Authors: Sharon Lee
Tags: #Fiction, #Fantasy, #General, #Contemporary, #Dark Fantasy
Carousel Seas (20 page)
It looked like word had gone out that Fun Country was the place for all the cool kids to be, and the cool kids—with their parents, sibs, and in some cases, their grandparents—had come down to the park to play.
The carousel went ’round, with only the briefest possible pauses to off-load and onload more passengers. At one point, there were fifty people in line; at another . . . more than that. Baxter Avenue was so packed with people that I couldn’t see past the press of bodies to Tony Lee’s. I took tickets and smiled and chatted, inching off the ride time just a little, while the orchestrion belted out “The Man on the Flying Trapeze,” “Daisy, Daisy,” “Beer Barrel Polka,” “The Sidewalks of New York”—and so on, until it went silent, having run to the end of the roll.
Normally, I’d just wait until there was a break in the crowd to rewind and start the machine again. A glance at the line was enough to convince me that there would never be a break in the line ever again—or until closing time, whichever came first.
Well, I thought, it’ll just have to run silent. Wouldn’t be the first—
“Mommy,” a high voice spoke from the depths of the line, “what happened to the music?”
“The CD got to the end,” a woman’s voice possibly belonging to Mommy answered. “It’ll start up again in a second.”
I sighed.
The orchestrion is an antique, and it plays punched paper rolls that are incredibly fragile and somewhat difficult to deal with, even if you’ve had as much practice as I’ve had. Not much sense trying to explain that to the little boy or his mom. Easier, and more satisfying, for everybody, to just start the music again.
I thought about that, very carefully, as the carousel spun ’round. And careful thought yielded the conviction that I could pull this off, with no loss of life, and without anyone being the wiser.
Therefore, I raised a tiny bit of the
jikinap
napping at the base of my spine, breathed in and very carefully visualized the steps necessary to rewind the roll and start it again. A little tickle of agreement met this effort; I felt a slight ripple of heat, and tasted just a hint of butterscotch at the back of my tongue. All of which meant that magic was on the case.
I hoped.
I hit the bell twice to signal the end of the ride, and watched the carousel slow down.
“Wait ’til she’s stopped before you get off,” I called. “Wait ’til the animals stop moving!”
They were good and careful—most were, though you’d get the occasional teenager who wanted the thrill of jumping out of the saddle at the height of his mount’s up-cycle.
I watched them dismount, again calling out helpful instructions.
“Exit gate right around to the left! Thank you for riding the Fantasy Menagerie Carousel! Come back again soon!”
They walked around the wheel until they found the exit gate, the inevitable two or three opting for their other left, and getting a little tangled in the crowd of their fellow riders, until somebody got them turned around.
While this was going on, I’d become aware of a tingling in my hands and fingers, and a little flicker of motion behind my eyes, accompanied by the barest taste of butterscotch. The pattern was familiar—could it be feedback from the
jikinap
I’d dispatched to rewind the orchestrion? I’d never felt my power working before, and wondered if I ought to be worried.
Though I really didn’t have much time to worry, right now.
“Welcome to the Fantasy Menagerie Carousel,” I told the first person in line, a teenage boy with feathery blond hair kissed white by the sun, who was holding hands with a girl wearing a purple shirt with a scoop so daring I could see the tops of her breasts.
I resisted the urge to ask, “Does your mom know what you’re wearing?” and instead continued the traditional greeting.
“Two tickets each, please; enjoy your ride!”
The last rider was through the gate when I noticed my hands weren’t tingling any more.
I hit the bell, and eased the lever up.
The orchestrion began to play.
* * *
What with one thing and another, Marilyn didn’t actually sound the closing horn until damn’ near one o’clock.
So
, I told myself, as I stepped through the door in the storm gate, into the at-last-silent park,
it’s a good thing Borgan couldn’t make it tonight, anyway.
Which assumed that Borgan had figured out and fixed whatever was wrong in his waters, and was now comfortably asleep on
Gray Lady
. I hoped that was the case.
But I didn’t believe it.
I pulled the door to, and reached for the lock, my attention mostly on wondering if I would seem . . .
clingy
if I just gave him a quick call to see how he was.
Kate, he’s a grown man
—considerable understatement, there.
He knows his waters and his business. Let him do what he knows—
I felt it, then, the weight on the land. The same weight, I was certain, that I’d felt before—the timid
trenvay
who had run away from Borgan.
Slowly, I turned toward it—as before, he or she was located in the lightless alley between Summer’s Wheel and the carousel’s storm wall.
“I’m glad you came back,” I said softly, while I sent warm tidings and promises of safety through the land. “Please don’t run away. I’m Kate Archer, Guardian of Archers Beach. I’d like to see you, and to get to know you—and serve you, if I may.”
As on the previous occasion, the weight shifted on the land. I had the impression that whoever it was had come one or even two cautious steps toward me . . .
Which was approximately the moment that all hell broke loose.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
MONDAY, JULY 10
LOW TIDE 4:54
A.M.
EDT
MOONSET 3:59
A.M.
The noise almost knocked me flat; every
trenvay
and Ozali within the bounds of Archers Beach had to have heard it—and the half-sighted mundane population, too. Hell, Gran’d probably heard it, inside her tree.
Loud as it was, it wasn’t the sound of the World Gate being opened, which would have relieved me, if I hadn’t noticed right then that the reason the shock hadn’t knocked me flat was because my
jikinap
had risen straight up my backbone, holding me up, like—no.
My
jikinap
was being drawn.
Memory flickered, and I was a kid again, in the garden of Aeronymous House. I was helping to gather flowers for the dinner table, a delicate task that taught fine use of one’s
jikinap
. My tutor was with me, and we had decided that a single crimson blossom would be the finishing touch for the arrangement that I would build from the mound of creamy flowers in the gathering basket.
We had turned, and suddenly the air . . . altered. Now, I would say that it felt like a storm coming, with ozone fizzing along nerve endings. Then, I only knew that I’d never felt anything like it before. I’d been well trained; in any unusual situation the first thing I was to do was to lock my meager store of power.
I managed to do it just an instant before the air contracted in a sudden sharp snap.
My tutor fell at my feet, pale flowers spilling over the pathstones. I dropped to my knees beside him, touching his face to verify what I could plainly see. His power had been wrenched from him. He was dead.
He’d misted into nothing under my fingertips, leaving them faintly damp.
Back in Archers Beach in the Changing Land, I snatched at my store of
jikinap
too late, exerting all of my will to slam it down to the base of my spine.
The drawing force was too strong for me. Despite my best, and most desperate, efforts, my power was moving up my spine. If I didn’t do . . . something . . . the Ozali who had arrived inside of that mind-numbing
bang
was going to drain me of power—and probably my life.
Kate
, I told myself,
let it GO
.
But my
jikinap
had been merged, however briefly, with Prince Aesgyr’s
jikinap
. And I was willing to bet that the Ozali behind the wall was no friend of Aesgyr’s.
Impossibly, the draw increased; I felt my power begin to fragment, cracking like paint that had been baked under the summer sun, tiny chips floating away. There was only one way that this could end. I’d lose my power, my life—
and
Aesgyr’s secrets, too.
No. That was not going to happen. I remembered my father, blasted into mist; my grandfather, refusing to believe what was happening to him, even as he crumbled into dust. No. That was not going to happen again. Not here. Not to me.
I was rigid, drawn up onto my toes by the force of the other’s will. Panting, I stubbornly clung to my fragmenting power—and opened myself to the land.
There was a sensation of coolness, as of a vast and welcoming grotto blooming beneath my feet.
“Freely given,” I gasped.
My
jikinap
. . . quivered. Condensed.
Then, it quietly drained away,
down
my backbone as if the punishing force that called it didn’t exist, flowing out of me, and into the land, absorbed like rainwater into a thirsty flowerbed.
The sensation of an intense, irresistible force trying to pull me in half—was gone, like a string snapped, and I went from on pointe to flat-footed, staggering for an instant before the land steadied me. I shivered, and received the impression that a cold, wet nose had been thrust into my hand. The land had my back, that was.
Good to know. Because, having survived the last half minute or so, now I had to deal with whoever was inside the storm gates. Which was, based on our recent interaction, an Ozali of great power and absolutely no concern for the well-being of others.
Who had chosen
not
to use the World Gate.
This isn’t good, Kate
, I told myself.
On the other hand, reinforcements ought to be arriving soon. I hoped. Mr. Ignat’
had
to have heard that noise—and Arbalyr. Nerazi. Borgan.
“Right beside you, Kate,” a familiar voice said calmly.
“Felsic.” I tried to keep the surprise out of my voice. “I’m not sure this one’s yours.”
“Anything that comes in that loud and that hungry is mine,” Felsic said grimly. “That ain’t good for the land—and it surely ain’t good for Peggy. Felled her like a log.”
Panic stitched a bright, hot line through my chest.
“You left her?”
“Vornflee’s sitting watch. I made sure she was right an’ tight before I come down. That’s what took me.”
“Just as well; we had some preliminary matters to settle.” I took a breath, hesitating, still expecting . . .
“The other’s will’ve gone to their services,” Felsic said softly. “To hold as fast as they can for the Guardian and the land.”
. . . and Felsic had left her service, to be the Guardian’s backup. That said . . . a lot about something. Too bad I didn’t have time right now to figure out what.
“All right, then,” I said, trying to sound cocky, and probably failing miserably. “Let’s get this thing done.”
I opened myself fully to the land, feeling the whole strength of Archers Beach rise into me. Not
jikinap
, but power.
Considerable
power, that could never be reft from me.
“That’s the way of it,” Felsic said approvingly, and I shoved the door open.
I’d turned the lights out when I closed the ride down, but the Ozali waiting for us was more than bright enough to light the space.
She was tall, and exuded cold. The metal storm walls already bore a coating of frost; icicles had formed on the carousel’s canopy, and a meadow of ice flowers populated the cement floor, clustering tightest at the hem of her robe.
I shivered, but not because of the cold.
The being before us wasn’t just a Master Ozali with no manners.
This
. . . was one of the Wise.
The fact that I’d been expecting the Wise to arrive any day now for the past couple weeks had done nothing to prepare me for the arrival of
this
Wise One at
this
time, and in such a manner.
“Quite a ruckus you made, there,” I said, by way of a greeting, and lifted my head to meet ice-blue eyes. “Would you like to tell me why?”
“I will speak with the Gatekeeper,” the Wise One said, though I didn’t see her mouth move.
“You’re speaking to the Gatekeeper.”
A sudden blast of snowflakes struck my face, stinging.
“You are not Ebony Pepperidge.”
I took a deep breath; the cold air helped clear my head.
“That’s right. I’m Ebony Pepperidge’s granddaughter, and I keep the Gate in my own right. Want me to show you how it works, so you can leave quieter than you came?”
The Wise One stared at me, no expression on her icy face. She didn’t seem to be aware of Felsic. I’d seen Felsic use that trick before; interesting that it seemed to work on a Wise One just as good as it worked on the Archers Beach cops. I’d have to ask after the technique, assuming that we, the carousel, and the town managed to survive the next couple minutes.
“What,” I asked, with as much patience as the occasion deserved—which is to say, none—“do you want?”
The cold eyes narrowed slightly.
“What I want depends upon the answer to my question. There has been an illicit use of this Gate. Why did the Gatekeeper allow this to occur?”
Fuck
. I had expected the Wise, when they arrived, would want to do a head-count of the prisoners. That this one was asking, not about the prisoners, but about Gate usage meant . . .
Well, it meant that Prince Aesgyr had managed to hide his actions from his enemies at home. Good for Prince Aesgyr, but bad for me, because there was no way I could cover for the Gate opening. The prince’s magical signature would have been all over that.
No, wait.
He’d used my information, coated in butterscotch, to open the Gate. Technically, then, the Keeper, or at least, the Keeper’s
jikinap
, had opened the Gate; nothing to see here, move on . . .
I took a careful breath.
“There has been no illicit use of the Gate,” I said firmly.
“The Gate was opened.”
I shrugged, stalling; hoping to annoy her into giving me a clue regarding her purpose.
“I had a customer.”
“Where did you send this . . . customer?”
I raised my eyebrows.
“Check the logbook, why not?”
Snow and wind struck my cheek, and I realized that the first slap had been on the order of a lovetap. I staggered, keeping my feet only because the land wouldn’t let me fall.
“Impertinence will be rewarded appropriately,” the Wise One told me.
Right. And as it turned out, she’d done me a favor. The blow had shaken loose a potentially useful thought.
Guilty conscience aside, how did I
know
which Gate opening had caught this particular Wise One’s attention? Time runs differently across the Six Worlds, and the way between. And God Himself knows how—or if—it operates wherever it is that the Wise keep household. Frosty here could’ve gotten her snowflakes in a twist over some piece of business that had happened a hundred local years ago, though the temporal drift wasn’t, I thought, quite that extreme.
I did a quick calculation. Gran had been in the Land of the Flowers for six months, Changing Land time. Which had roughly equaled two Sempeki weeks.
When she’d run for home, pursued by demons, I’d opened the Gate to let her through. Eleven weeks ago, that had been.
I took a careful breath.
This particular Wise One . . . was plenty arrogant, and more than willing to take offense. Still, a request for information wasn’t . . . necessarily . . . impertinence.
“Look,” I said, raising my hands so she could see how defenseless I was. “Look, I need some more information.
When
did this so-called illicit use take place?”
The Wise One drew herself up, and a dozen new ice flowers bloomed on the floor at her hem.
“Okay, that’s a tough one. How about location? Where did the Gate open
to
?”
Her long nose wrinkled, as if she’d detected a bad odor, and I thought she was going to take another swing at me.
Instead, and to my considerable surprise, she answered.
“The Gate to Sempeki was opened, illicitly.”
“Well, not necessarily. I did open the Gate to Sempeki recently. But I didn’t send anybody through; I let a traveler in.”
“That is illicit.” This time the smack was hard enough I saw stars mixed in with the snowflakes.
I shook my head to clear it, which was a mistake; Frosty had clipped me good and proper. Then I realized that the land had caught me before I’d collapsed; my mouth was tingling with the green effect of healing. I tasted blood, too—which was washed away by a sudden infusion of cool, salty energy. I recognized the signature—Felsic’s “home brew.”
I took a breath and centered myself, letting the power of the land fold right around me as I met the Wise One’s eyes again.
“That use was not illicit,” I said, impressed to hear that my voice was steady. “The Gate was opened, properly, by the Gatekeeper, and the traveler passed through in good order.”
“That traveler was a criminal.”
“Not my job to check warrants. If Sempeki didn’t want them to cross, Sempeki should’ve stopped them.”
This time, the smack hit the land’s protection; I saw the flare when it bounced. Frosty didn’t seem to notice.
“We will not argue semantics,” she announced. “Be it heard that you, the Gatekeeper, and this, the World of Change, are put on notice by the InterWorld Council of Wisdom. The World of Change has long been a nexus of irregularity, disorder, and inconvenience. This will no longer be permitted. Should there be any more such irregularities as have been noted in the past, the Gate will be closed, and the World of Change will be allowed to wither and die. This by order and decree of the Wise, and the seal set upon it by Isiborg of the Council.”
She moved for the first time, opening her arms, blizzards falling from her jagged fingers.
“It is done.”
The light went out.
“Dammit!”
I raised my hand, fingers curled around the little ball of feylight, strode to the circuit box and threw the switch.
Ordinary electric light flooded the enclosure. I turned first to the carousel, which seemed very little the worse for our visitor’s chilly nature. There were no icicles dangling dangerously from the canopy; the animals glowed like new-painted, but appeared to be dry. I looked down. The floor was dry, and innocent of frost flowers.
“What did that mean, about cutting us off?” Felsic asked.
“Well, on a sliding scale from Nothing Much to We’re All Gonna Die . . .” I shook my head. “It depends on who you ask. According to a recent history lesson, it seems to me that cutting us out of the loop is much worse for the rest of the loop than it is for us. Unless I’m missing something. Which is possible. But one thing’s for certain . . .”