Last of the Wilds

24



Reivan yawned as she pulled out the chair behind her desk. She’d stayed up late helping Imenja access a trade agreement and now she was late starting her duties of the morning. A nagging headache remained from the previous day and the constant whine of the dust storm outside—which had been blowing for days—was beginning to annoy her.

Becoming a full Servant might have ended her training, but the time she’d spent in lessons was quickly taken up by new duties. Imenja had given her more responsibilities. She now organized Imenja’s schedule. This involved interviewing people who wanted an audience with the Second Voice and deciding if their purpose, or status, was important enough to allow a meeting to take place.

She was given a room near the front of the Sanctuary in which to interview these people. It had two entrances: a public and a private one. The private one allowed her to come and go without being accosted by the people waiting outside the public one.

She had also been given an assistant, Servant Kikarn. He was an ugly man, so skinny he looked perpetually stern, but she was discovering that he had a sharp wit and intelligence. As she sat down he placed a particularly long list on her table and she suppressed a groan. The corridor must be crowded today, she thought wryly.

“What did the wind blow in this morning?”

Kikarn chuckled. “Everything from gold dust to litter,” he replied. “The merchant Ario wishes to bribe—er, give the Second Voice a large donation.”

“How much?”

“Enough to build a new Temple.”

“Impressive. What does he want in return?”

“Nothing, of course.”

She smiled. “We’ll see. What else?”

“A woman who was a palace domestic in Kave claims the High Chieftain’s wife has taken to worshipping a dead god. She says she has proof.”

“She must be sure of it, or she wouldn’t approach Second Voice Imenja.”

“Unless she is ignorant of the Voices’ mind-reading skills.”

“We shall see.” She looked down the list and stopped at a familiar name. “Thinker Kuerres?”

“He is here to see you.”

“Not Imenja?”

“No.”

“What does he want?”

“He won’t say, but he insists that it’s an urgent matter. Someone’s life may depend on it.”

Someone’s life would have to be at stake before the Thinkers deigned to speak to me again, she mused.

“And the others.”

“Not as important as the first two.”

“The first two will take some time. Send Kuerres in. I’ve never known him to exaggerate or lie. Most likely they want to know what I did with my books and instruments.”

Kikarn bowed his head. As he moved to the door she considered what she knew of Kuerres. He was one of the quieter Thinkers. He’d never been unkind to her, though he hadn’t paid much attention to her either. She frowned as she searched her memory for facts that might prove useful. He had a family. He kept a menagerie of exotic animals.

That was all she could remember. She recognized the middle-aged man who entered the room, but his manner was nothing like she remembered. He glanced around the room nervously, his face pale and his hands clasped together.

“Thinker Kuerres,” she said. “It is good to see you again. Sit down.”

“Servant Reivan,” he said, tracing a star over his chest. He eyed Kikam, then stepped forward and dropped into the chair.

“What brings you to the Sanctuary?” she asked.

“I… I have a crime to report.”

She paused. She’d assumed he was nervous about being in the Sanctuary and talking to people of importance. Now she began to wonder if he’d got himself into some kind of trouble.

“Go on,” she said.

He took a deep breath. “We—the Thinkers—were approached by a trader yesterday. A rich trader who wanted information and was willing to pay generously for it.” Kuerres paused and met her eyes. “He wanted to know about the Elai.”

“The sea people? Some of the Thinkers don’t even believe they exist.”

“Yes. We told him all we knew, but he wasn’t satisfied. He asked if any of us knew much about keeping wild animals and I offered my services.”

Reivan smiled. “Let me guess: he’d bought some kind of large, strange sea creature and thought it might be the origin of the legend?”

Kuerres shook his head. “Rather the opposite. I offered to help him. I was curious. He took me to his home. What I found there was…” he shuddered “… horrible. A sick, frightened child—but a child like none I’ve ever seen before. Thick black skin. Entirely hairless. Large hands and feet with webbing between fingers and toes.”

“Feet? No fish tail?”

“No fish tail. No gills either. But definitely a… a being of the water. I have no doubt this child is one of the Elai.”

Reivan felt a thrill of excitement, but suppressed it out of habit. Thinkers did not allow their reason to be overtaken by emotion. It was too easy to convince oneself of something if one wanted to badly enough.

“Did this merchant say where he found her?”

“No. He complained that she’d cost a fortune and talked about her like she was an animal.” He shook his head in disgust. “She is no animal. She is a human. He is breaking our laws by buying and keeping her.”

“Enslaving an innocent.” She nodded. “Who is this trader?”

His nose wrinkled. “Devlein Wheelmaker. He is a Genrian. He changed his name before the war.”

Reivan nodded. “I know of him. I will bring this to the Second Voice’s attention later today and I’m sure she will have someone—”

“You have to do something now!” he interrupted. “I’m sure he suspects that I will report him. He might get rid of her—kill her—before you get there!”

He stared at her earnestly, obviously deeply concerned for the safely of this sea girl. Reivan pressed her palms together and considered.

If the merchant believed the child was an animal he would reason that he hadn’t committed any crime. Nevertheless, he wouldn’t take the risk that others would come to the same conclusion as Kuerres. The punishment for enslaving an innocent was to be enslaved. He’ll either kill her or move her somewhere else, depending on how much she cost him. Either way, the faster we act, the more likely it is we will find the girl before he does anything to her.

But leaving the Sanctuary to rescue a child wasn’t part of her duties, and she didn’t have the authority to search the man’s property. She needed Imenja’s help. Was this important enough to interrupt the Second Voice?

Am I simply curious to know if this child is an Elai?

Whether she is an Elai or not, she is being kept like an animal. Imenja will want to do something about that.

Taking a deep breath, she placed a hand on the pendant and closed her eyes.

:Imenja?

She waited, then called again. Not having much Skill in the use of magic, it often took several attempts before she managed to get the pendant to work. Finally an answer came.

:Is that you, Reivan?

:It is.

:Good morning. What has you calling me so early?

:A report of a crime.

:Tell me.

She related Kuerres’s story of the sea girl.

:That is appalling. You must free her. If the girl is not there, bring the merchant to me. I will read her location from his mind.

:I will. I think I may need assistance.

:Yes. Take Kilcarn. Contact me as soon as you find her.

:I will.

Opening her eyes, Reivan found Kuerres staring at her. She smothered a smile at his curiosity.

“We will deal with this right away,” she told him. Servant Kikarn made a small noise of protest. She guessed he was thinking of the visitors still waiting to be seen. “Servant Kikarn. Tell the Dekkan domestic to wait until I return but let the others know I have urgent and unexpected business to attend to and will see to them tomorrow morning. Assure Ario he will be first.”

He smiled and bowed his head. Reivan rose and Kuerres jumped to his feet.

“Do you want to accompany me?” she asked him.

He hesitated. “I should return to my home,” he said doubtfully.

She moved around the desk. “Then go. I will send news to you when we return. I will use an ordinary messenger, not one from the Sanctuary.”

He looked relieved. “Thank you, Reivan—Servant Reivan.”

She smiled. “Thank you for bringing this information to the Sanctuary, Thinker Kuerres. You are a good man and I hope this action doesn’t work against you.”

“There are those who will support me,” he assured her. He turned to the door, then paused and looked back. “Just as there are those who support you.”

Surprised, Reivan watched him leave, wishing she could bring herself to ask who her supporters were, but knowing he would say no more.

* * *

With Tyve constantly advising him on the terrain ahead, Mirar had been able to travel faster than he and Emerahl had during their journey into Si. The boy circled above, warning of dead-end ravines and guiding Mirar to valleys that provided easy travelling. Each night Tyve slipped away to visit his village and each morning he returned more worried than ever. More of the tribe had fallen ill. A young baby had died, then its mother, weakened by a difficult birth. Veece was failing fast. At each report Mirar grew more certain the Siyee were facing a plague. He travelled from first light to dusk, stopping only to drink and eat, knowing that the situation in the village was worsening every hour.

He had seen many plagues before. Injuries, wounds and minor diseases were easy enough for a sorcerer with healing knowledge and magical strength to treat, but when a disease spread quickly it was not long before there were too few healers capable of fighting it to treat all victims—when they were not battling the disease themselves.

And here in Si you are the only one, Leiard added.

Mirar sighed. If only I could have prevented Siyee from leaving the village and spreading the disease.

He’d sent this advice ahead, but the news Tyve brought back had been alarming. Some families had fled to other villages already. Messengers had been sent to the Open.

They’re already panicking, Leiard said. You’ll have as much work dealing with their fear of disease as the disease itself.

Mirar didn’t answer. The rocky slope he was descending had become an enormous, roughly hewn staircase that took all his attention. He jumped from rock shelf to rock shelf, each landing jolting his entire body.

The steps became steadily shallower as the trees around him grew larger. Soon he was walking on smooth leaf-covered ground, surrounded by the trunks of enormous trees. The air was moist. A stream trickled slowly nearby, dividing and rejoining and forming pools here and there.

It was a peaceful place and would have made a pleasant camping site—apart from the lingering smell of animal feces. The area must be a thoroughfare for forest creatures. Remembering the reason for his journey, he quickened his pace again.

Then he heard a Siyee whistle a call of warning and he halted.

Looking up, he blinked in surprise as he saw that platforms had been built between many of the tree branches overhead. Faces peered over the edges of these, gazing down at him, and he sensed fear, hope and curiosity.

He had reached the village.

From the right a Siyee glided down to meet him. It was Tyve.

“Some have hung ropes for you to climb,” he told Mirar. “Others are too suspicious. They’ll change their minds once they hear you’ve cured some of us.”

Mirar nodded. “How many are ill now?”

“I don’t know. Ten the last time I counted.”

“Take me to the sickest, then fly to all the people and find out how many are sick or are showing the first signs of it.”

“Yes. I will. Follow me.”

Tyve walked through the trees for several hundred paces. A rope hung down from one of the platforms. Mirar tied the end of the rope to the handles of his bag.

“Who lives up here?”

Tyve swallowed and looked up. “Speaker Veece and his wife and her sister.”

The old man. Mirar smothered a sigh. Even among landwalkers, Hearteater most often claims the old and the very young.

He took hold of the rope and began to climb.

It was a long climb. Halfway up he looked down and considered what would happen if he slipped and fell.

I’d definitely be injured. Probably badly. Probably to a point that would kill mortals.

But he would not die. His body would repair itself, though gradually.

Like it did after they took me out from under the ruined Dreamweaver House in Jarime. I was a bag of broken bones, not quite dead, not quite alive. Mirar shuddered. A mind fixed only on keeping alive enough to regenerate, parts of me decomposing while others healed…

Think of something else, Leiard suggested.

Mirar drew in a deep breath and concentrated on hauling himself upward. When he reached the top he pulled himself onto the platform and lay on his back, panting. Once he had caught his breath he rolled over and found two elderly Siyee women hovering nearby.

They have it, Leiard observed.

He was right. Their faces were pale and shone with sweat, and their lips were tinged with blue. Despite the name of the disease, it actually attacked the lungs. As it ate away at them the victim was less and less able to breathe, causing their blood to weaken. In some places it was known as the White Death.

He stood up. A bower had been built on top of the platform. From his high position he could see bowers on most platforms—and many Siyee watching him. He looked at the two women.

“I am Dreamweaver Wilar. I will try to help Speaker Veece, if you wish me to.”

They exchanged a quick glance, then nodded.

“Thank you for coming. He is inside,” one croaked. She lapsed into a wracking cough.

Mirar nodded. “I will bring up my bag of cures, then I will go in and see what I can do for him.”

He turned away and began to haul on the rope. It seemed to take hours to bring up the bag. Untying it, he carried it inside the bower.

On a blanket in the middle of the room lay the Speaker. Though Mirar hadn’t met the man before he doubted he would have recognized him if he had. Pale, bloodless skin stretched over the man’s bones. His lips were a deep blue and his breath came quickly and painfully.

He’s near death, Leiard murmured.

Yes, Mirar agreed. But if I don Ï save him, will the rest of the tribe trust me?

Maybe. Maybe not. You best get to work.

Mirar opened his bag and began sorting through its contents. A thump outside distracted him. He looked up to see Tyve standing in the doorway.

“Twenty are sick, twelve are feeling ill, and the rest say they’re well,” the boy reported.

Mirar nodded. I wish Emerahl had remained here. I could do with her help. “Stay close,” he told the boy. “I might need you to…” He frowned and looked at Veece’s wife. “Where do you get your water from?”

The woman pointed at a small hole in the floor. Next to it was a bucket and a coil of rope. “We bring it up from the creek below.”

He thought of the winding path of the creek and the smell of feces.

“Where do you put your bodily wastes?”

She pointed downward again. “It washes away.”

“Not quickly enough,” he said.

Her shoulders lifted. “It used to, but a slide upslope diverted some of the water away.”

“That should be cleared, or you should move the village,” he said. “Tyve, fetch me some water from far above the village. Don’t use the same vessel as any that has been in the stream.”

The boy nodded and flew away. Mirar sensed annoyance from the woman. He met her gaze.

“Better to be sure,” he said.

She lowered her eyes and nodded. Turning away, Mirar moved to Veece’s side and began his work.