Cloud Castles (3 page)

Something sang past my head. No insect, that was for sure. I ducked, flinching. Above us the hillside exploded in a shower of dust and pebbles. I gaped like an idiot; being shot at was the last thing I’d expected. I tried to wave again, to show I wasn’t armed; there was another loud crackle, and this time the path leaped and spattered. I hunkered right down, jammed my heels into the horse’s flanks and yearned, uncharacteristically, for spurs. I needn’t have bothered. The canter became a gallop, and we positively flew. The next explosion was ragged, and the air sang like a bee-swarm. More than one shot; it took me that long to register it. Volley fire – that meant trained men. Somebody’s soldiers were shooting at me, without identification or a challenge or anything. They hadn’t even waited; they could have got a lot closer and made sure of me. But they’d fired the moment they came in range – as if they were scared, or something. Of one man who couldn’t be carrying anything larger than a pistol? It didn’t make any kind of sense.

But they weren’t giving up. A shark shadow glided across the path ahead, very close to the hill. I looked up, tried to signal, found myself staring straight up into the sullen glitter of gun barrels from both cars. I yelped and flattened out in the saddle; they vanished in a streak of orange flame, earth and rock tore up around us – behind us! We were going too fast. The airship almost smashed into the hillside; the engine pulse quickened suddenly to a roar, and the air was suddenly full of spray as it shed ballast. The nose pulled up, around, and it swung violently; the motors roared and wavered. I imagined the men in those cars staggering, sprawling, sliding down into a bruised heap in one corner. I grimaced vindictively; I hadn’t so much as glimpsed a single face, but I hated their guts. Being shot at does have that effect.

The airship was steadying now, chugging outwards in a great circle from the mountainside, ready to come swooping back at me from ahead. I patted the horse’s neck, feeling a flush of sick anger. Speed wouldn’t save us, then; we needed cover. I couldn’t remember any on that upward path – and I wasn’t sure I could turn this great beast back. Just trying to rein in at these speeds could spill us both down the mountainside, or cause so much confusion we’d be left as sitting ducks. Then, just beyond the corner ahead, two great standing stones loomed
up, towering over the path like rough seconds from the Stonehenge factory. Our best – our only – bet. I flicked the reins and hissed, ‘
Go, boy! For your bloody life!’

And go he did. I nearly lost the reins, clung to the lathered neck and gibbered. I could have sworn he’d reacted an instant before I did, as if he too had seen and understood; maybe he had. We were at the bend now, hooves scrabbling in the dust, almost in the shadow of the stones – but darkening the sky ahead was the airship, descending like a glittering cloud charged with deadly lightning. Still a chance—

Out from between the stones a figure glided, hooded and cowled like some kind of monk. He didn’t spare us a glance, but lifted his hands in a brusque, dismissive gesture, like a slap. Quite lightly – yet the sense of contained violence was so strong that the stallion shrilled and reared, forelegs striking at the air, and I fought to keep my seat. Not surprising, given what followed. The path convulsed, the very air bent and shimmered like an image in a distorting mirror, and through the heart of the distortion the dust and earth and loose rocks lifted and sprayed out in a great curving stream, straight at the oncoming airship. Rocks crashed off the coaming of the cars, drubbed at the fabric of the canopy, struck screaming off the airscrews; the machine lurched and shivered under the impacts, its gasbags in danger. I heard the distant splintering of glass. Again the motors roared, ballast blew, and the machine went swinging out over the path’s edge into emptiness. A single shot, aimed by brilliance or luck, splashed off the stone near the newcomer’s cowled head, leaving a bright streak of lead. He didn’t seem to notice, but he stood watching the machine slide away sideways down the sky, its pilots wrestling with it as I was with the horse.

I managed to quiet him; so apparently did he, for I saw the great machine come about and rise a little, begin moving forward again. I expected it to soar back for an answering volley, but instead it sank down swiftly, till the cloud roof swallowed it. I sat an instant, feeling the horse’s ribs expand with great shuddering breaths. His neck trembled, and he shied slightly when I patted him – still nervous and no wonder. I looked down expectantly at my rescuer.

He looked up. It was my turn to shudder
then. I had to swallow before I could get the name out.

‘Stryge!
I mean … Le Stryge. What the hell—’

‘Am I doing here?’ The harsh nasal accent was the same, the continual rasp of anger behind the voice unaltered; but a crooked smile belied it. A wry, thin-lipped thing, sour as green persimmons, but a smile all the same. ‘Saving your wretched neck, my boy. My usual occupation in your company, is it not?’

I blinked. Something about him had changed. There was the same almost sickening impact in the cold grey gaze. The face could have been one of those classical busts, scholar, philosopher, priest or ascetic idealized in white marble. But the life that burned beneath made it a deadly weapon, a blunt instrument, square and stone-hard, the pallid skin deeply lined, the nose a thin flaring blade and the mouth a bloodless, lipless slash above the arrogant jutting jaw. How would you tag that bust – fanatic, madman, psychopath? That’s what I’d thought of him at first sight; now I knew a better one.

Necromancer.

A dangerous one; murderous, if all I’d heard was true. And yet, startlingly, he had changed. Instead of the tattered black coat and belt there was that dark robe, figured velvet by the look of it; and the white hair, once matted and straggling, was tied back with an elegant bow of black velvet – and powdered? The old swine looked like some kind of eighteenth-century priest – one of the racier French
abbes
, maybe. But what else had altered? The dirt of the ascetic still ingrained his face, shadowing its already deep lines. Along his high forehead the powder was clotted and grey, and little yellow drops congealed at the edges of his eyes; and I could still smell the dank tramp’s odour around him. I wasn’t alone: the horse was wrinkling its nostrils. Even the velvet robe was caked in places with ancient filth. A leopard
can
change its spots – by becoming a black panther. Better keep this polite.

‘You’re looking well,’ I told him, and he bowed slightly. ‘I assume I owe all … this’, indicating the horse, ‘to you?’

He bowed again. Was he trying to make some kind of good impression? ‘I felt the least I could do was provide you with suitable transport. The fact is, young man, that
just as you once felt in need of my services, so I feel in need of yours.’

‘What
– I mean, pardon? Of—’

Gravel ground in his throat; he was chuckling. ‘Ah, entertain no fears, I would hardly call upon you for anything … touching on my greater concerns. Let us say rather that I find myself in need of exactly those qualities I no longer command. I am an old man now, I grow tired easily. And I did not want your long-standing obligation to be a burden, a lingering concern. Better, I thought, to—’

‘Er, excuse me a moment, my …
obligation
?’

He smiled deprecatingly, though his eyes glittered. ‘Why, yes. Our first encounter. You would not deny I was of help to you then? At every stage, material help? Without me, would you have found the fair Claire? Would you have stopped the Wolves’ ship in its flight – or tracked them down once more when they escaped you? And my precious young helpers, who were sacrificed in that cause. Even among the clouds of the Great Wheel, you surely cannot have forgotten?’

‘Well, no,’ I said, flustered. I’d had the odd nightmare about those ‘young helpers’, when I found out what they were. ‘Of course not! I thanked you, didn’t I? I gave you a small fortune in gold!’

‘Very graciously,’ said the old man, with that contemptuous crackle still in his voice. ‘But could it have bought that help elsewhere? My young creature of commerce, not all debts may be repaid in gold. And what I would have of you entails only a brief and simple effort. Better, I thought, to give you the chance to be quit of it now, thus, and wipe clean the slate. Why, I had not looked for even this slight show of reluctance!’ He grimaced. ‘I would not try to pretend any such thing could wound me. But I must warn you, I can conceive of no easier way to clear your debt.’

The horse was restive, shifting his stance and swinging his head impatiently as if he was growing more, not less, uneasy. I didn’t blame him one bit. I made a great play of patting and calming him, to give me time to think. Le Stryge! Yes, he had helped me all those years ago – though at the end, if anything, I’d saved him. A long time later I’d thought of turning to him again; but the idea had horrified my friends of the Spiral. Jyp the Pilot most of all, Jyp who had taken me to him in the first place. Hadn’t he stressed how dangerous Stryge was – how untrustworthy? How he might make use of any claim I gave him against me – but had I already given him one? What power would it lend
him if I had?

The great horse was responding, answering to my voice and touch; it was Stryge who made him nervous, that was obvious – and interesting. The old swine might have sent him, but the horse was no creature of his. I sat up straight in the saddle, and stared down at him.

‘I pay my debts, Stryge, when they’re fair. But I know why you helped me. It wasn’t for nothing. It was to clear one of
your
obligations – to Jyp; it’s him I owe, if anyone. Anything you want done would tip the scales the other way. A long way, only I might have trouble collecting. You used to call me a fool, Stryge. Well, if you want some rushing-in done –
find another
!’

I reined in with a jerk, dug in my heel. With a loud whinny the great grey, jumpy already, wheeled and reared high. His hooves kicked sparks from the stone above the old man’s head, and Stryge, caught beneath, staggered and fell back behind the monolith. As I’d hoped, I flicked the reins as the horse settled, but it needed no telling; he sprang away with a wild glad cry, back along the path, the way we’d come. I sank low, my back crawling at the thought of what might be launched after us any minute. Another stone-storm, some blast or blight or fireball – or some terrible snare to draw me back, a fish struggling on a swallowed hook. More likely something I literally couldn’t imagine. I was far more afraid of that than I had been of bullets; I longed to dodge, to swerve, but up here that’d be fatal. No, there was only the speed of those strong legs.

The turn, at last, and we were rounding it, out of direct sight of the stones. We were back where we’d been shot at, but it felt safe by comparison. The horse remembered, that was obvious. He went like the wind, that noble beast, and the dust flew up behind us like a shield. I glanced anxiously over at the cloud roof, but nothing stirred; and ahead of us loomed the crest of the pass. We had to slow here, and I risked a long look back. Far behind, surprisingly far, a small dark figure stood in the midst of the scarred roadway, as if watching us; rising cloud coiled and writhed behind him in a dragonish corona, but he made no move. I shuddered again, and the horse whinnied, as if to reassure me. With surefooted grace he picked his way over the lip of the path and onto the stony slope below, skipping and sliding down that steep stretch, around and out on the broader mountain path. There he picked up the pace
again; I glanced back, wondering if I’d see that short silhouette against the sky, ready to drop an avalanche on our heads, but nothing stirred.

The sun was sinking now, the sky darkening. The heights were becoming less distinct in the reddening light, inchoate swathes of shadow spreading across the summit. The cloud pool below grew greyer and dimmer, and as we came down towards it, cantering again, it washed up around us. Sight dimmed in the mirk; I barely made out a shadow-wall ahead. But before I could rein in we were onto it, and tree branches stung my cheeks. Only for an instant; then there was a hard harsh sound beneath those hooves, and we came out into shadow. The acrid air caught at my throat and stung my eyes. The horse shied slightly at the sound of a nearby sports car revving up, and so did I. Shaken, I slid out of the saddle, and the tarmac heaved beneath me at first. I hung onto the pommel for support, and fumbled in my pocket for more sugar.

‘I wish I knew your name,’ I told him. ‘Ought to be – what? Bucephalus, Aster, Grane, maybe …’ I made the best fuss of him I could, loosening girth and bit, wishing I could give him the rub-down and proper stabling he deserved. But though he lingered willingly enough, he began to look away, back beyond the trees; and I guessed he was uncomfortable here. Maybe he was being summoned, somehow. I gave him one last lump, and watched him sniff the air, turn and trot back under the branches. I turned too, and strode away back across the car park – or tried to. It was too long since I’d ridden much; my legs and backside were one glowing hoop of agony. I prayed devoutly that the terrace was still empty and nobody watching as I hobbled up the steps, limped to my table and slumped down – carefully, minding my blisters. In the sky now the sun had hardly shifted, yet the difference was vast. The light had changed, reddened slightly, and the clouds were only clouds and nothing more, as immense and insubstantial as the imaginings of men. Only in my mind it lingered, in the pain I’d earned, and the nagging worry. It had happened; there was no arguing with pain. I had ridden up over that path, as I’d wished to, and what had I found? A deep cauldron of cloud, and an even deeper enigma. And to go with it? Danger, deadly
danger maybe. Just think, only an hour or two ago I’d been feeling bored – or was it hours?

Unconsciously, answering my thirst, my hand had sunk to that untouched gin glass; and it was still chill in my fingers. I raised it – and stopped, staring. It was the same glass, unquestionably, but in all this warmth the
ice cubes hadn’t even had time to melt.