‘This may be important,’ Anomer said. ‘All this may be very important indeed.’
He turned and favoured Lenares with a wide smile. His eyes were sparkly like Mahudia’s used to get. This boy doesn’t pity me. He thinks I am special. She smiled shyly in return.
The shining Lenares saw might be the water magic of Bhrudwo, the children of Noetos explained. They both had it, and because of this Andratan had been interested in them. Lenares did not think their idea was correct, but she listened politely. Arathé had been sold—Lenares wasn’t sure this was the right word—to the Undying Man, but had discovered that much of the magic was put to evil use in his service. Using it hurt those near the user. So she tried to leave Andratan, but the cruel magicians there would not let her go. Instead they cut out her tongue and put her to work in the dungeons, drawing on her for power. It wasn’t until she was taken south, to be used as a drudge by Recruiters on their way to search for more magically gifted children, that she had been reunited with her family. Her father was very angry at how she had been treated, and wanted to go to Andratan and ask why.
Lenares nodded. ‘I’ve never seen people’s numbers shining like yours do. You both look very beautiful.’
The siblings smiled at her.
Captain Duon turned to Lenares and his face wore its own frown. ‘I’ve just realised something. How can you know the local language? Did you learn it from someone in Talamaq? Is that why you were sent with the expedition?’
‘Patterns and numbers,’ she replied. ‘Just as good as magic. Maybe better; I still have a tongue.’ Again she could have bitten hers off, but Arathé laughed.
The talk continued, hour after hour of it, and Lenares was enthralled with it all.
Captain Duon wondered aloud whether anyone else who had been in Andratan two years ago had been infected with voices. Arathé thought that maybe everyone who went there received the ability. No one else thought this likely. There was apparently another voice, a nasty, horrible voice, which both Captain Duon and Arathé could hear. They seemed very worried about this voice. The two of them talked for some time about how they might fool the voice, but came to no conclusion that Lenares could follow.
Eventually, however, she allowed their earnest voices to fade a little. She had her own thinking to do. Did any of this connect to the hole in the world? What was her next move? Would Dryman allow her the freedom she needed to pursue and somehow defeat the hole? And why did she have a vague feeling that she had it all wrong?
And behind these thoughts, a rosy pink glow that kept her warm.
Duon sat apart from the others, making himself comfortable on a small rocky knoll above the main campsite. Below him bonfires flickered, with only the occasional silhouette momentarily visible in front of the flames. The former residents of Raceme had settled down to sleep.
The night was cold, but dread chilled him more effectively than the cool breeze ever could. Arathé and he had speculated on the identity and nature of the cynical voice in his…in their heads. Anomer, however, had the most frightening insights; perhaps, Duon speculated, only half in jest, because the boy’s head was not so crowded.
‘You have Andratan in common,’ Anomer said to them. ‘At the very least someone has done something to you there that has made you receptive to this voice; at worst one of you is carrying someone else in their head, and the other can hear it. Or you may both be carrying someone.’
Arathé had become upset at the thought that another being might be lodged within her. ‘It’s like being with child after a rape, if the child could hold conversations with its mother,’ she had said. ‘I don’t want it.’
‘There is only one person who can wield magic sufficient to do this,’ Anomer had continued. ‘And that is the Undying Man himself.’
Noetos had growled at the words, a bear ready to strike. Duon had revised his earlier estimation of the man: though he did not look much like a warrior, he might prove difficult to best in combat. There was something of the vledmehar about him, those legendary warriors of the icy south who foamed at the mouth when they fought. Given what Noetos’s daughter had suffered in the Undying Man’s fortress, Duon supposed the man’s anger was justified.
Arathé had sighed at her brother’s words, as if he’d confirmed something she had suspected but not been willing to confront. ‘I never saw the Undying Man, except once from afar when I first arrived.’
‘Does he need to be near someone he ensorcels?’
Duon listened carefully. He could not ascribe their fear and horror of the Undying Man to the very human figure he had met. That said, he had met the Emperor of Elamaq and had not felt the power that, with a word, had assembled an army thirty thousand strong only a few days later.
‘But why?’ Duon had asked the youngsters. ‘Why us? What does he hope to achieve? I don’t understand. Is this anonymous magician spending his days listening to our thoughts? We are not important people…are we?’
These were the questions he wrestled with now, as the fires died down and the cold settled on him like a second skin. The fear that had his heart in its grip was this: did unimportant Captain Duon now have two emperors competing for his obedience? One to the south, who would destroy him and his family should he believe Duon responsible for the loss of the expedition. And one to the north, who might well be listening to his baffled musings even now.
Was that laughter he could hear? A faint, repetitive sound, like derisive laughter in the back of his head?
No, it was the slap of boot on stone; someone was leaving the camp.
Duon raised his head. He’d had half an eye on the path below him, wondering when Dryman and Torve would return from whatever nocturnal wandering they were engaged in. This was a solitary figure, a much bigger man than either of Duon’s fellow southerners. It took only a flash of red hair in the wan moonlight for Duon to recognise him.
Where was Noetos going?
Duon was not inclined to pry into the private affairs of others. However, he had learned a number of things concerning the Fossan family that connected them to him. And there was something about the way the man walked, a furtiveness, as though he was trying to disguise his bulk, that made Duon get to his feet and follow quietly after the northerner.
The man left the narrow path soon after, and made his way surefootedly across three fields to the main highway they had all walked along earlier in the day. Duon tried to keep in the shadows, guessing that the man would be angry at being followed. He nearly turned back, but he was fed up with mysteries. Besides, the man would not be going very far.
For the next three hours Duon followed Noetos, alternating between deciding to give up his pursuit and becoming increasingly convinced the fellow was about to do something he wanted no one else to know about. The pace the man set was extraordinarily swift, and Duon, though hardened by months of walking in the southern desert lands—added to years of exploration—found it difficult to keep pace. After a while, however, it didn’t matter. It was obvious where the man was heading.
They arrived at Shambles Hill just as the moon went down. Below them the city of Raceme was nothing but a shadow pricked by torchlights. The man halted briefly, then pressed on, more cautiously. It was basic soldiery to assume the Neherians had patrols out beyond the walls; belatedly Duon considered the danger he might now be in. Having the northern man angry at him was not the worst thing that could happen.
They approached the city wall. The fool means to get inside the city, Duon told himself.
Yes, and you’ve known it for an hour or more, said the cynical voice. Stay out of the city. Don’t throw your life away when you don’t know what is happening.
Duon listened carefully to the voice, as Arathé had suggested they ought, and thought he detected an underlying current of worry.
Am I that valuable to the voice?
He found himself strongly tempted to ignore its advice.
A hand gripped his arm and pulled him into an alcove in the wall. ‘Nice nigh
t for a stroll,’ Noetos growled in his ear. ‘But a little dangerous to be taking the midnight air under the eyes of the enemy, don’t you think?’
For a moment Duon could barely draw breath past the sudden constriction of his throat. A hot retort, built from anger and fear, formed in his mind.
The cynical voice spoke. This man is a hothead. You will impress him by remaining calm.
Duon could see the sense of this. ‘Welcome back to Raceme, friend Noetos,’ he whispered. ‘Did you miss it as much as I?’
The bulky shadow drew back a pace, his hand still on Duon’s arm. ‘You’re a cool one,’ he said. ‘Why did you follow me?’
‘Curiosity,’ Duon replied promptly. ‘I wondered what would bring you here, and thought you might want some help.’ He brushed the man’s hand away.
‘I don’t trust you,’ Noetos said brusquely. ‘Wait here until I return, and don’t go on a walking tour. If your heavy-footed journey tonight is any indication, you will be seen and taken as a spy. That you want to avoid: the Neherians are not a merciful people.’
‘I see you intend to invade Raceme single-handedly and without a weapon,’ Duon said.
The man grunted. ‘I have come tonight to retrieve the blade I left here.’
‘Plenty of blades back at the camp. What is so special about this one?’
‘Because,’ Noetos said, sighing, ‘this one belongs to the heir of Roudhos, and I fear the Racemen may have need of it.’
Anomer woke as the moon sank behind nearby trees. His bladder demanded he make a walk to those trees, where a score or more men stood satisfying the same need.
‘The men of Buntha won’t see us wrong,’ an old man muttered as he shook himself, spraying drops everywhere.
‘Can’t see how a few hundred villagers can help us,’ said a younger man. ‘We need to go north to Trais or south to Tochar. Plenty of men there who hate the Neherians.’
Anomer moved into the space cleared by the old man’s lack of control. ‘Don’t you think they might have their own problems?’ he asked them. ‘The Neherians are not about to conquer the Fisher Coast and ignore the inland towns.’
‘Is that what they’ve done?’ the younger man asked. ‘Conquered the Fisher Coast?’
‘Where you from, lad?’ said the old man to Anomer.
‘Fossa. A small village not far north of Neherius.’
‘Heard of it,’ the old man allowed.
‘The Neherian fleet has been moving north, destroying the villages and taking the people as slaves. They succeeded in most of the villages. Seems like conquest to me.’
‘Your village?’
‘Burned to the ground,’ Anomer said bleakly.
He finished his business and bade the men goodbye. Now the moon had set there was virtually no light by which to make his way back; he stumbled into one sleeping group and extricated himself only after profuse apologies.
He realised he was near the remains of his own fire only when Arathé’s voice crept into his head. Look over to your right, you should see the embers glowing. Is Father with you? Her voice was anxious.
He came down a shallow slope and could barely see her, a pale figure smeared against the darkness. No, he answered, surprised.
Noetos’s sleeping mat lay unoccupied. Anomer reached down: cold. He’s been gone for some time. The missing pack suggested his father was not merely off walking.
He’s gone to do something stupid, hasn’t he? Arathé thought.
Well, it’s been at least a day since the last time, her brother agreed. Here, take my strength and reach out to him.
He sat on his father’s sleeping mat and felt a bump beneath his buttock. He pulled back the mat.
‘Now I’m really worried,’ he said, but did not touch the object lying there on the grass. ‘Father would not have left this behind unless he thought he might not return.’
What is it? Arathé asked, and reached out to pick it up.
‘Don’t touch that!’ Anomer cried.
Her hand stopped just short of the dark thing on the grass. She turned a puzzled expression towards him.
‘It’s too dark to see, and I’m not going to pick it up. But, sister, that is the most valuable and the most dangerous thing you’ve ever encountered.’
The stone you were telling me about?
‘The huanu stone,’ he replied. ‘With it Father drained the magic from a Recruiter; and you saw what it did to the whirlwinds. For him to leave it here means he’s either gone to do something so risky he wanted to keep it safe, or he has been taken from his bed.’
Then we must contact him immediately, his sister thought.
Anomer nodded, and replaced the mat over the carving. His sister had always taken his strength gently, carefully, but he knew it would hurt all the same. He lay back and waited for the pain to begin.
‘No talking, I said.’
Duon sighed. The man was insufferably bluff.
‘If I’m to help you, I need to know what we’re doing,’ he whispered.
‘If we are caught I’m leaving you to your own devices,’ Noetos replied, continuing to ignore Duon’s questions. ‘And the more you talk, the greater chance we have of being caught.’
‘Your voice is far louder than mine,’ Duon said, aggrieved.
‘Then don’t make me speak,’ came the reply, demonstrating, Duon thought, admirable logic.
Virtually no light penetrated the streets of Raceme, but the Bhrudwan bear needed none. He was much lighter on his feet than his bulk suggested, and navigated the streets with surety, though many of them remained choked with rubble.
That there were Neherian patrols was confirmed soon after they had scaled the city wall. The bear had found a less visible place to climb it, just short of where the wall came down from Suggate to meet the coastal cliffs: a large tree thirty paces from the wall ensured the shadows were even deeper there. They had just scrambled to the ground inside the city when the sound of steps stilled them: a group of ten men with torches and gleaming armour came within a dozen paces of where they lay.
‘Armour,’ the bear breathed after the men had passed by. ‘The Neherians have been reinforced; they must have had a land army in support of their fleet. I pity Tochar and Altima. The inland cities will be in flames.’
‘How can you tell these are reinforcements?’ Duon had asked.
‘The Neherians don’t carry armour on their ships; it is too heavy. I suppose this could be an elite squad, but I doubt it. What puzzles me is why the fleet attacked before the army—of course,’ he corrected himself. ‘The fleet was drawn north more quickly than they intended, then forced into harbour by the storm. They had no choice but to attack. This was supposed to be a pincer invasion, I think: army at Suggate, fleet in the harbour. Total destruction, then move in with their own people; that’s their usual pattern. Five thousand people, more or less, owe their lives to the storm.’
‘So there is now an army in Raceme as well as the invaders from the ships?’
The bear-man groaned as he pulled himself to his feet. ‘It would be safest to assume so,’ he said.
They encountered numerous patrols on their journey into the city; or, possibly, the same few patrols again and again. It was too dark to tell. Individual Neherians moved about the streets carrying torches, engaged in bearing messages or some such errand. The sky began to lighten, and the bear kept them firmly in the shadows. Duon considered the man’s caution commendable.
‘This is ridiculous,’ the man said now. So closely did the sentiment echo his own thoughts that Duon thought for a moment he himself had spoken aloud. But the voice continued.
‘The sword lay for years in a box under the floor of my bedroom in Old Fossa. Not once during that time did I use it; I trained my daughter and son using practice swords. After we were given Fisher House I stored it on a ledge at the base of the cupola above the house’s Great Room. I told my family it was a keepsake, which it is. Nothing more. So I ought to be able to let it go.’
/> Duon grunted, a sound he hoped would be interpreted as encouragement for the man to continue.
‘So why did leaving the sword behind—forgetting it, if the truth be told—feel like such a betrayal? Why am I risking my life to get it back?’
‘Our lives,’ Duon said dryly.
‘No one asked you,’ the bear growled. ‘Pick a direction; you’ll arrive at the wall.’
‘You’re a trained soldier,’ Duon responded. ‘So am I. Let us do what we are trained to do, and get out of this city before the sun shows your enemies where we are. Then, after we have put many paces between ourselves and this place, you can tell me what is so special about your sword.’
‘Well put,’ said the bear. ‘In a moment we—nnnnn.’
‘What is it? Are you all right?’
Captain Duon, can you hear me? The voice was faint, right on the edge of…what? Not hearing. Mind-strength?
Beside him in the shadows the man groaned again, shockingly loud in the early morning silence.
Duon focused on the spot at the back of his head where the voices seemed to come from. I can barely hear you, he thought, but I think you’re hurting your father with the strength of your thoughts.
He’s not answering me. I’ve been trying for the last hour or more. We’re frantic with worry. Where is he? Is he safe? What is he doing?
Be careful, came another voice. Arathé’s brother. We must not attract attention.
We have to take the risk.
Would you people mind not arguing in my head? Duon asked them.
Then answer our questions swiftly. Arathé this time.
We are in Raceme, he said. Your father is here to recover his sword. All things being equal, we should return to you an hour or so after dawn.
Why did you agree to help him? Arathé appeared to be angry.
I didn’t, Duon began, then Noetos grabbed at his arm.
‘This is very painful for me,’ he said. ‘Clearly, to make themselves heard to you, they are having to shout. Can we leave explanations and blame for another time?’
Dark Heart (Husk) Page 12
