Upon Livosha reaching her home, she found Kefaan was already there, and he perceived at once by the expression on her countenance that something of significance had happened. She quickly related the entire history.
When she finished, he frowned and said, “So then, we are near to being discovered.”
“We are.”
“If we are discovered, we will be killed.”
“It seems likely.”
“If we leave before we have learned what we need to know, our work will be delayed by years.”
“That is also true.”
“How are we to decide then, sister? You have always been the one with the longest head. What must we do?”
Livosha considered.
“When will we know for certain, one way or another, about the existence of this mysterious jail?”
“There is no way to know. To-morrow? A year? Ten years?”
“And how soon until we are discovered?”
“An hour? A day? A month?”
“You perceive,” said Livosha, “you are giving me little enough help with your answers.”
Kefaan spread his hands as if to say, those are the answers there are.
“I will,” said Livosha after a moment’s consideration, “go to work to-morrow, but I will take a different path, one that does not leave me on the street. And I will find useful activities that permit me to keep a watch and see if the estate is being observed, or if anyone arrives asking questions.”
“Very well. And I?”
“You will continue as you have been: attempting to gather our answers. If there is a way to do so more quickly, then do so; otherwise, well, we will continue as we have been.”
“For how long?”
Livosha thought a long time, then said, “I will risk ten days. We are well concealed, the person most likely to have found me did so, and is dead. They cannot know that it was by my hand. So then, after ten days, we will admit defeat, and will flee, and start over elsewhere.”
“Where?”
“The Capital is big, and easy to get lost in, but I hate being so far from the sea; you perceive, I am not used to it.”
“So then?”
“We will take a ship down the coast to Hartre or Adrilankha. They are large and busy and we can find ways to hide in either place.”
“Very good, my sister. I accept this plan.”
“Apropos, you will be on your guard at all times, will you not?”
“Certainly. And I do not need to ask, for I am certain you will, as you demonstrated so aptly to-day.”
“And you are right. And now I retire. Good night, dear brother.”
“Good night, my sister.”
The plan was put into action at once—Livosha continued her work, but used different, cunning paths to and from her employer every day, and hoped that they would make a discovery before they were, themselves, discovered. But now Livosha was not hopeful; ten days pass quickly!
It was, in fact, four days later that Kefaan, returning home, said, “There is something I must tell you.”
“Are we found out?”
“No, not in the least.”
“Well then, my brother,” said Livosha, relaxing, “remove your boots, sit down, permit me to bring you a cup of wine, and tell me.”
“I agree with most of this plan.”
“How, most? But, with what do you disagree?”
“With you bringing me the wine. You perceive, you are sitting, I am standing; moreover, your activities are more strenuous than mine. Therefore, I will fetch the wine.”
“Very well, with this plan I agree.”
Kefaan got a cup, came to the table at Livosha’s side, and said, “Ah, but not that wine.”
“Well, but is it not a perfectly acceptable wine?”
“Oh, it is acceptable, and yet not what we should be drinking. Come, let me dispose of that.”
“Why, you have just thrown a nearly full bottle out of the window!”
“And if I did?”
“But, can we waste wine?”
“We can to-day. To-day we will drink this.”
“Is that the Musara?”
“That is exactly what it is. Where are the tongs?”
“They are next to the brazier, on the side-board.”
“I have found them. The coals are still hot. So much the better.”
“You are, then, determined to open our only bottle of Musara?”
“So determined, in fact, that I am doing it. You see? The tongs are hot. I circumscribe the neck. I dip the feather, and there, the neck is off.”
“Well, so you have opened it. We must then drink it.”
“You see, I get you a new cup. And here, I bring it to you, and set my own next to my chair. I remove my boots, and now we drink. Ah. It is delightful.”
“Oh, to be sure, it is a splendid wine. Only—”
“Well?”
“It seems that such a wine should be used for celebration.”
“That is my thought as well, my sister.”
“So, then, we are celebrating?”
“That is what we are doing.”
“And what are we celebrating? I give you my word, the only thing I can imagine we have to celebrate is this excellent wine, and, you perceive, to use a bottle of wine in celebration of itself seems odd.”
“Odd, perhaps, yet perfectly reasonable nevertheless. However—”
“Yes, however?”
“That is not what we are celebrating.”
“Ah, it is not?”
“Not the least in the world.”
“So then, we are celebrating something else?”
“You have understood me exactly.”
“I often do. But then, do you intend to tell me what it is we are celebrating? For you perceive, it is less of a celebration if two are drinking wine, but only one knows why.”
“Very nearly an epigram, my dear sister. Yes, I will tell you.”
“And I hope you will do so at once.”
“In fact, I am about to.”
“Then I am listening.”
“Then you want me to begin my explanation?”
“Shades of the Paths, obstinate man! It is an hour since I’ve wanted anything else!”
“This is it, then. It is called Burning Island.”
“But, you perceive, this tells me nothing. What is called Burning Island?”
“The secret jail run by the Iorich, where they put those they do not wish to bring to trial, but cannot permit to run free.”
Livosha sat back. “Then it is real!”
“It is.”
“And … and Eremit?”
“There is only one way to know if he is there.”
“And that is?”
“Why, to go and look for him, of course.”
“Then you know where the island is?”
“Ninety-two miles northwest of a village called Ivaacim, in Longview County, far in the northwest, indeed, at the very most northwestern point of the Empire.”
“If we are going that far north, well, I am glad it is no later in the year. Come, we must prepare for our journey.”
“And you must give notice.”
“Notice? I shall perhaps give notice to her skin by puncturing it a few times, I have not yet made up my mind.”
“Well.”
“Apropos, how are we supplied with money?”
“Let us see. I have forty imperials.”
“And I have nineteen. Good. With that, we can easily use the posts in order to arrive the sooner, and stay in the best inns to arrive the more rested.”
“So then, what must we do?”
“I must write a note to my sword master, for it would be rude to have her arrive and expect to find me.”
“Very well, a note to your sword master. What else?”
“Arrange for the posts.”
“I can do that. What else?”
“What of your friend?”
Kefaan smiled. “Upon receiving the news, I told him I would be gone for some time.”
“Well, then. I think the next thing to do is—”
“Why, to pour some more of this excellent wine.”
“Sethra Lavode herself could not improve on this plan.”
In a single day, all of their preparations were complete. Livosha did, in fact, return to the countess, but only to say farewell to the other servants, and to collect her last pay, which the countess pretended she had forfeited by leaving without proper notice. Livosha, who had only spoken to her so that no ill thoughts would be directed at Emeris, who, the reader may recall, was the Tsalmoth who worked for Gystralan, and who had secured her the employment, in the end settled on half of her wages and the promise that Livosha would not seek legal remedy for the rest, and, with pleasant words to her fellow servants, even the Teckla (she and Biska had formed something of a friendship in spite of their differences in rank), she left Ficora’s estate, making sure to take a particularly circuitous route back, as being caught at the very last minute would have been too bitter to bear. She was not, however, and moreover, a thorough inspection told her no one was watching their home.
The next day, having thrown out or given away (on the street where they lived, there was little difference between the two) everything that they had accumulated over the centuries but no longer needed, they took a carriage to the first post station. Livosha had only a small valise, suitable for the back of a horse; Kefaan had one similar, but also a long, thin cloth bag at which Livosha looked with some curiosity.
“And, what is in the bag, my brother?”
“How, you don’t know?”
“But, how could I know?”
“I had thought you would guess. Well, but here.”
He handed it over, and (as we have no doubt the reader has guessed, and, indeed, been waiting for with more or less anxiety since it was first mentioned), opened the cloth to reveal the longsword Livosha had been admiring at the market. She stared at it, drew it partially out of its sheath—which itself was a work of art, wood bound with steel inlaid with mother-of-pearl in the form of an iorich, a hawk, and a tiassa connected with gold wire. She looked at her brother, and before she could speak, he shrugged and said, “Well,” and smiled.
“Cracks and shards!” cried Livosha. “It is … it is beautiful!”
“So, will you give it a name?”
“No,” she said laconically, continuing to caress the sword with her eyes.
In the confines of the carriage, she managed to remove her old sword and hook the new one onto her belt, then she held her brother’s hand until they arrived at the post station. They paid the driver and got out, and there was Jerin, who bowed deeply, a gleam of excitement in her eye.
“My lord, my lady,” she said. “Are we ready?”
“Nearly,” said Livosha. “But, have you a weapon?”
“I? Not the least in the world.”
“Then take this,” she said, offering her old sword.
“My lady! I am a Teckla! Even if I knew how to use such a weapon, well, it is not permitted for me to wield a sword.”
“That’s true,” said Livosha, and shrugged. She drew the sword, discarded the sheath, and, with a quick motion, broke the blade over her knee, leaving about eighteen inches still attached to the hilt. This she held out and said, “There. Now it is a knife.”
“A knife I can take, my lady,” she said.
“Then let us be on our way.”
They paid the post service, chose their first set of horses, mounted, and set out for the northwest, leaving behind Candletown, the most immediate threat, and the ability of the author to describe events on a daily basis without wearying the reader beyond all bounds of reason. It is well known among all who concern themselves with narrative that to follow the figures in whom we are interested on a long journey presents an interesting and important challenge, not quite like any other except in the most general sense, which is, what are the details that will best convey the sense of the event? Some historians have taken to inventing incidents that never actually occurred, merely to preserve the reader from ennui. Others have evaded the entire matter by making such assertions as, “They arrived.” The latter, in our opinion, fails to provide the necessary sense of the experience, which is in its own way inevitably transformative; the former, of course, except in the case of those authors of pure fiction who may arrange incidents to suit their fancy, is simply, in our opinion, impermissible.
So how, then, to solve this dilemma? Often the historian attempts to simply summarize the salient points, for example by mentioning the speed of their travel, or observing that, though the travelers wished to arrive soon, still, they didn’t know what would await them on the island, and so agreed that it was better not to arrive exhausted. For this reason, they stopped every evening.
Alternately, one might pick a more-or-less typical day and discuss that they switched horses four times at post stations, stopping for quick meals on each occasion, their own nerves, which insisted upon arriving soon, warring with their bodies, none of which had been riding on horses, and therefore all of which required a certain amount of time for the muscles to become used to this activity. We must add, in all fairness, that though all three travelers experienced various amount of discomfort as a result of this, none of them, at any point, went so far as to even mention it.
Another method frequently used in such circumstances involves providing small yet telling incidents on the journey, such as when Kefaan discovered he had failed to repack his favorite shirt, and they had to backtrack a mile because he refused to leave it behind. Or the occasion when Livosha secretly filled Jerin’s water-bag with oishka, to the hilarity (and sharing) of all. Or we could mention the time when Livosha’s cinch broke, causing only a short delay while the clever Jerin repaired it, but threatening a much longer one until Livosha was dissuaded from her desire to return fifteen miles in order to have strong words with the post master.
Which of these shall the author choose in this instance? One, or a combination? We mention this because we see our role as, not only to discuss history in its sense of a revelation of events and explication of their interconnectedness, as well as deduction of the general laws that determine the unfolding of history as physical laws determine the properties of objects, but more, to reveal to the astute reader the inner nature of history in its sense of the narration, that is to say, the recounting of these events and laws. The reader must understand that, to the serious historian (a category to which the humble author of these lines aspires to belong), the value in understanding events of the past is inseparable from the value in communicating this understanding to others. It is this, in fact, that requires such care, such conscientiousness in determining how to present the incidents to the reader, a fact which appeared in this author’s most recent letter to the head of the Department of Historical Studies at Pamlar, in the course of making certain suggestions for personnel changes, in which the disinterestedness of the author is proved by his refusal to suggest himself for the position whose present occupant he decries.
However, to return to the history which the reader, with every right, expects us to make the focus of our attention, we may say that, after a ride of some days, during which summer ended and autumn began, Livosha, Kefaan, and Jerin arrived safely at the small port of Ivaacim.
This village—for so we must call it, as it is of roughly the size of Wetrock, to which we have already given that appellation—was named for the first baron (if the reader will permit a liberty, as the term “baron” was not then in use, hierarchies being less rigid) in the First Cycle, wherein which, in the ancient tongue of the House (or, rather, the tribe) of the Dragon it signified “landing place.” That there are at least twelve other villages within the same region with names also meaning “landing place” need not concern us, as they are, each of them, translations from different, although still extinct, languages. The only significant contribution of Ivaacim to history is that it provided a real setting for T. Waterford’s fanciful tale The Chowder Wars, based on the conflict among the different villages of the region as to the proper way to prepare seafood—a conflict that is real enough, although, so far as the historian has been able to determine, has never actually produced more violence than an occasional insignificant brawl, although this is a subject upon which the author will gladly submit to correction should any evidence to the contrary emerge. This willingness to change one’s opinion in the light of new information, we might add, is another means whereby an historian with integrity may be identified and separated from a pretender who, for example, continues to maintain that Markingham Castle was built for defense against Easterners in spite of over fifty letters of the period that conclusively demonstrate that its first use was as a storage area for grain which was required to be protected from local brigands.
Upon arriving (on foot, as they had left the horses at the nearest post station, some eight miles distant), they at once discovered that there were no inns within the confines of the village. As it was late in the day (and, we may add, this far north the nights tended to become uncomfortably cold even in high summer, and it was already into autumn), they found themselves in something of a quandary. That is to say, the plan had been a good night’s sleep and an early departure. While considering what to do about this unforeseen circumstance, they walked down to the water itself, which featured a curiously shaped, narrow jetty, which, after two hundred feet, curved sharply to the right, then to left, and then out at an angle. The reader may speculate as to the reason for this object to have been constructed in this fashion, perhaps having to do with natural formations of this part of the shore, different times and purposes of construction, or alcoholic consumption by the designer; the author, having no definite knowledge on this question, will content himself with the simple description we have had the honor to provide. Along this jetty were tied up six or seven small fishing boats, which is to say, four trawlers and two or three spearingboats. In addition, there were several smaller vessels that had been pulled onto the shore, fishing boats with removable keels so they could be used in shallow water or, indeed, pulled up onto the beach. A cargo ship of the square and bulky type known as the Rivermouth Schooner stood low at double anchor, unprotected from the sea by any harbor or bay. Last, at the very end of the jetty, was a yawl of the type known as the Three-Ton Tara (named for the clever Teckla from folklore), securely fixed fore and aft and with all masts struck.
“My brother,” said Livosha.
“Well?”
“I would like you to make a supposition.”
“That is, you propose, and I suppose?”
“Ah, that is cleverly put; now it is you who flirt with epigrams.”
“Not in the least. But then, begin with your proposal for supposition, for I am eager to hear it.”
“This is it, then: Suppose you had a commission to supply a prison island with fresh food.”
“Very well, suppose I did.”
“And suppose, moreover, you were to base yourself in a region with good agriculture, fruit, and some herding animals, as well as seafood.”
“An area such as this in which we are now standing?”
“Precisely.”
“Very well, I am supposing it even now.”
“And suppose further—”
“What, there is more?”
“Of a certainty.”
“Very well, then. I am complaisant, and will suppose as much as you like.”
“So much the better. Suppose, then, that some number of times every month, you were required to deliver these supplies to a prison island some ninety or one hundred miles away, through seas that were rarely if ever monstrous, with winds that were inclined to blow from between two and twenty knots directly perpendicular to a line from you to the island.”
“I am supposing all of this even now.”
“Well then, under these conditions, what sort of craft would you require?”
“My sister, that would depend entirely on a question to which I have not been given the supposition.”
“Let us see, then. What is the question?”
“How many prisoners am I supplying?”
“As to that, well, let us say between fifty and three hundred.”
“That is a large range.”
“Well.”
“If I were to assume a number somewhere in the middle—”
“Yes? If you were?”
“Then the ideal boat would be something like a Three-Ton Tara.”
“Such as, in fact, the one we see before us.”
“Exactly like it.”
“That, my dear brother, was my thought, and I am pleased to hear it confirmed.”
“I, in my turn, am pleased that you are.”
“And you, Jerin?” said Livosha.
“How, you ask me?”
“Certainly.”
“Well, in my opinion—”
“Yes, in your opinion?”
“I have become proficient in jumping from a small boat onto a dock or a pier while holding a rope, and then fixing the rope to an appropriate portion of the dock with the use of a clever knot taught to me by fishermen. That is my opinion.”
“That is good, then,” said Livosha.
“This skill,” said Kefaan, “may well prove useful.”
“I hope it does.”
“But then,” said Livosha, “there still remains the problem of where we are to spend the night, as the inn here does not let rooms.”
“As to that,” said Jerin. “If you would permit me to make inquires, it may be that I can find a solution.”
“And for my part,” said Kefaan, “I believe no solution is needed.”
“How, not needed?” said Livosha.
“Not in the least.”
“But then—”
“I propose,” said Kefaan, “not to remain here at all, but rather, to see about the use of a boat, to go out to the island this very night, and attempt to discover Eremit, and, if possible, free him.”
Livosha, for her part, felt her heart suddenly beating. “Then you believe—”
“I believe we should find a boat, and that we should not waste a moment. Come, you perceive the wind is strong, and is perfectly placed from the north by northwest to bring us to our destination. Why wait even a minute?”
“To this plan,” said Livosha, her voice trembling, “I subscribe with my whole heart.”
“Then let us see who will rent us a boat.”
After some degree of searching among those who were, at that moment, removing the day’s hauls from their various boats, they found a fisherman who seemed willing in principle to sacrifice a day’s catch in exchange for sufficient money to account for two days’ worth of such work, the more readily because he was an Orca, and thus understood that, while it is possible that fish in the Ocean-sea will turn into coins in the purse, nevertheless there is risk that on a certain day they will; whereas coins in the purse are, in fact, under all conditions, coins in the purse and not subject to vagaries of wind, wave, or any sea god who may or may not exist.
After sufficient conversation to ensure this worthy that he was not turning over his vessel—that is to say, his livelihood—to persons with no understanding of its workings, they quickly came to an agreement. All three of them having grown up on the coast, there was no question of needing a pilot, and, moreover, no question of them being cheated on the cost of renting a boat for a night. Thus they acquired the use of a fine little sloop with a low profile, that could be sailed by any one of them, and easily by two, and would be ready, the owner promised, as soon as he had finished unloading, which would be within that very hour. They left him alone to work, and indeed, in an hour he was standing next to the craft, just cleaning the residue off her deck. He showed them how he had everything rigged to the cockpit so he could sail her by himself, and mentioned that he had removed the trawl, as they had said they wouldn’t be fishing; they signified that they understood these things. They paid him, and he informed them that she was called the Carilia.
“A pretty name,” said Kefaan.
“I am glad you think so,” said the fisherman, who was younger than middle years, with broad shoulders, a pronounced jut to his chin, and hair that he kept long enough to stream in the wind. “I named it in honor of my fourth wife, in hopes of impressing and delighting her, and because the craft reminds me of her, a pretty little thing, yet requiring to be coaxed rather than managed.”
“Your fourth wife?” said Livosha. “Well, but how many times have you been married?”
“Three,” said the Orca.
“Well,” said Kefaan, “we shall endeavor to take good care of the Carilia and return her to you unscathed.”
“So much the better,” said the Orca. “Then I wish you fair winds and clear sight. Apropos, do not go into the mist.”
“Mist?” said Livosha, looking out at the Ocean-sea and noting, though the light was fading, and soon the Furnace would be briefly visible above the horizon, there was no trace of mist.
“There is an island some ninety miles to the west by northwest,” he said, “that is always surrounded by mist, because there is a volcano on it that, by some marvelous property, is always in eruption, yet never emits lava. The ash flows into the sea, creating a mist around it. If you go into the mist, then you will, without question, be burned to death, and I will not see my boat again.”
With this the Orca took his leave, holding the money he’d been given and making his way to the local tavern where he presumably proposed to spend it.
The three of them looked at each other. Livosha spoke first. “A volcano.”
“In mist,” said Kefaan.
“How distressing,” said Jerin.
“What should we do?” said Kefaan.
“We should set out,” said Livosha.
“And,” said Kefaan, “when we find the mist, and discover this volcano is in fact exactly the island for which we are looking, which we will? What then?”
“Then,” said Livosha, “we will reflect.”
To this Kefaan agreed, and they pushed the boat into the surf and climbed in. The Furnace appeared somewhat to the left, and Livosha was reminded of the day when she and Eremit had watched it descending from their home in Wetrock. Long disused skills came back to them quickly, and they were soon running at, as near as they could guess without using the log, three knots.
A few hours later the breeze freshened, and they began moving faster through the water, heeling a little, and sending spray off to the leeward.
Dark fell and they continued on, guiding themselves as well as they could with compass spells. The light of dawn slowly grew, and, even as it did, they saw, directly in their path, what seemed to be an oddly contained fog bank. They looked at each other and, by mutual unspoken consent, spilled the wind and studied it. The light grew, and the fog did not seem to dissipate. They waited without speaking, worried, yet determined.
“Well?” said Kefaan at length, when it was clear that, even in full daylight, the fog would not blow away.
Livosha shrugged, took hold of the mainsail line and the tiller, and continued toward the island.
“To turn around,” she remarked, “well, it is impossible.”
“And so?”
“And so we will go closer, but slowly. You see how I only capture a fraction of this breeze?”
“Very well, then. Let us go closer.”
Jerin said nothing, but looked at the two of them and shrugged. The Carilia drew near the fog bank.
At that moment, on the western edge of the Empire, it was still early in the morning. But in the capital city, more than two thousands of miles to the southeast, it was just past the eleventh hour after midnight on the 17th day of the month of the Vallista in the 532nd year of the reign of his Imperial Majesty, Tortaalik the Third.