by Col Buchanan
They were passing the mouths of the cannon now.
‘Be as the empty pail in the rain.’
Halahan waited for them to fire. He tried not to think of all the men crammed below deck; what would happen to them if the ferry’s hull was holed and the boat went down.
The riflemen on the weatherdeck were firing fast, replying to the gunfire from the shore. The shooting rose in pitch until it was all one deafening sound.
‘Be as the stream that courses always to its source.’
They were past the cannon now. Halahan released his breath and swayed back on his aching feet. He looked behind again.
The second ferry was less fortunate. A spume of white water rose from its left side, falling as a shower of hissing droplets. The boat listed to its side, taking on water. Shouts rose from its decks.
Men were rolling clear of the rafts, and holding on as best they could as tried to stay low in the water.
The firing on the weatherdeck was dying down. Halahan saw that they were through the gauntlet, even as he heard the cannons fire again behind.
It was clear on either bank here, dark until another flare went screeching into the sky.
In the wake of their boat, corpses of men were floating after them.
‘I’ll make them pay for this,’ Creed muttered to no one. ‘Kincheko and the rest. They’ll pay for this.’ And the general gripped his left arm as though in sudden pain, and ground his teeth in silent fury.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
Waking Up in Tume
Ash awoke feeling better than he had done in weeks. His chest seemed less constricted, and he was able to breathe a deep lungful of air without feeling the need to cough it back out again.
He touched his scalp and winced at the painful lump there.
Tume, he told himself. I’m in Tume.
His bladder felt as though it was about to burst. Up, he thought, and rose swiftly from the bed, his bare feet slapping down against the cool boards of the floor. He reached beneath the bed and dragged out the chamber pot, and sat there making water as he scratched his armpit and yawned.
There was tin of dried chee in the kitchen, he recalled. Ash stood and swayed for a moment, a little light-headed. He felt as weak as a kitten.
He trod across to the window with the chamber pot in his hand. He threw the curtains aside and squinted against the flood of daylight, then fumbled half blind with the window latch until he pushed it open. Fresh air tumbled into the room, cold and smelling of eggs. He inhaled it deeply, feeling his sinuses clearing instantly. Another yawn split his face wide open. His bones cracked as he stood there naked and stretching.
When he opened his eyes he caught a glimpse of movement in the street below. A Mannian soldier was ambling past the house, picking over the lakeweed of the island shore.
Ash pressed himself against the wall out of sight. He counted four heartbeats before he chanced another look outside. The man had passed beyond view.
Ash ran for the door.
‘Whuh!’ Ché exclaimed as he cleared the young man’s bed with a single bound.
Ash peered through a gap in the curtains there. A squad of Imperials were marching along the street, crossbows over their shoulders. Further along, more soldiers were ransacking the houses of the neighbourhood, piling goods onto carts, breaking and wrecking everything else. All across the city, columns of smoke tilted into the sky.
‘You’re still alive, then,’ came Ché’s thick voice from the bed.
Ash rounded on the young man. A girl was lying naked in the bed next to Ché, and she sat up and rubbed her sleepy eyes. Ché’s face held the pale tint of someone who was soon going to vomit.
‘Anything you would like to tell me, Ché?’
‘Like what?’
‘Like why there are imperial troops walking past in the street outside?’
Ché rolled to his feet and rushed to look out the window. His face grew even more pale.
‘You did not notice the fall of the city. You were too busy having sport.’
The Diplomat scratched his fingers through the stubble of his hair. ‘I was drunk,’ he said, defensively, and then he held a hand to his stomach, and belched. ‘I see you slept through it well enough yourself.’
Ash handed the pot to Ché just in time, and Ché retched into it loudly as he held it to his mouth. He spat, looking down at what he was using, then gagged again and rushed to the door with it still in his hand.
His retching faded down the stairs.
The girl was peering at Ash with bloodshot eyes, marvelling over his body. He supposed she had never seen a naked black man standing before her before.
‘Morning,’ he said to her with a nod, and strode off to fetch his clothes.
‘I don’t believe this,’ Curl was hissing as she scrambled under the bed for one of her boots. ‘I need to find out what’s happening out there. Holy kush!’ she exclaimed as her head came up with the boot in her hand. ‘What if they’ve all left already?’
Together they dressed in a hurry. Ché watched the girl as she watched him.
He was suddenly aware that he would probably never see her again. It seemed a great shame. They had connected in their time alone together. Even though he hardly knew her, Ché had felt comfortable enough to drop his guard a little, to be more his real himself. Laughter had come eagerly to his lips; affection to his touches. For the first time in his life, he’d wanted to please more than be pleased.
She was remarkable, and he wanted more of her.
‘Last night,’ he said quickly as she made for the door. She paused, breathlessly, and turned back. ‘Last night,’ he said again, but then faltered, unable to find the right words. He shook his head lightly. ‘Thank you.’
She placed a hand on his face. ‘No need. It was fun.’
‘Wait!’ he called after her as she stepped through the doorway. He grabbed his pack off the floor. Something skittered away from his foot, though he paid it no mind as he hurried after her. He was still reeling with the pain of his hangover.
She was already at the front door of the house as he came hobbling down the stairs.
‘Curl, wait! You’re not thinking straight. Your people must be gone by now.’
‘You don’t know that,’ she said with her hand on the door handle. ‘They could still be holed up in the citadel. I have to find out, at least.’
He pressed his palm hard against the door. ‘If they were still holding the citadel,’ he commented, ‘we would be hearing the sounds of fighting.’
She ignored him, and stubbornly tugged at the door while he pressed to keep it shut. She cursed him then, looking tearful.
‘This is your fault!’ she hissed with her fists clenched.
‘My fault? If you hadn’t forced so much drink down my throat, I dare say I might have noticed what was happening.’
‘Me? Force drink down your throat? Are you—’
‘Hush,’ exclaimed Ash as he bounded down the stairs with his sword in his hand. He glared once at Ché as he darted past into the kitchen.
Through the front door, Ché suddenly heard the gate rattle open.
Curl looked at him in alarm.
In silence he drew her after him into the kitchen. The old far-lander was already halfway through the open window. Ché bundled Curl through it after him. She was still annoyed enough to slap his hands away in indignation.
Even as he scrambled out behind them, he felt the windowframe quiver in his hand as the front door crashed open.
They crouched down in the back garden, and listened to the scuff of boots inside the house, and the sound of irregular gunfire to the south. ‘I told you,’ whispered Curl. ‘They’re still fighting somewhere.’
Ché ignored her as he loaded his pistol. Ash motioned with his hand, then set off for the back gate. They followed.
A squad of imperial infantry were breaking into a house at the western end of the street. A zel-drawn cart sat in the middle of the boardwalk with a single so
ldier slouched against it, smoking a cheroot. A few captured civilians stood leashed behind the cart; young men, their heads hanging in resignation.
Ash waited until the soldier’s head was turned the other way, then led Ché and Curl in the opposite direction. He pressed against a fence as he chanced a look north into the next street along. He turned to go that way.
Curl ignored him and took off south towards the sound of fighting.
‘Curl!’ Ché hissed after the girl. But she didn’t look back, let alone stop. ‘Curl!’ he tried one last time, and perhaps it was the concern in his voice, for she glanced back then, and flapped her hand for them to follow.
The farlander simply shrugged when he looked at him. Together, they set off after her.
‘You Diplomats,’ panted Ash by his side. ‘You are softer than I imagined.’
She was a fast runner, and by the time they’d caught up with her Ché was feeling sick again and Ash was gasping for air. They ran along a row of tenements, large blocks of wooden buildings with narrow alleyways in between them. A squad of Imperials ran past the end of the street, not looking in their direction.
At the mouth of an alley, they crouched down on the boardwalk and listened to the sporadic pops of the guns. A Red Guard jogged past their position. Curl was about to call out to him when Ché clamped a hand over her mouth. She jerked it free in anger, was about to curse at him when a trio of imperial soldiers charged past in pursuit.
‘Look,’ whispered Ash.
Across the street and to the right, in a small stand of trees circling a stone cistern, a shape rose from the shadows and stepped carefully into daylight. A Special, blackened with soot. The soldier glanced after the running soldiers, then began to run in the opposite direction, past their location.
Ché was too slow this time. ‘Hey!’ Curl called out before he could stop her.
The man spun around in alarm, but he lowered his knife when Curl waved her hand at him and he saw her leathers. He came across at a sprint and hunkered down next to Curl, looking calm and measured as he inspected them in turn. Blood covered his blackened neck and hands. Ché did not think it was his own.
The Special’s attention lingered on the old farlander the longest.
‘Morning,’ Ash said with a nod.
The man jerked his head by way of a response.
‘What’s happening?’ Curl asked outright. ‘How did the city fall so quickly?’
He glanced at Ché and Ash again, then back to the girl. ‘I won’t ask how you missed it.’
Curl scowled at him.
‘They finished the bridge last night while we were still evacuating. Sent in Commandos too, across the water.’
‘How many got out?’
‘The army? Most of them, along with Creed. I’ve a feeling we’re the only ones left in the city, those of us trapped here in the south-west.’
‘Is there a plan? A way out?’ Ché asked him.
The man leaned to spit on the boardwalk, then regarded him with thin eyes. ‘The word was passed after we lost the southern fire-positions. They’ll be trying for a pickup tonight, at midnight. Skyships.’
‘From where?’
‘There’s a marina on the south-west point of the island. We were told to rendezvous on one of the warehouse roofs. It’s where I’m trying to get to now.’
‘In daylight?’ It was Ash, as cool as the man was.
‘Reckon I can make it on my own, if I’m careful. Have you water?’
Ché passed him his own flask.
‘My thanks,’ said the Special as he wiped his lips. He nodded again. ‘Good luck to you,’ he said as he tossed the flask back. Then he glanced along the street, and without another word took off along it.
Curl rose as though to follow him, but Ché snatched her wrist and held her back.
‘You heard the man,’ she said. ‘We have to get to that marina.’
It was Ash who spoke some sense into her. ‘You think the three of us will make it in daylight without being seen? He said midnight. We must wait until it is dark and our chances will be better.’
‘He’s right,’ added Ché, and she stopped struggling in his grasp. He released her.
‘What are you?’ Curl asked the old man suddenly.
When Ash would not respond, she looked to Ché instead.
‘It’s a long story,’ he told her. ‘Now come.’
Ash darted through one of the back doors of the tenement building, his head darting left and right. They both hurried to keep up with him.
They went through the door and up a series of steps to the third floor, the uppermost floor. Ash entered one of the open doorways into a small apartment. He inspected the ceiling of each of the three small rooms while Ché and Curl waited in the hallway, keeping watch. The old farlander returned and strode back down the hallway, still examining the ceiling.
At last he stopped by a window. He opened the shutters and peered outside, then hopped up onto the sill. As they looked on he jumped again and caught hold of the eaves of the roof. He tried to pull himself up; gasped and could not manage it.
‘Give me a hand there,’ he said as he dangled in front of the window.
Ché tucked his pistol into his belt and offered his cupped hands as a stirrup. With a grunt the old man was up.
‘You next,’ said Ché to Curl, and helped her to do the same before climbing up himself.
On the sloped roof, Ash was tugging free the wooden tiles and setting them to one side. Ché stopped and scanned the streets surrounding the building.
When he turned, Ash was gone and a hole in the roof had replaced him. Ché ducked his head inside and saw a small dark attic space beneath the eaves. He dropped his backpack down to Ash, helped Curl down after it, then climbed down. Carefully, he settled his feet on one of the beams of wood that ran across the top of the plaster ceilings below, between the old straw stuffed flat in the wide spaces.
Ché held his nose for a moment, resisting the urge to sneeze. ‘No trapdoors in the ceilings. No access. I like your thinking.’
Pass me down the tiles,’ Ash told him, and then he laid the tiles out across two beams so that they would have somewhere to sit.
They sat in silence while motes of straw danced in the beam of daylight. What water they had was shared around equally. None of them had anything to eat.
Ché held his head in his hands, feeling sorry for himself. His hangover seemed to be worsening, if that was possible. He felt as if he was dying. ‘If you still intend to kill me, old man,’ he said, ‘I’d advise you take your chances now.’
The farlander surprised him with a smile. ‘What was it, Keratch?’
With a nod he replied, ‘It was forced on me.’
‘You were the one who kept asking for it,’ Curl snapped.
Ash tutted, as though admonishing two children. ‘I am told that in old Khosian, Keratch means a serious injury to the head.’
‘Yes,’ said Ché. ‘That sounds about right.’
The farlander studied Curl in the shafts of light. ‘You look a little young for this.’
‘I’m seventeen,’ she told him crisply. ‘Old enough for most things, don’t you think?’
He seemed to agree. ‘Well, Curl, I am Ash,’ and he held out his hand. She shook it, tentatively.
Ash stood and poked his head out through the hole in the roof, resting his arms on its edges. Below him, Ché fumbled through his pack until he found his covestick, then poured the last of his water from his flask across it and scrubbed his teeth in the gloom. ‘How are you?’ he asked Curl from around the brush, hoping to break through her frostiness.
‘I could do with using that after you.’
‘If you don’t mind sharing,’ he said. He looked to Ash. ‘Anything of interest out there, old man?’
Ash said nothing. He seemed to be fixated on something in the distance.
Ché spat and offered the covestick to Curl, then hobbled over to Ash to poke his head out too. He followed his ga
ze through the rising pillars of smoke, focusing on the citadel that reared up at its very heart. ‘Tell me what you see there,’ Ash said.
‘A flag, flying from the citadel.’
‘What kind of flag.’
Ché squinted. The light was good today, the sky a clear blue. He felt a jolt of shock pass through him.
‘I thought you said she was dead,’ Ash remarked drily.
Ché glanced down to see if Curl was listening. He bit his lip, adjusted his footing beneath him on the beams as he pondered for a moment.
‘It could be a ruse of some kind,’ he said quietly. ‘Perhaps they don’t wish to announce her death just yet. Or perhaps she’s dying even now.’ He shook his head.
The Rōshun grunted. His gaze remained fixed on the distant flag on top of the citadel: white in colour, a black raven upon it, flapping in the wind like a challenge.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
Prisoners of War
The pit was ten feet deep and covered by a screen of wooden bars. Looking up from its filthy earthen floor, the sky was a circle of brilliance that held aloft the occasional bird, tilting its wings in a wind they couldn’t feel. The men craned their necks to watch that circle. There was nothing else for them to see down there, save for each other; sad battered reminders of where they were, and how they suffered.
It was their third day of captivity. Each wore a grubby one-piece suit of yellow finely woven cotton, with buttoned flaps they could release when they needed to relieve themselves. They were shackled hand and foot. All of them bore bruises, cuts, internal injuries.
Bull had just spat a mouthful of water onto the floor, and was staring at a rotten tooth he had just plucked from his jaw.
‘Here,’ he whispered, and passed the skin of water to his old comrade in arms.
Bahn failed to respond at first. He was staring at the opposite wall of earth and far beyond it, his face a filthy smear but for his reddened eyes, and the purplish swelling of his cheek where a gash had inflamed the skin. He had a hand resting on his outstretched leg, and it was trembling badly. His other hand was pressed against his growling stomach. They were all underfed and hungry.
