Mercadian Masques

Chapter 16

Atop the great engine block of Weatherlight perched the Power Matrix. It seemed a huge, crystalline squid clinging to a vast whale of silver and ivory, glass and wire. The two artifacts were clearly kin, clearly fashioned by the same hand in some ancient time. Their polished brass panels, their networks of wire, their elegantly turned support structures, their enormous arrays of crystal-all of it showed the same genius for artifice. Matrix and engine were of a piece, fashioned for each other.

But the crystals of both were utterly dark. "Where is the power?" roared Volrath. His voice echoed through the long, narrow engine room. He lurked back in the darkness amid the ribs of the hull. Teams of Mercadian artificers meanwhile swarmed the inert bulk, lifting their examination lanterns for a better look. Volrath hissed. "This is supposed to be a Power Matrix! Where is the power?"

The chief artificer cringed beneath the verbal assault. She was one of twelve workers holding the Matrix in position. Her fingers struggled to find a grip along the lateral crystals. They were slick with the gore of the former chief artificer. Volrath had been unimpressed with the man's results and had forced his successor to drag the corpse to the deck and fling it overboard. Now, the new chief artificer's life depended on the same faulty piece of equipment.

"Forgive me, Master Volrath," she ventured quietly. "But might I make an observation?"

From the darkness behind came the growled response. "It is your job to make this machine run, not to make observations."

If she was going to die anyway, she might as well die speaking the truth so that her successor might be spared. "There are crystals missing-five large and irregular crystals." With a bloodstained finger, she pointed. "Here, here, here… do you see where the conduits converge on empty spaces? Crystals must be inserted here before the Matrix will function. And not just any crystals-these are irregular, one of a kind. Once they are in place, the Matrix will fuse with the main body of the engine, and-"

She could speak no more. It is hard to speak when a cutlass is lodged in one's lungs. There was a red fountain, and the chief artificer slumped brokenly on the machine she was unable to fix. In her last glimpse of the world, she saw the eyes of her assistant-the next chief artificer. Horror, despair, and sadness mixed on his features, with something else-gratitude. The woman slid, dead, to the floor of the engine room.

"Well, haul her out of here," Volrath growled. "And clean this place. I want it to be sparkling by the time I return with these… these crystals she spoke of."

The new chief artificer lifted his dead mentor and carried her toward the hatch. The other workers gaped at the horrible sight.

"Clean this place!" Volrath ordered. "How can you fix anything when there's so much blood in here?"

A freak thunderstorm rose from the evening seas beside Rishada. It formed misty hills and then massive mountains and then anvil-headed continents. At their heights, lightning argued like gods.

Fitful, hot winds crowded beneath the clouds. Ships shook in their moorings. Lines and stays moaned in dread. Rishadans packed up the last of their market goods and fastened shutters and rushed for the safety of cellars.

The storm was not intent on them, though. A tan wind came off the plains and tried to shove the storm back out to sea, but it was not intent on Saprazzo either. Like a huge black wolf, the front only gathered on its haunches and leaped over the wind, out onto the vast plains. High in the sky it went, bounding, sending down cyclones like clawed legs and hurling itself forward-toward Mercadia.

Like a wolf, it ran toward the city… Or like a vast, running river, leaping its starry banks.

It had been centuries since such a storm hit Mercadia. The dusty plains ate away most moisture before it could arrive, but this storm had a predatory instinct. It fell upon the city, blackening the already deep night. It flung down its drops in a trillion pounding fists. The few folk left in the streets ran as though from murdering brigands. Some even barred their doors, as though the rain might ram them open. White ghosts of mist danced through the streets. At their feet, water sank into every dry crevice and joined and mingled to wash away ancient dust. Soon, torrents followed the recursive roads, some streams spiraling endlessly back upon themselves, growing deeper and faster as liquid sought escape. Yellow and brown serpents of water ruled the street. They coiled and slithered, fusing into a vast and multi-limbed creature that gripped the whole city.

The tower at the center of the city was held tightest of all. Cyclones descended from the black heart of the storm to coil about the tower. Sand grit mixed with rain, scouring stone walls and bedeviling guards.

The storm was crudest to them. They had to stay out in it, at their posts. At first, they had thought their thick yellow riding cloaks would be proof against the drops, but fabric that kept out dust only greedily soaked up rain. Soon each cloak dragged like a fully loaded pack on the backs of the guards. Scarves protected faces from the slapping fingers of water but also channeled the stuff down necks and across spines and shoulder blades. Eyes squinted, near blind. Ears strained to pick orders from the shouting air. Mouths streamed. Throats shouted. Every patch of exposed flesh was pounded to numbness.

The guards outside Gerrard's tower prison were no exception. Indeed, the storm converged with a particular vengeance on that spot. They couldn't see farther than ten feet up or down the stairway. The guards in the corner towers were driven away from their windows.

All the while, Gerrard, Tahngarth, and Karn were warm and dry within.

"Who's the prisoners here?" shouted one guard to his comrade. Though the man stood just opposite him beside the triple doors to the cell, there was no hope of hearing. "I said, who's the prisoners here… them, or us?"

The other man only shook his head, mouth clamped grimly shut.

Soldiers approached from below. Yellow cloaks shouldered up the stairs. They were led by a half-collapsed parasol, a cringing Kyren beneath. A relief contingent? At least somebody was thinking of the soldiers out in this storm. Already, the relief troops were bedraggled. Their hair was plastered to their faces. Some looked dark with bruises, others pale with fear. Three of the guards were so young they seemed mere women within their voluminous riding cloaks. Another had a long scar on his cheek. The goblin ahead of them was the most pathetic of the lot, though. He seemed to have shrunk within his bedraggled robes, and his rain-lashed face looked pugnacious. As he approached, his worthless little parasol was ripped from his hands and carried away to smack a nearby rooftop.

The goblin was in a bad mood. He shouted something to the guard at the door. The guard leaned closer, cupping a hand. Again came the shout. "Aren't you sick of this?"

"Sick to hell, sir!"

"How 'bout if you stand down?"

"Love to, sir."

The guard motioned to his partner and headed down the stairs. Two of the relief soldiers took their posts. Eager to get out from under the hammering heavens, the guards descended to the street.

"Glad somebody thought of us."

"What?"

"It's unusual… somebody thinking of us…"

"What?"

Instead of responding, the guard glanced back up the tower, where the relief soldiers stood their posts. In the dim heart of the storm, a light shone, as though the door had opened to the prison cell. Perhaps the goblin had some word for the prisoners. Or perhaps this was an escape. Ha, that was a funny one. Who would leave a warm, dry cell to come out in this?

"We were the real prisoners," the guard shouted.

"I can't hear you!"

"Never mind." Already, the guard could think only of his warm, dry bed.

"Ain't you ready ta get outta here?" came a shout at the door. It swung open, and in came a drenched Squee.

Gerrard had been leaning next to the window. He came away from the wall and smiled, shaking his head. "You couldn't wait until after the storm?"

"We brought the storm," said a new voice-Orim. She strode into the room, her riding cloak streaming on the floor. At her side came a handsome olive-skinned man with coins braided through his hair. "Water magic. Cho-Arrim can bring rivers coursing over dry land and rivers coursing across the sky."

Gerrard strode toward the pair. He smiled happily, embracing Orim despite her dripping cloak. "I'm so glad you're safe. There were terrible rumors. Takara heard you'd been imprisoned, the Power Matrix stolen."

"All that did happen," Orim said. "I would still be imprisoned if it weren't for Cho-Manno."

Reverent eyed, Gerrard regarded the chief of the Cho-Arrim and extended his hand. "So, at last, we meet face-to-face. 1 have much to apologize for."

"The regrets of the past are many-too many. We cannot allow them to doom the future," Cho-Manno interrupted, taking Gerrard's hand.

"How did you get into the city?"

Cho-Manno gestured upward. "We can move in rivers and storms just as the Mercadians move in clouds of dust. Our skyscouts and wizards have mastered the warm air currents. This storm brought us and rained us down into abandoned streets. The rain fills the city with my folk." He nodded toward a scar-faced man who came in beside him.

"We will join the Ramosans and prepare an uprising."

"Great news!" Gerrard said.

"Not all great," interjected a new voice. "After all, the Mercadians do have the Power Matrix."

"Hanna!" Gerrard cried, wrapping her in a happy embrace. He kissed her, stopping only to stare into her eyes. "You can't imagine how much I've missed you."

"And I you." Hanna's face was beautiful despite the rain that dripped from her blonde hair. Her expression turned sad. "Even so, we'll be apart again soon, I fear. I must seek out Weatherlight and find out what they've done with the Power Matrix."

"I'll help you. It's my ship after all."

"No, you've got to go after the Bones of Ramos," said Sisay, behind. "I'll go along, and Tahngarth, and whatever fighters we can scrounge up from the ship's crew-Chamas, Tallakaster, Fewsteem…"

Hanna supplied the names of three others. "Dabis, Ilcaster, Takara."

Tahngarth rumbled, "I think we'll leave Takara out of this one."

"Hold on, everyone," Gerrard interjected, gripping the sides of his head. "What's all this about the Bones of Ramos?"

Hanna answered, "They are the final pieces that will complete repair and overhaul of Weatherlight. They will allow the engine and the Power Matrix to fuse. The ship will be faster, more powerful than ever."

"But, what are these bones, and where are they?" Gerrard asked.

Cho-Manno said, "We will explain all as we make our escape. There is no time to stand and talk. Gather your things. The storm cannot last much longer. Nor can Mercadian stupidity."

Gerrard glanced back at his cellmates.

Tahngarth eagerly pushed his way out the door and stood in the pounding rain. He howled into the heavens.

Karn meanwhile said simply, "Let us go, Gerrard. Weatherlight awaits me, and the Bones of Ramos await you."

From the Magistrate's Tower, Volrath watched the storm. His fingers dug into the stone windowsill where he stood. It was one of the subtler powers of a shapechanger, to make his flesh as thin and sharp and strong as razors, to insinuate his being into whatever fault might present itself and swell in those cracks to split them wider. Solid stones became sifting sand in his grip. His flesh could flow, and freeze, and destroy like water. It was how he ruled the rock of Mercadia. His grip had split the mountain to its core.

These rebels, though, were not rock. Ramosan, Cho-Arrim, Saprazzan, Rishadan-they were all folk with affinity for water. They brought this storm down upon Mercadia. They would grip it in a fist larger and more powerful than Volrath's. They would break the rock of Mercadia to shifting sand.

Why, though, did they bring this storm now? What did they seek?

Volrath saw. Through the shredding curtains of rain, he saw. Dark figures descended amid those cascades. They were human, though they had billowing cloaks above them that seemed the wings of bats. On the warm currents of the storm they rode, dropping where they would, where they could-rooftops, streets, gardens, awnings. Like the water that had borne them hence, they went to ground. Following channels invisible to the eye, they gathered and went below. One by one, each of the invaders escaped into gutters and rebel safe houses.

"Not safe for long," Volrath muttered to himself, flinging limestone sand out into the night. He would send a regiment of the guard around next morning on a house-to-house search. Invaders and anyone harboring them would be summarily executed, their property seized by the state. Whatever uprising they planned would be put down before it could even occur.

"I shall defend my interests viciously."

Something else moved in the stormy night. Another group of rebels streamed down a stairway and into the winding streets. Gerrard and his crew.

Volrath watched angrily. He had planned just such an escape- Takara had planned it to send Gerrard after the crystals he needed to repair Weatherlight Now, the ingrates were escaping on their own. Their plans were already discussed, and Takara had neither been consulted nor thanked. It mattered little.

Gerrard was doing just what Volrath had planned. Gerrard had always been his own worst enemy. His betrayals and his blunders led inevitably to ruin.

Smiling, Volrath released the crushed windowsill. He turned and took a step. In midstride, he transformed into a lithe, fire-haired woman.

"Gerrard will lead me straight to the crystals I need, and I will destroy him in the process."

Squee led his companions on a ridiculously jogging path. The pounding rain and lightning flashes made Mercadia's mad maze only madder still. Hanna, whose direction sense was the best of anyone's, was hopelessly confused. Squee insisted he knew where he was going, and his errant rout proved very quick. The company traversed the two-and-a-half miles from the Magistrate's Tower to the outer rim of the city in only half an hour.

"Dis here street is Dat-Dere-Street," Squee announced proudly.

Gerrard and his comrades arrived at the dumping station where Squee and Atalla had fooled the giants. In the pelting storm, there were no giants or wagons, only the yawning blackness of a nearly two-mile drop to the storm-lit plains below.

Reunited again for the rescue, the company would soon be sundered. Hanna, Squee, and Karn would remain behind to search for Weatherlight. Orim, Cho-Manno, and Lahaime would rendezvous with the Ramosans and begin to foment rebellion against the ruling Mercadians and their Kyren. Meanwhile, Gerrard, Sisay, Tahngarth, and five other crew members would take the maps and lore provided by Cho-Manno and set out in search of Ouramos, where lay the Bones of Ramos.

Parting was no easy thing, especially for the commander and the navigator.

"Listen," Hanna said, staring into Gerrard's eyes. "Don't just bring back Ramos's bones. Bring back your own, as well. And all in one piece."

His smile glinted with lightning. He stroked a sodden lock of hair back from her face. "Don't I always?" Glancing over the precipice, he said, "If I survive the next few minutes, I can survive anything." He lifted his arms. The cape of a ChoArrim skyscout draped, dripping, from wrists to ankles. "Orim, are you sure these things are safe?"

"Safe enough," Orim replied, sheltered in Cho-Manno's arms. "Just glide like a flying squirrel and let the Cho-Arrim wizards do the rest. Don't try anything fancy."

Gerrard gave a flap of the wings. "I'm not sure I'll even breathe on the way down."

Tahngarth stood nearby, snorting white plumes of irritation in the air. "I'm no squirrel." He stared down at his own cloak-two skyscout capes sewn together.

With a light laugh, a similarly winged Sisay recited, "Birdie, birdie in the sky, what just dropped down in my eye? I'm sure glad that cows don't fly!"

"I'm not a squirrel or a cow," Tahngarth growled. If anyone but his captain had made the remark, there would have been a brawl.

Cho-Manno said, "The storm is losing its force. You had better get going."

"Yes," Gerrard replied. Leaning forward, he kissed Hanna one last time. "I'll bring back my bones and Ramos's. Don't worry about me. You just find Weatherlight and get ready to put the stones in place."

"I will."

"And we'll make sure the revolution is ready," Orim pledged.

"Good," Gerrard said. He cast a glance toward Sisay, shrugged, and said, "Well, here goes."

Taking a deep breath and spreading his arms, Gerrard did a swan dive off the edge of Mount Mercadia.

The ridge of solid ground disappeared beneath him. He plunged toward the blackness beyond. Spreading arms and legs, he felt the skyscout cloak snap outward. Air filled the garment. Insistent cloth yanked on wrists and ankles. Gerrard's back hyperextended. Gritting his teeth, he brought arms and legs to full extension and entered a steady glide.

Rain pelted down. Winds roared up. The black plains swayed nauseatingly as they stretched away toward the hills.

A sharp crack came nearby. Gerrard glanced over to see Sisay hanging there on the wind, like a spider drifting down on a thread too gossamer to see. To the other side came a sound like a shot. It was followed by a long roar in concert with the winds. Tahngarth was taking the descent less well than his mates. Six other crew drifted downward in a tenuous flock.

Gerrard smiled grimly. The sooner they were on the ground, the better. He dipped his arms and banked toward the marketplace below. There, under cover of dark, they would "requisition" Jhovalls and supplies. Before daybreak, they would charge out of the city, on the way to Ouramos.

The other gliders followed. They crossed above the vast, putrid circle of the garbage wall. Beneath the sheltering edge of the inverted mountain, the rain ceased. Still, mists followed them-the conjurations of Cho-Manno's wizards. ChoManno had said he would take care of the flight, but Gerrard would have to take care of the landing.

Selecting a likely corral of Jhovalls, Gerrard soared down. What seemed at first to be only specks of white pepper slowly swelled upward to scraps of paper and then to large tents. Gerrard brought his team down among them, near the corral.

He tried to land upright, but the ground stole his feet, and he rolled in the dirt. A fence post of the corral caught him short. Fouled in his cloak, muddy, and somewhat bruised, Gerrard staggered up and turned to see his crew land.

Sisay soared up beside him, flung her cloak out to catch one last hold on the air, and landed easily on her feet. Tahngarth came to ground like a great black comet. He flopped facefirst, his horns digging twin furrows in the dirt. Chamas, Tallakaster, Fewsteem, Dabis, and ilcaster arrived less gracefully than Sisay-but less catastrophically than Tahngarth.

Last of all alighted a thin, strong figure, who folded the cloak behind her as though she were used to having wings. "Sorry I'm late. Squee sent word you'd arrived and told me what you were up to. I figured you could use another fighter."

Gerrard only shook his head in disbelief. "Takara…"

Book III