White Crow by Gentle Mary

Author:Gentle, Mary [Gentle, Mary]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Gollancz
Published: 2003-01-01T07:00:00+00:00

Chapter Eight

Becalmed.

Black water slopped. Fog coiled across its cold surface. The one lantern’s yellow light made no reflection in the water.

The forgetfulness of the Boat pulled at Zar-bettu-zekigal, at every cell in her body. Her eyes darkened with Memory.

‘You always call me buzzard because I used to sound like one. When I was a baby. Mee-oo,’ Zar-bettu-zekigal called. ‘Mee-oo.’

The harsh sound echoed back flatly from fog and darkness. She walked across the deck, the untied laces of her black ankle-boots ticking on the wood, arms wrapped about herself. ‘See you, El, you remember that.’

The older Katayan woman sat cross-legged at the stern, by the lantern, one hand resting on the tiller of the Boat, lace ruffles falling over her wrist. A frown of intense concentration twisted her face.

‘More.’

‘Oh, what! See you, I’ll tell you about the first time I ever met Messire … It was in an Austquarter crypt. He said, Students, Charnay, but of a particular talent. The young woman is a Kings’ Memory. And then: You’re young, all but trained, as I take it, and without a patron. My name is Plessiez. In the next few hours I – we – will badly need a trusted record of events. Trusted by both parties. If I put that proposition to you?’

She squatted down in front of Elish-hakku-zekigal.

‘Trust me, El?’

Sweat plastered the woman’s black curls to her forehead; her pallid face seemed stained, under the eyes, with brown. Elish’s lips moved silently, concentrating on the voice, following Memory’s bright thread.

‘I remember what you said to me when I left South Katay. Learn hard, little buzzard, it opens all the world to you, and you’re a wanderer. I’ll be here to hear your tales. I love you, Elish. I’ll always come back and see you.’

Zar-bettu-zekigal knelt, hands on her knees, tail coiled up about her hips. She leaned forward to study the compass rose set into the deck before the shaman woman. The needle moved ceaselessly, swinging in five ninety-degree arcs around the circle, in turn to all five points of the compass. She sat back, willing Elish the power to steer through the amnesia of the Boat, stronger now with night and nightmares haunting its drifting.

‘Listen, there’s more‍—’

Outside her circle of Memory’s voice, fleering mirror faces begin to gather.

The torch pitched forward, flaring soot across the floor.

His vision cleared.

Plessiez climbed to his feet, rubbing his haunch. Mist hung above him, choking the brick shaft they descended. He made to pick up the torch, and stopped.

The guttering torches on the stairwell shone down on a distorted curving brick floor that crested up, curved down in hollows, rippled out in frozen curves. The last of these steps had not been the last, once. It lay embedded in a tide of brick paving that had flowed, like water. His torch rocked in a deep hollow.

Brushwood rustled. Sound hissed back from the walls, with the drip of water. Niter spidered white patterns. Plessiez stepped down into the hollow, bending to pick up his torch. Flames glimmered blackly along the pitch.

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