Read Online The Ships of Air (The Fall of Ile-Rein) by Martha Wells - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Martha Wells
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small vent near the ceiling. It was a round bakelite orifice spewing air, with a metal lever to turn the inner ring to cool or warm, or to close it off entirely. The draft from it was strong; it might be outside air, funneled through the ventilation system by the ship’s own movement. There were fans mounted on some of the walls as well.
She continued on, pausing at the raised threshold of the bathroom. It was the only room nobody was sleeping in. You could have a bath , she thought, tempted. With hot water and soap . She didn’t think she was awake enough yet to make that serious a decision. She stepped in to get a drink of water from the tap, finding one of the small china tumblers still there though someone had carried off the matching carafe. Several pairs of boots were drying on the black-and-white tiles, the patched leather dyed in soft colors or stamped with fanciful designs. She leaned on the sink, looking into the mirror. Her mousy brown hair was getting shaggy and she pulled it back for an unobstructed view of her face. No, still don’t recognize that person , she thought, resigned. Especially now, when she should be pale from the Vienne winter. Whoever that was in the mirror, her cheeks had a sprinkle of freckles and red patches from riding and sailing under this world’s bright summer sun, as well as a nice patchwork of greenish yellow bruises. Giving up the unproductive self-scrutiny, she went back out into the main room.
In the sitting area Halian was stretched out on the couch, his face buried in a pillow. Giliead was still awake, sitting on the floor with his back propped against one of the chairs. His face drawn and thoughtful, he was staring absently into the foyer where the door to the corridor stood open. As he glanced up at her, Tremaine asked, “This is going to seem like an odd question, but is it day or night?”
“It’s night,” he told her, his voice low to keep from waking the others. “The storm is starting to die down.”
She settled on the floor, cross-legged, and yawned. She wasn’t sure how he knew that about the storm, unless he could tell it from the sound of the wind. She propped her chin on her hand, watching him. His long braided hair, the soft sun-faded colors of his worn clothes, made an interesting contrast with the smooth yellow upholstery and elegant lines of the armchair behind him. “Couldn’t you sleep?”
“I did for a while. Too much to think about.” He looked at the door again as two Rienish sailors passed in agitated conversation. “I was wondering what your people are like.”
That was too abstract a concept to be discussing at this hour. But Tremaine found herself saying, “I don’t know what my people are like anymore. I used to know, before the war. When it started, it seemed like the cities, the country just…stopped.” Like Lodun, trapped inside its defenses by the Gardier’s spells, perhaps not even realizing yet that Ile-Rien had fallen. “Things that were important to us just stopped.”
Giliead accepted that with a nod, without demanding further explanation. This was probably the longest private conversation she had had with him so far. From his expression he was turning her words over thoughtfully. Did all Syprians accept people at face value or was it just the Andrien family, she wondered. They all acted as if not understanding you was their problem, not yours. She looked around, distracted. “Where’s Ilias?”
“He’s with the others guarding Ixion. He’s worried about what we’re going to do about him.” Giliead shook his head uneasily and it was obvious Ilias wasn’t the only one who was worried. “Even if we take Ixion far from the island before we kill him, we won’t know if it’s worked or not. Not until he comes back again.”
“I hadn’t thought of that.” Tremaine felt a little chill settle in her stomach. It was the kind of problem Arisilde had been excellent at solving. But all they had left of Arisilde was
She continued on, pausing at the raised threshold of the bathroom. It was the only room nobody was sleeping in. You could have a bath , she thought, tempted. With hot water and soap . She didn’t think she was awake enough yet to make that serious a decision. She stepped in to get a drink of water from the tap, finding one of the small china tumblers still there though someone had carried off the matching carafe. Several pairs of boots were drying on the black-and-white tiles, the patched leather dyed in soft colors or stamped with fanciful designs. She leaned on the sink, looking into the mirror. Her mousy brown hair was getting shaggy and she pulled it back for an unobstructed view of her face. No, still don’t recognize that person , she thought, resigned. Especially now, when she should be pale from the Vienne winter. Whoever that was in the mirror, her cheeks had a sprinkle of freckles and red patches from riding and sailing under this world’s bright summer sun, as well as a nice patchwork of greenish yellow bruises. Giving up the unproductive self-scrutiny, she went back out into the main room.
In the sitting area Halian was stretched out on the couch, his face buried in a pillow. Giliead was still awake, sitting on the floor with his back propped against one of the chairs. His face drawn and thoughtful, he was staring absently into the foyer where the door to the corridor stood open. As he glanced up at her, Tremaine asked, “This is going to seem like an odd question, but is it day or night?”
“It’s night,” he told her, his voice low to keep from waking the others. “The storm is starting to die down.”
She settled on the floor, cross-legged, and yawned. She wasn’t sure how he knew that about the storm, unless he could tell it from the sound of the wind. She propped her chin on her hand, watching him. His long braided hair, the soft sun-faded colors of his worn clothes, made an interesting contrast with the smooth yellow upholstery and elegant lines of the armchair behind him. “Couldn’t you sleep?”
“I did for a while. Too much to think about.” He looked at the door again as two Rienish sailors passed in agitated conversation. “I was wondering what your people are like.”
That was too abstract a concept to be discussing at this hour. But Tremaine found herself saying, “I don’t know what my people are like anymore. I used to know, before the war. When it started, it seemed like the cities, the country just…stopped.” Like Lodun, trapped inside its defenses by the Gardier’s spells, perhaps not even realizing yet that Ile-Rien had fallen. “Things that were important to us just stopped.”
Giliead accepted that with a nod, without demanding further explanation. This was probably the longest private conversation she had had with him so far. From his expression he was turning her words over thoughtfully. Did all Syprians accept people at face value or was it just the Andrien family, she wondered. They all acted as if not understanding you was their problem, not yours. She looked around, distracted. “Where’s Ilias?”
“He’s with the others guarding Ixion. He’s worried about what we’re going to do about him.” Giliead shook his head uneasily and it was obvious Ilias wasn’t the only one who was worried. “Even if we take Ixion far from the island before we kill him, we won’t know if it’s worked or not. Not until he comes back again.”
“I hadn’t thought of that.” Tremaine felt a little chill settle in her stomach. It was the kind of problem Arisilde had been excellent at solving. But all they had left of Arisilde was
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