by Ian Irvine
Then Llian spoke. “I’m ruining the bastard’s perfect collection!”
She peered over the seats as he grabbed his manuscript and ran down the steps.
Thandiwe scurried down the centre aisle of the Little Theatre, peered down the stairs and saw Snoat lying on the floor, as still as death, in a huge pool of what looked like blood. Llian had murdered him! Yet again he had ruined everything for her.
The dream was over – Snoat would not be sponsoring her Great Tale now. Every time she glimpsed the top of the mountain, someone sent her tumbling down again. It reinforced the message beaten into her at an early age – the only person she could rely on was herself.
She was going to get a Great Tale, no matter what it took. And revenge herself on Llian too. Thandiwe hurtled back to her room, grabbed her pack with her precious notes and her other meagre possessions, rifled Snoat’s pockets and followed silently.
Behind her, brandy spread across the flagstones towards Dajaes’s shuttered lantern and the blasting charge she had left behind the stair.
56
YOU’RE JUST A BOY
Wilm, Dajaes and Llian went looking for Tallia, but the room she had been in was empty. They crept along the dark halls, trying to find her, without success.
“We have to go,” said Dajaes, who was becoming increasingly anxious. “If anyone comes…”
“Yes,” said Llian. “There’s nothing we can do for her now.”
From outside, someone roared, “Fire!”
Through the window Wilm saw smoke belch out from the other wing of the villa, near where they had seen the flashes of light previously.
“What the hell was that?” said Llian.
Wilm told him about the shaft up from their tunnel.
“I’m not sure we can get to it now,” said Dajaes.
She tried another way, but again they saw guards ahead. Dajaes stopped suddenly, standing on tiptoe to look out a high window.
“The library’s burning and there are guards and servants everywhere. Wilm, I don’t see how we can get back to the cellars.”
“It wouldn’t do any good if we could,” said Wilm. “See those guards?” He pointed to a trio standing near the outer wall. “They’re watching the shaft; they’ll see us if we go near the tunnel.”
“What are we going to do?”
“Steal some horses,” said Llian. “Get to the front gate and hope the guards have run to the fire. It’s our only chance.”
Wilm thought it a poor hope but could not think of anything better. Then, as they approached a corner, Dajaes in the lead, he caught an unpleasant, sweaty stench.
“Wait, Dajaes!” hissed Llian. “Where’s your knife?”
She indicated the sheath.
“No bloody use there, is it?” said Llian. “Wilm, draw your sabre.”
He did so gingerly, holding it in both hands.
“Back away,” said Llian. “Dajaes, you too!”
She drew the knife and took a couple of steps back, only to freeze as a huge red-faced man reeled around the corner. He carried a canvas satchel with an arcane device sticking out of it. Wilm saw a stubby brass tube, a dark, glowing crystal and some wound copper wires.
“Dajaes, get back!” snapped Llian.
She was staring at the drunken brute, frozen to the spot in horror.
“Don’t try anything, Unick,” said Llian, advancing.
Unick grinned, revealing a mouth full of broken teeth. “Just how I like ’em,” he said thickly. “Small and helpless.”
Wilm raised the sabre, then hesitated. Unick roared, “You haven’t got the guts,” and pulled the brass device out of the satchel.
Llian swore, dropped the manuscript bag, snatched Wilm’s sabre and hurled it at Unick.
Unick sprang sideways and the sabre missed by inches. He pointed the device at Dajaes. A pitch-black flash burst from the crystal on the end and struck her in the chest, lifting her off her feet and hurling her back several yards. She landed on her back, her arms spread wide and her mouth gaping. Silent. Still.
Wilm screamed; he could not help himself.
“A real man could have saved her,” sneered Unick. “But you’re just a boy, a terrified little pup.”
He turned and lurched back around the corner. Wilm’s paralysis lifted; he ran after Unick and grabbed the sabre. Unick whirled, blasted it out of his hand, then skidded on something spilled on the floor. He bent, picked up the broken top of a phial and sniffed it.
His eyes widened. His head shot around; he seemed to be staring through the stone wall into the far distance.
“I’ll have her too,” he said mockingly and slipped the piece of glass into his pocket.
He took a second brass tube from his pack; this one had two red crystals on the end. He swung it back and forth horizontally as if seeking something, and the red crystals lit momentarily.
“Ah!” He smashed his way out through the nearest door and disappeared into the darkness.
Wilm staggered back to Dajaes, praying that she was only stunned. Llian was kneeling beside her small body, cradling her head. There was bright blood on her lip but no life in her eyes.
“I’m sorry.” Llian wiped his eyes. “I’m really sorry, Wilm. I should have…” He shook his head. “There’s nothing you could have done, not against Unick.”
Wilm picked Dajaes up, then just stood there. He couldn’t think. He could only feel, and everything was agony. Why, why? This was all his fault. He had talked her into trying to save Llian; it had seemed like a wonderful, unreal adventure. And now she was dead, because of him. She had done everything he had asked of her, done it perfectly, and he had failed her the very first time she needed him.
He barely noticed when Llian, who had retrieved the sabre, thrust it back into the sheath. Llian picked up the broken phial, sniffed it, frowned, retrieved the bung and jammed it into the phial, and pocketed it.
There came a tremendous boom from the other end of the villa and within seconds that part of the building was enveloped in flame.
“That was the brandy room,” said Llian. “Why did it explode?”
“Dajaes’s blasting charge,” Wilm said in a dead voice, then howled in anguish.
“No stopping it now,” said Llian. “The whole villa will be lost. And maybe the twenty-two Great Tales too.” He stood there for a moment, staring out the window towards the library. “They’re not worth another precious life. This way, Wilm.”
Wilm followed him numbly. Though small, Dajaes had been a sturdy girl, but he did not notice her weight in his arms. He followed Llian out the side door and, keeping to the shadows, across to the stables. In the distance the servants and guards, under the direction of a kimono-clad young woman, were trying to save precious items from the library.
When Wilm entered the stables Thandiwe was inside, saddling several of the best horses.
“You utter bastard!” she hissed. “You’ve ruined everything for me, again!”
“If you’re talking about Snoat,” said Llian, “I didn’t touch the swine.”
“I did it,” Wilm said dully. “I did it, I did it, I did it.”
“I blame you anyway, Llian.” Thandiwe was beside herself with rage.
“He was going to kill me as soon as I finished my Great Tale.”
“I wish he had. One day you’ll wish you’d never been born.”
“I dare say,” said Llian, “but it might be an idea to sheath our daggers until we get well away from Pem-Y-Rum.”
She nodded stiffly. Llian saddled another horse and, knowing they would have to ride long and hard, looped three spare horses together. He stuffed several horse blankets into the saddlebags, tied on a water pot, grabbed a pair of cloaks hanging behind the stable door then cut the stirrups off all the other saddles. “It’ll gain us a bit of time.”
Wilm got himself into the saddle without knowing how, still holding Dajaes.
The gates of Pem-Y-Rum were unguarded; everyone was at the fire. Llian and Thand
iwe rode out, leading the three spare horses on a rope. Wilm followed, cradling Dajaes’s body and wishing he could have given his life to save her.
Karan was sick with failure. There was no way of knowing if Llian was alive or had already been put to death, and no way of finding out. The North Wing was surrounded by hundreds of guards, servants and field workers, all trying to save what they could – Shand and Ussarine had done their work too well. There was no sign of them either; no way of knowing if they were dead, alive, escaped or captured.
After an explosion in the main building it was ablaze from one end to the other. If Llian was trapped inside there was no way to get him out. Karan stood behind a screening row of bushes with Esea and Lilis, staring hopelessly at the flames. It felt as though they were consuming her life. Tallia lay on the ground with a coat around her, shivering.
“We’d better try for the gates,” said Lilis. “The guards are bound to come this way.”
“Yes,” Karan said dully.
She helped Tallia up, supporting the much taller woman on her shoulder. Lilis led them on a meandering course towards the gates, taking advantage of every scrap of cover. They rounded the greenhouses and there, to their joy, they stumbled into Shand and Ussarine, who were covered in soot and ash but unharmed.
Lilis embraced them both. Karan stood there, unable to speak.
“Llian?” said Shand.
“No sign of him,” said Karan.
“Guards,” said Ussarine. “Coming this way.”
“Do you want me to make a diversion?” said Esea. She looked as though she was dying to.
“Yes, quick,” said Shand.
Esea thrust both hands towards the vast baroque cast-iron greenhouses, each of which was thirty feet high and a hundred feet long.
“All to ruin!” she screamed as if she wanted to tear the place apart.
The glass exploded out of the greenhouses towards the advancing guards, and they were no longer there. Karan took a hasty step back, shocked by the rage in Esea’s eyes.
“Lead the way, Lilis,” said Shand.
Lilis led them, under cover, towards the gates. It was darker there, the area being shielded by an avenue of trees. They were sneaking along, fifty or sixty yards from the unguarded gates, when three riders burst out of the stables, leading another three horses.
They passed under the lamps illuminating the gate and the watch house. Karan had not seen Thandiwe in years but recognised her instantly. The second rider was hidden from view behind her, but Karan also recognised the third, who carried someone small in his arms.
“That’s the lad I saw in the forest with the girl,” said Karan. “The lad who was carrying the dirt from the tunnel.”
“It’s Wilm!” said Shand. “What the hell is he doing here?”
“And who’s he carrying?”
“I don’t know, but she looks in bad shape.”
They turned at the gate and Karan saw the second rider clearly.
“Llian!” she cried.
He did not turn; he would not have heard her over the roar of the fire and the clamour from behind them.
“Llian!” Karan shrieked.
He rode through the gate beside Thandiwe as if he did not have a care in the world, and they disappeared into the darkness.
“You bloody bollocking bastard!” she wailed. “Come back.”
Shand gestured to Ussarine, who swept Karan up in her arms. They ran for the gates, but by the time they passed through the riders were gone.
57
BLOOD MOON
Thrice-warmed sludge from the base of the de-hairing pits of a leather tannery.
Dare she? Aviel had no choice. Unless she followed the instructions in the grimoire exactly, there was no hope that the scent potion would work – and a high likelihood that it would go wrong and splatter her all over the inside of the workshop.
Magsie Murg’s tannery was at the end of Tannery Row, half a mile away, and when the wind blew from the east the whole town gagged. Aviel went out at three in the morning, dressed in her darkest clothes and carrying a scoop on a long handle plus a jar for the sludge. She had no lantern – evil old Magsie trusted no one and if there was any light the watchman would see it.
Aviel knew how the tannery worked; her father had taken her there once while he negotiated some unsavoury deal with Magsie. The fresh hides were washed in the stream down the hill to remove dirt, dung and blood, then suspended in pits full of urine for weeks to loosen the hair.
The miserable workers then scraped it off the outside of the hide, plus every last scrap of rotted flesh off the inside, and it was the most disgusting job in the world. The hides were then immersed in dog manure or bird droppings, then drenched in stale beer, washed and finally hung in the tanning pits for a year and a day.
It was a dark night and getting darker, for the waxing moon was almost completely hidden by clouds. A little too dark, Aviel realised when she arrived at the tannery. There were pits all over the place, large and small, and if she fell in one she would never get out.
She opened the gate and crept into the yard, and the smell was almost unbearable. Had Shand not bought her indenture, this disgusting place would have been her life and her death. Taking the grimoire was a poor way to repay his kindness.
Ahead to her left stood a huge barn-like building. The far end, used for storing the finished leather, would be locked up. The nearer end was open and had a series of tanning pits, but she did not need to go there. Where were the de-hairing pits? She could not remember, nor could she separate the reek of urine and rotting flesh from all the other stenches.
Aviel glanced up at the moon, hoping it would peep through the clouds long enough to give her a glimpse of the layout, but no such luck. Ah, now she remembered. There were a number of open-walled sheds further down the yard; the de-hairing pits were in them.
Using the long handle of her scoop like a blind girl’s cane, Aviel felt her way down the yard. There was stuff everywhere between the open pits: stacks of timber and roof tiles, piles of firewood, a set of wagon wheels and, all over the place, oozing heaps of reeking sludge scraped out of one pit or another.
The end of the handle sank six inches into a putrid muck heap before she realised it was there. Aviel wished she could have collected what she needed from it, but she could not be sure which pit it was from. If she used the wrong sludge there was no chance of getting the Eureka Graveolence to work. And every chance that it would kill her.
She went on, her stomach heaving, struggling to keep her dinner down. As she skirted a foul trench, suddenly there was nothing under her stick – a second pit had been dug only a foot from the first. Her left foot slipped; she threw herself back and landed hard on her bottom.
Aviel sat there for a minute, gasping. It had been so close. She was about to get up when she heard a tap-tapping sound from further up the yard, like a pebble skidding across a hard surface. The watchman! Had she closed the gate properly after she came through? Aviel could not remember the latch clicking. If it had swung open he would know someone was here.
A lantern flared and was raised high. It barely revealed the watchman, a tall old fellow with only one arm, but it showed his companion all too clearly. Aviel shuddered. Magsie Murg was small and thin and well past her prime; she had a hooked nose, a sour mouth and fluffy white hair so sparse that the outline of her skull could be seen through it. And she was as nasty a piece of work as Aviel had ever met.
“If you ever leave the gate unlatched again I’ll have you ducked in the tanning pits,” Magsie said coldly.
“I never did!” cried the watchman. “There must be someone here.”
“Search the yard. I’ll check the leather store. If there’s a square inch of leather missing, it comes out of your hide.”
She let out a high-pitched giggle, presumably at her feeble wit, then unshuttered her lantern and hurried towards the barn-like shed.
If Aviel stayed, she risked being caught and, since Shand was
away, Magsie would be able to do whatever she wanted to her – no one in Casyme would even know she was missing. Aviel fought the impulse to sneak out and run, for if she did she would not be able to come back for days – Magsie was bound to put on extra guards. No, she had to get the sludge now. The blood moon was in a few days and the next one might not be for months.
The clouds had thinned enough to reveal the yard, though dimly, and Aviel recognised the shed over the de-hairing pits. She went towards it, moving as silently as she could. The watchman was heading towards the other end of the yard but it was only a couple of hundred yards long and would not take long to search.
She slipped into the de-hairing shed, which smelled even more disgusting than the rest of the tannery. There were a number of pits but it was pitch dark inside; she couldn’t even tell where they were. She probed about with the scoop handle. Ah, there was a pit in front of her. She reversed the handle and reached in with the scoop but there was no splash. The pit was empty.
She checked on the yard. The watchman was closer, and Magsie’s light was moving around in the tanning shed. Aviel probed the next pit; it was empty too. She was starting to panic. What if they all were? She swung the scoop back and forth, feeling her way. The stench grew stronger.
There was a tiny plash as her scoop went below the surface of the urine the hides were soaking in. At last! She reached down as far as she could, having to stretch a little, then the scoop slipped into the sludge at the bottom of the pit. It would be made of hair and manure, earth and scraps of rotting flesh and who knew what else. Why would anyone invent a scent potion that used such revolting ingredients?
But it was the only way she could locate the summon stone. She dragged the scoop through the sludge and brought it slowly up to the surface. She was uncapping her jar when she noticed that the watchman’s lantern was closer, and Magsie’s too.
Aviel’s hands were shaking and the wooden cap clicked loudly on the side of the jar. She hastily filled it with the putrid muck, capped it and slipped it in the pocket of her apron. It was all over her hands now.
