by Ian Whates
She stopped inspecting her foot, evidently satisfied, and looked across at him. As she did so, her eyes widened. At the same moment, he felt something land on his back, between the shoulders; not a particularly big or heavy something, and he reached an arm back to try and swat it off.
Then it stabbed him.
That first wound was to the back of his neck and was followed by three more to his back and shoulders. He felt each one go in; four shafts of agony following instantly one after the other. Nor did any of the blades withdraw.
Kat was beside him, then someone else as well, dimly sensed through the pain: the Thaistess.
"Don't try to pull it off," she seemed to say. "You might kill him."
He knew what it had to be: one of the Maker's creatures. So this was what the first one had intended for Kat, but what was the thing doing? The pain intensified and he might well have screamed.
It burned.
He could feel the clawed feet pressing into his body. The one attacking his neck and the other at the centre of his back were the worst, they seemed to be burrowing into his spine, but it was more than that. His mind burned.
He definitely screamed this time. "Get it off of me!"
"No, don't, whatever you do," that same voice said.
It felt as if the device was poisoning his thoughts. The very centre of his being was shifting, beliefs that were not his own attempted to assert themselves and he fought this invasion of everything he was with all his will. The result was searing agony.
He screamed again, and must have fallen over or collapsed, because his next awareness was of his cheek pressed against the ground, saliva drooling from his mouth. There were hands on his arms, trying to pull him upright. Then everything else was washed away as a wave of agony rose to engulf him once more.
While invasive and forceful on the surface, there was also a less obvious side to this attack. Beneath the bludgeon of force and pain, subtle alterations were being attempted, adjustments intended to curtail his free will, to channel and reshape his thoughts, prejudices and inclinations so that they conformed to a specific pattern and were remoulded to someone else's dictates rather than his own. Except that, if successful, they would become his own. But he wasn't having it. He refused to accept such an invasion of his very being.
Part of him suspected that the crippling pain was a consequence of his resistance, that, had he been less aware, the insidious influence would have slipped in and reshaped his mind almost unnoticed. But if pain was the price, so be it.
It was a peculiar experience. His whole focus had turned inward. His consciousness had withdrawn to a central core from where it could gauge the incursion in all its strivings, both subtle and overt. He had no idea why he was able to do this, how he even knew what was required to conduct such a defence, but conduct it he did. And, bit by stubborn bit, he was winning.
He remained completely oblivious to the goings on of the outside world, taking no notice of any sensory input. All that mattered was repulsing this insidious assault.
Bit by bit Tom reasserted his will; step by grudging step he purged the foreign influence from his mind. Once his eyes flickered open, once he felt able to look beyond himself again, he knew he had won.
He lay on his side, on a raised pallet in a small, plain room. His back throbbed, but it was a pain he welcomed, a sign that he had won the battle and returned to the world. With great care he reached behind to feel his back, finding fresh wounds with blood trickling from them. He sat up gingerly and then looked back at the pallet to see the Maker's creature on a sheet stained with blood. His blood.
He stared with morbid fascination at the instrument of his torment. It had segmented metallic legs but otherwise followed the same pattern as the others, with a small body dominated by a single eye. It lay on its back unmoving, with legs retracted and curled inward, and was clearly dead, if such a thing could ever have been considered alive.
He got to his feet slowly, careful not to touch the Maker's creature while trying not to stretch his back and so aggravate the wounds. Even as he did so, a woman entered the room. Her moss green cape marked her as a Thaistess, and he thought he recognised her from pain-clouded memories. Her hood was down and she looked far younger than he had ever imagined a priestess to be, with a fragile, sensitive face and long, dark-blonde hair. Kindly, that was the overall impression. Her almond eyes showed concern, but none of that stopped Tom from instinctively drawing back.
Kat followed immediately on the priestess's heels. "We heard you moving," the girl explained. Then, seeing his reaction to the Thaistess, she added, "This is Mildra. She helped you, brought you here when you collapsed, welcomed us both into her home and has been tending you since."
"How long?" he croaked.
The girl shrugged. "A couple of hours." Was that all? It felt like a lifetime.
The Thaistess moved fully into the room and tried to inspect his back. Suddenly conscious of having no shirt on, Tom turned to prevent her.
The woman looked at him. "May I?"
A little reluctantly, he complied. After all, had she meant him any harm she could presumably have done her worst while he was unconscious.
"I can help heal those." She didn't touch, apparently content with what her eyes reported. "But there could be worse. I'm going to touch your head, only for a few seconds. Will you let me?"
Tom took a deep breath and nodded. She moved her hands slowly, as if not to alarm him, and placed fingertips to his temples in much the same way as the Tattooed Men's healer had, but this time he felt no flow of warmth, in fact he felt nothing.
Then the touch withdrew and the woman stepped back. "Incredible. I would never have believed this. You defeated it!" She stared at him, her eyes full of wonder. "That must be why it clung to you for so long - normally they infect and move on, but you never fully succumbed and then overcame it somehow. The Goddess has truly blessed you, Tom, whether you realise it or not."
Blessed? Tom didn't feel particularly blessed. Bruised, tired, aching and set upon, yes, thirsty even, but blessed hardly came into it.
The priestess produced a pair of finger cymbals, attached to her robe by a thin chord. Taking one in each hand, she brought them firmly together, to clash against each other and then slide apart. A single crystal-clear chime rang out, far louder than Tom had expected and evidently carrying further than he realised because a grey-robed acolyte entered scant seconds later, doubtless in response to the sound. A teenage girl of roughly his own age, she carried two jugs of water, one in each hand. Wisps of steam rose from the first, which had a cloth draped over half its mouth, while a small cup hung from the handle of the other.
The acolyte handed the second jug to the Thaistess, who filled the cup and handed it to Tom. Had she read his mind? He took the small metal vessel without saying a word and drank from it: chilled, clear water, which he finished thirstily. As he handed the cup back, he even found the grace to thank the woman.
Meanwhile the acolyte set about cleaning his wounds, washing them with the cloth and warm water. He winced at every touch but did his best to hold still.
"Heck of a mess back here," Kat commented, looking over the acolyte's shoulder.
"Where's my shirt?" he suddenly thought to ask.
"Got a bit ripped," Kat replied.
"How badly?"
"Terminally."
"We'll find you something to wear before you leave," the Thaistess assured him.
The acolyte completed her task and, after a nod from the priestess, left.
Kat stared down at the inert machine on the pallet, it's feet curled in as if to mimic a spider in death.
"What exactly is that thing?"
Tom noticed that she wasn't getting too close. Not that he could blame her.
"One of the Maker's creations," the priestess said, "although this one seems more machine than his usual half-way house. They're all over the under-City. How he's managed to create so many is a mystery. He must have been producing them for mo
nths, years even, in preparation."
"In preparation for what?" Tom asked.
"That's what we're trying to work out. As I say, they've spread throughout the City Below in recent days, and now they've begun to make their move, targeting street-nicks, latching onto them briefly and leaving something behind, taking control in some way."
Tom frowned. That wasn't how it had felt to him. "It wasn't all that 'brief' with me," was all he muttered.
"True," the Thaistess conceded. "You fought it. My best guess is that your resistance held it there, enabling you to kill it."
"What do they do, exactly?" Kat asked, still staring warily at the thing on the pallet.
"As far as we understand, they inject a seed which invades the victim's mind, crushes a person's will and finally takes over."
"No," Tom interrupted. "No, that's not quite right. It's not as straightforward as that." He paused, recalling the awful sensation and searching for the right words to express what he had endured. "It tries to change you, not take over," he said at length, realising how inadequate a description that was. "It's not like having someone force you to do something against your will, it's more as if they arrange things so that you really want to do what they're after, so that you run straight out and do it gladly. You're still you, but it's a different you, one who wants and believes in different things." The words petered to a stop and he looked up, helplessly. "I'm sorry, that's the best way I can describe it."
"No, that's excellent," Mildra assured him. "This is the first time anyone's broken the thrall, the first time we've been able to hear what the experience is actually like. You did more than that though, you managed to destroy whatever was put inside you and then killed the spider that left it there, which is astonishing."
Tom felt frustrated. "But I've no idea how!"
The Thaistess smiled kindly. "I know, but it still represents enormous progress. Before this all we've had to work with is observations, from which we assumed the process involved subjugation of will, but judging by what you're saying, it's more subtle than that: subversion rather than suppression. Tell me, do you think everyone who goes through this process is aware of what's being done to them?"
"Can't really say. I only know that I definitely was."
The woman nodded. "And you're hardly typical, so we would be unwise to use your reaction as a guide."
Tom had heard enough of this nonsense. "What do you mean 'not typical'? I'm just a street-nick, no different from any other." He hadn't intended to shout.
"Yeah, right." It was Kat rather than the priestess who responded. "Every breckin' street-nick I know can fool a demon hound into believing there's nothing there just by wishing it and then kill one of the Maker's creatures while he sleeps."
The girl blushed, presumably because of the swear word, having remembered where she was and in whose company. She offered a quick, "Excuse me, Thaistess," to the priestess.
"Kat's right, Tom," the woman said gently. "What you can do is extraordinary, and in your heart of hearts you know that better than anyone."
Tom shook his head, refusing to think of himself as being at all different from anyone else, but suddenly he couldn't meet the woman's eyes, so instead stared at the floor when mumbling, "I'm just a street-nick; that's all."
He looked up at Kat, who was biting her bottom lip in a way he remembered her doing once before when thinking about something. "Listen," she said to him, "I've been talking with Mildra and I'm not sure it's safe for you to go any further. If the Maker is targeting street-nicks with these things, perhaps you should stay here for now."
"No," he said quickly. Once he was back with the Blue Claw he could slip into the background again and simply be another member of the gang. Nobody there saw him as anything special.
Kat's smile struck Tom as a little patronising. "Keen to see that Jezmina of yours again, are you?"
Jezmina? He suddenly realised he hadn't spared her a thought all day. "No, that's not it, but I've got to get back to the Claw. It's where I belong."
The girl exchanged a look with the Thaistess and then shrugged. "All right, if that's what you want."
"You don't have to come, though." He suddenly resented Kat for talking about him behind his back. "I can make my own way from here and you can head straight for the Jeradine quarter."
"What, and pass up the opportunity to get my hands on the finest khybul sculpture I've ever seen? No chance. You're stuck with me, k- Tom." This time her smile seemed genuine and there was a familiar twinkle in her eye.
Despite himself, he smiled too.
"The offer to remain here was a genuine one," the Thaistess said. "Are you certain?"
He nodded.
"Very well." Another clash of cymbals brought the acolyte back and Mildra dispatched her to fetch some clothes. The Thaistess then examined Tom's back. "I have a little healing ability. I could help, if you will let me."
He'd come this far; though still not wholly convinced, he nodded.
Her hands were soft and gentle, with a warmth that seemed to radiate from them, gradually spreading throughout his back, touching and then engulfing each of the four wounds and sending a shiver of pleasure up his spine in the process. He closed his eyes and could easily have drifted back to sleep, it was so soothing. He was almost disappointed when he felt her palms lift away.
"Better?"
He flexed his shoulders gingerly and was surprised at how much the pain had lessened. "Yes, thank you. It now only hurts when I move."
The woman laughed, evidently surprised and perhaps even pleased that he had spoken to her in such a relaxed manner.
"Completely sealed up," Kat confirmed on giving the wounds a quick inspection.
The acolyte returned at that moment and Tom stared in horror at what she brought across to him.
"An acolyte's robe?"
"This is a temple of Thaiss, Tom, not a clothing store," Mildra said. "We don't exactly keep an extensive wardrobe here. It was this or a priestess's green, and I thought you'd prefer the grey."
Tom took the robe reluctantly and glared across at Kat, who was doing her best not to laugh.
"Don't you dare," he warned her darkly.
The Thaistess, Mildra, watched the two youths walk away, Kat with a nonchalant wave and even Tom looked back and smiled. There was a part of her that wanted to call them back, to persuade Tom to remain in the safety of the temple after all, but she didn't. Once they had disappeared around a corner she turned and walked back into the temple. As she did so, a man stepped from the shadows. "Well, that was certainly interesting."
The Thaistess nodded. "Wasn't it just? These abominations are even worse than we suspected."
"And considerably more subtle. It still intrigues me that the Maker is only going after the street-nicks."
"The gangs have their fingers in every pie worth talking about down here: import, export, retail, the black market, even passage between the Cities Below and Above. If you wanted to quietly seize control of all that goes on in the under-City, the street-nicks would not be a bad place to start."
"True."
"Do you think Tom and Kat were specifically targeted this time or just caught up in the general sweep of things?"
"No, I think on this occasion it was simply part of what we're seeing everywhere - the plan to subvert all the street-nicks. Tom's ability to resist has been a revelation."
"Could it be an indication that he's growing into himself, starting to realise his potential?"
"Possibly," the man conceded. "I just wish we'd known about him before all this began."
"How could we? Before this, his use of power had been minor; no more than that of a healer or any of the other limited practitioners scattered around the under-City."
"I realise that." He gave a wry smile, which brought unexpected warmth to his craggy, age-weary face. "Even I'm allowed to wish on occasion, aren't I?"
The woman smiled in turn and nodded in response.
"Thank you for calling
me, Mildra. I was afraid we might never find this pair again after all the mischief the Maker's been causing. I regret my visit here has to be so brief, but I really must return up-City before I'm missed."
"Of course." She tried to keep the bitterness from her voice but was not entirely successful. Sharp as he was, the prime master caught it.
"What's the matter?"
She considered lying, passing it off as tiredness, but both her faith and her conscience demanded that she remain true to herself. "This just strikes me as wrong. You sitting up there in the Heights, safe, and me here in my temple, likewise, while death roams the streets and we send two innocent youths back out there, knowing what awaits them."
"I know, and I wish it could be otherwise, but Tom is the catalyst. I can't simply whisk him out of harm's way, not yet. We have to discover the full extent of what's going on here, and Tom is the only means we have of doing that."
"The only bait, you mean. And what of the girl, is she expendable? And the street-nicks who are getting killed hourly are acceptable losses, I take it."
"Don't judge me, Mildra. I do that often enough to myself. You know that if I could I would avoid every single death, but I have to look at the bigger picture."
The woman sighed. "Yes, I do understand. But why is it always the little people who seem to get hurt whenever anyone concentrates on the bigger picture?"
"This lad, Tom, is hardly one of the 'little people', Mildra, despite his diminutive size."
"I know, I know." She felt suddenly weary and the sense of guilt at letting Kat and Tom step back into the streets remained, despite the fact that she knew the reasons. "And yet, he's so innocent, so oblivious of his inheritance."
"Which is one of the things that makes him so valuable."
"But despite this value, you insist on sending him into danger."
"I have no choice. As you pointed out yourself, these things of the Maker's are more dangerous than ever suspected. There's more going on here than we know and we daren't make our move until we're certain of all our enemies. In the meantime, I know I can count on you and your sisters to keep an eye on this lad for me."
