Chapter 255
Black sea, black sky, two ships sailing side by side, the Marka and the Upp Igen, lanterns on their decks, a silver thread trailing from each stern back toward a lighthouse they can't see any more. On the Marka's rail, a small figure in a long white scarf and swallow-tailed coat, bouncing on her toes, never still: Svala, new aboard.
Out of the black, light: an island rising out of the Deep, seven hills, and on each hill a slender white tower, and at the top of each tower a great lamp, burning white. Six of them steady and bright. The seventh guttering, low, like a candle at the end of its wick.
at the Marka's bow, eyes gold.
at the Upp Igen's Perch, scope to her eye, a crimson tear starting.
Round the base of the seventh tower, a gang in grey masks: smooth, featureless, the colour of a rain-cloud. Grey coats. Every one of them holding a glass jar up toward the guttering lamp, lids open. And the lamp's light flowing into the jars, streaming down out of the air like mist into a funnel, the jars glowing as the lamp dims.
RANK PLATE ×24: DIMMER · K-II MARKED · joy-thieves
corking a full jar, holding it up, admiring it: a jar of pure warm light.
on the Marka, stiffening at the word.
on the Upp Igen, cracking his knuckles.
Storming the seventh hill.
Both crews landing on Lumen's black-rock shore and running up the hill, the guttering lamp above.
Dimmers uncorking jars at them, and the jars drink: Vigolas's green lightning streaming off his fists into a jar; Kompis's gold pulse-line dimming as a jar sucks at it.
Svala diving off a crag, scarf streaming, swallow-wing blades flashing, slicing a jar out of a Dimmer's hand in mid-air. Clink-crash.
Rougeina Swapping between jars, shattering them, and each shattered jar releasing its light back up toward the tower in a little rush.
Roffe wading in with Sleven, swatting Dimmers.
A Dimmer uncorking a jar at Tihi, and the jar trying to drink her giggle, and Tihi clapping both hands over her own mouth, eyes wide, refusing to laugh.
high above, guttering lower and lower as the jars drink it, the light at the top of the tower shrinking to a flicker.
a beat late, looking up at it.
Small, bare footsteps on rock, running. And the Dimmers on the hilltop flinching, all at once, like moths from a flame, as if something they're afraid of were coming up the path behind them.
Up the path from the island's heart, running, a skip and a hop: a little girl. Seven years old. Two copper-red braids down to her knees, tied with white ribbon. A too-big white lamplighter's coat with the hem rolled up three times. Bare feet black on the soles. And held high above her head in both hands: a small, lumpy clay lamp, burning a pure white flame.
The seventh hill of Lumen at night under a guttering tower-lamp, a battle frozen in surprise: grey-masked Dimmers with jars raised, two crews mid-swing, and, walking calmly into the very middle of it, a seven-year-old girl with a clay lamp held high. Its white flame throws a perfect circle of light round her, and inside the circle, above the heads of everyone it touches, soft, painterly vignettes are beginning to bloom like memory-bubbles: Dimmers and pirates alike, half-seeing something.
Across the bridge of her nose, seven freckles glowing emerald.
ISKALL · K-II MARKED (assigned at seven) · Scalelist #1,000,007 (the plate's paint is seven thousand years old and peeling)
chin up, lamp high, looking at the Dimmers with the expression of a grandmother catching children stealing jam.
edging backwards, holding a jar up between himself and the white flame like a shield, his grey mask trembling.
stepping toward him, holding the lamp up to his grey mask.
above the Dimmer's masked head: a vignette, soft and golden. A small kitchen. A woman laughing, flour on her hands, a boy on a stool licking a spoon. One heartbeat long.
And the Dimmer lowering his jar. Slowly. His mask tilting. Very quietly:
The Dimmer dropping his jar. It shatters on the rock, and the lamp-light in it streams back up to the tower. And then another Dimmer, catching a glimpse of the circle, of his own vignette blooming over his head, dropping his. Then another. The ones further back running, masks turned away, not daring to look.
lamp high, watching them go, her small face very old for a moment.
high above, flickering back up a little as the shattered jars' light returns to it. Still low. Still the dimmest of seven. But burning.
turning to the two crews standing round her, staring, weapons lowered. A gap-toothed grin, a child's, utterly at odds with the eyes.
peering up at Vigolas, at his green coat, at his face, the way a jeweller looks at a stone.
trotting up to the little girl and sniffing the clay lamp, then her bare feet, then sitting down in front of her and wagging, slowly, as if he knows her.
crouching, one hand on Mingus's head, the lamp held up beside his face, and for a moment her eyes are wet. Then she stands again, brisk.
laughing.
tilting her head at him, unconvinced, the way children are when grown-ups say obvious nonsense.
The clay lamp rising, held up in two small hands, its white flame filling the panel, toward Vigolas's face.