Voyage of the Basilisk : A Memoir by Lady Trent (9781429956369) (8 page)

I was about to say something on this matter to Tom when Jake tugged at my sleeve. “Mama, look! There are men on the cliff!”

My son had good eyes. The movement was well hidden in the vegetation, and not easily identified. After a moment, however, three men came up to the edge. Two hung back; the third, dressed only in loose slops, went to the very brink. A local, I presumed: his skin was rich brown against the pale fabric. “What is he doing?” Jake asked.

The man had peered over the edge briefly; now he retreated some distance, almost to the trees. I opened my mouth to say, “Perhaps something blew into the sea,” when the man turned and, sweeping his arms in a great arc for momentum, sprinted forward and leapt from the cliff.

It was no suicide. His body gathered itself in a graceful line as he plummeted downward. Despite his care, the sound when he struck the water reached us clearly, and Abby flinched back. My own breathing stopped. I could not draw air again until his dark head and gleaming shoulders broke the surface once more, followed shortly by a shout of delight.

“He is
mad,
” I said, staring.

Next to me, Tom snorted. “So says the woman who once threw
herself
off a cliff.”

“I had a glider,” I reminded him.

Tom forbore to mention that it had been of untested design. (We had long since agreed that we should be cautious as to which of my various deeds we allowed my son to hear of at what age, lest Jake get Ideas.) I returned my attention to the top of the cliff. The men there chose not to follow their friend, but clapped one another on the shoulders and vanished back into the trees. Before I could ask whether we should send the longboat after the fellow in the water, he set off with a powerful stroke, heading, I thought, for the harbour.

The wind was carrying us onward regardless, and it would likely have been dangerous to veer so close to shore, lest we be blown onto the rocks. I watched the swimmer recede in our wake, wondering if he begrudged us leaving him behind, or was enjoying his time in the water. I did not know whether to call the season autumn or spring—we were south of the equator, though not by much—but the air was warm and the seas mild enough to make for a pleasant swim.

Soon enough I had to turn my attention elsewhere, for we were coming into port. The swift descent of the land meant the harbour, though small, was deep enough that we could approach quite close to shore. Had Namiquitlan been a great city, they might have built piers alongside which we could dock, and then we could have disembarked directly. But it was merely a small town, noteworthy only because several of the local trading routes converged there for the monthly market, and so we had to use the ship’s boats—a procedure that had been exotic five months previously, but was now almost routine.

There was a small hotel in Namiquitlan. I immediately sent Tom to book a pair of rooms there, so grateful for the chance to escape the confines of the
Basilisk
that I nearly wept. While he did that, I oversaw the gathering of our luggage and equipment. We intended to stay in Namiquitlan for at least a month, during which time the ship would go elsewhere for trade; we could not leave behind anything we might need.

Partway through this process, shouts drew my attention down to the beach, where a small knot of men had gathered. Someone had just come out of the surf, and those around him were slapping his back and shaking his hand. They eddied our way, and I understood—not from their words, which were a polyglot salad, but from their tone—that they were taking the fellow for a drink.

As they drew closer, I recognized the man at the center as the cliff diver we had seen. He was not, as I had assumed, a local. His skin was nearly as dark as theirs and his nose aquiline, but his face was not so broad nor his lips as full, and his dripping hair was loosely curled. Akhian, perhaps—especially now that I could see his slops were the loose trousers they call
sirwal
.

They were also rather torn from the force of his dive. I looked away, my cheeks heating. I had seen men in far less clothing than that on my Erigan expedition … but I had still been grieving then, for all I had thought myself recovered. I was not nearly an old woman yet, though, and my long solitude itched.

The knot of men passed, seeking one of the dockside establishments where they could celebrate the diver’s deed. I put him from my mind, and prepared to hunt for dragons.

*   *   *

I knew better than to blunder about aimlessly in the forest, hoping to find my quarry. The region was unfamiliar to us all and prone to sinkholes, which (thanks to the vegetation) we might not see until we fell into them. Tom put it about that we were looking for a guide who could show us where the beasts might be found, and in the meanwhile we turned our thoughts to birds. I had promised Miriam Farnswood and the Ornithological Society that we would collect new species wherever we could and ship them home for further study.

Namiquitlan was a splendid place for acquiring bird specimens, though not an inexpensive one. The people of Coyahuac make great use of feathers in their art and clothing, which means there are many sellers but their prices are steep. The monthly market, which convened two days after our arrival, was a raucous plaza filled with people in triangular mantles of patterned cotton, dickering over everything from coffee beans to coral. After so long at sea, with no one but my companions and sailors for company, I found it almost overwhelming.

I was therefore glad, when the market ended, to retreat to the verandah of our hotel. It was not the most comfortable of refuges; the boards creaked alarmingly when trod upon, and were so weathered by the elements that one could peel strips up with a fingernail. It did, however, have the virtue of being quiet. I retired there and paged through the birding book Miriam had given me, comparing its plates against the sketches I had drawn in the market.

From behind me, a man said in Scirling, “I hear you’re looking for feathered serpents.”

I turned in my seat and found the voice belonged to the cliff diver. He was properly dressed now, with jacket and sash over his mended sirwal, his hair dry and curling about his face. The garb and his light accent both confirmed him as Akhian. “I am, sir,” I said guardedly. “But not to hunt them.”

He waved this away, as if the very notion were absurd. “No, of course not. I’ve seen several out near my site, though. Or one, several times; it’s hard to say which.”

“Your site? Do you mean the cliff?”

His delighted expression transformed his face. Grave in thought, it lit up like the sun when he smiled. “You saw that? Please, tell everyone who will listen. Half the men don’t believe I did it.”

“I hardly believe it myself,” I said dryly. “Why ever did you?”

“To see if I could,” he said, in the tone of one who needs no better reason. “And because it’s exhilarating—the flight through the air, and then the slap of the sea. I have never felt more alive. But that isn’t what I meant by my site, no. There’s a ruin a few miles southeast of here where I’ve been doing my work.”

Belatedly recalling my manners, I invited him to sit in the verandah’s sole remaining chair, the battered twin of my own. I hoped it would not break beneath him. “I am Isabella Camherst,” I said.

He touched his heart. “Peace be upon you. I am Suhail.”

I waited, but he said no more. The pause grew long enough to be awkward, and he cocked his head in inquiry. “Forgive me,” I said, colouring. “You are Akhian, are you not? I was given to understand there is usually more to an Akhian name than that.”

His elegant mouth twisted in a rueful line. “There is, but my father would not thank me for using it. So I am only Suhail.”

“Mr. Suhail, then,” I said, making the best of an odd situation. (With little success. I am not certain I ever addressed him formally apart from that one time. It is difficult to be formal with someone you first saw half-naked and hurling himself from a cliff.) “What work is it that you do?”

The chair creaked ominously behind him as he leaned back. “I’m an archaeologist.”

I might have guessed that without asking. Coyahuac is rife with ruins, half of them the remnants of a great empire that had dominated the place some hundreds of years prior, before its collapse broke the region into its current array of city-states and Anthiopean protectorates. The other half … “Are you studying the Draconeans?”

Suhail’s grin came easily, I discovered. “What they left behind, at least.”

They had left a great deal behind in Akhia. Many believed the center of that ancient civilization, if indeed it had possessed a center, had been in the deserts of southern Anthiope. It was no surprise that Suhail might take an interest in them.

He dismissed the Draconeans with a wave of one hand. “I imagine you want living dragons, though.”

“I do,” I conceded. “In fact, my companions and I are on a voyage around the world to study them.”

“Your companions,” Suhail said. “Even the little boy?”

Less than a week off the ship, and already Jake was complaining about the absence. “He is my son.”

Suhail made a gesture I interpreted as apologetic. “I did not realize the other Scirling man was your husband.”

“He isn’t.” I sighed and laid the birding book down. I suspected—and was not wrong—that I would be explaining our arrangement from one side of the world to the other. “I am a widow. Tom Wilker is my colleague. Our fourth, Miss Carew, is my son’s governess. Tom and I are the ones looking for dragons. Could you direct us to your site?”

“I can do better than that,” Suhail said. “If you wish, I will lead you there tomorrow.”

For a moment, my mind’s eye was filled with visions of feathered serpents. Then common sense and basic self-preservation asserted themselves. “I will have to consult with Tom,” I said. “We have several other obligations here, and I am not certain what arrangements he has made.”

Suhail nodded. “By which you mean, all you know of me is that I dive off cliffs and claim to be an archaeologist. Speak with your colleague, and if, when tomorrow morning comes, you have decided that I can be trusted, meet me at the town market’s eastern end.”

This was blunt, but accurate. “Thank you,” I said. He rose gingerly from his chair, eyebrows twitching in relief when it bore this process without disintegrating, then touched his hand to his heart and was gone.

*   *   *

“They didn’t use the word ‘archaeologist,’” Tom said, “but that seems accurate enough. He’s been here for the better part of a month. Started out combing the area for ruins, and eventually settled on the place he mentioned to you. No one can understand why; it’s too close to Namiquitlan. Antiquarians and treasure-hunters have already picked the place clean.”

“Then he is either incompetent, or better than the rest of them.” I shrugged. “Regardless, he doesn’t sound like the sort to crack our skulls and leave us in the forest.” I caught Tom’s expression and sighed in exasperation. “What? Are you shocked that I have, after nearly thirty years of life, learned a degree of caution at last?”

Tom laughed. “Something like that.”

We met Suhail outside the market plaza the next morning. He was rising from his prayers as we approached; when he saw us, the serene stillness of his body gave way to sudden energy. From this I surmised that he had not been certain of our coming. I made the introductions, after which he said, “I forgot to warn you, the way is not easy.”

I gestured to my attire: a practical shirt, men’s trousers, and sturdy boots. “As you can see, I am prepared. And I have been in rough territory before.”

Too late, I realized that my gesture had not been what one could call modest—certainly not when I was in trousers. I had grown accustomed to the company of Tom, who saw me only as a colleague. Now I was abruptly aware of my own body, to which I had just drawn a stranger’s attention.

Fortunately, Suhail’s concern lay in more practical directions. He led us out of Namiquitlan and into the forest, where the close, humid air soon drenched us all in sweat. He had not exaggerated: the way was quite strenuous, and would have been worse had he not cut a path with a machete. “I cut this every time I come,” he said ruefully, hacking away. “It grows over again as soon as I turn my back.”

A trek that should have taken perhaps an hour therefore took more than two, and I was quite blown by the time we arrived. But the result … it was more than worth the effort.

I had never truly understood the fascination Draconean ruins held for so many. I had seen a few in Scirland, which were sadly decayed and had never been all that grand to begin with; I had seen the remains near Drustanev in Vystrana. I had glanced at any number of woodcuts and engravings in books.

None of that prepared me for the experience of seeing a Draconean
city
.

Half a dozen pyramids rose from the jungle, their stepped sides festooned with greenery like oversized
jardinières
. In between the tree trunks and vines, I could glimpse the weathered outlines of carved murals. Birds flitted between these ruinous perches, calling to one another, and sunlight made golden the air through which they flew.

It was, in short, the sort of place I had heretofore thought existed only in tales. I stared at it for a time, my mouth agape, while Suhail spread his hands in the manner of a conjurer who has just revealed his crowning trick.

“The entire place has been thoroughly looted,” he said when I had collected my wits. “More’s the pity. But there is still a great deal to learn here.”

Incompetent, I had said to Tom—or better than the rest of them. “Such as what?”

He led us up one of the pyramids, but not to investigate the place itself. Ignoring what remained of the temple at the top, he began sketching in the air, overlaying our surroundings with imaginary lines. “The pyramids are obvious, but not the interesting part. There used to be streets—see? And if you walk over the ground there, or there, it is not even. Little hillocks beneath you. Even the Draconeans could not all have lived in great pyramids and halls; there must have been ordinary residences, workshops, marketplaces. The ruins of those are here, too. I’ve dug about a bit to see. The wood has all rotted away, but there are little things. Nothing that’s much of interest to antiquarians, the sort of people who only want gold and firestones and terrible statues of ancient deities. Broken pottery and the like. But it tells its own tale.”