The Fire Dragon (55 page)

“Only that he had an omen dream. It was when we were back in Indila. He had a nightmare, and when he woke, he knew that he had to come to Luvilae.”

“Huh.” Keeta thought for a moment. “It's where we met him, isn't it? It was so long ago now that I can't quite remember.”

“I remember. It was Luvilae, all right. I'll never forget that, and my father, and how you saved me from him.”

“I saved you?” Keeta raised an eyebrow. “I thought it was Ebañy who pried you off your scum of a father.”

“Oh, he made the decision easier. But you were the one who made me see that I couldn't stay. You were right, too. My father would have had me whoring for him, and I probably wouldn't even be alive by now.”

Keeta shuddered hugely at the memory. The two women sat down on a rolled tent cloth out in front of Marka's tent and watched others work. Dust and shouts rose high. Carrying three of the children, Nila the elephant ambled past with her trunk curled around a bundle of hay. Nearby Tillya sat on a little carpet and kept Zandro amused, safely away from the enormous beast's feet. Off in the distance, Marka saw Kwinto hurrying back and forth, giving the acrobats orders, while Vinto smiled at him like a proud uncle.

“Your boy's almost a man,” Keeta said. “It's time to find him a wife.”

“You're right about that. Gods! The years have gone by too fast.”

“Indeed. If it weren't for losing my Delya and your babies, I'd say that they've been good ones, but then, the gods never feed anyone honey without giving them vinegar to wash it down.”

Since shade trees lined the well-made road, the day's travel went fast and comfortably, or so Marka thought, but Ebañy fretted the entire way. The troupe always travelled as fast as the elephant travelled, no more, no less, and Nila never hurried unless she was terrified of something. Ebañy kept hopping down from their wagon to run back and urge the keeper to make the elephant walk faster. Whoever was riding her would roll his eyes heavenward and ignore him, sending Ebañy fuming back to the wagon.

“I can't believe you're so eager,” Marka said, laughing. “The town's not going to run away from us.”

“Oh, I know, I know,” Ebañy said. “But it's because of the dream. Though I suppose they'll wait for us.”

“What? Who?”

“I'm not sure. The dream was very clear about where we should meet them, but I'm not quite sure who they are.”

All her pleasure in the green view vanished.

The troupe drove into Luvilae on an afternoon shot with sun and shadow both. As overhead huge white clouds billowed and sailed, the narrow streets and whitewashed houses of the town alternately brightened and dimmed. All along their route to the caravanserai the townspeople ran to greet them and cheer the unexpected arrival of a show to break up the tedium of their days. As usual, Ebañy drove the lead wagon, with Marka sitting beside him and Kwinto next to her, bowing and waving to the crowd in imitation of his father. By the time that the camp was set up, it was well into the afternoon, with the clouds gone and the sun hanging low over the ocean. Marka left the younger children under Tillya's care, then went looking for Ebañy. As so often happened, she knew exactly where she'd find him, standing, in this case, at the edge of the camp by a single palm tree.

The town and the caravanserai at Luvilae both sprawled out along a flat clifftop, overlooking a sandy beach and a gentle sea some thirty feet below. From where they
were standing, they could see down to the harbor, some hundreds of yards away off to their right. Ebañy put his arm around her waist and drew Marka close, then pointed to the distant wooden pier.

“No ships,” he said. “Not so much as the sight of a boat, coracle, or skiff, even. How very odd. The Lords of Water told me that the ship would come to harbor today, and the Lords are never wrong.”

Marka felt every muscle in her body turn tense.

“Who?” Her voice came out all trembling, as well. “Who do you mean?”

“The Lords of Water are elemental spirits, but of a higher degree of developed—.”

“I didn't mean them. I meant, who's supposed to sail in?”

“Ah. The ship, of course.” Ebañy shaded his eyes with one hand and stared out to sea. “The one I told you about.”

“You didn't tell me about any ship.”

“I didn't? Well, it's the reason we're here. The one I dreamt about.”

“Oh. Oh, I see.”

In other words, Marka thought to herself, there isn't any ship to worry about. She patted him on the shoulder and left him there, staring at the horizon, while she went back to camp. She fed the children, discussed buying grain for the horses with Vinto, then noticed that Ebañy had never returned. Nibbling on a chunk of bread, she strolled back out to the cliff's edge and the solitary palm to find him sitting on the ground. When he saw her, he sprang to his feet.

“Look!” he crowed. “They're just pulling in now.”

Ice-cold in the warm sun, Marka looked where he pointed. Edging up to the pier under oar came a ship, a long, sleek thing, painted white, and hung with a row of shields that glittered in the sunset. At the prow rose a figurehead carved to look like some sort of beast—she couldn't quite make out which from their distance. She could, however, see the tiny figures of sailors unstepping the mast while others leapt ashore with hawsers in hand. With quick ease they brought the ship in broadside to the pier and tied up.

“The dream was a true one, then.” Ebañy was silent for a moment, but she could feel him trembling against her. “Come walk with me, my love.”

She took his hand and allowed him to lead her away. Near the edge of the town proper stood a flight of rickety wooden stairs leading to the beach, and they climbed down, watching their footing more than the view, till they reached land safely, close to the pier and the strange ship. An enormous painted eye decorated either side of the prow. For a figurehead, a curling dragon, head raised, mouth open, snarled at the passersby as it rose and fell with the waves. She could also see the sailors quite clearly, as they stood on the deck and the jetty itself.

“They're all so pale! They must be barbarians.”

“Not truly, but my kinsmen, nonetheless, though only in a way.”

His voice was so soft and hesitant that she spun round to look at him. He was staring at the ship and its crew with greedy eyes.

“So, my people have come for me,” he whispered. “Marka, my love, my heart, my soul and the very center of my world, how much do you love me?”

“With all my heart, but what do you mean, come for you? Why? I … oh!”

One of the sailors was walking toward them. She could see his moonbeam-pale hair and steely-grey eyes, slit vertically like a cat's, and his long ears, curling up to a delicate point. He was well over six feet tall but slender, with long hands, heavily callused but still oddly delicate. When Ebañy spoke to him, it was in a strange and musical language that Marka had never heard before. The sailor laughed and spoke in the same tongue, then turned to call out to a man hurrying down the pier.

Not another sailor, Marka realized—this fellow was too stooped and narrow-shouldered for that. He had the same pale hair but violet eyes, and his hands looked soft, strangers to ropes and oars. He bowed to Marka, then to Ebañy, and began to speak. Ebañy listened, his eyes filling with tears. All at once she was terrified, listening to them,
seeing them clasp hands like brothers, remembering all the many little odd things about Ebañy, and all the many riddling remarks he'd made over the years about his kin and his homeland, far over the seas.

At last he turned to her, and he seemed more stranger than husband.

“Do you remember the Guardian?” Ebañy said.

“No.” Marka felt her voice tremble. “Or wait! Do you mean Evandar?”

“That's the fellow, yes. He sent this ship for me.” Ebañy waved at it. “And this is Meranaldar. He's come, he says, to help us cure”—he hesitated, then visibly forced himself to push out the words—” my madness.”

“Ah! Thanks be to all the gods, then!”

Yet later she would regret her too-ready prayer. Although most of the sailors stayed with their ship, Meranaldar and the ship's captain, Taronalariel, came back to the camp with them. The troupe clustered round, asking questions all at once while Ebañy laughed and tried to answer them without ever mentioning that these strangers had come to heal him. Marka hurried over to Keeta and led her a bit away.

“Ebañy told me they've come to heal his madness, but—I don't know why—but I'm so frightened. I never even knew that there were people like this in the world, and they turn up here in their ship—it's such a peculiar ship, too—and my husband can talk with them, but I can't understand a word.”

“All good reasons to be frightened, I'd say.”

“And then he said, ‘my people have come for me.’ It sounds like they're going to take him away.”

Keeta turned and watched the troupe, clustering around the strangers. When marka looked, she saw the children huddled together, staring at their father in fear.

“I'd better go to the children,” Marka said.

“Yes, I agree. They're very good at picking up feelings and portents, children.”

The troupe entertained their guests with a meal that bordered on a feast. The two Long Ears, as Marka was mentally
calling them, had beautiful manners when they ate. They also learned the Bardekian word for “thank you” and muttered “gratyas” at everyone who came close. When night fell, some of the other sailors came to the camp; they'd seen the town market opening, Ebañy told her, and wanted their captain to go buy provisions.

“You'd best go and help them,” Marka said. “But do they have any Bardek coin?”

“Not a one, which is exactly why you're right. We'll have to argue with the merchants, no doubt, to the point of apoplexy.”

When the troupe turned in for the night, Marka rolled the side panels of the tent up a few feet to let in the cool night air. She coaxed the younger children to lie down on their mats, but none of them wanted to sleep. She tried singing, then storytelling, but they lay awake on the edge of tears. At last Kwinto and Tillya came in with oil lamps and sat down on the ground. In the better light Marka could see how frightened the younger children looked.

“Those men,” Kwinto said. “What are they?”

“Kinsmen of your father's,” Marka said. “I don't know much more than you do, actually. Your father's not told me much.”

“Papa looks happy,” Tillya said, but doubtfully. “I should be glad, Mama, but I'm frightened.”

“So am I.”

Kivva did cry at that. When Marka held out her arms, Kivva scrambled up and ran to her. Terrenz and Delya sat up, leaning against one another, while Zandro began to suck his thumb.

“I keep thinking about Evandar,” Marka went on. “Do you remember how he talked about your grandfather in Deverry, and how Grandpapa wanted to see your father again? I think this ship must come from there.”

“Mama, you're not thinking!” Kwinto said. “We see Deverry ships all the time up on the north coast. They don't look like that, and they never sail this far south, either.”

“Well, that's true. I just don't know where else it could have come from.”

“I don't want to go to Deverry.” Tillya's voice shook. “It's way too far away, and it's full of barbarians. I want to stay here with our show.”

“What about you?” Marka looked at Kwinto.

“Well, yesterday, you know? Vinto told me that I'm about ready to take over the acrobats.”

Indirect, but Marka understood him all too well. Kivva snivelled with little whimpers, while Delya and Terrenz merely looked miserable.

“Well,” Marka said at last. “We don't know yet if Papa's going anywhere.”

“But if he does,” Tillya said, “we'll all have to go too, won't we?”

“You and Kwinto are old enough to stay here if you want.”

“Oh, Mama!” Tillya burst out sobbing. “I'd have to lose you then.”

Marka wondered why her own eyes were staying dry. She realized, listening to her children cry, that she was too furious for tears.

It was so late when Ebañy finally returned that the children had given up waiting and gone to sleep without having to be nagged. Marka had taken the lamps outside and was sitting on a ground cloth when he came back alone, walking unsteadily and smelling of wine. He sat down beside her on the ground and smiled, considering her, while dancing light from the lamps dappled his face. She tried to find some normal thing to say, but questions about ship's provisions seemed too ominous to ask. Finally he sighed and held out one hand.

“I can't think of how to put this,” Ebañy said, “except baldly. My heart, my beloved, the time had come for us to leave the islands, you and me and our children, and sail away.”

“I thought that was coming.”

“Did you? Why?”

“Evandar, and his talk about your father.”

“Ah. That's true.” He pulled his hand back. “Meranaldar is most desirous of meeting my father, you see.”

“He doesn't know him?”

“No. This ship—it's not from Deverry. They don't want me to tell you more until we're out to sea, and no one can overhear.”

“Overhear? What do you mean? What is this? You want us all to just pack up and go off somewhere with these strange people in a strange boat with barely any time to think?”

For a long moment he sat blinking at her, his mouth slack.

“Well, what about the show, the troupe?” Marka went on. “You worked years to build up this show, and so did I, years and years of performing for coppers in ugly little towns and doing without things and travelling all over, until finally we have what we wanted, the most famous show in all Bardek. And now you want to just sail away from it.”

“You're angry with me.”

“Well, are you surprised?”

He shrugged and stared at the dapples of light, dancing a little in a waft of breeze.

“Oh by the Wave Father!” Marka said at last. “You haven't even told me where we'd be going!”

“Oh. Now that was a nasty oversight, omission, lapse, and breach of all good manners on my part.” He looked up with a sunny grin that made her remember the first years of their marriage. “Across the seas to my homeland. To Deverry or to be precise, to the Westlands at its border.”