The Company of Glass

by Tricia Sullivan

  ‘Their poisons melt you and then they feed off what’s left. We could try burning them, though. Maybe it’s not too late.’ Lyetar sounded doubtful. ‘I’ve seen people who survived. They’re usually blind and deaf and mad, and sometimes they can’t walk.’

  ‘Give me the—’. Turning, he seized the torch from Lyetar.

  ‘We don’t have many options,’ Ovi said. ‘The place where he’s standing is too narrow. There isn’t enough room for all of us to stand, never mind fight.’

  ‘Agreed,’ said Quintar. ‘Let’s kill them anyway.’

  He flicked the torch at Ovi’s stick; he heard it go whoof as it lit behind him while he dragged himself out of the hole. Drawing his sword, he advanced on Chyko.

  ‘Captain!’ Lyetar cried. ‘On your left!’

  Quintar wheeled, ducked, whipping the torch past the place where his own head had just been. He glimpsed the Freeze Wasp as it slipped past him like a rag of smoke and spun again.

  ‘There are three,’ Riesel yelled from the shaft. ‘Get under cover!’

  Ovi was on the ledge; his sticks were slicing up the air, smoking and trailing fire. One Wasp was caught; it drifted grey and sizzling on the wind before it exploded to ash. Riesel cheered and thrust another lit torch out of the shaft, but just then several more Wasps materialized from cracks in the rocks. One of the ones on Chyko fell away from him, bloated and sluggish. It landed on the snow and sat there, now huge and bright red with Chyko’s blood.

  High on fear, Quintar ducked and dodged, never stopping, using the sword and the torch in a protective arc around himself. He was hard-pressed just to stay unmarked, and by the time he could get a moment to order a retreat, more Freeze Wasps had landed on Chyko. Ovi killed two others.

  ‘Get back!’ Quintar shouted. Lyetar obeyed instantly, hurling himself into the shaft, but Ovi wasn’t listening. Quintar didn’t have time to be angry at this dangerous disobedience; he was being pursued by four Freeze Wasps. He thrust the torch into a crevice ahead of him to burn out what seemed a whole nest; then he hid inside and put the torch in front of himself as a barrier.

  ‘Ovi, it’s not worth dying for,’ he called. ‘Get back now.’

  Ovi’s back was towards Quintar as he advanced on Chyko, apparently intending some sort of brave but stupid rescue. He swatted away one of the preying Wasps with a stick and suddenly froze in place himself. There was no movement but that of the flames burning on the sticks in his hands.

  Quintar began cursing, devastated. He didn’t see a Wasp on Ovi, yet the Deer simply didn’t move.

  Chyko did.

  Quintar gave a shout as Chyko advanced threateningly on Ovi, and as if the sound had broken a spell, Ovi suddenly screamed and fled from Chyko, diving for the shaft where the others waited. Chyko, looking a monstrosity still covered with Freeze Wasps, followed.

  When he saw Chyko’s behaviour, all Quintar could think of was Sekk Slaving, and forgetting the danger of the Wasps he abandoned his hidey-hole and swung his sword at Chyko, who looked surprised and distressed.

  ‘Cut it out!’ Chyko said, slipping the blow. ‘Get under cover before the Wasps catch you.’

  Stunned but pleased, Quintar retreated to the cleft. In a matter-of-fact tone, Chyko said, ‘In a little while they’ll figure out I don’t taste good and then they’ll leave us, but in the meantime we can collect lots of Freeze.’

  ‘What are you talking about?’ Quintar asked sharply. ‘Why aren’t you dead?’

  ‘Don’t sound so disappointed, Captain,’ Chyko laughed. ‘Don’t forget, I’m a Wasp, too. I took a poison that interacts with the Freeze in my bloodstream. It Freezes back on them without affecting me. See?’ He pointed to an already gorged Wasp lying on the ground. It didn’t move. While Quintar watched, another bit Chyko and promptly fell out of the sky.

  ‘Freeze is good poison,’ Chyko said. ‘It doesn’t actually freeze you, of course; it just Freezes your perception of time so you can’t move or think. You drop right out of time, and that’s how they catch you. Then they inject their acids.’ He shook off the remainder of the Wasps, which drifted across the snow like paper. ‘Anyway, I think it’s safe now. They’re very intelligent, and the nest has decided that I’m not a very good choice of food. Stay there and I’ll collect as much Freeze as I can.’

  ‘So there is a method to your madness,’ Quintar said.

  ‘Not really. But it’s a fun diversion from all that walking, don’t you think?’

  To the Monitor Tower

  Tarquin paused for a moment, light headed from talking and climbing together. Stavel, unused to the thin air, wheezed as he laughed. Tarquin noticed that his fair skin was beginning to redden.

  ‘I still keep a vial of Chyko’s Freeze,’ Tarquin said, fingering the thong around his neck. ‘I’ve never had the nerve to use it. As I get older, though, I think about it. Maybe it would be good to have a rest for a time. Just not be anywhere. Let a few years go by and not be there.’

  Stavel said, ‘The years run downhill, don’t they? And we walk uphill.’ He mopped his brow.

  Later they camped on a green shelf surrounded by snow, and even the sky was tilted. The mountains spliced each other’s planes, changing angles capriciously so that the only way to find out the true vertical was to plant your feet and stand as straight as you could. Ristale could be glimpsed golden and serene through gaps in the rock; the ancestral home of the Deer Clan was a vast riverine flatland, bitterly cold in winter and lush in summer. It was a sparsely inhabited region of the Pharician Empire, visited only by the nomadic tribesmen who grazed their herds in the summer pastures and spent winters near the bordertowns of the Pharician homeland in the south. The people of Ristale were not bred of Pharician blood, and through the centuries of Imperialist policy, they had maintained an autonomous culture; but they submitted to the army that was based in a garrison on the edge of the forests to the west, overshadowed by the cliffs of the Everien Range. This garrison was the closest thing to a city in all Ristale, and it had been the focus of much of Lerien’s conversation as they climbed.

  ‘Any Pharician army in this region would have passed through that garrison by necessity. I suppose if they were planning a sneak attack on us, then they could gradually increase their numbers within the garrison without our noticing any large movements on the plain. But they might as easily have sailed to the edge of the sea plateau if they intended to rush through the gates of Everien. Coming down this side of the range wouldn’t be a very smart policy.’

  ‘And they must know we have an Eye mounted at A-vel-Jasse,’ Taro said. ‘What would make them think they could sneak up on us?’

  ‘Maybe they don’t believe in the Eyes any more than I do,’ Ketar put in.

  ‘That doesn’t make sense. The whole thing is strange, don’t you think, my lord?’

  Lerien’s head was down as he concentrated on climbing. ‘Sendrigel,’ he said cryptically. After that he fell silent, and in their camp that night he was an inconspicuous presence. He had ceased to ask Kivi about the Eye, but Kivi was seen peering into it from time to time and pacing, frustrated, back and forth across the ledge. At last he came and sat down where the others were finishing their evening meal.

  ‘I’m too tired to concentrate,’ he said. ‘Every bit of my body is screaming at me.’

  ‘Eat something,’ Taro urged, but Kivi shook his head.

  ‘I feel queasy.’

  Tarquin rummaged in his pack and came out with a packet of white powder. ‘Put some of this on your tongue and let it dissolve. The mountain people of the Wolf Clan use it when the mountain sickness troubles them. It comes from a plant which they claim has great magic, but this powder is difficult to make and requires much art.’

  ‘I thought the mountain people were like animals, having no speech or culture,’ Ketar said, surprised. Stavel growled low in his throat, and Ketar added, ‘Of course, I have only ever encountered them as Slaves. They fought savagely.’

  ‘They have a speech,
of a kind, though they use it only at need, and not merely to hear themselves talk. I found this agreeable.’ Tarquin was aware of the eager attention now focused on him. He was tired of being a legend and a mystery to these men, so he added, ‘Nine years ago, when I left Jai Khalar, I meant never to return. I travelled in many lands. I sailed with the Dzellau and guarded the desert trains between Kolv and Pharice. I spent a year in an oasis far to the south of Pharice, before I grew bored with the sedentary life. I even went to the islands, looking for my distant relatives in the Seahawk people. Everywhere I went, the sky was big and the people were strangers. Nowhere did I find the Seahawk customs or language I had known all my life. They say the Snakes and the Seahawks and the Wasps came from far away before they settled in Everien, but except for the wild folk in remote Wolf Country, I saw nothing that reminded me of our people.’

  ‘You must have grown lonely for home,’ Taro said.

  Tarquin looked at the ground. ‘No.’

  ‘Even you must sometimes wish for a resting place,’ Ketar said softly. ‘Every warrior does.’

  Tarquin shook his head. ‘No. You’re not seeking a resting place. You’re seeking motion. You don’t want to stop. You don’t want it to be over.’

  ‘You are mad, then,’ Taro muttered.

  ‘Am I? But how else could you do it? How else could you fight? You need this appetite. You have to want everything, you have to imagine how it tastes and know it even before you’ve tasted it, and when it’s denied you, you have to go away and think how to get it. You have to sleep in readiness. You’re a hunter. You want the big game, you want the thing that would routinely eat you but now you’re going to have it. Kivi, the warrior spirit is an appetite, it’s a way of life; I don’t know how else to put it to you. But I think I have lost mine, or it is faded. My heart is not in this. My heart was in my Company, and without them I’m half a man.’

  There was a silence. Dismayed by the intensity of his own outburst, Tarquin stirred and gave a deliberate yawn. Lerien remained silent.

  ‘I remember,’ Stavel said, ‘when there was joy in a clean battle. When there was pride in weapons.’

  ‘There still is,’ Ketar replied. ‘There will always be pride in destroying Sekk.’

  ‘And what of our Clan brothers who are Enslaved, like those who destroyed that Wasp village?’ Jakse challenged. ‘Is there pride in cutting them down?’

  ‘You have seen what they do,’ Taro interjected. ‘The Enslaved are worse than criminals. To kill them is to save them from themselves.’

  ‘Maybe. But I can’t take any pleasure in that kind of killing.’

  ‘Killing isn’t about pleasure,’ Taro retorted.

  ‘Sometimes it is,’ Lerien allowed, and everyone looked at him in surprise.

  ‘Sometimes? I didn’t know there were different kinds of killing.’

  ‘Kill enough,’ Tarquin said, ‘and you will become a connoisseur of all the varieties.’

  There was another silence. Kivi said, ‘Can’t we talk of something more cheerful? I won’t be able to sleep with all these tales of the Sekk.’

  ‘Hanji told me that in the old days, the Everiens made houses that the light could shine through, and the walls would change colour depending on the colour of the sky.’ Jakse pointed to the horizon, where the sun was fighting to stay aloft. ‘Right now, the houses would be rose-coloured, and golden like the sky. And the walls would hold the light of the daytime and radiate at night, so that the Everiens could study the Knowledge at any time. They needed no lamps or fires, and maybe they didn’t even sleep.’

  At the word ‘sleep’ two or three of them yawned in succession.

  ‘They made great statues of metal in the Fire Houses,’ Jakse went on, his voice dropping in pitch to a soothing baritone. ‘And they wove metal into their fabrics with some lost art, all for their pleasure. They opened the hills and brought forth jewels from places none now dare go. No one had to work like an ox in the fields all day. Some did nothing but make music, and turned their hands to no harder occupation.’

  ‘Like the court drummers of Pharice,’ Taro put in softly. Stavel’s eyes were closed.

  ‘Yes, like them. But the music of the Everiens was of a different type. They played instruments we have never mastered, although some of them turn up from time to time in Jai Khalar. You can hear the music there sometimes, if you’re lucky. It is bewitching and strange.’

  Ketar began to snore lightly.

  ‘And the women?’

  ‘Ah,’ said Jakse. He smiled and the light flickered on his bald head. ‘The women often danced. Not for courtship, you understand – not with discipline. Just for the joy of it. Their backs weren’t bent with toil, and their children almost always lived to grow up, so they were happy.’

  ‘Mmm.’

  Silence settled over them. Jakse drew breath to continue and then realized he was the only one awake. He sighed, stretched, and stood. His long shadow rippled across the sleeping forms like a melted blade as the sun finally went down.

  In the morning they began the last leg of the climb, which would take them sideways and then straight up a shaft to the entrance of the monitor tower. Typical of Everien buildings, the tower appeared to be a natural outcropping in the stone, completely indistinguishable from the mountain itself from Ristale in the west; on this side, a series of regular windows punctuating the eastern wall made it visible to the travellers.

  The king still said nothing, and following his example, the others slipped into a nervous silence. Even as they broke their fast, they didn’t speak to each other except out of necessity. All were intent on reaching the monitor tower, and scarce air didn’t allow for much speech anyway. By mid-morning they were climbing more with their arms than with their legs, and Stavel was coughing as he struggled up a steep slab of tilted rock. Tarquin extended a supporting hand towards him and found himself standing in a room looking at a window into another room.

  Through the window he could see a Sekk. It was male in appearance, and it had silver hair, papery skin, and eyes so blue they were almost violet. It was staring at him. He drew back from the window, and it drew back. He reached for his sword but had none, so he put his hands out defensively. The Sekk did the same. Tarquin’s fingers brushed against the glass of the window.

  It was not a window. It was a mirror. He screamed.

  ‘He’s coming around,’ Stavel said gruffly. ‘Step back. Give him air.’

  Tarquin opened his eyes to the concerned face of Taro, who was crouched on the rock beside him. The back of his head hurt. When he touched it, his fingers came away bloody. He got up shakily.

  ‘It could be the mountain sickness,’ Taro said solicitously. ‘Do you feel dizzy?’

  ‘I’m fine. I must have lost my footing, that’s all.’

  Kivi was slithering down the stone towards them, face flushed, eyes bright with curiosity.

  ‘That’s right,’ Stavel said quickly. ‘I saw him fall. He caught a loose piece of shale and lost his balance.’

  Taro nodded, accepting the lie. ‘Could have happened to any of us.’

  But he hung back and walked beside Stavel and Tarquin for a spell. Stavel shot Tarquin a few sidelong glances that seemed intended to convey encouragement; yet he said nothing.

  Kivi was not so shy. He waited until Stavel stopped to relieve himself, and then accosted Tarquin. ‘Tarquin, what are these fits of yours? Is it the old madness? Are you having Impressions? If you tell me, perhaps I can help you.’

  ‘I don’t know,’ he sighed. ‘Kivi, you must not ask me questions.’

  Kivi’s face was drawn with concern. ‘You would tell me not to trust you. You would ask to be treated as dangerous. You do not look well, Tarquin. Were you ever Enslaved?’

  ‘No!’ He collected himself. ‘I think it is because … it is because Jai Pendu draws near. Like when we saw those sailsnakes miles from where they belong. Like Jai Khalar being more illogical than usual. It is all related.’

  ‘
Perhaps that’s what is wrong with the Water of Glass,’ Kivi said. ‘It weighs on my mind, how I cannot See Mhani. I cannot See anything of use! This has never happened before. It leaves us too vulnerable.’

  ‘Better that you should learn to do without these things,’ Tarquin assured him. Stavel had caught up with them and now slowly went past, head down, pretending not to hear their private conversation.

  ‘It is all very well to disdain the Water of Glass and sharpen your blade,’ retorted Kivi, ‘but you cannot pretend that the Knowledge does not exist, or that Jai Pendu isn’t coming.’

  ‘Oh, I know it’s coming! That doesn’t mean I will surrender to its dreams.’

  ‘Dreams?’

  Stavel was above them, labouring hard. Tarquin slowed, letting Stavel gain more distance and catching his own breath. He lowered his voice. ‘Sometimes it’s as though I never left Jai Pendu. Sometimes it’s as though there is a world behind the world, and if you rubbed hard enough you could see what’s underneath. I don’t want to see beneath this world, Kivi. This land, my sword, my bones and blood – would that they were true. Could not a glass of wine be only that, a flame only a flame. But to me they … they … oh, I have been mad for years and I can see it in your eyes, you shrink away.’

  ‘I do not!’

  ‘Well, you should. Chyko would never have fallen for a word of my nonsense. Give me some water, will you?’

  Kivi was only too willing to rest. He lowered himself to a shelf and rubbed his legs. He took out the Carry Eye, checked it again, and put it away. Tarquin drank his water and kept climbing, leaving the Seer behind. Above he could see Taro and Lerien pull themselves up a chimney in the rock and disappear from view. One by one the others followed. Tarquin glanced down and saw Kivi shoulder his pack and resume climbing. Stavel vanished in the chimney above. Kivi passed beneath an overhang. Tarquin was alone. He reached the bottom of the chimney and braced his back into position with his legs. He felt for handholds, balancing one part of his body against the other. Methodically he drew himself up the crack. Nothing stirred. He waited.