‘How will you get to him?’ Wahim asked.
‘Everyone sleeps some time,’ said Swift, grinning.
Meg looked at her, seeing the professional assassin emerging. ‘It has to be done with great care,’ she said. ‘We don’t need a fight with the soldiers and we don’t want to put these people at risk.’
The sunset lit the sky with sheets of red and gold and faded slowly into the pinks and violets of early evening. Magpies chortled in the gum trees and crickets chirped in the long yellow grass at the edge of the bush, the familiar sounds of her childhood making Meg feel melancholic. Watching from their secluded position, the group had observed the changed rituals of the village as the afternoon waned. The children returned to their huts, filing inside, while the men went about what seemed routine working tasks—cutting wood for cooking fires, hunting game as evening neared, repairing walls and roofs, tending cattle and sheep. Close to sunset, the yellow-robed acolyte opened the crudely constructed wood-and-thatch temple’s door and rang a small bell. The villagers came from every direction—men, women and children in their yellow garments—and obediently filed into the temple, each taking a tiny peck of purple powder from the acolyte’s hand as they passed. The four soldiers appeared and crossed the village square to enter the temple too. The door closed and the voices of combined prayer rose.
‘What was that they took from the acolyte?’ Chase asked, but the wariness of his tone revealed that he had already guessed at a possibility.
‘Euphoria,’ said Wahim, confirming what the others suspected.
‘The Seers are on the move,’ said Meg. ‘We’ve lost valuable time.’
After the sun and sky colours had faded the praying ceased. The villagers filed out of the temple, moving quietly through the shadows to their homes. The children emerged under the watchful care of two women who led them across the square to a large hut.
‘They’re separating the children from the adults,’ Wahim noted.
‘I’m sure that’s Jon down there,’ said Chase, squinting in the dim light and pointing to show Swift. ‘The fifth little boy.’
Lanterns sparked to life and windows glowed yellow as people began to prepare their evening meals. Quiet settled over the village.
The group waited patiently until the lantern lights in all the windows diminished. Then Swift and Wahim, flanked by Whisper, crept through the moonlit undergrowth towards the temple. Meg waited with Chase, listening to the nocturnal animals move through the grass and bushes and trees.
A grunt in the dark startled Chase. ‘What’s that?’ he whispered.
‘Possum,’ Meg responded.
In the far distance a dog barked. ‘Dingo near a farm,’ she added.
‘You know so much about the countryside,’ Chase said.
‘I grew up in it,’ she replied and let the silence settle around them.
Shadows appeared near the temple and the door opened, splashing dull candlelight onto the earth, before it closed again silently. Meg watched the village for movement and listened, but no one was abroad. Moments later, the temple door opened again, this time without light spilling out, and a humped shadow slid across the space to the edge of dark bush. The door closed and a second shadow sped after the first.
‘We should be far enough from the village now to avoid being heard,’ Swift said.
‘Put him down here,’ Meg instructed. Wahim lowered the bound and gagged acolyte from his shoulder to the ground and leaned him against a large white boulder. ‘Keep watch,’ Meg told Chase and Swift. ‘Wahim and I will talk to our friend.’
‘Where’s Whisper?’ Chase asked.
‘She’ll already be keeping watch,’ said Swift. ‘You take that side. I’ll go up the slope.’
The pair separated into the moonlit bush. Meg conjured a small light sphere and suspended it an arm’s length above the prisoner. The light revealed the plain-featured face of a young man, his head shaved in the traditional acolyte manner. Meg squatted before him, noting fear and fascination in his eyes.
‘I have no intention of hurting you,’ she said, ‘but I need to talk to you. I will undo your gag because I trust you to be sensible.’
She reached behind the acolyte’s head to loosen the knot on the cloth gag, and let it slide down to the prisoner’s neck. Then she sat back, cross-legged, to face the young man. Wahim stood to her left, arms folded in his accustomed stance when working at the Perfect Pleasures brothel.
‘My name is Meg,’ Meg said to begin. ‘And yours?’
The Jarudhan acolyte looked up at Wahim before he met Meg’s gaze and replied, ‘Surelight.’
‘And you have come to the village to serve Jarudha,’ said Meg, noting that the young man was trying to maintain his courage.
‘That is Jarudha’s call to me,’ Surelight said.
‘Are you happy to be here?’ she asked.
Confusion flickered across his face. ‘I obey Jarudha. His call is my happiness.’
‘How long have you been in the village?’
‘Five cycles.’
‘And there have been changes in the kingdom. What has changed in the last year?’
Surelight glanced at Wahim again, as if assessing how much truth he should share. ‘Where have you been?’ he asked.
‘Travelling,’ Meg replied, surprised that the prisoner should question her. ‘What has changed?’
‘Paradise is dawning,’ said Surelight. ‘We are in the Last Days when only those who truly follow The Word and are faithful believers in Jarudha will live to enter Paradise.’
Meg glanced at Wahim who pulled a face in the light of the sphere. ‘But what has changed?’ she repeated.
‘The new king is a child of Jarudha and he has swept the city clean of the evil, the corrupt, the polluted and sick souls. He protects the servants of Jarudha so they may teach those who will learn the way of the righteous path. Port of Joy is readying for the coming of the Demon Horsemen, for their vengeance on sinners in holy Jarudha’s name will be wrathful.’
‘Who is the new king?’
‘Shadow, Jarudha’s child.’
‘What happened to Prince Inheritor?’
‘He was betrayed by his younger brothers who desired the throne for themselves. They arranged Inheritor’s assassination then turned their armies against Port of Joy, but Prince Shadow, protected by Jarudha’s faith, defeated them all.’
‘And is now the king.’
‘As Jarudha intended. He is the Chosen One who is paving the way to Paradise.’
‘And when do the Seers expect the Demon Horsemen to come?’
‘Very soon. When all the people are faithful followers they will come and judgement will be made.’
‘Why are the soldiers here with you?’
‘The king in his wisdom has given every acolyte protection in Jarudha’s name from those of evil who dare to resist.’
‘And where are the children?’
‘They are asleep, as good children should be.’
Meg leaned forward. ‘I mean the older children.’
The acolyte blinked. ‘When a child is of age, he is sent to school in the city to learn The Word and his role in preparing for Paradise. The eldest boy of every family begins his path towards serving Jarudha as an acolyte. The next eldest learns how to be Jarudha’s soldier. The rest learn how to live a good life with respect for Jarudha and his faithful.’
‘And the girls?’
‘They learn how to keep their family and serve their men. Theirs is the most holy of roles.’
‘And everyone wears the yellow robes now.’
‘Only the truly faithful: those who pray three times each day and do Jarudha’s work.’
Meg stood and took several steps away from the circle of light.
‘It seems we’ve missed a great deal,’ Wahim said. ‘What will we do with our friend?’
‘I need to think,’ Meg replied. ‘Watch him.’
She walked on until she was beneath the boughs of a large gum tree. The soft silver
moonlight gave the white bark a ghostly sheen and she felt as if she was surrounded by the ghosts of her past, all of whom were asking her, What will you do? She looked back at the acolyte in the circle of light from the floating magic sphere, and Wahim standing guard over him. I still have a long journey ahead of me, she decided. Memories of discussions with A Ahmud Ki about the nature and form of magic during their escape from Shesskar-sharel, and information from books she’d read long ago in the Royal library and on the island circled through her mind, along with her most recent readings in the vast Khvech Daas library. Hundreds and hundreds of spells to choose from—and all she had to do to make sense of them was to channel her will through the amber. She had to make choices every step of the journey. First, however, there was the problem of the prisoner. She considered the multitude of possibilities, chose one, and headed back to the light.
‘What next?’ Wahim asked.
‘He can go back to sleep,’ Meg said. She knelt before the acolyte and stared into his brown eyes, her face shadowed in the magical light hovering above her. ‘You have dreamed. When you awake, if you remember anything at all, it will only be as a dream, easily forgotten.’
The acolyte’s eyes widened slightly and closed before he sagged to the right and toppled over.
‘What did you do?’ Wahim asked, bending to see if the young man was hurt or ill.
‘A very simple spell,’ she replied. ‘Take him back to the temple and place him inside. He won’t wake for several hours, and when he does he won’t remember this incident.’
Wahim lifted the unconscious acolyte onto his shoulder, straightened, and headed for the village. Meg watched him go before she called into the bush. ‘Chase! Swift!’ No one answered. A moment later Whisper appeared. ‘Where are the other two?’ Meg asked, projecting an image of her companions.
Village, Whisper replied.
Show me, Meg urged.
She dissolved the light sphere before she followed the rat. A short distance from the village, she hid under cover, hearing someone approach. Two figures, one carrying something, passed. Meg stepped into the open and whispered, ‘Where are you going?’
Swift turned. ‘Don’t do that!’ she hissed.
‘What did you do?’ Meg asked.
‘We’ve got Jon,’ Swift explained. ‘Where’s Wahim?’
‘Putting the acolyte back.’
‘Alone?’
‘Whisper is on guard. I was concerned for you two.’
She followed Swift and Chase back to the place where they’d interrogated the acolyte. Chase sat, cradling the sleeping boy in his lap.
‘How did you get him out of the hut without waking him?’ Meg asked.
‘Luck,’ said Swift. ‘He came out for a piss. When we went to him and he saw who we were he was glad to come.’
‘And he’s already gone back to sleep,’ said Chase. ‘He seems all right.’
A soft crunch of twigs made all three turn their heads. Wahim entered the tiny clearing with Whisper trotting behind him. ‘The acolyte is back in his temple,’ he announced. ‘Now what?’
PART TWO
‘Disparate pathways inevitably intertwine. That is the nature of history. In the end, all intentions come together for resolution. That is how history is made.’
ARIK NE’FAROOK, RANU PHILOSOPHER
CHAPTER SIX
Runner brushed aside a lock of dark, unruly hair before he reached for the first smooth stone in the assembled line along the ridge of the roof. He weighed it in his left hand. Six soldiers had eight youths trapped in the alley and one soldier was lifting his sword to take off the right hand of the first lad. Runner took aim and threw. The stone whistled through the air and thudded against the soldier’s red cap, knocking the man off balance. Runner rapidly launched two more, striking targets on the eastern end of the alley, and chaos erupted.
The youths charged the surprised soldiers, who were still reeling from Runner’s blows, burst past them and sprinted for freedom. Aware that a soldier at the western end was unhitching a bow, Runner threw another stone at the man who was pinning the arms of the lad marked for punishment. The soldier ducked the missile, but that gave his prisoner enough opportunity to twist and squirm out of his hold. The lad kicked at the soldier’s shins, dodged the grasping reach of the man who’d intended to sever his hand, and raced after his companions.
Satisfied his task was completed, Runner slid down the slope of the green-tiled roof before the archer could loose an arrow, leapt the narrow gap between adjacent buildings and loped across several roofs until he reached the wooden ladder that he’d climbed earlier. He slid down the ladder, wincing as splinters pierced his palms, hit the ground and bolted into the market crowd.
‘That was a very stupid thing to do!’ snarled the thin-lipped man with one arm. He glared at Runner as if he wanted to thrash him.
‘Leave the lad alone,’ said Swing, the ruddy-faced butcher. ‘He saved eight lives. How many have you saved today, Limb?’
Limb scowled at the butcher and stomped into the adjoining room, slamming the door behind him.
‘Don’t worry about him,’ Swing said, grinning. ‘He gets jealous of others who get away with harassing the City Watch. You do what he wishes he could do. It’s hard on him with one arm and a hatred for the soldiers who took his other one.’
‘He should be grateful then,’ Runner muttered. ‘Every time I scratch a soldier he should be happy.’
‘He just doesn’t want you to end up like him, that’s all,’ the butcher explained. ‘He doesn’t want anyone to end up like him.’
‘They won’t catch me,’ Runner replied.
‘Don’t get too cocksure, lad,’ Swing warned. ‘They catch lads like you far too often.’
‘Not me,’ said Runner haughtily. ‘I’m too smart for them.’
The butcher’s happy demeanour vanished. ‘Listen to me, lad, and listen real good. King Shadow and his Seers are madmen. Those that they can’t convert to Jarudha with promises and euphoria, they send to meet their god. Plenty of young lads just like you are feeding the crows right now. Plenty more are lying in the streets, in temples or in euphoria dens with their brains addled by a love for Jarudha exceeded only by their love for the free drug the Seers give out. You stand out in a crowd like that. They know who you are. Haven’t you noticed?’
‘I want them to know who I am,’ Runner replied. ‘I want them to fear me.’
Swing shook his head and snorted softly. ‘They don’t fear you, lad. You’re an irritation, a distraction. Lads like you might be rare because you haven’t taken the easy way out, but they’re not scared of you.’
‘They should be,’ said Runner. ‘I won’t play their game. And I won’t quit annoying them until they stop playing their game.’
‘They’re not playing a game. What they’re setting up is a permanent change. Port of Joy will never be the same again. This is meant to be forever.’
Runner smacked his fist against the table. ‘It won’t be forever if I have any say in it.’ He went to the window and looked into the side alley. A group of children were squatted against a wall passing around a glass bottle half-filled with an amber liquid. ‘We have to stop them doing that,’ he muttered.
‘You don’t have any say in it,’ Swing told him quietly.
Runner glared with disgust and anger at the barrel-chested man, swore, wrenched open the door and strode into the alley. When he reached the children he snatched the euphoria bottle from them and flung it against the wall, the contents spraying across the grey stonework. ‘Don’t touch this shit!’ he growled. ‘It will kill you!’ Then he ran towards the main street, frustration rippling through his soul.
Runner sat cross-legged on the rooftop of the ruin of the former three-storey Gamers Palace, staring across the city and harbour. The sun had just melted into the dark metal ocean, leaving a wash of gold, pink, rose and purple in its wake. Seagulls headed across the harbour towards their roosts along the cliffs of the Northern Quar
ter and beyond, and lights winked into life through the dark streets. He picked ruefully at a splinter in his right palm. No one seemed to care that the king and Seers were ruthlessly altering the social fabric of the city. The soldiers had closed down every tavern and inn, outlawed alcohol, arrested as many owners of gambling houses and brothels as they could and thrown them into the Bog Pit. They’d shaved the head of every prostitute and released them on the condition that they never again sullied Jarudha’s world with their evil, on pain of public execution; press-ganged every unemployed lad over the age of sixteen into the army; and forced every boy between three and sixteen into their temples to learn The Word. Any lad not gainfully employed and unwilling to be forced into the temple or the military was publicly whipped, and then if he still refused to conform he was thrown into the Bog Pit. The old Kerwyn king had been cruel enough in his treatment of street urchins. The new one was a maniac.
Runner grunted irritably. Limb might not like him rescuing other lads, but if he didn’t do it then who would? ‘Why do I care?’ he murmured. ‘Let them be whatever it is the Seers want.’ He squinted against the fading light, picked at the fibrous end of the splinter, pinched it between his filthy fingernails and eased it out of his skin. ‘One less aggravation,’ he muttered. He spat on the tiny wound and rubbed it with his thumb.
He rummaged through a small grey sack beside his knee until he found an apple, and leaned back against the remains of a brick chimney stack to bite into the fruit’s moist flesh. Fresh food was harder to get with the change throughout the city, and riskier. Shop owners and the City Watch were more vigilant for thieves than ever before. He savoured the flavour and the juice that dribbled down his chin.
Somewhere out there in the city he had a mother whom he hadn’t seen for a year. He’d heard the rumours before the new king’s coronation that she had murdered a prince and gone into hiding, which made him proud of her. But he was also angry, because she was never there for him. She never had been. The streets had always been his home and his mother was nothing more than a collection of brief moments when their paths crossed. As for his father, he could only guess at his fate after hearing from acquaintances that Nail had gone north with Prince Thirdson’s army—the army that was lost at sea. Runner had rarely seen his father during his lifetime. His aunt, Passion, was his only real family, and she was locked in the Bog Pit. He’d seen the soldiers dragging her along the streets through the Foundry Quarter and was surprised that she was under arrest. She was a prostitute and a target of the new laws, but the other women had only been publicly humiliated. Passion was the first he knew of to be thrown into the Bog Pit. Again, rumours abounded. Some thought she’d been the new king’s prostitute, or the old king’s prostitute, or that she’d murdered someone, but no one knew for sure why Passion had incurred the new king’s wrath. Passion was more a mother to him than his own had ever been. If she was still alive, he would devise a way to get her out of the Bog Pit—somehow.
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