Salvation's Fire

by Justina Robson

  Celestaine tossed the diamond to Ralas after one more lingering look. “Here you go. Now you’ve got a job.”

  Ralas caught the thing this time and stashed it inside the leather pouch he kept hanging around his neck for valuables. “Diamond carrier?”

  “There must be a rhyme for it somewhere.” She smiled and then they set about helping to detach the wealth from the wedding dress, dividing it up and at the same time careful of Kula’s insistence that the dress itself not be harmed. It was a long task and the sun was high by the time that the last coil of golden wire had been wound and stowed. A certain disquiet had overtaken them as the magnitude of what they were to carry sank home, and the possible disaster that being found in possession of such things might bring.

  They did all they could to distribute and hide what they had. A lot of sewing was needed, at which none of them were adept, and this took another few hours in which Bukham, who didn’t want to carry any but was made to sew coins into his hems, cooked another round of cakes and some dried fish. By the time the moment came to set off they were all sad to leave, except Celestaine who was anxious for movement and Tricky who had got restless because of having to remain still for any length of time. They made perfunctory farewells in the tradition, Ralas thought, of those who didn’t want to dwell on the prospect of finality in any shape or form. He slung his lute over his shoulder, checked his boots, and then left the clearing, glancing back to see that the only traces they had been there was a ring of crushed grass and the fresh earth where they had buried the fire.

  “Come on, Plucky,” Tricky said impatiently. “Long way to the shops from here.”

  “Ralas,” Ralas said mildly, matching his stride in her footsteps. “Are you truly called Tricky as your actual name?”

  “None of us have actual names,” she said, with bitterness. “So what does it matter?”

  “You can have any name, then. Wanderer has a name.”

  “Wanderer has many names, none of them mean anything. Does yours mean something special, Plucky? Is it better than Plucky?”

  “From your lips nothing is better than Plucky.” He was astounded he’d actually said that. It more or less slipped out without a thought and he found himself suddenly face to face with her as she spun around in her tracks. Her gaze was snappy and sharp.

  “Don’t try to charm me. I don’t charm.”

  Her upturned face was warmly lit by the rising sun. There was something twisted about her features—he could see them beneath the glamour spell’s veil of beauty, and somehow the combination of the veil and the mismatched shapes beneath was breathtaking; he felt he could see a secret at the heart of the world. The songs had it all wrong. Love wasn’t blind. It was revelation.

  “And don’t get all mushy. I don’t look like this anyway.” She turned and was striding off again on the narrow trail, boots leaving no mark at all in the shallow mud.

  He followed, bringing to mind a love song that he’d always felt entirely ridiculous until now. He felt foolish and indescribable. He started to whistle, without realising what he was doing. A moment later she joined in, providing the little-known descant to the song of a fine man’s fortune lost in the pursuit of a careless witch.

  They were still on the second verse of it when they came out of the tree cover and onto the road. From the direction that the others had taken, north, came distant but distinctive sounds of fighting. He hesitated, “Should we?”

  “Nay, they’ve got it,” Tricky said with a dismissive wave of her hand. “Anyway, what’re you going to do, scream very loudly and hit them with that lute? It’s a Principal Verduchine. You’d be wasting it on them.”

  “You know about lutes?” He hurried to keep up with her, more off guard than ever.

  “I know about value,” she said firmly. “I know quality when I see it and I know who likes that kind of thing.”

  Abruptly he felt concerned and tugged the lute’s strap to be sure it was still there.

  “Don’t worry, Plucky,” she chuckled and gave him a wink over her shoulder. “I’ve got lots of jewels to get through before I get to that.” Her stride was deceptively swift and he had to stifle a lot of aches and stabs from his permanently broken toes to keep up. He was soon so out of breath that he forgot the distress vibrating through the voices behind them, a timbre of rage and desperation that he’d come to know as well as his own heartbeat since the war began: people with nothing to lose finding they had some spite left after all.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  THEY WERE ATTACKED as their way out of the forest cleared into a path. Men came out of the trees on either side of the road, hollering. A net was thrown at Horse though it fell across her back and caught on nothing.

  They circled immediately to shelter the woman and child and with a surprised shiver Celestaine heard the crackle of Heno’s magic in the air. Then she was too busy facing screaming ragers with their weapons all upraised and rushing like kids towards a wooden target. That told her they were no army, nor army men, but they had the fury on them and she parried and shoved with precision to get them aside, her blade harrying for minor injuries to slow and give them second thoughts. She both regretted and did not miss the magical blade she once had. It would have killed them all in moments and leave no space for thought at all.

  Nedlam had no such compunctions. Lady Wall was out and swinging in wide arcs, a man and his friend soon following her suggestions, flying for strides through the air before landing, the crump of the hammerhead connecting matched by the crumpling sound of their bodies meeting the ground.

  The haft and end of Horse’s polearm whirled, thumped. The business end sliced once, twice. But then their brief success turned for a moment as another few came rushing from the cover and these ones bore their weapons with intent. They were once soldiers who had waited for the unskilled of the band to soften up and test the targets. Now they knew their business and a grim determination fuelled their movements.

  Celestaine let hers come, circling a little, until her shoulder banged into Horse’s rump. She heard the snap and sizzle of Heno’s charge cut the air and then a scream of agony that far outmatched any cries that had gone before. This, instead of cutting the enemy’s mettle, fired them. They pressed the assault and she found herself sword to sword with an old pro, wily and light, who knew when to wait and when to strike. Her Forinthi swordmaster’s skills were the only thing to preserve her against his intelligence. Behind her she felt the thump and slide of another net landing on Horse and the centaur made a snort and yell of rage as her polearm was fouled in it.

  More came, non-fighters, laden with things that looked like spades and forks, slow and anxious as they looked for something to do that wouldn’t get them killed. So far they had been short on killing, Celestaine thought, and changed her grip and her stance. She heard Nedlam bellow and the unkind, brutal sound of Lady Wall striking a head; the noise was curious, sodden, surprisingly light. From within the circle of them she heard crying but it was hard to say who was making it: she’d have put money on the market trader.

  She stepped forwards and slammed her shield—a recent acquisition from home—into the man in front of her, roared, “Enough! Put down your arms or you will die here!” She hated to fight those without a chance and these had little of it, but she was prepared to back her threat all the same.

  There was a pause and she found herself looking at her attacker more closely, seeing he was not the leader but looking towards someone for a sign, a hopeful slackness in his face as blood ran from his broken nose. The bloodlust she enjoyed feeling slumped inside her, disappointed as he backed off a step, then another. He was scowling as if his thoughts were confounded. Then for no apparent reason he stumbled and went down on one knee. She heard Heno’s grunt of surprise just as she was feeling it too. Behind her Horse wrenched off the net and flung it violently back in the face of two young women near her, the point of her spear wavering at knee height, slicing up the grass there in case there was some doubt about
her will to use it.

  “All right,” one of the soldiers who had faced Horse said, defeated and agitated, gruff with command. “Stand down. They are not for the taking today and we can afford no more.”

  The attackers put up their arms and backed off to regroup, some bending to take care of the wounded or examine the dead. There was some wailing of disappointment as survivors discovered someone lost and Celestaine realised how young most of them were under their general coating of filth and disarray. She sheathed her sword carefully and re-hung her shield at the ready on her back as she watched over everyone else’s recovery. Though they had minor cuts and bruises none of them were much hurt. Kula was safe, cowed under Lysandra’s bent body, Bukham the trader huddled close to them; only Heno and Murti looking about with composure, Horse snarling with anger, Nedlam content to swing her weapons and grin her threats as she made a circle of them, pushing the bandits away to a distance. Beside her when she stopped, their leader was barely up to her shoulder and slight, even for a human.

  “We should kill ’em all,” Nedlam said, matter-of-fact. “Bandits no good for anyone.”

  “We are not bandits. We’re refugees,” the leader said coldly, trying not to cower and mostly succeeding as he faced up to Nedlam’s dismissal. “From you. You should know. Filth.”

  Nedlam’s face remained impassive.

  “Filth that saved the day back in Nydarrow,” Celestaine replied, walking around, stepping over the one Nedlam had killed. “These Yorughan were there at the end, and they were against the Kinslayer. Back off. We are done with war but we can bring it back if you insist.”

  How many more times will I tell that story? Will it wear out its power one day?

  “He doesn’t want it,” a woman near the middle of their group blurted before any other had a chance to respond. Ragged and worn, she must have been Celestaine’s own age but life had treated her much more unkindly and she gave off an air of despair that couldn’t hold back any longer. “None of us want it, but we go here, we go there, nobody lets us stop or stay, nobody offers anything, we have to fight real bandits off but they take everything. We came here because the fire went out. We thought nobody would be here. There must have been a great peace happen here. We’d be safe.” Her accent was soft but distinctively southern with its lilting vowels.

  She must have been on the road for a long time to be so exhausted, Celestaine thought, but she didn’t like the look of the fighters in the group; they were still out for blood if it was possible. They had been ruined by war and they would ruin anyone now in the notion that it would repair their pain by levelling all fates to the same agony. Reckoning had no end to it. The thought made her feel like she was made of mud, without feeling; she left her sword elevated and ready.

  Nedlam and Horse were holding them off to the flanks, and Heno’s magical threat held the rear, but their respect was temporary. They looked around shiftily from one to another, seeking a spark back to action when their own hesitation let things hang. She agreed with Nedlam. They were better clearing up, not leaving them to carry their rage, but Horse stepped forwards.

  “The depth of the vale is not for you. You may pass through the rest of the forests and remain there unharmed, but only those of pleasant intent may remain.”

  From behind her the figure of Lysandra, astonishing, boldly coloured, stepped forwards, Kula at her skirts. She moved carefully past the end of Horse’s javelin to where the apparent leader of the band stood, sword and machete in hand, grim and glowering. Celestaine wanted to speak but her throat was caught between warning and wanting to see what was happening here. There was a strange lightness to Lysandra, utterly without guile or sense, walking up to him, ignoring his weapons. Kula came with her, a tiny shadow. She couldn’t see Lysandra’s face from where she stood, but she saw the man’s arms tense as he re-gripped his blades, his chin dipping in warning, body bracing for action.

  “Don’t be afraid,” Lysandra said in the clear, fresh tone of someone without care. Her clothing shone like flowers against the muddy green and brown of the woodland. She embraced the stranger and laid her head against the bloodied leather of his chest. “It’s all right. We are people meeting in the woods and it is safe.”

  Nedlam’s face was a picture of quizzical disbelief. She licked around her short tusk in anticipation. Horse’s spear point raised suddenly, sweeping a curve to point at the sky until the end thudded to the ground beside her hoof. There was a heartbeat of time in which the sense of balance swung wildly, Celestaine felt, watching the expression on the man’s face, Lysandra’s closed eyes and peaceful cheek, the intense focus of the child at her side, fist clutched in silk skirting, leaning forwards as though her will was a lever with which she could shift the world.

  “I…” said the leader, staggering slightly in an effort not to bear Lysandra’s touch.

  Celestaine found herself longing for him to give up, to give in, to let it go and relax. She wanted to see someone do it so she’d know better how to do it later and she felt compassion for them, but also she felt almost no hope—that Lysandra was speaking out of a misguided love and faith that had never understood loss and destruction, that she was foolish and ridiculous. Then she saw they were all foolish and ridiculous. People meeting in the woods, with no trouble, making trouble. A glimpse of something longed for and not understood hung there, this promise of a possible future. And then with a violent shake the man brought down his fist at Lysandra’s unprotected head.

  “What witchery is this?” he was bellowing and then he was on his back on the ground, Lysandra was moving to one side, her arm out to shield Kula, as though they had taken a mis-step in a complicated dance. Then he stopped thrashing and lay still and looked at the sky. The sword and machete flopped to the grass one by one as his hands went slack. “Blue. Clouds.”

  “You’ve murdered him!” shrieked one of the women, half-hidden in the trees. “Gaballan is murdered!”

  “Shut up,” said another. “He’s not dead.”

  A brief scuffle that had broken out near Nedlam was ended with two decisive thunks of her club and whimpering. They gathered around to see what had happened to the undead man. Celestaine saw Kula tug at Lysandra’s skirt and bring them both back into the shadow of Horse as attention fell away from them. She saw the group of refugees slowly emerging and crowding up and took the moment to signal that they should go. Beside Horse the tall, bulky shape of Bukham was staring open-mouthed at the scene. She cuffed him on the shoulder as Murti said, “Hey, time to go.”

  Bukham looked at her with a dazed expression, his skewbald features waxy and idiotic with shock. “I don’t…”

  “We’ll talk later,” Celestaine said. “Right now we need to move.” She felt irritated by his imbecility. This was going to be like herding cattle all the way. Nobody could afford to be on the roads who wasn’t prepared. Somehow she would have to make them prepared. “Nedlam, take the rear. Heno, you go forwards. Horse, you can take the child on your back. We must be quick for a time.”

  Horse made no quarrel and within a moment or two both Kula and Lysandra were riding. She put Bukham at their side and Murti just ahead of him with strict instructions that the old man was not to fall behind. Once they had cleared the woodlands and were moving towards more open ground she jogged forwards to Heno’s side. “What did you make of that?”

  “I don’t know,” he said. “Kula did something.”

  “We’ll have to watch them.” Celestaine muttered, uneasy because dealing with this felt way beyond her experience. She went back along the line to Nedlam. “Any sign of trouble?”

  “They didn’t follow us,” Nedlam said, striding easily under the weight of Lady Wall, resting it on her shoulder. “What did Heno say?”

  “Said we’re in deep shit,” Celestaine said. She looked to where Murti’s bent back and bandied legs were making easy work of the road. She felt out of her depth, longing for action to relieve the anxiety of it, dreading the same thing because there were too fe
w of them with any experience to manage a more serious assault than a half-starved, disorganised rabble. And then her mind returned to Lysandra, riding happily, staring about her at everything with delight, and she shivered.

  KULA LIKED RIDING on the back of Horse; she was warm and furry and she walked with confidence. Lysandra’s joy in the world was infectious, even though the people on the road had nearly ruined everything as they always did. Even being the most kind towards them never worked. They were too far gone and they were too needy. When some of them would have been nice the others would spoil it. Children and women would pay for it. Those who weren’t themselves already full of the plague of horrors were the first to be turned on, with hatred. She wished them dead, but she could not do it. She had thought, once, how wonderful it would be to replace them with silence. Here was a chance, but something about them made it too difficult. She had felt that she, not they, would die. She would have asked her mother but this mother didn’t know the answer to that and neither did any of the others.

  She turned the lead refugee soldier’s memories over and over, watching them rise and fall. They were full of violence done to him and by him. He’d lived a long time compared to her and most of what he had known was painful to him and, when she paused to study it, to her. She knew these pains very well. She hadn’t wanted Lysandra to see them because it would spoil her but she couldn’t restrain all her own memories when she saw his. His ran in his actions, in his eyes, in the rat-running panics of his brain. She couldn’t kill him, but she could take the memories away.

  It had been a favour to remove all that from him, all the way back as far as it went, starting with some male faces, some blows, some agony in a dark place. Lately, towards the end, the faces of the big ugly grey ones came up again and again. She could see that these were not the same big uglies as the ones travelling with her now, but they were definitely the same kind. The ones with the lightning stars and the carvings in their massive teeth—they were often there.