Beyond the Wall of Time

by Russell Kirkpatrick

Kannwar gave the woman a strange look. “How did you escape the eye of the provincial administrators in Tochar?”

  “You said yourself that someone has drawn us together for a purpose,” the Hegeoma of Makyra Bay said. “Perhaps our part in all this is to achieve a better resolution for Old Roudhos.”

  “Or to show people how to rebuild after the devastation wrought by the gods,” Stella said, certain she was right. Certain in a way only someone fire-touched could be.

  “Then why, Stella, are you here?” Kannwar asked.

  Robal climbed over the rubble and made his way down into Corata Pit. So fixed was he on his goal he barely noticed the devastation wrought by the storm and the earthquake. The granite finger had come down right across the path into the pit; that it had been more than a simple collapse was clear from the limbs, belonging to at least two people, protruding from under the fallen rock. Other huge boulders had been strewn about the pit, and across the far side of the vast space a large slab of the wall had collapsed, taking hundreds of tons of rock with it. The sheer force required to do such things was beyond comprehension, even for one who had been caught up in it, and for a moment this gave him pause.

  But only for a moment. So what if the Destroyer had magic enough to hold off a storm? He would not be able to hold off the storm that Robal was preparing for him.

  It would not be fair to Robal to suggest he suffered no qualms of conscience about what he intended to do. Far from it. The single most difficult aspect of this entire affair was the fact that Kannwar was not the thoroughly evil being he had expected the man to be. In fact, he was distressingly human. Whether the Destroyer was called Kannwar or Heredrew, he behaved no worse than any other ruler Robal had known, making difficult decisions with alacrity. Robal knew King Leith and Queen Stella had made similar decisions: one such had led to an army crushing the nascent rebellion of the Central Plains. Robal had come to believe King Leith had acted correctly, and even his friend Kilfor admitted as much, though only in private and not within earshot of his father. There had been deaths, including those of good patriots, and Sauxa had named some of them as friends.

  Why couldn’t Kannwar have been a monster? Someone otherworldly, supernaturally, insanely evil, as the Son and the Daughter had proven to be? Why was he not mercilessly destroying anyone who got in his way? Why was he so rational, so reasonable, so human?

  Moreover, he actually compared well to the behaviour of others. The woman at the Sayonae steading, the cosmographer girl’s real mother, had acted callously by giving her daughter to the ugly little priest in an attempt to bind the Undying Man. Dryman, the Emperor of Elamaq, had cut off Torve’s private parts for no more reason than the lad was enjoying himself. It was almost as though they were conspiring to make Kannwar appear wholesome.

  Why did the Destroyer not behave like the tyrant everyone knew him to be?

  There could be only one answer to that question, and it was this answer that kept his feet striding further into Corata Pit, towards the small clutch of buildings at its base and what he knew would be housed there. The duplicitous man was hiding his true personality in an attempt to win Stella’s trust. And once he had her in his thrall he would take her, would take her and Faltha both, and rape them until they were dead.

  Let the magicians deal with the gods. He would deal with the real threat. He would destroy the Destroyer.

  The gear he needed cost him a great deal of money, far more than he’d been able to steal from Stella’s purse. The three miners, their faces covered in grey cloths, had not been swayed by his pleadings nor moved by his threats. They reduced their price not one iota when he reminded them how he and his friends had kept Corata Pit safe during the great storm. In the end he’d had to barter away the shard of huanu stone he’d stolen from Lenares. They had been eager when, in desperation, he’d revealed the shard, so eager that he had almost expected fights to break out even before he handed it over. Another betrayal of trust, another stain on his conscience; it seemed ironic that in order to defeat his enemy Robal had to become as double-dealing as Kannwar himself.

  By the time the sun set on his third day away from the other travellers, he was well on his way north from Corata Pit, coaxing along his two placid donkeys from the uncomfortable wooden seat of his newly purchased wagon. And behind him, stacked carefully in neat piles, lay the materials that would rid the world of its most duplicitous inhabitant.

  Why am I here?

  There were a dozen answers to the question, all of them partial, none satisfactory to Stella.

  Because the Most High required a presence here perhaps; though Kannwar himself had served just as well when the time had come for the Father to reveal himself. Even Noetos, a Bhrudwan, had—if she’d apprehended his story correctly—served briefly as an avatar of the Most High.

  To represent Faltha? More likely, that, as there seemed to be a symmetry amongst the travellers. Clearly someone thought people from all three continents ought to be involved in the attempt to hold back the gods. But this still didn’t explain why she had specifically been chosen. And when considering the symmetry, it would not do to forget Husk, the invisible puppet-master who until recently had controlled Conal, Arathé and Duon. Stella thought it likely that their role had been to shepherd others towards Andratan. Duon was to draw the Emperor north; Arathé, her father—and his huanu stone; and Conal—well, Stella herself. For what purpose, no one knew, though if the magician was trapped in Kannwar’s dungeon, the motive had to be either escape or revenge. Likely both.

  There was, of course, another answer. An answer that had been growing within her for seventy years as her immortality weighed more and more heavily on her spirit and she realised just how unfit for human company she was becoming. An answer she refused to examine.

  A death ended their second day north of Mensaya.

  Lenares had been acting strangely most of the afternoon, walking beside Torve for a while, then ducking back among the crowd of refugees who still trailed them. The girl was normally fidgety, but this behaviour was excessive even for her, and odd for a leader. Clearly she was experiencing some difficulty. The third time she did this, Stella followed.

  She passed by refugees walking with their heads bowed and shoulders slumped. A few of the women had babies on their hips. Older children trailed after them, faces blank with weariness. Some of the men seemed to have enough energy to talk, but most were silent, drained. Thus they paid the price for being in the vicinity of the battle with Keppia.

  Lenares strode to the rear of the group, then took a legs-wide stance, her arms folded, chin forward. A scruffy man with a week-old beard stumbled into her.

  “Sorry, sorry,” he said, his head down.

  “I remember you,” Lenares said to him, her eyes narrowing.

  Lifting his head, the man blanched and ducked away.

  Her eyes bored at him. “You captained a ship. A slave ship. I sailed in it.”

  “You’re mistaken, young lady,” said the man, as men and women trudged past them. “Mistaken. I ain’t never captained no boat.”

  Stella was no expert on Bhrudwan dialects, but the man’s coarse accent sounded phoney. And if there was one thing Lenares never was, it was mistaken.

  “I see truth,” she said. “It’s my gift. You were a sea captain, and you still are.”

  “What is your line of work?” Stella asked the man.

  “I’m a farmer,” the man answered, still reluctant to raise his head.

  “What crops?”

  The hesitation was just a moment too long. “Sheep, lady. I farm sheep.”

  “A hard life,” Stella said equably, raising an eyebrow to Lenares. The girl took the hint and bit back the question she was about to ask. “How many in your herd?”

  Again the hesitation. “Twenty.”

  “Really? That many? How many workers do you employ to deal with that number?”

  “Four—no, five.” Eyes flicking nervously in search of rescue; the man knew he was under sus
picion. “You a farmer or somethin’?”

  “My husband was responsible for a number of sheep farms,” she said. “But he never sailed on anything bigger than an outrigger. Nor would he have needed any assistance to care for twenty sheep. He certainly couldn’t have afforded help on the money he’d make from them.”

  Time to end this, before the man became violent. “Go fetch Noetos,” she said to the nearest listener, thinking to place a stout sword between herself and this impostor.

  The man cried out, raising his head to show a face made pale by her words. “No, lady,” he said. “I will leave. Let me leave.”

  Stella caught the eye of two men who had halted to watch the entertainment. “Hold this man,” she said. She’d meant to ask rather than command, but her queenly habits intruded at the most inopportune moments. Fortunately the men nodded, each taking one of the ruffian’s arms.

  “Why do you wish to leave?” she asked the frightened impostor. “What have you to fear from Noetos?” How do you even know him?

  “Perhaps I might bring some light to bear on that,” said the fisherman himself.

  He nodded thanks to the woman who had fetched him, then, as she was bowing herself away, rethought and took her arm. “Hold. Fetch Cylene for me, goodwife, please.”

  “No need, Noetos,” came the girl’s voice.

  It seemed the travellers had noticed the halt in the march and had come to see what the trouble was.

  “Ah, yes,” Kannwar said a moment later. “I had forgotten about this man. I am surprised he hasn’t tried to run before now.”

  “What is this?” Stella asked, faintly annoyed. The remaining colour had drained from the man’s face and he looked about to vomit with fear. “How many of you know this man?”

  “Everyone who sailed on the Conch,” Cylene replied. “This is Captain Kidson.”

  “Ah.”

  Noetos had told the story of their sea voyage by the fire yesterday evening. Having listened carefully to the tale, and heard Moralye and Cylene describe the latter’s escape from the wreck, she was inclined to echo Kannwar’s question: why had the man not fled before now?

  “All the confirmation I need,” Kannwar said, a mask dropping over his urbane features. Despite herself, Stella froze with fear; she, more than anyone here, knew what would happen once that mask appeared.

  “This has nothing to do with you,” Noetos snarled at the Undying Man. Truly, the fisherman had far more courage—or much less wisdom—than anyone Stella had met. Or perhaps he remains very angry.

  “Oh?” The mildest of responses. “Are you suggesting that this man”—he nodded in the direction of the ship’s captain struggling in the grip of the two locals—“is not one of my subjects?”

  “Of course I’m not. As a lord you are free to dispense justice as you see fit. But I presume you do not spend your life—your long life—travelling from town to town, holding court and executing justice upon every offender in the land? You leave justice to those affected by the crime, as my grandfather did before he lost his lordship.”

  Stella had wondered when that little historical fact might be raised. She had seen the fisherman’s grandfather die, writhing on a stake as the flames consumed him, refusing to the last to concede a point of principle to the Undying Man. The wholesale burning of the Red Duke and his followers had been at least partly a display to frighten Stella as she languished in captivity. She hoped the Red Duke’s grandson knew nothing of this last detail.

  “Ah, your grandfather,” Kannwar said, and Stella held her breath. “You deserve an accounting for that, I think, but not right now. Instead, let us devote ourselves to making an end of this thief and murderer.”

  “And slaver,” Lenares added.

  “Slaver? He used his ships to transport slaves?” Cylene’s eyes had widened in shock.

  “He was the captain of the ship that took me south to Elamaq.”

  “I thought you didn’t remember much of—yes, sorry, sister.”

  Time and again Lenares had proven her accuracy in such matters; Cylene would soon learn not to question it.

  “So, Kidson,” said Noetos. “Slaver, smuggler, murderer, thief. Are we all agreed?”

  The man’s face worked for a moment before he could force the words from his lips. “Aye, I was a smuggler. Confiscate my ship if you must. But I know nothing of the other crimes.”

  “You’re not a very good liar,” said Lenares, that fearsome look of concentration making every bit as commanding a mask of her face as that of the Undying Man. “The ship I sailed on was the MF Periwinkle. I remember the name on the front of the ship as they led me on board and told us what was going to happen to us.”

  “You told me you had a ship with such a name,” Noetos said flatly.

  “I have sailed on her,” Cylene breathed.

  “The girl could have heard that name anywhere!” Kidson cried. “Miss Sai, did you ever see any slaves on board my ships?”

  “No,” the girl admitted.

  “I have met you before,” said Kannwar unexpectedly. “Six years ago you came to Andratan to apply for a recently vacated licence to carry goods to and from Andratan. What was the name of the ship? Ah yes, the Nautilus. As I recall, those whom you paid to refit her reported some interesting discoveries in her lower holds.”

  “Everyone had to run at least one slaver!” the man shouted. “A fleet is an expensive business!”

  “You were told when you received the licence what happened to the previous licensee, and why.”

  Kannwar did not elaborate, but Kidson clearly knew what was meant.

  “So, a smuggler and a slaver.” Noetos put his hand on his sword hilt.

  “And a murderer,” said Kilfor.

  “I’ve murdered no one!”

  “Tell that to young Dagla,” Noetos growled, and Stella recoiled at the depth of the man’s fury. Noetos seemed to have raised anger to something almost supernatural. “The boy your first mate struck down. He died on the docks at Long Pike Mouth. Your fault.”

  “And tell it to those you refused to rescue from the wreckage of your ship,” Kilfor added.

  With suitable interjections from his father, the plains-man told the story of their discovery of the wreck and how they had rescued those trapped in the holds.

  “He shut them in before the ship foundered,” Sauxa summarised. “Then he ignored their pleas and left them to rot.”

  Anger coursed through the crowd at these words.

  “Enough,” said Noetos, and at his command everyone fell silent.

  The man certainly has a presence about him, Stella thought.

  “Time for judgment. Cyclamere, give the man your blade.”

  “I’m no swordsman,” Kidson said, his hands shaking. He had the look of death in his eye.

  Stella had seen such a look many times before, as criminals tottered their way to the gallows. Stories were told of the bravery of condemned men, such heroes even sparing time to shower the watching crowd with witticisms, but in her experience hangings were all about naked fear, blood and piss and the crack of the neck as a man’s life ended. As necessary as such events were, she detested executions.

  More than anything, they remind me of my immortality, she admitted to herself; but though a final rest would be welcome, the accompanying terror was not something she wished to embrace.

  Noetos drew his sword. “Defend yourself or do not: I am about to strike you down for your crimes.”

  The crowd stepped back half a dozen paces.

  The Padouki warrior’s blade landed in the grass beside the frightened captain.

  “You don’t have to kill me! I have ships, three other ships! I can sign papers, give them to you. My office in Malayu has the deeds!”

  “They are forfeit,” Kannwar intoned.

  Stella watched it as though it was some mummers’ show, with an equal air of predictability. The man offered a few more bribes, then begged, such appeals doing nothing but making his end all the more bitter�
��for his judges as much as for himself. She predicted almost to the second the moment when the man finally acknowledged his fate, and was not surprised by his desperate lunge for the sword lying on the grass.

  “Stand back,” Noetos said, “lest he take anyone hostage.”

  “If I defeat you, I am free?” Kidson asked.

  “This is not some children’s tale,” Noetos answered. “If you strike me down, another of your accusers will take my place. Make no mistake, Kidson, this is your execution, not some trial by combat.”

  One last plea. “These accusations are very convenient for you,” the man said, the blade wavering in his hand. “At one stroke you get my ships, revenge for your friend’s unfortunate death and possession of my slattern.” His eye swept the crowd. “Does anyone think that is fair?”

  “He is pretending to be frightened,” Lenares said. “He is good with a sword.”

  “Oh, I know,” said Noetos. “No one carries a sword like the one he wore on his ship unless he knows how to use it.”

  It was undoubtedly supposed to be a surprise attack, but even Stella could see it coming. Kidson roared as he slashed at Noetos. He wielded the blade with vigour, but treated it as though it was an axe, taking huge swipes, each designed to cleave Noetos in half. The fisherman had no trouble blocking each swing, leaning forward and not giving any ground. Clearly Noetos was not to be fooled into striking too soon.

  Seeing his tactic would fail, the captain changed his grip, then began to fence with it. Much better, thought Stella dispassionately, though she did not want to see Noetos harmed. There seemed little chance of that: even though Kidson worked hard, running through a series of underhand and overhand forms, Noetos parried with ease.

  Stella was by no means an expert with a sword, but in her seventy years of rulership she had been subjected to many lectures on the subject and had been taken on countless interminable tours of fighting schools and training grounds. The captain still does not put forth all his skill, she realised. It looks as though he is trying to deaden the big man’s arms. Indeed, blow after blow rang heavily on Noetos’s blade.