A World Too Near (53 page)

He turned to Anzi. “I’m sorry,” he whispered.

A small smile came to her lips. “I’m not. It has been the life I hoped for, Titus.”

“Too short,” he said, embracing her. He looked at her brave face, and loved her painfully more than a moment before.

They stood as soldiers shinnied down the ropes from the cabin. One of them approached as the others pulled the guy ropes, securing the craft.

The soldier bowed to them. “General Ci Dehai will have you come aboard, Ren Kai.”

Anzi looked up at Quinn in astonishment, instantly recognizing the pseudonym that he had used. They still had cover.

Ci Dehai. Yulin’s man, once.

Quinn and Anzi followed the soldier to the craft, where a hatchway opened to receive them.

Johanna floated free of her body, the pain in one place, her mind in another. She heard distant voices, speaking too weakly to be heard. A cold wind swept across her mind. She was in motion, moving toward some last destination. She thought it might be an angel who carried her, but then, against her cheek, she felt the metal weave of a Tarig vest, and knew the angel must wait a little longer.

The movement stopped. Something warm fell on her face. It felt like the sun. She opened her eyes but could see nothing. She was blind.

“Johanna.”

She knew that voice. Was it her father? Was it Titus? Those memories were falling away, now. Best to receive the Kingdom with nothing in your arms.

“Johanna,” came the voice again.

A strong hand came under her head, creating a pillow. “This is your forest.”

The sunlight fell on her face, her open eyes. She tried to speak, failed.

After a time she heard, “Who told you how to approach the engine?” The voice was gentle, yet insistent.

She thought it would be polite to answer. She tried, but nothing came out. Finally she managed to whisper, “Morhab.” It was the lie that Lord Oventroe had suggested. It was such a good lie.

“Ah. Morhab,” the Tarig lord said. “So we have guessed.” A long time passed as the lord held her. His deep voice came to her through a fog: “And now Titus Quinn comes to the engine to destroy it. So the Rose knows our purpose.”

She tried to shake her head.
No, no.

“Do not lie again, Johanna. They do know.”

With great effort she whispered, “But they have. Nan plague.”

“Nan? Molecular breakdown?”

She mouthed the word yes. The lord held her with such tenderness. She knew that if he had wanted to kill her, he would have. He had beaten her so that Nehoov wouldn’t garrote her.

The sun was sweet on her eyelids; she fell into unconsciousness. But it wasn’t over yet. She blinked her eyes open. Mustering herself, she pushed out the words, “You don’t. Dare.”

“What do we dare not do, Johanna?”

“Kill the Earth.”

“Because of Titus Quinn?”

“He has the nan.” She wanted to say that although the secret of the engine was out, the lords dare not strike against the Earth. Oventroe had told her what to say. Had she said it all? She hoped so. There was no more breath left.

She lay in Inweer’s arms, her breaths farther and farther apart.

He spoke again. But by then she was far away.

Ci Dehai pointed out the viewport of the dirigible. “See that distant vessel?”

Looking in the direction that Ci Dehai pointed, Quinn saw a godman’s airship in the distance, the face of the Miserable God an angry red blur.

The general smiled on the half of his face that wasn’t too scarred to move. “I never knew you for a religious man, Ren Kai. But that godwoman is fond of you.”

For now it was understood between them that Quinn was Ren Kai, a simple godman who had once been in the company of Benhu, and had come to minister to the troops at Ahnenhoon.

“The Venerable Zhiya,” Quinn acknowledged. “I am as religious as she is, as it turns out.”

The general threw him an ironic look. “No doubt true.” He looked around his private cabin, to be sure that an aide had not entered. “She thought you would need help, and I agreed that once again, you did.”

There had been a time when Quinn first came into the presence of Master Yulin that Ci Dehai had helped a great deal. He had taught Quinn to fight like a Chalin warrior, and hold himself as one. Now the general was doing more than help. He was taking sides. Quinn knew that Zhiya could be persuasive. He owed much to her, and hoped to repay her someday.

As Quinn watched out the viewport, the airship shrank in the sky. Quinn silently thanked her. Perhaps she thought he had come to Ahnenhoon to spirit Johanna away. She would be surprised to learn what he had really come for, and perhaps not so surprised at what he ended up doing.

Anzi came to his side, bowing to Ci Dehai. The general scowled at her. “In the center of trouble again, Anzi.”

“Yes, thankfully.”

Ci Dehai squinted his one eye, wondering if she was being impudent. His response was cut short as Quinn removed the cirque from his pocket and examined it. The general regarded it with loathing, having heard from Quinn about its contents.

The chain coiled there, warmed by its raging metabolism. “A plague,” Quinn said.

The general’s voice came out in a rumble. “Take it to the middle of the Nigh. Do not risk the shallows.”

“I’ll need a vessel,” Quinn said.

“Would the navitar Ghoris suit you?” Ci Dehai smiled at Quinn’s surprised reaction. “She is waiting for you.”

“How—,” Quinn began.

Ci Dehai’s glance slid to the viewport. “Zhiya has connections to the navitars— personal ones. She said Ghoris would help you, but how she can be sure of such things, I prefer not to know.”

Ci Dehai likely knew a good deal more than he claimed. Quinn had asked the general why he was helping them, but all he would say was, “A favor to an old friend.” Ci Dehai had made a choice, and it was against the bright lords. Against Yulin, even. In the march of events, it was a time for choosing, whether you were high or low. The steward Cho, Suzong, Mo Ti, the Hirrin servant of Chiron—all had been forced to decide.

Thinking of his own choice, he gazed at the chain in his hand.

Hold on, he urged.

Once on board the navitar’s vessel, Quinn and Anzi stood on the deck, the sole occupants of the ship. Greeted by the Ysli ship keeper, their only glimpse of Ghoris was a red swath of cloth in the pilot’s cabin, a deck above. She brought the vessel far out onto the silver stream. There, the ship hovered, one side of the vessel in deep shadow from the storm wall.

Whether Ghoris understood the thing Quinn was about to do, he wasn’t sure. The ship keeper hadn’t allowed him to speak with her, but had conveyed Quinn’s request for transport to the river’s middle.

Anzi stood next to Quinn as he brought the chain from his pocket.

“Did I do the right thing, Anzi?” he asked.

“I don’t know,” she answered. “But throw it, Titus, since you must. Throw it.”

He balled his hand into a fist around the cirque.

She whispered to herself, to the river: “We each love the wrong universe.”

Quinn answered her: “No. We love them both, that’s all.” With a powerful cast, he hurled the cirque into the Nigh. It fell without a splash, like a rock into a cloud.

Then, in the spot where the chain had fallen, a funnel appeared. A yellow-and-green froth spat up from it and sucked down again. For an instant the river itself became an iridescent gold. Then it lay silver and flat once more.

The ship keeper watched all this from the door to the passenger cabin.

“Where bound?” he asked, the immemorial question of the ship keeper.

Anzi turned to answer him. “As far as we can go,” she said.

CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

Three things attract the attention of the Miserable God: an
earnest godman, a vain beku, and a hopeful sentient. But only
one makes Him laugh.

—Hoptat the Seer

S
YDNEY RODE HARD, with Riod’s hooves thundering beneath her. At her side rode Akay-Wat, Takko, Adikar, and a multitude of others, some of them new to her.

They were fifteen thousand strong and growing larger every day. The camp was on the move, but the strongest mounts ran a race, kicking up the steppe into a storm of dust. Perhaps they would let their leader win this race, though she urged them on, sending through Riod her challenge to the best riders of ten encampments: “Ride, ride!” Under her, Riod took up the cry subvocally, urging the mounts to do their best, to surpass him if they could.

At last Ochrid, a mottled brown-and-white mount, dashed ahead, taking the lead, his rider whooping with joy.

It could be no proper race with so many running, but each group of mounts and riders formed their own competitions, and in the end, there were a hundred winners, including Ochrid. Sydney and Riod were pleased to be second in their group, as out of practice as they had grown during the time when Sydney stayed close to her tent, hiding her co-opted sight.

By Heart of Day, the massive herd turned back, heading to a camp that had begun setting up in the rear.

The only shadow on the day was the lingering sadness over Distanir’s death, an event that had come to Riod’s mind the moment it happened. Mo Ti was still alive. This was the last thing Sydney and Riod had heard from them.

Riod felt Sydney’s changed mood when she thought of this.
Best rider
, he sent.
Mo Ti will return.

She prayed that he would. When he did, he would have news of the thing she had asked him to do.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered. It startled her that she had spoken. It surprised her even more that she was thinking of Titus Quinn. No one should have their father’s death on their hands. But she wouldn’t permit him to ruin her world, her sway, and all the mounts and riders she held under her protection. Not even having heard his last message to her:
I love you.
After so long, those simple words struck hard. If he had said more, or justified himself, she might have closed her heart. But simply,
I love you.
It both lifted her spirits and darkened them. What was done was done.

Helice wasn’t riding today. She never rode, being uneasy around the Inyx and unable to bond with her mount. In time she would find more comfort here, as Sydney had. There were times when Sydney wondered if Helice had lied about the cirque and what it would do. But Riod claimed she spoke the truth. Over the days since her arrival, Helice had tried hard to be a friend. But she wouldn’t ride, and this was a barrier between them.

As the day burned to its hottest phase, Sydney and Riod at last returned to camp. When they approached their pavilion, a stranger waited.

Akay-Wat dismounted and went forward to determine who it was. Returning to confer with Sydney, Akay-Wat announced it was a Chalin woman come by caravan with a gift.

A gift? But from whom? Sydney was on the verge of asking, but Helice approached, eager to know, curious as everyone was. A small knot of riders watched Sydney approach the stranger.

“From Ahnenhoon,” is all the stranger would say in front of so many.

As Sydney motioned the newcomer into the tent, Helice made as though to follow, but Sydney stopped her. “I will call you in. Let me discover what gift this is, first.” She had an inkling that the gift was personal; that she might have to fight to keep her composure. What if it was news from Mo Ti? A heavy dread fell over her. She invited the traveler into the tent.

Helice stepped back, her cheeks red with the rebuke. She would see it that way. Sydney was learning that Helice was only happy when she knew as much or more than others. But Akay-Wat remained outside as well. For now, she wanted no company.

Once inside the tent, Sydney let the woman unwrap the package from Ahnenhoon. It was a mechanical device. For viewing a likeness, the messenger said. This wasn’t from Mo Ti; it was from her mother. Expecting to hear of her father’s death, she had instead received a recording from Johanna. A stab of relief hit her, making her almost glad to have news of her mother. Receiving instructions on how to activate the portrait, Sydney sent the messenger from the tent.

She and Riod were the only ones to see Johanna’s image that day. Johanna wore a gray gown with a belted blue coat. Her hair fell down her back, still long and dark as Sydney remembered it. She had not aged. It seemed wrong that after so many years, there would be no testimony in the face. Sydney stepped closer, looking into Johanna’s face.

Her mother’s gaze at close range was certain and strong, as though she had vowed to do something of supreme difficulty, as though she urged Sydney to do the same. Sydney could not have said why Johanna looked so brave in that image. She had never thought that her mother might have need of bravery. She fought tears. So much was lost.

It was best that Johanna had chosen not to say anything. There was nothing Johanna could know about Sydney now, or about what her daughter had chosen for her life. But as her mother looked at her with such conviction, Sydney knew that she had been given a gift, just as the messenger said. It wasn’t merely a portrait, but in a way, a promise—a reassurance that the striving was worth it. She took that meaning from Johanna’s strong gaze. It would all be well, eventually. All well.

Johanna had survived the Tarig, and in some way overcome them, of that Sydney was convinced. They could be overcome. Even the Rose in its dark purpose could be pacified. It would all be well.

She thought of Mo Ti, and she silently urged him, Come home again, Mo Ti. We have much
to do. Come home.

Leaning against Riod, and taking comfort from his steady heart, Sydney let herself hope.

EPILOGUE

F
OR A REASON SHE COULDN’T QUITE SAY, Australia’s New South Wales looked like home to Janna Weer. But she had never lived on plains like these.

According to her official story, she was a city girl, born and bred. Janna doubted this, although she couldn’t be sure. For the benefit of other people she had a background story, but for herself, the past was a blank. Sometimes her imagination conjured up false memories. One was a recurring fancy that across these grasslands armies passed back and forth like scythes harvesting souls in a never-ending war. She didn’t talk about this for obvious reasons, nor did she talk about her past. That was good enough for her neighbors, who knew that wealthy people could do or say as little as they pleased.