Is it an affection which can be separated from lust? Is it an alliance of wills? Is it something like homesickness, like nostalgia – a longing for the familiar, no matter how timeworn and battered? Is it a recognition of limits, a kind of maturity – settling for what is rather than what might be?
Drake – who, in early youth, had been schooled ruthlessly in thought by hard taskmasters – could not keep from wondering.'I love you too,' said Zanya.
Drake knew she spoke out of sickness. She was dying: she needed him. Absolutely. But if she recovered? Why, then things would no longer be so simple, no longer love-love-love, but the contention of will against will, of ego against ego. The eternal game-playing of human relations.
Drake stopped trying to unravel the tail-chasing complexity of his own thoughts. He doubted he would ever get any absolute answer about the nature of love. Indeed, his education had included (as part of his training in the Inner Principles of the Old Science) a study of the Principle of Uncertainty, and the hopelessness of any quest for exact and absolute answers to anything.
(The Korugatu philosophers hold that we can be certain of some things at least, such as our own existence. As Klen Klo puts it: 'I think, therefore I am; I drink to unthink, which proves that I think.' But Drake's teachers had taught him a more rigorous, more pessimistic formula: T think I think, therefore perhaps I am.')
'Where are we?' asked Drake, thus beginning an Investigation of his surroundings.'Here,' said Zanya. 'Here.'
And now it was her turn to weep, and his turn to comfort her. While he held her close, he looked around, blinking away the last of his own tears. They were in the red bottle. They had to be. There was no other explanation. But it was not at all what he had expected.
They were camped between two ranks of monumental royal statues in a gloomy hall of utter silence. Sad and solemn, the kings of long-forgotten realms maintained a watch over them. Kings carved in rock on a scale so huge as to be oppressive. Ponderous entities of granite, of basalt, and unknown stones harder yet, and heavier. Lines of death and wisdom graved deep in their faces. Bearded men, some bare-headed, some helmeted. All armed.
And Drake, lying on his mattress with his woman in his arms, thought:This is power.Something about power.It speaks ofpo wer.
It was the ultimate art of the State: huge, cold, implacable, inhuman. Built to crush all fragile emotion. To convince mere mortal bones of their fragility, of the uselessness of their protest.And Drake (perhaps unfairly) thought:Gouda Muck would have loved this place.
And Yot, too.
In the distance, someone was moving. A man. Approaching. A single man. Walking.
Boots striking echoes from the ranks of statue-kings. Echoes in a place otherwise utterly silence. Cool. Immense. A roof lifted beyond shadows. Walls lost in the distance. The floor beneath . . . veined with red. As if a million million blood-bearing capillaries ran through the stone.Gently, Drake separated himself from Zanya.
'Dear treasure snake,' she said. 'What is it? Are you hungry? Here – drink this.'
And she handed him a curiously-carved cup of ivory. Inside was a dark, unwholesome fluid.Drake drank. Then spluttered.'Blood's grief! What's that?'
'Siege dust mixed with water,' said Zanya. 'Drink it. Come on! It's good for you!''Man, you've got to be kidding,' said Drake.But he forced it down regardless.
And the lone man walking solo bore down on them. Falchion at his side. Jon Arabin.'Drake,' he said. 'Recovered?''I live,' said Drake.
Looking for the ring, which he expected to see on Jon Arabin's hand. And did see.'Who wears the bottle?' said Drake.
'Rolf Thelemite, for the moment,' said Jon Arabin. 'We've got a raft of sorts on the surface. A sail of sorts, too. The wind is from the east, so we're making for Tor. That's closest, in any case.''And the Neversh?''It's dead,' said Jon Arabin.
Drake braved himself to his feet, holding his blanket around him.'What duty for me?' he said.
'To rest,' said Jon Arabin. 'To rest with your love. Nay, man – don't protest. All are resting if not needed on the surface. We'll be busy enough when we make shore at Tor.''All are resting?' said Drake. 'Where?''Above. Far above. You two . . . let privacy serve you.'
And, satisfied with what he had seen, Jon Arabin turned and walked away from the long avenue of ancient kings. They heard his boots for a long time until he vanished, ascending a staircase.'Who are these kings?' said Drake.
'Who they are,' said Zanya. 'Who they were. Let me -let me look at you.'
And she took the blanket away, and gazed on what she thought of as his beauty. Lean flanks. A fluff of gingerish hair on his chest. A scraggly ginger beard on his chin. Hair yellow, bleached toward pale by the sun. Scars of whip-marks on his back. Scar encircling left ankle, where slave iron had gnawed his flesh when he was labouring in servitude aboard a galley on the Velvet River.'Turn around,' demanded Zanya.
Upon which Drake thought to raise his hands above his head and spin like a dancer. But he found himself too sore. Which was scarcely surprising, since there were rainbow bruises all over his body.
'If we get to Ling,' said Zanya. 'If we get what we're seeking, if we get a cure – I'll want more than to look.''I know that, most dearest saucy wench,' said Drake.And hugged her.Ling was still far, but Tor was closer.
After five days at sea, the clumsy raft which carried the red bottle grounded on the shores of Tor. Soon, every survivor from the good ship Dragon was out in the open air. The shore was of rocks and sand edged with rough grass, beyond which grew cool forest. The sky was of opal-bright blue, washed with wind and sunshine.
Ish Ulpin and Bucks Cat immediately set off hunting. In the red bottle, they had fed on nothing but siege dust – a survival food which tastes as bad as it sounds.
The wizard Miphon also wandered off towards the forest. He wanted to be alone, to mourn the death of his friend Blackwood, and the loss of control of the red bottle to Jon Arabin. From the edge of the forest, Miphon looked back and saw Arabin standing in company with Drake Douay, Zanya Kliedervaust and Whale Mike.Whale Mike had the red bottle tied to his belt.Jon Arabin wore the ring which commanded the bottle.A good team: Miphon's chances of getting the bottle off them by bluff, guile or violence were more or less zero. So … to the forest, then . . .
Jon Arabin, watching Miphon go, guessed what he was feeling. Well, too bad. Jon Arabin had need of that red bottle. It would be the foundation of his new empire.He had worked it all out by now.The Greater Teeth were finished.
With the collapse of piracy as a profitable profession, those remaining on the Teeth were doomed to a life of ever-increasing poverty. Better to start afresh, here on Tor, which was rich in water and timber. They could build ships; they could trade between Ling, Stokos and the Scattered Islands; they could build a seapower empire.
'Tools,' said Jon Arabin, raising his voice in command. 'Rolf! Rally a work party. We need to get tools out of the red bottle. Aye. Axes. Hatchets. Saws, if they're to be found. Nails. We've a boat to build.'
'A boat?' said Drake. 'We'll need a ship to carry so many.'
'You not worry about any ship,' said Whale Mike. 'You build nice boat, take sick people to Ling. Friend Walrus, he tell me all about it. Magic snakes. Good stuff, eh? Maybe snakes here, good eating.'
'Mike's right,' said Jon Arabin. 'AH we need is an open boat. With so many men, we can build one quickly. Then make the journey to Ling, aye, soon enough. We're now but a hundred leagues from Ling.'
'He right,' said Whale Mike. 'After you gone, we start proper ship. You come back from Ling, we have ship finished. Sail north. We get people from Greater Teeth. That place not so good now. My wife like this place. She like green stuff, always complain Teeth all rock. My kids like this place too. You like it, Jon? We make you king, man. You make good king.'