by Ian Irvine
“Does that mean it’s a long way to the end?” said Glynnie.
“Could be. Or it could be deep underwater. The lake’s full of churned-up mud; you can’t see far at all. I need to know how far it is to the outlet – if it’s more than forty yards, we’ll run out of air getting there.”
She also scanned the conduit behind them, swallowing. “Can you swim through to check?”
“It’d take too long.” Rix was infected by her unease. How long before the pursuit found them? He frowned, rubbed his jaw. “I can’t take you both at once. If we lose contact I’ll never find you again.”
“Take Glynnie,” said Benn. “I’ll be all right.”
Memories of the time Rix had lost contact with Tali in a lake out in the Seethings still burned him. She had been within seconds of drowning and it had been his fault. “You’re smaller. It’ll be easier if I take you first.”
“Where would you leave him when you get out?” said Glynnie. “You can’t take him to shore; there’ll be guards everywhere.”
“I don’t like either option,” said Rix. “What do you think, Benn? If I take Glynnie first, will you be all right by yourself? It’d only be for five minutes.”
“Of course,” said Benn, thrusting his knife out menacingly, though his arm shook. “Don’t worry about me, Sis.”
Glynnie’s face told a different story, but she said, “All right.” She hugged him impulsively.
They took off their coats and boots and packed them in the oilskin bags. “No, lad,” said Rix. “Keep yours on until I come back. You’ll need all the warmth you’ve got.”
He stepped in and Glynnie went with him. The water, though chilly, wasn’t as cold as might have been expected given the bitter winter outside. Lake Fumerous, which had filled the void created when the fourth of the volcanoes called the Vomits had blown itself to bits in ancient times, was warmed from beneath by subterranean furnaces.
“Take three slow, deep breaths,” said Rix, “then hang on tight. Don’t try to swim – you need to save your air. If it looks to be more than forty yards, I’ll bring us back. Ready?”
She nodded stiffly, trying not to worry Benn, whose knife was drooping. Standing there all alone, he made a small, forlorn figure. Rix swallowed his own misgivings. Had it been Glynnie he would have felt just as bad.
“Now!” he said.
He pulled Glynnie under, holding her against his side, and swam down the drainpipe, following the gentle slope of its top and counting his strokes. The buoyancy of the oilskin bag helped to counteract the weight of the gold in his money belt, though it tended to pull him sideways. The light faded. Was she all right? She held herself so rigidly that he could not tell. Twenty strokes; twenty-five. He must have gone twenty yards by now, surely.
Rix could swim fifty yards underwater, at a desperate pinch, but Glynnie could hardly hold her breath that long. Thirty strokes. Should he turn back? If he went any further he wouldn’t be able to – he’d run out of air on the way.
It wasn’t easy, swimming one-handed. Was that light up ahead? It was hard to tell in the turbid water; his eyes felt gritty. Go on, or turn back? He must be beyond the point of no return now.
Yes, it was light, the faintest glimmer. Rix kept going, fighting the urge to breathe in. Glynnie was making small, panicky motions of her hands but there was nothing he could do for her. The light grew; they passed through a waving fringe of algae and he swam up to the surface. He held her with one arm while she gasped down air, raised himself head and shoulders out of the water, then hastily sank to chin level.
“What’s the matter?” panted Glynnie.
“Guards, all along the shore.” He could hear their boots crunching on the ice along the waterline.
“What are we going to do?” Her green eyes went wide. “Benn —”
“I haven’t forgotten him.”
He turned, turned again. At various points into the bay, huge timber mooring piles had been driven deep into the mud, though all were empty. The ships that had been moored there had either been sailed away, or wrecked in the tidal wave.
The nearest pile was thirty yards away. Rix fixed the location of the end of the drainpipe in mind as best he could in the featureless water, then swam with Glynnie to the pile, which extended six feet out of the water and had a copper cap on top.
“Hang onto the mooring ropes,” he said, and made sure she had a tight hold. “I’ll be as quick as I can.”
He scanned the water for boats and other dangers. Several hundred yards further offshore, wind and currents had collected a mass of timber and floating debris into a loose, bobbing raft at least a hundred yards across. Dinghies were drawn up on the shore but he could not reach any without being spotted.
“Benn’s in trouble, I know it,” she wept. “I should have let you bring him first. I’m so stupid. I can’t do anything right.”
“He’ll be all right. I’m going back now.”
“What if you can’t find the end of the drainpipe?”
“I’ll find it.”
“If something’s happened —”
Now Rix was worried too, but he couldn’t bear to listen. “I’ll be quick. Stay low. Don’t do anything to attract attention.”
He swam back thirty yards, dived and went down with powerful strokes of his left hand, his right flopping uselessly. The bottom was some fifteen feet down, but there were no waving streamers of algae and no sign of the drainpipe. Rix cursed and swam in a widening spiral until lack of air forced him to the surface. He trod water, gasping, eyeing the patrolling guards until he got his breath back, then dived again.
The drainpipe was not below him here, either. How could he be so far out? He swam another spiral, another. Ah, there it was, but he lacked the air to swim all the way back to Benn. Another breath and down he went, into the drainpipe and up. Despite his words to Glynnie, Rix was starting to panic. He’d told Benn that they’d be five minutes but fifteen must have passed by now, and in fifteen minutes anything could have happened.
He swam furiously until he approached the upper end of the drainpipe, then slowed and approached it carefully, just in case. Now he could make out a faint bluish light, coming from the glowstone. It was all right.
He eased his head through the surface and looked around. The air reeked of rotting fish and decaying bodies. He hadn’t noticed how bad it was before. The glowstone sat on a rock by the water’s edge, and Benn’s little pack was beside it. But Benn was not there.
CHAPTER 6
Rix threw himself out of the water, grabbed the glowstone and held it high. “Benn?”
No answer. What had happened to the boy? Could a hyena shifter have survived the explosion and taken him? It seemed unlikely; there was no blood, no shredded clothing, no shifter stink. If one of the rank beasts had been here, the smell would linger…
Had Benn been captured by the enemy? The floor of the drain was bare stone here and showed no tracks, but surely they would have taken his pack, or tipped everything out to search it.
Had he gone back up the tunnel? Why would he? More likely, after a wait that must have seemed interminable to a small boy, Benn had tried to go down the drainpipe in a vain attempt to find his sister. He could not swim, and must have drowned if he had tried… though he might have held his breath and pulled himself along the rough stone on the bottom of the drainpipe. Could Rix have passed him, coming back? It was possible, because he had swum along the top. They would not have seen each other in the murky water.
Check the water, quick. If Benn had only gone in a minute or two ago, he could still be alive. Rix dived in and swam furiously along the bottom, sweeping his arms out to either side, feeling for anything lying there. Nothing. He reached the outlet without encountering anything other than broken rock and leathery weed, then felt around the exit for snags and projections. Nothing. Nor could he see the boy on the muddy lake bed immediately outside.
Though he was desperately low on air, he swam back along the roof of the d
rainpipe in case Benn had passed out and floated up. Nothing there either. Rix burst out of the water, gasping, lay on the stone for a minute while he got his breath back, then picked up the glowstone and checked up the drain again. There was no sign that anyone had ever been here.
Could Benn have reached the outlet? It was barely conceivable that he could hold his breath that long, but if he had, Rix would never find his body in the murky lake waters. Benn was a skinny lad, and if he had drowned, his body wouldn’t float.
Only one hope remained – that he had wandered up the drain, back the way they had come. What could have made him do such a thing, though? He was a sensible boy and would not have headed back into danger. Besides, he would never have left his sister.
Rix stared up the dark drain, then down at the murky water. Benn might have been captured by the enemy, though if so, why hadn’t they touched his bag? Holding the glowstone high, he ran up the tunnel to the first bend. There was no trace of the boy. He stumbled on, to the point where the broken bodies were jammed into the wall. There was mud on the floor here but it showed only their three sets of tracks, heading down.
He rubbed his numb fingers, clawed at his scalp. What else could he do? If Benn had been taken by the enemy, they would be on watch for a rescue attempt. If Rix tried, he would be killed or taken and Glynnie would drown, all alone, never knowing what had happened to either of them.
How long could she last in the water? Slender little thing that she was, half an hour might finish her. An hour certainly would. If she climbed out onto the mooring pile, the icy wind on her wet skin would kill her more quickly.
And if he did not come back? Glynnie might manage to swim to shore, though it was a hundred yards away from the pile and she had never swum more than twenty. She would be captured and probably killed for having been a servant of Palace Ricinus.
Rix groaned, turned, turned again. He could do no more for the boy. His duty was to the living now, and if he spent any more time looking for Benn, Glynnie would die. He headed back to the water. How was he going to tell her that her brother was lost, almost certainly dead?
This swim down the drainpipe was interminable, yet not long enough. A thousand miles would not have sufficed to find the words to confess his failure. If he could not protect these two innocents, what was he good for? Nothing.
He struggled on, exhausted in body and mind, and every injury he’d suffered in the past few days, every bruise he’d taken after throwing himself down five levels of the corkscrew stair to the murder cellar two days ago, throbbed to remind him of the pain he was about to cause Glynnie.
Rix reached the end of the drainpipe so breathless that he had no energy to swim further. All he could do was float to the surface and bob there, gasping so hard that surely the troops patrolling the shore must hear him.
It was after four in the afternoon. The short winter day was fading, mist rising to drift in wisps above the water. The breeze had picked up and was icy on his cheek and shoulder. It drove more debris ahead of it, the final fruits of the tidal wave that had engulfed the lower areas of Hightspall a few days ago.
A large, solid front door, intricately carved and inlaid with freshwater pearl shell, but splintered along one side where the water had torn it from its hinges. An empty pottery flagon, green and white, slowly turning as it drifted. The body of a stocky, balding man, his fish-white skull gleaming like glowstone through strands of sparse black hair. His belly was swollen and his eye sockets empty, picked clean.
The cold was seeping into Rix now, making his bones ache. And none worse than his regrown wrist bones, where the pain was a clawing beast trying to take the dead hand off forever.
He had to ignore it. He had a duty to Glynnie. Rix swam around the body, keeping well clear, picked up the flagon and set it on the door to use as a float, then swam towards the pile where he had left Glynnie, pushing the door before him.
There was no sign of her. Had he lost her too? Was fate determined to strip every good thing from him, grinding him down with failure after failure until he had nothing left?
He checked the shore, keeping low in the water. The mist was thickening, the guards appearing and disappearing behind it, but they were ever-watchful and if he made a mistake they would have him.
He steered the door around the mooring pile, scanned its sides and could not see Glynnie. She was not on top, either. Then a small head bobbed out of the water and she was staring at him with those huge green eyes. Her teeth were chattering.
Her gaze narrowed, raked the lake all around Rix. Her eyes went dark and she sagged in the water. “Where’s Benn?”
“I’m sorry,” said Rix, wishing he was a thousand miles away; wishing he had died with his family; anything to escape the desperate ache in her eyes. “I looked everywhere. That’s why I’ve been so long. I – I had to make sure.”
Her voice rose. “What do you mean, make sure?”
“I’m sorry,” Rix repeated. “Benn’s gone. I don’t —”
“No!” she whispered, let go of the rope, and sank.
Rix lunged, caught her by the tangled hair streaming up above her head and drew her to the surface. The moment her chin was above water, she opened her mouth wide, as if to scream. He thrust the heel of his dead hand across her lips, indicating the guards on the shore with a jerk of his head.
“If you scream, we’re dead!”
Again Glynnie closed her eyes and sank. Again he lifted her up. Again she went to scream. This time he pulled her to him until her face was pressed against his chest, then put both arms around her, holding her tightly. She heaved against him, thrashing her legs, kicking with her feet. He squeezed the air out of her, and kept doing so each time she took a breath, until she gave in and sagged against him.
The pain in his wrist eased, then came shrieking back. It was getting worse. Something was badly wrong with his right hand. Of course there was – it was dead, and still attached. Rix frog-kicked to the door, which had drifted a few yards away, fought the pain and put her hands on the edge.
“All – all right now?” he said.
It was a stupid thing to say. For a few seconds he thought she was going to punch his teeth down his throat, but she restrained herself. She dashed the water off her face, then looked up at him.
“What happened? Is Benn… he wasn’t…?”
He had to conceal his pain from her. They couldn’t both crack up. “The glowstone was there, and so was his pack, but he was gone.”
“If you mean killed – if you mean… eaten —”
“There was no evidence he was attacked at all…”
“He didn’t come down the drainpipe after us?”
“I think he must have. I’m sorry, Glynnie…” The useless words failed on his lips.
She pulled herself up on the door, crouched there.
“What are you doing?” hissed Rix. “Get down! The guards will see you.”
Glynnie slowly stood up, rocking the door and knocking the flagon off. She swayed, threw her arms out, then turned in a circle, surveying the grey water. As she turned another circle, the light in her eyes slowly went out. The wind fluttered her wet hair. Her teeth chattered and she slipped back into the water.
“Maybe…” She blanched. “What if a shifter…?”
“There was no sign of a struggle. No —”
“Blood! If there was no blood, why don’t you say it?”
“All right – there was no blood. No shifter stink, either.”
“He wouldn’t have gone into the water. He must have been captured. We’ve got to rescue him.”
“I don’t think he’s been captured. His pack hadn’t been touched. I went back up the tunnel to those bodies and the only tracks I saw were ours.”
“But it’s possible he’s been captured,” she said desperately.
The pain in his wrist came back, worse than before, jagged spears along the bones. After a long pause, Rix said, “Yes. It’s possible.”
“Then we have to
rescue him.”
“How, Glynnie?”
“I don’t know!” she wailed.
“Shh! Sound carries across water.” He checked on the guards. They were still patrolling, watchful as ever.
“It’s my fault. I should have let you take him first.”
“If I had, you’d have been captured and he’d now be begging me to rescue you.”
“That’s different.”
“Why?”
“I swore I’d look after Benn. He’s just a little boy.”
“And you’re a girl.”
She bridled. “I’m a grown woman. I’m seventeen. Nearly as old as you.”
She said it with such earnestness that Rix had to smile. “Not quite.” He counted the days. “Tomorrow’s my twentieth birthday.”
“Besides,” she said with quiet dignity, “Benn’s the one who matters.”
“Why does he matter more than you?”
Tears welled in her eyes. “I promised Mama, before she died, that I’d look after him. I’ve been looking after myself since I was twelve —”
Someone bellowed, from the shore. Rix twisted around and squeezed her left shoulder, hard. “Don’t move.”
She broke off. “What’s that?”
“Someone shouting orders. At the guards.”
They lowered themselves until their eyes were just above the water and edged around the door to face the shore. Mist danced and drifted in the wind, revealing then concealing the guards patrolling the edge of the lake. A burly officer was running towards a group of guards, waving a signal flag and shouting.
“What’s he saying?” said Glynnie. “Is it about us?”
“I couldn’t hear. But I’m prepared to bet it is. Back.”
Rix turned the door and began to push it out into the lake, using great scissor kicks. The effort sent jags of pain through his wrist; it felt as though the join was on fire again.
“We can’t leave Benn,” said Glynnie.
It was a struggle to break through the pain now. Just speaking took an effort. “He’s lost to us, Glynnie, and he wouldn’t want you —”
