City of Hope and Despair (12 page)

  "What?"

  "This is something new Thomas, a threat the like of which the city has never faced before, if our damaged records are to be believed. We don't know where this bone flu originated, nor how. All we do know is that it's here, it's spreading, and to date the disease has proved 100% fatal. Everyone who contracts bone flu has died."

  "And I'm afraid I have some more bad news to add," Jeanette said.

  "Go on," the prime master said, bracing himself.

  "There's been a new outbreak, in the Residences. Bone flu has started attacking the arkedemics."

  He nodded, absorbing this. It was the sort of development they'd been dreading. Not unexpected news, but still a bitter blow.

  "Has this new outbreak been contained?"

  "For now, but I don't hold out any great hopes that we'll be able to do so in the long run." Jeanette sounded as weary and frustrated as he felt. "How can we hope to contain it when we don't even know for sure how the infection's spread, for Thaiss' sake?"

  "But you will work it out," he assured her, "you will."

  He had to believe that. More importantly, she had to believe it.

As the two masters slipped out into the gloom of Thaiburley's night-time corridors once more, Thomas turned to him and said, "You have to tell the rest of the council."

The prime master nodded. "I know."

  Now that the infection had spread, there was little choice. "But can you not see the implications here, Thomas?"

  The other looked at him expectantly.

  "A multitude of people have settled in Thaiburley over the centuries, Thomas. The blood of the founders, those who built the city, still flows through the veins of many, but so diluted as to be all but insignificant. Only in a very few does it flow pure enough for the core to recognise that individual as founder stock and so allow them access to its potential, manifesting the various forms of talent. Yet talent is what enables this city to function. We masters and arkademics use talent every day to fulfil our duties; without it, Thaiburley would very swiftly devolve into anarchy.

  "And yet we're about to tell the most frequent manipulators of the city's core, the most important dozen people in all of Thaiburley, that the very talent that makes them special might leave them vulnerable to a horrifying death. Could you blame them if they stopped exercising their abilities? And what would happen if all the things those individuals do for the city were no longer done?"

  "It would be the end," Thomas whispered. "Of Thaiburley… of everything."

  "Indeed." This was a bleak assessment, but hardly one the prime master could fault. "Now you understand the nature of my dilemma."

EIGHT

 
The attackers didn't use bows, though whether that was because they were intent on taking their quarry alive or merely a reflection of the darkness and the likelihood of shooting their own men, Dewar couldn't be certain.

  As he listened to their stealthy approach he cursed, fluently and silently. There were more of them than he would have expected – ten at least – in addition to which this was not really his kind of a fight. He was a skulker rather than a head-on brawler and preferred conflict to arrive at a time and place of his choosing, not to have it thrust upon him like this. Still, he'd little choice but to play the hand that was dealt him. The assassin had moved to one side of the clearing, back pressed against a tree, braced and ready.

  He was just grateful that they'd been granted some warning of the attack; Kohn had somehow sensed the enemy's approach, though it wasn't the giant that shook him awake but the Thaistess, whom Kohn had evidently woken first. Even so, they didn't have much time, but at least they weren't destined to die in their sleep and could meet their attackers with weapons drawn. Mind you, judging by the way Tom was holding his sword, Dewar doubted whether the lad had ever handled one before. He looked more like a knife fighter whose blade had outgrown him. Discounting the Thaistess, who appeared to be unarmed, there were only three of them as it was, so he just hoped the former street-nick proved to be more accomplished than he looked

  No further time to worry about that – the first attackers were already advancing into the clearing. Dewar raised his kairuken, took careful aim and fired. The weapon, a deceptively simple spring operated catapult with a handgrip and trigger, was designed to be quickly reloaded, giving it the edge over a crossbow in Dewar's opinion. Even as one razor-edged metallic disc flew towards a shadowy assailant, a second was being slipped into place. He fired again, catching another attacker a split second after the first target hit the ground.

  That was to be his last opportunity to get a shot away though, as two grim-faced men turned and hurried towards him. He was forced to abandon the kairuken and draw his sword.

  Dewar was a good swordsman when he needed to be, verging on expert. But he avoided such intimate exchanges whenever possible, especially in forests, where twisting your foot on an exposed tree route or tripping over other woodland detritus offered such golden opportunities for cruel chance to kick a man in the balls.

  He pushed himself away from the tree, ever conscious of his footing, angling the move so that one of the attackers was slightly behind and so hampered by the other. Peripherally he was aware of a great roar that could only be Kohn, and of men's curses and movement to his right, but he shut that out, narrowing his focus onto these two men before him.

  There didn't seem to be any plan here – no attempt to make the most of the fact that there were two of them to his one. They simply came on. Their mistake.

  He danced back to avoid a crude cut from the first attacker, using the foot that had gone backward to spring forward again immediately, so that he was upon the man even as the blade sailed past, thrusting with his own sword. His lunge only scored what amounted to a deep scratch, as the fellow twisted in the wake of his strike; either a very clumsy move or a quite brilliant one, since it saved his life. Dewar wasn't taking any chances, kneeing this first opponent – who doubled up with a dramatic
whoomf
of expelled breath – and slamming the pommel of his sword into the side of the man's head. That way, the blade was still facing in the right direction to parry a blow from the second attacker. Hampered by his colleague, this was never going to be more than a hopeful thrust, but the man quickly moved around to engage the assassin properly. Dewar had planned to finish the first man off before facing the second, but he wasn't given the chance.

  What was more, this opponent actually seemed to know what he was doing, taking the assassin's measure with a well rehearsed combination of strikes, the first high and the second low, while keeping his own guard high enough to leave no obvious openings. Dewar feinted and then jabbed in earnest, once twice, was parried each time and then had to jump back smartly to avoid the other's riposte. They were closely matched, and he had neither the time for this nor the desire to see which of them would eventually better the other. Then he remembered the tree roots.

  Stepping back hurriedly in the face of another attack, Dewar seemed to trip and fall backwards, twisting around desperately as he did so. Seizing the opportunity, his opponent closed in, and the assassin barely blocked an otherwise lethal strike. Yet even as the two blades met Dewar's other hand was in motion, swinging up to sink into the man's groin the dagger he had surreptitiously drawn under cover of the apparent fall and roll. The brigand let out a scream of pain and surprise as Dewar twisted the knife, feeling the warmth of fresh blood coat his hand.

  He was on his feet again in an instant, ignoring the stricken swordsman for the moment as he faced the first attacker again, now recovered but still not in the same class as his colleague. Dewar easily blocked a wildly aimed blow before driving the edge of his own blade through the man's collar bone and on.

  The other swordsman was desperately trying to staunch the flow of blood from his groin and didn't seem to offer much of a threat, but there was no point in taking any chances. Dewar ran him through and then turned his attention back to see what else was going on around him.

  The first thing he saw was Kohn. The Kayjele fought like a man possessed. As far as Dewar knew, the giant was usually as bereft of weapons as the Thaistess, but the tree bough he'd picked up instead of a blade made the point pretty much irrelevant.

  If you were going to pick a fight with a Kayjele there was one thing you really had to be aware of. Not necessarily that they were big and so had a long reach, though that was certainly worth bearing in mind, nor the fact they had only one eye and so perhaps suffered from a lack of depth perception. No, what you most had to bear in mind was that they were strong. Really strong, not just because of their size; even when proportions were taken into account a Kayjele packed far more punch than your average man, which was why they made such ideal tenders for the pumping stations dotted around Thaiburley's multiple levels, where from time to time heavy equipment had to be moved and regulated. The Kayjele could perform unaided tasks that would otherwise have required the help of an ox or two. Dewar supposed this disproportionate strength had developed in response to the harshness of their mountain home.

  So, if you choose to place the trunk of a small tree in the grasp of hands powered by that sort of muscle, the result is always likely to be impressive. A fact which several of the attackers were now discovering to their cost. The giant was holding off a semi-circle of four armed men, roaring and snarling defiance while brandishing his length of tree as if it were a twig.

  The men feinted and darted, making a fine show of looking for an opening while doubtless hoping one of the others would be the first to chance their arm. The crumpled forms of a couple of their colleagues lying around Kohn's feet offered a clue as to why the quartet seemed a tad reluctant to push forward. As the assassin watched, one of the fallen pair moved, slowly, trying to drag himself away. The other one didn't.

  No sign of the Thaistess or the boy. Dewar assumed they must have made their escape into the trees. Probably wise; they would only have been in the way judging by what he'd seen earlier of the boy's sword knowledge.

  The assassin thought about going back for his kairuken, which should still be close to the tree where he'd dropped it, but decided to make do with what was to hand, or rather foot. Of course he could have employed the sword which hadn't been sheathed as yet, but he was curious. The man was so focussed on the Kayjele and that intimidating bough that he seemed oblivious to Dewar's approach until the assassin's boot landed squarely in the brigand's back, sending him stumbling forward.

  What followed lived up to Dewar's expectations in every way. Kohn's hefty club came whistling around in a two handed swing, catching the brigand while he was still trying to recover his balance. The bough struck the unfortunate man's head with a sound like the clap of thunder, lifting him from his feet and sending him flying through the air to land in a heap some distance away. Dewar doubted he'd be moving again in a hurry.

  The brigand furthest away then gathered his courage while the other two gawped and, seizing the half opportunity offered by his colleague's demise, chose to move in. However, in mid-stride he seemed to think better of the notion as Kohn's club came whistling back towards him, and tried to retreat without following through on the attack. He wasn't quite quick enough. Tree trunk smashed into hand and, with a yelp, the man dropped his sword.

  Dewar had to concentrate after that, as he crossed swords with the man who'd been closest to the fellow Kohn had just attempted to swat into the forest's canopy. Unlike the first two the assassin had fought, who if anything had seemed overconfident, this one didn't seem to have his heart in the contest. Younger than those others, his stance was wholly defensive and he gave ground from the first. Then Kohn roared, a sound chilling enough to give any man pause, let alone a lad already looking for a way out of a scrap. The youth flung his sword at the assassin, and then turned around and ran, hot on the heels of the other surviving attackers.

  Dewar sheathed his sword and deftly drew a throwing knife, confident that he couldn't miss at this distance. Yet, as he took aim, a vast shape hove into view; Kohn, chasing after the brigands himself and doubtless ensuring they wouldn't stop running for a while, but robbing the assassin of a clear shot in the process.

  "Kohn!" Cursing, Dewar slipped the knife back into its sheath and set off in pursuit. This wasn't some random attack, he felt certain, which raised such interesting questions as who had sent them and why. Questions which the assassin was determined to hear answered.

  Only once he was well into the trees and knee deep in bracken did he remember how awkward blundering around in a forest at night could be. Woodcraft was a skill Dewar hadn't needed to call upon in years, and he was quickly discovering that, like all mistresses, she demanded a certain level of dedication. Dare to ignore her and she'd desert you. Despite his best efforts, it sounded to his own ears as if he was moving through the undergrowth with all the elegance and precision of a heavily pregnant goat.

  Fortunately, those he followed were making no concessions to stealth at all, so compared to them he seemed an insubstantial spirit on silent feet.

  The assassin caught up with the fleeing men as they were scrambling onto their horses, cursing and squabbling the whole while, each with their own opinion as to why the supposed ambush had turned into such a shambles – all of which doubtless laid responsibility firmly at someone else's feet. There were the expected ten or eleven horses, though only three carried riders, still hastily settling into their saddles. Only three? Had they really taken care of so many, or had others simply fled in the wrong direction?

  Dewar didn't stop to wonder, but drew the throwing knife from his belt as he ran towards the mounted men, and flung it without missing a stride. His aim was satisfyingly accurate and he watched the knife bury itself between the shoulder blades of his target. The man cried out and slumped forward over his mount's neck, but he didn't lose his seat.

  Somebody yelled, "Ride!"

  Horses whinnied and reared and pulled at their tethers. Either the fleeing men had released all the steeds, not just the ones they needed, or the mounts hadn't been properly secured in the first place, because suddenly horses were running everywhere and Dewar found himself surrounded by barrelling bodies and threatened by flailing legs and hooves. He did his best to shield his face, smelling warm horse flesh and instinctively closing his ears against the snorts and angry whickering, the sounds of snapping branches and crushed foliage that surrounded him, as he tried to follow the fleeing riders. He saw that one of them had grabbed the reins of their wounded fellow's mount, and the three were quickly away, out of Dewar's reach.

  The assassin cursed, as annoyed at losing a good throwing knife as he was about the trio's escape.

  The loose horses had bolted, but two remained, either not freed when the others had been or more effectively tethered. They were skittish and alarmed, but he set about soothing them with quietly spoken words. He approached with exaggerated care, using a constant flow of gently voiced imprecations to woo them.

  He would love to lead the pair of them back to the others, but knew how difficult that was going to be with two nervous horses, so settled for doing this one at a time, deciding to begin with the one that seemed most amenable – a brindle mare. After making sure the other was firmly tied, he led the mare back the way he'd come.

  She wasn't entirely happy about the idea and he was instantly glad he hadn't tried to bring both together. She shied and snorted, but fell short of actually digging her hooves in and refusing.

  Dewar used gentle but firm strength to cajole the horse forward, walking beside her head and talking to her all the while. "Come on you mangy excuse for a horse," he said in his sweetest, softest voice. "The glue pot's waiting to welcome these tired old bones of yours if you don't come this brecking way," he cooed. "It's a long while since I've feasted on horse meat. Roasted over an open fire, on a spit. Lovely." And so on until he and his newly acquired mount entered the clearing.

  The boy and the Thaistess were huddled together on the ground. At first he thought they were merely hugging each other for reassurance, but then her realised it was more than that.

  The boy looked up, distraught. "It's Mildra," he said, "she's hurt."

  Dewar could see that much. The clue had come from the wound in her side and the blood that soaked her top around it. Plus the fact that she had evidently lost consciousness.