“Soon,” he nodded. He planned on taking one canister and the automatic weapon. Dani looked into his eyes. Something was picking at his thoughts. She remained silent, wondering if he was recalling a terrible moment in Tamnica. She had seen his flesh once he had escaped the wretched prison, burnt and brutalised, and could not begin to imagine his experiences in there.
“Do you want to talk about it?” she asked, tentatively, angry at the pain that clouded his eyes. “I’m not going to judge you, Cristo. I have heard stories of these places. I know the horrors that …”
“No,” he said, looking around. “It’s not that. It’s not.” He waited. “Did I fetch the pan? The one I use for the leaks?”
“The what? The pan?”
“Yes, the pan, the one I used in the shack, did I leave it behind? I didn’t leave it behind, did I?” He strode across to their packs and began to rifle through them. “I must have left it behind. I thought I packed it.”
“Cristo, it doesn’t matter.”
“It matters,” he said, and went through to where the pickup truck was parked. She saw him kneel beside the wheel and take a short blade from his pocket. A moment later he was carrying a grubby hub cap. He glanced up at the roof and pinpointed where the water was dripping through. He flipped the cap over, set it down on the ground and a smile formed across his lips as droplets of rainwater landed with a plop.
“It’s not the prison,” he said, suddenly. “I saw someone.”
Dani felt a hand seize her throat.
“No, not Tamnicans,” he said. “Do you remember Philip?”
She nodded. The bright-eyed, one legged man. She had not thought of Dessan, her birthplace, for some considerable time. “Of course, he was the one who told us about Ennpithia.”
“He told me others stories, too, Dani, one that he heard from Margaux.”
“That bitch,” said Dani, spitting into the fire. “I hope one day a purple ribbon will find its way around her arm.”
“I don’t want to think about that,” said Cristo, blocking out the memory of Ilan, Justine and Margaux, standing in the line with Dani, seeing Ilan’s staff plunge into the ground. “She told Philip a story that had been told to her by a travelling merchant of a one-eyed girl who looked … different to us … and that she had magic hands and could heal the sick and ailing … heal people in pain … people like you.”
Dani narrowed her eyes.
“Magic hands? How can you believe anything she says?”
“I don’t believe her. The story passed from the merchant to her and then to Philip and then to me.”
Dani shrugged.
“What about it?”
Cristo took a deep breath.
“I just saw a one-eyed girl with marked skin arrive in town.”
The door creaked on its hinges as the Map Maker nudged it open. He said, “Hello?”
He waited.
“Just a minute,” called a woman’s voice, from out back.
He pushed Emil inside and closed the door behind them.
“Say nothing,” he whispered.
She stood a few feet from him, noting the outline of the pistol in his pocket. She was wearing a shabby jacket several sizes too big. There was a blood stained tear in the fabric where a blade had been driven into the heart of the previous owner, a man they had discovered in the woods, several days before. The Map Maker had searched the man but found nothing. He had then stripped off the jacket and offered it to her. She wanted nothing from him but, reluctantly, she had accepted it. The days were cold and damp, the nights more so. It had no buttons or a zipper but it was lined and the extra layer felt good around her body. The hood was tossed over her copper coloured hair and she tried to shrink away from the world, hide her pale and dirty face, her patched eye.
“They have a lot of stuff,” said the Map Maker, glancing around at crowded shelves and counters.
She had endured the incessant drone of his voice for eight days now, suffering his ramblings about exploration and discovering a new land. He was quite pleased with the ruse he had concocted to steal her. He had told her the story four or five times now, of how he had freed Margaux from the punishment pit, convincing her that they would kill Emil, but had instead used her as bait to lure Mallon and the militia into the forest, concealing Margaux’s body to allow him the time he needed. He had manipulated these people with great ease.
“Stone stole from me. He stole my maps. Now I get to steal from him. See how the bastard likes it.”
Emil had been drinking heavily that night, ready to submit to her sudden desires for Mallon. She had consumed far too much alcohol and could recall only hazy fragments. She did remember seeing the guard that had been protecting her lying outside in a crumpled heap, his head in a pool of blood, and she clearly remembered the Map Maker appearing like something out of a nightmare as she knelt by the fire, naked, unable to stand or focus. The rest of the night had been a grainy blur. She had woke the following morning, beneath an outcrop in the forest, trees in every direction, rain spilling from a brooding sky, miles from Dessan, head pounding, a raw taste in her mouth, as if she had been eating dirt. She was still naked, though wrapped in a blanket. She was shivering. Her stomach felt as if the contents had been scraped out with a shovel. He handed over her clothes from the night before and told her to get dressed but she had point blank refused, not unless he afforded her some privacy.
“I saw it last night,” he said, stubbornly levelling the pistol at her. “If I turn my back you’ll run.”
She let out a loud burp, grimacing at the stale odour.
“I don’t have the strength to run.”
It wasn’t a lie. She was exhausted, her head was hammering, she desperate for a cup of water.
“You’ve got nothing I want,” he said. “Not in that way.”
She took the clothes from him and tried to climb into them whilst holding the blanket but it almost impossible to do so. The sickness that wracked her body was little compared to the humiliation of having to stand and dress in front of him, feeling his eyes curve over her body, despite what he had said. Vividly, she realised he would never leave her alone for a single moment. She would have to kill him to escape, the way she had killed Lucas, when he had chosen to take her.
“I never really understood your value,” he had told her. “Now I do. Where I’m going, I could get hurt and you’ll make sure I don’t die.”
A few days later, riding across sodden scrubland, she had finally plucked up the courage to speak to him again. She had stood up to him on the first morning, still fuzzy with alcohol coursing through her bloodstream, but the clarity of her situation, the danger she was truly in, soon dawned on her and she had crawled inward and obeyed his every instruction. He had unsettled her from the moment she had met him, hiding with Sadie in the forest on the outskirts of the village. She had told Nuria that she thought he was a creep.
“I’m never going to heal you,” she said, simply.
He was sat behind her on the horse. She could feel his breath on her neck.
“If I die, you’ll die with me.” His empty voice chilled her. “And you’ll never see Mallon again.”
She had thought of Mallon a lot in those first few days, wondering how far behind he was. Was he tracking her? He must be. Though he had let her be taken in the wagons by the Collectors but he had told her he had not wanted to fight them in the village. There would have been slaughter. He had fully intended to ambush them on the forest road, unaware that Stone had already made the same plan the night before. The Tongueless Man had been prepared to face all those men alone, risking his life to free a population of people he hardly knew from a noose of tyranny. Stone was helping Mallon. She was certain of it. He would have returned from killing the last of the Collectors by now. She knew he cared deeply for her. He would never form the words, shape them into a kindness that she could carry with her, but that wasn’t him, and she had accepted it. His promise to keep her safe was a silent vow, to keep her fr
om men like the Map Maker, whose only desire was to exploit her gift. And it was a gift. For so long, growing up, she had thought it only a curse.
“I’m the Map Maker,” he was saying. “This is Emil.”
The woman who had called from the back now stood behind a cluttered counter, a stained apron over her clothes. She was tall, easily taller than the Map Maker, who Emil thought was short for a man. She had bushy black hair, hazel coloured eyes and light brown skin that bore a lengthy white scar, running from her nose, over her pink lips to her chin. Emil guessed she was twice her age. She had long arms, thin, covered by a knitted jumper. She couldn’t see her hands; they were busy beneath the counter. Emil reasoned she was pointing a weapon at the Map Maker.
“My name is Beatriz. I’m sorry to have kept you.” She half smiled, it was almost a sneer. Emil wondered if the scar made it uncomfortable for her to smile fully. “How about you take your hand off that gun? And I will take my hand off mine.”
The Map Maker blinked, surprised. He bent at the waist and noticed a gap beneath the top of the counter. Beatriz suddenly lifted the weapon into view. Emil had never seen anything like it before. It was constructed from four slender wooden barrels, half a foot in length, with a handle and triggers.
“I made it myself,” said Beatriz. “It has a fully working mechanism and shoots darts.” She half smiled again. “It’s very effective. Deadly.”
The Map Maker showed her his hands.
“We’re just passing through,” he said.
“Are you looking for food?”
“No.”
“Is that your horse?”
“Yes.”
“And you haven’t eaten it?”
He shook his head.
“We need it. We’re heading north.”
Beatriz lowered the dart gun.
“What do you want?”
He looked around the dusty shop, spotting a multitude of items he did not recognise. Many were from the Before, some were more recent. He picked up a box shaped object with a large circular base. He saw levers and buttons but nothing happened when he fiddled with them.
“Are you interested in that?” asked Beatriz, watching him closely.
He nodded.
“It’s fascinating, isn’t it?” he muttered. “Do you find it fascinating? Trying to puzzle out how all these pieces once fitted into people’s lives?”
Beatriz came around the counter. She looked at Emil, for a moment, hunkered down in her coat.
“That a player,” she said. She took it from the Map Maker. “You place a black disc here and operate the lever.” She slowly moved the turntable. “The disc would turn round and round.” She traced her finger in a circular motion. “You would then hear sound. The disc might contain words or music, or both.”
She set it down on the shelf.
“History intrigues you?”
“Uncovering it,” said the Map Maker. “And creating it.”
Emil snorted.
“What is wrong with you?” asked Beatriz, with her half-smile, half-sneer. “Youngsters, nothing interests them.”
“Have you heard of a place called Caybon or Cabourg?”
Beatriz nodded, walked back to her counter.
“I know of Caybon,” she said. “But I have never been there.”
“What can you tell me about it?”
She drummed her fingers and he realised he needed to offer her more than his charm and interest in the past.
“We have food,” he said, reaching into his backpack, but Beatriz was already shaking her head.
“I have food,” she said, her ears tuning to the sound of rain outside, the wind rattling the old building, whistling through the cracks in the walls. The Map Maker thought for a moment. “I don’t have anything to trade. I’m sorry. I’m only looking for information. We’re trying to reach Caybon. That’s all.”
Beatriz looked at him for a moment, and then shone her half-smile, half-sneer at him, a faint sparkle in her eyes.
“It’s north,” she said. “A very long way north. You will need that horse if you’re hoping to reach it. You would be better staying here. Or turning south. Caybon is the end, you do understand? It is the final place in Gallen. There is nothing beyond.”
“I’ve heard different,” said the Map Maker.
Beatriz shrugged.
“There are stories of the broken lands outside Caybon, things that exist there that shouldn’t.”
“What things?” asked Emil.
“You do speak then? I thought you were mute.”
“Things?” said the Map Maker, hopefully.
“People that are different. Not like us.”
Emil lowered her hood, revealing her scars and single eye.
“Different like me? Is that what you mean?”
“No,” said Beatriz, shaking her head. “That’s not what I mean. I carry a scar as well, you might have noticed.”
“You weren’t born with yours,” said Emil.
“Quiet,” said the Map Maker, and Beatriz saw his hand hesitate at his pocket. She frowned.
There was an awkward silence. Outside, a small knot of people drifted by, soaked through and talking loudly.
“Tell me about these different people,” said the Map Maker.
“Just avoid the broken lands,” said Beatriz. “And the city. The Maizans run the city. You do not want to encounter them.”
The Map Maker looked between the two women. He paced to the window. It was thick with grime. He stared at the rain oozing down the glass. A man was walking toward the shop.
“Looks like you have a new customer,” he said.
As he turned, he saw Beatriz was aiming the dart gun at him.
“You should both leave,” she said.
Emil looked pleadingly at the woman, regretting her harsh tone of a few moments earlier, but Beatriz was focused on the Map Maker, her finger on the trigger of the dart gun. Emil opened the front door and stepped out into the falling rain, quickly followed by her abductor.
Beatriz watch the two strangers through a rain smeared window as they rode quickly way. The new customer who came through the door hesitated when he saw the weapon in her hand. She reassured him she didn’t greet all her customers that way, only the ones who unnerved her. She set the dart gun beneath the counter and asked him what he was carrying in his sack. The tall, lean man, eyes dark, face narrow, looked around before loosening the strings of the sack to reveal a large canister.
“I’m looking for food and water.”
Beatriz nodded, running her hands over it.
“I need you to open it.”
Cristo opened it. She didn’t need to look inside. She could smell it at once. It was black energy, fuel for vehicles.
“Do we have a trade?”
Beatriz nodded.
“One more thing,” said Cristo. “Tell me everything you know about the man and girl who just left.”
--- Thirteen ---
Justine lifted her head from his lap, spat, wiped her mouth.
Darrach rolled across the bed and reached for a half empty bottle. He drank and let out a long sigh. He filled his pipe from a small pouch and used one of the candles to light it. The bedchamber was on the third floor of the tower that overlooked the courtyard and the front gate. Justine stood naked by the narrow window, wooden shutters closed. There were gaps in the wood and she ached at the sight of the bridge and the river that flowed beneath it, remembering back to when she had stood on the wooden bridge in Dessan, exchanging flirtations with Stone; though that was possibly a memory tinted with a loving hue; she had been flirting. She wondered where he was right now. She had seen none of them since the capture. She looked at her forearm. Her skin was clear. She had heard of the branding. It was the only evil that she had been spared.
Darrach eased behind her. He leaned around and handed her the pipe. She walked away from him, puffing hard, filling her lungs. He slapped her across the buttocks as she moved. Her flesh stung for a mom
ent but at least he had relented on using his fists against her. The bruises were slowly fading. She sat on the edge on the bed, swigged a mouthful of drink and looked away as he relieved himself in a bucket.
“Get rid of that,” he said. “And get some food up here.”
He snatched the pipe from her as she picked up her dress off the floor and slipped it her over her narrow body, bones jutting against the skin. She fetched the bucket, grimacing at the smell, and went to the door, but Darrach called her back. He curled his thick hand around her throat, squeezing gently.
“Please, don’t … Darrach, please, I can’t …”
He forced her mouth open, dropped in a blue tablet, and closed her jaw.
“Swallow it,” he said, and she hesitated. “Do as I say.”
He saw her gulp and grinned, nodding, slapping her again as she went through the doorway.
“Don’t be long,” he said, lying back on the bed, pipe in hand.
As Justine reached the top of the stairs, she opened her mouth and carefully produced the tablet on the tip of her tongue. She set down the piss bucket and lodged it in her left ear. It felt odd there but her hair covered it and she had nowhere else to conceal it. She would crush it with the others later, once he slept. Picking up the bucket, she trotted down the stairs and went outside to empty it. Cold air pinched her skin, weak sunlight bathed her face. For a moment, she stared at the gate; hand cupped over her eyes she shot a glance at the men in the watchtower, armed with crossbows. She took a deep breath before heading for the kitchen, in basement. It was noisy with men eating and talking. Most of them were Cuvars. A few she recognised as Collectors. Some of them were strangers.
Women staffed the kitchen, preparing food. She had no allies here, no friends, no one she could even begin to trust. She kept herself to herself. She felt the men watching her as she took food but was untroubled by them. She was Darrach’s property. The first few weeks had been the worse. Her body had screamed as he had violated her, several times a night. He had been brutal, too, beating her with his fists, abusing her with his tongue. When he had gone from the chamber he would lock her in, sometimes for a day or two, with no food, and she had wept, and had, more than once, considered squeezing through the narrow window and dropping to the courtyard below, finally ending her suffering at his vile hands.
The Wasteland Soldier, Book 2, Escape From Tamnica (TWS) Page 16
