by Jaine Fenn
‘They’re great – like you say, good rocks.’ Taro pointed to the floor. ‘Go on, put them down.’
With some relief, the guards did so, dropping several in the process.
‘Thanks again,’ said Taro. ‘Now, about these visitors?’
Big Hair looked puzzled, then he pointed to Taro triumphantly. ‘Visitor,’ he said.
An unpleasant realisation began to dawn. ‘You’re saying there’s just me?’ said Taro.
‘Aye,’ said Big Hair again. ‘Come for rock.’
‘Ah.’
‘Offer: we go now, go see.’
‘Go where and see what?’
‘Offer: see rock. More good rock. To trade.’
‘Right, think we’ve got ourselves a bit tied up here. I ain’t here to trade – sorry, but that’s not it at all. I’ve crashed. I need help.’
Big Hair narrowed his eyes even more, and repeated, ‘Query: come see rock?’ He sounded confused.
Even if he went to look at their precious rock, they’d soon work out Taro wasn’t here to buy it. And then things were likely to turn nasty. ‘Right,’ he said in a businesslike tone, ‘tell you what, I need to, er, do some tests on the good rock you brought me. See just how good it really is, y’know? I’ll come and check out the rest of your rock later. Later. All right?’
‘Query: later?’ said Big Hair dubiously.
‘Yes. See rock, but not now. Now, I need to do . . . tests. And stuff. Alone. So, how about you go? Please?’
The guards exchanged glances. But Big Hair said only, ‘Later,’ and did the head wobble thing. Then they turned, leaving their rock samples, and laboriously made their way back out.
‘Thanks again for the “light of earth”,’ Taro called after them. ‘And the rocks.’
Other than getting him a meal of sorts, making contact with the locals hadn’t left him much better off. In fact, it might even be worse: given how important this rock-trading thing obviously was, they were gonna be pretty pissed off with him once they realised that wasn’t going to happen.
He had another look around the ship, just in case some sort of random miracle had occurred, but the only change was that the carnage in the central room was starting to smell. He briefly considered trying to contact Nual again, before deciding that he was way too jumpy.
So, his choices were to wait here with two dead avatars, both of whom he’d killed, until the locals came back – probably in a less ‘hosp-i-table’ mood – or to go and look for some way off this crazy world. Not much of a choice, really.
‘Fuck it!’ he said, and strode back to the exit. He checked that the crater was deserted, then stepped out of the airlock. He flew across the crater to the mouth of the tunnel, and landed, then listened hard. He heard nothing, so he went in.
Away from the starlight, the smooth walls gave off a faint yellow glow, just enough to stop him walking into them, though not enough to give him much idea of what was further down the passage. That was fine; he wasn’t going to let a bit of alien darkness freak him. When the tunnel forked he hesitated, then plumped for the left path. After a while he reached a T-junction, with the right-hand tunnel going down, and the left-hand one sloping up at a fairly steep angle. Dim light came from the right-hand passage; red, this time, unlike the walls. Interesting: he’d go that way. The ground evened out as the tunnel widened, and then began to curve. He passed a side-tunnel, but the glow was still coming from straight ahead, and it was getting brighter.
He heard a sound and stopped, listening carefully. There it was again: a long, murmuring hiss, then another sound, further off – a voice? He thought so, though he caught only a few incomprehensible words. The first sound came again as he crept carefully down the tunnel, all the while trying to work out what it was he was hearing. There was a definite pattern to it: hiss . . . pause . . . hiss.
What was that? It sounded like . . . breathing. Shit. Something was taking vast, slow breaths, just up ahead. He swallowed, and pulled his hand away from the wall. Was it his imagination, or did it feel faintly sticky?
Whatever-it-was gave a snuffling, pained moan, and a quiver of fear thrummed through him, until the Angel mods dampened it down.
He carried on. He’d gone about a dozen steps when two locals stepped out from a side-turning further down the passage. They looked even thinner than the ones he’d meet earlier, and they weren’t carrying spears. Taro stopped and held out his hands in what he hoped was a friendly gesture, but the pair gave high fluting cries, then turned and ran.
Taro almost did the same. But he made himself pause, letting his Angel instincts overrule his natural ones. Now wasn’t the time to panic. A few moments to get calm again, then he’d carry on. He’d come this far, even if he hadn’t found anything useful yet, so he may as well—
The gaggle of locals who emerged from the side-turning were carrying spears. And they were coming right for him, moving in an ungainly lope that covered the ground surprisingly quickly.
Now was the time to panic.
As he turned, he considered taking to the air, but he’d only end up flying into one of the twilit tunnel walls. Instead he ran. He regretted his decision at once: in this gravity his body didn’t react like he expected it to. But he did know how to move in low-g; he’d grown up doing it. The trick was to push off from each step carefully, like he was taking a leap across a netted gap. He found his rhythm after a few more steps.
He looked for the turning he’d come down earlier. Was it the first or the second one? Second, it was the second . . . which was good, because he’d just passed the first one.
His pursuers weren’t making any noise, which was worse, if anything. He fought the urge to look back, to see if they were gaining on him.
When he reached his turn, he failed to compensate fully for the lack of gravity. He skidded and clipped the wall, yelping at the sudden pain in his shoulder. Though he had no idea what was happening behind him, there was no one ahead, and right now that was what mattered. He passed a side passage and felt a moment of doubt, until he managed to make out the faint white circular glow up ahead: yes, that was the way out!
He wasn’t far off when he saw a shadow cross the mouth of the tunnel. With only a split second to decide what to do, he kicked off, hands straight out ahead of him, blades still sheathed – they’d be more of a liability than a help in this confined space. As Taro shot out of the entrance, he knocked the figure flying, but he ignored the fallen local, instead speeding across the crater and into the airlock—
—to see half a dozen men with spears, standing around on the ship’s bridge. One of them was holding what was left of Vy’s head, while Big Hair examined it. He turned when Taro arrived, as did his companions. Taro assessed the situation and decided they weren’t a serious threat; he’d pit hi-tech blades against bone spear-tips any day, especially as he had the added advantage of flight, and they had the added disadvantage of higher gravity than they were used to. If he stayed in the airlock, there wasn’t room for more than a couple at a time. Though he’d have to watch his back and would most likely take a few minor wounds, he could win this fight . . .
. . . but he’d had enough of killing.
‘Right,’ he said slowly and clearly, addressing Big Hair, who was clearly the man in charge, ‘is there anything at all I can say at this point that’ll stop your mates just rushing me?’
Big Hair glanced at Vy’s severed head. He sounded almost apologetic when he said, ‘Not trade. Not visitor. Enemy.’ He called out something to his men in their own language that sounded rather like an order.
Taro muttered, ‘Yeah, thought not.’ He looked over his shoulder, scanning the crater for the cove he’d knocked over on the way through.
It was dark out there – not just night-dark, he suddenly realised, but—
He looked up.
Something huge was hovering above the crater, blotting out the stars.
Taro kicked back from the airlock to avoid the incoming spear-men, then glanced
at the ground again, where he now spotted the man he’d crashed into earlier. He’d climbed to his feet and was also looking up. So there really is a ship up there, Taro thought thankfully.
His eye was drawn to movement overhead; a large square box had detached itself from the dark underside of the ship. It dropped straight down through the forceshield, barely slowing, though ripples of energy spread out from the contact point. As it got closer he could see that it was plain and grey, with slightly softened edges.
As the man below scarpered into the tunnel, Taro wondered if he should run too. He was a bit short on escape routes, though . . .
The box drew level with him as he hovered a few metres from the airlock, and an opening appeared on the side nearest him, revealing a woman, dressed in a hooded one-piece black suit. Her face was covered in something hard and clear.
She held out a hand to him. ‘Query: are you alone?’ she said.
‘You mean aside from the gang of angry locals over there trying to kill me?’ asked Taro, pointing back at the ship.
‘Clarification: are you the only survivor from this crashed vessel?’
‘Yeah, I am.’
An odd expression passed over her face, but she didn’t say anything.
‘Not meaning to be rude, but who the fuck are you?’ asked Taro.
‘Answer: we are here to rescue you.’
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
The priest and the monitor had taken the lantern with them, leaving Ifanna the candle. She picked it up carefully, shielding the flame with her hand, and went to explore the plague-house.
Save for the faint odour, and an indefinable sense of emptiness, there was nothing to indicate that the former occupants were now dead. She found honey and lentils and rice in the kitchen cupboards, and in the parlour embroidered cushions were scattered over the worn wooden seats. But in the hallway, the flowers in the household shrine had shrivelled, and the corn was covered in mould. A blue votive candle, no doubt bought when the first family member fell ill, had been burnt down to a stub. Ifanna shivered and looked away.
Upstairs, she found a small room containing storage chests and a rack stuffed with rolls of leather. Below the rack were some half-finished shoes: apparently the husband had been a cobbler. Ifanna breathed in the familiar scent of the leather. The bed in the main room was still made up, covered in a throw decorated with what Ifanna was beginning to recognise as the wife’s embroidery. Ifanna hesitated at the thought of sleeping in a bed whose last occupants had come to such an unpleasant end, before deciding that they had no further use for it and she most certainly did.
It was only after she had lain down that she saw the empty wooden crib on its stand in one corner. Tears sprang to her eyes and this time she let them fall. She was still crying into the soft pillows when she fell asleep.
For a moment she had no idea how she came to be waking up in a large, comfortable bed, not on the ground or in her cell. Then she remembered that this was a house of the dead; she found the thought reassured her, for she felt as though she too had died – though the twin aches in her head and bandaged side reminded her that she had not quite managed to escape the flesh. But she had escaped her fate; she was free.
She sat up, wary of her wound, and started to think about her circumstances. She could take what supplies she wished from this house and simply walk away. A ghost stealing from other ghosts was no sin. But Gwas Maelgyn and Captain Siarl had helped her when no others would, and they trusted her not to flee. It would be wrong to betray that trust.
She jumped as someone started knocking on the door. Was it the priest? Or guards from the Tyr, come to take her to the fate she had foolishly believed she could avoid? For a moment she wondered if she should pretend she was not here, but she swiftly realised that if it was monitors, they might just burst in and search the house, and if it was Gwas Maelgyn, he might go away again. She jumped up – and almost fell over, her head was spinning so badly. Carefully she made her way into the back room, where she peered through a crack in the shutters, trying to see into the yard.
The lone caller had a bald head covered in tattooed writing: a priest; she could not be sure it was Gwas Maelgyn, but she could not imagine who else it might be. She hurried down the stairs, hanging onto the rail for balance, and unlatched the door.
Gwas Maelgyn’s wary expression dissolved into a smile on seeing her. He looked younger in the daylight. ‘At last,’ he said, though he did not sound angry, just relieved. ‘You hit your head last night, did you not, chilwar?’
‘Aye, Gwas, I did,’ she said, stepping to one side to let him in.
‘One of my fellows who serves the Mother of Mercy said that those who have sustained such a blow should not be permitted to sleep until they have recovered their senses, for there is a risk they might not awaken. When you did not answer the door, I was concerned.’
Warmth battled caution; the latter won. ‘You . . . you told the Gwas I am here?’ She closed and latched the door.
‘Of course not! No, chilwar, only Captain Siarl and I know you are still in the city.’
‘What is being said about me? About what happened, I mean.’
‘All that is known is that you and the other witch attempted to overcome your guards; she was killed, and you managed to escape – where to, none can say.’
Ifanna offered up a small prayer for Hylwen; though she had not liked the girl, Ifanna would most likely be dead now without her help.
‘Ifanna.’ The priest’s expression was hard to read in the dim light of the shuttered room. ‘What happened last night, before I found you? Why did you and the other skycursed girl decide to run away?’
‘I . . .’ What should she say? She could not lie to a priest, yet the truth would reveal her doubts.
‘You may tell me after you have eaten, if you prefer.’ His voice was gentle.
‘Aye, if you please, Gwas.’ How considerate of him, she thought.
‘I have fresh bread, cheese and apples.’ He held up a small sack.
Ifanna sat at the kitchen table, the priest opposite her. The food tasted wonderful, maybe because it was a long time since she had eaten such pleasant fare, or perhaps because it was the first meal of her new life. She realised, belatedly, that she should share, but Gwas Maelgyn waved the offer away, apparently content to sit opposite her in silence. Ifanna had watched men eat, and she had eaten with them, but she had never before been watched, and such intimate regard stirred up complex feelings. She pushed them down again: he was a priest, and if he chose to observe her, who was she to question?
‘So,’ he said, when she had finished, ‘what happened to make you flee last night?’
Ifanna thought she had worked out a way to avoid anything he might find blasphemous, but when she opened her mouth, she started coughing. ‘Please,’ she croaked, ‘Gwas . . . may I have some water?’
‘Oh, of course – I should have thought of that.’ He looked around, but soon realised there was none in the kitchen. As Ifanna continued coughing, he found a jug and said, ‘I suppose I must fetch some. I believe there is a pump at the end of this alley . . .’
He left the door ajar as he went out and Ifanna stared at the thin sliver of light, trying not to worry, though he took a long time. When he did return, the front of his robe was wet.
She thanked him hoarsely, and drank her fill until her throat was soothed and she could speak again. She wiped her lips, then asked, before she lost her nerve, ‘Gwas, before I answer you, may I ask something? You said that you intervened to save me because I came from the Fenlands . . .’ His presence in that alley had not been a coincidence; he and Captain Siarl had most probably followed the escort party. Not that she would mention that. ‘Forgive me, Gwas, but I imagine you risked – still risk – the disapproval of your superiors for what you have done. I am not sure I understand why you would take so great a risk merely because I come from a place you know of.’
The priest looked down at the table. ‘It is a fair question, ch
ilwar. Although I was born in Plas Morfren, I lived in Nantgwyn for a while. After I completed my training at the Tyr I returned to the Terraced Marshes. The old Rhethor at Plas Morfren was ailing, and I had hoped, given I had studied the Traditions in the Tyr itself, that I might be considered as his replacement when he went to the Mothers. Alas, it was not to be – but I wished to serve as best I could, so I took the job of village priest when it came up, even though I had many more qualifications than were required for such a role. I was not in Nantgwyn long, for I found village life did not suit me, but it was nonetheless a part of my life I have since had great cause to reflect on.’
‘So you did what you did because I came from Nantgwyn, and you once lived there?’ Ifanna had no idea her tiny village had once been home to a Tyr-trained priest.
‘Aye, chilwar.’
She looked at him, and he continued, ‘Still not enough to explain my actions?’ He sighed. ‘You are right, of course. You are a very perceptive girl, Ifanna. There was more to it than that; I made mistakes while I was in Nantgwyn, and it is those mistakes for which I am now trying to atone.’
‘What sort of mistakes, Gwas?’ She could not stop herself asking, though she knew she should not.
He waved a hand dismissively, as though it was nothing, though Ifanna was sure that could not be the case. ‘I fell out with a man of that village. His name was Esryn.’
Ifanna felt her heart grow cold. ‘Esryn?’
‘Aye.’ He looked up, and his eyes were troubled. ‘Your father, I believe.’
‘You believe correctly, Gwas.’ Ifanna could manage only a whisper. She entertained a brief, ridiculous fantasy that Da was somehow behind everything that had happened, and that he would burst through the door at any moment, a scowl on his face and his belt in his hand . . .
‘I would not see that wrong perpetuated,’ said Maelgyn, ‘so I followed you when you left the Tyr. I had no clear plan, but I could not let you die.’
‘I— Thank you, Gwas,’ she said, not only for saving her, but for his honesty, for answering her question honestly.
