Starman

by Sara Douglass

  Arcen was one of the main cities of the country. High-walled and densely packed with tenement buildings, the city boasted a massive covered market, itself a sign of the power of the craft and trading guilds, a town hall that outshone any of the Worship Halls Gilbert had ever seen, and streets that were not only paved, but resolutely swept every morning and evening to keep them free from dust and dung. Almost sixty-five thousand people crowded into its walls, and Gilbert had been stunned when he’d heard the city had capitulated so easily to Axis. Built to withstand a siege of months, Arcen opened its gates and delivered its Earl to Axis in the space of one fine morning.

  But Gilbert thought he knew why. The city was evil, yes it was, infected with the filth and lies of the Forbidden. Its noble Earl—who had fought so long and so well for Borneheld and Artor—had been the unwilling sacrifice offered to the traitor knocking at its gates. Now Burdel rested with Artor even though he had found nothing but treachery in this life; at least he has found his just reward in eternity, thought Gilbert as he led his cart of followers through the packed streets towards the market square.

  He stopped once or twice to ask directions, then took his band to a small inn situated in a side street just before the great market square. “Wait here,” he said, slipping awkwardly from his horse, “while I arrange lodging. Say nothing to nobody.”

  Gilbert marched inside the inn, The Trader’s Rest, trying to look as much like a nobleman as he could. He threw his cloak back over his shoulders and straightened his jacket, proud of its fine cut, even if its rose-pink velvet was a trifle stained by the months spent on the road.

  “My man,” he said loudly as the proprietor stalked through the crowded tavern towards him. “A room for myself, the best you have, and something suitable for my retainers.”

  The landlord looked him up and down. By his clothes a resident of Carlon, and a wealthy one at that. The man did not fail to note the fat purse that hung from Gilbert’s belt.

  “My Lord,” he murmured, then gestured about the ground floor tavern. “As you can see, business is brisk. I can let you have a good room for your own person, and the stable loft can be cleared for your retainers, but,” he sighed, “I am afraid I shall have to ask premium prices.” After an instant’s pause he named a sum.

  Gilbert glowered. He wanted to haggle with the man—by Artor! he could have had a suite in a palace for that price!—but he felt exposed in such a public place and wanted nothing more than to conclude the business and slink away. He glanced nervously at the faces crowding against the bar—could there possibly be anyone here who knew him?—then nodded tersely.

  “If I was not in a hurry, old man, I would sneer at such an exorbitant price. But I have important business to attend, and cannot afford to waste another minute of the day. Very well.”

  “Half in advance,” the landlord said, and Gilbert threw some coins at him in a temper.

  “I can only hope that the room is worth it.”

  Once Gilbert had seen that the Brothers were comfortable in their loft—and, to be fair to the landlord, it was clean and the beds snug—he returned to his room for a wash and a quick meal, then hurried into the streets.

  Even though it was late afternoon the crowds were not in the least diminished, and Gilbert had to shoulder his way through in order to reach the market square. Artor had told him he might find Faraday here, and Gilbert felt a knot of excitement in the pit of his belly.

  The market square was dominated by the massive stone Market Hall, its roof tiled, Gilbert was astounded to see, in pure gold. The Hall’s ground floor was open to the streets, and underneath its archways flourished myriad stalls.

  Gilbert slipped under one of the arches and stopped at the first stall.

  “Excuse me,” he said.

  The stall-keeper looked up. “Yes?” The man was looking everywhere but at her produce. She narrowed her eyes. Perhaps he was one of those noblemen who haunted the market for women they could lure home for the evening.

  “Excuse me,” Gilbert said again, even though he had the woman’s attention. He didn’t like the way she looked at him. “I wonder if I might ask for some information.”

  “What?” she said curtly.

  “Um, I was wondering about the trees.”

  The woman finally straightened, wiping her hands on the rough cloth covering her hips. She stared at Gilbert.

  “I was wondering,” he hastened on, “how far north they stretch. You see, I’ve only just come from the south.”

  She took a considering breath. Well, the trees were new, and strange to those who had only just seen them. “They go no further north than this city. They stop just at the northern wall.”

  Gilbert’s face relaxed in a smile. Then she must be here! “They are unusual,” he said, “not what good folk from the plains are used to.”

  “Unusual enough,” the woman said, and wondered what the man wanted. “But we have seen unusual events and even stranger people these past months.”

  “But the trees,” Gilbert persisted, “don’t they frighten you?”

  The woman smiled briefly. “Frighten me? No, good sir, they seem quite appealing. Why, me and my husband think we might spend sixth-day afternoon on a picnic. Down a shaded pathway, perhaps.” Her face relaxed in a genuine smile. “The birds sing so, especially in the morning. It makes rising a joy, it does.”

  Gilbert was appalled by her words, but encouraged by her sudden willingness to talk. “How is it that such great trees grew so quickly? I rode past Arcen, oh, some five or six months ago,” he lied, “and there were none here then.”

  The expression on the woman’s face was positively beatific now. “Why, good sir, they only appeared some four days ago. With her.”

  “Her?”

  “Her,” and the woman pointed.

  Gilbert followed her finger, and for a moment he could see nothing.

  Then he looked straight into the face of Faraday.

  She was standing several stalls distant from him, and for one appalling moment Gilbert thought she had seen him, but in the next heartbeat she turned unconcernedly to a plump, ruddy-cheeked peasant woman by her side and laughed at some pleasantry they shared. On her other side stood a stout grey-haired man, a trader perhaps, but his clothes were rich and he wore a gold chain about his neck.

  “You are a stranger,” the woman said, her tongue guarded again as she watched Gilbert’s face, “not to recognise Mayor Culpepper Fenwicke.”

  “Of course I recognised him!” Gilbert snapped. “’Twas the woman by his side who made me frown.”

  Then you are a stranger to be suspicious of, the woman thought, her face closing over, if you frown at her. Without another word she bent back to her produce, and Gilbert pushed his way through the crowd.

  His palms were positively itching now, and he could hear Artor’s voice roaring in his ears.

  Faraday had enjoyed her stay in Arcen, but now she wanted to move on. She knew that the country above the Ranges would be cold and snowy, and she would not be able to move as fast through Skarabost as she had through Arcen, yet time was critical. She had to have planted Minstrelsea through to the Avarinheim by the time Axis was ready to confront Gorgrael.

  Or else he would fail.

  “Axis,” she whispered, and the Goodwife leaned over and hugged her briefly.

  “You should tell him,” said the voice of the Mother.

  “No,” Faraday’s eyes gleamed with tears. “No. He does not need to know.”

  Culpepper, unsure what the two women whispered about but concerned by the expression on Faraday’s face, stepped forward. “Have I said something?” he asked anxiously. “Have I tired you?”

  “No,” Faraday said. “No, not at all. We were frowning over some slight matter, Mayor Culpepper. Now, what fine guests have you invited to entertain the Goodwife and myself tonight?”

  Chatting animatedly, Culpepper led the two women towards the archways into the square.

  No-one noticed the man s
lipping through the crowds behind them.

  Gilbert paused as the three moved away. “Damn!” he muttered, sweat now running down his back. “I almost had her!”

  He wasn’t too sure what he was going to do once he reached Faraday, but he knew that her sweet, sweet neck would snap with only the slightest pressure. And neither that Goodwife nor the plump mayor looked as though they could rescue a drowning kitten, let alone Faraday. He could easily escape in the subsequent chaos; and then Artor and Achar would be saved, and he could reclaim the Tower of the Seneschal for his own.

  He would enjoy redecorating the Brother-Leader’s apartment to his own taste.

  Culpepper realised that the women would appreciate some time to themselves, so he tried to clear a path through the crowd as quickly as he could. But Faraday was jostled by people wanting to reach out and touch her…

  “See, Harold, how her eyes gleam so magically!”

  “Lady? Would you touch my Martha, Lady? She has a fever.”

  “Now, Fillipa, if only you could manage such a noble bearing, you too could have any man you desired.”

  Except the man you truly wanted, Faraday thought, but smiled at the mother and daughter anyway, and touched the feverish baby, and spoke gently to any who called her name.

  Her progress through the Market Hall slowed.

  “Artor! I’m almost there!” Gilbert whispered, his eyes gleaming feverishly, and any who saw him stepped hurriedly out of his way. Poor man, no doubt he wanted to touch the Lady.

  Gilbert surely did, but he wanted a good deal more from Faraday than just a gentle smile and word.

  Faraday had told Culpepper she was not tired, but now she felt her weariness crashing about her, and she hoped that she could reach the mayor’s house without too much fuss.

  She heard a movement behind her, then a hot hand grasped her shoulder.

  I have her! Gilbert thought exultantly. Another heartbeat and I’ll have her…dead!

  “Take your hand off the Lady!” a voice hissed at his side, and Gilbert, who had recent experience of such things, recognised the sound of power. But he gritted his teeth and tightened his hand. Faraday had to die, and he was not going to relinquish his grip when he was this close.

  Surely the power that whispered in his ear was no match for the power Artor had given him. He reached within himself, seeking Artor’s vengeance. His eyes glowed red.

  “Release her!” the voice commanded, stronger now, then a heavy-booted foot scrunched suddenly down on his own.

  Gilbert gave a squeal of pain, let slip the power within him that he had only barely touched…and let Faraday go.

  Faraday was turning to see who wanted her with such persistence, when the hand fell from her shoulder and she was free.

  “This way, my Lady,” Culpepper said. “I shall order that a hot bath be prepared for you as soon as we reach my house.”

  “Ah,” Faraday sighed blissfully. “A bath!” She forgot the crowds still jostling about her and let the Mayor lead her down the path he had cleared.

  Gilbert, almost retching with pain, and sure that every bone in his foot had been broken, finally looked up. A heavy peasant woman, coarse-skinned and lank-haired, stood before him, hands on hips, her face suffused with anger.

  “Leave her alone!” she hissed, and Gilbert heard the power again.

  “Do you think you can stop me?” he said, and now power surged through his own voice. “Do you think to stop the great god Artor? Are you good enough for that, witch?”

  Her face paled and she took a step back. “Leave her alone,” she repeated, but now her own voice was not so sure. “The Mother protects her.”

  Gilbert smiled nastily, and the woman turned on her heel and disappeared into the crowd.

  Artor was displeased. Gilbert had been so close, so close!

  The bitch would be lying cracked and broken in the gutters of Arcen were it not for your stupidity, Gilbert!

  Gilbert cowered in his room in The Trader’s Rest, grovelling as close to the wooden floor as possible. “She has a helper, Blessed One! A nasty woman. A fiend herself, I think!”

  You should have been prepared, Gilbert.

  “Oh, I will be now, Lord.”

  You should have reached into the power I gave you sooner, Gilbert.

  “Oh, I’ve learned my lesson, Blessed One.”

  If you’d taken your Brothers she could be dead by now. They could have distracted the…fiend…while you killed the woman.

  “I will use them in future, Great God. She does not frighten me.”

  Nevertheless, good Gilbert, I shall have to give you more power, I think. I had not counted on the fiend.

  “Oh, no!” Gilbert whimpered, his fingernails digging up splinters from the floor.

  Good Gilbert. Accept my benevolence.

  25

  CHITTER, CHATTER

  From Jervois Landing Axis slowly moved his army west towards the Murkle Mountains. He would have moved faster, but the thought that if he was wrong, if he committed too fast to the west he would leave both southern and northern flanks dangerously unprotected, kept him hesitant.

  He wanted confirmation, and he wanted it fast. But it seemed he would get neither.

  “For the Stars’ sake, Axis,” FarSight CutSpur said, wrapping his ebony wings about him for extra warmth as he stood in the knee-deep snow, “tell us what it is you think!”

  Axis sat Belaguez silently, hunched deep inside his cloak, his eyes fixed on some distant point to the west.

  Belial glanced at Magariz, both men as cold and miserable as Axis, then edged his own horse closer to Axis.

  “You must tell us what it is you think…what it is you plan, Axis,” he said. “Dammit! Why lead us west like this?”

  Axis finally moved. He gathered up Belaguez’s reins. “Meet in my tent tonight,” he said, and booted the stallion forward. “FarSight, bring all the farflight reports from the Murkle Mountains that you have.”

  The tiny tent was jammed with the three men and the Icarii Crest-Leader, but at least it was out of the wind, and the crowded bodies gave off their own heat. Soon clothes and feathers steamed and men unwound scarves and peeled off gloves.

  “I think he’s hiding in the Murkle Mountains,” Axis said, and raised his eyes to meet those of his commanders.

  “The Murkle Mountains?” Magariz asked. “I know little about them.”

  “Few do,” Axis replied, “because few go there. I have some knowledge only because one of my cohort commanders came from a hamlet close to their skirts. Generations ago, perhaps even as long ago as old Tencendor, the Mountains were slightly warmer, and more rain fell. People lived there then. More importantly, for our cause at least, generations of miners tunnelled deep into the mountains after opals. Now the mines are abandoned.”

  “And perhaps not,” Belial said. “Axis, what made you think of the Murkle Mountains?”

  Axis shrugged. “A trifling thought as I drifted towards sleep, my friend. But listen to me,” his voice warmed with enthusiasm, “it would be the perfect hiding place, surely? Those abandoned mine shafts would be enough to hide an army, and Stars knows the Skraelings love dark, hidden places underground.”

  “And they’re the perfect place to spring a trap!” Belial said. “Whether we went south or north from Jervois Landing, our unknown adversary would be able to attack our rear. And it’s the last place we would think to look.”

  “It was the last place we thought to look,” Axis said dryly. “FarSight. I asked you to send farflight scouts west. Their reports?”

  “Not reassuring, Axis. Several scouts have been over the Mountains, but there is nothing but blasted peaks and shadowed valleys. Nothing lives on those Mountains.”

  “But what lives inside them?” Axis insisted. “Where else can he be?”

  “Axis,” Magariz said. “What if the Skraelings are in these mine shafts? What do we do? Go in one by one with torches? Or ask, politely, if they would mind coming out to meet us in ge
ntlemanly battle?”

  For some time there was silence. None of the commanders envied Axis his leadership.

  “Ho’Demi?” Belial finally asked. “Have you heard from him?” Axis shook his head. “When he needs me to know, then he will

  contact me. But he is somewhere in the Murkle Mountains. Deep.”

  Ho’Demi had brought five men, good Ravensbundmen, into the depths of the Murkle Mountains with him. All five were now dead.

  Ho’Demi wanted to contact Axis—had wanted to contact him for two days past now—but power filtered through these Prophecy-damned shafts and tunnels, and whatever it was shielded Axis’ mind from Ho’Demi.

  Perhaps it was the cursed rock that hung in countless thousands of tons above him, perhaps it was the dark power of the as yet hidden Skraeling force, but Ho’Demi was not sure.

  But home was overrun by Gorgrael’s pets, and now Ho’Demi wondered if these shafts were infested with them, too.

  After Axis contacted him, Ho’Demi had moved his small group of scouts into the Murkle Mountains. They had found an abandoned mine shaft easily enough and had carefully eased their way down it. Ancient iron ladders still clung to its walls, and Ho’Demi had thought they would snap and kill them all, but the rust had held together, and they’d reached the floor of the first shaft safely. Faint light permeated from the opening far above, but within paces of moving into the first of the tunnels even that was lost. This darkness was so thick it seemed to live, and it moved about them with a fluidity that would do a Ravensbund dancer proud.

  None had liked it, but the StarMan had asked them to investigate, and so they dampened their fears and moved deeper and deeper.

  Ho’Demi allowed no light. He was sure that the Skraelings’ silver eyes would glow, even in this darkness, and that his men would hear their whisperings; Ho’Demi had never known a totally silent Skraeling. So they moved through dark, they ate dark and they breathed dark, because Ho’Demi wanted the Skraelings to have no warning. He wanted to get his men out alive.