The Seventh World Trilogy omnibus

by Rachel Starr Thomson

  “My service,” he said.

  The witch’s eyes smiled in approval. He moved aside. Her eyes fixed themselves on Libuse. The men of Pravik were gathered around their princess.

  “Still resisting?” Evelyn said. “Rebels to the end?”

  “Ours is an allegiance of love,” Libuse said. “We cannot so easily abandon it.”

  “Commander,” Evelyn said, “have your men arrest all these and take them to the castle dungeons. Bring the princess to me in the throne room.”

  She turned, and from her dark form laughter began to arise. She clapped her hands, and a whirling pillar of darkness shot up from the blue stone and split the clouds. The rain turned black and heavy for a moment before it disappeared. The darkness still hovered over the city, swirling like a sluggish whirlpool in the air. It was a sign. A challenge.

  To whom, the commander could not be sure.

  * * *

  Nicolas saw the great darkness as it erupted over the city, and he set his jaw and started forward.

  Peter threw his arms around him and hauled him back. “No,” he grunted.

  “Let me go!” Nicolas said, struggling against his friend’s grip. His struggles brought both of them to the ground, but Peter refused to release him.

  “It’s no good, Nicolas!” he said. “That witch is too strong for you, you know that. She’ll want you for your Gift just like the emperor does. If you put yourself in her hands, what will happen to you? What will happen to Marja, to your children? Think!”

  Nicolas stopped struggling. He breathed hard, his nose inches from the dirt. “Let me up,” he said. “Let me up; I won’t go.”

  Peter hesitated a moment before releasing him. Nicolas pushed himself up onto his hands and knees. He glared at Peter. “If I had my strength…”

  “You’d have knocked me flat and gone, I know,” Peter said. “But I’m talking sense, Nicolas. Listen to it.”

  Nicolas nodded. There was blood in his teeth; he spit it out. “You’re right, Evelyn’s too strong for me. But she’s not too strong for us.”

  “Us?” Peter asked.

  “The Gifted,” Nicolas said. “All of us. Me, Maggie, Virginia, the Ploughman… all of us.” He pushed himself back onto his heels. “I learned many things when I went after the River-Daughter, Peter. This was one of them. The Gifted are meant to be woven together. Virginia inspired Pravik to come to the Gypsies’ defense. I saw the Ploughman fight in Athrom, and I’ve heard power in Maggie’s songs. We’re strong alone—stronger than any of us think we are. But together we’re strong enough to stop the witch and win back the city.”

  Peter’s face betrayed his bewilderment. He shook his head. “But you’re alone,” he said. “And Maggie and the Ploughman are in Athrom.”

  “Where they’ve been betrayed,” Nicolas said. “It can’t have been any other way. They’re captives, then.”

  “Or they’re dead,” Peter said.

  Nicolas shook his head. He knew Peter was wrong—though how he knew he could not have said. Perhaps the Gifted were already woven in some way. “They’re not dead,” he said. “So I’ll free them.”

  “Like you were just now going to free Marja?” Peter said.

  Nicolas made a face at him. “No, not like that. Going to free Marja now would be walking into a trap without the strength to get out again. But the emperor won’t be looking for me in Athrom. And when I find the others, we’ll be strong enough to spring any trap. Believe me.”

  Peter took his pipe from his pocket and stuck it in his teeth, chewing hard on the end before he pulled it out again. “I’ll come with you.”

  “No, you won’t,” Nicolas said. “You’ll stay here and watch the city. Watch my Marja. My children. Make sure they’re all right.”

  “How am I supposed to do that from out here?” Peter asked.

  “You’ll find a way,” Nicolas said. “Just as I’ll find mine. Promise me, Peter. You won’t leave here until I’ve come back.”

  Peter nodded. “You and Marja are all the family I have left, Nicolas,” he said. “I promise it.”

  * * *

  Chapter 11: Gathering the Gifted

  The Iron Serpent was a wondrous thing, with rails stretching from Italya up into the Eastern Mountains. The trains with their dragon-headed engines, only two in all the Seventh World, belched steam and crossed the land like a vision of a future that might have been had the Empire embraced the power of steel and steam—which it had not. Nicolas crept into an empty cattle car and rode to Italya in dirty straw, fighting headaches and making plans. He knew a little of how the trains had come to be, of their invention by a man in the Green Isle and the Empire’s futile attempts to buy his brilliance to make weaponry for the High Police. The man had refused, and eventually died. Nicolas knew nothing more about him, but as the train swayed beneath him, he thought of him with admiration.

  When Nicolas reached Athrom after several days, he slipped into a tavern, bought enough ale to look like a man about the serious business of drinking—enough, too, to bribe anyone who bothered him to go away—and sat down to listening.

  It paid off quickly. Seeking out voices that were disloyal, drunk, or simply diverted, Nicolas soon found a soldier dallying with a mistress in his off hours. Nicolas tracked down the voice, slipped quietly into the house, and lifted the man’s uniform. The soldier would not discover it was missing till morning. And even then, he might hesitate to sound an alarm.

  Likewise, it didn’t take Nicolas long to find two guards at the palace arguing so heatedly that they were hardly likely to hear or notice him slipping past. They didn’t.

  His body still ached from the commander’s beatings, and he found that listening so intensely tired him. He slipped into a garden within the palace walls, found a hidden grotto, and laid down to rest. As he courted sleep, he closed off all but the closest of his hearing—just enough to alert him to anyone coming his way. Even so he could hear the trees and vines and flowers of the garden growing, and the whispering movements of fish and the heartbeats of frogs in the stream that ran through the garden.

  Before his encounter with the King and the River-Daughter, Nicolas’s hearing had been far less controlled. It came to him at opportune moments, sent him on quests, gave him the edge he needed to stay alive in a world unfriendly to Gypsies and wanderers. But he had never been able to listen with much purpose. That had changed. Recognizing that his Gift had been given to him for some higher reason and that he was part of a greater story than he knew, he had spent hours, days, learning to discipline his Gift.

  So it was that he knew the latent power in the other Gifted, and how much they did not yet control it. How much they could control it if they would try. And if the King would touch them.

  On that power he was pinning all his hopes.

  In the morning, the imperial garden awakened him in glorious waves of colour. Purple and yellow flowers grew in profusion around hanging green trees, and man-made streams flowed throughout them, spanned by tiny bridges and stone walkways. The perfume of oranges and orchids was heady. He rose and staggered to the stream, soaking his head and shaking the water away.

  This place was beautiful. Knowing the sins of the Empire that nested here, there was something terribly disturbing about its beauty.

  Opening his ears to take in more of his surroundings, Nicolas climbed a stone wall and jumped into an arboured walkway adorned with climbing vines and flowers. He followed it until a gardener’s path led off into a private quarter of the palace grounds. Workmen were labouring there. They paid little attention to Nicolas as he strode by with all the confidence of a soldier on patrol. He opened his ears yet more and strained for sounds of distress.

  He found them before long. They led him into new lanes and corridors until he had left the beauties of the gardens far behind and found himself looking through a heavy iron gate into a prison yard. He scanned it quickly and almost smiled to himself at what he found. The gate was locked, so he ducked into a tangle of ha
lf-burned old wagons and piles of scrap metal to wait. It wasn’t long before another guard approached the gate and unlocked it, a heavy whip in his hand. Nicolas slipped in behind him.

  The guard strode to a cauldron in the center of the yard and began to bellow for the prisoners to line up to receive their rations. Nicolas sought out his quarry quickly and strode toward her.

  She was a slight, wiry woman. Her dark hair, usually cropped short, had grown long enough to be tied into a knot behind her head. Her clothes were worn, her eyes sharp. She saw Nicolas coming and ducked her head so as not to look him in the eye.

  He grabbed her arm and said harshly, “Don’t you look away from me, woman.”

  The other soldiers ignored him. But she did what he had hoped—she looked up in rebellion and met his eyes. Hers widened.

  He lowered his voice so no one could overhear. “How strange would it be for me to take you aside?” he asked.

  “Not that strange,” she muttered back. “The High Police have their fun with prisoners.”

  He jerked her arm, though not as hard as he hoped it looked. “Good. Come aside then, prisoner.”

  She put up a decent show of resistance, and with Nicolas half-dragging her, they crossed the yard and ducked into a small hut that stank of birds and ashes. He closed the door behind them.

  “Well?” she asked.

  “I’m getting you out of here,” he said.

  “Not alone, I hope.”

  He smiled. Patricia Black was as doggedly loyal as he remembered. “No, not alone. I’ve come for the Ploughman and Maggie. I can’t get anyone else out—not now, at any rate.”

  “Good enough,” she said. “They matter more than the rest of us anyway. But you know that.”

  “Do you know where they are?” Nicolas asked. He scanned the hut for something to prop against the door in case anyone came snooping. It was empty but for piles of ashes and old birds’ nests in the crumbling corners of the stone roof. One small opening the size of a fist was all that let in any light.

  “They won’t bother us,” Pat said. “I hid in here for three days once, hoping I could find a way out. But the gates stay locked, and there is no way over the walls. I rejoined the rest of the rabble when I got hungry enough.”

  “What is this place?” Nicolas asked.

  “An oven,” Pat answered. “Where they burn anything and anyone they’re finished with. But to answer your question, yes, I know where they are. But you’ll have a devil of a time getting them out. I’ve seen them once or twice. They’re never released with the rest of us. The Ploughman is hardly conscious—drugged, I think. And if Maggie hasn’t gone mad by now, she’s got more mettle than even I’ve credited her for.”

  “Why?” Nicolas asked. “What are they doing to her?”

  To his surprise, he caught a glint of tears in Pat’s eyes. “Professor Huss is badly wounded,” she said. “Maggie’s keeping him alive by her singing. That rat Cratus refuses him medical attention. And she won’t give up on Huss. So she sings, day and night, barely even sleeping. It’s a miracle she has any strength or voice left at all.”

  “The emperor is no fool,” Nicolas said. “He’s keeping their powers under.”

  “The Ploughman I can understand,” Pat said. “He’s a warrior, with other warriors at his beck and call. But Maggie’s songs?”

  “Are powerful too,” Nicolas said. “More than any of us know. That’s why I’ve come. I need their help to free Pravik.”

  Pat started. “To free…”

  “You were all betrayed,” Nicolas said. “The High Police marched on Pravik—but they were not successful either. I watched from a distance. Somehow the Order of the Spider has taken control.”

  “And you are risking everything to help the city,” Pat said. “Why?” Her voice calmed a little. “Be straight with me, Gypsy. I know you have never been all you seemed.”

  “My wife is there,” Nicolas said. “And badly wounded from a failed attempt to free me from the High Police. I escaped on my own, later. But I did not reach the city in time to get her out. My children are there too.”

  Pat shook her head, incredulous. “And you honestly thought it would be easier to release Maggie and the Ploughman from Athrom than to spirit your family out of Pravik? Well, you’ve come at the right time. It’s not the emperor who keeps us imprisoned—the emperor is mad. He couldn’t imprison a mouse. It’s Cratus, the general of the High Police. He’s not declared himself; most still think the emperor rules. But Cratus is out of his depth. This place is as disordered as I’d guess it’s ever been.”

  Nicolas processed the information quickly. “That’s good,” he said. “But Evelyn is a very real threat—and we shouldn’t discount Cratus or this city. Morning Star will return here one day, perhaps soon. We cannot defeat either enemy until we stand united—we, the Gifted. The King placed us into this world to fulfill a great purpose. We have been fools not to unite ourselves earlier.”

  Pat nodded. The light filtering through the fist-shaped hole in the roof illuminated ash that drifted through the air. “You have my help, of course,” she said. “But how do you plan to work this escape?”

  Nicolas was silent a moment. “You say the Ploughman is being drugged?”

  “I’m sure of it,” Pat said.

  “Then I’ll stop the drugs from reaching him,” Nicolas said. “Long enough to let him gain his strength back. He’ll get us all out of here.”

  “What about me?” Pat asked.

  Nicolas looked at her ragged appearance and shook his head. “You’ll wait here,” he said. “Until I can find you a decent uniform. How closely do the louts who run this prison yard pay attention? They let me walk in easily enough.”

  “I told you I hid in here for three days,” Pat said. “They never knew I was gone. Like I said, there have been a few problems in the chain of command lately. They’re preoccupied by rumours and fighting amongst themselves.”

  “Good,” Nicolas said. “Wait here then. Next time there’s any movement of prisoners and police in the yard, there’ll be an extra soldier walking out.”

  Pat smiled grimly. “Don’t keep me waiting long.”

  * * *

  Two days later, the Ploughman awoke to a warmth in his veins he had not felt in a long time and a voice in his head whispering, Wake up. We need you.

  He opened his eyes. The surroundings that had been blurred and confusing were suddenly sharp: a cell. Shackles on his wrists and ankles. Iron bars. A long stone corridor stretching away, lit by a single torch some distance away. And guards, twenty feet down the corridor, grumbling and talking to each other.

  Neither of their voices was the one he could hear in his head.

  Another voice fell across his consciousness. He turned his head. Two others shared his cell. Jarin Huss lay on the floor. Leaning against the wall by his head was Maggie. Her eyes were bloodshot and dark-rimmed. She was shaking from lack of sleep. And in a whisper, she was singing.

  Maggie, said the voice—strangely familiar—in his head. Maggie, sing another song. Can you hear me? Sing a lullaby. Put the guards to sleep.

  The Ploughman saw confusion cross her features. Her song faltered.

  Maggie, you can do this. Put the guards to sleep.

  Maggie stopped singing. She looked up, her eyes suddenly more alert, and scanned the corridor. The voices of the guards grew a little louder. The smell of ale drifted over the stones. The Ploughman became aware of a terrible burn in his throat—thirst.

  Close your eyes, the voice said. I know you’re exhausted, but try to reach for my strength. For the Ploughman’s strength. You’re not alone. Weave yourself with us. Sing. We don’t want any witnesses when we get you out of here.

  Hope sprang up fiercely in the Ploughman as he realized this was no dream—no drugged illusion. He was awake, the voice was real, and that was real heat and real strength he could feel flowing through him. For a moment the air seemed to turn golden. He murmured, “You can do this, Maggie.�
��

  She looked at him, and her eyes widened with joy to see him looking lucidly back. Her mouth formed a word, and slowly she started to sing again. Simple notes. Soft, but loud enough to carry down the corridor. A haunting lullaby. Her voice was scratched, nearly torn to pieces, with no beauty in it. But she sang.

  The guards’ voices died down, then trailed away completely. At the end of the corridor, two shadows moved into view. They knelt by the guards and got to work tying them tightly, gagging and blindfolding them. Still the men slept on.

  One of the shadows ran the length of the corridor and grabbed hold of the iron bars. He wore black and green, but the Ploughman knew him at once, by his familiar face and his fire-coloured eyes.

  “Nicolas Fisher.”

  Nicolas held up a set of keys with a triumphant grin. In a moment he’d unlocked the door. He pulled it open, unlocked the Ploughman’s shackles, and rushed to Maggie’s side.

  “Are you all right?” he asked.

  She nodded, wordless. Nicolas looked down at Huss and opened his mouth as though he would tell her to leave him. But she met his eyes and shook her head.

  He swallowed and looked down at the ground. Then he slipped his arms beneath Huss’s shoulders and knees and lifted him. The old man was terrifyingly light.

  The second shadow approached, breathless. Maggie almost fell into her arms. Pat propped Maggie up as the Ploughman stretched himself and looked to Nicolas. “Where to?” he asked.

  “The stables,” Nicolas answered. “We need to leave fast, and the High Police have plenty of horses.”

  With Nicolas and the Ploughman leading the way, they raced down the corridor, following Nicolas’s unswerving steps. He led them past four more sets of guards—all sleeping. He stopped in a doorway where the sun was shining through and waited until he was sure the courtyard was clear, then ran across it to a low-roofed stable. A soldier was there, just stabling his horse. The Ploughman snatched a tool off the wall and struck the man’s head so that he fell, dumbstruck or dead. Pat was already leading out the still-saddled horse. She helped Maggie up and mounted behind her.