Oshenerth (25 page)

It was an idealization she might have found difficult to sustain in a chillier, far distant corner of Oshenerth.

O O O

Borne by two dozen spralakers of varying size and species and flanked by members of his personal armed retinue, Kulakak’s palanquin advanced slowly through the forest. Reaching all the way from the rocky ground to the mirrorsky, thick strands of leafy green kelp towered two hundred feet and more above the procession. It was an unusually clear day and the light filtering down through the dark green made a magic of its own not even Sajjabax could have outdone.

The kelp forest lay just outside the capital city of Xayyac. Behind the entourage it sprawled across layers of terraced rock, obscuring the seams of gray basaltic stone. Often on such excursions Kulakak would look back at the vast metropolis of which he was supreme ruler. But not now. Not today.

All his thoughts were concentrated on determining how best to proceed now that the manyarm shaman who had been the difference in the battle for Siriswirll had been located.
Where
that troublesome sac-head had been discovered was something of a surprise in itself. If not for the extensive network of spralaker spies spread throughout nearly all of Oshenerth, the rival mage’s whereabouts would have remained unknown.

Of course, the Great Lord’s spies did not know for certain the intended destination of the esteemed manyarm and his fast-moving escort. Any attempt to find out would likely have resulted in such overly bold scouts ending up not on the mark but on a menu. But they had been able to observe, from a safe distance, the deep-water travelers’ presence, mark their passing, and note the direction they had taken upon departure from the surviving town of Siriswirll. All the signs and inferences pointed to them heading for a logical destination.

Benthicalia.

He was not displeased by this assumption. In striking a single overwhelming blow he would at one swoop remove two of the greatest continuing threats to the Overturning: this meddling shaman
and
the most powerful city in the southwestern reefs. The depth at which Benthicalia lay was unusual for a merson-manyarm community, but it would not hinder the work of his soldiers. Most of them could fight as efficiently at depth as if their backs were in contact with the mirrorsky itself.

“Gubujul!”

Sporting an assortment of polished stones and trailing tendrils of glimmer-stained sea whip, the red-banded Paramount Advisor’s appearance was even more outlandish than usual. No doubt if pressed as to the need for such an extravagant display he would reply that any excursion beyond the bounds of the royal court demanded an effort to awe the populace. As the Great Lord, Kulakak could have pointed out that he felt no such need. Instead, he said nothing. He understood well the importance of encouraging and rewarding those who served him. Those who under-performed their duties in spite of such magnanimous dispensations on his part could always be demoted to the level of a quick snack.

“The remnants of the force that destroyed Shakestone and nearly took Siriswirll have been combined with the Grand Legions of the Inflexible Palp,” he informed his always attentive Advisor. “It is my plan to provision them better than any spralaker force has ever been equipped and send them south to reduce Benthicalia to rubble.”

“Ah yes, that is where the party of the shadowy manyarm shaman was reported to be heading.” Gubujul’s multiple antennae gave a timorous flutter. “Benthicalia is said to be strongly defended, my Lord. There are walls there. Real walls, not like the crude obstructions our forces encountered at Siriswirll.”

“Exactly. Taking such a city will shatter any semblance of defiance to our rule in the southern reefs,” Kulakak pontificated. “Word of its destruction will spread like oil, smothering any thought of resistance. With Benthicalia subjugated, our waiting multitudes will be assured safe passage southward and have no difficulty in taking full control of that territory. All that richness, all that complex and colorful living space, shall be ours.”

“And what of the present residents?” Gubujul knew the answer, but he never tired of hearing it declaimed from the Great Lord’s mouth. Kulakak had a way of making the inevitable sound twice delicious.

“Some will flee to the great southern plains and eventually starve there. Most, I am convinced, will be content, even relieved, to remain as our slaves. As for the finned folk, it will be between them and us as it has always been: some will fight against us, some will offer allegiance, and the rest will become fit for food or indifference.” He sounded more than pleased. “Already there are those in the south who are smart enough to perceive which way the current is running and ally themselves with us.”

Gubujul was dutifully impressed. “Yet again my Lord has drawn forth certainty from disaster.”

Reaching down over the side of the palanquin, a heavy, powerful claw struck the gracile advisor hard enough to send him tumbling legs over antennae, but not quite hard enough to break anything.

“No talk of that! Not yet. The encounter at Siriswirll gave birth only to enlightenment; not to triumph, and not to defeat. It is true the retreat was badly managed, but many survived to fight again another day, and much was learned. Much that will be used to great effect against the fortifications of Benthicalia.”

Staggering back to his feet, Gubujul used his long, slender forearms to clean and straighten his aching antennae. “Yes, my Lord. I am certain it shall be as you say. When do you leave to take command of the Legions of the Inflexible?”

From his divan atop the palanquin the Great Lord Kulakak peered down at the Paramount Advisor. “I? I am needed here, Gubujul. To supervise the war, to plan strategy for the Overturning, to organize the thousand and one details it demands. Also to deal with the venerable Sajjabax, his works and his madness: a task no one else can manage since all seem to lose control and purpose and courage when brought into his presence.”

“I see, my Lord.” Gubujul thought hard. “Then to whom will you give command of the operation?”

Silence ensued, saved for the click-clacking footfall of the Great Lord’s multi-legged bearers and the submissive muttering of those spralakers, watching safely from a distance, who farmed and hunted in the forest.

Gubujul’s red-banded white exoskeleton was comparatively impenetrable, but the workings of his mind were not.

“Oh no, my Lord—I couldn’t!”

Stalked eyes bent sharply in the Paramount Advisor’s direction. “I am sorry, Gubujul. I must have picked up some algae in my hearing organs. Did I hear you say you ‘couldn’t’?”

The shocked stenopus swallowed hard. “What I meant to say, my Lord, is that I am not worthy of such an honor. Your offer of it momentarily stunned me. I am flattered and overwhelmed. But as a counselor who has always been focused on matters of a non-military nature I would be remiss in my duties if I did not confess that, despite your confidence in me, it might be in the best interests of the spralaker people if another other than myself was put in charge of so important a martial venture.”

Silence enveloped the royal palanquin. Then laughter boomed across the gently rolling ground, to disperse among the sky-sweeping green growths.

“That’s one reason why I keep you around, Gubujul. You never fail to amuse me. As concerns movements in the field, the planning and executing of them will be the province of the Marshals of the Legions. Surely you did not think I expected
you
to devise actual strategy?”

“I was unsure, my Lord. Not that I lack self-assurance but …”

“But you haven’t ever carried out a raid on anything larger than the burrow of a female spralaker with whom you desired to mate. Rest assured, Paramount Advisor, that I know your limitations as well as your qualifications, and that I would no more put you in command of a real skirmish than I would ask you to fight a sardine.”

“Ah,” murmured Gubujul, feeling simultaneously much appreciated and duly snubbed.

Inclining his bulk over the side of the palanquin, the Great Lord leaned closer. “I must have someone in overall charge whom I can trust implicitly. Someone who I am confident will let the commanders in the field carry out their work without interference from some meddling bureaucrat who thinks he or she knows better. Someone who will act as my direct representative and be able at a word to settle arguments on my behalf. Someone who knows exactly what will happen to him if he fails in any respect to carry out my exact wishes.” Leaning still closer, the Great Lord locked eyes with those of the Paramount Advisor.

“It appears that someone, Gubujul, is to be you.”

The much smaller, slimmer spralaker nodded dolefully. “I would fain still decline the honor, my Lord.”

Kulakak settled back onto his divan, and the palanquin and its bearers shuddered under his shifting weight. “Ever the modest and reticent servant, Gubujul. Especially when calculating the promise of potential reward against the consequences of possible failure. Such equivocating makes for an advisor who lives long, though not necessarily one of greatest value. Still, you are the best I have. You serve willingly and out of fear: a functional combination. Come back covered in the hair of mersons and the beaks of manyarms and I promise you will swim in glory. The Overturning goes on. As it must,” he concluded pensively. “For all our sakes.”

“Yes, my Lord.” Further excuses, evasions, and verbal circumlocutions would only risk the Great Lord’s wrath, Gubujul knew. Like it or not, he had just been appointed supreme spralaker commander in the South. While uncertainty was an accepted component of his daily struggle for existence, he believed that somehow he would be able to rise to this new challenge.

He knew also that if he did not, this would be his last opportunity to enjoy a walk in the forest.

— XVII —

Irina had been enchanted by Sandrift, sobered by Shakestone, and impressed by Siriswirll. So it was not unreasonable for her to believe that she had some idea what to expect of Benthicalia.

She was as wrong as she was overwhelmed.

When her companions had called it a city, she had envisioned something like Siriswirll, only on a larger scale. She was simply not prepared for the sight that greeted her eyes as the group swam over a last rocky rise and the city came into view. Slammed them was more accurate, since during the preceding days of travel in near darkness they had become accustomed to a much more muted level of illumination.

Rising from the depths toward the unseen mirrorsky, Benthicalia spilled over the terraces of multiple ancient and now drowned shorelines. Every succeeding level (she counted more than two dozen) was crowded with fantastical structures each of which was more wondrous than the next, and all were ablaze with light.

“How …?”

Jetting easily alongside her, Oxothyr anticipated her query. “It is the light that fascinates. It is the light for which Benthicalia is famed. Look hard, changeling Irina, and you will be able to recognize, and to comprehend.”

She strained to do just that, but still needed help from the manyarm to understand what she was seeing. What was immediately evident was that a great deal more magic was at work here than she had encountered previously anywhere else in Oshenerth.

Shining and flashing within transparent longitudinal and vertical containers, tens of thousands of light-emitting fish and other bioluminescent ocean dwellers bathed the city in pale blue and yellow light. From a distance the streets and spires looked, she thought, like a cluster of exploding stars. The variety of containers themselves were as fascinating as the photophoric lifeforms they kept in check. As the visitors began their final approach, she saw that the fabulous transparencies were fashioned neither of glass nor crystal. Instead, they were sundry species of giant tunicates that had been trained to let food in to feed their captive light-emitters as well as themselves, but not to let the smaller glowing creatures escape. Here was a city where lights were not manufactured, she mused, or purchased from a store, but rather where they were grown and nurtured.

From every level, rose towers of brightly colored deep-sea coral. Rose, or rather thrust, she corrected herself. In Benthicalia, as many towers grew sideways as upward, creating a latticework of coralline architecture bedecked with sculpture both living and dead. Benthicalian artisans had decorated numerous buildings with bas-reliefs depicting scenes from the city’s history, its surroundings, and its daily life.

Each individual animal serving as home to thousands of anemone fish, the tentacles of gigantic anemones swayed back and forth in the mild currents that kept the city clean. Some of the brightly colored immobile creatures were the size of a city bus.

The lowest level of the metropolis was dominated by a great coral stadium. Examining the huge spherical structure, Irina inquired as to its function. Sporting events, Oxothyr informed her, and theater, and other entertainments and civic functions.

“Look to the center of the uppermost level of the city. That is where we will find the Tornal.”

Rotating his body, the shaman pointed to a rocky promontory. Clinging like a live thing to the jutting shelf was a small limestone citadel composed of red and yellow fire coral that had been carefully cultivated to produce a fanciful hodgepodge of interconnected spires, spheres, and chambers. Though it served as a meeting place of considerable importance there was no sign of armament, no occupied guard stations. They were not necessary, since the coral of which the structure was composed was itself a more than adequate deterrent to unauthorized entry. Mere contact with fire coral would leave flesh burning and stinging for days. Extensive contact could result in paralysis, and even death.

A glance showed that while mersons, manyarms, and fish could enter the city from any angle, stone walls far higher and more permanent than anything she had seen before provided an insurmountable barrier to any marauding spralakers.

She indicated the Palace of the Tornal. “That’s where we’re going, then?”

The shaman turned an amused orange. “Even the bearers of important news do not simply float in on the Tornal.”

“Not even you?” she ventured curiously.

“Not even I, changeling flatterer. We must make a formal request for a meeting and await approval. Only then can we present ourselves.”

She hesitated. “Am I included in this?”

“We are all a part of it. That is as it should be. One never knows who may recall an item of significance that would otherwise be overlooked, or have something of consequence to contribute.” He flashed gentle amusement. “Perhaps even a changeling still uncertain of herself and her place in the world. Experience has shown me that it is the highly knowledgeable and experienced who often overlook the obvious.” Noting her misgiving, he added, “You will be fine, Irina-changeling. You have adapted well.”

She blushed slightly at the compliment, wondering if the flush was visible at this depth. “I’m trying. Really hard.”

“Trying is better than dying,” he remarked impassively.

The city was no less astonishing up close than it had been when viewed from a distance. Criss-crossing channels cut through the rock and coral took the place of streets. Noticing dozens of reef fish moving freely among the resident mersons and manyarms, she wondered how they were able to survive so far beneath the mirrorsky. Once more it was left to Oxothyr to explain.

“A large field of black smokers fumes and boils off to the west,” he told her as he gestured in that direction. “An elaborate system of sculpted coral conduits carries superheated water to the lowest level of the city. Useful minerals are removed there and the water then is allowed to percolate upwards through a network of smaller tubes. You will find the outlets scattered throughout the city across all levels. That is how creatures accustomed to warmer waters can be made comfortable here.” Several arms gestured in unison.

“As you have already seen, life at this depth is less abundant than nearer the mirrorsky. For a city the size of Benthicalia to thrive here, food must be brought in from above. Minerals and other materials found or mined nearby are exchanged for food and other substances with the inhabitants of the shallows.”

She considered. “If food is in such short supply, why do any of your kind or any mersons choose to live down here instead of higher up where it’s warmer, brighter, and easier to find something to eat?”

Wise old eyes regarded her with what she decided (or maybe hoped) was something less than pity. “My young changeling, while food is life, there is more to life than food. Benthicalia is famed for its culture, as a place to stimulate and exchange ideas, and as a community that offers peace in a setting of great solitude. It is those from above who come here to find rest and rejuvenation; not the other way around. Have you no such communities in your own world?”

Irina could think of several, but since there was no point in naming them she merely nodded.

Oxothyr appeared satisfied. “In our time here you must try to avail yourself of such edifying enrichment. It is incumbent upon one fortunate enough to be able to visit Benthicalia to do more than simply stare at pretty lights and gawk at noteworthy buildings.”

“Will there be time?” She found herself marveling at a cylindrical tower that sprouted branches like a baobab. Providing living quarters for numerous manyarms, each branch terminated in a red-hued globe filled with swimming deep-sea fish that all emitting the same steady vermilion glow.

Led by Chachel, the travelers rounded a corner and began to follow a sharply angled avenue up to the next level of the city. “Despite the urgency of the message we bring,” Oxothyr told her, “I do not expect the Tornal to grant us an audience for at least a day or two. That will give you time to absorb at least a few wonders.”

“You’ll show me around?” she asked hopefully as she performed a relaxing barrel roll beside him.

“Certainly not. I have far more pressing matters to attend to. If you cannot make your own way around a city as civilized and welcoming as Benthicalia, then I fear that your future in the realworld will amount to very little.” Letting forth a larger blast from his siphon he jetted on ahead, leaving her adrift in her own presumption.

Unlike in a terrestrial city, the structures that clung to the wide terraces on which Benthicalia was built were as easy to reach for residents and visitors alike as if they had been laid out on a flat mesa. Beneath the mirrorsky, up and down required no more effort to reach than did back and forward. Even more than in Sandrift and elsewhere, it was in Benthicalia that Irina truly came to appreciate the ease of access than came from free swimming as opposed to gravity-bound walking.

In the pleasant visitors’ residence where they found accommodation, windows served the same function as doors. Though there was a view from every chamber, there were no decks or porches. There was no need for such when one could drift outside a room, hover, turn somersaults, and take in the expansive, twinkling view from any conceivable angle. One spoke of moving in and out rather than up and down.

Unlike her companions, she was assigned her own separate living space. Whether this was out of deference to her presumed changeling sensibilities or because no one wanted to be around her any longer than was necessary she did not know and did not care. After weeks of living in intimate proximity to crowds of travelers and fighters, she was glad of the solitude.

There was not much to do in the warren-like residence while she and everyone else waited for a response to Oxothyr’s request for a meeting with the Tornal. Pale maroon with splotches of blue, the capsule-like chamber had been nurtured out of solid coral and then cultivated and hewn to add storage areas, a hygienic chamber whose facilities operated through the use of pressure differentials, and a small separate sleeping area dominated by enormous sponges that grew horizontally from the base of one wall. These provided as comfortable a sleeping platform as any she had yet encountered.

So much so, in fact, that she overslept. In the near total absence of daylight she only found out what had happened because she asked the time of a desk clerk. Juggling half a dozen thin inscribed tablets, the octopod flushed a polite pink as she provided not only the time but a brief explanation of how the inhabitants of the city managed to keep track of it in the absence of normal day and night.

“We keep time with fish,” she explained to the inquisitive visitor in a tone that was not at all condescending.

“Fish?” Irina had a vision of a clock face with herring forming the numbers of the hours and a pair of mackerel serving as ticking hour and minute hands.

“They’re on contract to the city.” The clerk emphasized her words by gesturing conversationally with several tentacles that were not occupied in other tasks. “I think it’s a school of amberjack who have the responsibility now. They migrate in a continuous vertical column. The ones at the top note the time according to the light and pass it down the line to the ones at the bottom. The last in line informs a city time worker who is responsible for seeing that the information is disseminated throughout the community. So despite the absence of natural light, we in Benthicalia always know what time it is.”

“Ingenious,” murmured an admiring Irina.

“Piscean,” corrected the octopus amiably. “I would never wish to be a fish myself, but they do have other uses besides as food.” She indicated a carved stone bowl resting on the coral counter. It was brimming with live mussels. “Snack?”

“Uh, no thanks. I don’t think my teeth are up to it.”

Several bands of commiserating blue ran through the length of the clerk’s body. “You unfortunate mersons. Give me a beak over teeth any day.”

As Irina explored the habitat, the other members of the Sandrift-Siriswirll group were nowhere to be found. Oxothyr’s whereabouts she knew: the shaman was off conducting important business, foremost of which was striving to obtain the meeting with the Tornal. The others were doubtless relaxing according to their individual tastes, recuperating from the long and difficult journey from Siriswirll. The strange changeling had been left to her own devices. That no one felt it necessary to look after her was a back-handed compliment to how well she had adapted, but it left her wondering how to proceed.

Gathering her nerve, she decided to go exploring on her own. She could not really get lost. Benthicalia was a big city, yes, but it did not compare in size or complexity to those of her own world. If she ran out of light, she would know it was time to retrace her kicks.

Swimming through the streets and passageways, exploring and marveling at the metropolitan surroundings, it took her a moment to realize why the act of simply moving around was such a pleasure. There were no vehicles, no forms of mass transit here. They were not necessary in a place where an individual’s own personal top speed was the benchmark for commuting. Some swimmers were, of course, faster than others. No merson could keep up with a manyarm, and many fish could out swim them. When you could as easily go over something as around it, distances shrank rapidly.

The city being divided into twenty-six levels instead of districts or boroughs, she amused herself by swimming from the fifteenth, where she and her companions had taken up residence, all the way up to the tenth. Evaluating each level along the way, she saw little difference between them. There were no pockets of poverty or great mansions. Wealth here was accounted in different ways than at home. Knowledge and skills still counted for much, but rewards took forms other than the crass accumulation of material things.

As the day wore on she could detect no lessening of or increase in activity. Sunk in and surrounded by darkness, the city functioned around the clock. She knew only that she was starting to get tired when she swam into an establishment from which music of a particular strain was emanating loudly.