Tetrarch twoe-2

by Ian Irvine

  But it was not beating regularly. In her lattice she could see it, fluxing strong to weak, fast to slow to fluttery. It was as if the huge crystal, or the node, was sick. When she’d first sensed it, up on the seventh level, it had filled her with ecstasy. She had spent hours listening to it and feeling it. Now she felt a twisting, aching sorrow and could not tell why. Tears streamed down her face.

  ‘Take me away!’ she choked.

  They pulled her up.

  ‘What is it, seeker?’ cried Jal-Nish. ‘What’s the matter?’

  ‘Crystal!’

  ‘What about it? It’s not there? The lyrinx have taken these crystals too?’

  ‘Crystal is there. Good crystal. Node is sick; dying.’

  Jal-Nish spun around so quickly that the mask slipped on his face, though not enough to reveal what lay beneath. ‘The enemy has got to it! That’s why the field is so weak. The worthless scrutator –’

  Breaking off, he ran toward the lift, his one arm scything. ‘Keep working,’ he shouted over his shoulder. ‘Don’t stop until you find the first crystal; then call me.’

  A pretty young aide burst in through the door of Flydd’s room. ‘Perquisitor’s coming, surr, and he looks mighty angry.’

  ‘Thank you, Pirse.’ She ducked away. ‘Get out of sight, Irisis.’

  Irisis disappeared into the manufactory. The scrutator kept on with his work. Within a minute, Jal-Nish burst into the room. ‘Your incompetence has gone too far this time, scrutator.’

  Flydd looked up from over his papers. ‘I would remind you, Perquisitor Hlar, that I am your superior. I’m doing a report on you now.’

  ‘I’ve already done one on you, surr, and I’m expecting despatches from the Council at any time. You won’t be so smug then.’

  ‘You realise the penalty for appealing over my head, should your judgment prove to be faulty?’

  ‘It won’t!’

  ‘What is the problem?’

  ‘The problem,’ gritted the perquisitor, ‘is that the node is failing. The field has lost near half its power already.’

  ‘The field fluctuates,’ replied the scrutator. ‘There’s no evidence –’

  ‘The seeker thinks differently,’ Jal-Nish said. ‘She says that the node is dying. You allowed the enemy into the mine and they’ve attacked the node. You’ve failed to protect what was most vital of all, scrutator. This will be the end of you and your lying, cheating lover.’

  ‘We can’t protect what we don’t understand,’ said Flydd. ‘We don’t even know how nodes, and their fields, come about.’

  A different aide rapped at the door, an equally pretty young man. ‘Yes?’ said Jal-Nish.

  ‘A skeet is coming in, surr. From the Council of Scrutators. Shall I bring the message down?’

  ‘At last!’ crowed the perquisitor. ‘No, I’ll come to the skeet house. We’ll speak again, scrutator!’ There was a savage glint in his bloodshot eye.

  When he had gone, the scrutator recalled Pirse. ‘Would you tell Crafter Irisis that I will meet her in the refectory? Be quick.’ Pirse ran off.

  Flydd took several articles from the desk and put them in the leather satchel that he carried with him. He went to his trunk, extracting a small book. Finally he opened his door, looked out and went by a roundabout way to the refectory.

  Irisis was already waiting, head down, writing on a tablet. He admired her from across the room. She really was a magnificent creature, and a fine artisan too; one of the best. If only she had not lost her talent. Selecting a bowl of tea and some sugared plums – he must look casual – he hobbled across. His bones were troubling him more than usual today. He reflected on the torment that had made them that way.

  She smiled as he sat down. It warmed him. If only … Don’t be an old fool! Flydd told himself.

  ‘Good news or bad?’ said Irisis.

  ‘The worst. The field is weakening daily and Ullii says the node is sick. Jal-Nish thinks the enemy has got to it, and blames me.’

  ‘The field has been fluctuating strangely of late.’

  ‘I didn’t know that.’

  ‘Just since the lyrinx captured the mine. We didn’t realise at once, what with the attacks and everything. Do you think the lyrinx could have done something to the node?’

  ‘That’s possible, though it lies below level ten, which is completely flooded. How could they have got down there? They’re afraid of water and we’ve found no diggings. Anyway, there’s no time for that now. The perquisitor is about to move on me. Despatches are coming in and Jal-Nish seems very pleased with himself.’

  ‘What are you going to do?’

  ‘I don’t know, but when I fall, he’ll have you in the cells within minutes. He wants you in his power, Irisis, even more than he wants to crush me.’

  She twisted her elegant fingers together. ‘I can’t do anything about that.’

  ‘How quickly can you be ready to flee?’

  She touched the crystal in the artisan’s pliance that hung about her neck. ‘This is the only thing I cannot do without. In an emergency I could leave right away. I would like to have my artisan’s toolkit, though.’

  ‘Get it, anything else you require, and a weapon you can conceal. Wait for my word.’

  ‘In the artisans’ workshop?’

  ‘It’s too easy to seal that area off.’ Flydd rotated his chair so he could see the door.

  ‘There’s a stair up onto the wall between the cistern and the privies.’

  ‘But you’ll be just as trapped on the wall. We can’t risk it.’

  ‘I’m not afraid to die, surr, if it’s come to that.’

  ‘I don’t want you to die, crafter. I’ve that node job for you, and with the news we’ve just heard it’s more urgent than ever. When I fall, Jal-Nish will abandon my work. He believes in military solutions, but that’ll do us no good against the lyrinx.’

  ‘He’s done pretty well with those new crossbows.’

  ‘In the mine! They’re too heavy and unreliable to be used in battle, as he’ll soon learn.’

  ‘How would you get me away?’ said Irisis.

  ‘You can climb into the aqueduct from the top of the outermost cistern. Follow it up over the hill and across the valley. Stand up on the side and wave. If everything goes well, the air-floater will pick you up.’

  ‘And if it doesn’t?’

  ‘I suggest you jump.’

  Irisis swallowed. ‘I’ll wait in the clanker sheds. I can be checking the strength of the field there, and if necessary, get out the side gate.’

  ‘It’s a long run from there to the cisterns.’

  ‘I’ll manage it. Do you mean me to do this job on my own?’

  ‘I’ve others already spirited away.’

  ‘Is there a mancer among them?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘What about Ullii? She was going to help me read the node.’

  ‘That’s impossible now. I’d never get her away from the perquisitor. Get going. Jal-Nish will be here any minute.’

  ‘But … you can’t leave Ullii to the mercy of Jal-Nish.’

  ‘She’ll be safe enough. He needs her.’

  ‘She’ll be terrified out of her wits. She’ll think we’ve abandoned her.’

  ‘Do you think I don’t know that?’ he snarled. ‘If I could do anything, I would. But I can’t. Now clear out.’

  She went. Flydd took another bowl of tea, called Pirse and gave her final instructions. She waited by the door. He was halfway through his ginger and rose-hip tea when the perquisitor appeared.

  Flydd tried to still his racing heart. There were procedures for the demotion, and even the dismissal, of a scrutator, and Jal-Nish must follow them. He was not in mortal danger yet, though he would soon be.

  The perquisitor’s face, behind his mask, showed nothing; however, the eagerness of his stride suggested that he carried bad news for his enemy. He marched to the table and his single eye was ablaze.

  ‘You’re finished, scrutator!
’ Jal-Nish tossed a document on the table.

  Flydd steeled himself to show no reaction at all. Reaching for the parchment, he unrolled it and checked the seals and signatures. There were six of each. Six of the eleven on the Council had signed it. Enough to doom him.

  He read the document. He was suspended, pending a scrutator’s quisitory, or inquisition. Jal-Nish had been appointed acting scrutator in his place. Having once in his life been before a quisitory, Flydd had no wish to repeat it. He still bore the scars, inside and out.

  On the other hand, suspension was preferable to dismissal.

  He still had his rights as a scrutator, which were considerable. Had he been dismissed he would have become an outlaw, a non-citizen, and Jal-Nish could have done whatever he wanted to him.

  Acting scrutator was a temporary position and conferred few of the rights of scrutator. Jal-Nish would have to justify his every action. Even so, the tables had been decisively turned. And, of course, if Jal-Nish got him alone he could have him slain and deny everything afterwards. No doubt that was his plan. Scrutators were as adept at covering up evidence as they were at ferreting out the truth.

  Flydd tossed the parchment aside and his arm knocked the tea bowl off the table. It smashed with a loud crash. Pirse touched her cap and slipped out.

  His eyes met Jal-Nish’s. ‘I don’t think you’ve quite beaten me yet, surr.’

  ‘An acting scrutator outranks a suspended one.’

  ‘In certain circumstances.’

  ‘These, to be precise.’

  ‘What are you planning to do? Have me quietly killed when there are no witnesses around?’

  Something showed in Jal-Nish’s eye, though he tried to prevent it. ‘I don’t want you to die, Xervish. I want you to live and be ruined. That would only be just, considering the damage you’ve done us by your incompetence.’

  A soldier came up, saluted and whispered something in Jal-Nish’s ear.

  ‘Where is the crafter?’ said Jal-Nish.

  ‘How would I know? Try her workshop.’

  ‘We already have.’

  ‘Irisis has many responsibilities,’ said Flydd. ‘She could be anywhere. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have the right to prepare my defence.’

  Irisis was in the vast clanker sheds, standing at the back hatch of one of the clankers, when the little aide appeared at the door. Irisis waved and Pirse ran across.

  ‘Scrutator Flydd bids you run, at once.’

  ‘Thank you. Get out of sight.’

  Pirse ducked in between the row of machines. Irisis fleeted toward the side gate. She was just going through when the inside door was thrust open. A brace of soldiers stormed in, closely followed by the perquisitor.

  ‘Crafter!’ roared Jal-Nish. ‘Stay where you are.’

  She bolted through the gate. Which way? Left was closer to the cisterns but if the soldiers took a shortcut through the manufactory they would be outside the front gate before she reached it. She turned right, pounding for the corner. If she could get out of sight, they would have to search both ways.

  Irisis just made it. On her left was the parade ground, at present empty. To her right was the long stretch of wall enclosing the barracks and winter training yard. Ahead were the gardens and orchards. They would be busy with workers at this time of year but no one there would move against her.

  ‘There she is! Stop or we’ll shoot, crafter.’

  Stop and we’ll shoot. Irisis kept going, weaving from side to side. She was a couple of hundred paces ahead, outside the accurate range of a crossbow, though that did not make her feel secure. A lucky shot could kill her at twice that distance.

  Ahead, a rounded buttress curved around the corner of the training yard. The pack was thumping against her chest, her breasts were bouncing painfully and it was a long way to go.

  A cluster of crossbow bolts screeched off the stone, carving grey streaks in the moss-covered wall. They had not been far away. She sidestepped, skidded and went down, sliding on her palms across the mossy paving. Gravel tore a gouge in the heel of one hand. Irisis scrambled to her feet, looked back and saw the other crossbowman aiming at her.

  She scratched across the ground on hands and knees, trying to get around the corner. Bolts smashed into the buttress just in front of her, stinging her face with stone chips and grit. A piece stung her in the eye.

  Rolling around the corner, she came to her feet and kept going. It was only a short distance to the next corner. On her right were the pitch, ore and firewood bins, to her left the slag heaps, the half-filled ancient holy well and, beyond, the ravine into which the wastes were dumped.

  Let there be no guards at the back gate, she prayed, and there were not. She kept going, more slowly now, for she was tiring rapidly. She prayed that the soldiers, lugging those heavy crossbows, were more tired. Irisis could not see out of the injured eye and had no time to pick the bit of grit from it, so she kept it closed.

  She scrambled over the pottery pipes and drains, around the corner and across another set of drains coming from the metal-pickling troughs. The acid fumes made her choke. Up between the manufactory wall and the weavers’ building, which lay outside. Not far to go, but she had a horrible feeling Jal-Nish would be waiting at the other end.

  On she panted, past the stinking slaughterers and butchery, and the barns and stockyards which were nearly as offensive. The stitch grew worse: it felt as though a screw was being twisted in between her ribs. Ahead were the three cisterns and the mouth of the aqueduct, which discharged into the outer cistern. The cisterns were massive, each more than ten spans across. Irisis ran for the outer one and the ladder that led up to safety.

  Jal-Nish stood in the way, two soldiers flanking him. They were armed with crossbows, aimed right at her.

  ‘Hold your hands high!’ he yelled. ‘Move suddenly and they’ll fire.’

  She should have kept running. A quick death by sword or bolt was preferable to the agony Jal-Nish had in store for her. But having stopped, her legs no longer wanted to move. She waited for the soldiers to take her.

  ‘This is a happy day, crafter.’ Jal-Nish was grinning under his mask; she could tell from his voice. ‘I’ve thought about it every minute since you hacked my arm off.’

  ‘I did it to save your life,’ she said.

  ‘I wanted to die. You should have let me.’

  ‘Give me your sword. I’ll be happy to remedy my error.’

  He struck her in the face, intending to break her nose as she had broken his. She took the blow on her cheek and it knocked her sideways.

  Irisis forced herself to remain calm. ‘Your son, Cryl-Nish, begged me to save your life.’

  ‘I have no son by the name of Cryl-Nish. He’s dead, and so will you be, eventually. But first I’m going to take your arm, and then your face, so you can understand what you did to me. Soldiers, hold out her arm.’

  The soldiers showed no reluctance. No doubt they were inured to his brutal whims. One held her while the other extended her arm.

  Irisis was filled with a bowel-crawling horror. He was going to do what the lyrinx had done to him. Mutilation was the one thing she could not face. She had always been vain about her appearance.

  ‘No,’ she pleaded. ‘Please don’t. I’ll do anything you want.’

  ‘I’m sure you would, because that’s the kind of person you are. But it’s too late, Irisis. The day you struck me down it became too late. Nothing on earth could make me save you.’

  THIRTY

  Gilhaelith’s smiths proceeded with the repair of the thapter, working methodically, leaving untouched every part that he did not understand. He questioned Tiaan about it every day but since his betrayal of Klarm she had refused to answer him. Why had the little thief stolen it, and why attack the Aachim camp? It made no sense, unless she was just a lovelorn fool.

  One day, Gilhaelith’s cook was on the outer slope, picking mountain parsley that grew around a seep, when she saw the triplet of constructs gliding up the tr
ack. They were taking it slowly, the road being narrow and the hairpin bends exceedingly tight. Cook was too plump to run, and the day was hot and the hill steep. But she did hurry, so they had the best part of an hour to prepare.

  Gilhaelith ran, which made him look even more ridiculous, for he lifted his knees above his waist and bounced as if springs were attached to his boots. Bursting into Tiaan’s room, where she lay on the bed clad only in a sleeping gown, he cried, ‘The Aachim are coming.’

  ‘No!’ she gasped. For an instant her striking eyes pleaded with him. She put one arm out but let it fall. Tiaan regained control and her face went blank.

  ‘I’ve prepared you a hiding place. It’s so bound about with spells of concealment that they could tear Nyriandiol down and not find it.’

  ‘Is Vithis among them?’

  ‘The lead construct flies what I understand to be his flag.’

  She seemed torn by a terrible dilemma. ‘I must see them!’ she burst out. Tiaan had tried to eliminate all feelings for Minis, but had not succeeded.

  ‘Why?’

  ‘To see the man who betrayed me!’ she choked.

  ‘You would risk everything just for that?’

  ‘Yes,’ she whispered.

  She was a lovelorn fool, and he could use that weakness against her. Dare he take the risk? If he failed, or she gave him away, all would be lost. But the game was everything and this might give him an advantage.

  ‘And will you cooperate afterwards?’

  ‘Yes,’ she said quietly.

  ‘And help me repair the thapter?’

  ‘I will.’

  A proven thief and liar, her word meant little. But should she break this promise, he had ways of forcing truth and would use them ruthlessly.

  ‘If you do not, you will rue the day you were born.’ Gilhaelith’s eyes met hers and she shrank before the fury in them. He intended that. He was not a brutal man but he required obedience.

  Gilhaelith slid one arm beneath her knees, the other under the back brace, and lifted her easily. ‘Put your arm around my neck.’