Which he shoved onto his finger. Shoved so hard that he peeled away little strips of his own skin. But felt no pain, no pain, only shock at the vivid red of his blood spilling to the blood of the sea.Now: the death-stone!
Drake grabbed at a leather cord round Blackwood's neck, hauled, brought to light the leather bag hanging from the leather cord, slipped it free from the dead man's head.Kicked with his feet.Eased himself away from the body.
Which staggered, struck, punched, slammed, hit from below and knocked up, over, thrashed into blood by – by a glimpse of grey, striking, striding, taking the body down, deep, down, gone. Brief glimpse of fin as it vanished.That was a shark.Drake screamed.
And was still wailing when the shark erupted from the water in front of him, reared up, rising, huge, smooth, monstrous, vast gulf of mouth – which he attacked, flailing at it with the leather bag. Leather bag heavy with death-stone.And the shark bit.Huge jaws crunching down.Savaging the death-stone.
Which exploded into lightning, blowing the shark's head apart. Drake, blinded by flying gore, floundered, went under, came up, blinking away blood, blinking away water. Went under again. Could see, now.
The Neversh was no longer circling overhead. Instead, it was floating on the sea about a hundred paces away, thrashing furiously. Jon Arabin, Ish Ulpin and Rolf Thelemite had opened the Neversh's flotation tanks to the air, releasing the buoyant gas which the Neversh needed to fly. The three heroes had now turned their attention to the monster's tail. They were trying to hack tail from body.
Whale Mike was still clinging to the end of the tail, his weight effectively preventing the monster from using it as a weapon.
Drake heard something in the sea behind him. Turned, and saw it was Sully Yot.'Hi,' said Drake, having no breath for further eloquence.
Yot closed the distance. And his hand came up from the water, armed with a knife.'Die, Demon-son!' screamed Yot.'You mad bugger!' said Drake.And caught Yot's knife-hand.
Strength against strength they fought. Until finally Drake managed to secure the knife. And cut Yot's throat. 'Crazy,' muttered Drake.
Then let Yot' s corpse float away, and used the knife to cut free his boots, which were threatening to drown him.
With boots gone, Drake released the knife. Let it fall awaytothe depths of the ocean. Helayback, floating in the swells which seemed to stretch away to eternity. Ocean. Blood. Rain. When had it started to rain? He had no idea. But it was raining with a vengeance now. Rain hammering outoftheheavens.
A wave slapped Drake's face. He took a breath which was half water. He felt exhausted. Cold to the bone. Ready to die.'But I'm not going to die yet,' muttered Drake to Drake.
No. He could not die. Notyet. For he carried the magic red bottle. And he carried the ring which commanded that bottle. And within the bottle was Zanya, his true love.'Must stay afloat,' muttered Drake.Swallowed water.
And was taken from behind, encircled by strength. In panic he fought, thrashed, struggled.
'Hey, man,' said Whale Mike. 'Not so rough. You my friend, right?''Right,' said Drake. T your friend.'
Then he fainted.
69
Tangled with weed . . . deep-fathomed in a sea of bloody intestines . . . lost amidst falling pearls, amidst moon-gilded suns . . . confused by his aliases . . . Drake Douay . . . passion of disintegrating stars, of baked potatoes and consuming flames . . . Dreldragon … blade chiming against blade . . . Lord Dreldragon . . . Plovey falling, dead . . . Arabin lol Arabin . . .
The rain, falling, drowning all the world in its own forevers. A dead Neversh, dragged down to the numb cold by the
They kissed. Her lips were corrugated with blue sores. Which revolted him. She was dying. No joy in her dying body. And Drake – Drake was disgusted. And hated himself for being disgusted.'Don't cry, dearest treasure snake. Don't cry.'
But he wept in her arms. Helplessly.
Someone had undressed him. A mattress of sorts was under him; a blanket comforted his nakedness.
Drake smeared tears from his eyes, sniffed heavily, then said in a voice thick with sorrow:T love … I love you.'
And, as he said it, knew it was true. He loved Zanya, or some attribute of his association with Zanya, despite the diseased and failing state of her body. But what exactly was the nature of this emotional attachment?What makes love love?
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:
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:
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.'
