by Ben Galley
‘You know it won’t kill me,’ Bezel replied, loud enough so that only Nilith could hear.
Nilith nodded. ‘True, but I’ve already got a sick horse. I don’t want a sick bird. We need your eyes to tell us what’s coming. Or what’s behind. So, please. Don’t eat the fish.’
Bezel squawked deep in his throat, the bird version of a growl. ‘Fine. But I swear to the dead gods, the next fucking sparrow or dune-pigeon that rears its head, I’m catching it, and you ain’t getting any…’ His muttering became inaudible as he hopped away down the barge’s rail and flapped into the sky.
‘Bloody recalcitrant bastard,’ Nilith sighed.
She chose an infinitely more pliant beast instead, and settled down by Anoish’s side. The horse lifted his head, sprightlier than he had been in days, but still weepy-eyed and stiff. She patted his ribs, feeling the rise and fall of his breath, and the rumble of his stomach. It was calming, and she half-closed her eyes.
At the tiller, Ghyrab cleared his throat with an inordinate amount of noise. ‘That horse ain’t ready to run yet.’
‘I know, I know. A few days yet,’ replied Nilith, helping Anoish to stretch out his injured leg then roll to his front. Twice he tried to stand, but the wallowing of the barge made it harder, and twice the leg crumpled to the knee. Perhaps it’s just numb, Nilith quietly prayed. ‘Maybe fewer. He’s a tough bastard.’
Anoish snuffled at that. She wished she had something to feed him besides a bowl of poisonous fish. Why Ghyrab let her catch the spiny little beasts before telling her, Nilith wasn’t sure. Perhaps he wanted to alleviate some of her boredom, and it had worked for a time, but it hadn’t changed the fact they were starving.
They’d pushed the barge day and night since their escape from the Ghouls. They’d had no rations besides those they had run with and the scraps Ghyrab kept aboard, and they were long gone. They had fresh river water, which was always a pleasure in the desert, and if she grew even hungrier, plenty of splinters to gnaw on. At least they weren’t being chased. Nilith felt the horse take an extra deep breath, and exhaled with him.
Bezel had seen nothing of Krona and her Ghouls. Perhaps the river led too far north for their interest. Maybe their crater on the Firespar called to them, or Krona had succumbed to rot and pain. Whatever the reason, Nilith was glad for it.
Since leaving Kal Duat, the Ashti had become steadily busier. Before, Nilith and the others had gone half a day without seeing another person on the water. Now, a boat or a barge passed them every hour. It was fortunate the river had also widened in recent miles. The Ashti was no longer a quiet, secluded rift cutting through the desert like mould through cheese. All manner of craft now filled its waterway: wizened old fellows on flat rafts like Ghyrab’s; empty stone-barges, heading back to the White Hell; patchwork dinghies filled with laughing children; fishermen on reed coracles, lines on their bare toes and cotton hats tipped over their faces.
At intervals along the Ashti’s gutter-like cliffs, desert-folk had built their strange homes. Flimsy ladders and balconies criss-crossed the stone, while dwellings of woven reed and frond bulged outwards, like molluscs left high and dry. In one case, the house was actually an old beetle carapace, hollowed out and suspended from the cliff on ropes.
Older residents had gone so far as to mine holes in the sandstone, like swallows building nests in a river bank. Long poles hung overhead, bound with twine and hooks and patchwork nets. Buckets hung on ropes from their makeshift homes. They moved in constant rotation as water was hoisted up to the desert, presumably for sale or for farming. Nilith attempted to barter with a few for food, but with only a rusty trident to offer, she was ignored by every tiny settlement.
‘This is impossible. How do you survive, Ghyrab?’
‘South of my hut, there was a village spread over the Ashti, where the river gets so narrow that two barges can’t pass. Safe from raiders and soulstealers there. Not like these folk.’ Ghyrab nodded towards another web of ladders and ropes spilling over the cliff edge.
Nilith looked up at them, watching a woman trying to bath two naked babes with much difficulty and howling. ‘They seem pretty settled.’
‘For now,’ the bargeman grunted. ‘They hide here until the next band of soulstealers come along. Those who survive move on. So it goes.’
As he spoke, Nilith noticed there wasn’t a single nail or dab of mortar in the handful of mollusc-like dwellings. Everything was reed or woven palm frond, equally easy to pack up and take or leave behind.
‘Lions don’t come to watering holes to drink, Majesty. They come to eat the beasts that do.’
Nilith caught the eye of a man above, possibly the babes’ father. His gaze was unblinking, and followed her until the river had taken them downstream. Only then did he take his hands from the axe he’d been holding.
‘Why don’t they leave?’
‘And go where? Nowhere’s safe in the empire, just bits of it are less dangerous. Isn’t any law out here, no more than there is in your city. That is their home for now. Let them enjoy what little peace they can afford.’
Nilith pursed her lips, watching the family disappear behind a spur of rock. ‘It’s not fair,’ she said, gripping her trident.
‘The world ain’t been right since binding entered it, Majesty.’
Her answer was just a whisper. ‘Precisely.’
‘Where are we, anyway?’ called a voice. It had been so long since Farazar had spoken, Nilith had almost forgotten the ghost was there. They must have been his first words since Nilith had fished him out of the river, trembling with anger. He was now ensconced in a corner with his knees drawn into his chest and his arms wrapped around his legs, glowing darkly and moodier than ever.
Ghyrab took a measure of the sun and the curve of the river.
‘We can’t be nearing Silok’s Springs already…’ he said. For the first time since he’d taken them on as passengers, the bargeman looked unsure. ‘But we are. Must be flowing quicker than I thought.’
‘You lost, old peasant?’ Farazar challenged him.
‘Truth be told, you’re the first passengers I’ve had in two summers, and they all wanted to go south. Haven’t been this far north in… Well, I can’t remember.’
The ghost huffed. ‘And how exactly does one tell when it’s summer in this despicable fire-pit?’
Ghyrab was unimpressed. ‘Maybe you can’t, Emperor, from your ivory tower, but we desert-folk can.’ He turned back to Nilith. ‘In a few miles, there’s another jetty and a hut. Silok’s a bargeman like me. Or at least he was. Could be long dead now.’ He wiggled a finger in his ear. ‘If we’re lucky, some of Silok’s sons will still tend the barge. They might have vittles. If not, the Springs are named after a nearby patch of palms and grass. Could be some fruits or leaves.’
‘Let’s hope so.’
‘We’d better. Last place before the river starts curving back east.’
Nilith chuckled drily. ‘I’ll take an empty stomach over one full of sharp steel any day, Ghyrab. It’s good to be clear of—’
‘TROUBLE!’ came a screech from above. Bezel came crashing back to the deck like a meteor. Nilith jumped in fright.
‘Dead gods, bird!’
Bezel winked. ‘Just imagine if you were a hare or a mouse.’
Nilith crossed her arms, secretly digging her nails into her palms. ‘Perhaps when I have the time for such luxuries as daydreaming, I will. For now, I’m more interested in what you mean by trouble!’
He held up a pinion feather. ‘Don’t get too fucking excited, now. Could be nothing. Could be just a bunch of fast-moving nomads.’
‘What did you see?’
‘I saw a dust cloud to the south. Thin, but coming this way. I wanted to warn you first before…’ But Bezel trailed off, golden eyes fading out of focus, beak hanging agape. ‘Oh, for fuck’s sake! Not now!’
Nilith felt a twinge in her gut at his urgent tone. ‘What is it? What did you see?’
The falcon whac
ked his head with his wings. ‘Please just six. Please! I fucking swear!’
‘Bezel! What did you see, damn it?’
He seemed to be fighting something, straining to speak. ‘Dust cloud. Riders, maybe. Twenty or so, dressed in black and grey. Only f—NO! That bitch rang nine—’
Bezel cracked. That was the only word for it. A dark rift appeared in his chest and he folded into it with a wretched shriek. The rift disappeared with the crack of a whip, leaving the air to wobble in the spot where the falcon had been perched not a moment ago. Feathers and down fell like fat snowflakes.
It took some time for the barge’s passengers to tear their eyes away from the empty space.
‘Did he…?’ Ghyrab stuttered. ‘Does he… do that often?’
Nilith dug her teeth out of her bottom lip. ‘I think it’s something to do with his bond. His half-coin.’
‘What does that mean?’ Farazar yelled at her.
‘It means Sisine’s summoned him! Dragged him all the way to Araxes, damn it!’ Nilith ignored the fresh worry knotting her stomach and attended to other matters. ‘What’s more important is what Bezel was about to say. A dust cloud, but “only” what? Did he mean four? Five? Fifty? Did he mean to say miles or minutes?’ She clutched her sandy, matted hair.
Anoish whinnied, turning his snout to the river and staring forlornly at the canyon walls, as though they were prison bars. The bargeman had no answer for Nilith, just a scowl. Only Farazar spoke up.
‘I was on the cusp of believing you were a warrior, afraid of nothing. Yet here you are whining about a little dust cloud like a coward,’ he hissed.
Nilith moved so her shadow fell over him. ‘I ought to make you go ashore first, then. You can play scout, and you’d better pray that dust cloud is not the Ghouls heading us off.’
The ghost’s face spread into a broad smile, like that of a street clown. ‘Praying is for the foolish. Look at you, after all, and everything praying’s brought you.’
‘Intolerable man.’ Nilith swept away, leaving him blinking in the sunlight. ‘How far to the Springs, Ghyrab?’
‘Hour, maybe less.’
Nilith retreated to the bulwark to watch the water slip by. Gone was the foul sewage of the Kal Duat quarry, and it was a blurry crystal once again; summer blue streaked black by fish riding the currents.
‘Damn that meddling daughter of mine,’ she whispered, low so only the horse could hear. Even out here, still hundreds of miles from the Cloudpiercer, Sisine was still making her life painfully difficult.
‘What? What could you possibly fucking want to—’
A finger flicked him square in the beak, which to the falcon was like a soft punch. Bezel flapped his dishevelled wings, almost slipping from the railing. The magic of his summoning always somehow found him a perch. It was considerate like that, considering how cruel it was in most other areas.
‘We had a deal!’ he complained nasally.
Sisine’s face was puckered with displeasure. Her arms crossed over a smart gown of blue and black. Powdered crystal covered her lips. Her raven hair streamed freely in the wind. Despite the golden paint that swirled around her emerald eyes, she looked weary, lacking sleep.
‘I refuse to wait any longer for news. For all I know, you’ve been sunning yourself on the beaches of Ede, or island-hopping across the Scatter.’
‘For your information, Princess, I’ve been very bloody busy indeed. In fact, before you rudely summoned me, I had just picked up your mother’s trail. Now I have lost it. It’ll take me a—’
‘Where is she?’
Bezel loathed being interrupted. After two hundred years strangebound, he had learned that the living never truly listened; they merely waited for their turn to speak. Sisine clearly wasn’t fond of waiting.
Bezel also knew the trick to lying was not replacing the truth, but bending it. ‘She’s in the south.’
The questions spewed from Sisine. ‘South? What is she doing in the south and not in Krass? Where in the south?’
He sighed, speaking slowly as if trying to talk sense into a drunkard. ‘I don’t know. Like I said, I’ve only recently tracked her down—’
‘Where?’
‘Outside of Kemza.’ At Sisine’s blank look, he sighed. ‘Where in the fuck is that, you ask? As I was saying, six hundred miles south. East of Belish. At a crossing of a river called Ran.’
‘And what is that lying swine of a woman doing there?’
The falcon had to pause here. There were two answers, and the choice was a difficult one. He could either rattle the princess or pacify her, and every moment he spent weighing them, Sisine became more suspicious. The other trick to lying was not taking too long to answer.
Bezel decided to keep her guessing. Let the bitch stew and wring her fingers, he thought. She deserved it. ‘Heading back north, by the looks of it. Or east up the coast to Krass.’
Her eyes narrowed. ‘Not so certain, are we?’
The falcon shrugged. ‘Not certain at all. There are many roads through the Long Sands.’
‘How did you find her?’
Bezel rattled off a few faraway places for good measure. ‘Heard about a woman travelling with many guards in a souk south of Far District. They said south, not east. Then in the Steps, in Abatwe, saw a caravan trading with shiny Araxes silver. I had just found the river crossing outside of Kemza, and the tracks of a small group heading north. I followed them and saw her eyes, green just like yours. Unmistakeable. Now I might have lost her for good. And whose fault is that?’
Sisine moved away from him, teeth and fists clenched. ‘You had better not. Otherwise there’ll be no reward for you at the end of this.’
Bezel was glad it was hard for birds to smile. Nonetheless, the corner of his beak still curved. ‘I guess I’d better go all the way back out there, then.’
‘You guess correctly, bird. I must know what that woman is doing in the Long Sands. It makes no sense to me, and it makes me all the more suspicious. Now go! And be quick about it! I don’t want to have to summon you again!’
‘That makes two of us, Princess.’
With that, just as the back of Sisine’s hand was swinging towards him, Bezel dove from the railing with his wings folded, and dropped like a spear towards the distant flagstones.
Chapter 10
Old Wounds & Broken Bonds
Never turn your back on an Arctian, even when he’s dead.
Old Krass Proverb
The jetty looked totally abandoned. No barge waited patiently against it. Sand eddied across its warped planks. The discarded ropes hanging from its sides were rotten or frayed, and the whole thing exhibited a distinct leftward lean.
Nilith looked back to Ghyrab, who gave his trademark shrug. The trident she held in her fists did nothing to steady her heart. It thudded so hard she could feel it in her eyes, making her vision pulse. She dearly wished Sisine had not taken Bezel away.
‘Doesn’t look like Silok or his sons stuck around,’ she called over her shoulder to the bargeman. Her stomach growled at the announcement.
Ghyrab sniffed. ‘We better hope the spring’s not barren.’
With great washes of the oar-like tiller, he slowed the barge and turned it into the calmer shallows. They collided with the jetty with a thud, and the impact shook them all. A loop rope saw to keeping the barge in place. Ghyrab kept his hand on the tail of the knot, ready to yank it loose at any moment.
‘I’ll be here,’ he said. ‘Waiting.’
Nilith bowed her head in thanks. ‘You don’t have to do this, you know. To come this far. To help this much.’
The bargeman cackled. ‘Oh, I’m not doing it out the goodness of my own heart, Majesty. I’m doing it because I know what a fat purse o’ gems I’ll get for all these miles under the keel. Keeping you alive protects my investment. Now you hurry up.’ He added a wink, and Nilith smiled.
Anoish was fixed on getting to dry land, beating both her and Farazar to the rough wood of the jetty e
ven though his legs were stiff as fenceposts. He tottered on, and by the time plank turned to dust, he had some of his usual gait back. His injured haunch still dropped slightly, and Nilith wondered if it would ever be right again.
‘Farazar, tend to Anoish. Ghyrab, I’ll be back shortly. And watch that ghost.’
Trident bobbing, Nilith jogged up the slope, stumbling awkwardly. The steep ground felt entirely too solid for her liking; it had no sway to it at all.
The shaded passage hadn’t been cut into the canyon rock by hands and picks, but by water, long since dried up or diverted. She trod on whorls where waterfalls had poured and splashed, or whirlpools had spun.
Nilith was out of breath by the time she broke into sunlight and hot desert. There was a fragrance of palms and water on the hot breeze, and it stirred her empty stomach. A bowshot away, the small oasis called to her thirst, but her practicality pulled her instead towards the thimble-shaped hut perched on the lip of the canyon wall.
Before she moved, she looked south. There was a dust cloud indeed, just as the falcon said, but it had trailed west, and was already fading into a haze. Hooves and riders, sure enough, but who they belonged to, she could not say for sure. Plenty of nomads and soultrains crossed the carpet of dunes that sat between the city and the Steps.
Nilith turned north and felt her breath catch in her throat as she saw the vast smudge of Araxes, sitting like a mountain range on the horizon. At its middle, it reached for the sky in one sharp thrust. The Cloudpiercer. Ghyrab had brought them much closer than she had thought, but the city’s size belied the distance. There were still many miles left.
The hut. She loped towards the mound of plaster and river stones. It looked out over the Ashti and had a squat door in its backside. Its white plaster was flaking away, revealing the brown pebbles and dried reeds beneath. As with Ghyrab’s hut, it seemed dead to the world, but Nilith was now wise to the silence of bargemen, and how they liked to pounce with tridents.
‘Is there anybody there? I mean no harm. Just here to barter for supplies! We’ve come north with Ghyrab.’
