Jo Clayton: A Gathering Of Stones

The way Maks chose was narrow, steep, treacherous. Snow above was loose, always falling, avalanche a constant danger. Underfoot there were patches of ice and always more snow. They struggled on and on; once again Simms was traveling with a driven person. The only thing that bothered him this time was his inability to help; he’d never been in snow before he crossed the Dhia Asatas, he knew almost nothing about mountain traveling. He told himself he was useful around the camps, doing most of the work so Maks could rest. It was something.

On the third day they came on a small stream wandering through a ravine choked with aspen and waist-deep snow. They made camp on the rim of that ravine in a thick stand of conifers. Around the bulge of the mountain there was a windswept cliff that looked down into the bowlshaped valley where Tok Kinsa drowsed in the watery winter sunlight. They lay there staring down at the city.

Tok Kinsa, Home Ground of the Magus Prime. Power Ground of Erdoj’vak, Patron of the Rukka Nagh, Vanner and Gsany both. Like most local gods, he slept a lot, he was sleeping now.

No Outer Rukks allowed within the walls outside the pilgrim season and the season had finished weeks ago. No strangers allowed within the walls, with the minor exception of a few well-known scholars who were specifically invited to visit the Magus.

A bright city, full of saturated color, reds, yellows, blues, greens shining like jewels against the equally brilliant white of the snow, a paisley city with every surface decorated, even both sides of the immense curtain wall, in the geometries of Rukk design. Inside the walls the streets were paved with alternating black and white flags; they were laid out like the spokes of a wheel, radiating from the round tower with the spiraling ramp curling up around it, the Zivtorony.

The streets were busy with Kinseers dressed in dramatic mixes of black and white, even the children. The city was busy, brightly alive, but the massive gates were closed and stayed closed. There were no footprints in the snow around Tok Kinsa.

Lying on folded blankets with blankets over them, Maks and Simms watched the whole of the day and by the sundown certain things had become obvious.

They couldn’t go in openly or disguised. No one was entering the city and even if they were, there was no way Maks would pass as a Rukk. A six-foot seven M’darjin mix would stand out in any crowd.

It’d be impossible to slip over the walls without the Magus perceiving them and brushing them off like pesky flies. Maks was in no shape for a protracted challenge-battleespecially with a Magus Prime supported by one of the Great Talismans.

The attack would have to be quick, leap in, seize Sharldalakh, leap out the next second, nothing else would work.

“The longer we hang around up here, the more certain it is the Magus will locate us and attack.” The fire threw black shadows into the lines and creases in Maks’ face, underlin-

ing the fatigue in his voice. “I have no doubt he’s probing for us right now, reading the could-be nodes over and over and plotting the changes.”

Simms was watching his face, paying little attention to what he said; he didn’t understand could-be nodes or any of that higher magic, he knew tones of voice and new lines in the face he loved. And he knew how to get into impossible places, though he’d never tried something so impossible as that snow-sealed city on the other side of the mountain. “Danny jump us over traps in the Henanolee Heart. C’d you jump us into the Zivtorony?”

“In, yes. Out, I don’t know. If we have to tear things apart searching for Shaddalakh, it gives the Magus time to throw a noose round us and squeeze.” He opened the wallet and pulled out a handful of parchment sheets, looked through them, pulled out a plan of the city, discarded that an useless, took up a sheet with diagrams of the tower. He passed it over to Simms. “Any ideas?”

Simms spread the sheet across his lap, bent over it, guessing at what the lines meant; he couldn’t read the writing, he could barely read Arsuider and this was something else. His fingertips felt itchy, tingling. “Do y’ b’lieve the Magus know it’s you coming?” He thought a minute. “Or someone like you?”

“Sorceror? Yes. He’d know that.”

“Then I tell you one thing, he got Shaddalakh where he c’n reach out an’ touch him.” He smoothed his hand across the parchment. “Gotta jump direct.” There was a vertical view, the tower sliced down the middle to show how the levels were arranged. He brushed his fingers up the center of the view, stopped where the tingling grew intense, almost painful. He closed his eyes. No image, but he smelled roast geyker and his mouth watered. He was startled. He moved his fingers on up the tower. The tingle faded, the taste went away. He looked up, frowning.

“What is it?”

“Smell anythin’, like meat cookin’?”

“No.”

Simms touched the diagram again, he didn’t close his eyes this time, but there it was, the rich, mouth-watering aroma of red meat swimming in its own gravy. “Magus eatin’ dinner,” he said.

Maks looked at Simms’ fingers resting lightly on the parchment, trembling a little. “Dowsing?”

Simms blinked. “I..” He looked down at his hand, lifted it off the drawing as if the parchment had suddenly gotten hot. “I never did that before.” He was delighted with the discovery, it was a gift he could give his lover, a wanted gift, a needed gift.

Maks smiled. “Told you, little witch, there’s Talent wasting in you; you should train it. Try for Shaddalakh.”

“Do m’ best.” He rubbed his thumb across his fingertips, he was nervous, both hands were shaking. He looked at the vertical drawing, rejected it and moved to the floor plans of the different levels. One by one he brushed his fingers across them. When he touched the third level, he smelled the roast again, located it in a long narrow wedge of a room. That was the Magus, he got no sense of Shaddalakh. He moved on, level to level until he’d touched all seven levels. Nothing more. He shook his head. “All I read is Magus.” He grinned suddenly. “Or maybe t’s m’ belly yearnin’ for roast geyker.”

Maks scowled at the fire. “I’d rather avoid a confrontation with him, but it looks like we have to remove the Magus before we start hunting.” He rubbed his hand along his thigh as if the palm were suddenly sweaty. “Tonight,” he said “I go tonight. If I wait, I get weaker while he gets stronger.”

Simms set the parchment aside, slipped a sleeve knife from its sheath and began working on the edge with a small hone. “What time?”

“Simmo…”

“No, Maks. If y’ have any feelin’ for me, no.”

“It’s because I do…”

“Turn things round an’ think ‘bout it, y’ see?”

“Ahhh! Why do I always love contrarians! Brann who never lets me get away with anything and little Kori who has to be tied down to keep her out of trouble and you, stubborn man, if something happens to you, I die a bit.”

“Do I hurt less if you go down? Am I s’ useless, all I am ‘s a bedmate?”

“Being right all the time, it’s as bad as a taste for getting up early.”

Simms smiled happily at Maks, knowing he’d won his point. “What time?”

“Two hours after midnight.”

“You get some sleep, Maksa, you the one gonna do all the work. I’ll clean up here and wake y’.”

“Simmo, don’t hobble Mule or Neddio and set out the grain we have left.”

“Yeh. Give ‘em a chance, we don’ be back. Pass me the wallet, Maksa, I’ll put this away.” He picked up the plan. “No use leavin’ it out.”

“Keep it by you, you’ll have to dowse again before we go. The Magus won’t be sitting at the dinner table then, no telling where he’ll be. Tungjii bless, Simmo, I don’ know how I ‘could have managed this without you.”