Justice

by Ian Irvine

  Holm was applying yellow salve to a hungry-looking young soldier with enormous brown eyes and a deep, scarlet scald covering his right shoulder and chest. He was biting his lip, trying not to cry out, though he must have been in agony.

  “Will I be able to fight?” he said.

  “Not today,” said Holm, meeting Rix’s eyes.

  “Sorry, Commander Deadhand,” said the lad, trying to salute Rix. “I—”

  “You didn’t cause the geyser,” said Rix, more roughly than he had intended. “What’s your name?”

  “Albey, sir.”

  “How old are you, Albey?”

  “E-eighteen, sir.”

  “Sure? You look about fifteen to me.”

  “I’m old enough to fight for my country.”

  Rix rested a hand on Albey’s unburnt shoulder. “I wish I had more men like you. But you’ve got to be fit, to fight.”

  He did the rounds of the injured, including Tonklin, Harin and the man with the broken pelvis. They were all improving. Gam, the soldier who had been kicked by the horse, had been laid out beside the tent, dead. Rix stood looking down at him for a moment. A foot either way when the great quake occurred and Gam would have been unharmed. It was all that separated life from death, for any of them.

  He returned to Holm. “Can we have a quick word?”

  Holm wiped his hands and they went out.

  “I can’t bear the thought of that boy being butchered by Grandys like a beast in an abattoir,” said Rix.

  “Nor I,” said Holm, “but now isn’t the time to tell him. What’s up?”

  “You’re a good judge of a man. Come and advise me.”

  “What about?”

  “My officers. I don’t know any of them… Er, Holm, I don’t suppose—?”

  “No!” Holm said fiercely.

  “You don’t know what I was going to ask.”

  “You want me to be one of your captains—”

  “I had in mind a higher rank.”

  “No and no.”

  “Why not?”

  “After my… disgrace I vowed to save lives, not take them. I also vowed never to go to war, and I broke that vow to help Tali in the slaves’ rebellion. I saw thousands killed that day, on both sides, and I killed a few myself. Never again!”

  “But you will fight?” said Rix.

  “If I have to. And I’ll advise you if I must, but never again will I lead men to bloody war.”

  “All right. Come and advise me on my officers.”

  Four of Rix’s senior captains were slouched outside the empty command tent, chatting as though they were at a party. They were an unprepossessing lot, three of them unkempt and unshaven, and the fourth a gross, slovenly looking oaf. Rix stopped ten yards away, watching them.

  The fifth captain came out; he was tall, immaculate and very handsome, with a square jaw and a mass of swept-back, wavy blond hair. Captain Hork.

  “What do you think?” Rix said to Holm.

  “Those four are useless,” said Holm, indicating the unkempt ones. “Sack them.”

  “What about Hork?”

  “Over-polished.”

  “Meaning?”

  “He’s too good looking—he’s almost pretty! And judging by the way he struts around the camp, he thinks very well of himself. It’s bound to cause trouble.”

  “I’ve already got rid of Libbens, Grasbee and Krebb. I can’t sack all my senior captains as well.”

  “Why not?”

  “There isn’t time to train the junior officers to take over.”

  “Is there time to do all your captains’ jobs, in battle?”

  “No, but the men have to be led by experienced officers. I can’t be in ten places at once.”

  Glynnie reappeared, red-faced and gasping. “Tali was following Rannilt but she must have lost her; Tali’s tracks started going around in circles. But then—” She took a deep breath. “It looked like Tali was captured… by someone tall and strong… and I didn’t see her tracks again.”

  For a moment Rix could not breathe. “Was there—blood?”

  Glynnie shook her head. “He must have carried her away…”

  “Which way?”

  “South. A man with a very long stride—”

  “Grandys?”

  She shook her head. “His footmarks were long but really narrow…”

  “Rufuss!” said Rix.

  Glynnie cried out. “He was my gaoler once,” she said, shivering, “after Grandys took me prisoner that time. Rufuss is afraid of everyone stronger than him, and despises anyone weaker. And…”

  “What?” Rix barely knew Rufuss, who had avoided him while he was in Grandys’ army, but the look on Rufuss’s face in battle had troubled Rix. Rufuss had loved the bloodshed even more than Grandys.

  “I think he’s a killer.”

  “I’ll go after him.” He glanced at the sky. “It’s 10 a.m. The quake was three hours ago.”

  “He’ll be miles away. You’ll never catch him.”

  “If you go after Tali,” said Holm, “who’s going to lead the army?”

  Rix felt the acid rising in his gut. He wiped his sweat-drenched palms on the rags of his shirt.

  “Who’s the best of my senior captains—Hork, Tremlit or Belibo?”

  “None of them,” said Holm.

  “But surely… Hork doesn’t look too bad?”

  “He’s the worst of the lot, Rix. He’s got no idea how to manage men, plus an inflated idea of his own brilliance—he believes he should have been made commander. If you put him in charge you might as well tell your army to lie down and die.”

  “Then what am I supposed to do? Tali’s my friend—and if Grandys cuts the master pearl out of her, we lose the war.”

  “I’ll go after her.”

  “You can’t take on Grandys,” said Rix. “I know him; I’ve fought him; I’m the only man who can.”

  “He’s sworn bloody revenge on you—and Glynnie—for humiliating him. If he catches you—”

  “I know,” said Rix, choking on his own helplessness. “But I’ve seen the way he treats prisoners. The thought of Tali being in his hands makes me want to vomit, and as for Rufuss…”

  “A commander has to delegate, then trust the people he’s chosen to do the job,” said Holm. “I’m going. You can send a squad with me to back me up.”

  Rix had no choice. The lives of five thousand men depended on his leadership, and his officers were useless.

  “All right,” he said in a dead voice. “But you’ll never get her away from Grandys.”

  It felt as though he was abandoning her.

  CHAPTER 7

  Rufuss did not speak another word in the hours it took to carry Tali south to Red Mesa, and she avoided provoking him further. He burned with such barely controlled rage that any small impulse could tip him over the edge.

  And then she would be dead.

  Red Mesa, a ragged cylinder of red- and orange-layered rock, rose three hundred feet sheer from the plain, though a steep, wooded gully on the southern side permitted it to be climbed unseen. A mile further south, Tali saw when they had climbed fifty feet, were the cream cliffs of Lake Yizl, and a smaller lake whose name she could not remember.

  Rufuss took his petty revenge, prodding her in the back with a pointed stick every step of the climb, until she was a mass of bruises from shoulders to hips. It was cold and windy, with frequent, driving showers that ran down the back of her neck.

  When she reached the top, Grandys was standing ten yards away, holding a telescope in one hand, though he was not looking through it. Rufuss gave Tali a final, brutal jab that broke the skin and sent her sprawling on the red stone.

  Grandys met Rufuss’s eyes and said coldly, “Unharmed, I said.”

  “The slave isn’t damaged,” snapped Rufuss.

  Grandys frowned. He studied Rufuss, then Tali.

  She struggled to her feet and said to Rufuss, with icy calm, “You’re more a slave than I’ll ever be.
A slave to your curse and your masters—past and present.”

  Rufuss’s bony hands flexed and he took a jerky step towards her. Using all the self-possession she could muster, and all the acting skills she had perfected in her slave years in Cython, Tali laughed in his face.

  Rufuss’s eyes bulged and he went for her throat. Grandys sprang forward, caught him by the shoulder and held him back easily.

  “She’s provoking you, Rufuss, trying to turn you against us. You’ve done well; go and have dinner, then get some sleep. Tomorrow we march to war.”

  “I couldn’t eat if I tried,” Rufuss said thickly.

  “Force it down. Hero or not, a starving man is no use to me.”

  Rufuss stalked away, his bony shanks scissoring. Grandys lifted Tali’s chin, tilting her head back to look into her eyes. He looked older than when she had first seen him, at the peace conference at Glimmering several months ago, and the opal armour had been broken away from his nose. His eyes were deep brown with a hint of purple—bottomless, unreadable eyes. She had to look away.

  “A fine performance,” he said, “but Rufuss is transparent, for all he tries to mask it. Don’t try such tricks on me.”

  Tali did not plan to. She was going to find a different way to attack Grandys. “What do you want?”

  “You know what I want.”

  The master pearl. “Are—?” She faltered, and cursed herself for it. She must not show weakness before Grandys. But with her gift blocked, she was weak. He could snap her backbone over his knee if he wanted to, or walk to the edge and toss her over. “Are you going to cut it out now? Before the battle?”

  “I don’t know,” he said cheerfully. “I’m a man of impulse. If the urge takes me, I might saw your head open and scoop it out with a teaspoon. Alternatively, I might save up the pleasure.” He strolled away.

  The casual way he described the operation brought her peril home to her more clearly than any threat could have. Tali considered her options. The top of the mesa was some hundred and fifty yards across, the layered rock like broad, broken steps. The open area here was flat and some thirty yards across. Beyond it a bluff of red rock, gently curved, rose like the back of a chair for twenty feet, sheltering the area from the southerly wind. Four large tents had been erected against the bluff, three or four yards apart.

  There was no way to escape. The only way down was blocked by a pair of guards, and several other guards stood around on watch. The other three Heroes were also here. Tali had not seen them before but there was no mistaking them.

  The golem-like Syrten stood with his back to the bluff, gazing in adoration at slender, sad-eyed Yulia. She was seated in a canvas chair, writing in a green, leather-bound journal. Beautiful, buxom Lirriam stood at the far end of the lookout, looking towards Lake Fumerous and brushing her shining hair. She rotated on the balls of her small feet, scrutinised Tali and curled her full lip.

  Grandys ushered Tali into the nearest tent, which was the size of a large hut. He carved slices of dark, pickled meat off a haunch, and two inch-thick pieces of yellow bread, and handed them to her on a wooden platter.

  He indicated a cube of rock. “Sit down.”

  She sat. He perched on another rock several yards away, leaned back and closed his eyes as if trying to think through a difficult problem. Tali took a bite. The bread was tasteless, the meat rank and stringy. She wondered what animal it came from but decided she would rather not know.

  She had two vital tasks, both related to keeping king-magery out of Grandys’ hands. She had to protect her master pearl, and hide all knowledge of Lyf’s lost circlet, a headband made of woven platina which allowed king-magery to be used.

  The tent contained a food box, a pile of furs laid on the bare rock and, at the far end, a small iron chest thickly covered in ice. To its right stood a blackwood cabinet with a hinged door.

  “What’s the chest for?”

  Grandys grinned, as if he’d known she would ask. He thumped the curved lid to crack the ice off, raised the lid and lifted out a rack made from yellow wood. It held a couple of dozen phials of frozen blood, and she saw two more racks in the chest. Most of the phials were full. He picked out one of the empty ones and held it out so she could see.

  It bore a small label in a neat hand: Thalalie vi Torgrist.

  “For my blood?” she whispered. “Why?”

  “You’ll find out… when it’s time.”

  He showed her another phial, full of blood this time: General Rochlis. Lyf’s greatest general had been exiled to the north because his conscience had not allowed him to carry out Lyf’s order to kill all captured Herovians. Grandys had taken Rochlis in the storming of Castle Rebroff and put him to death at the victory feast, for the entertainment of his troops.

  He showed her another phial, also full: Rixium Ricinus. She let out an involuntary cry. “Where did you get that?”

  He did not answer.

  “What foul sorcery are you up to?”

  “I’m going to break him.”

  “Because he beat you in a fair fight? Because he and Glynnie humiliated the great Axil Grandys?”

  He grimaced, then put the rack back and closed the lid. The chest was so cold that ice began to form on it at once. He went out and Tali followed him.

  “I’m Rix’s greatest fear,” said Grandys. “He sweats blood at the thought of me. When we finally stand face to face he’ll piss his pants.”

  Tali could not allow him to further his advantage, in anything.

  “You’re not Rix’s greatest fear,” she said, hoping to wipe the arrogant smile off his face for a few minutes.

  It was his turn to take the bait. “Really? What does make him sweat?”

  Lirriam strolled across, looking amused. Grandys was more than a foot taller, and twice her weight, but Tali sensed an equal strength in Lirriam.

  “Rix’s nightmares are about the portrait he painted of his father,” said Tali. “For the Honouring.”

  Grandys frowned. “What about it?”

  “He painted his father killing a wyverin. But in Rix’s recent nightmares the wyverin was just pretending to be dead, and he keeps seeing it rising up to slay its attacker—”

  Grandys reared back, groping for his sword. He half drew it, his breath whistling between his teeth.

  “What did I say?” said Tali, exulting inwardly.

  Lirriam let out a throaty laugh. “The wyverin is Grandys’ nemesis—indeed, it’s the doom of his family line.”

  “But… I heard that Herovians came from bonded serfs and slaves. How would you know what your line is?”

  “Long ago, before we were slaves, we were a great people—and we will never forget it,” said Grandys.

  Rufuss had said something similar, Tali recalled. But what did it mean?

  “The wyverin is the one thing he truly fears,” said Lirriam.

  “I’m afraid of nothing,” Grandys snapped. “Tomorrow morning I’m going to smash Lyf’s army. Then destroy Rixium’s before afternoon tea.”

  But between the joins of his opal-armoured fingers, the skin of his knuckles was white. He drew Maloch and hugged the sword to his chest then, realising Tali was staring at him, quietly sheathed it.

  “Maloch’s protective enchantment didn’t save its first owner, Urtiga, when her killer called,” said Lirriam.

  “I expect it abandoned her because she was a weak, useless woman,” Grandys said savagely. “Like you.”

  Lirriam’s smile turned savage. “It’s said the stare of a wyverin is especially deadly to the impotent.”

  The blow came out of nowhere, so fast that Tali didn’t see it. All she saw was Lirriam’s head snap backwards as Grandys’ fist crashed into her jaw and knocked her off her feet.

  He stood over her for a couple of seconds, panting, staring down at her.

  Syrten let out a rumbling bellow, “Grandys! The pact!” He ran across, thump, thump, and forced himself between Grandys and Lirriam.

  “It’s the Five Hero
es against the world,” cried Yulia. “Never against each other.”

  Grandys seemed to come to his senses. He reached down to help Lirriam up. “I’m sorry,” he said thickly. “Lost control. It won’t happen again.”

  Lirriam knocked his hand aside. She wiped blood off her mouth onto the back of her hand, climbed to her feet unaided and stood there, swaying. Her jaw hung lopsided, either dislocated or broken, and the lower part of her face was swelling visibly.

  “I’m really sorry,” he repeated.

  When Lirriam met his eyes, the hate Tali saw in hers was blistering. Grandys looked away first.

  “You’ve broken more than my jaw today, Grandys,” she said in a thick, halting voice, as if every word hurt her. “You’ve broken the pact.”

  “No, not the pact,” said Syrten. “It’s all we have. Take it back, Lirriam.”

  “We only have each other,” said Yulia.

  “We’re the past trapped in the present,” said Grandys. “Only the Five. Always the Five.”

  Lirriam turned away, swaying on her feet, and staggered into the middle tent. Tali was thinking fast. Was there any way she could make use of this fracture between the Five Heroes? Why was Grandys so afraid of the wyverin? Why was it his family’s nemesis? Why was he impotent—and did it matter?

  There came a flash from inside the tent, then a crack as though a lock had been shattered. Lirriam emerged, carrying a small but clearly heavy black stone, irregularly shaped as if it had once been partly melted.

  She pressed it to her heart. “Axil Grandys, I swear upon this uncanny stone that I will ensure you meet the doom of your line.”

  Grandys, between the cracks of his opal armour, was almost as pale as she was.

  “Incarnate has been dead for twelve thousand years,” he croaked.

  “And I’m the woman who’s destined to wake it.”

  CHAPTER 8

  Lyf had an army of fifty thousand well-trained men and women, amply supplied with alchymical weaponry that no one knew how to combat, and an unbeatable five to one advantage. And yet he dreaded the coming battle.

  “The Herovians are advancing,” said General Hillish. “What’s your plan, Lord King?”