Ecko Burning

by Danie Ware

  Selana blinked. “What is he charged with?”

  “Nothing.” Phylos’s red shrug said yet.

  Mael watched the girl, his mind racing. Not sure what his plan was or even if he had one, he said, “The Merchant Master asked me why you came to see me.”

  Selana inhaled, tension rising from her body.

  Mael said, “I merely wanted you to be here when I answered the question.” He turned back to the chair. “I asked if the Lord of the City had been permitted to see her uncle, whom I understand is in the hospice?” One glance at Selana’s pale face told him that she’d been permitted nowhere near her uncle Mostak, or anyone else for that matter. “Perhaps,” he deliberately left off the “My Lord”, “you can offer an answer?”

  For a moment, Phylos was absolutely still - as though he’d not expected Mael’s sheer daring to be that big. He understood completely what Mael had done - he had placed Selana squarely in a position where she had to choose, and in front of both of them.

  Mael quelled a rise of panic and hoped to the name of every merciful God that this was not utter idiocy.

  He could hear Saravin, What are you doing, you daft old sod? He could hear his own heart thumping in his ears. He could hear the scuttlings in the corner of the kitchen - the rodents that would be getting his personal leftovers when the cook turned him into stew.

  Phylos learned forward, picked up a poker. With a flawlessly innocuous gesture, he prodded at the ashes, and a flare of heat washed against his face.

  Selana backed up a step, but Mael did not move.

  He was staring at the Merchant Master’s face, the height of his forehead, the slightly aquiline set of his nose, his high cheekbones and square jaw. The Merchant Master was typically Archipelagan, a handsome and powerful man with a very distinctive face - a face no Grasslander could mistake...

  A face he knew.

  A face he had seen recently, on a young woman, a face etched in harsh Kartian scarring.

  Mael would have gambled every last damned thing he owned, up to and including his own ageing skin, that Phylos had a daughter.

  Jayr.

  Dear Gods.

  They had taken his pack from him, but he remembered the picture. His mind was racing now - a tumble of questions. As the flare from the ash faded again and the close-up of Phylos’s face was gone, Mael could still see it as if it had been heat-brazed onto his thoughts. Phylos had a daughter, a daughter that had been gifted or traded to the Kartians - there was no other way she could carry scars like those.

  He had a lever, but for a moment he had absolutely no idea how to use it, what to push against. There was no shame in Phylos having a daughter - but the slavery? That was another matter. And what of her mother?

  Jayr’s colouring was Grasslander, darker of eye and hair and skin-tone than Phylos’s ice-blue gaze and pale skin. Why had the Merchant Master lost - given - his daughter to the Kartians?

  He was hiding something. Mael had no idea what it was, but the knowledge alone was enough.

  He straightened, let out a long and slightly unsteady breath.

  Phylos had not answered his question, and was still sitting with the poker in his hand. If he actually decided to crash Mael round the face with it, then all of his insight and cleverness would come to nothing...

  But the Merchant Master put the poker back in the rack and held his hands to the new glow in the fire’s ashes.

  The cavernous kitchen had suddenly become a great deal warmer.

  He said, “Brother Mael, I had expected more gentleness from a man of your background. The family Valiembor has taken terrible damage, and Mostak is not possessed of his full wits. With his brother dead,” he glanced at Selana, who stood like a carven statue, unspeaking, “and with what happened to Valicia, forgive me, he is exquisitely distressed and really cannot be disturbed. My Lord Foundersdaughter understands this.”

  Mael gazed at her, willing her to speak, to stand up to Phylos, to voice a thought, anything. But it seemed she did not dare.

  The scribe picked up the feather pen from the mantel. Twisting it between his fingers, he said, “It’s a funny thing, the importance of family. How close one can be to ties of blood.”

  There was just enough emphasis on the word, just enough of the flicker of the feather between his fingers, to make Phylos’s eyes flash with an interior light. To make Mael’s spine freeze as that gaze crossed his own.

  The Merchant Master would have been through Mael’s pack - he would know that the scribe had seen Jayr.

  And exactly what Mael meant.

  For a moment, they were at a dead draw, unspeaking and immobile. Mael’s heart was screaming in his ears - he was an old man and more out of his depth than he had ever been in his life, but he swam on, determined not to go under.

  Selana glanced from one to the other, understanding that something had passed between them, but not knowing what.

  “I think, in the light of what’s been drawn,” Mael said, “that the Lord of the City should take more of a... personal interest in her uncle’s welfare?”

  Phylos glared, and Mael imagined him considering the play that had been made. He had no idea how much Mael knew about Jayr - or didn’t. And he had to weigh very carefully what he would do next.

  Mael nearly fell over when he said, “Very well then. If that is her wish.”

  Selana’s mouth opened in shock. She shut it again almost immediately, stood up to her full height.

  “Yes, I... yes, I would like to see my uncle. I would...”

  Phylos leaned to pat her arm. “I will send the senior apothecary down to him, my Lord. To see... how he is.”

  Dear Gods.

  He had no doubts as to what that meant.

  Now, the old scribe found himself in an odd position. He had the upper hand - but he didn’t know why, or how strong it was, or quite what to do with it. Like his opportunity with Selana, this was huge...

  ...and it scared him.

  Heart in his mouth, he said, “Perhaps we should all go down together. Now.”

  The tension in the great stone room froze. Mael almost panicked, he had no idea if he had just overplayed his dice.

  Phylos withdrew his outstretched hands from the odd, clammy warmth of the ashen fireplace and said softly, “Don’t push your luck, Brother. I have a lot of - questions - I need to ask you. And I’m going to have answers.”

  Again, he raised his voice to call and the young man called Scythe came in, inclined his head politely.

  Phylos said, “Prepare a room for Brother Mael, he’ll be... staying... for a while. And please escort the Lord -”

  “Wait.” Selana’s voice had a faint tremor, but her command was clear. She said, “I want to see my uncle now.”

  Phylos gave a gentle laugh. “My Lord, he’s very unwell. I’m afraid -”

  “I said ‘now’, Merchant Master.”

  Mael bit back his smile, but his heart sang. Good girl, brave girl. Well done!

  Don’t get cocky, Saravin grumbled at the back of his thoughts. Scythe paused, one eyebrow raised.

  Selana gave the young man a glare, then turned to look down at Phylos.

  “Well?” she said.

  “Well enough, then.” With a billow of scarlet, the Merchant Master stood, opened his hands and bowed to her, the gesture sweeping and exaggerated. “I obey your wishes Lord, we will visit your uncle. Now. Please understand, though, that he is unwell, and may not be quite himself.”

  Selana nodded, turned to Mael. “You’ll accompany us, Brother? I understand the hospice is known to you.”

  She made as if to say something else, but Phylos spoke over her. “Brother Mael may accompany us if he wishes, but he will be returning directly here.” His smile was elegance itself, a gracefully concealed blade. “I feel he should be a guest of my household. Probably for a while.”

  18: BURNING IT DOWN AEONA

  “What do you mean, they took him away?” Amethea’s voice was all shock. “Took him where?”r />
  Triqueta kicked a laughing skull straight in its bared teeth, sent it skittering.

  “What’re you looking at?” She glanced up, said, “Syke told me. Don’t ask.”

  “Syke?” Amethea stared at her friend.

  Triqueta bit back a sharp retort. At the corners of her vision, she could still see Syke and the others, still feel their rejection and the strike of their boots. Her anger died unspoken. Whatever Amethea had seen, she had been strong enough to break out of it - to throw back the figments that had come to drag the horrors from their souls.

  “I’m sorry.” Triq’s apology was awkward. “I saw stuff -stuff I didn’t need to see.”

  Family.

  The loss of it roared loud in Triq’s mind, it caught at her lingering fears, made them surge into anger at whatever game this was, at whatever creature was twisting their figments back in upon them.

  Make us victims, would you? Oh, I’ve had about enough of this.

  Amethea was looking at her lap, at the floor, at the scattered remains, as though she couldn’t bear to look up. Triq reached a hand to her friend’s shoulder but the girl was already moving. She was frowning at the spiral designs in the walls and the lightless creeper.

  She said softly, “Where are we anyway? Is this the place the - creatures - were guarding?”

  “I don’t know, I guess so.” Triq’s blood was thumping a tattoo in her temples, her fury was twisting a knot in her throat. She needed someone to answer for this, someone to blame for the figments that had tormented them. For Maugrim, for Ress’s madness, for Syke, for every damned thing they’d seen since they’d left Roviarath.

  For Redlock, for Ecko.

  Amethea had picked up a jawless skull, was turning it over in her hands.

  “You know something?” As Triq spoke, her mind was clearing, her thoughts hardening, her voice gaining volume. “I’m going to find whoever’s done this, whatever the rhez it is. And I’m going to carve out its insides. Nightmares and figments, pieces of our pasts - they’re not funny. I’m going to take this back.”

  She spun, and one of her long horsewoman’s boots slammed out sideways, hard into the heavy wooden door. The door juddered, but held.

  “Triq, what are you...?”

  “I’m getting us out of here.”

  She welcomed the door’s resistance - she needed it to defy her, needed something to pit herself against, something upon which to vent her helplessness and rage.

  Triqueta had no weapons, no kit. The Banned were gone, her friends, her family, her little palomino mare. Her opal stones hurt as if Ress’s blade really had tried to prise them from the bones of her face.

  She had only her courage and determination, the old breeches and shirt she stood up in, her boots.

  But that was enough.

  Triqueta kicked the door, harder this time, enough to make the sound echo tightly in the small room. The wood shuddered, tumbles of dust fell from the frame.

  The bones on the floor clattered in echo as if they applauded her.

  Amethea said, “Do you really want to do this? We’ve got no idea what’s out there.”

  “I don’t care.” With a snarl that could have been Redlock’s, she kicked again.

  “Wait!” Amethea’s voice was stronger this time. She was holding the skull out to the slant of light from the arrowslit, turning it to see the flesh-shreds that still clung to the bone. “Honestly, Triq, think. This isn’t right. Something about all of this -”

  “What? People being walled up to die? You’re not jesting.” Triqueta kicked the door again. This time, it buckled under the blow and there was the distinct sound of splitting wood. She heard the drop-key rattling hard against its housing.

  “Triq, stop.” It wasn’t a request. “Stop now. Before we mess up anything else.”

  The Banned woman halted. Arms crossed, she glared.

  “That isn’t funny.”

  “Like you said, I’m not jesting. Look.” Amethea held out the skull.

  “He’s dead, Thea. Been dead a while.”

  “No, he hasn’t.” Amethea brandished the thing as evidence, though Triqueta had no idea what she was supposed to look for. “He’s probably been dead for less than a return. Quite a lot less. Nothing’s eaten the flesh off him, it’s like it shrivelled -”

  “So?”

  “Will you listen? Something drained him, Triq, sucked the life right out of his skin -”

  “How can you tell?” Triqueta was out of patience.

  “His bones are a young man’s,” she said. “But his skin - it’s desiccated. It’s like he rotted.”

  Arms still folded, Triq eyed her friend, looking at her filth-streaked face and crazed, pale hair. Then she held out a hand, took the skull, dropped it and put her boot down on it, shattering it to pieces.

  “Whatever it is” - she kicked the door again - “I hope it’s out there waiting for us.”

  And she kicked again, and again, shouting defiance as she did so.

  “You hear me, soul sucker? We’re coming for you!”

  Rolling her eyes, Amethea groaned.

  And the door splintered, shook under the heavy blows. It took the shocks, but every one was breaking it further, every one telling as the wood split under the sheer force of Triqueta’s boots.

  She kicked it again. It juddered against the drop-key, but bounced back. She was sweating now, giving a hard, furious shout with every blow. This door was everything in her path and it was going to break.

  Ha! Come on, you bastard! Ha! I’ll get you! Ha!

  It shuddered, twisted on a hinge, sprang back. She kicked it again, and it held as if it were taunting her.

  Exhausted, infuriated, Triq paused to swear in frustration.

  Amethea looked up. “Triq, stop. You’re crazed. You can’t break -”

  “I can damned well do this!” Her back was hurting, but she bit down on the pain and turned to kick again at the door.

  This time, she heard the splinter of the drop-key housing.

  “By the Goddess.” Amethea’s words were awed.

  “No. By my feet.” Triq’s teeth clenched, her face reddened, contorted. She kicked and kicked and kicked - not caring about the noise, not caring about anything other than getting out of here.

  And then it gave, suddenly and completely: the drop-key housing came away from the frame and the whole thing slammed open like she’d ridden a horse into it. She staggered, almost fell. The door smacked back against the outside wall and then hung there, broken.

  Amethea was on her feet, speechless.

  Triq wanted to say something, but her knees went and she was on the floor among the bones, her back twinging with shocks of white agony. She couldn’t move, couldn’t...

  “Calm,” Amethea said. “You’ve gone into spasm, try and breathe...”

  “I am breathing!” The words were barely a gasp as she hauled cold, damp air into her hurting lungs, uncramped her side and back. “No time. We need to get out of here before” - she smacked the brown and broken remnants away from her and looked up - “that soul-sucking monster of yours gets hungry.”

  “And go where?” Amethea eyed the doorway as if she didn’t dare step through it.

  Finding her breath, Triqueta said, “Thea, are you just going to sit in here and be tragic and wait to be rescued? You stood up to Maugrim in The Wanderer, right at the end, you spat in his face. You kicked that damned bandit. Well, find your balls ’cause we’re getting the rhez out of here, and we’re rescuing the boys on the way.”

  Mustering an effort she would never show, setting her expression against the hurt, Triqueta stood up.

  I can still do this.

  You damned well watch me!

  Outside the door lay a sunken courtyard, silent and circular. It was brilliant with sunlight, open to the sky and all crafted from the same odd, striated stone. The creeper grew more thickly here, sliding over everything and upward towards the light. About the edge of the circle, there were more friez
es, though these ones were carven. In the bright sun, they were picked out in shadows, more spirals, or dancing figures crafted into the wall.

  In the courtyard’s centre was a round pool, cracked and long dry.

  There were other doors, four, five, six of them, spaced at odd intervals about the wall. Several of them were broken, or overgrown.

  The heat was oppressive. There was no wind. Nothing moved.

  Opposite them, however, on the far side of the circle, there was a set of long steps, wide and decorous, rising upwards towards some high and roofless plateau. A second circle stood above them, walled like a lookout platform - it rose against the sunlight and cast its shadow back across the empty pool, a long blur of grey.

  Amethea said softly, a catch in her voice, “I don’t like this. It’s too hot, I can’t breathe...”

  She was right, it was close, as still as death, airless despite the open sky above. Triqueta’s skin itched with tension. She felt the loss of her blades more with every moment. Yet there was nothing here, no flicker of life, no monster, no Redlock, no Ecko, no soul suckers, no creatures wounded and bleeding. There was only the ancient stone, a haven for the sunshine and flowers.

  Flowers, for Gods’ sakes.

  The edge of the sunken yard was too high to climb easily, the tall steps were the only way out.

  But there was no cover. If there was anything up there, it could spike the pair of them full of arrows before they’d passed the doorway.

  “Hang on.” Triqueta eyed the edges of the yard, crept out towards the lip of the pool. She remembered Redlock in water, laughing with her despite her increased returns, laughing even in celebration of them, and the memory gave her a sharp twist of real fear.

  Red. Where are you?

  If anything had happened to him. To Ecko...

  By the rhez! How had they even come to be here? Following Ecko, following Nivrotar? Following some haphazard trail that seemed to have no sense, no meaning?

  “Triq, look!” Amethea was pointing. “The mwenar! Look!”

  She didn’t see what her friend meant right away. Behind the creeper, one of the friezes in the wall was a creature like the human-faced predator, powerfully muscled, its snake-tail curved upwards over its back. The carving was old, blurred with time, but there was another beside it, another creature, a beast like the one they’d seen in the alchemist’s house, the mwenar with its four arms -