Kearney, Paul - The Sea Beggars 01 - The Mark of_Ran by Kearney Paul

Author:Kearney, Paul [Kearney, Paul]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Science Fiction/Fantasy
Publisher: Bantam Dell
Published: 2005-09-27T04:00:00+00:00

“So this is the font of secrets,” Rowen said. She sounded disappointed. “It’s like an old man’s attic.”

They had lit half a dozen lamps and candles and the galleried room was bright along its length. They had shared a half decanter of decent port, taking it in turns to drink from the single crystal glass that Psellos had kept down here. As she drained the last of it Rowen smashed the glass on the floor and ground the fragments under her heel. Then she had insisted upon pouring olive oil over Rol’s burnt arm and wrapping it in linen torn from her own shirt. Thus refreshed, the pair had begun rooting through the contents of the room.

“I don’t even know what I’m supposed to be looking for,” Rol complained. “Gods! What a pig he was when he had no maids to clean up after him.”

“Old Waric,” Rowen told him. “I can’t read it, but I’ll know it when I see it. Look for characters that resemble runes, but read north-south instead of west-east. You could mistake them for an engraving, or a geometric design.”

“Psellos knew the language of the Elder Race?” Rol asked.

“Some—he said so, at any rate. He was from the Goliad, don’t forget, and it is said that there are rocks in the wastes there that still bear traces of it. In here it will be on vellum, or slate. If they wrote on paper, it all perished long ago.”

“Why look for inscriptions in a language we have no hope of understanding?”

“Someone somewhere will understand, and if we found even ten lines of original Waric, it would be priceless. I doubt there’s enough of it left in the world to make a shopping list.”

Piles of books fell over as they moved through them. A few were in Gascarese: A Gramarye of Ancient Symbols, The Alchemy of Blood, and even Sailing Directions for the North Wrywind Sea. But most were in languages Rol did not know. He wearied of the task long before Rowen and began hoking through cupboards, sniffing the contents of jars. He tapped the side of one and the sudden flicker of movement within made him cry out.

“Rowen!”

Set on a lamplit table, the liquid within was a bright carmine, like arterial blood. But it was not opaque, and something swirled within, occasionally tapping on the glass. Rowen lifted the lid gingerly, and, too quick even for her superb reflexes, the glistening thing inside leaped out and landed with a wet splat on the tabletop. Rol drew Fleam and tried to stab at it, but the bright point buried itself in wood as the creature twisted aside.

“No, let it be,” Rowen said. She set a hand on Rol’s sword arm.

“So you have killed me, then,” the thing said, and its voice was recognizable: that of Michal Psellos.

They backed a pace, openmouthed.

“Ah, my brave assassins, my lovely pair of killers. What a picture you make.”

It was a foot high at least, a bulging bag of glistening muscle and corded sinew that wheezed and twitched with life.

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