The Promise of the Child (50 page)

Eventually the carriage, having crossed a narrow bridge between two improbably vertical houses, dropped from the mountain pass, altering some state inside Lycaste's head with a pop of brief pain, like when he used to dive too far underwater. He looked over at the Intermediary, who was shaking his head and flexing his jaw, and decided that the other man must have felt it, too.

Lights were glowing higher in the shards of rock above; across the valley, a late sun had escaped the gloom and glittered redly off water that milled with huge black shapes: the galleons of the Inner Second. One was docked at the shore, a three-storey cup-shaped hull festooned with rippling sails and flags anchored to a jetty among the rocks. Lycaste saw people on the top deck beneath the billowing flags and rigging, perhaps looking out for the arriving train.

They passed through a tunnel carved into the mountainside and clattered down a stepped series of diagonal runs to the wooded hillside at the water's edge. The carriage bumped along the last of the trackway and came to rest at the jetty, red-tinged water slopping on either side.

The Intermediary unlocked Lycaste's cage and hauled him across the jetty to the ship's stern, where chains and ropes as thick as his wrist secured the vessel to wooden poles on the shore. He was taken up a winding stair that traced the circular edge of the ship's stern until he was aboard and standing on the top step of an amphitheatre sunk into the rear of the craft. The fluttering sails, pink in the setting sun, stretched high above. He looked over the side to see Secondlings releasing the ropes. At first the vessel appeared reluctant to move, its bulk rolling slightly as the gentle waves from the lake took hold of its hull, and then it began to pull away. The receding mountain valley was a striking twilight cave of lights, the dented blades of peaks looming above, cast scarlet in the fading glow.

A man, orange in the evening glare, skipped up the steps of the amphitheatre to greet them, taking the Intermediary's arm and turning him so that he didn't have to make eye contact with Lycaste. The Mediary spoke with the man in rapid High Second for a while, taking his hand gratefully when it was offered, and Lycaste found himself unshackled and free once more. Without any appreciable glances in his direction, the men moved away to a table that was being carefully laid at the bottom of the ring of polished red wooden steps. Lycaste's stomach gurgled as he smelled and watched the food arriving and being set down while the man and the Intermediary laughed together, wine already in hand, wondering what he was supposed to do now. He turned and contemplated the shore, looking to the water below. Long shapes coiled and writhed down there, and as he peered closer he saw that the object of their interest was a small Secondling girl kneeling and dropping handfuls of something from the deck of the ship. Lycaste glanced over the edge again; it was far to drop, although from his limited experience of cliff-diving most likely survivable. He glanced back at the two men, who had now sat down to eat, some lanterns around them being lit by a group of animals that Lycaste had never seen before.

He approached the girl cautiously, apparently free to wander the galleon. She looked up happily as he neared, dropping a handful into a frenzy of slippery mouths that struggled just above the water. Lycaste watched the long green fish competing for their meal, each of them keeping one greedy eye on the girl's hand once it was empty.

“Hello,” she said, taking another fistful from a dish at her side. “Are you a friend of Daddy's?”

“Not really,” he replied, looking out across to the edge of the mountains, wondering how far it might be to swim.

“Oh.” The girl's hand emptied into a splash of glistening lips. “Do you want to feed them with me?”

Lycaste nodded absently, taking some of the gritty food and dispersing it. The fish changed course wildly and sought it out, a few of them almost breaching the water.

“Are they friendly?” he asked, pulling his hand away from one extra-large and impatient creature.

“Daddy says they'll eat me if I go in.”

Lycaste guessed they were half his length; nothing but minnows compared with his own experiences. He looked at the dim line of shore.

“Viola,” said a throaty, accented voice from the deck, “it's getting late.”

He looked round. Sitting on a bench by the railings further down was a gigantic person, its huge legs stretched out onto a footstool that looked like it might snap at any time. Lycaste guessed the Asiatic Melius was female, but it was hard to be sure. Across her lap lay a blanket that would have easily covered Lycaste's bed.

“Be there in a moment!”

“No, you'll come inside now,” the giant chided gently.

The girl sighed and tossed her handful of feed in a wide arc, confusing the ravenous feeders.

“Farewell, then,” she said to Lycaste. “You can feed them the rest if you like.”

He caught the eye of the huge, distorted woman. The expression on her long face looked benign enough. She watched the little girl go, bending slightly to receive a peck on the cheek, and went back to the book in her lap.

Lycaste took the bowl of feed, nibbling on some experimentally when he was sure the giant wasn't watching. They were delicious, so he tipped what was left into his mouth.

“They're popping seed.”

He dropped the bowl, delighting the fish.

“Are you hungry?” she asked, putting down the book.

“A little,” Lycaste replied shyly, keeping his distance, not quite able to rule out the possibility he was about to be eaten.

She pulled back the coverlet to reveal an apron underneath, then fished into one of the huge pockets and produced a peach. As he approached, he noticed her wide feet and branch-thick toes, large enough to crush his skull. The air around her was pungent, strong and sweaty, but not unpleasant. More like a warm, old blanket; comforting.

“You look too thin,” she said, slicing the fruit with a blade and tossing him half after removing the stone. She had far too many fingers, some almost the length of his forearm. “Where are you from? Ten?”

“You mean the Tenth?”

“You look like a Tenling. Were you thinking of diving in?” She sat back. “Almost did it myself, once. Not to escape, mind you.”

He turned to the water again, understanding then that she was a prisoner here, too. “They'd really eat someone?”

“Lost a couple of prisoners on the last crossing,” she said, snapping her half-peach between snaggled teeth and swallowing it whole. “Specially bred, you see. The nobility didn't want to have to start spoiling their lovely ships with gantries and cages and things once the war started, so they filled the whole lake with flesh-eating fishies to discourage anyone from jumping off.”

Lycaste took a dainty bite of his unripe fruit, smelling her musk on it. “They bring a lot of prisoners like me this way?”

“Prisoners, slaves, soldiers. Not on His Excellence's private ship, though; and never at this Quarter.” She gave him an appraising look, taking another peach out. “You must be someone special.”

He took the new piece she offered him. “Not really.”

The Melius put aside her book,
The Fabulous Escapades of Dorielziath and Scundry
, and looked him full in the face. He guessed she was thin for an Asiatic—not that he'd seen many Jalan barring the odd huge sailor stopping off at Kipris when he was a boy—with a wiry mane of curled white hair that framed her chin like a beard.

“I wouldn't say you're my type, so don't go getting ideas, but you're handsome for a Southerner. Don't be all bashful, you know you are. Is that what they're doing now, kidnapping pretty boys for the amusement of noble ladies?” She shook her head. “I can't pretend to like Twolings, no matter how much I may love my naughty little charge.”

“You're her nanny?”

“Clever, too, this one. Throw in some wit and I'll let you wed my daughter.”

“Oh, I don't have much of that.”

Her large foreign eyes looked into his. They were kind, creased with care or laughter. “Never mind. My son was one of those funny boys. Not a looker, not like you, so he had to make up for it elsewhere. The fool got himself noticed, though, and they deported him. No idea where he is now. Slaved, perhaps, or sent to the Westerly Provinces.” She sniffed and looked out at the twilight, the mountains almost invisible now. “Wouldn't wish that on anyone, even those doing the treating.”

Lycaste shuffled closer under the weak light of the lantern, cold stars beginning to twinkle above them. Sounds of dinner and song continued from the top deck, the musical scrape of cutlery, crystal clinking.

“What will you do when you're free? If the war ends?” he asked her.

The giant shrugged, pulling her blanket closer. “Depends on how it ends.” She hesitated, looked down at him. “Aren't you cold?”

“Not really. My skin changes.”

“I forgot. All you lot with your special skin.”

Lycaste tucked his knees under his chin, listening to the invisible water churn past. “I'm not like these people.”

They docked at a shape in the darkness among the slap of waves striking an unseen jetty. Looking up, Lycaste saw faintly lit sections of wall, and across the water another distant island burning tiny wobbling reflections into the black fjord.

They led him without restraints across the broad wooden jetty to a recessed gate in the bulk of the massive wall. The Intermediary knocked gently but urgently on the woven metal of the gate, suddenly illuminated by a kindling light above their heads. Lycaste could hear music coming from the far shore of the other island, drifting vocals accompanied by instruments. The two weren't supposed to blend—even Lycaste, from his brief study of music, knew that—but the combined sound was beautiful and sad nonetheless, suddenly reaffirming why he had been taken all this way. He stepped back a little from the gate, attracting vague attention from the Secondling.

The door opened with the rasp of a multitude of locks and they proceeded through into an unlit, low-ceilinged chamber. Once inside, the music vanished. The person who had opened the door for them remained at the front, apparently unconcerned with Lycaste's presence.

The floor changed from boards to stone as they arrived at a glowing antechamber. Lycaste ran his hand along the delicately patterned wall, granulated and pocked like the substance of egg-shells, reminding himself that it was still just a house, and these were just men. Smaller, more refined, perhaps, but men like he was.

In the long room their guide stopped the procession to examine whatever it was he had let into his home. Lycaste was pushed to the front. Their escort was a boy, not yet twenty, but he was unmistakably Callistemon's brother. Lycaste met his eye long enough to see the familiarities. The boy nodded, announced something swiftly to the men in High Second and then led them deeper into the labyrinth of chambers. Now that there was light, Lycaste could see the ornamentation of the place: painted statues and busts, sweeping murals that outshone Pentas's best efforts, even the walls here were carved-relief stories running from left to right like writing. Inlaid in the stone were shimmering lines of pinstripe colour. He reached out to touch them but was swiftly rebuked by the Intermediary. They crossed a hall that opened into the night, revealing the first few feet of a sculpted garden. Two bright stars, very close together, shone above the hedges.
Cuprum
and
Stannum
, the elements most common in the Menyanthes jungle.

At the next doorway, Callistemon's brother stopped and waited for them, a tall door standing open. The guide looked at Lycaste one more time, taking in his thin, hairy extremities on the way up to contemplate his face, and gestured for him to enter. The door closed behind him, a snicking latch sealing any hope outside.

Lycaste patrolled his new quarters with the unease of someone expecting a long-overdue practical joke. Was that it? They were going to leave him alone? He reminded himself it was the middle of the night, so the rest of the household was most likely asleep. He'd have until morning to settle in.

At the far end of the room stood a bell-shaped, man-sized cage with its hatch ajar. Lined up against both walls were more busts, though as he made his way past them, Lycaste noted the similarity in their dainty features. Callistemon's family. On a plinth at the entrance to the cage stood one last disembodied head, painted black. He had to climb into the cage to see the face. It was his victim, immortalised in stone. Lycaste noted the angle, the position. He was supposed to contemplate the deceased while he rotted in his cell, perhaps weep for mercy as Callistemon looked on. He looked around, considering moving the plinth back against the wall, his mind weighing the possible consequences. He decided to leave it, sitting next to the wall and staring at the back of the statue's head.

If Sotiris had not abandoned him after all, if the Immortal had some plan to find him, then he had best do it soon. Lycaste had no idea how it might be done, or why Sotiris would want to go out of his way to do it at all. There was no favour he could offer in return, no reward he could give that was likely to interest a man who'd lived for twelve and a half thousand years.

Then there was Jasione. If he didn't escape he would never see her again. He expected, though, after a moment's solemn consideration while he looked at a fat bust of what he presumed was Callistemon's mother, that he would see all three of them here, at whatever trial he was being prepared for, forced to give their accounts as he had his. What nonsense would Silene invent to save herself? Lycaste shook his head, wondering if Jasione was here right now, in Callistemon's old home.

Moving his gaze to the next statue, Lycaste fancied he heard sobbing. It was a small, lonely sound coming from somewhere deep in the labyrinth of hallways beyond his room. He stood and went to the panelled door, pressing his ear against it. He was thinking of trying to find a drinking glass somewhere to see if it would amplify the sound when the door opened.