Deep Wizardry New Millennium Edition Read online

  Kit didn’t move for a moment. “S’reee—is what’s his name, Aivaaan, in there? Am I going to be him, is that it?”

  S’reee looked surprised. “No. How’d you get that idea?”

  “You said this was made from his brain,” Nita said.

  “Oh. His under-brain, yes—the part that runs breathing and pulse and blood flow and such. But the rest of Aivaaan, his mind? I don’t think so. Not that I’m any too sure where ‘mind’ is in a person. But you should still be Kit, by what the Sea tells me. Come on, time’s swimming.”

  “What do I do with it?”

  “Just put it around you and wrap it tight. Don’t be afraid to handle it roughly. It’s stronger than it looks.” She let go of the sark. It floated in the water, undulating gently in the current. Kit took another breath, submerged, reached down, and drew the sark around him.

  “Get back, hNii’t,” S’reee said. Nita backfinned several times her own length away from Kit, not wanting to take her eyes off him. He was exhaling, slowly sinking feet-first, and with true Rodriguez insouciance he swirled the sark around him like Zorro putting on a new cape. Kit’s face grew surprised, though, as the “cape” continued the motion, swirling itself tighter and tighter around him, binding his arms to his sides.

  Alarmed, Kit struggled, still sinking, bubbles rising from him as he went down. The struggling did him no good, and it suddenly became hard to see him as the wizardry in the whalesark came fully alive, and light danced around Kit and the sark. Nita had a last glimpse of Kit’s eyes going wide in panic as he and the whalesark became nothing more than a sinking, swirling storm of glitter.

  “S’reee—!” Nita said, getting alarmed.

  A second later, with a sound like muffled thunder and a blow like a nearby lightning-strike, displaced water hit Nita and bowled her sideways and backward. She fluked madly, trying to regain her balance enough to tell what was going on. The water was full of stirred-up sand, tatters of weed, small confused fish darting in every direction. And a bulk, a massive form that hadn’t been there before—

  Nita watched the great gray shape rise toward her and understood why S’reee had insisted on Kit’s change being in deep water. Her own size had surprised her at first—though a humpback looks small and trim, even the littlest males tend to be fifty feet long. But Kit was twice that, easily. He did not have the torpedo-like grace of a humpback, but what he lacked in streamlining he made up for in sheer mass. The sperm is the kind that most people think of when they hear the word “whale,” the kind made famous by most whaling movies. Nita realized that all her life she had mostly taken the whale’s shape for granted, not considering what it would actually be like up close to one.

  But here came Kit, stroking slowly and uncertainly at first with that immense tail, and getting surer by the second; looking up at her with the tiny eyes set in the huge domed head, and with his jaw working a bit, exposing the terrible teeth that could crunch a whaling boat in two. Nita felt the size of him, the weight, and somehow the danger, and kept her movements slow and respectful. He was still Kit—but something had been added.

  He glanced at S’reee and Nita, saying nothing, as he rose past them and broke surface to breathe. They followed. He spouted once or twice, apparently to get the feel of it, and then said to S’reee in a rather rueful tone of song, “I wish you’d warned me!”

  His voice ranged into a deeper register than a humpback’s and had a sharper sound to it—more clicks and buzzes. It wasn’t entirely comfortable on the skin. “I couldn’t,” S’reee said, “or you might have fought it even harder than you did, and the change might have refused to take. That would’ve been trouble for us; if a whalesark once rejects a person, it’ll never work for him at all. After this, though, it’ll be easier for you. Which in itself will make some problems. But for now, let’s get going. Take a long breath; I want to get out of the bay without attracting too much attention.”

  They took breath together and dived deep, S’reee in the lead and swimming south by west, Nita and Kit following. The surroundings—thick, lazily waving kelp beds and colonies of bright polyps and anemones, stitched through with the brief silver flash of passing fish—fascinated Nita. But she couldn’t give the landscape, or seascape, her whole attention; she had other concerns. Kit? she tried to say inside her head, using the Speech’s silent form, for privacy’s sake. But it didn’t seem to be working; she wasn’t getting the sort of mental “echo” that told her she was sending successfully. Maybe it had something to do with the shapechange spell. “Hey,” she said aloud, “you okay?”

  The question came out of her as such a long, mournful moan that Kit laughed—a sound more like boiling lava than boiling oatmeal: huge hisses and bubblings mixed together. “Now I am,” he said. “Or I will be as soon as I can get used to this bit with the eyes—”

  “Yeah, it’s weird. But kind of nice too. Feeling things, instead of seeing them...”

  “Yeah. Even the voices have feelings. S’reee’s is kind of twitchy—”

  “Yeah. You’ve got sharp edges—”

  “You’ve got fur.”

  “I do not!”

  “Oh, yes you do. It’s soft, your voice. Not like your usual one—”

  Nita was unsure how to take this, so she let it go. She’d found she occasionally had moments with Kit when she didn’t really know what to say to him and was left at a loss, though Kit didn’t seem to notice. There were times Nita suspected the uncomfortable moments had to do with the fact that until she’d met Kit she’d never really had a close friend, and wasn’t entirely sure yet how to behave with one. And the present silence was already feeling too long —

  But S’reee was speaking as if she hadn’t noticed anything unusual going on. “That’s the primary way we have for knowing one another, down here. We don’t have the sort of physical variations you do—differences in head shape and so forth. And if we did, what good would a distinction be if you had to come right up to someone to make it? By voice, we can tell how far away a friend is, how he’s feeling, practically what he’s thinking. Though the closer a friend is to you, usually, the harder it is to tell what’s on his mind with any accuracy.”

  Nita started to sing something, then caught herself back to silence. “The change settling in now, Kit?” S’reee said.

  “Yeah, now it is. I had a weird feeling, though, like something besides me, my mind I mean—like something besides that was fighting the change. But it’s gone.”

  “Only for the moment,” S’reee said. “See, it’s the old rule: no wizardry without its price, or its dangers. Though the dangers are different for each of you, since you changed by different methods. As I said, hNii’t, you have to beware pretending too hard—thinking so much like a whale that you don’t want to be a human being any more, or forget how. Wizards have been lost that way before, and there’s no breaking the spell from outside; once you re stuck inside the change-shape, no one but you can break out again. If you start finding your own memories difficult to recall, it’s time to get out of the whaleshape, before it becomes you permanently.”

  “Right,” Nita said. She wasn’t very worried. Being a humpback was delightful, but she had no desire to spend her life that way.

  “But your problem’s different, Kit. Your change is powered more by the spell resident in the whalesark than by anything you’re doing yourself. And all the sark’s done is confuse your own body into thinking it’s a whale’s body, for the time being. That confusion can be broken by several different kinds of distraction. The commonest is when your own mind—which is stronger than the whale-mind left in the sark—starts to override the instructions the whalesark is giving your body.”

  “Huh?”

  “Kit,” S’reee said very gently, finning upward to avoid the weedy, barnacled wreck of a fishing boat, “suppose we were—oh, say several hundred humpback-lengths down, in the Crushing Dark—and suddenly your whale-body started trying to behave like a human’s body. Human breathing rate, human
pulse and thought and movement patterns, human response to pressures and the temperature of the water—”

  “Uh…” Kit said, as the picture sank in.

  “You see the problem. Spend too much time in the sark, and the part of your brain responsible for handling your breathing and so forth starts overpowering the ‘dead’ brain preserved in the sark. Your warning signs are nearly the opposite of hNii’t’s. Language is the first thing to go. If you find yourself losing whalesong, you must surface and get out of the sark immediately. If you ignore the warning— The best that can happen is that the whalesark will probably be so damaged it can never be used again. The worst thing—” She didn’t say it. The unease in her voice was warning enough.

  No one said much of anything for a while, as the three of them swam onward, south and west. The silence, uneasy at first, became less so as they went along. S’reee, to whom this area was as commonplace as Kit’s or Nita’s home streets might have been, simply cruised along without any great interest in the surroundings. But Nita found the seascape endlessly fascinating, and suspected Kit did too—he was looking around him with the kind of fascination he rarely lent anything but old cars and his Z-gauge train set.

  Nita had rarely thought of what the seascape off the coast of the island would look like. From being at the beach she had a rather dull and sketchy picture of bare sand with a lot of water on top of it; shells buried in it, as they were on the beach, and there had to be weed beds; the seaweed washed up from somewhere. But all the nature movies had given her no idea of the richness of the place.

  Coral, for example; it didn’t come in the bright colors it did in tropical waters, but it was there in great quantity—great groves and forests of it, the white or beige or yellow branches twisting and writhing together in tight-choked abstract patterns. And shells, yes—but the shells still had creatures inside them. Nita saw Kit start in amazement, then swim down for a closer look at a scallop shell that was hopping over the surface of a brain coral, going about its business.

  They passed great patches of weed, kinds that Nita didn’t know the names of—until they started coming to her as if she had always known them: red-bladder, kelp, agar, their long dark leaves or flat ribbons rippling as silkily in the offshore current as wheat in a landborn wind.

  And the fish! Nita hadn’t taken much notice of them at first; they’d all looked alike to her—little and silver. But something had changed. They passed by a place where piles had been driven into the sea floor, close together, and great odd-shaped lumps of rusty metal had been dumped among them. Weed and coral had seized on the spot, wrapping the metal and the piles; and the little life that frequented such places, tiny shrimp and krill, swam everywhere.

  So did thousands of iridescent, silvery-indigo fish, ranging from fingerling size to about a foot long, eating the krill and fry as if there were no tomorrow. For some of the smallest of these there wasn’t going to be any tomorrow, Nita realized, as she also realized how hungry she was. “Blues!” she said, one sharp happy note, then dived into the cloud of bluefish and krill, and helped herself to lunch.

  It was a little while before she’d had enough. It took Nita only a couple of minutes to get used to the way a humpback ate—by straining krill and others of the tiniest ocean creatures, including the smallest of the blues, through the sievelike plates of whalebone, or “baleen,” in her jaws. The swift blue shapes that had been darting frantically in all directions were calming down already as Nita soared out of the whirling cloud of them and headed back over to S’reee and Kit, feeling slightly abashed and that an explanation of some kind was in order for the sudden interruption of their trip. But it wasn’t necessary. S’reee had stopped for a snack herself; and Nita realized that Kit had been snacking lightly on fish ever since they left Tiana Beach. A sperm whale was, after all, one of the biggest of the “toothed” whales, and needed a lot of food to keep that great bulk working. Not that he did anything but swallow the fish whole when he caught them; a sperm’s terrible teeth are mostly for defense.

  Kit paused only long enough to eat a blue or two, then drifted down toward the pilings and the objects stacked sloppily among them. “Neets,” he said, “will you take a look at this? It’s cars!”

  She glided down beside him. Sure enough, the corroded fins of an old-model Cadillac were jutting out of a great mound of coral. Under the tangled whiteness of the coral, as if under a blanket of snow, she could make out the buried shapes of hoods or doors, or the wheels and axles of wrecks wedged on their sides and choked with weed. Fish, blues and others, darted in and out of broken car windows and crumpled hoods, while in several places crabs crouched in the shells of broken headlights.

  “It’s a fish haven,” S’reee said as she glided down beside them. “The land people dump scrap metal on the bottom, and the plants and coral come and make a reef out of it. The fish come to eat the littler fish and krill that live in reefs; and then the boats come and catch the fish. And it works just as well for us as for the fishers who live on land. But we’ve got other business than dinner to attend to, at the moment. And hNii’t, don’t you think it would be a good idea if you surfaced now?”

  Nita and Kit looked at one another in shock, then started upward in a hurry, with S’reee following them at a more leisurely pace. “How long have we been down?” Kit whistled.

  They surfaced in a rush, all three, and blew. S’reee looked at Kit in some puzzlement; the question apparently meant nothing to her. “Long enough to need to come up again,” she said.

  “Neets, look,” Kit said in a rumbly groan, a sperm whale’s sound of surprise. Nita fluked hard once or twice, using her tail to lift herself out of the swell. She was surprised to see, standing up from the shore half a mile away, a tall brick tower with a pointed, weathered green-bronze top; a red light flashed at the tower’s peak. “Jones Beach already!” she said. “That’s miles and miles from Tiana—”

  “We’ve made good time,” S’reee said, “but we’ve a ways to go yet. Let’s put our tails into it. I don’t want to keep the Blue waiting.”

  They swam on. Even if the sight of the Jones Beach tower hadn’t convinced Nita they were getting close to New York, she now found that the increasing noise of the environment would have tipped off the whale that she’d become. Back at Tiana Beach, there’d been only the single mournful hoot of the Shinnecock horn and the far-off sound of the various buoy bells. But this close to New York Harbor, the peaceful background hiss of the ocean was gradually turning into an incredible racket. Bells and horns and whistles and gongs shrieked and clunked and whanged in the water as they passed them; and no sooner was she out of range of one than another one assaulted her twitching skin.

  Singing pained notes at one another, the three ran the gauntlet of sound. It got worse instead of better as they got closer to the harbor entrance, and to the banging and clanging was added the sound of persistent dull engine noise. Their course to Sandy Hook unfortunately crossed all three of the major approaches to New York Harbor. Along all three of them big boats came and went with an endless low throbbing, and small ones passed with a rattling, jarring buzz that reminded Nita of lawn mowers and chain saws.

  The three surfaced often to get relief from the sound, until S’reee warned them to dive deep for their longest underwater run so far, along the bottom of the biggest of the shipping lanes. Nita was beginning to feel the slow discomfort that was a whale’s experience of shortness of breath before S’reee headed for the surface again.

  They broached and blew and looked around them. Not far away stood a huge, black, white-lettered structure on four steel pilings. A white building stood atop the deck, and beside it was a red tower with several flashing lights. A horn on the platform sang one noncommittal note, short-LONG! short-LONG! again and again.

  “Ambrose Light,” Kit said.

  “The Speaking Tower, yes,” S’reee said. “After this it’ll be quieter—there are fewer markers between here and the Hook. And listen! There’s a friend’
s voice.”

  Nita went down again to listen, and finally managed to sort out a dolphin’s distant chattering from the background racket. She surfaced again and floated with the others awhile, watching Hotshot come, glittering in the sun like a bright lance hurling itself through the swells. As he came abreast of the Lightship he leaped high out of the water in a spectacular arc and hit the surface with a noise that pierced even all the hooting and dinging going on.

  “For Sea’s sake, we hear you!” S’reee sang at the top of her lungs, and then added in annoyed affection, “He’s such a showoff.”

  “But most dolphins are,” Kit said, with a note to his song that made it plain he wasn’t sure how he knew that.

  “True enough, but he’s worse than some. No question that he’s one of the best of our younger wizards, and a talented singer. I love him dearly. But what this business of being Wanderer is going to do to his precious ego—” She broke off as Hotshot came within hearing range. “Did you find him?”

  “He’s feeding off the Hook,” Hotshot said, arrowing through the water toward them and executing a couple of playful and utterly unnecessary barrel rolls as he came. Nita began to wonder if S’reee might be right about him. “He’s worried about something, though he wouldn’t tell me what it was. Said it was just as well you were coming; he would’ve come looking for you if you hadn’t.”

  The four of them started swimming again immediately; that last sentence was by itself most startling news. Blue whales did not do things, Nita realized, in the sudden-memory way that meant the information was the Sea’s gift. Blue whales were, that was all. Action was for other, smaller, swifter breeds: except in the Song of the Twelve, where the Blue briefly became a power to be reckoned with. The Song, as Tom had warned, had a way of changing the ones who sang it… sometimes even before they started.