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“Towards danger,” said the Dog, moving aft to flop down at Lirael’s feet. “We mustn’t forget that, Mistress.”
Lirael nodded, thinking back to the necromancer and Death. It seemed unreal now, out in the sunshine, with the boat sailing so cheerfully down the river. But it had been all too real then. And if the necromancer’s words were true, not only did he know her, he might know where she was going. Once she left the Ratterlin, she would be relatively easy prey for the necromancer’s Dead servants.
“Perhaps I should make a Charter-skin soon,” she said. “The barking owl. Just in case.”
“Good idea,” said the Dog, slurring. Her chin was propped on Lirael’s foot, and she was drooling profusely. “By the way, did you see anything in the Dark Mirror?”
Lirael hesitated. She’d momentarily forgotten. The vision of the past had been put out of her mind by the necromancer’s attack.
“Yes.” The Dog waited for her to go on, but Lirael was silent. Finally, the hound raised her head and said, “So you are a Remembrancer now. The first in these last five hundred years, unless I am mistaken.”
“I suppose I am,” said Lirael, not meeting the Dog’s eyes. She didn’t want to be a Remembrancer, as the book called someone who Saw into the past. She wanted to See into the future.
“And what did you See?” prompted the Dog.
“My parents.” Lirael blushed as she thought again of how close she had come to seeing her parents making love. “My father.”
“Who was he?”
“I don’t know,” replied Lirael, frowning. “I would recognize a portrait, I think. Or the room that I saw. It doesn’t really matter, anyway.”
The Dog snorted, indicating that Lirael hadn’t fooled her one bit. Obviously, it mattered a lot, but Lirael didn’t want to talk about it.
“You’re my family,” said Lirael quickly, giving the Dog a quick hug. Then she stared deliberately ahead at the shining waters of the Ratterlin. The Dog really was her only family, even more than the Clayr she had lived with all her life.
They had shown she would never be truly one of them, she thought as she tightened her headscarf, remembering how the silk had felt against her eyes. Families did not blindfold their own children.
Chapter Thirty-Seven
A Bath in the River
Following Sanar and Ryelle’s advice, Lirael spent her first night away from the Clayr’s Glacier anchored in the lee of a long, thin island in the very middle of the Ratterlin, with more than four hundred yards of swift, deep water on either side.
Soon after dawn, following a breakfast of oatmeal, an apple, a rather tough cinnamon cake, and several mouthfuls of clear river water, Lirael drew in the anchor, stowed it, and whistled for the Dog. She came swimming across from the island, where she’d performed her canine duty for the other dogs who might one day visit it.
They had just raised the sail and were beginning to reach before the wind when the Dog suddenly went stiff-legged and pointed across the bow, letting out a warning yip.
Lirael ducked her head down so she could see under the boom, her gaze following the line pointed by the Dog’s forelimb at some object two or three hundred yards downstream. At first, she couldn’t make out what it was—something metal on the surface of the river, reflecting the morning sun. When she did recognize it, she had to peer more carefully to re-affirm her initial judgment.
“That looks like a metal bathtub,” she said slowly. “With a man in it.”
“It is a bathtub,” said the Dog. “And a man. There’s something else too . . . you’d best nock an arrow, Mistress.”
“He looks unconscious. Or dead,” replied Lirael. “Shouldn’t we just sail around?”
But she left the tiller to Finder, took out the bow, and quickly strung it. Then she loosened Nehima in its sheath and took an arrow from the quiver.
Finder seemed to share the Dog’s desire for caution, for she turned away from a direct intercept. The bathtub was traveling much more slowly than they were, propelled only by the current. With the wind on her beam, Finder was considerably faster and could curve around in an arc to pass the bathtub and keep going.
Keeping going was what Lirael wanted to do. She didn’t want to have anything to do with strangers before she absolutely had to. But then, she would have to deal with people sooner or later, and he did look as if he was in trouble. Surely he wouldn’t have chosen to be out in the Ratterlin in a craft as unreliable as a metal bathtub?
Lirael frowned and tugged her scarf down lower over her forehead, so it shaded her face. When they were only fifty yards away, and about to pass the tub, she also nocked an arrow, but did not draw. The man was definitely unaware of Finder’s approach, since he hadn’t so much as twitched. He was on his back in the bath, with his arms hanging over the sides and his knees drawn up. Lirael could see the hilt of a sword at his side, and there was something across his chest—
“Bells! A necromancer!” exclaimed Lirael, drawing her bow. He didn’t look like Hedge, but any necromancer was dangerous. Putting an arrow in him would simply be insurance. Unlike their Dead servants, necromancers had no trouble with running water. This one was probably pretending to be hurt, to lure her into an ambush.
She was just about to loose the arrow when the Dog suddenly barked, “Wait! he doesn’t smell like a necromancer!”
Surprised, Lirael jerked, let go—and the arrow sped through the air, passing less than a foot above the man’s head. If he’d sat up, it would have pierced his throat or eye, killing him instantly.
As the arrow arced downward to plop into the water well past the tub, a small white cat emerged from under the man’s legs, climbed onto his chest, and yawned.
This provoked an immediate response from the Dog, who barked furiously and lunged at the water. Lirael only just managed to drop her bow and grab the hound’s tail before the Dog went over the side.
The Dog’s tail was waving happily, at such a speed Lirael had difficulty hanging on to it. Whether this was actual friendliness or excitement at the prospect of chasing a cat, Lirael didn’t know.
All the noise finally woke the man in the tub. He sat up slowly, obviously dazed, the cat moving up to perch precariously on his shoulder. At first, he looked the wrong way for the source of the barking; then he turned, saw the boat—and instantly went for his sword.
Swiftly, Lirael picked up her bow and nocked another arrow. Finder turned into the wind so they slowed, giving Lirael a reasonably stable platform from which to shoot.
The cat spoke, words coming out amidst another yawn.
“What are you doing here?”
Lirael jumped in surprise but managed not to drop her arrow.
She was about to answer when she realized the cat was speaking to the Dog.
“Humph,” replied the Dog. “I thought someone as slippery as you would know the answer to that. What are you called now? And who is that sorry ragamuffin with you?”
“I am called Mogget,” said the cat. “Most of the time. What name do you—”
“This sorry ragamuffin can speak for himself,” interrupted the man angrily. “Who or what are you? And you too, mistress! That’s one of the Clayr’s boats, isn’t it? Did you steal it?”
Finder yawed at this insult, and Lirael tightened her grip on the bow, right hand creeping to the string. He was obviously a very arrogant ragamuffin, and younger than she was, to boot. And he was wearing a necromancer’s bells! Apart from that, he was quite handsome, which was another black mark as far as she was concerned. The good-looking men were always the ones who came up to her in the Refectory, certain that she would never refuse their attentions.
“I am the Disreputable Dog,” said the Dog, quite calmly. “Companion to Lirael, Daughter of the Clayr.”
“So you got stolen as well,” said Sam grumpily, hardly thinking about what he was saying. He hurt all over, and Mogget’s presence on his shoulder was both extremely uncomfortable and annoying.
“I am Lirael, Dau
ghter of the Clayr,” pronounced Lirael, her anger overriding her familiar feeling of being an imposter. “Who or what are you? Besides insufferably rude?”
The man—boy, really—stared back at her, till the blush spread further across her face and Lirael bent her head, hiding under her hair and scarf. She knew well what he was thinking.
She couldn’t possibly be a Daughter of the Clayr. The Clayr were all tall and blond and elegant. This girl . . . woman . . . was dark-haired and wore odd clothes. Her bright-red waistcoat was not at all like the star-dusted white robes of the Clayr he’d seen in Belisaere. And she lacked the aloof confidence of the seeresses, who had always made him nervous when he had met them by chance in the corridors of the Palace.
