Oracle's Fire

by Mary Victoria

  ‘Lord’s errand,’ Tymon threw over his shoulder. ‘Sorry, Ystafa.’

  It was a lie that would be found out as soon as Dayan asked for him. He had no time to lose. He ducked out of the door into the courtyard beyond, the cook’s frankly descriptive curses about the Lord and his pets singeing his ears.

  To Tymon’s relief, there was no sign of the Tree-dogs in the courtyard as he hurried to open the ornate mansion portals. Like the rest of Dayan’s personal servants, he had been given the keys to the main gates on a knotted cord to keep in his pocket, as well as those for the stores and back kitchen door; the penalties for runaways were so severe that the comparatively cosseted House-workers never abused that privilege. He was further encouraged by the thought that it was early enough in the morning to expect to make the journey to the mine without encountering customs officers or guards, who would delay him with questions.

  The weather was almost muggy after the rain and wind of the past few days; as he stepped out of the gates, locking them behind him, he saw that the yawning gap of the mine-crater was filled with warm fog and the sun was already burning through the condensation. Alive, she’s alive! the bright beams of light seemed to sing, as he jogged down the road. Samiha is alive! Anything seemed possible after his vivid Reading. Despite the knowledge of impending danger, his thoughts soared, and he did not at first remark what had plummeted through the leaf-forests to his right, with a muffled thud.

  He stopped with instinctive caution, squinting at the gleaming rain-washed twigs above, then at the foggy lip of the crater. Had someone thrown a shard of bark at him? Before he could locate the source of the sound, however, it was repeated. A dark shape dropped heavily onto the road in front of him. Tymon stared in alarm as a winged creature unfurled itself on the bark and hobbled towards him.

  He recognised it immediately: it was one of the Envoy’s ‘curses’, what Noni had called a ‘psychic construct’, like the creatures he had Seen attacking Jedda in the Reading. He had never particularly liked birds, and the thing scrabbling on the bark before him stirred up a childhood dread of having his eyes pecked out. Now that he was able to inspect the creature more closely, he saw it resembled a corpse of a bird rather than a living one — or more precisely the component parts of several corpses, assembled together and brought to life by an amateur god. It was a travesty, a grotesque copy of a crow. Too late, he wished that he had asked the Focals more about the curses and how to combat them. The thing before him emitted a single raucous caw, lurched into the air and flapped directly at him.

  Tymon cried out, throwing up his arms to protect his face as the construct alighted clumsily on his back. He could feel its weight, the claws digging through his coat, and a sharp smell of putrefaction filled his nostrils. Panic took hold of him and he lurched along the road, trying to beat the vile thing off. It took him a while to dislodge it, for he could barely bring himself to touch its stinking, matted feathers. He stumbled perilously close to the low wall at the edge of the mine-shaft in his terror, before finally throwing the feathered horror away from him, onto the road. It took off again with a croak, blundering up to settle on the top of a nearby twig, still emitting its harsh cries.

  Tymon eyed the hunched creature on the twig-tip, his fear prickling-hot. Its cries reminded him disquietingly of an alarm. Noni had said the curses attacked in numbers, he remembered, tilting up his head to search the sky over the mine. Chal was positioned in a well of light, and he could see the distant patches of blue through the upper canopy. He also saw, with a sinking heart, the funnel of dark specks gathering swiftly over the mine-crater, circling between the leaf-forests. They descended in response to their fellow’s call, flapping ever closer. There were dozens of them. He began to hasten down the road towards the docks, his throat dry.

  He had not gone ten paces before a heavy weight struck his back, knocking the breath out of him. It was no bird, however: someone large and heavy was grappling him from behind. A meaty hand was clamped across his mouth, and he felt the point of a hardwood knife prick his ribs.

  ‘Not a sound,’ breathed a man’s voice in his ear, in guttural Argosian.

  His assailant hooked an arm about his neck and dragged him bodily into a clump of twigs on the north side of the road, still holding the knife to his ribs. Tymon was thrust ahead of his captor, over the uneven growth at the base of the shafts; he could not turn to see his assailant’s face. Although he craned up at the slivers of sky visible between the twigs, he could not see the birds, either, at least for now. The black specks had abruptly withdrawn, as if one attack precluded the other.

  Deep among the thickets, his captor halted and twisted him about, shoving him against the trunk of a twig. Tymon found himself staring into Tahu’s ash-lined eyes, the flat of the pirate’s blade against his throat.

  ‘Greetings, choirboy,’ said the Lantrian resettler, baring his teeth. ‘You and I are going to have a little talk.’

  ‘What do you want?’ gasped Tymon. ‘I’m on an errand for the Lord —’

  ‘I’m sure you are,’ snapped the pirate. ‘You and the Lord are mighty close. Too close for my liking, sorcerer.’ Tahu gave a harsh laugh. ‘Oh yes, I know what you are. Took me a while yesterday, but I remembered you and your uppity Freehold friends, in Cherk. The Governor was all over you lot, though I personally draw the line at courting lice.’ He spat on the bark. ‘I don’t mind telling you, my boys and I took a great deal of pleasure in teaching that upstart Freehold judge his place.’

  ‘I’m sure you did!’ cried Tymon, a rush of rage getting the better of his good judgment. ‘You and your “boys” beat Laska senseless and left him to die in a pile of garbage. That doesn’t make you better than him — it makes you stinking cowards!’

  Tahu leaned close to Tymon, pushing the knife-blade harder against his throat. His breath smelled of stale jar-weed.

  ‘Nurians are garbage,’ he hissed. ‘I like to put things where they belong. I guess you belong on that pile too, since you like ’em so much, louse-lover.’

  Tymon glared back at him in mute fury. Tahu considered him with his head to one side, his smile fading. ‘But we’re not here to talk about that,’ he said. ‘I’ve been waiting for you to set foot outside that precious House of yours since yesterday, so I can find out one thing. What’s Dayan asking you to predict, hmm? Don’t tell me he hasn’t figured out what you are. I know all about our fine Lord’s secret hobbies.’

  His eyes glittered. Tymon swallowed uncomfortably against the knife, remembering the Oracle’s warning. He should give this man enough, but not too much. ‘You’re right, Dayan asked for a prediction,’ he admitted warily. ‘It’s about his business deals in the East. He wants to know if the rebels will betray him.’

  Perhaps his dislike of the resettler made him sound as if he were lying unconvincingly; in any case, Tahu snorted with disbelief. ‘I don’t think so,’ he sneered. ‘I see I’m going to have to convince you of the seriousness of my request.’

  He hooked his arm about Tymon’s neck and, keeping the knife pressed to his ribs, continued to half-thrust, half-drag the young man through the twigs in the direction of the dock-bridge.

  ‘Where are we going?’ asked Tymon.

  Tahu’s voice grated in his good ear. ‘You’re coming aboard my vessel. Quietly. We’re leaving for Cherk Harbour today. A fair few people there will be mighty eager to see you, choirboy.’

  ‘No!’ Tymon tried to stop his stumbling progress, then grunted with pain as the knife point pricked him. ‘You can’t take me away!’ he pleaded in desperation, as Tahu shoved him on. ‘I’ve had a Grafter’s vision! The mine’s going to collapse — I have to warn people!’

  ‘How very convenient,’ chuckled his captor. ‘A major disaster threatens just when you need it. Try again, sorcerer.’

  ‘This is real! I swear — it’ll happen at half-past noon!’

  ‘Then we’re safe. The Aurora drops moorings an hour before that.’

  Tymon stared at the vi
sta before him in dismay. They had reached the last clump of twigs before the customs buildings, and stood on a little knot above the level of the road edging the mine-crater. The Lantrian pirate locked him in his harsh grip and peered cautiously through the twigs, scrutinising the dock area. The air-harbour bridge was already dotted with hurrying figures and the custom house bustled with activity.

  ‘You walk on my right side all the way to the ship. You let me talk if anyone stops us,’ ordered Tahu. He brandished the knife under Tymon’s nose before replacing it in its sheath. ‘If you try to run, I’ll slit you in half.’

  Tymon had little doubt that he would. Tahu’s fingernails dug into his flesh as he led him down to the road in grim silence, turning to their right to make for the custom house. Tymon trudged along at the pirate’s side, his pulse hammering, wondering how he was ever going to escape, to warn his friends. His eye drifted towards the start of the mine-ramp as he passed it on his left, wondering if he might make a dash into the crater. But he dared not attempt to break free of Tahu without some form of distraction; he knew the other’s long stride would equal his in an instant. He would even have welcomed an attack from the Envoy’s accursed birds, if they could have separated him from his jailor. But his airborne nemeses had disappeared; the swathe of sky above the crater remained empty and cloudless. The sun had by now burned the fog away and the weather was turning unseasonably warm. Tymon calculated with growing distress that it was past the eighth hour of morning.

  As they approached the custom house and docks, his legs began to feel weighed down with tension. He could see no opportunity to break loose from Tahu and the enforced delay was excruciating. But just as they passed the front of the custom house, a loincloth-wearing boy burst out of a door ahead of them, laden with rolls of bark-paper up to his chin. He dodged past Tymon and Tahu without a second glance, heading for the dock-bridge, and at his heels emerged the nameless scribe Tymon had met on the day of his arrival.

  ‘Greetings, Tahu,’ observed the little clerk, in Lantrian. His eyes widened slightly as he registered Tymon, but he expressed no other sign of shock. ‘Aren’t you on your way out of Chal this morning?’ he asked the resettler.

  Tymon could feel the frustration seeping through the pirate’s fingertips, clamped down on his arm. They were obliged to halt and converse politely with the chief clerk.

  ‘We’re on our way,’ muttered Tahu. ‘Late morning, I expect.’

  Tymon gazed wordlessly at the scribe. He remembered his vision of the mine collapse and the inescapable knowledge that this man would die in just a few hours. He found himself regretting the clerk’s death. The dryly observant Lantrian had been kind to him, to the extent possible in his situation. A host of inarticulate warnings and unsayable advice caught in Tymon’s throat. He longed to tell the clerk to leave, to run, to flee the scene at once. He knew that it was useless: Tahu would never give him the chance to speak. Some part of his distress and desperation must have communicated itself to the scribe, however, for his eyes never left Tymon’s as he answered Tahu.

  ‘You’ll want your final receipts done now, in that case,’ he said softly. ‘Follow me upstairs.’ When Tahu tried to protest, the clerk held up a hand in polite insistence. ‘No, no, it’s no trouble at all, I’ll see to it myself. You, Lord’s boy —’ he winked to Tymon — ‘while you’re waiting for us, why don’t you go down to the stores on the first floor. The clothes the master sent you to collect are there. He wanted you to pick up the package from Lant, did he not?’

  Tymon nodded dumbly. Somehow, the little man had known. Somehow, even as Tymon had ached to warn him of his danger, the scribe had read his plight at the hands of Tahu. The trumped-up errand to the stores was his chance to escape; for once, Lantrian bureaucracy had come to his rescue. He watched as the clerk took hold of the fuming pirate’s elbow, pulling him inexorably into the custom house, already engaged in a patter of conversation. Tahu’s face was livid with rage; he glared meaningfully over his shoulder at Tymon as he was pulled through the doorway, as if to say he would soon be after him. When they had disappeared, the young man turned and sped back along the road the way they had come, away from the docks. His mind hammered with the thought that the clerk had given up his life for him. The man who had saved him would not survive the morning.

  The reprieve might just be enough to help his friends, however. Determined not to waste his opportunity, Tymon made directly for the one place Tahu would never think to look for him; the one place a House slave would avoid at all costs. He swerved purposefully to his right at the intersection leading to the mine and continued at a steady jog down the ramp into the crater. All seemed empty and quiet as he wound around the first great looping bend, descending ever deeper into the foggy shaft; even so, he felt uneasy, naked and exposed on the empty road. His steps slowed, and he glanced about him, belatedly aware of the danger threatening him now that Tahu was gone. Another enemy approached: he could feel in his very bones that he would not be left in peace to complete his descent into the mine.

  He felt rather than saw the first flitting shadow darken the sky. A moment later, he peered upwards to see the evil specks circling above the mine-shaft again, a funnel of swiftly moving black. A single raucous cry echoed in the crater. Closer and closer the birds whirled above him, filling the air with the sound of their beating wings. Tymon broke into a run, sprinting down the ramp, but this time he was unable to escape.

  The first construct hit his shoulder with a glancing blow, knocking him forward. Another swooped over his head an instant later, its claws raking his cheek. The creatures blundered into him in eerie silence, no longer emitting their cries. The smell of rot surrounded Tymon as he desperately fended off the attack, overcoming his disgust to strike at the birds with his bare hands. He tried to shelter his face beneath his coat, but the curses harried him continually, scrabbling through the folds of cloth until he retreated with his back to the wall of the crater, unable to advance and beating the clawed and feathered horrors away. He felt more angry than afraid, now, incensed at being prevented from reaching his friends when they needed him most. He had had enough of the Envoy’s interference: he was tired of bowing to his enemy’s continual harassment.

  ‘Get off!’ he shouted hoarsely to the birds. ‘The Sap take you, all of you!’

  He knew there was no such thing as a spell in the Grafting, no intrinsically powerful phrase that could help him do more than concentrate on the task at hand. But on this occasion, brimming as he was with righteous indignation, his outburst acted as a watchword might, ridding him of an unconscious barrier. His anger became focused, sharp, a channel: he was suddenly filled with the familiar heat of the Sap, overflowing with its power. The subtle flames were just visible to his waking eyes, running over his chest and down his arms. They accumulated in a well of energy in his right hand, the scarred hand that had pulled Wick out of the Veil. To his own surprise, the creatures swooping down on him abruptly veered away from his raised incandescent palm. One of the curses that had attempted to alight on his head now took off with a croak of dismay. The others wheeled and turned, breaking off the assault. They remained circling in the air above Tymon, but did not attack.

  ‘That’s right,’ he muttered, eyeing them in triumph, the protective warmth of the Sap welling up inside him. ‘Get lost. Scat.’

  Then he remembered Samiha’s words. Fear neither darkness nor defeat. There was a precious burning hope in his heart, the hope that she might yet be alive. While that hope remained, no shadow would stop him.

  He wasted no further time on the birds but continued down the ramp, his mind occupied with the task ahead. Although the Sap-heat ebbed to a quiescent glow, Tymon could feel it within him, ready to be called upon when necessary. After a while, he glanced up to see that the mine-shaft was empty, filled only with drifting wisps of fog. The Envoy’s curses were gone, as if they had never been.

  There was no occasion to mull over his victory. Once he had reached the permanent dusk o
f the mine-floor, he made straight for the shacks near the central pit, seeking out Dawn’s hut. The buildings were deserted and the workers’ hammers echoed relentlessly in the lower section of the shaft. To his dismay, Tymon found no sign of the Saffid girl in her quarters; even her mattress had been stripped of its thin covering and lay empty. He quit the shack with a heavy heart, fearing that her illness had taken her before he could do anything to help her. He made his way to the central pit.

  Crouched on the lip of the inner crater, he scrutinised the gangs of workers below in the hopes of identifying the people he knew. He could not make out Zero’s large, red-haired frame anywhere, but pinpointed a dusty, pallid youth whom he thought might be Nightside in one of the closer gangs. When the nearest overseer had turned away to stroll along the north side of the pit, Tymon descended the ladder, keeping a wary eye on the whip-wielding guards dotted about the work-pit.

  The youth he had picked out was definitely one of the Saffid: he could see the boy’s white hair under a layer of dust and grime as he approached. The slaves in the gang lifted their axes and brought them down again, lifted them and brought them down. Tymon did not try to stop them, for he knew the lack of activity would draw unwanted attention, but stepped over to the Saffid boy, peering into his face as he worked. It was not Nightside, after all. Tymon did not recognise the lad, but it was clear that the other knew him, though he never broke his working rhythm. Up went his axe and down again, his gaze inquisitive as he glanced over his shoulder.

  ‘You’re in danger,’ Tymon murmured in his ear. ‘There’s going to be a cave-in at the mine today. It’s happening at half-past noon. You believe me, right?’

  The Saffid boy nodded swiftly. The other gang-members stared sidelong at them both as the axes rose and fell. The long rod at their ankles prevented any one individual from acting alone, Tymon realised; they must all move at once, or drag each other down.

  ‘Can you break loose from these fetters?’ he asked the youth.