Jo Clayton Drinker 02 Blue Magic

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those clouds ever let down their load, it would fall as sleet rather than
rain, a few de-grees more and the Plain might have this year s first snow.
Yaro, collect us two or three of those quilts, please? And here, she tossed
two golds to
Yaril, leave these somewhere the farmwife will find them but a thief would
miss. I know we re gifting the farmer with three fine mules, but he didn t sew
the quilts and he doesn t use the table we re walking off with. I know, I
know, not walking, flying. You happy now, Dan? Shuh! save your ah hmm wit
until we re somewhere you can back it up. If you need something to occupy you,
figure for me how long our flying table will need to get us to Deadfire.
Danny Blue danced his fingers over the sensors; the table lowered itself
smoothly to the flagging. He got to his feet, stretched, stood fingering a
small cut the sor-cerously sharpened knife had inflicted on him when he used
it to shave away his stubble. Ahzurdan jogged my hand, he told Brann, he keeps
growling at me that adult males need beards to proclaim their manhood,
it s the one advantage he had over
Maksim, he could grow a healthy beard and his teacher couldn t, the m darjin
blood in him prevented, but I can t stand fur on my face so all old Ahzurdan
can do is twitch a little. He fingered the cut and scowled past Brann at the
wooden fence around the kitchen garden. It s hard to say, Bramble. Last night,
who was it, Yaril, she said we d reach the mountains late afternoon today, say
we were riding, that s ... hmm ... what? Sixty, seventy miles? Jay, from this
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side the hills, how far would you say it is to
Deadfire Island?
Jaril kicked his heels against the pot. Clouds, he said. We couldn t get
high enough to look over the hills. He closed his eyes. Before we
left on the Skia Hetaira, he said, his voice slow and remembering,
we wanted to get a look down into Maksim s Citadel, we weren t paying much
attention to the hills ... Yaro? Yaril dumped quilts and pillows onto the
table, walked over to him. She settled beside him, her hand light on his
shoulder. They sat there quietly a moment communing in their own way, pooling
their memories.
Jaril straightened, opened his eyes. Far as we can remember, those hills
ahead are right on the coast. You just have to get through them, then
you re more or less at Silagmatys. About the same distance, I d say,
from here to the hills, from the hills to Deadfire. Maybe a hundred miles
altogether, give or take a handful.
Dan nodded. I see. Well ... He clasped his hands behind him and considered
the table. If the sled goes like it s supposed to, flying time s somewhere
between hour and a half, two hours.
Instead of two days, Brann said slowly. She looked up. The heavy clouds hid
the sun, there wasn t even a watery glow to mark its position, the grayed-down
light was so diffuse there were no shadows.
She moved her shoulders impatiently. Jay, can you tell what time it is?
Jaril squinted at the clouds, turned his head slowly until he located the sun.
Half hour before noon.
Brann thrust her hands through her hair. Her stomach was knotting, there was a
metallic taste in her mouth. Instead of two days, two hours. Two hours! Things
rush-ing at her. Danny was cool as a newt, the kids were cooler, but her head
was in a whirl. She felt like kicking them. They were waiting for her to give
the word. She looked at the table, smiled because she couldn t help it,
charging through the sky on a kitchen table was pleas-antly absurd though what
was going to happen at the end of that flight was enough to chase
away her brief flash of amusement. She wiped her hands down her sides. Ahh!
she said. Let s go.
16. The Beginning Of The End.
SCENE: Deadfire island. Taking color from the clouds, the bay s water is
leaden and dull; it licks at a nailparing of a beach with sand like powdered
charcoal; horizontal ripples of stone rise from the sand at a steep slant in a
truncated pyramid with a rectangular base. About halfway up, the walls rise
sheer in a squared-off oval to a level top whose long axis is a little over
half a mile, the short axis about five hundred yards, with elaborate
structures carved into the living stone (the dominant one being an immense
temple with fat-waisted columns thirty feet high and a central dome of
de-mon-blown glass, black about the base, clear on top, the clear part acting
as a con-centrating lens when the sun s in the proper place which happens only
at the two equinoxes). On the side facing Silaga-matys a stubby landing juts
into the bay; a road runs from the landing through a gate flanked with huge
beast paws carved from black basalt, larger than a two-story house,
three-toed with short powerful claws; it continues between tapering brick
walls that ripple like ribbons in a breeze, then climbs in an oscillating
sprawl to the heights.
Settsimaksimin stands in the temple gar-den, leaning on a hoe as he watches a
nar-row stream of water trickle around the roots of bell bushes and trumpet
vines. Most of the flowering plants have been
shifted from the flowerbeds into winter storage, but there are
enough bushes with brilliantly colored frost-touched leaves to leaven the
dullness of the surroundings. Behind him Amortis in assorted forms is
flickering restlessly about the temple, her fire alternately caged and
released by the temple pillars; she is working herself into a fury so she can
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