Needle Rain

by Cari Silverwood

As if, he, an Immolator could miss the signs of land, the sounds of goats bleating, and the subtle glow that meant the lights of a town somewhere a few miles away. He could even smell garbage.

  They climbed over, hung from the rail, and slipped into the water, sank down and came to the surface. Both of them were grinning. Joss swam like a fish. The water was warmer than the air. It was deep but the waves were no higher than a few feet. Together they struck out toward the land.

  “Joss,” Samos said, between strokes. “How did you save the pendant?”

  “Threw my own. The fish one. ’Member it? Was in my pocket.”

  The one he’d said his dad gave him.

  Samos made a note to himself. Treat the boy like my own son. Forever.

  ****

  The goats followed Heloise, Omi, Thom, and Bull almost to the entrance of the sea-mansion, bleating and trotting alongside. One, a brown-and-white, floppy-eared variety, butted gently at Thom’s hand.

  “Esme! Patience, girl!” He waved them back.

  “They sure want you to feed them,” said Heloise. The sheer dogged hopefulness of the goats made her feel stupidly happy.

  “I generally feed them when I go off to chop wood each morning. Sorry, girls, nothing today. I’m all out.” He held up his hands. The goats stood still, forelegs quivering in eagerness, while they eyed his hands, until the floppy-eared one came forward and butted again, making Thom stumble.

  Heloise giggled.

  As if surprised by her amusement, Thom looked sideways at her.

  “We’re almost there.” Bull’s monotone words sliced through the cheerfulness.

  He was right. Over the tops of the coastal shrubs they’d been weaving through for half an hour could be seen the remains of the sea-mansion – ragged ramparts and walls of gray mottled stone stained by weather and black mold. Olive-green creepers twined up the stone and around each other, smothering the walls in places or rearing up with breeze-blown tendrils flailing gently at the sky.

  Omi stopped. “This is as far as I go.” He hitched up his robe, baring skinny legs, and sat. “I’ve come this far many times over the years. I can feel him down there. You can also?” He stared at Heloise.

  Rogi Vassbinder... The mad needle master had resided here, a century ago. This was a place of horrors. Children must have died here, yet she was nonchalantly preparing to venture into the decayed depths.

  Was this sensible?

  Foreboding ate at her.

  She shook it off. Folktales. Myths. Bogeyman stories. They needed to do this.

  “Nothing?” Omi persisted.

  “Perhaps. Something is there.” She could handle ghosts.

  Heloise took up a square stance, facing the ruin. Something was down there that wasn’t human but that was all she could sense.

  “You’ve had more practice than I have.”

  He screwed his face up at this. “Yes. Unfortunately. If this goes well, you won’t need to suffer as I have.”

  “True.” She couldn’t help herself and glanced at Thom. He was the cause of her sorrow, if not Omi’s. Correction. They were both the cause. The Immolator too, if you got picky. “Omi. What are we looking for exactly? A book? Scrolls? Instructions chiseled in stone.”

  “Ha! You joke. I see that. If I knew, I would be a god. Go, silly woman. Find whatever is there.”

  “Huh!” She grinned anyway. Goading Omi was too easy.

  As they approached, three wild pigs dashed out from the ruins, squealing as if they’d been assaulted. The ground before the mansion was torn up in places where the pigs had rooted about.

  “Where do we set up?” said Bull, morosely, adjusting the heavy pack on his shoulders. “Inside?”

  “Inside, within the walls.” Heloise glanced at Thom and he nodded agreement. “As long as it looks safe.”

  Sometime during the last hundred years, the roof had collapsed and the floor within the walls was littered with rotted timber, leaf mulch, and fractured terracotta roof tiles, as well as haphazard piles of tumbled stone blocks. Wood cockroaches skittered through the debris at her feet. A dank, musty smell reminded Heloise of mouse droppings. Rather than being merely an abandoned house, this had become a stone and creeper forest. It drew them into a new world – dark, primeval, with its own cloistered flora and fauna. Two more stories of ragged wall towered above them.

  A flock of pigeons took flight. Heloise put her head back and watched them cascade across the strip of bright morning sky in a fluttering panic. A few feathers spiraled down. The mansion grew silent again.

  As they explored further in, the rooms became more open to the sky and on entering the last room they found the entire western wall and half the floor missing – shorn away by the elements and thrown into the sea.

  Heloise picked her way to where the floor fell away. The sea rolled back and forth across the rocks sixty or seventy yards below. “A nasty drop here!”

  “Hey! This is where the stairs should be,” yelled Thom from behind and to her left.

  The stairs going down were marked on the map Thom held. A pure rendering of an architect’s plans, the room they were in had once been fronted by a long but narrow stretch of lead-light glass from one side to the next.

  “There used to be a double trapdoor here. Covering the stairs.” Thom tapped the map.

  “Still here.” Bull scrapped away some dirt and mulch with his foot, to reveal a corner of rusted metal.

  Thom made as if to step forward onto the small mound of debris.

  “Wait.” Heloise put out her hand.

  Together, she and Bull cleared away more of the debris, tracing the line of the doors and finding the rusted remains of two long-defunct trinketton engines. The raised surface ornamentation proclaimed their origins.

  “Ant animus,” said Bull, giving the trinkettons a desultory kick. “Lots of power there.” The two metal halves of the trapdoor were made to slide away to the side. “There should be an emergency system for rolling these back.”

  Thom knelt. “I wouldn’t bother.” He drew his dagger and poked at the trapdoor. A hole collapsed inward and leaves and dirt slid into the hole and disappeared. “It’s rusted through.” He looked up at Heloise, dark eyes intent. “I’m glad you stopped me from standing on this.”

  “So am I.”

  Bull gave her a funny look but she ignored it. They were in this together now. It wouldn’t do to let Thom injure himself. She’d have done the same for him.

  Once they’d knocked a larger hole through the trapdoor, they stared down into the hole. If the rooms below were open to the sea there should be some light seeping through. There wasn’t. It was black. No light. No sounds came up through it. No smells. It was an innocent hole in the ground.

  “How far did you say you were planning to go, Thom?” Using his name made her feel odd. It was a sign, and she knew it. The man was getting under her skin.

  “No further than this. I think we should leave most of our gear here and come back tomorrow with more ropes and lights.”

  “Yeah,” sighed Bull. “Got only one trink lamp here.” He walked aside, unslung his pack, and flipped it open, then hauled out a coil of rope and a bag of pitons. Finally, he drew out a long, bulky weapon.

  Oh scum, what had Bull brought with him? All the way from Carstelan. “Is that?” It was Toad, the gheist weapon that had killed Leonie. Heloise knew she’d gone white. “Bull...”

  “What?”

  She shut her eyes, but that made her dizzy so she hurriedly opened them. Sour bile rose to her mouth. “Hells.” She ran aside and bent over and brought up most of her breakfast.

  Footsteps. A hand rested gently on her shoulder. “I’m right, Bull. Leave me be a moment.”

  “It’s not Bull.” Thom’s warm voice so close to her. “What is it?”

  “Nothing.” She couldn’t look at him. But if she told him? No. It wouldn’t do anyone any good to tell him.

  He drew away and squatted, watching her. “I can tell it’s not nothing
because that wouldn’t affect you like this. You weather ghosts, broken needles, and most other terrible things without cringing. This, nothing makes you throw up.”

  “Where’s Bull?” She’d rather face Bull and give him a talking to than this.

  “I think he’s trying to give you some room. He knows he’s done something wrong. It’s Leonie, isn’t it? That weapon... It’s the one that killed her, isn’t it?”

  Ah, the power of words. If only she could say, no. If only.

  “Yes. I’m sorry.” She managed to look at him, through the tears, and felt stupid for her weakness. “You know, I planned to quit after it. That was my first real assignment in command. Bit of a failure, wasn’t it?”

  He shook his head.

  She made herself stand. Wiped her face. Sniffed back the tears. Pretend it hasn’t happened. Then his arms went round her shoulders and he hugged her, just a little. Not quite enough to make her want to escape. She felt his breath warm her hair and had an inclination to both shudder in distaste and step away despite recognizing he was being kind.

  Kind was still plain odd from Thom. He had once harmed her terribly. Her reactions to him were bouncing from one extreme to the other.

  “Thank you. For caring,” he said. His mouth, she was acutely aware, was inches from her ear.

  Then he walked away, just when she wanted to bawl her eyes out. She watched him go and felt as if she’d lost something important. As the distance lengthened, the ache of loss deepened. Scum take it, she couldn’t hide from herself. Whatever his flaws, she was drawn to him. She sighed. Her craziness was showing today.

  C H A P T E R T W E N T Y - S I X

  By the time they reached the shore, the sun was painting the undersides of the clouds with orange and gold, though beneath the cliffs where they waded from the sea it was still dark. All the way up, along the path that wriggled and wound its way up the cliff face, Samos was thinking.

  Within the hour, or less, depending on how quickly Tatiana recovered, her forces would be racing up this same path and heading for the orphanage. She aimed to capture Thom Drager. He could move faster, outlast, and outfight any one of them, but not all of them at once. He needed a way to get a pardon and clearly, killing Thom Drager was the simplest answer to that question. If Tatiana caught Drager and extracted the Immolator recipe – no pardon. Deliver Drager’s body to the Imperium, reveal Tatiana’s betrayal and he had a pardon. Guaranteed.

  Yet by the time they reached the top, he knew he couldn’t kill a man who’d tried to help him.

  “What do we do now, Samos?” asked Joss, panting, hands on knees as he caught his breath.

  Samos stared down slope toward the orphanage. He couldn’t see it past the trees, but it was there. The slight sounds and smells of people cooking breakfast and talking reached him. Children, most of them. That woman’s smell was in the air too. The debt collector who’d actually freed him. And another, closer, smell of a man. Tatiana’s? Too far to the south to bother deviating to eliminate him.

  “What are we doing?” He considered Joss, waiting eagerly, and the ship. Boats were launching, crammed with men. Twenty minutes away, he estimated. He put his hands to the back of his head. Felt the flex and slide of muscle. With so little fat, his body nearly gleamed in the sunlight. No one would mistake him for anything other than an Immolator now, no matter how he disguised himself. He’d put on fifty pounds of pure muscle and his sleeves and the legs of his pants were near to splitting.

  “We’re going down to an orphanage. If they’ve got horses, quaggas, we take them all. I have to get a man called Drager and run for the nearest military outpost. And you.” He pointed. “Are going to get a message out if you can. Pigeon, homing fly, heliograph, whatever.”

  “Right,” said Joss, chest puffing out with importance. He frowned. “Does that mean we go different ways?”

  “Yes, it does. But I promise you, I’ll be back for you. You and me, we are partners.”

  Joss grinned and nodded.

  “Good.” He’d not kill the man, not unless he had to. Just get him to the authorities and they could mete out punishment. And if it came down to choosing between him and Pela, or Drager, it would be Drager who lost out. If there weren’t any horses, he’d have to run for it, and towing Drager on foot would likely mean getting caught. Last resort? He’d take the man’s head off and run with it in a bag.

  But beneath the determination he remembered how he’d felt when he’d learned about the loss of this man’s daughter. A father the man had been, like Samos was soon to be. Oh, shut it, he told himself. Shut it. He only owed the man so much.

  ****

  Outside the orphanage, they came to a weatherworn timber fence. A group of noisy children were seated around a long table set up in a sheltered quadrangle, eating breakfast. Samos hailed them then leaped over the fence. A youth, dark-honey hair still mussed and spiked from sleeping, came over.

  “Who are you?” he asked, yawning then picking something from his teeth. “I’m Wilyam, an’ I’m in charge here.”

  “Samos.” He looked about. “You’re in charge? I’m looking for a man called Thom Drager.” He concentrated, searching for the signs of lying in this boy’s face.

  “Oh, him. Yeah, he’s off with Omi and the others. They’re exploring Vassbinder’s ol’ place. Be back later, if you want to wait.”

  “No.” Samos fixed Wilyam with a serious stare. “I’m not waiting. This is urgent. There’re men coming. Bad ones. And a lady who’s bad too. Don’t trust them. Have you mounts?” The boy shook his head. “A way to get a message out.” Another shake.

  “Oh! Wait on. Omi’s got homing flies. He might lend you one.”

  “Where’s this place they’re at?”

  Wilyam pointed north east. “Right on the cliff. It’s a big ruin. You can’t miss it if you follow the cliffs.”

  Samos nodded, put a hand on Joss’s shoulder. “You’re all to get inside. When these people come, tell them Drager’s not here. Do not resist and you should be right.” Gods, he prayed that was true. “Joss, I need you to help these kids. If Tatiana can’t be put off, and I expect not, don’t bother lying, it’ll only mean you risk getting hurt. Tell them where I’ve gone if you have to. Right?”

  Lips pinched together but his body stiff with determination, Joss nodded. “Yes. I’ll do it, Samos.”

  “Hang on,” said Wilyam, face open with some revelation. “There’s been another here already, earlier, asking and all. I told him where Omi and Mr. Drager have gone.”

  Fear made Samos’s chest tighten. That must’ve been the man he’d smelled on the way here, and if he’d returned to the ship, or signaled it, Tatiana would know where to find Drager.

  “I have to go! Joss stay and do what you can!”

  He sprinted away, over the fence, lengthening out into a run that let him cover three yards each stride, spacing the rhythm of his breaths. All he could hear was air rasping in and out of his lungs; all he could feel, the thump and crackle of ground and leaf underfoot.

  They’d be going straight to the mansion and he’d wasted time. Too much time.

  He angled north west, aiming to intersect the cliffs ahead of Tatiana’s force. All the way as he leaped and threaded his way through the low beach shrubs, he kept alert for signs. He reached the cliff and found no signs of them, either before or behind him. Then he spotted them. Two boats rowed for the ruins perched on a point a quarter mile north. Teo could be up the face and inside before he got there if they beached soon. Only the jagged rocks might slow them.

  Straining in every muscle, he increased his speed, scanning the ground for yards ahead, planning every footfall, legs like arrows as he stepped off, his heart sluicing blood through his body. His passage left behind a whirl of dust and leaves. Exhilaration. Power. Immolator heart and muscles.

  Yet even as he rejoiced, it made him remember the day he’d found out he was to be made an Immolator. This wasn’t really living, this was enthusiastic dying. How many y
ears had he burned away during the past weeks?

  When he burst into a clearing, he found an old priest, sitting quietly.

  “You!” Samos skidded to a stop. His words came out staccato as he sucked in air. Sweat ran in broad rivulets down his face, arms, everywhere, as his body sought to rid itself of heat. He’d have to find water soon. “I’m looking for a man called Drager!”

  “In there,” said the priest, raising an arm and waggling his hand in the direction of the ruins.

  Samos eyed him, snapped out, “You Omi?”

  “Yes. You are Samos? Yes, yes, of course you are. A man who looks like a mountain must be an Immolator.”

  “There’s a horde of stirred-up Sungese and sailors coming this way, led by a woman, Tatiana Ironheart. She’s betrayed the Imperium. A traitor.” He blinked at his own words. Hells, he was one of those. “I’ve been told you have homing flies. Can you get a message to the nearest military garrison?”

  Omi considered this a moment. “Hmm. I can, in a roundabout way. My flies go to a priest in Carstelan. He can send it on. Maybe...six hours, at a guess, for him to route it to Plesk, where there’s a fort. That’s a one hour ride from here.”

  “Plesk? Seven hours all up? I could run there faster.” Samos put fingers to temples. “Way too long. Send your message, but I go in there.” He set off.

  Omi sang out after him, “Make sure you save Mister Drager! I need him.”

  He didn’t bother answering. The priest was going to be disappointed. Taking Drager’s head off was looking more and more like the best solution. With luck, no one could catch him except for Teo. One on one, he could deal with Teo.

  He put away his sadness at it having come to this. For a soldier, he’d arrived late at the realization that he hated killing. And from what he’d learned, Drager was likely as much a victim of bad circumstances and luck, as he was.

  He muttered a prayer as he ran, that his blow be true and kill as painlessly as was possible. Amora seemed to be as good a god as any, so he addressed it to her. As an afterthought, he prayed there was a sword he could get off the debt collectors, else taking Drager’s head was going to be a really messy business using only his bare hands.