by Ian Irvine
“It’d take weeks. And where would we put it?”
“If the tunnel was half a yard square it would only be seven wagon loads,” said Dajaes. “We can dump it in that old quarry we saw in the forest. No one goes there.”
“Half a yard! That’s not much wider than my shoulders.”
“A smaller tunnel is safer than a large one.”
“But still not very safe. It gives me the horrors just thinking about going down one.”
“Can you think of any other way to save Llian?”
“No.”
“Then we’d better get on with it.” She stood up, studying him with her head tilted to the side. “It’ll be the hardest work you’ve ever done.”
“Everything I’ve done in my life has been hard work.”
It took every grint they had left to equip themselves with a rusty iron pick, a wooden shovel, food for a week, a lantern and fuel, some rope and a couple of buckets so Wilm could carry the soil to the quarry.
Using discarded boards, they made a little wooden cart with rounded corners and skids instead of wheels. Dajaes tied a length of rope to either end so Wilm could heave the full cart out and she could haul the empty one back to the tunnel face, where she would work alone. There would not be room for two, and Wilm did not have the experience to know which soil was safe and which was not.
The following morning she began the tunnel in the side of a mound-like hill, out of sight of the wall and surrounded by shrubs. It was easy work at first, and Wilm, returning from dumping his buckets of earth over the side of the quarry a hundred yards away, watched anxiously as she crawled out. The tunnel was four feet long already.
Dajaes was filthy and her eyes were streaming, the tears carving runnels through the dirt on her cheeks.
“What’s the matter?” said Wilm.
“Lantern fumes. And they’ll get worse as the tunnel gets longer. Can you check on the guards?”
He crept through the forest to the nearest vantage point, a rounded hillock. The wall guards were pacing, following their normal routine, though this did not ease his anxiety. He had never seen anyone go into the forest, but if a guard should choose to, for any reason, they would be discovered. And killed.
He went back, hauled the cart out, filled his buckets, lifted the wooden carrying bar onto his shoulders and trudged off to the quarry. So the morning went. He called a halt for lunch and Dajaes backed out, then flopped on her face on the dirt.
Wilm helped her up. “The fumes?”
“Got a shocking headache.”
He handed her a water skin. She gulped at it, washed her face and hands and gave him a feeble smile.
“I… I’ll take a turn after lunch,” said Wilm, cringing at the thought of working underground.
“The hell you will! I’ll do it in the dark, by feel.”
“That doesn’t sound very safe.”
“Safer than breathing lantern fumes all day.”
They ate bread and cheese and an apple each; it wasn’t enough for either of them but they had to ration the food, since there was no money to buy more.
“How far have you got?” said Wilm.
“Four yards.”
“Great progress!”
“But the further I go, the slower it’ll get.”
She continued, working in the dark, every so often coming out for air, and occasionally lighting the lantern and crawling in to check the face of the tunnel. By sunset they had done nine yards and were feeling very pleased with themselves.
“That’s enough,” said Dajaes. “We can’t use the lantern after it gets dark; it’d be spotted from the wall.”
They put their gear inside, covered the entrance with dead bushes, scattered leaves over the bare earth outside and headed through the forest for half a mile to a secluded place Wilm had found earlier, a copse not far from a rivulet.
“Can we have a fire?” said Wilm. It was already getting cold. “I’d love a cup of hot chard.”
“Too risky,” said Dajaes. “After we’ve been here a day or two, and we know if there’s anyone around, it might be all right.”
They sat shoulder to shoulder, eating their meagre dinner and talking quietly about the day’s work and their plans for tomorrow. They were going to start at first light.
Soon it was too cold to sit out in the open. They had no tent, though fortunately it did not rain often at this time of year. As the light faded, Wilm got out his sleeping pouch, then realised that Dajaes did not have one. Travelling by ferry, she hadn’t needed one.
“You should get to sleep,” he said, offering the sleeping pouch to her. “You must be exhausted.”
She looked up at him. Even in this light he could see that her cheeks were flushed.
“You worked just as hard, carrying all that dirt.”
“It’s all right,” he said. “I like sleeping out.”
“At this time of year? You’ll freeze.”
She picked up the sleeping pouch, put it down again and took a deep breath.
“I can’t possibly sleep in these filthy clothes,” she said, undressing. “And I don’t think you should either.”
45
A NASTY, GREEDY MAN
In Karan’s dream, Sulien was hunched on a rock at the edge of the campsite, gagging as she tried to force down a mouthful of the Whelm’s chunky black and grey gruel. It had grub-like things in it and looked revolting.
I can’t get it down, she kept saying, I just can’t.
A bony grey hand, a Whelm that Karan could not see clearly, took the stone dish from her. No dinner then. And for breakfast this again. You will finish it.
It’s disgusting. How can you eat such horrid things?
You asked us to take you. You’re a Whelm now.
Karan saw no more, but when she woke in darkness she sensed far too much. Sulien was hungry, exhausted and utterly miserable, and her heart went out to her. As the Whelm had said, they were treating Sulien just like one of their own children – harshly.
Karan started to make a link to her, but broke it off. The magiz might locate Sulien and drink her sweet little life.
How could she have allowed her gentle daughter to make such an awful and dangerous choice? Since Idlis had saved Karan’s life ten years ago, he had been utterly reliable, but what if Yggur was right? What if the Whelm betrayed her as they had betrayed him?
Was there anything she could do? No, because they might have taken any of half a dozen routes south to their homeland, and even if she started searching now, she would never catch them.
Fury overwhelmed her, at the magiz and the Merdrun, at Snoat and Shand and Thandiwe, and Llian too. Karan punched her pillow, hurled it across the room, groaned then burst into tears. Things were getting worse, not better, and the Merdrun would soon invade.
“Karan,” said a scratchy voice, “what is it?”
Lilis was kneeling beside her in the gloom. Karan had forgotten that they were sharing a room.
“How could I do it to my daughter?” she wailed. “I can’t eat, can’t sleep. Can’t even focus on rescuing Llian.”
She jumped out of bed. It was just past dawn and the sun had not yet risen. “Sorry,” she said. “Go back to sleep.” She dressed.
“Where are you going?” said Lilis.
“For a ride. I need to think.”
“Do you mind if I come? Llian was kind to me when I was a street kid; I can’t bear to think of him in Snoat’s hands.”
“I’d love you to come,” said Karan.
They were riding down the drive when two horses turned in at the front gate. The first was a gigantic red stallion, eighteen hands high, on which sat the biggest woman Karan had ever seen. Her skin was coal-black and her hair was coiled on top of her head. Behind her, on a piebald mare, was a small blonde woman.
“Is Tallia here?” said the big woman. “Or Shand?”
“Who are you?” said Karan. She had never seen her before, yet there was something familiar about the shape of her face.
&
nbsp; “Ussarine?” said Lilis, doing the clumsiest dismount Karan had ever seen. She caught her left boot in the stirrup and almost fell on her head. “What are you doing here?”
“Bodyguarding.” Ussarine sprang down and they embraced. It was like a bear hugging a child. Karan got down too.
“You must be Karan,” said Ussarine, looking at her hair. “You know my father, Osseion.”
“I do!” said Karan. “I didn’t know he had a daughter. How is he?”
“Very well, apart from the arthritis. It troubles him to walk.”
“I’m sorry to hear it.” She went across to the blonde woman, who had her arms folded across her chest and was scowling at Ussarine. “I’m Karan.”
The blonde touched hands. “Esea. Where’s Tallia?”
“Still abed. She hasn’t recovered as well as she should have. Is something the matter?”
“I bear very bad news.” Esea hesitated. “You’ll soon hear, anyway. The enemy, Snoat, has the code to the council’s spell vault.”
“How did he get it?”
Esea’s mouth set in a hard line. She rode on without answering and, at the stables, dismounted and yelled for the stable boy, then limped into the house.
“How did this happen?” said Karan.
“I wasn’t aware it had,” said Ussarine. “But I’m just a bodyguard. Where are you off to so early?”
Karan did not answer.
“Ussarine came to the Great Library with Osseion,” said Lilis. “Eight years ago. We’re the same age, can you believe it?” She looked up at Ussarine, beaming. “It’s so good to see you. Won’t you come with us?”
“Ussarine must be exhausted after riding all the way from Sith,” Karan said pointedly.
“You can trust her with your life. And Llian’s,” said Lilis. Then, as if the matter needed settling, “I showed Ussarine all around Zile when we were girls. We spent a month together.”
“One of the happiest months of my life,” said Ussarine. “Is there something I can assist you with, Karan? Any friend of my father, and of Lilis, as the saying goes.”
They rode out of town together, Karan in the middle, Lilis hunched in the saddle on her left, her hair shining in the sun, and Ussarine towering to her right. Karan explained the situation.
“And Pem-Y-Rum is where Llian is held?” said Ussarine.
“I’m not sure it’s wise to show your face outside Pem-Y-Rum, Karan,” said Lilis. “Since he’s after you too.”
“I’m sick of doing what’s wise,” Karan said irritably. “No sensible approach is going to get Llian out, so I have to consider reckless ones.”
“Talk to Esea,” said Ussarine. “She makes an art form of recklessness.”
“Maybe I will. What’s she doing here by herself, anyway?”
“What do you mean?”
“Tallia said she and her twin brother were inseparable.”
Ussarine’s face turned into a mask. “You’d have to ask Esea about that,” she said in a dead voice.
Karan glanced at Lilis, who looked as puzzled as she was. Oh well, none of her business. Karan stopped in the middle of the road.
“You’re right, Lilis. It’s not a good idea for the three of us to go sauntering past Snoat’s estate in broad daylight. Together we’re quite…”
“Unforgettable,” Ussarine said wryly.
“Why don’t you two go back? I’m going to make a quiet sortie past the place and see what I can find out. I’ll be back tonight.”
They headed back to Chanthed. Karan urged her horse on. A mile from Pem-Y-Rum, according to her map, she took a side track into the forest. When she judged that she was opposite the gates, she cast around for a suitable tree to climb.
She had been a brilliant climber once, but her bones were aching before she found a suitable perch, thirty feet up, from which she could see the gates, the villa and outbuildings. Guards patrolled the walls and there were more at the gate. Beyond, hundreds of people toiled in the gardens, orchards, vineyards and fish ponds. The place was the size of a small town.
She spent an hour watching and making notes in a little book, then lingered, hoping to spot Llian, but in vain. She was grimly contemplating the climb down when a furtive movement in the forest caught her eye.
It was a sandy-haired young fellow with a big frame, though with not enough muscle to fill it out, dressed in grubby homespun. A girl appeared, small but well fleshed. She stood up on tiptoe to kiss him and he put his arms around her. Young lovers with nowhere to be alone but outdoors. Karan smiled and wished them well.
She climbed down and limped back to her horse. Pem-Y-Rum could not be entered by normal stealthy means. She would have talk Tallia into a rescue mission.
46
FIND THE SOURCE
Every passing refugee – and there were more every day – heightened Aviel’s fears for her own future. They staggered into Casyme with nothing more than they could carry on their backs, and she had never seen such beaten people. Their eyes were hollow, their clothes dirty, and none looked as though they had eaten a decent meal in a week. Snoat’s armies were stripping the land of everything that had value.
Yet he was a minor problem compared to the Merdrun. What would happen when they invaded? Mass hysteria? A complete breakdown of civilisation, in which people like herself would be the first victims?
She tightened the clamps on her smallest still. She was distilling lavender oil now and it was a laborious process – a bucket of lavender, after hours of distillation, produced less than half a teaspoon of oil. But what use was lavender oil in a world at war?
After bringing her home yesterday Shand had sent out all his message skeets then raced off to Chanthed, saying he would not be back for at least six weeks. He had taken the little phial of perfume Aviel had blended for Wilm to remind him of home, but had forgotten his promise to teach her the first lessons in scent potion making.
She knew no more than he had told her on the ride home: Mancery works by mentally locating a source of power, finding a way to draw some of that power safely, focusing it to the purpose in hand, then releasing it.
Power either came from within or was drawn from an enchanted device. And using mancery came at a cost: aftersickness. But if a mancer was reckless like Shand’s late master, Radizer, or unskilled or just unlucky – both of which applied to her in spades – the cost was liable to be a painful or gruesome death.
She could not imagine what an inner source of power was, though surely it had to do with willpower, determination and focus, all things she had in abundance. And Shand had said she had a gift for scent potions. Dare she try by herself?
How had she made that accidental potion that had so disabled him three years ago? Aviel lit a candle and sat up in bed with her journal, reading what she had done that day. Where had she found power to turn a cleansing blend of perfumes into a laxative scent potion?
She had been standing at her bench when the room around her faded into darkness and an image had slowly come into focus. Aviel relived the moment. She was looking into a well, narrow but deep, and the water was so far down that she could only make out the faintest reflection. Though it did not look like water; it had an oily appearance. She mentally reached down to it, stretching as far as she could reach, then further, further. Her arm seemed to elongate; it really hurt. She scooped up some of the liquid in a cupped hand and brought it back up, the liquid dripping through her fingers.
Her hand was empty, the liquid gone save for an oily, glistening wetness. She rubbed her forehead with her damp fingers, smelled the scent blend she had made that day – jasmine, cedar, hints of woodsmoke, citrus, sage and other things – and light exploded behind her eyes.
Aviel roused herself. She was in her bed and her head was throbbing, as it had after she’d made the laxative scent potion, though she still did not know what she had done. Was the well some inner source of power? She could not guess; she needed Shand’s primer.
She lit a lantern and splashed up
the track to the house. Perhaps he’d left her a note. He sometimes did when he went away in a hurry. It was raining heavily now, cold and depressing. She unlocked the back door and went inside. The air was stale and the house felt abandoned. The scrubbed kitchen table was empty, and so was the bench. He hadn’t left her anything.
The cold heightened the ever-present pain in her ankle. She sat down at the table. What to do? She heard a faint drumming, the summon stone working its evil on the land, and shuddered.
Shand would be furious if she searched his house for the primer, but the invasion could occur before he returned and she had to protect herself. Her only hope was to start learning about scent potions right away.
She started at the back of the house and worked forward. The bookcase by the main fireplace held dozens of handwritten books, mostly volumes of the Histories and copies of several of the Great Tales, but also a book of epic poems, a bestiary that had been read so many times the pages were coming out, and an atlas with a series of blank pages at the end entitled The Unknown Lands.
She went up the long staircase, which made a right-angle bend halfway up. There were four rooms upstairs, plus the observatory under its little dome. It was furnished with a stool, a squat mirror telescope and an almanack in which he had entered astronomical readings over a period of years. Aviel sat on the stool, idly turning the pages. She had not seen any mention of the Secret Art, though he would hardly leave such valuable and dangerous books out in the open.
Shand had lived for hundreds of years, his life extended by a gift from his lover, Yalkara, who had subsequently rejected him. Therefore the primer, which he had used as an apprentice, must also be ancient, and ancient books had a particular smell.
The rain grew heavier; it was pounding down now. She limped down the stairs. He must have a secret hiding place, probably protected by a spell or charm so it could not be seen. But would he have thought to protect his hiding place against a book’s smell?
Aviel went back and forth, sniffing. Nothing downstairs and nothing upstairs. What about the cellar? A musty smell led her to a trapdoor in the far corner of the living room under the little round rug, and a ladder ran down for fifteen rungs. She winced her way down it into a cavern hewn out of layered yellow and brown rock. There were puddles of seepage on the floor and a mouldy smell. Beads of moisture on the far wall glistened red and orange in the lantern light.
