Vengeance ttr-1

by Ian Irvine

  Rix rode on, thoughtfully. It did not answer the main question — how House Ricinus had ended up with the sword.

  Directly, they emerged from the slot and headed down. It wasn’t snowing here but a drifting mist obscured the way ahead and covered every surface in tiny droplets. The clammy cold made Rix’s bones ache.

  Out in the Seethings, they would be riding over the mines and tunnels of Cython. ‘Why does the chancellor let the filthy rock rats come up onto our land, anyway?’ he said irritably. ‘If I were him, I’d tumble their shaft down on them.’

  ‘You do know where heatstones come from — like the gigantic one that warms your chambers?’

  ‘I hate them. I don’t understand why we trade with the enemy for the wretched things.’

  Tobry gave him a sideways glance. ‘Don’t you?’

  ‘The trade should be banned.’

  ‘Rix,’ said Tobry patiently, ‘House Ricinus holds a third of the heatstone monopoly. Your family has made a fortune from the trade.’

  ‘I don’t believe it!’ Rix cried.

  ‘Where do you think your wealth comes from?’

  Lady Ricinus was constantly harping on about preparing him for the time when he would be lord, yet kept every detail of House Ricinus’s affairs from him. ‘Our estates, mines and manufactories, of course.’

  ‘With the ash falls, the creeping cold, the shifter raids and crop failures, your estates lose money one year in two. All the profit is in trade.’

  ‘We lose money?’ Things must be even worse than Rix had thought.

  ‘The estates lose money, but most of the losses are made up in trade … and I’ve heard that House Ricinus has other sources of income.’

  The track sloped down steeply here, with a sheer drop only two feet to the left and an equally steep rise on the right. Rix held his breath as Leather picked his way around a fallen boulder shaped like his father’s head, complete with the misshapen drunkard’s nose and sagging jaw. A beret of snow crusted its flat top.

  ‘Like what?’ Rix didn’t much like the way Tobry had said other. ‘What are you hinting at?’

  ‘You’ll have to ask your parents.’

  Rix imagined how that conversation would go. Mother, would you care to tell me about the shady ways House Ricinus makes its money? He would sooner be strapped to the toenail puller in the fourth basement.

  ‘We survived without heatstones in the olden days. We can do without again.’

  ‘It was a lot warmer in the olden days.’

  ‘When I’m lord, we’ll abandon the filthy trade. And … and I’ll personally tumble the Rat Hole down on the enemy.’

  ‘If you mean the shaft where the Pale carry the sunstones up — ’

  ‘Filthy white slugs!’ Rix snapped. ‘Mother is right about them. The Pale should be put down. When I think about them going over to the enemy, willingly living with them for the past thousand years — ugh! They sicken me.’

  ‘Everything is black and white to you, isn’t it? There’s no middle ground.’

  ‘Everything is black and white,’ said Rix. ‘The Cythonians have always been our enemies, and they always will be. Since the Pale choose to serve them, they should suffer the punishment due to traitors.’

  They rode out of the fog. Ahead, the rocky path wound down through forest hung with tendrils of mist.

  ‘Be that as it may,’ said Tobry, ‘any attack on the Rat Hole would be a declaration of war.’

  ‘We should declare war on the mushroom eaters,’ said Rix. ‘Why pay their usurious prices for heatstones when we can take them for ourselves? We should wipe them out once and for all.’

  ‘We fought a two-hundred-and-fifty-year war against them, if you remember your history lessons, and they’re still around.’

  ‘We drove them out of Hightspall. Sent the bastards creeping underground.’

  ‘But they got the better of us in the Ten Day War — and in the Secret War two hundred years ago.’

  ‘I’ve never heard of a Secret War.’

  Tobry smirked. ‘It was a secret. Hightspall tried to poison their water, among other dirty ways to wage war. But it failed.’

  ‘Next time it’ll be different,’ said Rix, raising his sword as if commanding a company of Hightspall’s finest. He cried, ‘To fight for my country — ’

  ‘Watch the cliff!’

  Rix swerved Leather to the centre of the track then rose up in his stirrups, cutting and parrying at an imaginary foe. ‘When I come of age in two weeks, I’m going to raise an army.’

  Tobry’s horse shied sideways. ‘And pay for it how?’

  ‘Um … I’ll train the best of our serfs.’

  Tobry rolled his eyes. ‘Armies are expensive, wars ruinously so. You’ll need all the profits from your heatstone monopoly to pay for it.’

  ‘Er …’

  ‘And once your war begins, there won’t be any heatstone trade. Where will you get the money then?’

  ‘If everyone was like you,’ Rix snapped, ‘we’d never go to war.’

  ‘Now you’re talking like a brawling barbarian.’ Tobry sighed. ‘Rix, there are no good wars.’

  ‘Nonsense. Defending one’s country is the highest calling of all. I don’t understand you, Tobe.’

  Tobry rode on. ‘No, you never have.’

  ‘Sooner or later we’ll have to fight them.’

  ‘I don’t see why.’

  ‘If the land is rising up against us, I reckon they’re behind it.’

  ‘Behind what, specifically?’

  ‘The winters that get colder every year. The wet summers where our crops struggle to ripen — ’

  ‘We can hardly blame the enemy for the weather.’

  ‘We have weather wizards,’ said Rix. ‘Why can’t they?’

  ‘Cythonians hate and despise all forms of magery.’

  ‘So they say!’ Rix sneered.

  ‘No, it’s a matter of faith to them. Besides, even our best weather magians can’t do more than cause a cloudburst here, a local frost or gust of wind there. To change the very climate of Hightspall is beyond all their spells put together.’

  ‘What about all the new plagues and poxes, then? And the shifters — ’ Rix reined in again, trying to pull his jumble of worries together.

  ‘What’s the matter now?’ said Tobry.

  ‘The caitsthe. The packs of jackal shifters. The breeding pens in the wrythen’s cavern. Tobe — they’re getting ready for war.’

  Tobry stared at him. ‘For once, I believe you’re right. And jackal shifters first appeared a hundred years ago, which means Cython has been planning war for a long time.’

  ‘I don’t know what to make of the wrythen, though.’

  ‘The enemy is forbidden to do magery, so it’s doing magery for them. And if they do attack, we’ll lose.’

  Rix jerked on the reins, restraining an urge to knock Tobry off his horse. ‘That’s traitor’s talk.’

  ‘Is Hightspall ready to fight?’

  ‘Our armies could march within a week … or two. Well, a month, anyway.’

  ‘A month! Wars have been lost in days — ugh!’ Tobry hunched over, pressing his palms against his blistered eyes.

  ‘Are you all right?’ Had the wrythen left something inside him?

  ‘I’ve felt worse.’

  ‘I wish you’d heal your eyes. They look horrible.’

  ‘I thought you were against magery,’ said Tobry.

  ‘I’ll make an exception in this case.’

  Tobry put his hands over his eyes and subvocalised a healing charm.

  Rix studied his eyes. ‘Didn’t do any good.’

  ‘It takes time to work.’

  At this lower altitude, the track was fringed with aromatic shrubs. A fleeting ray of sunlight penetrated the clouds before they closed again and the chill wind picked up. The slopes to either side were clad in Haunted Rosewood forest, the small-leaved trees so dense that it was black inside. It had no better reputation than the valley
they were running from.

  It was late afternoon after a night without sleep, and Tobry was swaying in the saddle. They would have to camp soon, though Rix wanted nothing more than to get out of the mountains as quickly as possible. Even the deadly Seethings would be better than this. At least, camped by a geyser or boiling mud lake, it would be warm. He thought longingly of freshly poached trout.

  ‘Our generals’ tactics come from the first war,’ Tobry said, as though an hour’s silence had not passed. ‘They’re way out of date.’

  ‘What are you saying?’

  ‘The next war won’t be fought that way.’

  ‘If our tactics worked then,’ said Rix, ‘why wouldn’t they work now?’

  ‘The enemies have long memories. And they could strike anywhere, through tunnels built in secret hundreds of years ago.’

  ‘We’ll tunnel down to them.’

  ‘Whenever we’ve tried, they’ve collapsed our tunnels and killed our best miners.’

  ‘Then we’ll attack their entrances.’

  ‘Every way into Cython is a maze. We’d need ten times their number to break in, and even then we’d lose most of our men.’

  ‘You’re starting to piss me off, Tobe,’ Rix snarled.

  He whirled and galloped down the path, hacking at the shrubbery with his sword. Hightspall was going to win. They had to. He wiped his blade and, feeling a trifle foolish, rode back.

  And had another flash of the ice leviathan grinding over the walls of his beautiful palace — surely a metaphor for what was coming. He could not shake off the dread that it was somehow his fault, that his house was going to fall because of something he had done, or had refused to do.

  With the cold eye of reality, he assessed the defences of Palace Ricinus. Its grounds were vast, the surrounding walls so extensive that it would take an army to defend them. Yet the palace was a fortress compared to Caulderon, which had outgrown its city walls centuries ago and now lay open to attack on all sides.

  Tobry was right. The defences of Hightspall were poorly maintained, its armies ill-equipped, while not a single soldier had been blooded in war. It would take weeks to mobilise the armies and if the enemy attacked without warning … Rix tried not to think about the worst. Defeat meant annihilation. Defeat could not be countenanced.

  ‘We’ve got to find out what they’re up to,’ he said.

  ‘I can’t go back to the caverns.’ Dread showed in Tobry’s blistered eyes.

  ‘The way through the Seethings takes us close to the Rat Hole, doesn’t it? If the enemy are gathering to attack, we might see signs there.’

  ‘It’s hours out of our way. We’ve got to warn the chancellor and hours could be vital.’

  ‘Not as vital as knowing what the enemy is up to.’

  ‘No, Rix. We could go all that way and see nothing, and our news is urgent.’

  Rix wasn’t listening. The diversion would put off his interrogation by Lady Ricinus for another half a day, which could only be a good thing. ‘I need to do this. We’ll take a look, then ride home as though our backsides are on fire.’

  ‘One misstep in the Seethings and they will be,’ muttered Tobry.

  Rix heaved a great sigh. War would change everything, but as the son of a nobleman he had spent half his life perfecting the warrior’s arts. Hightspall’s armies might not be ready, but he was. He already had the chancellor’s favour, and he would be most grateful for advance warning about war. If Rix could add useful intelligence about the enemy’s movements at the Rat Hole, the chancellor might even give him command of a company.

  And that would free him from Lady Ricinus’s thrall. She would not dare to stand against the absolute ruler of Hightspall.

  Yes, war was just what he needed.

  CHAPTER 29

  ‘Hat,’ gasped Tali.

  Sweat was flooding down her chest and back. Tinyhead crammed the orange hat onto her head and dragged her away from the shaft. The hat came down to her eyebrows and, as the broad brim blocked out the sky, the tingling in her fingers eased and her thundering heart slowed. She tilted her head back, experimentally. The sky wobbled.

  It must be a panic attack. Tali had seen other slaves have them, in dire situations, though it seemed unfair that she should be brought low by sight of the world she so yearned for. She looked down and the phobia eased.

  This was her opportunity to uncover her mother’s killers, and her family’s enemy if Tinyhead knew it. She had to outwit him and that would not be easy. Having had no sleep last night, it was a struggle to think at all.

  He hauled her through the maze of defensive walls into a bowl-shaped valley a few hundred yards across, and the world outside, the real world she had never seen before, overwhelmed her senses. A hundred unfamiliar scents flooded her nose. Her ears rang with trills and whistles, chirps and a dozen other bird calls. Soft grasses caressed her toes.

  She looked up, too suddenly. Sky and ground seesawed, the tightness in her chest and the tingling in her fingers roared back, panic overwhelmed her and she froze. Tinyhead yanked on the strap, the hat slipped down over her eyes and she stumbled on.

  Once she felt better Tali checked around her, careful to manage her field of view, and everywhere she looked was a wonder of wildflowers, birds and trees. Brown rocks, humped like flocked sheep, outcropped around the valley’s steep rim. To her left, a series of rusty iron racks held the sunstones the Pale had carried up earlier. Tinyhead stopped beside the racks, gnawing on a thumb. What was he worried about?

  Again the images coruscated in her inner eye: white needles shearing Banj’s head from his body, and blood everywhere, spraying on the wall and flooding down the steps. Blood on her too — the front of her robes was soaked with it.

  She had slain a Cythonian who had always treated her well. Killed him savagely, whether she had meant to or not, and it did not help that Banj would have executed her. Tali could not get past the ruinous violence she had done to him. She shivered and closed her eyes but the images would not go away.

  Tinyhead crushed her wrist bones. She winced but refused to cry out. Forget Banj — she had to focus. How could she get the killers’ names out of Tinyhead?

  A hollow thud echoed up the shaft. Sweeping Tali into his arms, he ran across closely cropped grass to a boulder cluster shaped like a handful of sticky peas and thrust her behind them. He crouched and peered around the left-hand side of the boulders, his jaw clenched.

  ‘You’re afraid of your own people,’ said Tali, to needle him.

  ‘I love my people,’ he said with bitter scorn.

  He touched his blistered mouth and his face spasmed. Tinyhead had been in pain when she’d seen him at dinner last night, pain her eight-year-old self had inflicted in that unconscious attack after her mother’s murder. He must be in agony now, and if she kept at him she might create an opportunity to escape. Alternatively, he might knock her unconscious and carry her to her doom.

  There was no sign of Rannilt, who had vanished the moment Tinyhead appeared, and Tali couldn’t blame her. One slave had escaped, which made today a very good day, the best for the Pale in a thousand years. Run, little Rannilt, and don’t stop until you get to Caulderon.

  He began to whisper to himself, though Tali could not make out the words. His plans were in trouble. Five people had seen her cut down her overseer with forbidden magery, and for such a crime she must be executed in a way that set an example to every slave. If Tinyhead took her back into Cython, he would lose her.

  But if he remained here, and the matriarchs discovered that he planned to sell the one to the enemy, he would be put to a traitor’s death, the worst fate any Cythonian could suffer.

  Tinyhead drew a rattling breath. Tali peered around the side of her boulder as five Cythonians, led by the red-faced figure of Orlyk, emerged through the stone doors. She climbed onto the highest wall and scanned the valley, then snapped an order. The other guards carried two of the unconscious ones through the doorway. Orlyk dragged Mimoy’s b
ody across the grass to the rim of the valley, dumped her over the edge and went down the shaft.

  ‘You’ll never sneak me inside,’ said Tali. ‘You’re stuck.’

  Taking the blue ovoid from around his neck, Tinyhead rolled it back and forth in his hands. It might have been made from the mineral turquoise but, whatever it was, she felt sure it had saved him from the blast. A muscle began to twitch along the left side of his jaw. With a grimace, he thrust the ovoid into a pouch hanging from his sash, then stared at the doors to the shaft.

  To claim his blood money Tinyhead would have to take Tali through Hightspall to the murder cellar, but any Cythonian caught in Hightspall would be killed on sight. What was he going to do?

  He was watching her again, hatred rising from him like smoke. Tali surreptitiously tested the leather belt, which was tight enough to numb her fingers. The leather was unbreakable.

  Tinyhead unwrapped a half loaf of yellow pea bread, cut a cylinder out of the top and filled it with the slimy red mushroom pickle known as glorn. Tali’s mouth watered but he did not offer her any. He was about to take a bite when rock clicked on rock, along the ridge to their left. Setting down the bread, he drew a knife the length of her arm.

  It had to be Rannilt, and if Tinyhead caught her she would die. He crept to the far end of the pile of boulders, his gaze sweeping the ridge. How could she stop him? Tali remembered her unused plan from last night.

  After one taste, I’ll tell ya anythin, Lifka had said.

  Tali fumbled one of the withered Purple Pixies out of her pocket, poked it under the surface of the glorn and resumed her position, surreptitiously wiping the pickle off her finger. She was not game to lick it.

  Tinyhead took several steps towards the ridge crest.

  Tali shouted, ‘Rannilt, run, hide!’

  He stalked back, the knife jerking up and down with each stride. She shrank away, expecting him to strike her, but he merely picked up his breakfast.