Bringer of Light (Hidden Empire)

by Jaine Fenn

  About a quarter of the bars and clubs were still open, though the Street itself was largely deserted. Jarek decided to meander out rimwards; he doubted he’d actually be able to see over the edge of the floating City, but it gave him somewhere to aim for. Khesh’s night-owls were exhibiting various states of inebriation and desperation, but none of them bothered him. For a moment he wondered if he should take the guard’s advice after all; this place offered some interesting diversions . . . unfortunately they were likely to cost credit he didn’t have.

  Lost in thought, it took Jarek a moment to notice that his guard wasn’t behind him any more. He caught movement out of the corner of one eye and spun round just in time to see a woman with a tranq pistol; his guard had just collapsed to the ground. Jarek went for his weapon, but the woman already had him covered.

  ‘Don’t,’ she said.

  Jarek made a show of moving his hands into sight. ‘I realise people probably say this to you a lot,’ he said as casually as he could, ‘but you’re making a big mistake.’ He studied her covertly; she wore inconspicuous clothes, had light brown skin and was quite young, but she was already hard-eyed. Her gun-hand was unwavering.

  ‘Let us be the judge of that, Sirrah Reen,’ she said.

  Oh shit, she knew who he was. But who exactly was she? The Veryan Syndicate? Surely they hadn’t caught up with him already—

  ‘We’d like to ask you a few questions,’ she said. She wasn’t an offworlder: that accent was local.

  Jarek tried to spot the other part of the we, but as he started to turn his head, the woman gave a twitch of her gun that was convincing enough to make him keep still and stay focused on her. ‘Ask away,’ he said. At least while she was talking she wouldn’t be shooting.

  ‘Not here; follow me. I’m going to do you the courtesy of assuming you won’t try anything stupid.’

  He obeyed; he couldn’t see any other choice right now. As they moved off he got a brief look at the figure he thought he’d seen out of the corner of his eye: a man, probably another local, with a much larger gun. He was wearing gloves – in fact, Jarek now realised, they both were.

  The man fell in behind Jarek, with the woman leading the way. He risked a quick, desperate glance around, but if anyone on the half-empty Street had noticed the unconscious guard and the kidnapping in progress, they weren’t doing anything about it. Shit – how was he going to negotiate his way out of this when he had fuck-all to bargain with?

  She was leading them towards an alleyway. Once they were off the main drag his options would narrow, so he needed to stay calm and think about what assets he’d actually got on him. His com? If he could dial a preset he might get through to Nual or Taro – if they weren’t entirely occupied with each other. He couldn’t ask for help, but they might overhear what was going on, maybe trace the call . . . at any rate, it beat waiting to find out what his captors had in store for him. He eased his hand round in front of his body.

  When the guard hit him across the back of his knees he was too surprised, too shocked by the sudden pain, to catch himself. He landed hard on the ground.

  ‘Get up.’ The man spoke as though Jarek had tripped deliberately. His voice was clipped and efficient.

  Jarek found himself staring at the ground – not ground at all, really, because it was completely artificial. Odd shade of grey too. At the same time a tiny panicked voice at the back of his mind was screaming, Start crawling, just get away before it’s too late!

  ‘I said, “get up”.’ Now the man sounded bored.

  Jarek felt a last twitch go through his arms as he suppressed the suicidal urge to try crawling off. He pushed himself upright, slowly and carefully, a little dizzied by the blood thundering in his ears. His kidnappers watched. He wondered if he could feign injury, but the pain at the back of his knee was already subsiding. These people, whoever they were, knew what they were doing.

  ‘Keep those hands where I can see them,’ said the man once Jarek was upright.

  He did as he was told, feeling tremors going down to his fingertips. If he was going to do anything, he needed to do it now – but he was out of options . . . Except that something was nagging at the back of his brain. Hands, something about hands . . . And then he had it: hands – or, more importantly, gloves: these people were wearing gloves because they weren’t Kheshi: they were from Luorna. The gloves were to hide the implanted jewels that would otherwise identify them! Good, so now he knew who was fucking him over. That was a start.

  The light level dropped as they entered the alley. Jarek’s eyes were still adjusting, and at first he thought he’d imagined the shadow that crossed the entrance. Then he heard an impact, followed by a strangled gurgle, behind him, and he whirled – no, you idiot, there’s someone pointing a gun at you! – to see—

  Nothing. The mouth of the alley was empty. The man had disappeared into thin air. Jarek pressed himself to the alley wall and looked back at the woman, who appeared to be as surprised as he was.

  But she was still pointing her gun at him. ‘Throw me your weapon.’ Her voice held the beginning of a quaver.

  Jarek hesitated; she obviously meant to carry out her plan alone. ‘No,’ he said after a moment. Possibly a mistake, but the odds had just evened up.

  ‘I’d—’

  Her threat was broken off by something dropping down from the darkness, directly behind her. As the kidnapper started to turn, a slender blade emerged from her gut. She fell forward, sliding off the blade with a gasp. She fell, her hands pressed to the wound, and began making painful panting noises deep in her throat. Jarek stared at her in fascination for a moment, then looked up as his numb mind started to register what had just happened.

  Behind the wounded woman, the Angel finished flicking the blood off her blade; the implanted weapon disappeared back into her forearm. She was wearing a mimetic cloak, and without the silver of the blade, all Jarek could see clearly was her head. Her pale hair was plaited and coiled, adding to her already impressive height. She wore an expression of fierce disdain, which she now turned on the whimpering woman. ‘You’ll live,’ she spat, then smiled unpleasantly and added in a whisper, ‘Long enough to talk, at least.’

  She looked up, and Jarek flinched at her gaze. ‘Go back to your hotel,’ she commanded, ‘and stay there.’

  Not trusting himself to speak, Jarek nodded, then turned and ran out of the alley.

  He managed to avoid tripping over the body of the other kidnapper, which was lying beside the alley entrance. The blow that had cut the man’s throat open had been powerful enough to expose his spine.

  CHAPTER SIX

  On the night she was married, Ifanna am Nantgwyn killed her husband. She had not intended him to die, but like so many events in her short life, her intentions had little bearing on what came to pass.

  Her father had claimed the match with Pedrog – fat, ugly, Pedrog, as stolid as his cattle, as cold as his coins – would improve her, though mainly it would improve his own standing and wealth in Nantgwyn. And marrying her off would solve the ‘little problem’: that’s what Da called it, as though her situation were some minor inconvenience visited upon them. Her mother worried that Ifanna was too young to marry, but Da had ignored her, as usual. Maman shut up at once, and that reinforced Ifanna’s belief that she knew the real reason. She was coming to believe that Maman had known the truth all along.

  Not for the first time, Ifanna considered running away, but there was nowhere to go. So she convinced herself that marriage to Pedrog would not be so bad. In time she was sure she could learn to control him; every day her ability to impose her will on the men around her was growing, after all.

  So once the priest had bestowed on the newlyweds the blessings of the Skymothers, and the villagers had drunk themselves into a stupor on spring mead, she let Pedrog lead her to the garlanded bedroom. When he undressed her, then put his fat hands on her, she tried to think of nothing, though his lust turned her stomach. It appeared he believed her a virgin, and
he planned to savour this night. She forced herself not to shudder; instead, she made herself go to the place deep inside, where ‘she’ existed apart from the flesh, and whatever was done to it.

  But as he caressed her, his hands felt her belly and he sat up abruptly. ‘Damn the man!’ he swore, as though Ifanna were not even there. ‘Damn him to the Abyss! I knew his offer was too sudden!’ Then he looked down on her, his eyes full of contempt. ‘And what do you say, eh, you little slut?’

  Not the truth, that was for sure. ‘S— Star-season,’ she stammered, ‘I came into my womanhood then. A boy at the fair in Plas Morfren, as the sky fell . . .’

  ‘Ah, so the child you carry is a gift of Heaven, is it?’ Pedrog might just accept that; he was a devout man. But he had been married before, to a wife who had died trying to bring stillborn twins into the world. He frowned. ‘T’would be a miracle indeed, that your gut should harden and swell so quickly.’

  Ifanna said nothing.

  Pedrog grunted. ‘You are barely a woman. I am surprised at your Da for putting up with such wantonness outside the holy season!’

  She could not help it; she laughed at that, a tight, bitter laugh.

  Pedrog, who was not a man known for enduring ridicule, reached down and slapped her face.

  No one had hit her for some time; she had thought her burgeoning ability to manipulate men meant she would no longer have to endure such treatment. She was filled with a sudden fury. ‘How dare you, you pig!’ she shouted. ‘You should— You should be with the other pigs – jump out of the window and join your brothers in the filth! Go on, do it!’

  Subject to a compulsion she barely understood herself, he did precisely what she had ordered him to do, but though the pigsty was indeed below the bedroom window, he landed on the fence, newly repaired with sharp wooden stakes.

  Every villager not too drunk to stand was drawn by his screams.

  As she looked out of the window at the figures running towards the impaled man, she cursed herself for a fool. She should not have fought back. She could have made being in his house bearable; she might have found some happiness as a wife and a mother, even if it was wife to a sweaty oaf and mother to an Abyss-touched child.

  Yet now, because she had let her temper get the better of her, she would be cast into the Abyss herself.

  The villagers stood around helplessly as Pedrog died. He went to the Mothers quickly, but sadly for Ifanna, not quietly. His final words, before his breath bubbled away in bloody froth, were, ‘The witch has killed me!’

  People looked at each other, and at her father; the braver ones looked up at her. Then her Da pointed at her and said, ‘’Tis true. The girl is skycursed.’

  His admission surprised her; his next words hurt her more than anything in a life that had already known much hurt.

  ‘We should kill her, as the Traditions demand!’

  But surely Da loved her? He had said so, and whenever he had hurt her, he had been truly sorry – yet now she listened in horror as he told everyone he himself had been under her thrall until this very night, that he had married her off to escape her baleful influence. How could he turn on her so?

  The villagers lapped up his confession: a wedding and the exposure of an abomination in their midst, all in the same day? What a great tonic in these grim times!

  Ifanna let them fetch her down from her wedding bower. Her father, well into his stride now, called on the priest to dispense justice before the sun rose, to fetch ropes and stones and go down to the river at once.

  The priest had served in the Reeve’s household. He looked to Ifanna’s mother, rather than instantly agreeing to her father’s demands. Though her choice of husband might have been poor, Maman was still the Reeve’s niece. Ifanna, her arms held by men who were careful to stay behind her, blinked back tears and watched her mother’s face. So many times she had wanted Maman to intervene, to speak out – or even just to listen. Now, when every eye was upon her, would she dare speak freely?

  Finally her mother said, ‘My uncle would request a trial, I am sure.’ She did not sound sure, but it was enough.

  The priest ruled that Ifanna was to be taken to Plas Morfren.

  Her hands were bound, ready for the walk. The priest would lead her; his blessed status would help him resist her wiles. But the villagers were taking no chances; he would be accompanied by half a dozen volunteers. The priest chose older men over younger, as less likely to be snared by a witch, and sent back those who were still drunk.

  Her mother watched the proceedings from the edge of the crowd, her face the colour of ash. Her father had placed himself amongst his cronies, though not all of those he considered friends were eager for his company. Someone had tapped the last barrel of mead, and they drank it, loudly claiming they did so only to ward off dawn’s brutal chill.

  As Ifanna and her escort were about to leave, her father broke away from his companions and strode up to her, a little unsteadily. Despite everything, Ifanna’s heart lifted. She smiled, waiting for him to smile back. His mouth twitched, but then he looked away, though she saw the effort it cost him.

  He fixed his gaze firmly on the ground before her feet and began to speak. ‘You have become nothing to me,’ he stated.

  Ifanna was confused. Despite the drink, he spoke like a priest, intoning the words solemnly.

  ‘Whatever was between us before, now it is gone,’ he continued. All at once she recognised the words: her father was forever cutting her out of his life, declaring her Abyss-touched. The speech came from the Traditions, which had words for all occasions, even this unthinkable one.

  ‘No—!’ She wanted to shout, but she managed only a whisper.

  He carried on. ‘You are not of my blood, and my hearth will never be your haven.’

  She wanted to say, It is you who has wronged me, Father! All that came out was a feeble croak.

  Her father raised his voice, hurrying to the end of the declaration: ‘I reject you utterly. It is as though we have never met. This I vow in the name of the Five, from now until my soul returns to the Skymothers.’

  And he turned away from her, almost falling in his haste.

  Ifanna started to reach out to him with her mind, but she did not know whether she would command him to retract his curse, beg him to forgive her or demand he hurt himself as he had hurt her. In her confusion, she was unable to do any of those things.

  When she looked at her mother, she saw that she too had turned away.

  During the half-day walk through the rice-fields to Plas Morfren, the men kept a careful distance. They viewed her with a mixture of horror, awe and lust; this last she sensed from old Tysul, who was ashamed of himself for such feelings, and quite determined he would never act upon them. She could sense their relief as they handed her over to the guards at the Reeve’s manor.

  She was taken down to a cell, where she was untied and left alone with her despair.

  Despite losing everything, facing a future that held only the prospect of death, it was her father’s rejection she felt most keenly. He had made her what she was, and now he had abandoned her. No doubt his friends would believe that her abilities had led him into temptation with her . . . she wondered what they would think if they knew he had first touched her long before her curse had become apparent, back when she truly had been a child. Her strange ability had only blossomed this last season or so, and she had started to test the strength of her father’s twisted love. To her surprise, the power was not all his; recently, he had come to her only as she allowed. He was the supplicant, and she the mistress. For those few months, she had thought she had found happiness, of a sort.

  The cell had a high slit window. The light had gone from it, and Ifanna had cried until no more tears would come, before she heard a sound from outside. She struggled to her feet. Had her father changed his mind and followed her here? But the door did not open. Instead, a panel at the bottom was raised and a tray pushed in. It held a wooden cup of water and a hunk of black brea
d. Ifanna, suddenly ravenous, fell upon the food, but even before she had finished the nausea hit. She vomited up what she had eaten, barely making it over to the latrine hole in time.

  She tried to take comfort from the fact that they had chosen to feed her – but perhaps this apparent soft-heartedness merely indicated that it would take a while for the trial to be organised, and that they wanted her fit and well to face judgment.

  Though she managed to keep down some water, she could not face the rest of the bread. She slept badly on the straw pallet, though the other residents of the cell were glad of the company, if the mass of bites on her legs and back the next day were anything to go by.

  She was fed again in the morning, a lumpy gruel. She managed two spoonfuls before it came back up.

  When, that evening, she returned the tray, she heard her unseen jailer muttering to himself. The next morning the door was unlocked and a woman came in. She had a doughy face marred by a harelip, and was dressed like a merchant’s wife.

  ‘Well now, lovey,’ said the woman brusquely, ‘I am a healer, and I have been sent to find what ails you.’

  There was no point lying. ‘I am with child,’ said Ifanna.

  ‘Ah. I see. Lie down, and let me examine you.’

  Ifanna did as she was told.

  The woman’s hands were cold, but her touch was gentle. When she was done she said, ‘You must pray with all your heart, for your child’s soul may yet be saved, though yours is surely damned.’

  ‘What do you mean? Oh—!’ Suddenly hope dawned, as Ifanna remembered the priest, in capel, telling them that all children entered the world as innocents.

  ‘There will be no trial until the babe is born,’ the healer said. ‘In the meantime, I will ask for blankets and better rations for you.’