Jo Clayton Duel of Sorcery 01 Moonscatter

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what she was saying.
"Kelea-alela. A Gather ago before the Gather before this last one Kelea-alela
was the capital of a Minark colony but it broke away when the storms of
the Gather kept Minark ships off the Sinadeen. The locals
slaughtered the
Minark Governor and any of the High Minarks they could get their
hands on-^a well-deserved fate from all I've heard." She smiled sweetly
at Hern; Serroi suppressed a chuckle. "They fortified the town. By the time
the storms let up they were firmly enough in place that the Minarkan war
galleys couldn't pry them out. We've got friends there still and it's the
closest of the three, that's why I'd prefer your starting inland
from that point. Kelea-alela, the Bee, Yallor-on-the-Neck, you can start
from any one of those and reach the Mirror. I'd better tell you about all the
routes, no knowing what will happen once you leave the Valley.
"The Bee." A long gourd-shaped intrusion of the sea thrust deep into the land
mass of the southern continent. At the base of the gourd was a sprawling black
blotch that marked the site of the ancient city called the Bee. "Becarnish are
friendly enough. They've never seen much reason to leave their city but they
admit that not all foreigners have their ad-vantages so they tolerate their
intrusions and manage to find use for whatever trade goods these foreigners
bring with them. You can't insult them, they'll just laugh at your
igno-rance." Her mouth twisted into a rueful half-smile. "An
out-sider's stomach will go sour after a tenday's residence there.
But never mind that. The
RiverBernbec rises on Mount San-tac. Here. It's a dormant volcano with a
reflecting lake in the crater. The Mirror.
Though not the one you'll look in if he lets you. It's a wild river, more
trouble to the mile. . . ." Her voice died away as she traced the jagged line
from the Bee up into the mountains and tapped thoughtfully at the small blue
circle. "Falls and rapids, underground segments. A stiff climb, but it's clean
water all the way, no fever pools."
She frowned at Hern, her eyes resting on the paunch that was emphasized by the
way he was sitting. "The mountain tribes will give you trouble if you choose
to go that way. They hold the upper reaches of the river sacred and do their
accom-plished best to slaughter any outsider coming up there.
"The best way starts at Kalea-alela and goes inland along RiverFalele. The
only problem you would face are the
Niyo-nius Marshes, a maze of dead-end channels. No guides avail-able.
But if you manage to keep to the main channel, the river will take you
straight to the lake.
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"Yallor-on-the-Neck." She moved her finger to the far end of! the Sinadeen
where a narrow strip of land separated the sea from the Ocean of Storms.
"RiverYam. Starts from LowYallor here." Her nail clicked lightly on
the spot.
"You've got a narrow strip of farmland, some ragged hills, then the Dar. Flat
country, not a pimple for hundreds of miles, reeds growing in great
clumps, broad sheets of shallow water. Most days a strong sweep of wind
inland, you could use a sail to propel you rather than depending on poles or
oars. A thousand kinds of bloodsuckers, fliers and swimmers. Darmen. They're
small." She grinned at Serroi. "The tallest won't stand past your brows,
little one."
Serroi made a face at her. Hern grinned, leaned back in his chair, his fingers
laced over his middle.
Yael-mri rubbed at her eyes. "They're shy folk, not hostile. If they don't
like you, you won't see them, if they take to you, they'll keep you in fresh
food and guide you around dead ends. I can't offer you any help with them,
it's been twenty years since I passed that way." She set her hands on the
table, fingers curved, nails touching lightly the map's tough paper. "Whatever
way you go and that's up to you I imagine you'll be cursing me half a
hundred times before this quest is done."
Nijilic Thedom hung heavy in the east, sitting on the points of the Vachhorns,
the bleached bare peaks rising about the Deadlands. The macai's pads
boomed hollowly on the plank bridge thrown across CreekSajin, a
noisy, self-important stream not quite large enough to earn the name
of river. Moth-sprites flickered over the water in elaborate patterns,
their small lights thicker than she'd seen them any autumn she could remember. [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]

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