THE LETTERSEEKER

CHAPTER NINETEEN

            There was no anchoring in Meiush-Srrnyo, for the rode saw the bottom no better than the lead. Sleepless Ferenth kept the ship moving at night. He stationed a watch at bow, stern, and quarter. These had ready to hand clever lanterns cupped by polished brass that could cast a beam on anything near. But as the cliffs were not that close the lamps were shuttered while the watch kept night vision.

            The Ashgar forged ahead. Ferenth took his course from the dim-lumed strip of sky between the clifftops. They met no icebergs, for those were spawned at the head of the main channel and seldom found their way into the fork; but there were smaller pieces of ice that rattled the hull now and then, doing no harm.

            Toward midnight an overcast covered the dull slot above until the light was gone. Then the lamps were opened, and besides this each man drew out a tapered horn, which he blew alternately with his fellows in a fixed rotation. These gave different pitches, returning an echo from the cliffs in the way of their pointing, so by close attention to the pitch and lag, Ferenth held midchannel.

            Such concert stirred those who slept and wakened many, though by its repetition it turned for some, weary as they were from oar-watch, into a fjord song that lulled them back to sleep again.

            Prince Thierknut was one of those who woke, having been deep in a dream of passion: he saw himself with Lady Gretta in that dream, she yielding to his wishes. He woke angry at the interruption and of a mind to continue with his dream in the true world. This was a moment of confusion welcome to the promptings of the Image Nameless, which already had 'truded Thierknut's mind with distracting lusts in recent days, together with the minds of many of his soldiers; for the southerners had hot blood and were of mixed loyalty upon this quest that meant little to them anyway.

            So the Dark Whisper found its way into his fresh anger then: To her door! It is a princely venture to slip into the bedroom of a princess late-o'-nights! And if she says `no' then press the case harder, for by the dream it goes that her true desire is mere covered over by all that daytime posturing. Why! If she knows not her own want, it can be more easily shown to her at night when clothes are shed and she lies abed...

            “Ai!” Thierknut grunted, and sat upon the edge of his cot trembling with man-heat. The dream and the Whisper shook him silly; momentarily he touched himself as he was wont to do on war trips when the willing palace-maids were left behind and his need pressed him. Then he stood up in disgust, the thought of Gretta pulling all the more. This confinement upon the ship was most unlike his usual life. It chafed him sore; and there she lay two cabins distant, a warrior woman with desires, surely, of her own at night!

            He threw a cloak over his underclothes and slipped out the door, quiet not to waken Driek who slept in the bunk across. Then down the corridor until he stood by her cabin. He rested his hand on the latch. How should he enter? Silently, or by a knock? He licked his thin lips with a dry tongue.

            Within, Gretta too had been wakened by the horns, but differently. The sound entered her slumber, bringing with it an image of the wind-howl at Grimdale. Threescar was there, his face determined and a smell of bear blood on his arms. He circled her waist in a hard grip and leaped with her into the roar of Needle- eye. But then she saw his face close up, with the exhaustion showing and the bewilderment when she had pushed him down so upon Barallas-mead.

            “Too-ra, too-ra” came the play of the watchhorns again, and now in her sleep it seemed a flood of tears.

            So she came part-awake; and there was moisture on her pillow. Before the horn-round ended she raised her head. What other sound was that? Oar-creak. Bow-hiss. What else? A trouble at her door?

            “Who's there?” she whispered.

            But the prince, outside, missed this. Just then a sound of booted feet and a dim flash of light warned him of an approach at the companionway ahead. Quickly he turned, making as if to go on deck. So he met a shadowy figure at the foot of the ladder.

            “Prince Theirknut?” said the man, holding up a candle lamp. The voice was Flarann's.

            Meddler! the prince thought, jealously reminded of how he had seen Gretta touching Flarann's hand and speaking close with him that day. But he said:

            “Myself, Archer,” and then, “Have these horns roused you, too? It seems the captain announces our arrival at the Stonemote. Or does he have an ear for music when the hour grows tedious?”

            “Neither, prince,” said Flarann in a low voice; and, nodding at the cabin door nearby, “This is where the Lady sleeps. Best we do not disturb her with midnight conversation. The horns give Ferenth cliff-counsel. Take yourself on deck if you want to see how he uses them.”

            As Flarann did not move, Thierknut replied, “Well, I'll see then,” and went up the ladder.

            Flarann held his candle to the steps as the prince climbed, following the lean man's ascent with his eyes. Then came a sound at his side. He turned, and there was Lady Gretta framed in her doorway, wearing a blanket as it were a gown, with tousled hair catching the red of the candle flame and throwing it back to him so she seemed a-glow and warmly gilded.

            “Flarann? Were you speaking with the prince? I thought I heard his voice.”

            “Pardon us, Lady, for disturbing you. The prince was wakeful because of the horns, and he asked me what they meant. I sent him up-a-deck to learn the shipmaster's methods; for he navigates by the sound. But Thierknut will be cold, I guess. He forgot his boots, and the deck is near-iced.”

            “No boots? A southerner? —Flarann, was he at my door then? I thought I heard the latch jostle.”

            “Nay, but passing by, I think, Lady.”

            “Passing by? With bare feet in this cold Ngenna-night, and jogging my latch besides? Staggered he, then? Was he drunk?”

            “Lady, there are no spirits aboard, and he spoke straight enough with me—though he looked somewhat troubled, I'll say as much.”

            “When's this voyage over?”

            “Garufel thinks we will come to fjord's-end by morning.”

            Gretta sighed. “That's well. This boat keeps me too close to that Dunpate Mogson, and he too close to me! But thanks, Flarann, for your late watchfulness.”

            “My lady,” said Flarann, tilting down his glance. With a smile, Gretta shut her door.

            But Thierknut having paused near the hatch heard voices and leaned his head a bit back into the opening, so he overheard the last part of that discussion.

            Dunpate! Calls me that again?

            This outrage opened the door wider for the Shadow, and he thought it was himself speaking to himself, so sweet were the thoughts to his desire and so stirring to his blood: Thus badly she uses me? I'll use her worse, as chance brings it. Why, I'll bruise her maiden-tits for her and more besides. It's a pleasure proud women secretly desire. I'll have it!

            Fuming thus he waited a bit until Flarann left the corridor. Then he slipped back down the stair to his cabin, shaking, for the cold had gotten into his feet as he listened. And the watchorns, once more breaking the bitter air, seemed a ballet-pas for his stiff walk.

* * *

            A small door opened from the study into Quastid's west garden. The cool night air carried with it a fine scent of herbs, vegetables, and late fruit; but the trees and shrubs were no more than fleeting images in the dim glow of the small lamp Quastid carried. They picked their way along a narrow path paved with flat grey stones, coming after a brief walk to the base of the tower.

            Stairs progressed up the outside of the stone column. A low rail was the sole ward between the climbers and a dangerous fall, but Stoneglow mounted eagerly, following the healer who was himself brisk with the assurance of one who takes a long-familiar course. At the top Stoneglow paused and looked about.

            The main part of Esti covered the slopes below: dark angles broken by an occasional lantern-gleam, marching down to the bay's black slate. Near the waterfront there was a flash of lights where the cleanup in the aftermath of battle went on. There were lights on some vessels, too, casting orange ripples upon the otherwise invisible water. Across the water the bright beacons of Pegasus tilted over the brooding high hill as if the great sky steed was minded to trample a sleeping dragon from above. But the beast seemed watchful, for the red eye of a beacon fire burned atop the ridge, the signal to Trren's ships calling them back.

            To the east a horn of the late moon was just visible above the line of mountains. New moon in a few days, thought Stoneglow. Then they entered the Tower room, where six windows opened in all directions. Quastid undid his lantern, touched its flame to a number of wicks mounted on the walls, and soon the space was brightly lit. By the southernmost casement a brass tube about three feet long and three or four inches through rested atop an elongated pyramidal base made of wood. Stoneglow went to this at once. It was not like the short tube Dohan had used for sighting. This one was lensed.

            “It is a thing of my own invention,” said Quastid, noting Stoneglow's appraisal. “I use it in the art of Istrimancy that I practice here.”

            “Istrimancy?”

            “I keep records and charts of the heavenly gledes. This aids me in determining their effects upon such things as the weather and the health of the citizens.”

            “I see,” said Stoneglow. “A useful science. Stargazers of my own land use similar instruments, but they seldom concern themselves with matters of health.”

            “Then you have seen such a device elsewhere?” Quastid's eyes widened in surprise.

            “Oh, the telescope—of course, Quastid. Tell me though, where did you get these lenses?”

            “Lenses. The glass? The people of a village not far from Esti have wrights that craft clear balls of glass and use them for ornaments and lighting fires. I discovered that they have other properties and had these made to my own design. This is actually the fifteenth pair they have made for me, and it is the best. With these I can see marks upon the surface of the moon not visible to unaided sight, and many other wonders.”

            “I am sure of that,” said Stoneglow, casting a glance now about the remainder of the room. On a broad table were maps and star charts, and on the floor untidy stacks of books and leather folders containing loose sheets. On a smaller table was an instrument for measuring angles, a quadrant. Then Stoneglow's attention was caught by something else. There was a fine thread suspended from the ceiling by the north window. At its end, about waist-high, a slender metal dart returned the gleam of the lanterns. It was protected from the gentle breeze that wafted through the open casements by a tall cylinder of clear glass that surrounded it. Centered just beneath the needle, supported by a stone pedestal, lay a horizontal disc upon which was engraved a pattern.

            “And this, Quastid!” Stoneglow exclaimed enthusiastically. “This—”

            “This is a northseeker, Stoneglow,” the healer replied. “A piece of fine iron that has been stroked—”

            “You've lodestone, then? A mineral that causes the needle to take on its northseeking property?”

            Quastid shrugged his shoulders. “I do. But you seem to know all my secrets before I show them to you.”

            “Not all, Quastid. I'm sure you have many secrets of another sort that are beyond me. These things in your tower though are familiar ones, like the 'northseeker'—but Dohan, who is a seafarer, knew nothing of such a thing. Do you have them on the ships of King Trren?”

            “On ships? The tossing of the vessel would make the northseeker useless at sea. It must rest quietly before it will point true. I have it here because I am keeping records of the small variations that occur in the direction of the needle over long periods of time. But let us get to the papers. Morning steals upon us.”

            Reluctantly Stoneglow left the curiosities of Quastid's tower and turned his attention to the charts. Many were crude drawings, but those Quastid had made were careful compilations of data marked upon a standardized grid of latitude and longitude. And the bottom line of latitude was uniformly thirty degrees north: the Broad Lands were a continent covering the entire top of the globe, the coastline running almost exclusively east-west except for a few deep bays. South of the thirty-degree line was nothing.

            Stoneglow's energy, renewed by the sight of the familiar instruments, began to wane again as they studied the charts, for they found nothing concerning the Treegorge. Finally Quastid abandoned the charts and brought up logbooks from the stacks on the floor. Quastid had shown Stoneglow the manner of the Broadland script, so together they searched accounts of journeys, especially unusual ones that had carried mariners to Esti's antipode, or north along the many rivers that pierced the continent. Nothing came to light. The Treegorge remained a place of legend with no role in the lives of modern sailors, who were merchants for the most part.

            Morning light filtered wanly through the slotted apertures. Stoneglow rubbed his eyes. Quastid closed the last of the logbooks, disappointment showing on his wrinkled face. “It seems hopeless,” he said. “Of course we may have missed something. Perhaps after some sleep...”

            As he spoke Stoneglow got to his feet. He had thought to stretch his back muscles, tense after the long hours spent over the papers, and he made a move to walk toward a window to watch the morning break over Esti bay. But as he stood his toes, bare in the sandals provided by Quastid's household, touched something.

            “What's this?” he said, bending over. Quastid leaned from his seat so he could see beneath the table. There was a dark rectangle near Stoneglow's foot.

            “I think—” he began, groping for the object. “Yes, it's another log—an old one, which we missed.”

            Quastid brought it up and placed it on the table. It was a folder of rotting greybrown fabric stretched over a thick leather base. Within were a few leaves of yellowed parchment. Quastid's fingers caught several of the pages along with the cover, so that he opened it to one of the inner sheets.

            Stoneglow walked around the table, peering at the old manuscript over Quastid's shoulder. Suddenly he drew in his breath, as Quastid did precisely the same, straightening up in his seat. On the page before them almost all the writing had been long ago obscured by time and moisture; but near the center they read a single word: