Quicksilver Rising

by Stan Nicholls

  That got his uncle’s attention. ‘Go on.’

  ‘Considering the sensitivity of that position, we arranged to have the traitor brought here. As you can see, it was necessary to subject him to a thorough interrogation.’

  While he spoke, two minions entered and took the body for disposal. The torturer threw a bucket of water over the slab.

  ‘And the result of this questioning?’ Ivak asked.

  ‘He confessed supplying the rebels with certain sensitive information. We know what they’re doing and how they’re doing it. I told you they were up to something big!’

  ‘It’s to do with the records office?’

  ‘Yes. Destruction or theft, the clerk didn’t know. I think we can assume he was telling the truth on that score.’

  ‘What was the nature of the information he passed to them?’

  Devlor produced a folded square of parchment. ‘This. It’s a map of the sewage and water system for central Valdarr, with particular emphasis on the records office.’

  ‘Damn!’

  ‘The prisoner didn’t know when they were going to make use of this information, but what better time to strike than today?’

  ‘Say no more. Take charge of this personally and draw on whatever forces you need.’

  ‘I’ve a bad feeling about this, Uncle. We have to get there with all speed.’

  ‘On Freedom Day, with the streets clogged? They’ve planned it well in that respect.’

  ‘Then we’ll just have to persuade the crowds to let us through. It’s a question of national security, not to mention the clans’ reputation. I won’t tolerate delays.’

  ‘Go then, and show the renegades no quarter.’

  His nephew summoned an aide. The man snapped to attention.

  ‘Saddle me a fast horse!’ Devlor barked.

  In a house not far from the phoney temple, and with a view of it, Kutch and the other four band-members sat and waited.

  They had encountered no problems getting out of the tunnels, or the school. Mingling with the crowds, they’d made their separate ways to this safe house, to clean up and change their soiled clothes.

  Now they fell to wondering how Serrah and Caldason were faring. They should have been here by now and there was no sign of them.

  Kutch in particular was worried. He hadn’t wanted to leave his friends. Not that he could have done much to help if things had gone wrong. But that didn’t make him feel any less guilty. He couldn’t help thinking about his late master and how he hadn’t been there in his hour of need.

  The others were kind to Kutch, and did their best to reassure him. He thought they were putting a brave face on it.

  One of the men, standing at the window, interrupted the apprentice’s reverie. ‘Something seems to be happening down there.’

  They all rushed over to join him.

  A large force of paladins was arriving, their wagons ploughing through the crowds. Mounted clansmen bowled people aside. Their comrades on foot whipped celebrants out of the way. There were militiamen too, dealing with the revellers no less brutally. An ugly scene was brewing.

  ‘Looks like we’ve been found out,’ someone said.

  ‘How did they know?’ another wondered. ‘The place hasn’t started burning yet.’

  ‘Maybe it won’t if they’re in time to stop it.’

  They watched as paladins, accompanied by a knot of sorcerers, raced towards the fraudulent temple. Seconds later, the glamour camouflage disappeared, revealing the much plainer building beneath. Cries of astonishment went up from the turbulent crowd.

  ‘Reeth and Serrah!’ Kutch exclaimed. ‘We have to warn them!’

  ‘That’s beyond our power now, son,’ one of the men told him. ‘We can only hope they got out too.’

  The force of paladins didn’t bother with niceties when it came to entering the records depository. They had sorcerers quickly cleanse the doors of prohibition spells, then they battered them down.

  As they poured in, an officer barked orders. He dispatched wizards to negate booby-traps. Clansmen were sent to find trespassers, or to nullify any harm they’d planned.

  They discovered the flammable oil that had been splashed around the lower offices. A squad prepared to investigate the hole cut in the hallway’s floor.

  The officer led the biggest contingent up the staircase, with sorcerers moving ahead to kill the glamours. They came across the dead barbcat, skirted it and flowed onto the walkway. Men hurried down into the hall of records and began a frantic search.

  It was apparent from the oil about the place that the intruders intended starting a fire. As no obvious means of ignition were evident, the officer wondered if they’d been disturbed before they could finish the job.

  Then a subordinate approached and reported that a quantity of unusual objects had been found strewn about the place. He handed one over. The officer examined the tiny cylinder. He worried at the groove running round its middle. He shook it, held it to his ear, tried easing the two halves apart.

  Finally he stared at it, puzzled, as it lay in the palm of his hand.

  At which point the fuse went off.

  The explosion instantly turned him into a blazing fireball. It did the same to everybody else within a ten-foot radius. The streaks and puddles of oil burst into flame. Fire raced to stacks of records and set them ablaze.

  Fuses were exploding everywhere, showering fire and vitriol. Burning men shrieked and blundered, spreading the conflagration. Rows of files took light, the flames jumping from tier to tier. Choking clouds of oily black smoke filled the air.

  Those who were able ran for the stairs. The fire had climbed before them and taken hold of the records stored around the walkway. Heat and smoke funnelled along the corridor where the barbcat lay, filling the main stairwell with haze and sparks.

  A host of fires had broken out on the ground floor, too. The offices and the great clerks’ chamber were infernos. In the hallway itself, the crew who were about to explore the breached tunnel had abandoned their post.

  Fragments of burning wall tapestries spiralled in the updraught, smouldering furniture burst into flames. Fuses continued to go off with loud reports.

  The survivors staggered to the massive front doors, gagging and retching, acrid smoke stinging their eyes.

  They disgorged onto streets where the populace was rioting, outraged at their treatment at the hands of the authorities. With Resistance members helping to stir the pot, the city’s firefighters had little chance of reaching the scene.

  Devlor Bastorran had no idea any of this was happening.

  He stood in the school basement, accompanied by an elite troop of bodyguards and a clan sorcerer. They had lanterns and glamour globes, and they were examining the excavation.

  Devlor noticed the wizard pulling a face. ‘What’s the matter, smell too ripe for you?’ he mocked. ‘It’ll smell a lot worse if the rebels are down there.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Have you got it?’

  ‘I have, sir.’

  ‘You’ve made sure we’re protected?’

  ‘Yes, sir. But, sir, I’m obliged to point out the dangers inherent in the course of action you’re proposing. In a confined space particularly, it could –’

  ‘Are you daring to defy me? Hold your tongue and just do as you’re told! And hurry!’

  The cowed sorcerer nodded. He began a faltering incantation. As he spoke, he removed a smoked-glass bottle from one of his robe’s voluminous pockets.

  When the incantation was done he carefully removed the cork. Then he stepped to the edge of the hole and, holding the bottle at arm’s length, tipped it, as though pouring something.

  What came out was a white glutinous substance, like tree sap or gum in texture. It left the bottle slowly as a continuous globular strand. The leading end developed a protuberance not unlike a peeled onion. And on this bulge was a tiny pair of black eyes.

  The strand grew longer, more elastic, and as it dribbled nea
rer to the hole it began to expand. In seconds it had filled out to match the size of a man, and the eyes were like saucers. But it had no mass.

  It started to emit a sound unlike anything easily described. The nearest comparison was rasping breath, crossed perhaps with the noise an insect’s carapace made when crushed by a boot.

  When the last of it emerged from the bottle it didn’t fall. It sank through the air as though it were water. Still expanding, it disappeared into the hole.

  The tracker glamour had gone hunting.

  29

  Caldason and Serrah were less than halfway through the tunnel system when they heard a faint rumble.

  ‘Was that the place going up?’ Serrah wondered.

  ‘I reckon so.’

  A few minutes later the water around their ankles grew warmer. It ran with odd colours and tiny pieces of debris.

  ‘Now all we have to do is get out of here,’ Caldason said.

  They trudged on through the humid sewers.

  ‘Do you think Kutch and the others got out, too?’ she asked.

  ‘I don’t see why they shouldn’t have. And no, I don’t suppose the barb ate them.’

  She smiled as they splashed into one of the tunnel junctions.

  A little further on, she said, ‘Why are we taking these risks?’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘I don’t know about you, but I seem to have fallen in with the Resistance almost without realising it.’

  ‘From what I know of you, you’re not averse to risk.’

  ‘Controlled risk; and I was doing something I believed in. Or thought I did.’

  ‘You’ve changed sides. That must take some adjusting.’

  ‘It was more that I left my side, rather than setting out to join the Resistance. And of course they rescued me in Merakasa. Not that I knew it at the time. I owe them something for that.’

  ‘I never had a side. I’m with them for a reason.’

  ‘This Clepsydra, the Source, whatever it is.’

  He nodded.

  ‘So I’m here by mistake and you’re here because you want something. Isn’t there more to it than that, Reeth?’

  ‘We’ve had this conversation before.’

  ‘Things change.’

  ‘In a couple of days?’

  ‘They can change in a minute, believe me. But what I meant was that the more I get to know the Resistance and understand their cause, the more I can see they’ve got something worth fighting for.’

  ‘Maybe. But I’m not one for causes.’

  ‘I’m not sure I believe that.’

  They continued in silence for a moment.

  ‘Did you ever have a family?’ she asked.

  There was such a long pause before he replied she thought he wasn’t going to. Then he said, ‘My people were killed in the clearances.’

  ‘Yes. But since then. In all the years after.’

  ‘No. You?’

  ‘Yes.’ Now it was her turn to keep him waiting. ‘I don’t really want to talk about it.’

  ‘Why bring it up then?’

  ‘Because I thought I could talk about it.’

  He wasn’t sure he fully understood that, so he held back from answering.

  A minute later, she said, ‘What’s the worst thing about living so long?’

  He gave a little snort of laughter. ‘You’re all questions today.’

  ‘I like to understand people. I guess it’s a hangover from having to lead them. Not that I’ve always done that well. But what is the worst thing?’

  ‘You really want me to tell you?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Memories. The weight of them. If that makes any sense.’

  ‘I think it does. Though I’m not sure you need to live overly long to carry that kind of weight.’

  She seemed in a strange mood, as though she might be slipping into some kind of melancholia. Perhaps it was her apprehension about being in confined places. He didn’t press her, and they focused on the journey.

  Another four or five minutes passed. Then they heard something.

  It was a sound hard to describe, like a drawn-out howl or screech, although neither word did it justice. The echoing confines of the tunnels added to its eeriness. It was striking enough that they stopped to listen. A moment later it came again, and seemed nearer this time.

  ‘What was that?’ Serrah said.

  ‘I’m not sure. But … That sound we heard earlier. Perhaps it had nothing to do with the fire.’

  ‘That’d crossed my mind, too.’

  It was as though neither of them wanted to voice what they suspected.

  The sound repeated. It was longer, louder and spine-chilling.

  ‘It’s a tracker, isn’t it, Reeth?’

  ‘I think it might be. Ever heard one before?’

  ‘Just once. That was enough. They say they suck the life out of people.’

  ‘They do. I’ve seen it.’

  ‘They’re relentless, Reeth. They never give up. If they’ve sent one after us –’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘What are we going to do?’

  ‘Keep our heads for a start. Trackers are just glorified bloodhounds, after all.’

  ‘They’re more than that and you know it. Gods, they make that barb look like –’ Her eye was caught. She stared over his shoulder.

  He turned to see what had distracted her.

  At the end of an adjacent tunnel there was a bend, and something was rounding it. Wispy white tendrils came first, seeming to caress the corner. They dragged a greater bulk in their wake. It was like a cloud, but one that constantly changed shape and was more liquid than misty in appearance. Its interior had a kind of nimbus, reminiscent of a dim lamp inside a tent, and there was a dark, palpitating inner core.

  A thick stalk jutted from the top of the sac. At its end was an outgrowth that bore a pair of filmed eyes, similar to those of a toad. The stalk moved from side to side. Searching.

  Some people called trackers thinking fog. Caldason had heard its shimmering appearance referred to as heavy light, which seemed as good a description as any.

  He grabbed Serrah’s arm. ‘Come on!’

  They set off at speed. When they looked back the tracker was still some way behind, but closing. Its abominable cry came again.

  Soon they were in sight of the narrow tunnel, the one they had to crawl through.

  Serrah surveyed it with unease. ‘I have to tell you, Reeth; the idea of going through that with a tracker after us …’

  ‘It’ll follow us wherever we go, you know that.’

  ‘I’d rather it didn’t catch us in there.’

  ‘There might be another way. Not necessarily an easy one, but –’

  ‘What are you talking about?’

  ‘Trust me.’ He hurried her towards a branch tunnel they hadn’t been through before.

  ‘Where are we going? What’s happening?’

  ‘I’ve got an idea.’

  ‘Want to tell me what it is?’

  ‘You’re not going to like it.’

  ‘I’ll be the judge of –’

  ‘Just a minute, I have to check something.’

  He pulled her to the side, got out the map and studied it. ‘Right, this way.’

  They moved off and entered yet another jumble of tunnels.

  The sound of the tracker was constant now, and its wail was mixed with a guttural snuffling.

  ‘Do you have any notion what you’re doing?’ Serrah asked.

  ‘Bear with me.’ He consulted the map again. ‘If this is right, there should be –’

  ‘Reeth,’ she whispered.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Behind … us.’

  Slowly, he turned.

  The tracker was coming towards them. It floated along just under the roof, its ribbon arms probing the tunnel walls as it moved. The black, glistening eyes were fixed on them.

  ‘This way!’ Caldason yelled.

  They ran, spa
ttering brackish water. The tracker increased its speed. Its body compressed and elongated, the better to move faster, the lengthy tendrils streaming behind like a comet’s tail.

  Reeth and Serrah sprinted the harder, arms pumping.

  ‘Where are we going?’ she said.

  ‘We want that.’ He pointed ahead to a door set in the tunnel’s wall.

  ‘Let’s hope it isn’t locked.’

  They hit the door at the same time, and both of them grasped the handgrip. The door opened and they piled through.

  The tracker had caught up; outlined by the doorframe it made a repulsive portrait. Its tendrils snaked towards the entrance, the eyed stalk bent to study its victims.

  They slammed the door. There were bolts on their side, which they quickly shot. They gasped for breath.

  ‘That won’t stop it,’ Serrah panted.

  ‘No. But it’s gained us a minute or two.’ He brought out the map again.

  The tracker began seeping through the edges of the door. White gloop dribbled in at the top, sides and bottom, and there was a distinct odour of brimstone.

  ‘These areas shaded in red,’ Caldason explained, tapping the map, ‘they mark places that should be avoided.’

  ‘Why’s that?’

  ‘They’re dangerous. A lot of fumes accumulate down here. They get siphoned into these red sections.’ He nodded along the new tunnel. ‘And there’s an entrance to one just over there.’

  Serrah was about to say something, but he’d set off. She caught up. ‘How does this help us? Trackers don’t breathe, if you were thinking of poisoning it in some way.’

  ‘I had something else in mind.’

  Bar a few particles, the tracker was almost entirely through the door. It was beginning to re-form.

  They arrived at a trapdoor. It didn’t seem to be locked.

  Reeth crouched next to it. ‘Under here there’s a stretch of tunnel a couple of hundred paces long. According to the map, there’s another trapdoor at the far end.’

  ‘But how does it help us?’ she repeated, misgiving creeping into her voice.

  ‘How long can you hold your breath?’

  ‘What?’

  He glanced back at the tracker. It had nearly reconstituted itself. ‘We’ve no time, so listen. The gas down there comes from waste; it’s highly inflammable. If we can get out the other end while the tracker’s still behind us, then ignite the gas –’