No one spoke to them, and their food came in and their bucket went out through a sliding grille contraption in the metal door. On one chill day in autumn several blankets were pushed in. Handing them out, Fell decided it would be a long winter.
It was the next day when the cell door was thrown open and two armed guards walked in. One of them pointed to Fell and gestured with his head. Fell glanced past them at other armed men outside, then he went with them. The other two prisoners watched him wordlessly.
As he walked in the centre of the group of armed men, a mixture of feelings swirled in his chest. He was glad the long wait was over, and he hoped to find out what had happened to Indaro, and why they were being kept there. He did not fear interrogation. A captive for more than three months, he could tell the enemy nothing about troop deployments or strategies—not that he could have revealed much before. But he was a cautious man, and it was with concern that he contemplated his future at the hands of a group of armed men who were his enemy.
He was led across the wide stone square in front of the keep. He looked up at it. It was built of massive stones carved precisely to fit together without mortar. They were green with lichen and moss, and he guessed the keep was very old. There were no windows on the side he could see, just a featureless wall with a single door, high but narrow, up a steep flight of steps.
As he was about to enter the door, guards in front of him and behind, he paused as if to look round. The guard at his back bumped into him, cursed in his own tongue and shoved Fell through the doorway. Poorly trained, Fell realised with interest. Big bearded men bristling with weaponry, but without the basic knowledge to keep clear of their prisoner. I could have killed him then, and one or two others, he thought. His spirits rose, and for the first time in weeks he started to plan.
He was taken up several flights into a bare room furnished with just a table and two hard chairs. A clean-shaven man was seated at the desk.
“Please sit down,” he said politely. “My name is Mason.”
Fell nodded with equal politeness. “I am Fell Aron Lee.”
Mason offered, “And you command, I should say commanded, the company of the Third Maritime who called themselves the Wildcats.”
Fell nodded.
“Under general Flavius Randell Kerr.”
“Yes.”
“What is your opinion of Randell Kerr, as a soldier?”
“He is a general, not a soldier.”
Fell had decided not to restrict himself only to name and rank. If he escaped, when he escaped, he wanted it to be with as much information as possible. He could not win information by staying silent.
Mason smiled. “I am not interrogating you.”
“You are asking me questions.”
Mason spread his hands. “I am merely making small talk.”
“I am sure you have more interesting things to do than make small talk. I know I have. The lice won’t pick themselves from my clothes.”
Mason wrote something on the paper in front of him and looked up.
“I have an obsession with the past, I admit it,” he told Fell confidingly. “When I first arrived at Old Mountain, more than a year ago, I had always dreamed of coming to this place. I had an important role here and outwardly, I hope, I appeared confident and efficient. But in my heart was the glee of a five-year-old opening a birthday gift. Each day I listened to the silence, for there is a great deal of silence here, you will have noticed it. It must be very different from the life you are used to, in battle and in the confines of the City, which we call the dunghill, or the Rats’ nest, I’m sure you know. Each day I revelled in the silence of this fortress and thought that I could hear in its depths the footfalls of the people who built it, thousands of years before.”
He gazed at Fell, who watched him expressionlessly.
“They were great builders and mathematicians,” Mason went on, “and they have left us many marvels carved in the eternal rock. They worshipped the stars, and believed the sun and the moon were also stars, whose eternal paths happened to pass close by our world. They communicated with each other in a language that has been lost to us, but we have thousands of examples of their script, which is elegant and beautiful, and which our scholars still struggle to decipher. People throughout the world admire the Tuomi. Except the people of the City, for they have not heard of them. They know of nothing beyond their walls. Do they?” Fell made no reply.
“It is my hope,” Mason added pleasantly, “that when this war is over, or perhaps if it is still continuing, I will visit your City and walk in its streets and hear the footsteps of its past. Perhaps you will join me.”
Fell smiled to himself. Better and better, he thought. A man who likes to hear himself talk. I have already won two valuable pieces of information today.
When Doon came awake on the third morning after her escape from Old Mountain, it was long after sunrise. She opened her eyes to see watery daylight filtering through the gaps between the mouldy planks of her shelter. She sat up, groaning at the ache in her back, then she shuddered as she felt the scuttling of insects which had worked their way into her clothes as she slept. She leaped up and brushed herself down convulsively, then, feeling something crawling across her back, she dragged off Indaro’s red jerkin and shook it out. A centipede as fat as her finger fell and scuttled away. She took the rest of her clothes off and shook each piece out, then put them back on swiftly as the cold damp air started soaking into her bones. Last of all Doon shook out her boots. She glanced with concern at the soles before she put them on. They were badly worn and would not last her much longer. She could not survive in this unforgiving country without boots.
The hut she had sheltered in the previous night was barely standing. Its wooden walls were wet with damp. Great blooms of fungus clung to the planks like living creatures, and writhing vines had invaded the rotting roof. It was only slightly better than sleeping out in the forest, which had been her only other option.
She lifted down a red-stained parcel hung on a roof beam and unwrapped the cloth in which she had reserved some berries from the previous day. When she had discovered them, big and crimson and succulent, she had hesitantly eaten a few, waited for a while to see if they poisoned her then, reassured, ate them hungrily. When her belly could handle no more she had picked several handfuls and taken them with her to break her fast the next day. But when she opened the cloth she found the berries had already started to rot and were covered with a thin grey film like a spider’s web. Disgusted, her stomach rebelling, she threw them down. She gathered up her two knives and stepped out into the light, glad to be leaving the miserable night shelter.
She sat on the edge of the cliff, listening to the ever-present ear-piercing shriek of birds and the chattering and shuffling sounds from the lush dense undergrowth. She was feeling tired and defeated. Since she had escaped from the mountain fortress she had travelled ever west, towards the setting sun, believing that if she journeyed for long enough she would eventually reach the City. She felt that if she took a north-south route—though many had presented themselves to her for she had crossed several rivers—then she would soon be lost. But the terrain in her path, to the west, always seemed to be the most difficult, as she climbed high hillsides and struggled down their far slopes, wrestling always with the impenetrable cloudforest in her path. Although she had plenty of water and enough food, she was feeling weaker by the day. For the first time she let herself wonder if she would die in this ghastly place, her body swiftly eaten by the running, slithering and creeping creatures she saw all the time. As a soldier she had spent more of her life sleeping on the ground than in a bed, and she was used to sharing her blanket with insects and small animals. But she had never experienced the rich, and terrifying, abundance of life in this forest. In her long-ago infanthood, before her life at the Salient with Indaro, she had lived on a farm in the far south of the City, where her people struggled from sunrise to dusk to persuade thin rocky soil to bring forth green plants.
Here, she thought, in this fertile greenery, she could throw a seed on the soil and watch it instantly throw down its roots and climb for the skies.
She hated it, and part of her yearned for the harsh battle plain they had left months before, where the bones of their comrades would now be drying cleanly.
She was not used to being alone, yet she had been on her own for nearly a hundred days now. After their capture and their betrayal by Saroyan the five prisoners, surrounded by enemy cavalry, had ridden towards the distant eastern peaks. It had taken them days to get there, then half their party had peeled off, riding for the north, while Doon and Indaro and the others had been taken across the foothills then through a high pass in the mountains, then on again ever east. They had travelled across wide rivers and a cool high plain before coming to these highlands and, eventually, this lush forest with its roaring waters.
They had been fed, not well, but enough to keep them strong enough to ride. Stalker had lapsed into unconsciousness and slid off his horse as they reached the high plain. Doon had feared they would simply leave him there to die, but they slung the northlander across a horse and, a grey rider on either side of him, moved on.
The other four were separated during the day and at night they were too tired to talk, slumping off their horses and into blessed sleep, their aching bodies given only the hours of darkness to recuperate. Doon fell victim to ague, shivering and sweating alternately, and found it hard to stay in the saddle. Indaro hovered anxiously, checking the wound to her thigh time after time, fearing an infection. She gave Doon her bright red jacket to wear, perhaps to keep her warm, perhaps to give comfort.
Fell stayed silent day after day. He had no orders to offer.
Then, as they were riding higher and higher one day, dusk started to gather, but the troopers did not stop. Still they went on, riding in darkness with only the stars to light them. Finally they saw lights ahead and their horses’ hooves were clattering on echoing stones. Walls loomed above them. Throughout the ride Doon had assumed that when they reached their prison she and Indaro would be gaoled together. It had never occurred to her that she would be alone. That, more than anything, fuelled her need to escape.
For the long days of her captivity she had waited for the first interrogation, ignoring the small women who brought her food each day, lying on her bed staring at the ceiling. Then the day had come and she acted. A big bearded guard had followed the small woman into the room. He gestured to her to come with him. Doon had swung her legs slowly off the bed, as if tired or sluggish, then she punched the big man in the jaw. As he went down she knocked the frightened woman unconscious before grabbing the soldier’s knife and gutting him with it. She darted to the door and peered round, expecting more guards. But there were none. Quickly she dragged the guard’s clothes off and put them on, including the heavy helm. She knew she would not pass even a casual inspection, but night was falling. She locked the door of the cell behind her and walked self-consciously towards the main gate of the fortress. She had watched from her window often enough to know the way. Then she waited in the shadows, watching the gate, watching for her chance, fearing every moment the alarm would be raised. Finally the gates opened to let in a convoy of carts bearing food. Doon merely walked across the courtyard and out the gates. It was one of the easiest things she had ever done.
Now, sitting on the cliff, staring down at the river, she knew what she had to do. She could not keep on moving west. The going was too hard. She could not find enough sustaining food, and her boots were giving out. The only chance was to climb down to the river then follow its course, maybe find a boat and see where the waters took her.
Her mind made up, she stood, her heart lighter, and started to search for a way down.
Chapter 23
In later years Shuskara had never mentioned their first meeting, when Fell was the child Arish, son of the Lion of the East, a man recently deceased. The second meeting between general and boy was very different.
Arish and the other boys were taken down to the deepest dungeons of the Red Palace. Fearing what would be done to them, at first they dreaded reaching their destination but, after trudging through leagues of tunnels, leading ever downwards, Arish for one started to yearn for rest. After the voyage of emotions of the last few days, the terrified flight from the dogs, then elation, then fear again, the boys—the eldest barely into manhood, the youngest only a child—were exhausted.
The fair-haired boy was stumbling along silently when suddenly he fell as if poleaxed and lay still in a pool of filth. The rest straggled to a halt, bumping into one another, hampered by heavy chains. One of the guards kicked the child, but he remained motionless. The other prisoners stared at one another for a long moment and it was Sami who said, with some reluctance, “I will carry him.” It was a difficult manouevre, with shackles around his waist and wrists, but he managed to get the boy into his arms. The guards watched him indifferently. Then they set off again, shuffling because of the shortened chains.
At last the boys were herded into a cell and left, still chained together. There was barely room for them and they found, in the pitch-black, that along one wall ran a channel with pungent water which flowed in one side of the cell and out the other. The small chamber stank of damp, excrement and fear, and the sweet rotten smell of decaying bodies. Once the door was opened and they were given a jug of water. That was all they lived on for three days.
Then, when they were certain they had been left to die, the door opened to a blinding flare of torches and a voice demanded, “Who is your leader?”
They all feared what might be done to a leader and there was silence in the cell.
The voice said, “Sharpish! Or I’ll take the first I grab to speak for you all.”
“I am the leader,” Arish announced as he stepped forward. No one argued.
The way up was much shorter than the way down, but it involved many stone steps, and Arish, racked by hunger and thirst, moved in a haze of pain and misery. He wondered if he was to be killed that day, and the thought was not unwelcome.
He was brought to a small square room where the stench of the sewers was partly masked by the smoke of torches and scent of herbs crushed underfoot. The walls had been whitewashed recently, for the smell of paint lingered. There was a wooden table and two chairs. A man sat waiting. He looked up as Arish entered, and said, with satisfaction in his voice, “I thought it would be you, boy.”
The wave of relief which flowed through Arish was so powerful that his legs nearly gave way under him. It was Shuskara, his friend and hero from childhood, now the greatest general in the City. This man would not see him tortured to death for killing dogs.
“Sit,” the general ordered. Arish slumped gratefully onto the wooden seat. Shuskara gazed at him. “Have you been fed?” he asked. Arish shook his head.
“Food and water,” the general ordered a guard, who saluted sketchily and left.
Shuskara waited until the boy had drunk his fill, and eaten the meat and bread brought for him. Occasionally he stood and paced around the room. As the food took effect, Arish felt his mind clearing, and he noticed the general was greyer, his face more lined with care, than when he had last seen him. He was dressed in civilian clothes, comfortable soft shirt and trousers in shades of grey. The brawny old man could have passed for a farmer or a blacksmith.
Finally Shuskara sat down again and spoke. Arish heard his voice was gruff with some unexpressed emotion.
“I saved your life when you were a child,” he started abruptly. Arish nodded and opened his mouth to thank him, but the general cut him off. “But I do not know if I can save you this time, boy.”
Arish frowned. He could not comprehend the words. Shuskara was the highest general in the land. Surely he could do anything? Save a man’s life, or condemn him.
“They were just dogs,” he muttered, aware that he sounded sulky.
“They were not just dogs, boy. They were the emperor’s dogs.”
“But
how could we know that?”
“You were on the emperor’s land. Therefore they were the emperor’s dogs.”
Arish opened his mouth to argue, but common sense cut in. He had not reached his majority without learning something of how the City worked. They were the emperor’s dogs because the emperor said they were. There was no point debating it.
“Will you speak for us?” he asked his friend.
Shuskara lowered his greying head, and Arish thought a great burden must be on the man’s back.
“No,” the general said, shaking his head. “You must understand, Arish, that to speak for you is to speak against the emperor, and that means certain death. The only one who can argue for you is an advocate, who is considered immune from a charge of treason for the purposes of a trial.” He shook his head again. “At least, that is the theory.”
“Do you know of such an advocate?”
Instead of answering, the general asked, “Do you not wonder, boy, why I helped you when you were a child, why I try to help you now?”
In truth, Arish had not. When he was a child he was too young to question other people’s motives. Now he was too scared and miserable to wonder why a great warrior like Shuskara should descend into this hell to help him. He felt ashamed.
“Why do you, sir?” he asked meekly.
“Because I owe a life to your father.”
“I did not know my father.”
“Yes, you did, Arish. You just do not remember him.”
“He sent me to a foreign city to be a hostage, a slave, when I was four years old. I do not try to remember him.”
The City Page 29
