Rebellion: Tainted Realm: Book 2

by Ian Irvine

  Tali, who knew Holm by now, waited for him to go on. Tobry stared at Holm, a muscle jumping in his left cheek. It was warm and humid here, and rivers of sweat were pouring down his stubbled cheeks.

  “Whatever you’re planning, you’d better make it snappy.” Tobry’s voice had a hint of caitsthe roar in it. “Don’t think I’ve got long left.”

  “But you took two doses,” said Tali.

  “Saw that, did you? It wasn’t enough. Could be touch and go, if you aren’t quick.”

  Tobry got out his potion bottles and mixed a third dose. He poured the thick grey liquid into an empty potion bottle and held it out to Tali.

  “What’s that for?” she said, not taking it.

  “An emergency. You’ll need to force it down my throat…”

  “I don’t think I could force it down a shifter’s throat.”

  “You’ll see the signs. You’ll have a minute… if you’re lucky.”

  “That’ll make it a triple dose,” said Tali. “It could kill you.”

  “If I shift involuntarily, I could kill you both.”

  With deep misgivings, she took the little, thick-walled bottle and tucked it away in her small pack. Holm was feeling in his own pack. He brought out a small package, carefully wrapped, and opened it to reveal a glass phial, tightly stoppered.

  “Not you, too?” said Tali. “Bloody shifters, they’re everywhere.” She had seen a phial like it before but could not remember where.

  Holm smiled at the feeble joke. “Lizue dropped this one in your cell in Rutherin. I’ve been carrying it ever since.”

  He twisted the stopper out and white fumes wisped up. Holding the phial out carefully, he ran a line of liquid onto the bars in a large rectangle. The bars fizzed and dripped, and after several minutes he heaved and the section came away.

  Holm put it down carefully. “We’re in.”

  “But there’s still a long, long way to go,” said Tobry.

  Tali did not need reminding. Nor what was at the end of it. “How long did all that take?”

  “About twenty minutes,” said Holm, who always seemed to know the time.

  “Lyf’s courier will be out the city gates by now.”

  “And racing towards the Seethings.”

  As they moved out into a carved and painted tunnel, she caught the faint, familiar scent of Cython: the quiet odour of the rock, an occasional whiff of sulphur from the hot springs that broke through the walls here and there, and the distant tang of the fish tanks and eeleries.

  Her eyes stung, but she dashed the tears away. How could she possibly be feeling homesick for Cython? But she was. Her first eighteen years, and the lives of her ancestors for the past thousand years, had been lived here, and she had felt more at home in Cython than she ever had in Hightspall.

  She took a few steps forward, a few steps back, listening to the rock and tasting the air with her nose. She could sense Tobry’s churning emotions but she put him out of mind. All depended on her now. Her knowledge and her instincts about Cython.

  Tali knew vaguely where she was; as a child she had wandered down to the pondages several times. After being put to full-time slavery at the age of ten, however, she’d had no right to be in this area and would have been chuck-lashed if she had ever come here.

  A faint boot scrape told her someone was coming; one of the enemy. The Pale slaves were mostly small, slender people and they went barefoot, making no sound on the stone floors.

  “Enemy!” she whispered, drawing Tobry and Holm back to the dark pondages. “Put out the light. No fighting unless I give the signal.”

  Tobry extinguished his elbrot and they crouched in the dark, hands on their blades. It would be a bad sign if they had to fight so soon after getting in. Any ruckus risked the enemy being alerted, and if that happened, they would have to try and get out the way they had come, impossible though that seemed. If the enemy knew they were in Cython there would be no hope of completing their mission.

  The bluish light of a glowstone lantern cast streaks down the passage. It must be a pair of guards, patrolling the halls as they did every day and night. But there were many halls to monitor, so why had they come this way at this particular moment? Had the break-in set off a clangour somewhere else?

  Their footfalls were regular; there was nothing to suggest that it was anything but a routine patrol. The light was bright now, and Tali edged back. They would pass by any second.

  They reached the entrance to the pondages. A man and a woman, both big and strong. Then they stopped.

  “What’s that smell?” said the woman, who was closest to the entrance. She held up her lantern. It revealed a broad, mannish face, black hair cut short, and tattoos like a pair of crossed ribbons across her forehead.

  Tobry was still sweating rivers but Tali did not think the female had scented him. Now she noticed the smell too – a faint, acrid odour drifting from the grating, coming from the corrosive fluid Holm had used to eat through the metal.

  “Alkoyl?” said the male guard.

  “No,” said the woman, sniffing. “It smells like the new kind of vitriol.” She took a chuck-lash from her belt, a red and black one almost as thick as Tali’s little finger, and raised it over her shoulder.

  The man drew a curved sword and followed.

  Tali had been lashed with little chuck-lashes several times, which exploded against the skin with excruciating, blistering pain. But the big ones could take an arm off, or a lower leg, and if they hit in the face, throat or belly, they usually killed.

  She made the agreed sign to Tobry and Holm, slashing her fingers across her throat. Silence the guards – as quickly as possible.

  They already had a plan for this. Tali and Tobry would attack, while Holm stood by to cut down anyone who got away or went for the clangours, the system of alarms that ran along the ceiling of every tunnel in Cython. If the clangours were sounded, the alarm would be carried, and repeated, by a series of bell-pipes throughout Cython. Every Cythonian, anywhere in the underground city, would hear the sound within minutes.

  The woman passed by. One step. Two steps. She raised her glowstone lantern, extended it ahead of her towards the pondages, and the light fell directly on the rectangular section that Holm’s phial of acid had eaten through the grating.

  She spun around and raced for the clangours, shouting, “Intruders, intruders!”

  CHAPTER 89

  “Tali’s taken the bait,” Lyf exulted, rising up into the air for a second or two. Then sense prevailed. He must not waste what remained of his magery. “She’s on her way to Cython. Now to close the trap.”

  “How do you know this?” said General Hillish.

  “A while back, I discovered that she’d been using the master pearl to spy on me. I’ve been trying to put a trace on her ever since, and it’s finally worked.” Lyf circled his hands and Tali’s voice came forth from the air before him.

  “Lyf’s put the scriber down. Now he’s using his hands, as if working magery. The iron page is rising in the air – no, it’s crashed down on the table. I’d say he’s trying to send it somewhere.”

  “I think I can guess what it is, and where he’s sending it,” said a man’s voice, broad and slow.

  “Where?” said Tali.

  “We know he’s planning to put the Pale down, so I’d reckon this is the death order. And a highly symbolic one, since he’s written it on a page of the iron book.”

  “The Consolation of Vengeance,” whispered Tali. “And the book was unfinished. The ending hadn’t been written.”

  “It has now,” said the man. “What’s he doing?”

  “I – I can’t see,” said Tali. She did not speak for a minute. “He’s calling someone in. A servant. No, a courier.”

  “What’s he saying?”

  “The only word I could lip-read was matriarchs. Now the courier’s put the iron page into a bag. He’s running out.”

  “How far is it from Caulderon to Cython? Quick!”

&n
bsp; “Um… the nearest entrance is nine or ten miles, on horseback.”

  “That’s all I got before the trace broke,” said Lyf. “But it’s enough.”

  “Where is she?” said Hillish.

  “Somewhere in the Seethings, I’d say. Close to Cython.”

  “Do you know how she plans to get in?”

  “No.”

  “Can you get the trace back?”

  “Not unless she spies on me again. But I don’t need to.”

  “Why not, Lord King?”

  “She’ll have to use magery to sneak through any of the entrances, unseen, and I’ve had spy devices fitted to all of them, linked to the clangours. The moment she sets one off, she’ll be taken.”

  “She’s clever,” said Hillish grudgingly. “Better warn the matriarchs she’s coming. Should I call another courier?”

  “No,” said Lyf. “I’m riding to Cython at once. I want to be there when she’s taken.”

  CHAPTER 89

  “Tali’s taken the bait,” Lyf exulted, rising up into the air for a second or two. Then sense prevailed. He must not waste what remained of his magery. “She’s on her way to Cython. Now to close the trap.”

  “How do you know this?” said General Hillish.

  “A while back, I discovered that she’d been using the master pearl to spy on me. I’ve been trying to put a trace on her ever since, and it’s finally worked.” Lyf circled his hands and Tali’s voice came forth from the air before him.

  “Lyf’s put the scriber down. Now he’s using his hands, as if working magery. The iron page is rising in the air – no, it’s crashed down on the table. I’d say he’s trying to send it somewhere.”

  “I think I can guess what it is, and where he’s sending it,” said a man’s voice, broad and slow.

  “Where?” said Tali.

  “We know he’s planning to put the Pale down, so I’d reckon this is the death order. And a highly symbolic one, since he’s written it on a page of the iron book.”

  “The Consolation of Vengeance,” whispered Tali. “And the book was unfinished. The ending hadn’t been written.”

  “It has now,” said the man. “What’s he doing?”

  “I – I can’t see,” said Tali. She did not speak for a minute. “He’s calling someone in. A servant. No, a courier.”

  “What’s he saying?”

  “The only word I could lip-read was matriarchs. Now the courier’s put the iron page into a bag. He’s running out.”

  “How far is it from Caulderon to Cython? Quick!”

  “Um… the nearest entrance is nine or ten miles, on horseback.”

  “That’s all I got before the trace broke,” said Lyf. “But it’s enough.”

  “Where is she?” said Hillish.

  “Somewhere in the Seethings, I’d say. Close to Cython.”

  “Do you know how she plans to get in?”

  “No.”

  “Can you get the trace back?”

  “Not unless she spies on me again. But I don’t need to.”

  “Why not, Lord King?”

  “She’ll have to use magery to sneak through any of the entrances, unseen, and I’ve had spy devices fitted to all of them, linked to the clangours. The moment she sets one off, she’ll be taken.”

  “She’s clever,” said Hillish grudgingly. “Better warn the matriarchs she’s coming. Should I call another courier?”

  “No,” said Lyf. “I’m riding to Cython at once. I want to be there when she’s taken.”

  CHAPTER 90

  Grandys reached over and scratched Rix under the chin, like a grandmother with a baby. “You hate me, and you can’t do a thing about it. I love that.”

  “It’s the only way you can command loyalty,” Rix forced out.

  Grandys snorted. “My men love me. I give them power for the first time in their lives.”

  “Power to die for your own aggrandisement.”

  “Any of us can die. But unlike Hightspall’s gutless generals, when my men look up they see me at the front, risking my life as I lead them to victory.”

  “With power and magery none of your opponents can match,” Rix sneered, “and an enchanted sword protecting you all the way. You’re not taking much of a risk.”

  “Maloch only protects to a degree,” said Grandys. “An arrow in the eye, the throat or the heart can kill me as easily as any man.” He sauntered out, grinning.

  Oh, for an arrow in your eye! The moment Grandys was gone, Rix lay on his mattress, closed his eyes and started attacking the command spell afresh.

  A fortnight had passed since Rix’s vow to kill Grandys, a time of frustration and failure as the army had gone back and forth, attacking enemy fortresses and Hightspaller manors indiscriminately. Rix had to find a way; it had to be now.

  For years he had fought the compulsion Lyf had put on him via the heatstone, and the battle had strengthened his will immeasurably. Could that be why Grandys’ command spell had slipped before, when they had fought at the feast after the capture of Rebroff? Because Rix had recoiled so violently from Grandys’ atrocities?

  The spell always felt tightest when Rix was fighting beside Grandys, overcome by the euphoria of following a charismatic leader. But once the battle had been won, and Grandys was despoiling the bodies and tormenting the prisoners, or revelling in the destruction of priceless artwork and libraries, Rix’s fury rose to the surface and the command spell weakened. It had not yet slipped enough for him to kill his master, though.

  He debated his plan again, wishing Tobry were here, for he saw the flaws in a plan far more clearly than Rix. Nor was Tobry troubled by the self-doubt that sometimes crippled Rix. What if he succeeded in killing Grandys, but it made things worse? Would it be better to wait and see if Grandys could defeat Lyf first?

  But the more Rix saw of Grandys, the more he knew what a monster the man was, far worse than Lyf who, for all his flaws, wanted to heal the land, not tear it apart. If Grandys defeated Lyf he would be too strong; there would be no check on him. Besides, Grandys no longer trusted Rix and might cut him down at any time.

  He could not beat Grandys in a fair fight. The man was too tough, skilled and ruthless, and he would use every dirty trick he knew. Neither Grandys’ ego nor his reputation could allow him to lose.

  How Rix wanted to crush and humiliate the brute; to inflict the same misery of defeat on him that he had done to so many others. It was unworthy, he knew. Well, he thought wryly, I never claimed to be a saint.

  If he attacked Grandys, would the other officers intervene? No, they wouldn’t dare. Intervening would be saying that Grandys could not take care of himself. But if Rix should win by foul means, since fair ones offered no hope, Grandys’ men would probably tear him to pieces.

  He was going to do it anyway. There was a faint hope that, if he did kill Grandys, he might wrest command of his army the way he had taken over Leatherhead’s raiders, then take on Lyf. Rix had no hope of beating Lyf’s vast forces with an army of ten thousand, but for the sake of his country he was prepared to try. A man who wasn’t prepared to die for his country was no man at all.

  His plan was simple. He would avoid fighting side by side with Grandys, since that strengthened the command spell, yet stay as close as possible when he was committing his atrocities, in the hope that this would crack the spell completely.

  But this time Rix must restrain his horror and his disgust. If he gave any hint of his true feelings, Grandys would tighten the spell anew.

  You’ve got to kill him tonight. You can’t risk it any longer.

  It was a strange feeling to be cold-bloodedly planning the death, no, murder – or would it be easier if he thought of it as an execution? – of the Hero Rix had admired all his life, the legendary founder of Hightspall.

  He would call Grandys out. Then Rix planned to publicly repudiate the oath he had sworn after they left Glimmering. What kind of a man am I, he thought, that I’m prepared to commit murder, yet can’t do it while
I’m sworn to the brute? Then, unless Rix was killed first, he would drive a dagger through Grandys’ weakest point – his eye.

  Only one obstacle remained, the command spell. It had to be cracking if Rix could actually plan his master’s murder, but it was far from broken. He prayed that the afternoon’s attack would shatter it – Grandys’ planned onslaught, using just a hundred of his men, on a castle that had already offered to surrender.

  The attack was so unnecessary. Half the men of Bastion Cowly, a small fortress in Lakeland, had marched off to join the chancellor’s army this morning. Several hours later its remaining inhabitants, desperate to avoid the fate that so many other fortresses in the north had suffered, had run up white flags the moment Grandys’ small force had appeared.

  “How dare they?” Grandys fumed. “No Herovian would ever surrender. But to surrender without a fight, when the attacking force is far smaller than their own, is utter cowardice.”

  Rix had been restraining himself for days now, but could hold back no longer. “What the hell does it matter? You wanted Cowly, and now you can take it with no bloodshed and none of your men lost.”

  “I don’t want the damn castle, and I couldn’t care less about the lives saved,” snapped Grandys. “I want the fight, miserable though it will be with such an easy target. What’s the matter with these people?”

  “They’re just trying to live their normal lives.”

  “Well, I’m not having it.”

  Rix let out his breath in a rush. “We’re going home?”

  “The surrender,” said Grandys, as though Rix was an idiot. “I’m not accepting it. Prepare to attack.”

  “You can’t attack a castle that’s offered to surrender,” said Rix.

  Grandys swung around in the saddle, his meaty face choleric. “How dare you tell me what I can and can’t do?”

  “It’s a dishonourable act.”

  “In war there are no dishonourable acts. If it helps you win, it’s the right thing to do. If it doesn’t help, it was wrong.” Grandys raised his sword, roaring, “Attack! Show the craven curs no shred of mercy.”