Balkis bridled. “Why should you be the one to hold it?”

“Because the last one aboard may fall in,” Anthony said, “and cats do not like wetting.”

Balkis smothered a laugh and took a playful swipe at his head as she stepped aboard. The raft teetered under her alarmingly, and she quickly sat down. She loved a bath in her human form, but not when the water was icy cold.

Panyat came after her, puzzled. “Why should you care if a cat does not like to be dampened?”

“I have a deep affection for them,” Balkis explained, and wondered if she should tell Panyat about her other life. He might run in fright, though, so she decided not.

Sure enough, when Anthony made to climb aboard, the raft, no longer anchored to the shelf, moved faster than he did, and in he went with a splash.

“Anthony!” Balkis cried, but he clambered aboard, grinning, while the echoes repeated his name as they faded. “Only wet to the knees,” he assured her. “The water is shallow here.”

“Thank Heaven for that!” Balkis pulled his feet into her lap. “Come, off with those wet boots!”

“I can fend for myself,” Anthony protested.

“But would not!” She peeled his boots off and wrapped his lower legs in her cloak. “I prefer a traveling companion who has not lost his feet to frostbite, thank you!”

Panyat gasped, and the two of them turned to look ahead— then caught their breaths in wonder.

The torchlight waked a thousand points of light in the roof and walls of the tunnel, the glitter of mica flakes, the glint of sapphire and emerald, the glow of ruby. They sailed through a multihued world surrounded by garnets, opals, carbuncles, topazes, chrysolites, onyxes, beryls, sardonyxes, and even, here and there, the pure white gleam of diamonds.

Anthony groaned. “So much wealth, and I cannot reach it!”

“It is well I have hold of your feet, then,” Balkis said tartly. “I would not put it past you to dive in and drown yourself trying to wrest a stone from its matrix!”

“I am not so great a fool as that,” Anthony protested, “but I am a hill farmer born and bred who has watched his father struggle and sweat to wrest a meager living from a barren hillside. I have heard him say again and again that we must never let anything of value pass us by, for we will need it when the hard times come—and I am the one passing by all this wealth with no way to stop the raft!”

“Indeed there is not.” Panyat's voice was sympathetic. “The current is too strong.”

“It whirls us along through this tunnel,” Anthony agreed, “and here I ride surrounded by ransoms for ten kings! Fortunes pass me every second, enough to keep my father and brothers in luxury the rest of their lives, and I cannot even touch the wealth I see!”

Just as well, Balkis thought—his father and brothers certainly deserved no such reward for their abuse.

Suddenly, a huge dark lump rose from the middle of the river. Glowing eyes the size of platters opened, and a huge hand with writhing, snakelike fingers slapped down to grip the edge of the raft as a glutinous voice asked, “Did you wish to stop your ride, mortal?”

“Not that badly!” Balkis slapped a hand over Anthony's mouth, for his eyes lit even as he shrank away. “What creature
are you who rises from lightless depths?” At the back of her mind, she readied a banishing spell.

“I am Negation, the emptiness that hungers for everything that exists.” The monster smiled, opening a lipless, toothless maw that stretched across the whole of its head as it drew the raft in.

“You are Greed,” Balkis snapped, “and you mean to drag us down with you!”

“Feed, then!” Anthony cried, and threw something into the monster's mouth.

It swallowed automatically; then its eyes filmed over and its fingers slipped from the raft. “What exshellent flavor!” it said, speech slurred. “More!”

“I have no more, and be glad—it is very potent, and more would kill you.”

“I cannot die. I feed on ev … everyshing, I shupershede Deaph, I…” The monster's eyes rolled up as it fell back into the river.

“What did you feed it?” Balkis asked, staring.

“The brandywine the king of Piconye gave us,” Anthony said. “He spoke truly—it purified this water.” Then he sighed with regret. “Still, if I had let him hold the raft, I could have swum to the wall and gathered a fortune in jewels!”

“Then you would have come back to an empty raft,” Balkis told him, “for Panyat and I would have been in his belly, and you would have followed us—then the raft for dessert, like as not!”

Anthony shuddered and admitted, “Free jewels come at too high a price—this time, at least.”

Balkis wished he hadn't said “This time.”

Suddenly the raft sped faster.

“Seize hold of the ropes!” Anthony cried, and followed his own advice. “Has the monster wakened already and come to pull us to him?”

“No,” Panyat said, his voice faltering. “Can you not hear?”

They listened and heard a roaring, faint but swelling quickly.

“I know that sound!” Anthony cried. “I have heard it many times in my mountains! There are rapids ahead!”

“I did not know,” Panyat wailed. “The traders told me that people had sailed this river before, but they said nothing about rapids—or monsters!”

“Balkis, your staff, quickly!” Antfiohy jammed his feet back into his boots. “Use it to push us free from rocks on your side! I shall fend us off on this! Panyat, hold that torch high!”

Then the current turned and tossed the raft. Balkis saw a boulder looming out of the darkness and aimed the pole at it. A second later the pole lurched in her hands. It was all she could do to hold onto it, but the rock slid past them safely. Water dashed off its sides, splashing her from toe to collarbone, and she prayed Panyat's torch wouldn't be drowned. The raft jolted under her, and she knew Anthony had fended off a boulder on his side. Another huge stone came tearing at her, and again she pointed her staff like a knight tilting. Her aim was accurate, and the pole met the rock with a shock that seemed to vibrate through her, but she held fast to the pole, and the raft swung around the stone. A second later it shuddered from a blow to her left, and she cast an anxious glance at Anthony, but he was still whole, though his face was taut and pale with strain, and over the roar of the water she heard his wail: “That boulder was alabaster!”

On through the maze they sped, bouncing from side to side, never quite striking a rock. Now and again Panyat's torch hissed and Balkis' heart nearly stopped, but always the light blazed up again, and Balkis' pulse with it.

Then, abruptly, with a last torrential roar, the stream tilted at a sharp angle. Balkis screamed, afraid she would slide off, that the raft would topple and spill her, and Anthony's arm closed around her waist—but the raft struck water with a huge splash, spray drenched them, and the raft leveled. It spun twice, and the brave, constant torch showed them a view of precious stones flowing above them, limestone pillars polished mirror-smooth by the passage of the waters—but no banks. As the raft stopped its spin, they were able to make out the sides of the channel by the winking of gems, but they seemed tiny with distance.

“That was only a stream,” Panyat said, voice shaking with
wonder. “It has carried us into a proper river—an underground river!”