The Limbreth Gate tkavq-3 Page 18

  'I did not come to thank him!' Yoleth raged.

  'Indeed.' The single word was an accusation of execrable manners.

  But Yoleth was not to be cowed by social protocol. 'No! I am here to demand my payment! Your master has had his new plaything long enough! Do not pretend that Ki was accepted only as a favor to me. There is the calling jewel that they promised to me. You have put me off long enough.'

  'A calling gem?' The Keeper's voice wondered that she dared say such things.

  'Yes, damn you! The jewel the Limbreths use to call ones of their choosing to them. I would have one of my own. They agreed to that, when first this bargain was struck, and together we opened the Gate. Ki was to be their toy, and in return I was to get a calling gem.'

  'That is not how I understood it! I am the Keeper of the Gate, and know such things. You begged the Limbreth to aid you! The Limbreth opened the Gate, testing it once on a Brurjan totally unfit for any of our purposes, and then took Ki out of your way. It was a favor between peers.'

  'Liar!' Yoleth was rabid. 'You spoke of it here to me. We talked of it before, and you promised that when the Limbreth had Ki and was sure of her suitability, the jewel would be delivered! How dare you claim no memory of it!'

  'Yes, we spoke of such a thing. But as a possibility only. I am staggered that you dare ask for it so brazenly, as if it were a tinker's trinket. But, be still! My Master speaks to me.'

  Yoleth fumed at being so addressed by such a lowly creature. She swallowed her words and peered through the crack at the Keeper. The Keeper huddled like a pile of rags on the ground, its eyeless face gazing far afield. Yoleth stifled her impatience with a growl. She couldn't tolerate, any more delay. Ki was out of the way, and the High Council was beginning to sway to her songs; but the calling gem could make her power certain. With the jewel, not even that insolent Rebeke would dare to stand before her. Once she had the knack of using it, she could call any before her and keep them there, until they knuckled to her will. The Relic would be hers, and Rebeke would learn to do as she was told.

  Yoleth seethed as she measured Rebeke's ambition by her own. Rebeke wanted control of the High Council, to sway them to her ridiculous ideas. She would make them all slaves to the peasants in thefields. Ever she harped on duty and always she prattled of how generosity and gentleness would pay off in larger harvests and tribute given with a free hand. The fool. The larger the harvest, the less value each bushel had. The peasants were not the simple-hearted folks she painted but greedy sneaks, adept at hiding the true bounty of the harvests from the Windsingers who gave them the fair weather. Give them a golden summer and they gave you a bushel of wormy apples and some spotted tubers. But give them a few storms and a splatter or two of lightning to keep fear in their hearts, and they would yield up the Windsingers' proper due. No, Rebeke was a fool and a dangerous one, and Yoleth wouldn't wait until she had the Council at her feet. Yoleth would get that calling gem, if she had to sing a wind to blow through this damned crack and shred the rags off the Keeper. She would have it.

  The Keeper stirred, coming out of a far meditation. Yoleth was secretly disgusted at the quivering of his body as he became aware of her again. 'Well?' she demanded harshly.

  'Long has my Master kept me, to make me understand what they wish.' He bowed low to her, suddenly subservient. 'I am rebuked for my discourteous words, and must ask your pardon. I am but the Keeper of the Gate, not the Mouth of the Limbreth. I have spoken beyond my station, and said words that must be taken back. I abase myself before you and beg that you will consider those words the mouthings of an ignorant churl, not the message of my gracious Master.' The Keeper literally groveled in the dust on his side of the Gate. Yoleth regarded him with distaste as he writhed in the dirt, scooping handfuls of it to pour over his own head.

  'Enough!' she cried. 'I am sure you have learned not to interfere between your betters. I dismiss your words from my mind. Rise now, and give me the gem.'

  The Keeper leaped up in a flurry of dust. He curtsied low to her and crept close to the crack. 'Of course! As my Master has agreed, so it will be done. It costs me a pang to part with it, so long have I held it for them. I will be honest. Jealousy flavored my earlier words. The highest honor this one has ever known has been the holding of this for my Master. But he has revealed to me that his will may be better served by putting it into your hands. What true servant questions the wisdom of the Master? I obey.'

  Yoleth knelt in the dust to receive it. The Keeper slipped his hands inside his ragged robe, groping. He seemed to struggle; Yoleth made a wry face at his dramatics. Having said he was loath to part with it should have been enough for him, but now he was miming his own reluctance. She saw the sinews of his muscles crawl as he gripped something tightly, and there was a ripping sound, then a snap as if a cord had given way. He thrust the something to her, his own eyeless mask twisted into a mockery of agony. The jewel alone seemed to pass easily through the wall; she felt as if she reached into tar to take it. As soon as she took it from the Keeper's hand, he fell limply back into the dust. Yoleth gave one more disgusted look at his abject posturing, and rose with the jewel clutched in her grip.

  She wiped it clean of his sweat on the cuff of her flowing sleeve and raised it to the pale light of the stars. It began to pulse and throb, gleaming so intensely she almost believed she felt a warmth with each blossoming of light. Her heart quickened to its beating; she felt a thrill of possession such as she had almost forgotten. It was hers, Yoleth's alone, to master and use. Did the High Council think that she would do their dirty work for them and have nothing to show for it? Fools.

  She began to slip it into the pocket inside her sleeve. A dark stain on her cuff caught her attention. It smeared darkly on her fingers with a coppery smell. Puzzled, she stooped to peer again through the crack in the wall. The Keeper lay as she had last seen him, his eyeless face a grim mask; no breath swelled his chest. Instead, a dampness spread in the dust beside him.

  Yoleth rose, her thin lips pulled even tighter. The Jewel in her hand pulsed at her fondly. She knew thespeaking eggs of the Windsingers, living creatures so like stones, but brimming with life and thought. They might be used to communicate, if one were trained and dared risk the tremendous energies involved. But this calling gem was not like them. She gazed into its lights, wondering what dangers were in it. Would the Limbreth or Keeper have warned her? Was there any real need for it? She had thought there would be some formula given, some series of meditations to attune oneself to the gem and focus her calling. But the Keeper, who could have given such instruction, sprawled beyond the Gate, senseless or dead. Perhaps she would be wiser to put this thing from her hand, to thrust it back through the Gate and ask for some other favor, a lesser boon, a trinket. Yoleth gazed into its shimmering depths and knew the Limbreth possessed nothing that was the equal of this, and that she would take nothing less. She could learn to use it; a bold hand need never fear power. She gripped the gem tightly, feeling its surging warmth flood her. Sliding her hands up inside her long loose sleeves, she strode away into the night.

  Jace stood in the shadows watching her leave. The Gate was little more than a crack now and she wasn't much more than a shadow herself. Her past few nights had brought her no food, and her constant wandering and calling for Chess had taken a toll of her energy.

  She could not have explained what drew her back to the Gate, for it no longer held any promise for her. If Vandien were going to return, he would have done it before; now it was too late. She was not really surprised that he had not come back; would anyone, given a choice between her world and this one? No, she was not surprised, but she found that she could blame him. A week ago she would have had the equanimity to accept it, to see his decision to stay over there as his only sane choice, not as betrayal or abandonment. Her cool logic would have told her that he had been given a chance for a better life, and had taken it. She would have felt glad for him.

  But that was before Chess was lost to her. It changed
everything. Where were her fine thoughts now, the words she had pelted Chess with? Regretted and swallowed, every one. But she could not call back the ones Chess had carried off with him. Like thistles in his skin, they would dig in deeper and spread their poison. Wasn't it odd, now that Jace had no weaker companion to exhort to acceptance and inner peace, her own had fled? 'I could accept it, I could lie down and die peacefully, if only I knew that Chess had also done so. If only I knew that he was safe from this world and beyond its corruptions, I could breathe out my last breath calmly. But I cannot do so, if it means leaving him here alone without aid. I can't. But I may have to.' Jace whispered the words aloud to the rough stones she leaned on. Her strength was nearly at an end. Much of the cool darkness that had leaked into this part of the city remained here still. Perhaps tonight she should stay here, and see if the day was diluted enough not to harm her; she feared that if she tottered back to the hovel one more time, come the next night she might not have the strength to leave it. She no longer hoped that Chess would return on his own. He had been driven forth too thoroughly, too callously. But the Gate might draw him back.

  Jace slid slowly down the wall. She turned her eyes back to the Gate, hoping for his small shadow. The only caller this night at the Gate had been the Windsinger. Jace had watched her with dulled curiosity. She had understood little of what had passed at the Gate, save that the Limbreth had chosen to call Ki to their hallowed valley. Ki would be blessed by the Limbreth and given a vocation. She would pour herself into her newfound work with joy and vigor until her days ran out.

  A little hunger nibbled at Jace's heart. Once she had dreamed she would be so called; she had fantasized that she would awaken from her sleep hearing the pure call of the Limbreth to take the pilgrim path to the Jewels. Some few there were who went thus, clothed in a plain white garment, bare of foot and head, with a smile of gladness that shone like the Jewels themselves. Those ones did not return, and no word was heard of them, save in rumors of a new and beauteous thing rising in some far part of the peaceful world. It did not seem fair to Jace that sometimes the Limbreth would hunger for ones from other worlds to enact a vision. The Limbreth would open a Gate and one of those rogues would enter, wild and violentand ruthless, until the spell of the Limbreth worked and the waters of peace soothed the outlander. But from those strangers came the works of awesome power that were sometimes seen, like the first bridge, which was no part of the peaceful world it decorated; it had been born in this world. It pleased the Limbreth and made him hunger for more extravagant minds and iron wills for such tasks. From what Chess had said of Ki, the Limbreth would like her. Yet it ached in Jace that for such a fancy she and Chess had been exiled from their world.

  Jace let her head tip forward to rest on her huddled knees. Her pale green garment had gone brown, like dead leaves, and was rent and stained; her glossy hair was now coarse as a pony's tail. She rummaged about in herself for the will and the strength to rise, but found neither. Slowly she let the knowledge sink in. The Gate was too small to use. There was no chance of Vandien coming back. Even if she found Chess, they could never go home.

  'Wake up!' The hand on Jace's shoulder was callused but not unkind as it shook her. 'It's nearly dawn, and you have to be the one from all he has raved. Hurry up, woman!'

  Jace forced her weary head up. Her eyeballs felt dry, her lashes gummed and grainy. She stared up at the man who shook her so boldly. His heavy jowls bristled with black and grey stubble above a beard that fringed his jawline. His eyes were dark brown, his hair a willful tangle of loose curls that frizzed out on his forehead and bushed above his ears. A working man, she decided, but even Jace had been in the world long enough to see that his clothes were wrong for that part. They were too fine of cloth and cut, even though he wore them carelessly, not minding where dust or wine had left a blotch. They smelled of wine, but his eyes were sober and alert as he shook her again, and then dragged her firmly to her feet. She could find no resentment for the stout arm he put about her waist. She staggered along at his side. 'Come on, then. Boy needs you. He's sick. Just like a child, to stand tough as brambles through all hardship, then, the second he had a bed and a bite, to give up and go sick on me. Feverish. He raves a lot, and mostly he calls for you. It was hard for me to find out from his words what you looked like or where to seek you. But the dark Gate came into his talk so often that finally even my slow wits made the connection. So I came to find you. Odd. I thought you would know what to do for him, once I found you. But you don't look too healthy yourself. Like as not, I'll have the two of you on my hands and under my feet now.'

  His words didn't convey any of the annoyance they suggested; Jace suspected him of enjoying this. She let her thoughts drift. Chess was ill, but in kindly if not skilled hands. So was she. She would see Chess again soon. The homely kindness of the man beside her soothed her bruised spirit. He clucked and nagged as he helped her along. There was a purpose to his movements that did not match his slovenly clothes. She sank gratefully down into the comfort of someone else taking charge.

  Mickle wound up carrying her the last stretch of the road to his home. He moved silently through the rooms he kept darkened for Chess's sake, to settle Jace into his own soft bed. Then he hurried about the room scooping most of his debris up and trundling it out of sight. He hummed softly to himself as he floated a coverlet down over Jace and pulled a heavy curtain closer across the window. He touched the woman's lax face, but she didn't even stir. Well, he had chicken broth simmering on the hearth, and healing roots mashed and ready. He could bring them both out of this. He cocked his head, thinking he had heard Chess call from the other bedroom. But all was stillness in the snug little house.

  Mickle bustled his way back into the kitchen, sighing with relief. His sigh was cut short as he gazed at Rebeke perched on his tall baker's stool, and he blew out the rest of his breath as a snort and started in on her before she could speak.

  'A fine mess you've made of things, and no thought to the nuisance for me, I suppose. Here I am nowwith a house full of sick folk and no one but myself to care for them. I don't suppose you gave any thought to that, did you? And here you come to poke at them. Well , they're both run into the ruts of the wearies, and I won't let you trouble them. No, save your glares for someone they impress. This is my house, Rebeke. Bought with your money, perhaps, but mine nonetheless, and here I am master.'

  'Do you forget to whom you speak?' Rebeke asked sternly.

  'No. And neither should you. I'm speaking to that street brat Reby, who's gone from being under my feet begging for a sweet cake to barging in here and filling up my bed with sick folk. Look what you've done to an honest baker and a pretty little maid. Here I am a disreputable man of leisure, and you a grotesque spectacle and skinny as a rail. You must be hungry. What can I fix for you?'

  Rebeke surrendered with a chuckle. 'Tea. And save your good-old-days routine; neither one of us would go back. You've found them for me, Mickle, and I thank you. I know they'd be in good hands until I need them. But I warn you, not out of harshness, but to save your tender old heart. Do not get too attached to these waifs. When I need them, I must take them from you. So cherish them and heal their hearts, as always you had a knack for. But don't tie their lives too tightly to yours, lest your heart bleed when I tear them away.'

  Mickle had bustled about as she spoke, poking up his hearth fire and clattering mugs and filling the kettle so carelessly that water spattered the floor. If he had heard one word, he gave no indication. 'It's heartless you've become, Rebeke,' he scolded her. 'Heartless. Oh, you may remember an old man who was kind to you when you had no one, and so you throw him coins, more than are good for him. But I should like to know what's become of my little miss with the big blue eyes in her thin little face? I grew you up to be a lovely thing, and just when I thought I had you settled with that lad ... what was his name? Grew up and became the herbalist's apprentice?'

  'Dresh,' Rebeke breathed unwillingly.

  'Just when
I thought I could look forward to babies crawling after crumbs in my shop, what do you do? Disappear one day without a word. Time passes, and I think you're dead. Then money begins to come to me, but no words to go with it, just a tragic rumor. That you'd gone to the Windsingers, even though all know that the Windsingers prefer to steal babies to grow up their own way, and you near a woman grown. Then a few nights ago, you give me the turn of my life when I walk into my kitchen and find you here. Nearly gave up drinking on the spot. Well, missy, just you know this.' He poured tea into the heavy mugs and set one on the table before her. 'I've done as you bid me. The honey's in that pot. But let me tell you, it wasn't the money you've sent me all these years that bought you my services. No. These buns were fresh this morning. Eat one, don't pick at them. It wasn't money. I did that for Reby's big blue eyes, that you've made all blue and white, and I did them for the hunger and pain I saw in the boy's eyes when I found him.'

  Rebeke shifted on the stool, setting aside the bun he had pushed into her hand. 'What does it matter?' she asked him gruffly. 'You found them.'

  'It matters to me,' Mickle insisted. He looked at her long and expectantly, waiting for a reply, a sign. None came. Rebeke merely looked at him gravely over her mug's rim. 'What do you plan to do with them?' demanded Mickle suddenly.

  Rebeke set down her mug. 'I plan to send them home. I can't go into it, Mickle, not in detail, but I have to put things back as they were before.' 'Nothing can go back as it was before,' he warned her. This time when he sighed he seemed to crumple, his shoulders drooping low as with a weight. 'Reby,' he asked softly. 'Reby, how do I even know it's you? What have you left of yourself for me to recognize and love? When you vanished it near killed me, and that Dresh boy like to go mad. Turned him bad, some say, though I don't know what he became or where he went. Reby, why did you do it?'