The Tides of Avarice (51 page)

Sylvester screwed up his eyes in confusion. “I don't think I follow that. Anyway, how will Jeopord know where we are?”

“He's got instincts, that mangy old cat has. I've seen him track someone he's never even clapped eyes on halfway across the open ocean and find him as easy as can be. He's like Rustbane was, that way.” Pimplebrains took a deep breath. “And he's like Cap'n Rustbane in lots of other ways too, one of which is not sharing booty if he can possibly get away with it.”

Sylvester thought back to Cap'n Rustbane's condemnation of Threefingers Bogsprinkler for pilfering goodies from the treasure room. He recalled the fox's grand speech about how the human had been stealing not just from him, but from the whole crew and blinked at the fox's hypocrisy.

“So what you're saying,” Sylvester pursued, “is that Jeopord wouldn't mind losing a few more of the Shadeblaze's complement so as not to let them have any of the riches that might be their due?”

“Bingo,” said Pimplebrains. “At least them cannibals would likely keep us alive a while, so we might get another chance of escape. Jeopord, though? He'd as soon see us cut down where we stood.”

“So what are we doing here?” Letting his muzzle-guard drop to the sand, Sylvester gestured around them.

“We're staying out of Cheesefang's sight, is what we're doing. We might even see if there's a good place to hide inside this.” Pimplebrains jerked a hook toward the vessel looming overhead.

Viola wrapped her forepaws around her chest. “Spooky.”

“Sure is,” Pimplebrains replied. “Which makes it a good place to hide. Pirates is a superstitious lot for the most part. Like anyone else, the stupider they is the more superstitious they is, and Cheesefang's as stupid as they come.”

Pimplebrains grinned broadly and Sylvester found himself beginning to like the old beaver.

“Tell you one more thing,” said Pimplebrains. “Whichever way Jeopord and the crew come hunting for us, it ain't going to be through the Larder. There ain't enough of them to fight a battle with a couple hundred Vendrosians. They're going to find the other way into this place, the one you can smell if you smells real hard. And the first folks they's going to trip over are—”

“—Cheesefang and the others,” said Viola softly. “You've really got this worked out, haven't you, Pimplebrains.”

The beaver grinned again. “And, as a matter of fac', I 'ave learned 'ow to pick me nose with me hooks, only it's not something I do in front of ladies, see?”

The three of them laughed briefly, then Sylvester looked warily at that gaping wound in the vessel.

“You really think it'd be safe for us to go in there?”

“I didn't say as it'd be safe,” said Pimplebrains. “Wot I said was it might be the best thing for us to do.”

Viola bent forward and put her head slightly to one side, as if that might let her see farther into the darkness. “What do think might be in there?”

“Haven't a clue, young miss. No way to find out without going in there to look, I reckon.” Pimplebrains hefted his torch. “You two game?”

“As game as we'll ever be,” said Sylvester, hefting his own torch high.

“Then let's be getting at it,” said Viola, surprising the other two by flouncing ahead of them across the short stretch of sand to reach the side of the ship. When she reached the tortured metal rimming the great chasm, she didn't hesitate or look right or left, she just jumped straight into the blackness.

Sylvester and Pimplebrains hurried to follow.

✿ ✿ ✿ ✿ ✿.

“The Zindars must have been enormous,” said Viola an hour or so later. Her whisper seemed to echo away into infinite emptiness.

They'd lost count of the number of chambers they'd come through, the number of corridors they'd traversed. The rooms in here – cabins, Sylvester supposed – were built on a scale that surpassed anything any denizen of Sagaria might have been able to use. He'd read the old bestiaries in the Foxglove Library and he knew that some of the lemmings of old who'd explored inland had come across creatures that made even human beings seem tiny, but none of those had been remotely as big as the Zindars must have been.

A thought troubled Sylvester. Well, many thoughts troubled him at the moment, but one of them was uppermost.

If the treasure chest was built on the same scale as the Zindars themselves, how would the pirates, even if they found it, get it away to the Shadeblaze from wherever it was buried? How would they even be able to open its lid?

The air in here smelled not so much musty as dead, as if it had been breathed too many times and was now, after all this time, reluctantly being breathed again. The floors and walls were remarkably clean, although Sylvester confessed to himself he wasn't certain exactly which were floors and which were walls – or which were ceilings for that matter. It depended on which way up the Zindar vessel was supposed to be. Was it lying on its side in the cavern's sand, or was it the right way up? There were monumental protrusions jutting out from surfaces that Sylvester would ordinarily have guessed were furniture, but they didn't help him orient himself at all, since some stuck up from the “floors,” some hung from the “ceilings,” and some were halfway up the “walls.”

For the most part, the surfaces beneath their feet were empty of clutter, but every now and then the explorers would find themselves having to step gingerly through a field of twisted metal and broken glass. It was as if a mighty fist had systematically pulverized a hardware store, including its windows and display cases.

Most impressive of all was the silence.

It made them whisper.

It made the three of them walk on tiptoe.

It was a silence that had a distinct presence all its own.

It was, Sylvester decided, the silence of time.

“You were surely right, this is a good place to hide,” he said to Pimplebrains. “You could conceal an army in here and no one'd ever find it.”

“That's the good news,” the beaver responded. Just over the past few minutes he seemed, unaccountably, to have become glummer and glummer.

“There's bad news?”

“You seen any food anywhere?”

Sylvester contemplated. “Now you mention it, no. That is, er, a bit of a drawback for a hiding place.”

“And,” added Pimplebrains, curling his lip, “can you remember the way we came?”

“Well, we came into the ship, of course,” said Viola, rolling her eyes, “and then we … Oh, I see what you mean.”

“I blame meself,” said Pimplebrains gloomily. “You two, you don't know any better. But me? I'm a pirate and a warrior bold, the veteran of many a doughty campaign and hazardous expedition. I know better'n to come in here without memorizing the way we took, but …”

“You were as awestruck as we were, weren't you?” said Viola.

“‘Awestruck' is a 'ceedingly hifalutin' word. ‘Gobsmacked' is more my style o' thing to be. But, yes, I've been gobsmacked, and it's made me careless. Which ain't no excuse.”

Sylvester laughed lightly. “There's dust on the floor,” he said. “We can easily find our way back out again. We just follow our footsteps.”

Pimplebrains looked down and his face crumpled in consternation and horror. “I am stupider than I ever thought possible,” he breathed. “Oh, may the triple-breasted goddess forgive my imbecility.”

“What are you talking about?” said Sylvester. He'd believed he'd just solved their problem, but now he was just confused.

“And you're no better,” the beaver growled.

“What?”

“If we can see our footsteps in the dust, so can anyone who comes following us!”

As if in answer, there came a tiny, furtive sound from the corridor they'd not long ago left.

Somebody was in here with them!

Pimplebrains and Viola heard the sound too. Without saying a word, the three did their best to melt into the wall. Sylvester could hear Viola fighting to get her breathing under control. He did the same himself.

“What about these?” he whispered to the pirate, nodding toward his torch.

Pimplebrains glanced at him, then returned his gaze toward the gloom at the far end of the chamber they were in. “We hang on to 'em,” he pronounced. “They're the only weapons we got, 'ceptin' my hooks and your trotters.”

“They are not trotters!”

“Don't matter. Now shaddap.”

“But whoever it is'll see us.”

“Unless they're deaf they already know 'xactly where we are, so that don't matter. Now shaddap or I'll do the shadding for yer.”

Sylvester drew breath to protest again, then thought better of it.

Was it his imagination or was there another of those stealthy little noises from the corridor? No, not his imagination. He'd definitely heard something. It was a soft sweeping noise, as if someone were pulling an empty sack across the metal floor. There was nothing hostile about it; nothing like the hiss a sword might make when drawn from its scabbard, or the clank of a morning star's chain or the zing of a bowstring being tensed. But the very ordinariness of the little noise sent a shiver down Sylvester's spine in a way none of those other sounds could have done.

There it was again.

“What do you think it is?” said Viola, her voice so soft as to be almost silent.

“How the hell should I know?” answered Pimplebrains rudely. “How the hell should any of us know?”

Her eyes sparked.

Sylvester put his paw on her shoulder. “Hush.”

Viola froze for an instant, then bobbed her head in acquiescence. She took his hand in hers and interlaced her claws with his. No words were needed. They were both terrified but it could have been worse. They might have been terrified alone.

There was a different sound, the rattle of claws on a hard surface, and this time it came from directly outside the chamber door.

“I can see you,” came a voice. “Who are you? What are you doing here?”

Sylvester started to reply, but Pimplebrains put a hook on his forepaw to restrain him.

“Let me handle this,” the grizzled beaver hissed. Louder, Pimplebrains called, “We're honest adventurers. We intend to bring you no harm.”

A small shape, barely larger than Sylvester himself, came into view around the jamb of the doorway. The light was too poor for them to make out any details, but Sylvester felt Pimplebrains relax. The person they could see seemed to be on his own, or her own, perhaps.

“I've heard people say that before,” said the stranger coldly, “and the next thing I've known they've been trying to make a casserole out of me.”

Pimplebrains laughed mirthlessly. “We're not cannibals, if that's what you're thinking.”

“That's what they said too.” Very slowly, the stranger was moving toward them, paws moving silently now on the metal floor. “Or a fricassée,” it added.

Pimplebrains looked perplexed. “Eh?”

“A fricassée. If they didn't fancy a casserole, they usually decided on a fricassée instead. Terribly predictable, don't you think?”

Pimplebrains rolled his eyes at Viola and Sylvester. “We've got ourselves a nutter here.”

“You say you're not cannibals?” the stranger continued, drawing inexorably closer.

“Not us,” confirmed Sylvester, peering at the oncomer. “You're … you're a lemming, aren't you? Just like us.”

Pimplebrains coughed. “Not me.”

The stranger ignored the hook-handed beaver. “Yes, I can see you two are lemmings like me, only many years younger, but that doesn't mean anything. That buffoon of a cannibal chieftain, Kabalore, has several lemmings in his flock. They're just as bloodthirsty as any of the rest of that mob, just as keen on casserole.”

“Or fricassée,” Viola put in.

The stranger was close enough now that they could see him nod. “Or fricassée,” he concurred. “Although, usually, I haven't hung around to find out the culinary particulars.”

Sylvester shuddered. “How did you escape them?”

“I haven't, always,” replied the stranger in a frighteningly mild manner. He settled back on his haunches and regarded them dispassionately. “Sometimes, I've run them through with my sword or split their skulls open with my ax.” He smiled coldly. “No matter of conscience for me that I've killed a whole host of cannibals since I got here. It's been me or them.”

“Understandable,” said Pimplebrains.

“You know something?” said the lemming. “If it turns out you've been lying to me, and you're cannibals yourselves, or if you try to harm me in any fashion, I'll kill you with just as little concern. Though” – his gaze wandered – “it's hard to see how you could have got here if you were part of Kabalore's tribe.”

“They had us imprisoned in the big cave they call the Larder,” said Sylvester, the words coming in a rush. “They were going to kill us and have us for supper, but they already had too many other dead bodies to eat so they were saving us for another day. Only Pimplebrains here” – he gestured toward the beaver, who was regarding Sylvester as if he wished he weren't doing so – “spotted there was a back way out of the cave, a narrow cleft that led us here. That was when we—”

The older lemming held up a paw. “Please, I don't need your complete autobiography.” The smile he gave this time was far warmer, taking any sting out of his words. “You've just told me as much as I need to know.”

“I have?”

“You've proved you're not cannibals.”

“Really?”

“Yes, really. You see, none of Kabalore's people can see that cleft.”

Sylvester furrowed his brow. “I don't understand. It's not the biggest of crevices, I'll admit, but at the same time it's pretty obvious it's there, if you look at it. It runs all the way from the ceiling of the Larder to the—”

“You just said it yourself,” interrupted the other lemming. “‘If you look at it.' The thing is, none of the cannibals are capable of looking at it. Even if they knew it was there and went in search of it, they'd still not be able to look straight at it or even catch a glimpse of it out of the corner of their eye.”

“That's—” Sylvester began.

“Not impossible,” said Viola. “Never say impossible. It's impossible, Sylvester Lemmington, that you left Foxglove and came halfway around the world to find yourself hiding from cannibals inside an ancient vessel left behind by an almost forgotten people – yet it's happened. So, don't say it's impossible for people to be incapable of seeing something that's directly in front of their noses.” She wrinkled her own nose prettily, as if she'd found a secondary meaning in what she'd just said and added something in a mumble.

“Eh?” said Sylvester.

“Nothing,” she said.

Pimplebrains gave a heavy sigh, as if to express to the world at large that it wasn't his fault he'd been lumbered with a couple of morons. “So, this trick of yours,” he said to the old lemming, “'ow d'you do it then?”

“I'm not so sure I should tell you. Not until I'm a bit more certain of who you are. Just because I know you're not going to make me into a casserole—”

“Or a fricassee,” said Pimplebrains.

“Quite right. Or a fricassée. Just because I know you're not of a cannibal inclination doesn't mean I know you're my friends. So, are you?”

“Like I said,” Pimplebrains rumbled, “we mean you no harm.”

“But anyone can say that.”

Sylvester put his hands on his waist. “We're lemmings,” he expostulated. “We're lemmings like you are. Doesn't that tell you enough about us? Lemmings don't harm each other, everyone knows that.”

The stranger raised an eyebrow. “Oh, really? Where I came from there was a lemming who—”

“Where did you come from?” said Sylvester, a certain suspicion suddenly popping into his mind.

“Why, from Foxglove, of course.” The stranger continued speaking despite gasps from Viola and Sylvester. “That's the only place you're likely to find any lemmings these days, apart from solitary stragglers like me, of course. Even those poor Lhaeminguas-forsaken wretches out there in Kabalore's tribe” – he jerked his head in the general direction of the Larder – “even they're originally from Foxglove.”

“How long ago did you leave Foxglove?” said Sylvester, fixing the stranger with a stare.

The older lemming spread his paws. “I don't know. I've no way of telling. I've spent what seems like a hundred years living inside this Zindar ship, where there's neither day nor night to be seen, so I can hardly count the time. There are strange gardens in here where vegetables grow, so I'm never short of food. It's not the worst of prisons, I can tell you, but it's a prison all the same. Whenever I leave it I have to be cautious because even though the cannibals can't reach this cavern from the Larder, they know the way in from the beach entrance, and sometimes they stray in to have a look around. I try to stay out of their sight. I fight them only if I really have to, because one of these days, Kabalore or one of his lieutenants is going to wonder why every now and then one of their number disappears.”

Sylvester was impatient with all these details. “What's your name?” he said, trying a different tack.

“What's yours?” the older lemming countered.

Sylvester paused before answering. Did he really want to give away his name to a complete stranger, to someone who might prove to be his enemy? But there was a growing certainty within him that he knew who this other lemming was, that he'd reached the end of the personal quest that had taken him out of his settled existence in Foxglove and brought him all the way here. His heart was ready to explode with his joy.

In the end he didn't say his name. He just said, “Hello, Dad.”

The other lemming blinked once, twice. “I was beginning to wonder if it might, might just possibly, against all the multifarious odds be you, Sylvester. But I didn't dare hope it could be. Welcome, my son.”

They flew into each other's arms and for a long while everything else, even Viola, was completely forgotten.

✿ ✿ ✿ ✿ ✿.

Much later, the four friends were in a different part of the ship, sharing a meal of cabbages, carrots and various unrecognizable vegetables whose colors Sylvester would never before have associated with vegetables. Jasper – Dad – had taken them to one of the Zindar gardens he'd mentioned. It was really more like a large cultivated field than a garden, with vegetables growing in long neat rows under a strangely alien light, the source of which seemed to be the empty air overhead. It was as if the sun were shining on them through a thin green haze.

As they ate, Jasper told them a story that Sylvester had long suspected was the truth.

“Once upon a time,” he said, “a very long time ago, before lemmings settled down and learned to behave like civilized beings, our ancestors were foragers who lived in herds.” He grinned. “We were ferocious fighters too, if all the legends are true, but we usually didn't fight – except amongst ourselves over, ahem, mates. Most of the time the herds lived peaceably enough, settling down in one place and eating whatever fruits, vegetables and berries we could find there. So long as the weather was favorable and the plants flourished we stayed where we were but, of course, it couldn't always be like that. If there were a harsh winter or poor summer, the food supplies would run low and the herd would migrate in search of better living conditions.

“The trouble was – no one ever said our ancestors were terribly clever – the herd would migrate in a straight line, swarming over fields and through forests until it found a better home. Even when it came to a river or lake, our ancestors would keep on going, swimming through the water in search of the land beyond. Which was perfectly doable, of course, assuming the river wasn't too wide and didn't have too strong a current, or the lake wasn't too big. The real trouble came when it wasn't a river or a lake at all, but the sea. Our ancestors didn't know this when they came to the edge of the water, how could they? So they just struck out into the waves expecting to reach the other side, same as they'd done a hundred times before. Only for them, there wouldn't be another side, because they'd be drowned long before they got there.

“It was a tragic occasion any time a lemming herd was wiped out this way, but there were always other herds so our people didn't die out. As ruthless as it might sound, there were enough lemmings in the world that losing a herd here or a herd there didn't matter very much.”

Sylvester felt Viola, sitting alongside him, cringe as she thought of those long-ago mass drownings, the shrieks in the air of the exhausted, struggling lemmings growing weaker as they succumbed to the surge of the waters.

“But as time went on,” Jasper continued, “we learned better. There are some that say it was the Zindars that taught us, but I think it was more likely that we had to learn. You see, the lemming species was almost wiped out entirely by the wars that raged the length and breadth of Sagaria when the enemies of the Zindars came. There weren't enough lemmings left after the Zindars and their foes had fled back into space to be able to risk losing a herd – there were hardly even enough left to form a herd. It was change their ways or die out altogether, so far as our ancestors were concerned, and luckily for us, they chose to change their ways.

“They settled down in Foxglove, where they learned how to plant the vegetables they wanted, and how to store food in the good times so they wouldn't be starving in the bad times.

“And they all lived happily ever … except they didn't.