by Ian Irvine
Raising his fist, he struck the door warden on the back of the head in the way he'd been taught in his defence training, long ago. The man crumpled to the floor. Nish went around a couple of corners into a bedchamber the size of a small mansion, with tables, chairs and divans enough to furnish a house. At the further end, by a crackling fire, stood an eight-post bed the size of a clanker.
The master was sitting up in bed, facing the other way, reading a set of dispatches. A red wallet lay on the covers. Even from halfway down the room Nish recognised it as a Council of Scrutators message wallet. Flydd's secret had been exposed.
Scampering to the wall, he fleeted along until he was behind the head of the bed and drew his sword. Nish took a deep breath, slid around the bedpost and put his sword to the master's throat. 'Where is the scrutator?' he hissed.
The master looked up calmly. 'I'm not going to tell you, Cryl-Nish Hlar. Your father is dead and you are an outcast condemned by the scrutators. Put down your sword.'
Nish had expected the master to be a blustering coward who would do anything to save his own neck. For a second, the defiance threw him. Well, damn him; the fate of the world might rest on Nish getting the scrutator out alive. The master was a villain; let him take his chances.
He flicked the sword at the master's face. The man threw up his arms and Nish slashed the tip of the sword across his wrist, severing an artery. Blood spurted right across the bed. The master gasped then caught the wrist in his other hand and pressed hard with his thumb. The flow dropped to a trickle, and stopped.
The violence sickened Nish but there was no alternative. He pressed his blade to the man's throat. 'You may survive that, but not the jugular. Well?'
The master was a quick thinker and a pragmatic man. He's downstairs, in my cells. I have the keys here.' With his elbow he indicated a hook on the wall. 'I'll take you.' 'At once,' said Nish, snatching the keys. 'And remember, I'm a condemned criminal with nothing to lose. I don't care if you live or die. Nor, I suspect, do the scrutators, since your profits come at the expense of theirs.'
They went down the master's personal staircase and along to the cells, a row of small rooms with solid wooden doors. 'Take the keys,' said Nish. 'Open the door.'
'My wrist …' grimaced the master.
'If you're quick you won't bleed to death.' Nish put his sword to the man's throat again.
The master let go his wrist and grabbed the ring of keys. Blood spurted, though not as far as before. He forced a key into the lock, tried to turn it but let go and grabbed hold of his wrist. Blood dripped from his fingers.
Nish turned the key one way. Nothing happened. He turned it the other and the lock clicked. He kicked the door open, still covering the master with his sword, though the man was now crouched on the floor, trying to stem the flow. His thumb kept slipping on his red wrist.
'Come out, you bloody old fool,' Nish said. 'There's not much time.'
The scrutator came out into the light. He looked as if he had been beaten, though he was not cowed. 'What the blazes are you doing here? I gave you your orders.' 'A situation arose that they didn't cover. Do you know the way out?'
'Haven't a clue,' said Flydd.
Nish prodded the master with his sword. 'Show us to the stables. Better hurry; you're looking faint. You must have lost quite a lot of blood.'
There was a puddle on the floor next to him. The master nodded and stumbled down the corridor. By the time they had negotiated several more flights of stairs and long passages, he was weaving from side to side.
'I don't think he's got much left in him,' said Flydd.
'Blood or courage?'
'Either.’
'How far?' Nish said to the master, 'Just around the corner,' he whispered.
They emerged in the stables. 'Can you ride bareback, Nish?' Flydd said.
'If I have to.'
They mounted two sleepy horses. The master collapsed into the straw. Nish urged his horse towards the stable doors, stopping on the way to kick the side of a manger where a sta-bleboy lay sleeping. 'Open the doors!' Nish roared.
The boy ran to comply. 'Your master lies back there, bleeding.' Nish pointed with his sword. 'Attend to him before he dies.'
He kicked his horse into the rainy night. Flydd followed. Five minutes later, by the time the alert had been raised, they were weighing anchor.
The wind was blowing even harder now, a fierce gale. 'Are you sure it's safe to go out?' Nish said as they headed for the entrance. The Sea of Thurkad was a mess of white. Waves could no longer be seen, just white, driven foam.
'Been out in worse,' said the captain. 'Not by much, mind you, but for double the payment, we'll dare it.'
Flydd's head jerked around and he gave Nish a hard stare. Nish smiled blandly back. 'I thought your life was worth it. Was I right, or was I wrong?'
'For all you knew,' hissed Flydd, 'being taken prisoner might have been part of my plan.'
'You just can't admit you've been bested.'
After a long pause, Flydd said, 'I thought I was done for. You're a tough sod, Nish.'
'I was taught by the best.'
'Don't let it become a habit.'
The vessel passed between the arms of the breakwater. The blast heeled them over till the gunwale practically touched the water. The captain brought the ship around, the current caught her, the wind kicked her in the stern and she turned down the channel under just a rag of sail. 'If the wind comes up any further,' the captain said, 'even that'll be too much, and we'll have to sail on bare poles.’
'At least we're in no danger from the lyrinx,' said Nish. 'There's nothing can harm us tonight, save wind and rocks.' 'How far till we reach the Sea of Mists?' 'About twenty leagues. Four or five hours at the rate we're going. But there are a few things to worry about before we get there.’
'Like what?'
'The Pinch,' said Flydd, dashing spray out of his eyes. It burst over the bows with every plunge of the boat, smacking them in the faces.
'What's that?'
'Ahead, the sea narrows till you could practically shoot an arrow from one side to the other. The current is fast there, as fast as you've ever gone. It requires a strong hand on the tiller and the right kind of wind, or none at all, to get through. You don't recover from your mistakes in the Pinch.'
'How do you come back?' Nish wondered.
'They all ask that,' chuckled the captain mirthlessly. 'They pull us through. Windmills and cables. No boat can sail against this current.'
'Pull you through? I'd like to see that.' 'You'd fill your breeches,' said the captain. 'Now get out of my way. I've got work to do.'
Nish went to the rail but it was too dangerous to stand there. He leaned against the wall of the captain's cabin, where there was a modicum of shelter from the wind and rain, quietly going over the past hours. He'd surprised himself, dominating the master in that violent, ruthless way. It wasn't like him at all. More like his father, in fact. And most shocking of all, he realised now that he'd enjoyed it.
The wind screamed, the spray flew, the iron cliffs raced past. Nish never understood how the captain could see to navigate his way between them, but somehow he did. The Pinch was a league long and they roared through it in ten minutes. The crescent of the waning moon came out through racing clouds; the cliffs disappeared; the current slackened. They were out of the Sea of Thurkad into the Karama Malama, where the waves were mast high. The little vessel rolled like a cradle in the wind.
Nish groped his way below, into the reeking dark, and found an empty hammock, though he could not sleep. The ship's timbers, strained to the limit, shrieked and groaned. The hammock swayed through the same arc as the rolling vessel, before jerking back the other way. The landlubber soldiers were already spewing their guts into the bilge. Soon Nish was doing the same. The smell was abominable.
Morning came, but he was too seasick to notice it. Hours later he staggered up on deck, where Flydd and the captain were talking anxiously. 'What's the matter?' aske
d Nish.
'We want to go east,' said Flydd, but the wind's driving us south and west, and there's nothing we can do about it.'
'What lies to the west?'
'Just wild sea for a hundred leagues—'
'And the Reefs of Karints,' said the captain.
'Where are all the other ships?'
'Safely in the port of Hardlar, I hope.'
'So we're all alone.'.
No one answered. Flydd jerked his thumb in the direction of the hold. Nish went below, where he discovered that a soldier had thrown up green bile in his hammock. Nish turned the hammock over, his stomach groaning as loudly as the ship's timbers, and crawled into it.
Finally, in the middle of the day, in spite of the reek of vomit, he slept. He slept all through that day and woke after midnight, not that he could tell, then slept again. It had been weeks since he'd had a full night's rest.
He was woken by cries and an almighty crash that spun him full circle in his hammock. The other occupants of the hold were not as lucky. He heard thuds and groans. Another crash, not so loud, made everyone cry out. Nish fell out of the hammock onto someone, who groaned. Picking the man up, Nash stood on shaky legs and made for the ladder Crash, crash, crash. It sounded as if the ship were beating itself to death. He made the deck, which was tilted at the angle of a slippery-dip. They had run full tilt onto a rocky reef in the night, and it was all that was keeping the ship from going to the bottom.
Huge waves broke in a curving line from one side of the reef to the other. Each breaker lifted the ship and drove it fur ther onto the spine of the rocks, wedging the timbers apart. After each wave, the vessel was lower in the water. On the seaward side, the sailors had managed to launch a boat. Half a dozen jumped in, took the oars and clawed at the water. The boat moved out into the wind and was driven away. Nish soon lost sight of it in the towering waves. He peered over the side. Men were struggling in the water and being crushed between the boat and the reef. 'Scrutator!' he yelled.
No answer. 'Scrutator? Flydd?'
He put his head down into the hold and screamed Flydd's name. No answer from there either. Nish was about to go down when he saw him, clinging to the shrouds at the stern, Nish ran that way. 'What's the matter?'
'The reef seemed to come up out of the water,' said the scrutator. 'Got a prize bang on the head. I'm all right.' 'Where are we?'
'Middle of bloody nowhere.' 'Any chance of the other boats rescuing us?' 'They wouldn't know where to look.' 'Hadn't we better try and get the people in the hold out?' 'They'll have a better death down there,' said the scrutator, watching an enormous wave moving towards them. 'Look at the sea pounding at the reef. It'll tear us to pieces.' 'I'll just go down for my sword.' It was his most precious possession. 'I won't be a—' The stern was tossed up on the wave, lifting them into the air, then the whole vessel was thrust sideways. When they came down, there was nothing under them but water.
It was nearly as perishing as the sea at Tiksi. Nish, a poor swimmer and prone to panic, thrashed at the water. Something thumped him in the ear. 'Stop, you fool,' screamed the scrutator. 'Hang onto this.'
It was a plank or rib torn from the boat. Nish threw his arms around it. The scrutator turned on his side and kicked. The next wave pulled them out, away from the rocks. Flydd paddled furiously towards a streak of white and caught a current, which carried them through a gap in the reef.
The water was desperately cold — so cold that, no matter how hard Nish fought it, the will to survive began to slip away. Flydd tied him to the beam and kept slapping his face till he roused.
Nish endured as best he could. The rest of the night, long or short, was a daze. Near dawn, he realised that the pounding was not his heart, but surf breaking on a shore. The waves carried them in and dumped them, tearing Nish away from the plank. The water rolled him over and over, before depositing him halfway up a gritty beach.
Flydd got him up, and Nish had enough strength to crawl up out of the surf zone and flop down in the sand. That was all he could do.
Thirty-seven
'You say you love me, Minis, but after what you've done, I need more than oaths. If you do love me, prove it with action not with words!'
Hope flared in his brown eyes and she felt guilty. There was no hope for him.
'I will', said Minis, 'as long as you don't ask me to betray foster-father, or my own kind.'
Yet again he equivocated — anything that helped her could be seen as a betrayal of the Aachim. 'What's going to happen to me once Urien comes back?'
'Vithis will release you, I suppose.'
Clearly he'd not thought about it. 'He'll never release me, Minis. I must remain a prisoner of the Aachim all my life, and be watched night and day lest I smuggle out a message. Or…?' She left it hanging. 'Foster-father is an honourable man.'
'Vithis is not an honourable man; he's shown that many times. Besides, he doesn't have to kill me with his own hands. All he need do is indicate that I'm a problem, and plenty of Aachim would dispose of me, just to gain his favour. To your kind we old humans are little better than vermin, for all that I saved your lives.' 'It's not so,' he whispered.
'Once Urien returns, I'll be under a death sentence. No one will be able to save me then. But you can save me now.’
'At the price of betraying Foster-father,' he said bitterly. 'I will be ruined in his eyes.'
He'll get over, it. You're all he has. You must stand up to him, Minis. He'll think more of you for it.'
'You don't know him.'
'You say you love me, you've sworn to save me, but you qualify it every time. Prove your love — help me to escape. If you do I'll give myself to you, soul and body. Fail me and you collude in my death sentence.'
Minis could not meet her eyes. He marched up and down the tent, casting glances just shy of her direction. 'You do not, you cannot know what you are asking.'
She allowed him no respite. 'All I'm asking for,' Tiaan said sweetly, 'is my life.'
'At the price of my honour.’
'How will your honour withstand my execution?' she snapped.
'Please, Tiaan. It hurts to hear you speak that way.'
'How else should I speak to a man who professes love but won't lift a finger to save my life. You're pathetic, Minis. You're not a man at all — you're a snivelling child.'
'That's not true, Tiaan' he wept. 'I do love you.'
'Then save me.'
His face became dark, congested. The veins in his neck throbbed. 'Ah, Foster-father, what am I to do?'
'Run away with me. Now!'
'I can't get you out of the camp. Every construct must have a pass, and every person in it.'
'But surely, as Vithis's son …?'
'He doesn't trust me with you. But maybe, in a few days' time—'
'Tomorrow will be our last day, as you know very well. The camp is nearly empty. There are only eighty-nine constructs to go. After tomorrow we'll be in the main camp and they won't let me near one. You can't put it off, Minis. Once Vithis comes back, it'll be too late.'
'But what can I do?' he wailed.
Tiaan wanted to hit him. It's my life! Doesn't that mean anything to you? She closed her eyes, thinking desperately. She'd tried everything with Minis, but he was too cowed by Vithis. There was only one option left, though it went utterly against her nature. She'd have to really hurt him. 'Nothing!' she said with all the sarcasm she could muster. It was not strong enough. She had to shake him to his toes. 'You can't save me because you don't have the balls, Minis. You're a boy trying to fit into your foster-father's pants, but you don't have what it takes to fill them. No wonder Vithis holds you in such contempt.'
He reeled. 'You are cruel, Tiaan.' She stared him down. The time for words was over. 'I.. , may be able to do something,' he said. 'Tomorrow, when you're towing the last of the constructs. I'll try then.' 'Try what?' She did not allow herself to hope — Minis had let her down too many times.
We'll stop midway. I'll find a way to distra
ct the guards. I'll unfasten the tether, as if to check something. We'll have to be quick, but we can do it.'
Tiaan hadn't thought that she would ever convince him. 'You're sure?' 'Yes. My mind is made up.'
'Oh. Minis.' Pushing herself up in bed, she reached out to him.
He threw his arms around her and wept, which made her feel even more guilty.
'I'm sorry for doubting you, Minis,' she said. 'I was so afraid.' Tiaan looked up at him and, acting purely on impulse, pressed her lips to his.
She'd not kissed a man before and did not expect anything of it. The kiss was like touching an electric eel. It sensitised her whole body and, when they parted, her lips felt swollen to three times their normal size. She saw the desire in his eyes and for an instant Tiaan was tempted, but only ill could come of that. 'Take me home, please,' she said. 'First the proof.'
Tiaan was woken at dawn by an Aachim she did not recognise. 'Where's Minis?' she said.
He has other business to attend to.'
Tiaan took that as a sign that Minis had taken the coward's way out after all. By the time the sun rose she was getting ready to haul the chain of sixty constructs to safety, the second-last trip. The crystals of her helm had been freshly charged in the black tesseract. The Aachim guard carried her to the construct, lifted her in and after that never moved from her side. Minis must have betrayed her plan.
Two hours later, the sixty constructs had been delivered safely to the southern camp and the Aachim there were all smiles. The rescue, which few had ever believed possible, was almost complete. Only twenty-nine machines to go. She returned to Snizort. The tents had been packed and the remaining Aachim, all but her two guards being from Clan Elienor, were waiting in their constructs. The war camp had disappeared, the only evidence of it the flattened grass, the humps of the infilled latrine trenches and, in the distance, the memorial pavilion beside the battlefield.
It was past lunchtime. As the constructs were being cabled up, Minis appeared.
'I'll take the last set,' he said to Tiaan's guard. 'It'll give you the chance to ready your own gear.' The fellow nodded and sprang down.
