The Void Trilogy 3-Book Bundle

by Peter F. Hamilton

“I … I’m glad,” he said sheepishly.

  This time it was a lot harder to move the huge stone slab. It was only after he started that he realized how exhausted he was, and hungry, and scared. But he shifted the stone a couple of inches until a slim crescent of mundane gray sky was visible. There were no excited shouts or farsight probes down into the pit. He could not send his own farsight across much distance given the tiny gap and the fact that he was still below the ground. Instead his mind called out to the guild’s sole ge-eagle. His relief when the majestic bird replied was profound. It was perched up on the cliffs, distressed and bewildered. What it showed him when it took flight swiftly brought his mood down again.

  There was nothing left. Nothing. Every cottage was a pile of smoldering rubble; the guild compounds with their sturdy stone walls had collapsed. He could barely make out the street pattern. A thin layer of grubby smog drifted slowly over the ruins.

  When the eagle swooped in lower, he could see the bodies. Charred clothes flapped limply on blackened flesh. Worse still were the parts that stuck out of the debris. Motion caught the eagle’s attention, and it pivoted neatly on a wing tip.

  Old Fromal was sitting beside the ruins of his house, head in his hands, rocking back and forth, his filthy old face streaked by tears. There was a small boy, naked, running around and around the wrecked market stalls. He was bruised and bleeding, his face drawn into a fierce rictus of determination, not looking at anything in the physical world.

  “They’re gone,” Edeard said. “Let’s go out.” He dropped the hated gun and shoved the slab aside.

  The stench was the worst of it, the cloying smell of the smoking wood remnants saturated with burned meat. Edeard almost vomited at the impact. It wasn’t only genistars and domestic animals that were roasting. He tore a strip of cloth from his ragged trousers, damped it in a puddle, and tied it over his face.

  They halted the running boy, who was in a shock too deep for reason to reach. Led old man Fromal away from the hot coals that had been his home for a hundred twenty-two years. Found little Sagat cowering in the upturned barrels beside the working well.

  Seven. That was how many they and the eagle found. Seven survivors out of a village numbering over four hundred souls.

  They gathered together just outside the broken gates, in the shadow of the useless rampart walls, where the reek of the corpses wasn’t so bad. Edeard went back in a couple of times, trying to find some clothes and food, though his heart was never in the search.

  That was how the posse from Thorpe-by-Water village found them just before dusk. Over a hundred men were riding horses and ge-horses, well armed, with ge-wolves loping beside them. They could barely believe the sight that awaited them, nor did they want to accept that it was organized bandits who were responsible. Instead of giving chase and delivering justice, they turned and rode back to Thorpe-by-Water in case their own loved ones were threatened. The survivors were taken with them. None of them ever returned.

  Edeard used his longtalk to tell Salrana: “The caravan is here.”

  “Where?” she answered. “I can’t sense them.”

  “They’ve just reached Molby’s farm; they should be at the village bridge in another hour or so.”

  “That’s a long way to farsee, even for you.”

  “The ge-eagle helps,” he admitted.

  “Cheat!”

  Edeard laughed. “I’ll meet you in the square in half an hour.”

  “All right.”

  He finished instructing the flock of ge-chimps clearing out the stables and excused himself to Tonri, the senior apprentice. All he got for his courtesy was an indifferent grunt. Thorpe-by-Water’s Eggshaper Guild hadn’t exactly welcomed him with open arms. There was a huge question about his actual status. The Master hadn’t yet confirmed him as a journeyman. Edeard’s request that he be recognized as such had generated a lot of resentment among the other apprentices, who believed he should be the junior. It didn’t help the situation that his talent was so obviously greater than any of theirs, even the Master’s.

  Salrana had been accepted a lot more readily into the Lady’s church by Thorpe-by-Water’s Mother, but she wasn’t happy, either. “This will never be our home,” she told Edeard sadly after the first week. Thorpe-by-Water’s residents did not exactly shun the refugees from Ashwell, but they were not made welcome. Rulan province now lived in fear of the bandits; if they could strike Ashwell, which was three days’ ride from the edge of the wilderness, they could strike anywhere in the province. Life had changed irrevocably. There were patrols out in the farmlands and forests constantly now; and craftsmen had to leave aside all nonurgent tasks to strengthen village walls. Everyone in the Rulan province was going to be poorer that winter.

  Edeard walked into the market square to the same averted glances he had been getting every day for the last three weeks. With its stalls and cobbled floor, it was remarkably similar to the one in Ashwell. Larger, of course: Thorpe-by-Water was a bigger village, built in a fork of the river Gwash, which provided it with natural protection along two sides. A canal moat had been dug between the two fast-flowing watercourses, with a sturdy drawbridge in the middle completing the defenses. Edeard thought that might make them safer than Ashwell; there was only one real point of entry unless the bandits used boats. Where would bandits get enough boats from …?

  His farsight was casually aware of Salrana hurrying toward him. They greeted each other in front of one of the many fish stalls. She was dressed in a Lady’s blue and white novice robe that was too large for her.

  “Almost like before,” Edeard said, looking her up and down. He was quietly aware of the glances she was drawing from the other young men in the market.

  She wriggled inside it, pulling at the long flared sleeves. “I’d forgotten how prickly this fabric is when it’s new,” she said. “I only ever had one new one before at Ashwell for my initiation ceremony; the rest were all secondhand. But the Mother here has had five made for me.” She gave his clothes an assessment. “Still not found a weaver?”

  Edeard rubbed at his ancient shirt with its strange miscolored patches. His trousers were too short as well, and the boots were so old that the leather was cracked along the top. “You need money for a weaver to make a shirt. Apprentices are clothed by their guild. And apprentices without status get the pick of everything the others don’t want.”

  “He still hasn’t confirmed your journeyman status?”

  “No. It’s all politics. His own journeymen are totally inept, and that’s mostly thanks to his poor training. They lose at least six out of every ten eggs; that’s just pitiful. They’re also five years older than me, so putting me on their level would be an admission of how rubbishy he actually is. I didn’t appreciate what I had with Akeem.” He fell silent at the painful memory. They should have made time to recover the bodies, to give their village a proper funeral blessed by the Lady.

  “You knew,” she said supportively.

  “Yes. Thanks.” They wandered through the market, with Edeard looking enviously at the various clothes on display. As an apprentice he was not allowed to trade any eggs he sculpted; they all belonged to the guild. Akeem had been decently flexible about it, believing in a quiet reward system. But now Edeard found himself with no money, no friends, and no respect. It was like being ten years old again.

  “One of the patrols came in last night,” Salrana said as they walked. “The Mother was at the meeting of village elders this morning; the patrol leader told them they’d found no sign of bandits, let alone a large group of them. Apparently there’s talk about cutting down the patrols.”

  “Idiots,” Edeard grunted. “What were they expecting to find? We told them the bandits can conceal themselves.”

  “I know.” Her expression turned awkward. “Our word doesn’t count for much.”

  “What do they think destroyed Ashwell?”

  “Give them some grace, Edeard; their whole world is being turned upside down right now. That’s
never easy.”

  “Whereas we’ve had a cozy ride.”

  “That’s not nice.”

  “Sorry.” He took a long breath. “I just hate this: After all we went through, we get treated as if we’re the problem. I really should have kept that gun.” He’d left it at the bottom of the well shaft, not wanting any part of a bandit legacy. The gun was pure evil. Ever since, he had been trying to draw the fidgety little components he had sensed inside. Thorpe-by-Water’s blacksmith had laughed when he had taken the sketches to him, telling him no such thing could be made. Now people were becoming skeptical about the whole repeat-shooting-gun story.

  “You did the right thing,” she said. “How awful life would be if everyone had a weapon like that.”

  “It’s pretty awful that the bandits have it and we don’t,” he snapped at her. “What’s to stop them from sweeping through the whole province? Then farther? How about the entire region?”

  “That won’t happen.”

  “No, it won’t, because the governor will raise an army. Thankfully, there are more of us than them, so we can win no matter how terrible their weapons are. But that will mean bloodshed on a scale we’ve never known.” He wanted to beat his fists against the nearest stall. “How did they get that gun? Do you think they found one of the ships we came in?”

  “Maybe they never left the ship they came in,” she said in a small voice.

  “Perhaps. I don’t know. Why will no one listen to us?”

  “Because we’re children.”

  He turned to snarl at her, then saw the deep worry in her thoughts, her tired face dabbed with greenish ointment. She was so lovely. Somehow he knew Akeem would approve his risking everything to save her. “I’m sorry. I don’t know why I’m taking it out on you.”

  “Because I’m the only one who listens,” she told him.

  “Lady, it’s worse here than Ashwell in some ways. The elders are so … backward. They must inbreed like dogs.”

  Salrana grinned. “Keep your voice down,” she scolded.

  “Okay.” He grinned back. “Not much longer now, I hope.”

  People were gathering along the side of the market square to watch the caravan arrive. Edeard counted thirty-two wagons rolling along the road and over the drawbridge. Most had terrestrial beasts tethered to them: horses, donkeys, oxen, cows. Some had pens carrying huge pigs. Ge-wolves padded alongside. There were more outriders with pistols than Edeard remembered from before. The wagons were as large and impressive as he recalled, with their metal-rimmed wheels as tall as he was. Most of them were covered by curving canopies of dark oiled cloth, though several were clad in tarred wood, almost like tiny mobile cottages. Entire families sat on the driver’s bench, waving and smiling as they wound their way into the market. Every summer the caravans toured the district, trading animals, seeds, eggs, tools, food, drink, and fancy cloth from Makkathran itself. They did not always visit Ashwell, but Edeard could remember the excitement when they did.

  Even before the wagons had stopped, villagers were shouting up at the traveling families, asking what they had brought. It was a good-natured crowd that had little time for the mayor’s welcoming speech to the caravan leader. Trading was already under way before the formalities were over. Samples of wine and beer were handed down, mostly to apprentices. Edeard chewed on some dried beef that had been flavored with a spice he never had tasted before. Salrana picked daintily at trays of fruit and pickled vegetables, though she was less restrained when it came to exotic chocolates.

  As the evening sky began to darken, Edeard was in considerably better spirits. A lot of the villagers were making for home and supper before returning for the night’s traditional festivities. He and Salrana made their way to the lead caravan. The last remaining villagers were leaving, studiously ignoring the Ashwell pair as they did so.

  Barkus, the caravan Master, was also as Edeard remembered, several decades into his second century but still hale. He had the largest sideburns Edeard had ever seen: white whiskers bristling around the curve of his jawbone, framing ruddy cheeks. His barrel torso was clad in a red silk shirt and an extravagant blue and gold waistcoat.

  “And what can I do for you two?” he chortled as Edeard and Salrana edged in close to his wagon; his large family glanced at them and kept about their work, extending the awning on a frame of martoz wood to form an extensive tent. “I think we’ve run out of beer samples.” He winked at Edeard.

  “I want to come with you to Makkathran; we both do.”

  Barkus let out a booming laugh. Two of his sons sniggered as they pushed the awning pegs into the hard ground. “Very romantic, I’m sure. I admire your pluck, young sir, and you my Lady’s lady. But sadly we have no room for passengers. Now, I’m sure that if the two of you are to be ah … how shall we say, blessed by an addition, your parents won’t be as fearsome as you expect. Trust me. Go home and tell them what’s happened.”

  Salrana drew her shoulders back. “I am not pregnant. I take my vows of devotion very seriously.”

  That blatant lie almost deflated Edeard’s indignation. “I am Edeard, and this is Salrana; we’re the survivors from Ashwell.” He was very aware of the silence his statement caused. Barkus’s family members were all looking at them. Several strands of farsight emanating from the other side of the wagon swept across them. “I believe you knew my Master, Akeem.”

  Barkus nodded sagely. “You’d best come inside. And the rest of you, get back to work.”

  The wagon was one of those boasting a wooden cabin. The inside was fitted with beautiful ancient golden wood, intricately carved with a quality that would have eluded Geepalt and his apprentices. Every section of the walls and ceiling was made of doors, which came in sizes from some no bigger than Edeard’s fist to those taller than he. Barkus opened a pair of horizontal ones, and they folded down into long cushioned benches. Two of the small doors along the apex slid aside to expose misty glass panels. Barkus struck a match and pushed it through a small hole at the end of the glass, lighting a wick. The familiar cozy glow of a jamolar oil flame filled the cabin.

  Edeard smiled, very impressed.

  “I remember your Master with great fondness,” Barkus said, waving them onto the bench opposite himself. “He traveled out here with us a long time ago. I was barely your age at the time. Your Mother, too, Novice Salrana, always showed us kindness. Both will be missed and mourned. It was a terrible thing.”

  “Thank you,” Edeard said. “I don’t wish to impose, but neither of us can stay in Thorpe-by-Water. We’re not very welcome, and in any case it’s too close to Ashwell.”

  “I understand. The whole province is shaken by what happened, though I’ve heard a great many different versions already, including, I have to say, a couple which cast you in a less than favorable light, young man. I held my tongue at the telling of such tales because I remember you from our last visit, four summers ago. I also remember what Akeem said about you. He was impressed with your talent, and old Akeem was not easily swayed, especially by one so young.”

  “Edeard risked his life to save me,” Salrana said.

  “That also I have heard.”

  “Before that night, Akeem said he wanted me to go to Makkathran to study at the Blue Tower of my guild. I would—no, I will—see his wish come true.”

  Barkus smiled softly. “A worthy goal, young man.”

  “We will work our passage,” Edeard said forcefully. “I will not freeload.”

  “Nor I,” said Salrana.

  “I would expect nothing less,” Barkus said. He seemed troubled. “However, it is a long way. We will not reach Makkathran until next spring, and that is if all goes well. Many caravans have already cut short their regular journey to leave this province. The stories of Ashwell’s fate are many, but they have unnerved all of us. As I remember, Akeem said you have a strong third hand.”

  “That’s true. But my talent is in sculpting. There are many wild defaults in the woods and hills of this province. By the t
ime winter falls, I can sculpt you a pack of ge-wolves that no bandit gang will ever get past no matter how strong their concealment. I can sculpt them with a stronger sense of smell than any you’ve used hitherto. I can also sculpt eagles which will circle for miles on every side of the convoy, searching out the slightest hint of treachery or ambush.”

  “I’m sure you can.” Even now Barkus was unsure.

  “I can also teach you and your families this,” Edeard said. He wove his concealment around himself. Barkus gasped, leaning forward and blinking. Edeard felt the caravan Master’s farsight whipping back and forth across the cabin. He quietly got up and sat next to the startled Barkus, then withdrew his concealment. “How could the bandits attack you if they can’t see you?”

  “Dear Lady!” Barkus grunted. “I never knew such a thing.”

  “Akeem gifted this to me.”

  Barkus regained his composure quickly. “Did he, now? Akeem was right about you, and so I think are half the tales. Very well, my dear youngsters; I will accept you both as family tyros. You will come with us as far as Makkathran. And you will indeed work your passage. Let’s see if you think such nobility is worthwhile when we reach the Ulfsen Mountains. However, Edeard, this arrangement is conditional on you not teaching anyone your concealment trick. Do you concur?”

  “I do, sir. I don’t understand why, though.”

  “You haven’t taught it to anyone in Thorpe-by-Water, have you?”

  “No, sir.”

  “That’s a good political instinct you have there, my boy. Let’s just keep it that way, shall we. There’s enough trouble infecting our poor old world as it is without everyone sneaking around unseen. Though if you can find a way for farsight to uncover such trickery, I’d be grateful if you would inform me at once.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Good lad. We leave with the dawn light in three days’ time. If you’re not here that morning, we still leave, though I don’t suppose your Master will object to your exodus.”

  “I don’t believe he will, sir.”