by Danie Ware
Until the day they’d traded her body for something other than combat.
She’d killed four of them, and fled into the darkness. Raised without light, she’d been skilled enough - just - to reach Vanksraat, where Ress had found her.
And refused to leave her.
The Banned adopted misfits, or misfits joined the Banned. It’d taken Ress a very long time to help Jayr adjust, but he’d never given up on her, never left her side, and his gentleness and insight had been more than she could understand, at times. He’d reduced her to rage, to tears, to many times fleeing the love he’d showed her.
But she’d always come back.
And now, she would neither judge nor leave him.
He shifted in her arms, mouthing empty syllables. After a moment, he managed, “Jayr,” forcing her name past his teeth, striving to focus on her face. “Look.”
He was trying to tell her that they’d come to the edge of the palace’s island.
Ahead of them was an open mosaic; on its far side, one of the myriad bridges that spanned the “moat” formed by the bifurcating Great Cemothen River. There were eight or ten of them, joining the little island to the main streets.
They were all guarded, though more from tradition than necessity.
To flee the palace, she would have to cross the open ground.
“We need to wait,” she told him. “Watch.”
“No time. No time no time no time no time like now.” Ress had pulled himself up to her ear. He was struggling to speak, to cling to his sanity for long enough to form words. “Trust... me. We have to go.”
“Trust you to what? Not pull my brain out through my eyeballs? I can’t cross there without being seen.”
“I can... do this...” He was tense with white-hot urgency, with single-minded compulsion. His skin was scorching; his blood afire in his veins. He was shaking with effort, his concentration was pure and absolute. “Just... walk...”
“Just walk?” she hissed back at him. “I’m Jayr the cursed Infamous, remember? People notice me.”
“Walk.” Ress’s frame burned with intensity. “Now!”
Barely daring to believe, she walked out into the open.
The bridge guard didn’t look up. He was young, bored, but too well disciplined to yawn. He rubbed his hands against the gathering evening.
As Jayr walked, her heart in her mouth, a faint sense of light-headedness crept through her, almost as though she were advancing through twilight, a fog, a dream. Her feet weren’t quite touching the tiles, her flesh felt oddly...
Just walk!
What?
Disbelief and wonder held her breath in her throat. She came to the end of the carven stone bridge, passed a handspan in front of the guard’s nose, close enough for him to feel the air they disturbed.
But he was watching the wheeling birds.
Ress... She looked down at the madman she held in her arms. What the rhez has happened to you...?
Ress curled motionless into her shoulder, Jayr of the Banned walked unseen from the palace - and from Jemara’s empty mind.
Free.
From everything.
For a moment, she turned back, looked up at the dark, narrow-windowed wall above her - at Nivrotar, Triqueta, Amethea, the lost and blank-eyed thing that had been Jemara, the strange little man whose name compelled like a talisman.
Ecko.
Ress coughed, a tiny sound, like a warning.
She turned away.
Below her, the huge, broad stretch of the river rolled slowly beneath the stone - it would reunite briefly on the palace’s far side before spreading out into the sprawling, bustling mass of the Estuary Wharf. There was movement down on the river, a gaggle of young man calling lewd jests at one another.
They didn’t look up.
As they reached the bridge’s far side, Ress suddenly went slack, the tension leaving his body. She clung to him, almost stumbling to her knees as her feet were suddenly solid on the roadway.
Swiftly, she ducked into a side-alley.
“Ress, by the Gods. What did you...? How did you...?”
“Fo-cus... un-der-stand.” Held in her arms, he was smiling up at her, vacant and child-like, his mis-sized pupils staring loco. Drool sparkled. Watching him fight to speak was cursed creepy. “Believe,” he said. “Just. Believe.”
“You’re a real -”
“Just” - he was almost laughing, breathing and jaw both loose - “lead. People follow, always follow.” Then he seemed to remember something. He said, “Leave the city, we must go.”
“We need to get the rhez clear before they start looking for us - once they find Jemara, they’ll tear this cursed city apart to get us.” She watched his crazed expression. “You need to go somewhere?”
He nodded, blinking as if he fought to focus his vision.
“North... coast-road. But quiet. We must go... must go...”
“Okay, north,” she repeated. “I picked up barter-stuff, but not much. Where we going?”
“Fhaveon,” he said. Then he pulled himself upwards and whispered in her ear.
She stopped dead, sudden chills chasing over her flesh.
“You’re jesting? Even if we manage to get as far as the Lord city, we’ll not find someone to -”
“We’ll find... someone,” said Ress. “We must. No time no time no time. Found my mind - my courage - Ecko showed me. We must remember!”
Remember.
For a long moment, Jayr said nothing, her mind turning over the implications of the intended destination - wondering at the sheer crazed impossibility of the idea. Ecko showed me.
She would be walking to her own death and carrying him with her.
But her resentment crystallised, shattered.
Why the rhez not? It’s not like there’s anything for us here. I trust you, Ress. I swear, you’re the only sane one left.
She said softly, “It’s a damned good thing you’ve got me looking after you, old man, ’cause I got nothing left to lose.” A frown flickered across his features, his mouth started to move, but she spoke over him. “Fhaveon it is. If I have to carry you all the cursed way.”
* * *
Assured that the injured Saravin was in the best hands, Scribe Mael had gone to Fletcher Wyll’s secret meeting.
He needed to understand.
After the first one, though, it had been woefully apparent that Wyll, for all his ideals, had no idea which feet to put his boots on. He’d made a pretty speech, but when the time had come for planning, for decisions, he’d had no idea how to proceed. Political rhetoric was fine - but it was a great deal easier to descry the current situation than it was to build a new one.
Mael had noticed, at the second meeting, that many had not come back.
Already, he doubted the security of this neophyte movement. With the tan commander Mostak disgraced and remanded for Cylearan’s murder, Phylos was now in absolute control of both the Cartel and the soldiery. His reach was wide; his might vast. The very future of the Varchinde now lay entirely in the Merchant Master’s hands - his sheer power gave Mael the shivers.
Fletcher Wyll’s second meeting had been held in the same place - the ironically named Angel, a small tavern cellar at one side of the city’s lazy and decorous midriff. They’d had no rocklights, only tallow candles that danced ominous figments across the whitewashed walls. Stamping and raucous noises had come from above, causing trickles of wood-dust from the beams to tumble through the smoky air and onto the tables. The Angel’s proprietor was a supporter of Wyll’s sincere but haphazard cause - though, Mael thought, his ale might have been better.
However poor the ale, though, and however vague the group’s intentions, Fletcher Wyll’s concerns were genuine and his passion powerful. He was more idealist than organiser - a craftsman with a sudden and unexpected new vocation - and his call was strong.
“A core of strength,” he’d said, his voice ringing. “A bold few who have seen the truth and understand what is ha
ppening to our city. The harvest falters - we know this. But Phylos hoards our terhnwood, arms the city’s soldiers against her own manors and traders, and against the grasslands entire. How can I get wood for my arrows, when I have nothing to trade? How will I get twine, and glue, and feathers for my fletchings? And without my arrows, how useless is my bow? And is this not true for every one of you sitting here? Andrin - without tehrnwood, how will you have the fibres for the tools that shape your clay? Will you craft with your hands alone? Farrhon, without terhnwood, how will you craft your adornments so loved by the ladies? How will you trade for your family’s food? And you, Mael, without terhnwood, how will you even have paper?” The use of his name had made him start. “And that is just where it begins - no weapons, no tools, no trade, no books or records. Our very structure will come undone!”
Mael had listened to him patiently, trying to sort out how he felt. In the city above - out there, over their heads - the Terhnwood Harvester’s Cartel had brought in new measures. Terhnwood distribution was being rationed, now, it was no longer to be used for non-essential items, such as jewellery or personal decoration. The soldiery patrolled markets and bazaars; many had been sent out to the farmlands. There were rumours Fhaveon was withholding her terhnwood supplies to other cities; rumours that they, in response, would withhold stocks of wood and stone. Fletcher Wyll had a gift for seeing the truth of these things.
And yet, Mael mused, as he slipped up the stone steps and out into the early evening streets, word had come from the Council of Nine that there was no cause to be concerned. Terhnwood was hardy, it was a fast-growing crop - the Cartel was controlling the spread of the blight by burning. The people had only to be patient, and all would be well. They were clearing the fields, planting again...
The old scribe was so intent on his thoughts that he nearly fell over the beggar.
The roadway was a small one, an ascending curve that wound its way carefully up the side of the city. The death of the sun streaked a warm glow between the buildings. The shrouded figure was crouched at the side of the road, shadowed by a balcony; no one else seemed to have seen it.
Mael stopped, startled.
When the thin hand lifted a bowl, the scribe patted his pouches regretfully, wondering what he had to offer.
Around him, the people were heads down, all of them wrapped in their own thoughts and business. Tensions flickered between them like the wind-dancing dust - they paid the old scribe no attention. A glance told Mael that the area’s soldiery were approaching, though still a distance away.
He looked back down at the dirty, road-stained figure. As the man moved, the dying sun caught his shabby cloak and gave him an odd glimmer of authority.
“I’ve nothing for you,” Mael said, apologising. He leaned down. “You don’t want to stay there, my friend, not for too much longer.”
The man’s extended hand was thin, and it shook. It had old calluses - but not from weapons. They were very similar to Mael’s own, the distinctive bump on the middle finger that denoted a fellow scribe, a bookkeeper, a man with his letters. Something in Mael’s blood shivered, like uneasy recognition. He glanced again at the incoming soldiers.
He leaned down closer, the plains wind picking at his thin hair. Discreetly, he tried for a look under the man’s hood.
“I mean it,” he said. “The grunts aren’t very sympathetic up here. You’d best... Dear Gods.”
It was involuntary, he drew back, his hands to his mouth, not quite sure what he’d seen.
The soldiers had paused to stop a woman, well-dressed and imperious. Her strident tones carried across the wind.
In odd counterpoint, the man was muttering, “No time, no time, no time, no time...”
Mael shook himself. Without quite knowing why, he extended a hand and pushed the man’s hood slightly back.
No time.
As he did, he became aware that the beggar was not alone - that there was a heavy-shouldered shadow loitering further back under the balcony. His first thought was that the shadow was some sort of attacker, and he was torn with the risk of calling the soldiers for help and chancing their reaction. Then he realised that the shape was protective, not hostile.
The beggar had a bodyguard?
Another part of his attention, though, was taken by the old man’s face, his crazed eyes, the sheer blazing determination of his expression. The sun was behind him and his face was in shadow; his hair and beard were greying, though haloed with light. His skin was weathered, and there was drool on his chin. But he had the single most compelling gaze that the scribe had ever seen.
No time.
Mael had a powerful urge to draw him, to exaggerate those features - to try and understand how any man’s face could come to look like that...
...but he had no time.
The soldiers were moving again, coming closer. Mael crouched right down, allowing the people in the roadway to break their line of sight.
He said, “What do you want?”
The man’s intense gaze did not leave Mael’s own. His mouth worked for a moment, as if he sought the shape of the words to answer the question. His lips were cracked. Mael cursed himself for not bringing his waterskin - or a mug of the tavern’s ale, no matter how poorly brewed.
Then the man said, articulating very carefully. “A... boat.” He licked his lips, his expression tight with effort. “Need... trade... for passage.”
“You’ll have to go north, to Ikira, Teale, to one of the outposts.” Mael was utterly baffled, simultaneously intrigued. “Do you even know where you are?”
The soldiers were close behind him now, it sounded like they’d stopped someone else. The scribe spared a thought to wonder why they were being so aggressive, but the man was still speaking.
“Fhaveon. Need.... a boat.” Spittle flew. “Have... to trade. Please.”
His gaze was brilliant with insanity. Mael had seen madmen during his days in the hospice, but nothing like this. The feeling of focus that came from this man was absolutely mesmerising. Again, he heard himself speak, as though the very words had been pulled from his mouth, “How can I help you?”
Then the bodyguard said, “They’ve turned this way, get back now.” The voice was female - startling Mael slightly, though he wasn’t really sure why.
The heavy-shouldered figure leaned down to yank the beggar back against the side of the building. She, too, was heavily cloaked.
But Mael was sure he’d seen Kartian scarring, the deliberate, elaborate carven cruelty inflicted by the CraftMasters of the Western Mountains.
Who in the name of the world herself were these people?
He stood up, turning around just as the soldiers reached him. They were young, casually arrogant; they eyed him up and down with a certain sharp scorn.
He met their gazes, smiled politely, moved as if to go on his way.
They watched him for a moment, then continued downwards, around the bend in the roadway. Mael kept his bland smile until they had passed the Angel, Wyll’s tavern on the bend’s outermost corner, then he turned back to the shadow of the balcony.
“It’s okay,” he said. “They’ve gone.”
He felt an odd sense of relief when both figures moved in response to his words. The crazed old man was huddled by the wall, shuddering, muttering. The bodyguard came forward and put back her hood.
Mael stared.
His heart was pounding.
She was young and very beautiful, classically Archipelagan in feature, high-cheekboned, tanned and oddly haughty. Her beauty was offset - or maybe enhanced - by the incredible scar-work that had been carved into her skin. Her head was shaven down both sides, also carefully scarred, and her remaining scalplock was long and heavy and braided down one shoulder.
For one moment, she reminded him forcibly of Phylos.
Then she spoke. “We need a boat.”
“It depends on where you’re going,” Mael said. The setting sun was in his eyes now and he raised an arm to block out the li
ght. “You’ll need to get to Teale, or -”
“I’ll need stuff to trade,” the woman told him. Her attitude was defensive and abrasive, the bristle of someone who expected a fight with every breath. Whoever she was, she was as strange and intriguing as the madman she protected. “And I’ll need a pilot - I can’t sail the damned thing. Where’s this ‘Teale’ - in the city?”
“It’s north, though only a day or so,” Mael said. “The passage should be clear. If you like, there are still caravans...”
As he spoke, he realised the caravans were no longer a certainty. Teale was a fishing outpost, though he assumed that fish and salt were still considered worth their terhnwood.
What there was left.
The woman blinked. Her eyes were dark, almost as dark as a Kartian’s, though her skin and hair had the shades of the Varchinde. She was an oddity, fascinating. She glared at him for a moment, then nodded curtly.
“Okay,” she said. “We’ll go that way.” She bent to help the muttering madman to his feet.
As she did so, a burst of sound came from the roadway. The madman crouched back against the wall, cowering with his hands over his head. The woman shifted, came to her toes as if ready and wanting to fight.
Mael had a horrible feeling that he knew what that noise was.
That noise was the door of the Angel being beaten down.
Hoping he was wrong, he turned.
In the roadway below him, there was a tan of soldiers, he recognised the emblem of their tan commander, Ythalla - one of the more vocal of Phylos’s sympathisers. Six of them were carrying a heavy log of wood, chipped to a rough point. Three to each side, they swung it against the tavern door.
Mael said, “Oh good Gods.”
The scarred woman stood, her fists tight against her sides. She was trembling. The madman had crept forward and was peering around the edge of the wall. His hand against the whitewash was clawed with tension.
