— XIII —
There was no coral, but there was algae. There were fish, but they had no color. Subdued of scale and anxious of eye, they swam mostly alone. In this place of gray gloom and dark shadows, schooling was not a wise defense mechanism. Better for one to be eaten than dozens.
The milieu through which they darted furtively had once been the throat of an old volcano. Like an actor shedding a toga, the softer exterior rock of the underwater mountain had eroded to expose hexagonal columns of cracked basalt where lava had rapidly cooled, as if a colony of giant morose bees had given themselves over to processing and regurgitating gray stone instead of wax.
Over millennia the raw minerals had been chipped and gnawed away, had been shaped and sculpted by generation after generation of spralaker masons until the core of the submerged volcano had been chiseled into a royal court whose majesty was matched only by its somberness. Here held sway the greatest of all spralaker rulers; monstrous and ugly, ruthless and powerful. Bioluminescent swimmers held captive in stringy cages hung from the walls and vaulted stone ceiling, illuminating their surroundings with a fitful, unwholesome gleam. Courtiers with decorated shells and claws scuttled to and fro in the tubular corridors. Here and there, slaves with scales and slaves with shells scurried about their tasks while doing their utmost to avoid the attention of their masters’ spiteful claws. There was even a captured merson or two, or a lumbering, blubbery niracson. Tarazoks, cousins to mersons but far more fish-like in appearance, swam freely among the chambers.
Where the innermost core of the old volcano had once sent bloodrock gushing upward to pierce the mirrorsky, a sprawling circular chamber had been laboriously hewn from the solid basalt. When directly overhead, the sun shone straight down the ancient volcanic throat all the way to the bottom of the artificially enlarged cavity. This momentary appearance of vivid illumination was both worshiped and shunned as a harbinger of everything bright and vile that threatened the lives of spralakers, who naturally preferred the darkness of their burrows to the brighter world outside.
The terminus of the deep cylindrical shaft was marked by the bleak grandeur of the reception room. There could be found the ancient throne of the spralaker High Lords; a huge, flat slab of raw jadeite that had been polished to a glistening sheen. Even in the dim light of the chamber, its surface shone ever green. Intricate bas-reliefs depicting scenes from the glorious history of the hardshell peoples ran completely around the exterior. No soft pillows were piled high atop the perfectly flat slab. A harsh folk, spralakers preferred to take their ease on surfaces that offered protection and reassurance rather than comfort.
Kulakak was no different. With a merson-size body covered in stubby, irregular protuberances and legs that spanned the entire breadth of the jadeite throne, he was an intimidating presence even if not the largest of his kind. His eyestalks when fully extended were as long as a person’s forearm. Sitting in front of him on the flat polished surface was a sea fan basket half full of live smelt. Periodically dipping a claw into the basket, he ate steadily. Flopping and writhing on top of one another, the terrified smelt did not swim away because all of their fins had been amputated before they had been served.
A dedicated personal guard of urchins clung to the circular walls and stone floor. Equipped with bristling black and violet spines, at a command they could instantly surround and impale any prospective assassin—or simply someone who happened to displease the spralaker ruler. A thick, strong shell would turn and defeat such weapons—except that they were present in such numbers on the walls that at least a few of the poisonous spines were sure to find a vulnerable place or two on any attacker.
The urchins did not have the walls to themselves. Dangling from the sculpted stone were the twisted skeletons of hollow-eyed mersons, the frayed and shrunken corpses of manyarms, and the occasional smartly engraved cuttlebone.
Relaxing within the throne room, Kulakak felt both secure and at home. As he systematically downed another squirming, helpless, softly screaming smelt, a new shape came sweeping into the room. Passing between the pair of massive sculptures of armed spralakers that flanked the vestibule, Advisor Gubujul’s multiple legs propelled him toward the jadeite slab at a steady pace. Though ever wary, as Paramount Advisor to the throne the oversized stenopus shrimp knew protocol better than most. Otherwise he would long ago have joined in the royal food basket the unfortunates who had preceded him in his position.
Despite his confidence, he was not looking forward to the incipient presentation. With the Emperor, not all news went down as easily as did helpless fish.
Embedded jewels glittered on the Paramount Advisor’s carapace. Gold dust glittered on his antennae forelegs where he’d had them shaped into a cosmetic bowl of glue-impregnated powdertuff. Looking more than anything like a handful of bejeweled candy canes, his pure white body highlighted by the natural crimson-red bands that striped his torso and limbs worked its self-important way across the stone floor. As he neared the throne, the half-dozen long, ivory-hued antennae that sprouted from his head dipped low and his voice segued smoothly into a well-practiced fawning.
“You look well this day, my Lord. Your shell gleams like the Whiteness that is Scraped, and your …”
Spitting out small bones, Kulakak devoted one eye to his Advisor while keeping the other on his food. Gubujul did not take this as a sign of indifference. Nothing escaped the Great Lord’s attention.
“Spare me your customary obsequiousness this morning.”
Bending his forelegs beneath him, Gubujul bowed toward the throne. “As usual, my Lord wastes no time.”
“And has my Paramount Advisor enjoyed his usual breakfast of sunrise refuse?” Another despondent definned fish vanished into the seemingly bottomless toothless maw.
“Gourmet refuse, my Lord,” Gubujul replied unflinchingly. “I am blessed that others find my choice of cuisine unpalatable. It leaves that much more for me.”
Kulakak belched memorably, sending forth a cloud of half-digested fish flesh, skin, and entrails. Tempted to snack on the spray of waste, Gubujul thought better of it, not wishing to appear the glutton before his master. It was difficult to resist, though, when one’s sensitive antennae were enveloped in so much delectable emancipated garbage.
“Word has come from the southwest, my Lord. A messenger has arrived with intelligence.” The Advisor’s many legs fanned the water, keeping him upright.
That news drew the Great Lord’s full attention. “Send him in.”
That the him was a her did nothing to diminish the Great Lord’s anticipation. With its red-speckled ivory-white body and white eyes, the porcelain crab was among the most beautiful of all spralaker-kind. But the one who scuttled in, claws held deferentially low to the ground, showed evidence of having been battered by time and distance. Kulakak was willing to overlook the messenger’s unceremonious dishabille. It was a very long way indeed to the despised southwestern reefs, and she had clearly ridden long and hard to return as swiftly as possible to the ancestral home. That did not mean he was inclined to waste time waiting for her to catch her breath.
“How goes the cleansing?” he demanded to know before she could even give her name. To her credit, she did not waste time trying to interject it.
“Shakestone, the town that was selected for the first assault,” she hissed wearily, “was easily taken: its habitat destroyed, its inhabitants killed or consumed. All went as intended. Our arrival was unexpected, our surprise complete, our victory total.”
“I wish I could have been there.” Off to one side Gubujul’s long, delicate forearms stabbed through the water in bold martial gestures, the narrow pincers snapping at drifting fragments of latent organic debris.
“Yes,” observed Kulakak dryly, “who among the mersons and manyarms would have been able to stand against your celebrated ferocity?” His attention remained focused on the messenger. “Pray continue.” When she appeared to hesitate, Kulakak’s massive body tilted slightly in her direction. “You falter. Why?”
“Next in line to be annihilated was the much larger community of Siriswirll. At first all went as planned.” On hearing the words “At first,” Kulakak’s eyes seemed to darken. Having no choice, the miserable messenger plunged onward.
“Perhaps we were betrayed. Perhaps those assigned to prevent any word of our attack from passing beyond the vicinity of the besieged town failed in their duties. Whatever the cause or reason, an unexpected relief force arrived from another village: Sandrift.” The messenger’s voice sped up, as if she was anxious, even desperate, to conclude her report.
“Steps had been taken and the usual precautions put in place to deal with such a possibility. The relief force was not large, but its members fought much more skillfully than expected. They employed unanticipated tactics. Furthermore, they had a shaman with them and—a changeling.”
“A what?” Gubujul blurted in surprise.
“Shut up.” Kulakak’s eyestalks barely moved. “Go on, messenger.”
“We were unable to find out much about the changeling, but it quickly became clear that this shaman Oxothyr—his name and much of this information was gleaned from a prisoner—was much more than the simple dispenser of potions and parlor tricks usually to be found in such small merson communities. Potent sortilege was unleashed against us. Counterattacks were deployed with a military sophistication belying their rustic origin. Our leaders were outmaneuvered and—I must say it—out-thought.”
The towering murk of the throne room was silent for long moments as its master contemplated what had been said. “What of Corolak, commander of the expeditionary force?”
The messenger swallowed as her eyestalks retracted fully into her shell. “Dead and dismembered, my Lord Kulakak. Like nearly all of our fighters. Only a few survived. More may yet trickle in,” she added, trying to strike a hopeful note. “We scattered in hopes of surviving to fight again another day. I regret that I myself have not many who can confirm what I say. Only just enough.”
Kulakak pondered aloud. “Corolak dead. I would not have believed it. He had the tenacity of a king and the claws of an executioner. Few survived, you say?” Reluctantly, the messenger waved her red-speckled left claw by way of confirmation.
So thick was the tension in the throne room that it seemed to freeze the tide itself. The urchins affixed to the walls trembled, the shivering of their spines seeming to set the entire chamber in motion.
Finally, Kulakak exhaled softly. “Well then, we will just have to assemble a new, greater army and attack again, won’t we?”
At the Great Lord’s matter-of-fact response, Gubujul relaxed—though not half so much as the apprehensive messenger. Sliding off the jadeite throne to advance on powerful chitinous legs, Kulakak put an arm across her scarred back, the pincers that tipped the massive claw at its end remaining closed.
“You have done a service to all spralakers by bringing us so promptly and thoroughly the news of this unfortunate happening,” he declared as he half-guided, half-urged the smaller crustacean to one side of the throne room. “Had you fought and died in battle you would not have been able to deliver the information. I will consider what now must be done to deal with this disaster and how it must be gone about. But first there is another here who has listened to what you have said and who will doubtless be eager to express his own feelings.”
Held out in front of him, Gubujul’s red-banded forearms abruptly froze in position. Rising from the dark pavement, he began to tiptoe slowly backward, trying to displace as little water as possible as he retreated. His sudden desire for discretion was motivated not by courtesy, but by dread. He knew all too well of whom the Great Lord spoke.
“You should meet this individual,” Kulakak was telling the young messenger solicitously. “He really is quite fascinating.”
They had halted facing a blank wall. One roughly rectangular area was entirely devoid of the clinging, quivering, black and violet urchin guards. “I don’t see anyone, my Lord.”
“Look. Harder.” As he spoke, Kulakak took a step back.
The messenger did not see the figure at first because it was masked by the same unbreakable spell keeping it imprisoned in the alcove in the wall. As the green-black opacity that she had thought was just another slab of stone began to clear, wisps of chain metal forged in the fires of the Great Deep came into view. They helped to bind, though by themselves they could not restrain, a most singular shape. She recognized it. She screamed.
Bound before her in metal and by the hauntingly enchanted talisman glowing softly celadon that was looped around both prominent eyestalks was the largest mantis shrimp she had ever seen. From the tail of its segmented abdomen to its eyestalks, it was nearly as big as a merson. The giant stomatopod was a blaze of color; its body emerald green shot through with red, the independently swiveling eyes mounted atop twin eyestalks a deep, dazzling violet. Those were the eyes that locked on her now, their matchless trinocular vision analyzing every aspect of the paralyzed messenger, seeing her in a hundred thousand hues from the ultraviolet to the infrared.
“Messenger,” Kulakak intoned gravely, “you are privileged to meet Sajjabax. Commander of thaumaturgy, Master of the Arcane Arts, Orderer of Obscene Knowledge, Delver into the Depths of Otherness. Sajjabax the Shrewd. Sajjabax the Conjurer. Sajjabax the All-Knowing and Inscrutable. Sajjabax the Horrifically Beautiful. Sajjabax the Insane.”
Few were the spralakers who had actually gazed upon the legendary stomatopod’s countenance. The necromancer’s name was well enough known, however. Parents employed it to frighten young spawn into ready compliance. Mere mention of it was known to panic the bravest fighters and most skilled hunters. Among others the name of Sajjabax remained nothing more than an especially fearsome rumor. But here, in the hoary throne room of the Spralakers of the Northern Realms, the myth arose clad in full flesh, chitin, and chains.
Bluish-purple eyes stared down at the unmoving ivory disc-shape of the petrified messenger. Having retreated to a recess near the entrance, Gubujul gazed upon the scene in expectant silence. Even though he knew what likely was coming, he knew also he would not see it. No one could, not even the exceptionally perceptive Kulakak. Perhaps another stomatopod might be able to do so. To find out one would have to ask. On this one matter the normally inquisitive Gubujul was quite content to dwell in ignorance. Certainly the messenger had no idea.
Leaning forward as much as his metal bonds and restraining talisman permitted, Sajjabax began to speak, vigorously and at length.
It was gibberish. All of it. Neither worldly commentary nor conjurer’s code, the steady stream of forceful nonsense filled the water to disperse harmlessly.
Not so the trancer’s thick cocked forearms. They flicked out once, faster than any eyes could see. Had the appropriate instrumentation been present, it would have measured the speed of the strike at eight milliseconds with a force of ten thousand gravities. The blow was accompanied by a barely discernible flash of sonoluminescence. Within the bubble of force created by the necromancer’s double punch, cavitation generated an undetectable burst of heat in the range of several thousand Kelvin.
None of this was apparent to or sensed by either the Great Lord or his cowering Paramount Advisor. They perceived only the results.
The collapsing cavitation bubble generated by the all but invisible thrust of the insane incanter’s forearms had simply exploded the messenger’s hard-shelled body. Tiny fragments of shell and flesh, bits of organs and strips of gills, settled slowly to the floor; a shimmering silent shower that was the messenger’s former physical self. No malicious spell could have done worse, no evil enchantment proven more lethal.
Stepping out from his provisional hiding place, Gubujul fluttered slowly back to where his liege was thoughtfully contemplating the utterly shattered remnants of the messenger who had been unlucky enough to be the one designated to deliver the bad news.
“She should have stayed and fought and died with her comrades.” Looking up, Kulakak calmly regarded the talismaniacally restrained, monotonously babbling figure of the all-powerful crustacean conjurer. The Great Lord, Ruler of all Born with Shell, was careful to stay well back out of range of those incomprehensibly deadly forearms.
“But had she remained to fight, my Lord, as you yourself pointed out, she would not have been able to bring us the news of the tragedy.”
“Also correct.” Pivoting on his multiple legs, Kulakak turned to his much more fragile Paramount Advisor. “Of such contradictions are state decisions made.” A sigh bubbled from his mouth. “It appears we have suffered a considerable defeat. One as thorough as it is unexpected. But it is a loss that can be sustained. We underestimate the inhabitants of the Southwestern Reefs. This is a mistake that will not happen again. A brief interruption in the inexorable surge of our eventual triumph. Our enemies will be exterminated and we will take the reefs for our own.” Eyestalks inclined down toward the attentive Advisor.
“Even simple moves are rarely uneventful, craven manipulator of words. In the coming days I will need your full attention and your most incisive insight.”
“You have it, my Lord! As always.” All six of Gubujul’s slender antennae dipped forward.
Three found themselves suddenly clamped in the Great Lord’s right claw. Gubujul froze. The slightest increase in pressure from that massive grip would see them snipped off as easily as he would dismember a clutch of roe.
“See that it is so. I am afraid that for awhile you will have to forgo your usual pleasures and distractions. As will I. As will the members of the entire court.” Almost indifferently, he released the pinned sensory organs. Gubujul allowed himself to swallow in relief. He was very subtle about it. The Paramount Advisor to the court was famous for his ability to retain his poise under the most trying conditions. It was one reason he was still alive when so many predecessors had been demoted to the status of a quick meal.
“Only one thing concerns me,” Kulakak muttered. “This presence of a shaman who would seem to be a cut above the usual village idiot.” In raising his eyes to the figure of the nightmare crustacean bound in the wall, he also raised his voice. “What do you think, prattler of perverse possibilities? Do the mersons have among them one capable of matching your flair for the foul? Gather your wits and speak!”
The spasming, shuddering body of the giant mantis shrimp suddenly stopped moving. It was if a cloud had momentarily been wiped from those disturbingly beautiful lilac eyes. Though they focused on the Great Lord, Gubujul knew they saw him equally as well. The eyes of a stomatopod were more efficient than those of any other living thing.
For a moment, then, the madness was mislaid. The feral gesticulations and sputtering inanities ceased. Sajjabax the Magnificent gazed back at the ruler of the North. In the throne chamber the conjurer’s words resounded deep and thoughtful.
“I don’t know this one of whom you speak. I cannot get a sense of his presence. It is a matter of clever dissemination, not distance. Almost casual is the cloaking, especially for a manyarm. A formidable opponent, I think, for all that he chooses to hide it.” Thousands of ommatidia converged on the figure of Kulakak. “Watch your step as you move south, amputator of limbs, lest you forfeit a plateful of your own.”
With that, the brief spark of sanity was extinguished. The violet eyes glazed over and the passionate incomprehensible babbling resumed. Disappointed, Kulakak waved a hand at the figure and murmured a string of words. The necromancer’s head slumped forward, his mouth ceased spouting drooling drivel, and the greenish opacity that concealed him was revisited. The light from the inhibiting talisman that hung from his eyestalks faded but did not go out. If it ever did …
As Kulakak turned away, Gubujul made bold enough to ask a question that had intrigued him for some time. “My Lord, I have always wondered—and should you wish to decline to reply you need not tell me, of course—what is the origin of the amulet that imprisons the mad mage and allows you to control him? What thaumaturgic power anywhere is so much greater than that of the great Sajjabax himself that it could fashion such a thing?”
Kulakak waved a claw carelessly. “I don’t mind telling you at all, Paramount Advisor. There is no spellcaster anywhere who exceeds in knowledge and skill our own mad Sajjabax. For you see, it was he himself who fashioned the talisman and presented it to me along with the appropriate words for controlling it.”
Over time Gubujul had imagined many explanations, but this was not one that had been among them. “The wielder of such esoteric and unfathomable power gave you mastery over himself? But why? Why do such a thing?”
The Great Lord turned thoughtful, remembering. “Because he recognized his own madness, and in recognizing it, understood the damage it could do. Not only to me, to the court, to all his own kind—but to himself. So he took steps to see that he would be properly kept in check. There may be madness in that, but there is also great wisdom.”
“Verily so,” a surprised Gubujul readily agreed. “What then of his sickness? Will it always afflict him?”
“I hope so,” the Great Lord murmured grimly, “because I fear what he might do if he were sane. I do fear it.”
The Paramount Advisor considered, then remembered to inquire, “What of this changeling that was mentioned, my Lord?”
“What—oh, that. A diversion, nothing more. A curiosity we may examine at our leisure once it has been captured. The messenger spoke only of its existence, not of any strange powers it might hold. Were it possessed of such abilities, I am sure it would have been mentioned.” Kulakak hastened as he moved toward the throne.
“What are we to do now, my Lord?” Gubujul waited anxiously for a response. He was always more comfortable carrying out an order than waiting for one to be promulgated.
“Why, we will gather a multitude that will make the force just lost look like little more than a scouting expedition. It will be the greatest army the North has ever seen. There will be no missteps this time. The southern reefs will be cleansed of mersons, manyarms, and any foolish enough to ally with them.” He waved a claw. “It will not take long. When the call is spread, spralakers can assemble quickly.”
“And the shaman of whom Sajjabax spoke?” Gubujul persisted.
Eyes dipped downward as the Great Lord scrambled back up onto the jadeite throne. “Send out the necessary word. Danger large or danger small, if he is worthy of Sajjabax’s notice, then he is worthy of special attention. A castle in the current to whoever brings me this mage’s beak. As I have said it, so let it be known.”
“Yes, my Lord.” Bowing obsequiously, antennae fluttering, Gubujul backed out of the room. Having had plenty of practice, he was able to do so swiftly and without having to look behind him.
Left brooding on the stark green slab that was his throne, Kulakak pondered how best to proceed. Only occasionally could Sajjabax be relied upon to give cogent, worthwhile advice. When queried, the all-powerful and quite mad necromancer was as likely to spout the unfathomable as the efficacious. In the expansion of the war to come he could be a trump card—or a joke.
It mattered not. As sovereign of all the Northern spralakers, Kulakak knew he had no choice but to press forward with the attack and with the effort to take control of the Southwest Reeflands. There could be no delay, no turning back. That option had already molted. They would drive out or kill every merson and manyarm that resisted. It was a thing that had to be done, and as rapidly as possible.
Not even one as trusted as Gubujul knew what had become known to the Great Lord: that the People of the Shell themselves were running out of time.
O O O
In addition to the village council, nearly all the surviving members of the expeditionary force from Sandrift and what seemed like the entire population of Siriswirll turned out to wave the small troupe of travelers farewell and swift current. Looking back as the little group that had been chosen to try to make it to Benthicalia started on its way, Irina noted that when any party of well-wishers could count among its number more than several hundred manyarms of various species, a great deal of waving was involved indeed.
Oxothyr did not consider it an ill omen the poor light that greeted them as they set out. As the day lengthened and Siriswirll fell behind them, it unexpectedly grew darker instead of brighter. Only when the mirrorsky itself started to dapple did Irina realize what was happening. She had been underwater for so long that the memory of surface phenomena had begun to slip from her awareness.
High above the world of Oshenerth, a strong storm had been unleashed. The stippling she was seeing arose from the impact of raindrops on the surface, and the darkening from congregated storm clouds. Yet again she found herself wondering what would happen if she swam just a little higher and stuck her head out into the open air. Thanks to Oxothyr’s enchanting she had gills now. But while the mage had given her gills he had said nothing about removing her lungs. Was she then more amphibian than fish?
She decided against attempting the maneuver—at least while she was surrounded by her new friends. Though all were polite now and no longer said hurtful things, at least not in her presence, doubtless some of them still harbored suspicions about the strange changeling in their midst. Poylee in particular would seize on such an adventurous move to re-emphasize the visitor’s difference from everyone else. If she was going to try such a stunt, Irina decided, better to do so when she was alone and unobserved. So she finned along quietly beside the others and contented herself with imagining what it would be like to once again feel fresh air on her face. In many ways, the remembrance and the imagining were enough.
After all, it was not as if she was going to get out of the water and wash off the salt.
Chachel insisted on leading the way. Not out of any sense of misplaced gallantry, but because it allowed him to keep as far away from the others as possible without being openly insulting. As usual, Glint accompanied him. Behind them and spread out in a tubular column came a dozen of the best fighters Sandrift and Siriswirll could provide, divided evenly between mersons and manyarms. In their midst swam the shaman Oxothyr and his two famuli. As the three manyarms jetted along effortlessly with their limbs trailing like vines behind them, Irina worked hard to keep up. It was a lot easier now than it would have been weeks ago. With every passing day she became more and more comfortable with the webbing that linked her fingers and her toes, and with the fins on the backs of her legs.
Despite this growing familiarity with her new surroundings she still would have jumped when her left calf received a sharp blow, except that it was impossible to jump underwater. Instead, she jerked and rolled—and found herself staring down at a smirking Poylee.
“What was that for?” She fought to contain her anger.
The female merson nodded at the changeling’s legs. “You’re about to lose your precious otherworldly knife.”
Looking down, Irina bent her right knee and drew her leg upward. Sure enough, both of the plastic straps that secured the scabbard to her calf had come loose. Only a single buckle had kept her from losing the most valuable item she had managed to salvage from home. As she worked to refasten the straps she smiled gratefully at the other female.
“Thanks, Poylee. I would’ve hated to have lost it.”
The merson’s reply, like her expression, was hard to read. “I wouldn’t have wanted it to slip free and cut you.” With that she kicked hard to return to the forefront of the shaman’s escort, leaving Irina as puzzled as ever. Was Poylee friend or foe, and would she ever find out? Clearly the female merson’s concern had been for the weapon and not for its owner.
“Don’t dwell on it.”
“What?” She looked up and was startled to see how close Oxothyr had drifted. Underwater, it was easy to come right up to someone without making any noise whatsoever. Sharks did it every day.
Prior to her arrival in Oshenerth she would have found the presence of a giant octopus trailing twenty foot-long arms swimming along just above her more than slightly intimidating. By now, however, Oxothyr was a good and familiar acquaintance. Despite his suckered tentacles and goggling eyes, the sac-like body and serrated beak, in her mind’s eye she saw him as a kindly old sage. Picture the trailing arms as the strands of a beard and the head-body as one wearing a soft crown and it was almost possible to see him as human. Glasses would have helped to complete the picture, but Oxothyr did not need glasses. Like the eyesight of even the lowliest manyarm, his was extremely sharp.
“Do not dwell on the encounter,” he reiterated. “It is all part of an old and familiar ritual.”
A blast of water struck her in the face as he shot ahead. Kicking hard, she managed to catch up. “What ritual?”
“You will find out. Or maybe you won’t. Either way you’ll learn something of importance,” he concluded cryptically.
She decided to let the matter drop. There was too much else to concentrate on, too much to see, to spend time worrying about Poylee’s motivations. Surely she still didn’t think the visitor from the void had any sort of design on the hunter Chachel? Irina thought she had made that perfectly clear.
As a diver, she believed she had seen and experienced a fair sampling of what the underwater world had to offer. All of her experiences combined, however, could not equal what she saw in a single day’s travel westward along the reef line. Where she recalled hardly being able to contain her excitement during a dive several years ago over an encounter with a cluster of several hundred yellow, black, and white bannerfish, the travelers swam through a school of twenty thousand. Later that day a hundred big dorado sped by heading in the opposite direction; their striking, mallet-headed green shapes shimmering with flecks of silver. As they swept past, each and every one of them proffered a resonant and rushed “hello!” like some traveling opera chorus cruising the open road.
A thousand spade-shaped black-and-silver batfish made an unhurried approach perpendicular to the travelers’ route, yet not a single collision took place between merson, manyarm, and the flattened face-sized finners. Famously inquisitive, a dozen or so broke away from the main school to tag along for awhile, peppering Sathi and Tythe in particular with interminable questions about the travelers’ direction and purpose that the two famuli were naturally prohibited from answering. The irritation lasted until a manyarm warrior from Siriswirll snatched up one of the most persistent questioners and began, unapologetically, to make of him a traveling snack. Along with the rest of their unanswered questions, the remaining batfish prudently made haste to rejoin their schoolmates.
In addition to species that she recognized, Irina found herself passing creatures that appeared to have been designed rather than evolved. One trio of angelfish, members of an always colorful family, boasted iridescent purple and yellow bodies propelled by brilliant golden fins, bright crimson eyespots near their tails, and jet-black eyes streaked with sapphire. A cluster of sea fans clinging to one coral cliff showed every color of the rainbow. Their section of reef looked as if it had suffered an attack by a contingent of crazed Crayolas. There were box triggerfish the size of trash cans, wrasses whose males boasted black stripes and the females black spots, giant snails with multiple shells that browsed the coral like miniature wandering churches, and graceful oversized nudibranchs whose flamboyantly colored unfurled bodies resembled a carton of Hawaiian dress shirts.
There was simply too much to take in, she told herself. Too much to absorb. Her senses were overwhelmed, her perception exhausted. For a while, a twenty-foot long tiger shark paced the party off to its left. The mersons and manyarms on that side closed ranks, forming a wall the shark could not penetrate in hopes of picking off a solitary swimmer. Irina could hear it mumbling as it tried to hypnotize first the female merson who was in front, then the squid who was bringing up the rear. Neither its unbroken stare nor its rudimentary shark magic worked. After an hour or so it gave up and swam away. As it departed, Irina was positive she heard it curse. It was a shark curse, of course, and therefore undecipherable, but there was no mistaking its tone or connotation.
It was late afternoon, the end of the week, and the atmosphere above the mirrorsky had cleared when Chachel and Glint returned from reconnoitering ahead. The merson was not smiling. Come to think of it, Irina realized with a start, she had never seen the hunter smile. His cuttlefish companion managed to display more good humor, and that without a mouth or teeth.
Slowing down as he entered the group, Chachel halted in front of Oxothyr. “Rays coming,” he announced with his typical terseness.
The shaman continued forward, but adjusted his head-body so he could better see the hunter. “What kind and how many?”
“Hard to tell.” Chachel glanced back the way he had come. “Will be easy to do so soon. Maybe forty, maybe more. Stingrays, eagle—many mantas.”
“Mantas.” Oxothyr considered. “Alone?”
“I’m afraid not.” By way of emphasis and explanation, Chachel brought his spear around in front of him and gripped it firmly in both hands. It was a simple gesture, but more than enough.
Oxothyr let out a resigned sigh. “Pass the word. Get everyone into an appropriate defensive configuration. You two.” Sathi and Tythe closed formation with their master. “Head off to left and right and stay outside. We’ll need you to keep a sharp eye out for any other enemy that may have gone undetected.”
“Yes, Master!” Tythe was one squirt ahead of his comrade in shooting off in the opposite direction.
“Why are rays an enemy of mersons and manyarms?” Irina gazed worriedly ahead, remembering the near crushing attack rays and their spralaker riders had delivered at Siriswirll. “They’re not spralaker-kind.”
“No indeed.” Changing from a benign beige to a bright orange laced with red, the shaman’s color shift revealed his own mental and emotional preparations for combat. “They are easily engaged, however, by whosoever will promise them food. Remember that they are cousin to the shark, and therefore not to be trusted.” The shaman was clearly troubled. “Still, it is curious that we should find ourselves dealing with them here and now, so soon after many of their kind were slain at Siriswirll. I fear my studies and my presence may have become known to malevolent elements, and thereby drawn unwelcome attention to the rest of you.”
She hesitated, then reached over to draw a hand down the upper length of one of the mage’s eight limbs. “Anything that threatens you threatens all of us, Oxothyr.”
Both eyes peered back at her. “You show hidden wisdom, changeling.” Suddenly a pair of tentacles gestured ahead, past the mersons in the lead. “Ready yourself—here they come.…”