on the shore. A number of other punts and the occasional private barge or paddle-scow moved up and down the waterways, but most of the citizens seemed to have already retired to their homes.
Further along, the canal narrowed and began to wind sharply. Momor turned into a side-channel where the houses became meaner and more closely crowded, although still neat enough. They were made of pole and thatch, set on stilts in the mud, and often connected to one another by board walkways. Tiny watercraft were tied to laddered pilings below them. A multitude of feebly glowing lamps shone from unglazed windows, screened from flying insects by cloth or bead curtains. She saw people moving about within the houses, heard laughter, crying babes, music, and the nightcries of frogs and birds. The odors of exotic cooking and human waste vied with the rich perfume of the flowers that filled ornamental containers on almost every rickety balcony.
Induna unfastened her heavy cloak and folded it on the thwart beside her. Beneath it she wore a simple russet-colored linen gown. Momor said, ‘That’s right, mistress. You won’t need a wool mantle here in Mikk-Town. Our weather’s a far cry from that in Tarn. Nice and warm year-round. Overwarm during the rainy season, if you want the truth. You planning to stay long?’
‘I don’t know,’ she said wearily. The message was all that really mattered.
During the voyage, she had tried to visualize her reunion with Deveron countless times, but without success. In truth, she didn’t know his heart, his true self, well enough to speculate. Their time together before he was forced to flee had been too brief. Even after they were engaged to marry he had not opened his mind to her as windtalented lovers were wont to do. He was unfailingly gentle and considerate, but always on guard. They had kissed and caressed and laughed together but had never joined their bodies. It was not the custom in Tarn to swive before wedlock – although one honored more in the breach than the keeping by many young couples. But Deveron had respected it.
‘Does he know you’re coming, lass?’ The boatman’s bantering voice had turned compassionate.
‘No.’
‘Is he a relation?’
‘In a manner of speaking. We – we were once betrothed, but unhappy circumstances caused us to part. It’s been many years.’
‘Oho! So that’s the way of it. And now things’ve changed for the better and you’re come to tell him the good news, eh? Well, Haydon the Sympath has no wife or regular doxy here. He keeps house for himself. So mayhap you’re in luck.’
She said nothing, having no illusions about her upcoming reception. If Deveron had wanted her to join him in his exile, he would have found a way to get word to her long ago, although Tarn was far beyond windspeech range, even for persons as highly talented as the two of them. But he had not sent for her. She knew that he had escaped from Conrig Ironcrown’s agents sixteen years earlier; but whether he lived or not had been a mystery that was solved only when the Source bespoke her and sent her on this improbable journey.
‘Your man’s done well for himself in the years spent away from home,’ Momor was saying. He had stowed his pole in the boat and installed a sculling oar at the stern when the waters of the canal became deeper. ‘Even the rich folk consult Haydon, since they know he keeps his mouth shut. Was he also a sympath in Tarn?’
‘We call them shaman-healers. Dev-Haydon was one, and so am I.’
Her reply inspired a drawn-out account of bodily miseries suffered by the boatman and his family, along with requests for free medical advice that lasted until the punt finally drew up at an isolated dock. Two small craft were tied there – a wooden dinghy and a peculiar elongated skiff fashioned from sheets of some thin material resembling treebark. The house served by the dock stood alone on an island that was otherwise densely forested with strange tall trees having narrow trunks crowned with mops of feathery leaves. One of the dock-pilings was adorned with a large carving of an owl, hung about with garlands of snail-shells. Another bore a brass ship’s bell on a bracket and a lantern with a guttering flame.
‘The sympath’s sign,’ Momor said, indicating the nightbird’s image. ‘Both an invitation and a warning. Owls are rare in this part of the world, omens of wisdom because they see in the dark…but also of sudden death because they swoop to kill on silent wings. Haydon’s not to be trifled with, either.’
He sculled his punt up to the dock and tied the line to a cleat, then helped Induna to climb out. ‘Will you want me to wait, mistress? I’ll have to charge triple. My own bed’s waiting.’
‘No. You need not stay.’ She gave him his fee. ‘Am I supposed to ring this bell?’
‘I’d recommend it.’ Momor gave a laugh without much humor in it, slipped the line, and glided briskly away. In a few moments he was lost to sight around a bend in the canal.
Induna studied the owl image for a moment. The bird had been Deveron’s heraldic cognizance and this was certainly his house. Unlike most of the flimsy dwellings she had seen, it was well-constructed of squared logs, Tarnian-style, with a covered porch surrounding it. Its roof was slate slabs, steeply pitched to shed rain, and the chimney was of stone. The windows that faced the canal were not large. They had been fitted with storm-shutters and were curtained by what looked like straw matting. Slivers of lamplight penetrated them, casting golden quadrangles on the ground. The front door was made of iron-bound planks. If he wished, Haydon the Sympath could turn his house into a rather tight little fort.
And that’s why you never sent word to me, Induna said to herself. Deveron had not wanted to risk her life, should Ironcrown’s assassins hunt him down.
She stood irresolute for a few more minutes, quite certain that he knew she was there, not wanting to disturb the gentle jungle sounds with the brass bell’s clangor. Finally, with the folded cloak tucked under one arm and her fardel under the other, she walked down the dock and along the stone-bordered path to the porch. Then she knocked on the door.
It opened almost immediately. He had been waiting.
He wore an unadorned tunic and trews of dark green camlet, well worn and not especially clean; but his belt was finely tooled and had a golden buckle. Around his neck a flat gold case engraved with an owl hung from a handsome chain. There were new lines at the corners of his vibrant blue eyes, and his mouth had grown thinner and tighter. He had a short beard and a neat moustache. His nut-brown hair was touched with grey and cut shorter than she remembered, combed over his forehead and ears like a close-fitting helmet.
‘Welcome, love,’ he said quietly. ‘Come in and be at home.’
In the dragon’s devouring abyss, darker than night and shot through with giddy red sparks, Deveron Austrey waited angrily for death. Meanwhile, he dreamed of the time Induna finally found him.
She came with tentative steps into the house’s sitting room, which was separated from the apotheck workbenches and shelves at the rear by a long counter with a half-door set into it. The fireplace against the lefthand wall held a small nest of glowing coals in its grate. A steaming teakettle hung from an iron crane and a covered stoneware crock stood on the warming-hob.
She seemed at a loss for words, still carrying the folded cloak and the leather case. Her smile was almost fearful and her eyes remained fixed on his face, as if comparing it with another long remembered.
‘Give me your things,’ he said gently. ‘Be seated in the cushioned chair by the table. Is this all you have with you, or did you leave more baggage in town? I can have it sent for.’
‘There’s
