The Schemes of Dragons

XI

THE TREE ROSE HIGH above the delta. The men in the platform at the top commanded an unparalleled view of the estuaries, islands, bogs, and channels of the lower reaches of the River Sha. Here the land ceased to hide beneath an impenetrable cloak of leaves, giving way to long stretches of reeds, mud banks, and numerous riverside villages of bamboo and thatch, the buildings often perched on stilts. The lookout tree rose from the midst of one of these communities.

Toren stared wide-eyed at the broad waterway. His gaze kept arching toward the horizon.

"It's the end of the Wood," he whispered.

"Yes," Geim said. Behind them lay league upon league of deep forest, a dozen hostile tribes, and long days and nights of travel. The temperate weather of the far South had surrendered to the hot climate of his boyhood. He inhaled deeply the aroma of the delta, and pointed at the lookout platform. "That's an Ogshiel tradition. The Shagas sometimes used to attack from the air."

Geim had called a halt when the platform had come into view. Now he waved them forward, out from under the trees. There was no infiltrating or detouring around the Ogshiel nation the way they had the other Vanihr lands on their route. Their destination lay at the mouth of the delta, across countless fingers of the Sha. The only way to travel that spiderweb of channels was by boat; a man did not swim this section of the river unless he wanted to be eaten.

As Geim, Toren, and Deena strode along a wide path through a field of domesticated pomegranate bushes, a horn blast sounded up on the platform. Soon eight warriors loped into sight, spears ready.

Geim raised his hand. "The river runs clear today."

The leader of the troop scanned them carefully, pausing on Deena's alien features, and noting Geim's sword. Toren, hair tied up high like Geim, elicited only a brief examination.

"May it be clear tomorrow," the man replied.

"I am Han of Three Forks Village," Geim said genially, waving upriver. "We caught our canoe on a snag and it is no longer riverworthy. We would like to hire a boat to take us to Talitha." He gestured at Deena. "We are escorting the lady to her home."

The villager evaluated the story. The law of the land forbade Ijitians or other foreigners to travel freely on the Vanihr side of the river, but it was quite common for the Ogshiel to hire out their rafts and canoes to merchants and others engaged in travel up and down the length of the Sha. Finally he nodded.

"Afterward will you need to be taken upstream to your canoe?" he asked.

"No. We'll be spending a few days in the city," Geim said smoothly.

The villager grunted. "It's too late in the day to set out. Sleep over and this evening I will find someone who wants the task. What do you offer?"

Geim jiggled a small pouch. "Market tokens."

The sentries surrounded the visitors and led them into the village.

In the early twilight, Geim sat on the stoop of the guest hut, watching several women bathe near the village wharf, inside a sturdy barricade that protected them from river predators. Deena raised the door cloth and emerged from the portal. She followed his gaze.

"Your entire race is blessed," she murmured, as one golden-skinned beauty scrubbed another's back. "Even the old ones are trim and smooth."

"Vanihr do not get old. The gods made us handsome by stealing years from our lives." He had at other times mentioned to her how middle-aged members of his tribe tended to die suddenly from disease or organ failure, rather than slowly wind down to senility and decrepitude. The eldest of the women in the bathing pool was probably in her early fifties.

"'The Flowers of the Wood,'" she quoted. "So that's what that means."

He did not comment. One of the girls was striding from the river, teeth white and captivating as she smiled at a companion. She was wringing out her waistlength yellow hair, the rivulet trickling over high, scarcely matured breasts.

"Geim? Is something wrong?"

Eventually he lowered his glance to his toes. "I was remembering someone."

She sat down on the step with him, dangling her feet toward the earth. Geim could see high water marks on the pillar next to her calves. "Do you think the villagers believed you?" she asked.

Geim was glad to change the subject. "Yes. As long as Toren doesn't open his mouth and let his accent give them the idea he's a scout for a southern tribe, we should have no trouble." At that moment, the other Vanihr was dozing in the main room of the hut. It seemed odd to Geim to think of finally sleeping on something other than bare ground.

"He's changed," Deena said. "Sometimes I think he's almost grateful that we took his totem." She rubbed the puffy tissue on her forearm where the Amane arrow had emerged.

"I can't imagine what life would be like, with an active totem inside oneself. As a boy I worshipped my ancestors, of course, but the technique for keeping their spirits alive has been lost to the northern tribes for so long most say it never existed."

"We would never have made it through the wilderness without his help. I wish we had a proper reward to offer him."

"Yes." Geim paused to watch the village girl slip on her loincloth. "Yes."

A series of hailing shouts shifted their attention downstream. A raft had appeared, two sturdy Vanihr youths driving it with long poles. Their load included baskets of merchandise, a pair of milk does, and coils of rope, enough weight to make their work hard in spite of the lazy current. As the newcomers pulled up to the wharf, Geim and Deena could see sweat dripping from their arms and chins. The villagers hurried out to evaluate the quality of the cargo before the light failed.

Eventually the village chief left the unloading of the raft and approached the guest hut. "These two have just come from Port Ogshi. They'll be taking goods down to Talitha tomorrow. They have room for passengers."

Geim managed not to jump with alarm when Port Ogshi was mentioned. He thanked the man and went down to the jetty to bargain, resigning himself to a night of little sleep.

Geim saw a giant river mong glide past the raft, its dorsal fin knifing the surface. One of the boys lifted his pole out of the way so as not to lose it. The raft rocked in the creature's wake. Geim recalled childhood encounters with the monsters and realized the memories had not become exaggerated over time.

Excitement over, the boys returned to poling, Geim to his contemplation of the Sha, and Deena and Toren to their language lessons. She pointed to a heron as it flew past, called its name, and Toren repeated it. During the past few weeks his vocabulary and understanding of her tongue had grown far beyond the little Geim had mastered. It was ironic. Now any two of them could talk with each other, but only by leaving the third party out of the conversation.

Mostly, it had been Geim who had been excluded. Toren and Deena had developed a camaraderie of which he had no part. It was a modest, shy sort of thing. He was not sure they were aware of it yet.

As the morning wore on, he began to recognize the curves of the river. Shortly before noon they came within sight of a huge village: Port Ogshi, the capital of the nation, his birthplace.

The boys immediately began navigating toward one of the wharfs. Geim's heart rate began to speed up.

"Picking up cargo?" he asked, deliberately keeping his tone conversational.

"Yes," the youngster replied, his foot on one of the few baskets of goods that they had loaded upriver. The raft could hold ten times the weight they now carried. "Our brother is waiting for us here." He spoke proudly, obviously still young enough that it made him feel important that he and his junior sibling had been allowed to pilot the raft all by themselves.

"Going to stay long?"

"Long enough to take on our cargo," the boy said as if Geim were a fool.

"Of course," Geim said, and maintained a stony silence as the juveniles tied up, ran up the bank, and disappeared down the broad avenue between a pair of large bamboo and wicker warehouses. Nearby other traders were arriving or leaving. A fishmonger was hawking his wares at the end of the pier.

"Should we wait with the raft?" Deena asked.

"Yes," Geim said, rather quickly. "We don't want to disembark here."

As he thought further, he had her sit down behind the small pile of goods already aboard, to draw less attention to her complexion and hair color. He himself kept his face toward the river as much as possible, turning only when he heard the boys' footsteps rattling along the bamboo of the wharf. A man Geim's own age walked beside them, regaling them with descriptions of the excellent haggling he had done while they had been gone.

"So these are the passengers-" the man began, stepping onto the raft and stopping two paces in front of Geim.

The man's jaw dropped.

Every bit of moisture left Geim's mouth. "My friends and I would like to thank you for the transportation," he said hoarsely.

"Is it truly you?" the man asked.

Geim chuckled nervously. "I'm afraid so."

"My great grandfather's ass!" The man pointed to the far end of the raft. "Stay out of view. I'll get us loaded as fast as I can." He jerked a thumb at his shocked little brothers. "Let's move!"

The boys jumped. The three siblings took the raft to the next pier and began shuttling a stack of merchandise aboard, assisted by Toren. The boys struggled with baskets and chests that would ordinarily be handled by a pair of the porters who could be found lolling on the banks or helping other merchants. The fewer of the village adults who got a look at Geim the better, however. The process took almost an hour, an excruciatingly long wait.

"I appreciate this, Feirl," Geim told the raft owner as soon as they were under way.

"What in your mother's name brought you back here?" Feirl demanded.

"I would have avoided it if it had been practical," Geim said. "I take it that things haven't changed."

"Ophob is still the chief, if that's what you mean. And he'd still have your balls if he saw you."

Geim laughed. "Of that I'm certain," he said emphatically. "And Ysmet?"

"She'd have more than that," Feirl said ominously. "She brought one of the worst bride prices a high chief's eldest daughter ever had to settle for. She's married to Derest, the warehouse owner."

"Ah," Geim murmured wistfully. "Is she unhappy, then?"

"Content enough, I think. A boatload of brats. But I guarantee you she's never forgotten how much better she might have done."

At the mention of children Geim's eyes brightened. "The baby?"

"A girl. Pretty and bright. You'd have been proud of her." Feirl gave the pole a listless shove. "Died at three of the pox."

Something stung Geim down in the gut. On the shore a pack of toddlers bolted from a children's house, engaged in an excited follow-the-leader race while several mothers supervised. He sighed.

Suddenly self-conscious, he turned. Toren shifted uneasily from foot to foot. Geim felt his face flush, grateful that Deena could not understand the words. "Fifteen years ago I was fool enough to get the chief's daughter pregnant," he said. Toren had the tact to merely shrug. Geim turned back and watched the village slide from view.

Geim's mood remained black as the raft wended its way through one tributary after another, past islands, more villages, and foul-smelling backwaters. Finally they emerged into the main course of the Sha. Many of the craft they passed carried Ijitians as often as Vanihr. Geim caught Toren staring at their pale complexions.

The southerner was rubbing his upper lip and frowning. Geim followed his line of sight, and saw that the tiller man of the nearest boat had a mustache. "Like Ivayer," Toren said presently.

"Get used to it," Geim said. "On the northern continent all men have hairy faces. It's only here in Ijitia and its former empire that they shave. In imitation of our race, I suppose." He did not bother warning Toren that there would be those who would consider him effeminate for being unable to grow a beard. The southerner would encounter that sort of thing soon enough.

The river traffic thickened. A canoe nearly collided with them. One of Feirl's brothers rapped it with his pole, nearly provoking a fight. In another half hour the first buildings rose above the treeline.

Geim recalled the thrill he'd experienced the first time he saw Talitha. The city sprawled across the outermost large island of the delta, its southern edge devoted to the docks and markets where the Vanihr traded. The city itself belonged to the Ijitians. The people of the Wood, distrusting of large scale communities that reminded them of the Shagas, left the rule to others by preference, though their merchant's guild wielded considerable influence. The Ijitians, in deference to their neighbors, used chiefly wood and mud for building materials, avoiding the stone and crystal favored by the serpent men. To the young Geim it had been awe-inspiring. To his jaded older eyes, Talitha seemed shabby, small, and odoriferous, nothing compared to the principalities of the Calinin Empire.

The raft bumped the pier. Feirl and his brothers tied it fast. The water clopped and sprayed between the craft and the pylon, salty from the rising tide. Geim handed each of the boys a market token, the closest thing to money that Vanihr used. At Feirl's suggestion they rushed off to bargain for something of their fancy in the marketplace.

Geim handed the elder brother the rest of the payment and clasped his hand. "It's been good seeing you again."

"The same," Feirl replied. "I'm glad that life in the north has not ruined you yet." He stole a furtive glance at Deena and Toren. "Though it brings you to journey with odd companions. He's a southerner, true?"

Geim nodded. "A Fhali."

Feirl's eyes widened. "They live almost to the Firelands, so I'm told."

"That's true."

Feirl shook his head. "Leave it to you to lead a colorful life."

"It has been that," Geim admitted.

"Good luck."

They could use it, Geim mused. He bade farewell and they set off into the city.

Geim noticed that Toren glanced constantly left, right, up, and down as they ambled past the vendors. The first time the southerner saw a woman with red hair he was so distracted he nearly bumped into a wagon. As they continued, the Vanihr faces became fewer and farther between, until some of the people they passed began to openly stare at them. They had now entered the Ijitian section. Vanihr normally stayed in the south quarter. Few, in fact, actually lived in the city; even the dedicated merchants were glad to be able to retreat to the forest. Crowded environments left the race too vulnerable to plague.

"I'm hungry," Toren said. "When are we going to eat?"

"When we get to the northern continent," Geim replied.

"I can't wait that long."

"Don't worry," Geim said.

They turned a corner and stopped. Down the avenue loomed the largest building they had yet seen. Chipped blocks of ancient stone rose three stories high, fronted by marble columns. Along the rim of the facade, a row of broken, eroded statues arched over the square like carrion vultures. Toren gazed in fascination at the vaguely manlike figures, from their long reptilian snouts to their broad, leathery wings: Shagas.

"They built this temple," Geim explained, glancing uneasily at the images of his people's historical foes. The works of art made it easy to understand why the race was known as the lesser dragons. "It's the only one of their structures left in Talitha."

"Why was it not torn down?" Toren asked.

"There was a ward around it for a century after the Ogshiel sacked the city. By the time it faded, the new settlement had surrounded it, and the Ijitians left it as a relic of the victory."

Geim led them forward. One of several guards glared at them as they crossed in front of the broad stone steps and continued down the street. Geim strode up to a nondescript door on the far side of a nearby building and rapped.

The cover of a peephole opened, revealing a tiny square of darkness. No greeting.

"There is a shadow over the Dragon Sea," Geim murmured.

They heard the sound of a heavy bar being dragged aside. The door abruptly opened. A small, portly Ijitian waved them hurriedly within.

They found themselves in a wine cellar. Rows of oak casks stretched into the murk, the air heavy with the aroma of fermentation, dank stone, and spilled wine. The Ijitian swiftly replaced the bar.

"Taking a long trip?" he asked Geim meaningfully.

"Yes. News from the north?"

"Tamisan has capitulated."

Geim frowned. It was hardly unexpected, though he had hoped for another season or two.

Their host produced three tapers and handed one to each of them, lighting them from his lamp. He led the way down a treacherously slick walkway between the barrels. They came to a stairway and descended past five landings to a small room lined with racks of bottled red wines. He pressed a subtly hidden latch and rolled back one of the racks, revealing a cobweb-hung corridor.

"Safe journey," the man said.

Geim waved the others after him. He nearly bumped his head on the corridor's ceiling, and frequently had to pull spider makings out of his hair. Rats skittered out of their path, the rustle of their tiny feet reverberating down the passageway. The air smelled stale.

After three turns and several hundred paces, the tunnel opened out into a broad, low chamber. The walls and the floor were thickly covered in Shaga hieroglyphics. Toren glanced nervously at the symbols his candle flame revealed.

"I don't like this place," he said.

"We won't be lingering," Geim said, setting his taper in a holder on the floor. Toren and Deena, at his instruction, did likewise. The feeble glow scarcely reached the limits of the room.

"We're under the temple, aren't we?" Toren stated.

"Yes." Geim had pulled a small, round lens of crystal from a pouch. He exhaled on it, and held it forward. "Cover your eyes."

The room erupted in daylight.

Toren leaped back. Half the underground chamber was gone. In its place was a view of grassy, rolling hills. Immediately in the foreground was a cairn of earth and weathered rock that suggested the ruins of an ancient edifice. The land seemed uninhabited.

"No trees," Toren gasped.

"There are a few just on the other side of that knoll," Geim said, pointing. "Come. I'll show you."

Toren hesitated. "After you."

Geim shook his head. "No. The bearer of this goes last," he said, holding up the lens. He gestured to Deena.

She smiled at Toren and stepped across the line between the chamber and the pastoral landscape. As she crossed, a burst of static electricity darted over her body. Then she was on the other side, beckoning to him.

Toren swallowed and jumped across. Geim grinned at his startled expression, then followed.

The humid air of the delta was replaced by the pollen-rich atmosphere of open countryside in early spring. Geim turned back to the wide window behind them. Their sunlit vantage made it impossible to distinguish features of the room they had left. The only things he could make out were the flames of the candles.

He wiped the lens clean and put it away. The portal closed. The view in that direction now showed only green hills, blue sky, and grazing sheep.

"Now, let's get some of that food you were wanting," Geim said.