“Can you hear me?” Nicco shouted down the line. “A bomb!”
The line went dead.
Nicco hung up and rubbed his temples. There wasn’t much more he could do, not without putting himself and his mission at risk. Not to mention everyone in Hurrunda, if Werrdun kicked the bucket and the Kurrethi took over.
“Excuse me, yes? I speak to you.” The voice came from behind him. Nicco straightened up and realised that everyone on the corner was staring at him with expressions of hatred and fear, with not a lot in between. He turned to see a Hurrundan cop standing a couple of yards away, his weapon drawn and aimed directly at Nicco’s head. Not an entropy gun or a blaster, either, but a good old-fashioned bullet slinger.
Nicco slowly raised his hands. “Shazomon Turithik,” he said slowly. “Ikk shazor birrun?”
“What is wrong, man from Turith, is you are arrested, exactly. Come.” Two more officers came into view, running down the street with their pistols drawn; the first cop must have summoned them. That sealed Nicco’s fate. One cop, even with a gun, he could maybe escape from. But three, all with guns, in a city he still didn’t know very well? Not likely.
The first man gestured for Nicco to get down on his knees. He complied, still holding his hands in the air. As he sank to the ground the cop noticed the red gem in his palm and gasped, shouted something in Varnian to the other two men, then stepped forward and shot Nicco in the chest.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
HE’D BEEN WRONG. They weren’t old-fashioned bullet-firing pistols after all. They fired some kind of electrical charge, a charge that slapped Nicco’s already bruised ribcage hard and coursed through his nerve endings like cold fire. He couldn’t breathe. He spasmed two, maybe three times in rapid succession.
Then he fell unconscious.
HE WOKE UP freezing cold. Soaking wet. Gasping for breath.
“Where’s the bomb? The bomb! Tell us, you Turithian son of a squid!”
He was tied to a chair in a cold, empty room. Empty but for the two men standing over him. One of them stood a few feet away, holding an empty bucket. The other was just a couple of inches from his face, snarling through gritted teeth. Had to be police. Nicco felt water coursing down his head and face. He gasped for breath, sucking in cold air, and his teeth chattered.
“Lake...” he whispered. “City lake.”
“Where?”
“Don’t know... Guy at the market told me.”
The snarling cop smacked Nicco in the face.
“Tallus crap!” Either this cop was Turithian himself, or he’d actually bothered to take lessons. His accent was perfect. “Who were you calling? Another Kurrethi? The one who planted the bomb, perhaps!”
Nicco shook his head and spat blood. They thought he was Kurrethi? What in the fifty-nine hells?
“How did you know I’m Turithian?”
The cop stood up and folded his arms. His sleeves were rolled up, exposing tattoos on his forearms of coiled, fanged serpents. “Your prints are on file, you idiot. Seems you have a reputation back in Azbatha.”
Nicco groaned. Patulam. The Azbathan cop must have thought all his vacations had come at once when a Hurrundan officer told him they had Nicco in custody as some kind of suspected terrorist.
“So why would I be working for the Kurrethi? It doesn’t make sense, can’t you see...?”
“Same reason a Turithian would steal the governor’s necklace, perhaps?”
Nicco couldn’t argue with that. Or rather he could, but it wouldn’t do him any favours. He had to assume he could talk his way out of this, somehow, and get back to finding Ven Dazarus... and the necklace.
“I had nothing to do with that,” he croaked. “I’m a scapegoat. And I’ve got nothing to do with the Kurrethi either. I’m just here on vacation...”
The cop punched him again, and Nicco’s head snapped back. It occurred to him, in the moments before his vision went black and he passed out again, that the Hurrundan force didn’t seem as smart as he’d previously given it credit for. Perhaps they had earned their reputation not through superior intelligence and diligence, but by simply shooting first and asking questions later.
THIS TIME WHEN he came to he was warm and sitting on something soft. Perhaps they’d taken him to a hospital. That would be nice. He drifted on the edge of waking, allowing himself to feel comfortable for however long the feeling lasted.
Not long, as it turned out.
“He’s awake,” said Huwll and slapped Nicco around the face. “Come on, clown, wake up!”
Nicco opened his eyes. He was in the back of the silver skycar again, with Huwll and Brinno on either side of him. He had a terrible sense of déjà vu, and it only grew stronger when Brinno leaned forward and switched on the vidscreen set into the black glass divider.
“Hello, Nicco.” On the vidscreen, Bazhanka shook his head. “You really are causing me a lot of trouble. What exactly did you think you were doing, shouting about bombs on a public line? Were you actually trying to get yourself arrested?”
“I was trying to stop at least two innocent people from dying.”
“Well, you did a lot more than that. How you knew, I have simply no idea...” Bazhanka held up a hand as Nicco began to interrupt. “And I don’t want to, I really don’t. But you were right, there was a bomb at the lagoon. The police cleared the area and disabled it. You’re a hero... or at least, you would be if the Hurrundans weren’t convinced you planted it yourself.”
“Which makes no sense. Why would I tell them about it if I planted the bloody thing?”
“Perhaps you hadn’t noticed my dear boy, but the entire city is somewhat on edge. The police cannot afford to take chances. It was a very foolish thing you did.”
“Yeah, well at least I can sleep at night. Now get your goons to let me out so I can get the necklace back for you.”
“You still haven’t told me what your plan is.”
“And I’m not going to, not yet. Especially with this pair listening.”
“Brinno and Huwll are above suspicion, Nicco. Anything you can tell me, you can tell them.”
“Not a chance. Let me out. I’ll have the necklace back within twenty-four hours.”
Bazhanka sighed. “Very well. You’re cutting it fine, Nicco. My grandfather is knocking on the watery saints’ door, and they’re going to let him in sooner rather than later.”
The skycar began to descend to street level. “How did you get me away from the police, anyway?” Nicco asked. “How did you even know I was there?”
Bazhanka smiled. “Hurrunda is a small place, dear boy, smaller even than Azbatha. When word spreads that a Turithian has been arrested as a terrorist, there are only so many people it could be. And the following gem located you in the police station.”
Nicco looked at the red crystal in his palm, thankful for the first time of its presence.
The skycar landed and Brinno and Huwll escorted Nicco out. He half-expected another beating, but this time the men turned away without a word and stepped back into the car. If Nicco didn’t get the necklace back, though, they’d surely return for him.
He watched the skycar soar into the sky and took stock of his situation. It still didn’t look good. He knew Ven Dazarus definitely wasn’t a wizard, for what that was worth. He also knew the rebel leader was somewhere in the mountains, but not even the Hurrundan police had been able to smoke him out. He could make an educated guess that the Kurrethi were simply waiting for Werrdun to die before they came down into Hurrunda and seized control of the city. Evidently there were plenty of locals who would support them in that endeavour.
Further, he now knew he’d been named after his father, who’d been a war journalist. Which was interesting, and went some way to quenching a thirst Nicco had endured for years... but didn’t really help him at this precise moment.
He looked up over the city’s low rooftops toward the Hurrun Peaks and cursed magi, mob bosses and dirty-minded businessmen from Jalakum alike. If only
he hadn’t touched that floating orb in the man’s apartment, if only he hadn’t listened to Tabby’s bright idea to rob him in the first place... if only he hadn’t dumped those skycars in the bay, before that, and gotten himself into Bazhanka’s debt. One small action that crashed through his life and wrecked everything that had come after. If not for that, Nicco could have turned Ven Dazarus down and the rebel leader would have had to find someone else to steal the necklace. And it would be some other poor bastard standing here right now, wondering how on earth he was going to save his skin this time. Someone, anyone, other than Nicco…
And just like that, he knew what to do.
THERE WAS A cash-only phone in a corner of Fazikk’s, a dark, noxious-smelling bar off a quiet street on the edge of downtown. The regulars didn’t take their noses out of their glasses long enough to notice the smell. That suited Nicco fine.
Nicco walked to the phone, pushed coins into it and dialled Sothus’ number again.
“Lubburon.”
“It’s Nicco.”
“Nicco! Hey, did you hear about the bomb at the gala?”
Nicco sighed. “Yeah, I heard. This line sounds a lot better.”
“I’m in the hotel. Better reception in the middle of the city. I’ve decided to stay indoors for the rest of my trip, it’s not bloody safe out there!”
“It won’t be safe in your hotel soon, either.”
“What do you mean?”
“Listen, you’re in armaments, right? How quickly could you get hold of...” Nicco paused. If someone had told him two weeks ago what he was about to ask, he’d have laughed. But right now it didn’t seem so funny. “A few hundred assault blasters.”
“Hold of what?Nicco, what exactly are you messed up in?”
AFTERWARDS HE CALLED Bazhanka back.
“I need you to do something... Two things, actually. First, I need you to use your connections here in Hurrunda to get to the police.”
“Dear boy, have you been caught pickpocketing this time? How dreadfully boring.”
Nicco grew weary of Bazhanka’s constant jibes. He had one chance at this, and for once the mob boss had to take him seriously if it was going to work. “Unless you want to explain to your grandfather why thousands of his people died because you couldn’t be arsed to listen, just shut up and write this down...”
A minute later Nicco hung up and left the bar. Time to get to work.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
AS THE PINK sun sank below the horizon and the moon rose in its place, the Hurrun peaks came alive. Here in the jungle-sided hills and mountains temperature variation between day and night was minimal, the dense vegetation and swampy ground trapping warmth and moisture in its thick, humid air. Surface clouds and mist permeated the tall trees, making navigation by any means other than satellite difficult at best.
Buzzing insects took to the air, grateful for even a one- or two-degree drop in the temperature. Scaly creatures emerged from their mud burrows, sniffing lazily at the scents of prey carried by the gentle breeze drifting through the jungle. Tree-dwellers slithered along the wide trunks and branches, their tongues flicking in search of the night’s potential food. The last of the sunlight faded. Flowers closed their petals and retired for the day, conserving their energy for tomorrow. The Peaks belonged to the night now.
A man slowly picked his way over the roots and vines that lined the jungle floor, using a long stick to alternately bat aside giant rubbery leaves and give himself purchase on the slippery, muddy floor. Thorny branches snagged at his clothes, already damp and encrusted with dirt, and punctured the cloth with a thousand tiny pricks every step of the way. He was a man of average build and average appearance, with a short crop of thick black hair and skin too light to be a full-blooded Varnian. In the dark of the jungle, his only notable feature was that he was here at all, braving the Hurrun Peaks for his own ends.
He pulled a small object from his pocket and spoke to it in Varnian. A soft, blue-white glow emanated from the object, which he held in his hand and used to light his way. The glow would attract some insects, but repel the more dangerous nocturnal creatures. Hullorik the wizard had also promised it would not wake the rare carnivorous plants that could be found here in Bishlurra.
Not long after entering the jungle, he had reason to test that very claim. Stepping over a thick tree root, an orange insect flew toward him, its body bloated and heavy, its flight erratic and slow. It ignored the bright, magical light in his hand and simply hovered silently in front of his face, drifting to and fro with seemingly nowhere to be in a hurry.
The man stepped round it carefully, leaning his head and body away from the insect so as not to antagonise it. In fact, he was so focused on the insect that he almost trod on a large seed pod to the side of the trail, its skin so dark and hairy that it blended almost perfectly with the ground. He caught himself before his boot landed on the pod and stared at the millions of hairs on its surface. They were short and delicate here at the path’s edge, but as his gaze moved along the pod’s skin, following its curve into the undergrowth, the hairs became thicker and longer, more like spines.
He looked back at the insect. It was still there, hanging in the centre of the trail, silently dithering about in mid-air; but now he saw how it dangled by a gossamer-thin strand, almost invisible against the riot of colour and shade that made up the jungle landscape. As he raised the light orb to see, he saw the strand gradually become a thick green stem that arced over the path, high and curving, leading back to the ‘seedpod’ he’d almost stepped on.
Making sure his feet were safely and firmly in the mud and not touching any roots or vines, he moved the orb closer to the pod. Further back from the path its true size was evident, the thick, glossy skin continuing in wide folds to the plant’s centre. There, the spines were thick as a man’s wrist and as long as his arm, tapering to needle-sharp points at their tips.
Flesh-flowers, the Varnians called them. The orange ‘insect’ was bait. If it was disturbed, the folds in the flower’s skin would open and stretch until it reached its victim with the millions of sticky hairs on its outer flank, then drag its prey back toward the thick spines. The sap it exuded would fatally poison anything smaller than a groak in minutes, then slowly dissolve its victim and over several days, right down to the bones. A single groak could feed a flesh-flower for two weeks.
But the flower was asleep, its maw closed and waiting for something to trigger the bait. The gentle glow of the light orb washed over the plant without disturbing it.
He carefully stepped around it and resumed his journey toward the summit.
AN HOUR LATER, he felt no closer to the top of the Peaks than when he started. The sides had grown steeper and the ground became boggier with every step. He’d lost the trail half a mile back or more.
The noise of the jungle, a cacophony of buzzing that had long ago merged into an incessant monotonous din, grew louder with each step up the mountain. It was so loud he almost didn’t hear the low, humming sound from up ahead. Almost.
The humming varied slightly in pitch, rising and falling at a slow tempo. He strained to hear it better, but the insects’ drone blocked out most of the sound. Then he heard wet leaves rustling and slapping against one another, a sound that seemed to be coming closer. He pressed himself against a tree trunk and closed his hand around the light orb, enough to see a little as his eyes adjusted, but not enough to attract predators. He hoped.
Something was moving through the trees, heading toward him. The humming grew louder, and now he heard a rhythmic snuffling sound mixed with it, presumably from the same creature.
Just a few yards away the leaves parted, pushed aside by a wide horn. A low snort from the horn’s owner ruffled the vegetation, and a head emerged from the undergrowth. Apart from the horn at the end of its snout, the high, narrow head—eminently suited to poking its nose through the foliage—was covered in a matting of thick, dark hair. Its large nostrils flared in time with its slow, rhythmical
breath. Behind the nostrils the snout sloped rapidly upward to a brow of thick bone plates shielding small, yellow eyes. If it had ears, they weren’t visible. Smaller horns and spikes protruded from the brow, protecting the eyes, and from a crest that ran up over the high forehead and disappeared down the back of the creature’s thick neck.
The creature flared its nostrils, then gave another low snort and stepped forward. The back of the body was hairy, like the head, but the sides and belly were bald, revealing a leathery hide of brown scales as big as a man’s palm. The creature’s body was wide and heavy with muscle, and possessed six powerful legs as thick as a man’s body. Its back arched high, the bony spines continuing down the length of its spine to a small, thin tail. The stomach was large and distended, hanging low and protected by its powerful legs. At the shoulder, it stood as tall as the traveller.
It was a groak.
It stopped humming and slowly swung its head from side to side. He held his breath, hoping its poor eyesight would pass over him without remark. Insects buzzed around him, landing on his exposed skin. His skin was quite dry despite the heat, and he resisted slapping the insects away. Any sudden move would alert the groak to his presence.
The beast sniffed at the air and swung round to look directly at him, cocking its head to one side. As he watched, coiled and ready to run for it if necessary, the groak opened its jaw, exposing row upon row of teeth. Behind long fangs, suitable for tearing flesh, were dozens of smaller, sharper incisors for cutting and shredding meat and bone.
It yawned, finishing with a snap of its front teeth and a sharp snort into the man’s eyes that made him blink. Then the groak turned and walked away, resuming humming as it continued its slow quest for food.
He waited for a minute, to let it move further away, then opened his hand and let the orb’s light illuminate the scene. The groak’s path across the trail was easily seen in the glow, a mess of crushed plants and ripped vines with deep footprints wider than the span of both his hands. He adjusted his grip on the walking stick and resumed his journey.
Stealing Life Page 20
