City of Hope and Despair (13 page)

  Kohn was gesturing frantically, trying to attract the assassin's attention. He looked over to discover that the Kayjele had grasped a partially charred stick from the fire, and, holding it by the burned end, had started to carve an image in the ground. First he drew a crude circle, then he marked a cross within it. Dewar stared at the image, determined to understand what the giant was trying to tell him. Kohn pointed repeatedly at the drawing and then forcefully back in the direction they'd come. As he pointed, he grunted repeatedly, clearly agitated.

  A cross within a circle… or perhaps a wheel with only four spokes!

  The assassin nodded to show he understood. "Thank you."

  He still held the horse's tether, and now prepared to mount the beast for the first time. Almost as an afterthought, he turned to Tom. "Mind the girl. I'll be back before sunrise."

  The lad looked up in puzzlement and obvious consternation, but that wasn't Dewar's problem. He climbed onto the horse without another word – never mind that he hadn't ridden in years and this steed and he were complete strangers; they could get acquainted on the road. Before any such concerns could be conveyed to the horse, he set off, riding hard in the direction of Crosston. Babysitting the boy and his friends could go to hell for the moment. That bastard of an innkeeper had some explaining to do.

• • • •

Seth Bryant was cursing himself for being a fool. Years of living the contented life of an innkeeper had turned him soft. As time passed he'd started to think like an innkeeper, to
be
an innkeeper, steadily growing into the persona adopted only as camouflage. The man who first arrived at the Four Spoke Inn would never have worried about protecting an assumed identity and would have done what was necessary without qualm or hesitation. The boy and his companions would have been, should have been, dead before morning. Instead he had made them breakfast with a smile and watched them walk away, knowing they wouldn't find passage upriver and happy to rely on the hired help to hunt them down and do his dirty work. As Seth hurried through night-time streets towards a prearranged meeting, something in the pit of his stomach told him that this had been a calamitous mistake.

  Nor did he see any reason to revise that opinion when he entered the disused warehouse by the waterside – a place brimming with the stink of dampness and riddled with draughts courtesy of the rotted and broken timbers that comprised its walls. Only three figures waited for him. They sat slumped on assorted crates and bore the look of defeated men. One was lying rather than sitting, his body spread over two broken crates and his cheek pressed to one of them. The man was clearly injured, most likely close to death.

  "Well?" Seth demanded, without preamble or ceremony.

  "They fought like mad men," the nearest mercenary offered, not bothering to get up.

  Seth glared at him. What had the fools expected, that their quarry would roll over and accept a knife to the throat without protest? "But did you kill them?" he asked,

already anticipating the answer.

  "Course we did," the other still-sound mercenary asserted, springing to his feet, suddenly all cock and swagger. "Got the woman and the boy for certain, and stuck the giant so full o' holes that he must be a goner."

  "So only the man escaped?"

  "That's right." The man was strutting now, as if to assert who was boss here. "He 'ad some fancy weapon with 'im that fired these razor-sharp discs. Took out Ed and Bart 'fore we even knew he was there."

  A kairuken? Somewhere at the back of Seth's mind old memories stirred, and his unease about the man called Dewar grew, but time to consider such things with greater care later. "So the boy is definitely dead."

  "Yeah, no question."

  He was lying. Seth could see it in the man's eyes as well as in the way his friend looked on anxiously, gaze flickering between them, willing the innkeeper to accept the falsehood and terrified that he might not.

  The cocky one had come to stare into Seth's face, as if daring him to challenge the assertion.

  "And what proof have you brought me of this triumph?" the man who called himself Seth Bryant asked, in a voice none of the Four Spoke Inn's patrons would have recognised.

  "Didn't have time for no proof, did we? Not with that brecker sending his discs whizzing round our ears. Why d'you think there's only the three of us here? But the lad's maggot food for sure; you can count on that."

  "I see."

  "So… if you'll just pay us what was promised, we'll be on our way."

  The man who had once been Seth smiled. Split three ways or perhaps even just the two, payment promised to a dozen would go an awful long way. "My agreement was with your captain." He gazed pointedly at the injured man.

  "Yeah, well, the cap'n's in no state to talk right now, so I'm standin' in for 'im."

  "What happened to him?"

  "Knife in the back from the brecker with the disc weapon as we was leavin'," the mercenary said, looking back towards his injured colleague who continued to pay them no heed and had yet to even open his eyes.

  As the man glanced away, Seth moved. He hadn't let every skill go to seed, and even after all these years he'd kept up his knife work. The blade was out of its sheath and in his hand in an instant, moving through a smooth arc to bury itself to the hilt in the mercenary's side before the man had a chance to register what was happening. A good strike, sliding between ribs and ripping open the heart.

  Seth allowed the knife to drop to the ground still embedded in the corpse, drawing instead his sword as he stepped over the body and advanced purposefully on the remaining mercenary, who had come to his feet and was fumbling to draw his own blade. Was this really the calibre of man he'd been relying on to accomplish a task he himself had been charged with? At least the lad had his sword out now, but it was hardly a contest. Seth strode forward with a momentum that would not be denied. The terror in his opponent's eyes only spurred him on.

  He feinted to strike high, drawing the lad's blade up in a clumsy attempt at defence, but instead switched with a deft turn of wrist and elbow and struck low, easily penetrating the other's ineffectual guard. Easier than taking money from the gullible Wil in a hand of cards. The blade sank into the lad's abdomen. As his thrust ended, Seth yanked the weapon sideways and out. The young mercenary's mouth and eyes gaped wide as realisation of his own death penetrated. Seth swatted the limply-held sword away and, with one scything stroke, decapitated its wielder, relishing the brief resistance of bone and sinew as the blade swept through. A bit melodramatic, perhaps, but a great means of venting frustration and a fitting way to welcome back the person he used to be, the person he had always been, somewhere deep inside.

  He casually retrieved his own knife from the first body and then crossed to examine the mercenary captain, who hadn't moved or reacted throughout the exchange – presumably either unconscious or already dead.

  Seth checked the man's pulse; there wasn't one.

  The blade that had killed him was still embedded in the man's back. Presumably his fellows had either been wary of removing it in case they caused further damage or simply couldn't be bothered. Not a problem anymore either way. Seth pulled the knife free and considered it for a moment. Good weapon – well made and perfectly balanced. He wiped it clean on the dead captain's tunic and tucked it into his belt.

  In the language of a distant nation, Ulbrax meant "shining strength", with a strong undertone of implied masculinity. It was also a proper name; one cast aside several years ago by the man who subsequently answered to Seth Bryant. Perhaps cast aside was putting it too strongly; rather, that identity had been submerged, folded up and sunk into the furthest recesses of memory against future need. To accomplish this submersion, a process of determined self-delusion had been applied, a means of persuading himself not to remember certain thought patterns, habits, mannerisms and abilities. However, in recent days the barriers had eroded and Seth had found himself thinking less and less like a Crosston innkeeper and ever more like Ulbrax the subversive, Ulbrax the spy. Ulbrax the killer.

  Events in the warehouse had accelerated this reversion, which was now all but complete. The man who strode back towards the Four Spoke Inn was a very different proposition from the one who had entered the deserted warehouse a few moments before. There was little of Seth Bryant remaining, and Ulbrax felt nothing but contempt for the person he had become in recent years and particularly for decisions made in recent days. Now was the time to rectify those mistakes before the situation became irretrievable.

  The hour was late; the inn's last customers had made their merry way home long before he'd set out for the clandestine meeting, while those few staying over ought to be fast asleep. He let himself in via the side door, familiarity guiding his feet in the darkness.

  The restoration of his true persona proved timely. Seth Bryant would have stepped into his own room without the faintest suspicion that anything might be amiss, but Ulbrax possessed skills Seth had never even dreamed of. A little rusty, perhaps, but they were still there, as he discovered immediately he crossed the threshold of the room's door. Whoever the intruder might be they were good. There was no sign of a forced entry, nothing overt to arouse suspicion, and there was no sound to give the man away, not even the gentle rise and fall of breathing. Yet Ulbrax could sense him, smell him,
feel
him – this unlooked for, unwanted visitor.

  The space was too cramped for a sword. Ulbrax slid a hand towards his knife.

  "If your hand moves any nearer that blade, you're a dead man," a voice said calmly from the dark.

  "Who… who's there?" he asked in a fair imitation of fear, hiding behind the tattered remnants of Seth.

  His question was ignored. "Unbuckle your sword belt and drop it to the floor."

  Ulbrax moved to obey. He couldn't see the intruder but was confident he'd pinpointed him by his voice – a voice he recognised instantly as Dewar's. That being the case, the verbal threat was most likely backed-up by a kairuken, assuming the mercenary's account could be believed.

  Even allowing for the intruder's eyes being better adapted to the darkness than his own, vision couldn't be that certain. Had Dewar really seen his hand straying towards the knife or was that just an educated guess? Whatever the truth, Ulbrax knew that he had to act now if he was going to do anything at all.

  He bent his knees, crouching slightly as if to allow the sword belt to drop to the floor, but instead converted the crouch into the springboard for a leap which he hoped would take the other by surprise. Not intended as an attack, the leap carried him further into the room, where intervening furniture combined with the darkness ought to make accuracy impossible. Rather than dropping the sword belt he dragged it with him, feeling along its length for the knife he knew to be there even before he'd landed.

  His shoulder hit something – a solid thump of pain that travelled down his arm but which he ignored – and sent it crashing over; the table by the sound and feel. His landing was hampered by the impact but he still managed to complete the intended roll, coming to his feet in a squat and casting the now freed knife at the patch of darkness from which Dewar's voice had emanated. If the kairuken had been fired during this it must have gone well wide of the mark, because Ulbrax wasn't aware of any razor-edged discs coming his way.

  Predictably, the thrown knife clattered against the wall and then the floor. He'd have been amazed if Dewar hadn't moved, but it was worth a shot. His eyes were starting to adapt to the dark a little, though nowhere near as quickly as he needed them to. Enough, however, for him to make out where the window was. Even as the thrown knife thudded to the ground he was moving, throwing himself at the window, face down and arms raised to shield his head. He felt the impact of glass and then the give of it shattering, followed by the sharp sting of shards scraping his body as he hurtled through. More stung his back as he landed and rolled. Something whizzed by, striking his upper arm just below the shoulder; a glancing blow, but enough to shred clothing and slice into skin as it passed. The kairuken! He was on his feet immediately and running, before his opponent could reload, dodging around the corner of the inn to put something solid between him and the weapon. He didn't look to see if he was being followed, assuming that he would be and knowing that the best chance of survival depended on his acting as if all the spawn of hell itself were at his heels. He knew these streets intimately whereas Dewar didn't, knew where to dodge and turn and climb. Pursuit wouldn't be impossible, but he intended to make damned sure it was difficult.

  As he ran, something fell into place in his mind, doubtless nudged there by the threat of the kairuken, and he recalled exactly where he'd heard of a man answering Dewar's description wielding such a weapon before. The shock of revelation struck like a physical blow, causing him to stumble to a halt, hands clasping the rough wood of the nearest building for support as he gasped for breath.

  How could he have failed to see it?

  The words "King Slayer" hissed from his lips. With realisation came a new perspective –this whole situation took on a darker and sharper significance. It had just become personal.

NINE

 
Tom had done most of his growing up with a knife in his belt. Necessity had insisted that he gain some mastery over the weapon, but during the two days spent crossing the City Below in Kat's company, he'd grown increasingly frustrated at how limited a knife was when compared to the twin short swords the renegade nick wielded with such skill and ferocity.

  Before setting out on this expedition into the unknown, he'd asked the prime master for a short sword just like Kat's, so he wouldn't have to feel inadequate if and when any fighting were needed. Now, as he stood at the back of the clearing and waited to meet whoever was trying to creep up on them, that opportunity had arrived and it dawned on him, belatedly, that he had no idea how to actually fight with a sword.

  He'd wanted Mildra to run, to hide in the forest somewhere, but she'd refused. "No time," had been her response, "and how do we know there aren't more of them circling behind us?" Which wasn't the cheeriest of thoughts.

  She now stood behind him and it really was too late for her to go anywhere else as armed men started to emerge from among the trees – grim-faced brigands whom Tom would have given a wide berth had he met them on Thaiburley's streets, let alone out here in the woods at night.

  One of them suddenly convulsed and went down, victim to a flash of silver fired from Dewar's strange weapon. Two of the intruders changed direction and headed towards the sniper, even as a second of their number fell.

  That still left far too many coming towards Tom. A couple were closing in, and it was obvious from their confident grins that they didn't rate a short sword in the hands of an inexperienced boy much of a deterrent. Increasingly, nor did Tom. He started to shuffle to one side and backwards, conscious of the Thaistess at his back, but the intruders simply spread out to widen their approach. Short of turning tail and actually running, there was nowhere else for him to go, and he couldn't flee for fear of leaving Mildra exposed. His heart was racing and his breathing turned ragged and fast. His gaze darted this way and that, but he couldn't think what to do. In the streets he would have run and dodged and hidden, but not here. The cold realisation that he was about to die seeped through him, and that Mildra would be left defenceless. Fear robbed him of all strength, clenching muscles and paralysing his arms; the blade in his hand was suddenly too heavy to lift. He watched in dread fascination as the nearest attacker raised his sword to strike.

  The night was abruptly split by a blood-curdling roar, and what looked to be the trunk of a fair sized tree came whistling through the air to smash into the man poised to run Tom through. Kohn! The blow caught the attacker in the chest, lifting him off his feet to land in a crumpled heap several feet away.

  Tom's paralysis broke and he rushed to take advantage of the distraction, darting forward to stab at an opponent still too surprised by the Kayjele's impressive intervention to do much more than gawp. Fear and shame at his own weakness lent strength to his arm, and the sword sank deep before the brigand even realised what was happening. By the time the man sank to his knees – a look of complete shock on his face – Tom had pulled the blade free again and stepped back to stand by Mildra.

  Now that the paralysis had gone, Tom felt energised and was eager to convince anyone interested that he hadn't been scared at all. But there were still too many. Even as Tom stepped back he was aware of others pushing forward. A sword flashed towards him and he instinctively swayed out of the way and raised his own weapon, deflecting the blow so that it slid past. The clash of steel on steel reverberated through his arm. It was jarring enough to make him wonder how people managed to do this again and again in battle, and, more importantly, whether he was going to be able to.

  Yet as this concern flashed through his thoughts, it withered in the face of blossoming horror as he heard an, "Oh," of surprise and pain and realised that by deflecting the sword thrust, he had merely diverted it behind him – to where Mildra stood.

  He swivelled around, to see the Thaistess crumple to the ground, her hands clasping her left side. The brigand responsible was already turning back to face Tom, and he felt a gathering rage to think that he had allowed this piece of scum to hurt Mildra. His throat let rip a snarl of inchoate fury as he drove his sword at that ugly face, only to have the blow parried with contemptuous ease.

  Before either could strike again, Kohn was there, swinging his improvised club with crushing force to swat the man away. Something or somebody barrelled into Tom's back, knocking him off his feet. He nearly fell on top of Mildra, who was lying motionless on the ground, and he lost hold of his sword in the attempt not to. He ended up with his knees one side of the Thaistess and hands the other, supporting his body which hung suspended above her.

  Tom pushed himself into a sitting position and tried to rouse Mildra, with no effect. He was conscious of Kohn standing before them, and several brigands beyond, but most of his attention was reserved for the young Thaistess. His questing fingers found a pulse; she was still alive. Instinct took over, and as he sat there, cradling Mildra in his arms, he began the recite the personal litany which had served him so well throughout childhood:
you can't
see us, you can't see us, we're invisible, there's nobody here, nobody here at all,
over and over.

  It brought back memories of when he'd hidden himself and Kat from the pursuing demon hounds, which had been the first time he'd ever attempted to hide anyone with his ability other than himself. The thought brought home just how much had happened to him of late. That had only been a dozen or so days ago, yet it seemed to belong in another life entirely. Sudden fear almost made him falter. The prime master had told him that he drew on Thaiburley's mysterious core when doing this. They were now a long way from the city; would his ability still work? How could it possibly over such a distance?

  He refused to dwell on that, forcing the doubts aside and concentrating on his mantra with grim determination. This would work; it had to work, for both his sake and Mildra's.

  He closed his eyes, letting the sounds of continuing struggle wash over the protective bubble of his looped words, as he fell into the familiar rhythm of repetition, determined to keep the two of them safe.

At length he realised that the sounds of fighting had ceased and opened his eyes, allowing the words to stumble to a halt. Kohn was staring at him, expression unreadable, and Tom had a feeling that the Kayjele had been able to see him all along, raising fresh concerns about whether or not his ability had worked. The bodies of attackers lay scattered around the clearing, and there was no sign of Dewar, though noises coming from somewhere beyond Kohn suggested that there might be some sort of pursuit underway.

  Mildra remained unconscious and he felt the warm stickiness of blood on his hand where he'd cradled her. He stared at the serene features of the Thaistess with growing horror, willing her to open her eyes.

  "Mildra?" No response.

  For the first time he began to consider the unthinkable, that she might not wake up at all. There had to be something he could do. He'd been a complete waste of space during the fighting and desperately wanted to make up for that, quite apart from his determination not to lose someone he cared about.

  Dewar reappeared, leading a horse and looking anything but happy. Tom felt a huge surge of relief. He wouldn't have to do anything now; there was somebody else to make the decisions, someone who hopefully would have a clearer idea of how to help the injured girl.

  Yet no sooner had the man returned than he mounted the horse and left them, telling Tom in parting to, "Mind the girl."

  Mind the girl? How was he supposed to do that? Mildra was the healer, not him, and she was the one now in need of healing. He stared at the Thaistess's inert form, at the wound, at the blood that was staining her top. Panic threatened to well up, to overwhelm and incapacitate him, but he fought it down, refusing to let fear be the master here. Think, he chided. What would he have done if they were back in Thaiburley? Larl reeds. How close were they to the river? Not far, surely.

  He turned to Kohn. "Could you get the fire going again, put some water on to boil?"

  Tom thought the giant understood, hoped he did, but didn't wait to find out. He hurried in the direction the river ought to be, and almost immediately heard it; not a great roar, but a gentle lilt of sound which might almost have been a sigh. He followed that soft noise and was soon at the side of the Thair. Visibility was better here, at the edge of the trees' sheltering canopy, where moon and starlight were free to tint the world. He followed the river's course for a while, scouring her bank, working his way in and out among trees whose roots dipped thirstily into the water and the clumps of thick-stemmed sedge and reed in between.

  Within minutes he stumbled on what he'd been look ing for: a clump of larl reeds, their rigid stems pointing pole-stiff towards the sky. Conscious of the passing minutes, he drew his knife and quickly harvested half a dozen, cutting them as close to the marshy ground they favoured as he could reach, then hurried back to the camp, holding his trophies inverted, so that the pointed tips trailed on the ground and none of the milky sap from their severed bases would be wasted.

  He re-entered the clearing to discover that not only had Kohn set a pan of water on the rejuvenated fire as he'd asked but the Kayjele had also uncovered some bandages and a jar of salve from among the supplies.

  "Thank you, Kohn."

  Despite his anxiety over Mildra, Tom was feeling a good deal better about things. He might not have covered himself in glory during the fight, but at least he was now doing something useful. He just hoped it would prove to be enough.

  He made a wad from a bandage and dipped it into the water and used it to clean Mildra's wound, then hurriedly cut a couple of the reeds into strips and loaded these into the pan, which was just starting to simmer. Next he squeezed the precious, sticky sap from one of the reeds, allowing it to fall in stringy droplets directly onto the wound. He'd seen enough knife injuries treated among the Blue Claw to know roughly what to do; the rest he was improvising. A smear of salve and then, using the tip of his knife, he manoeuvred the softened wad of fibrous larl out of the boiling water and placed it as gently as he could onto the wound, covering this with the broad section of a further reed, before wrapping the whole in a bandage. The result looked lumpy and ungainly; nothing like any of the work he'd seen performed on injuries before, but he felt certain he'd got the basics right.

  Mildra hadn't stirred or uttered a sound throughout, but she was still breathing, which was infinitely better than the alternative. Kohn helped him lift her fragile form nearer the fire, where he then covered her with a blanket, after which there was nothing to do but wait; for morning, for Mildra to wake, and for Dewar to return.

  Given a choice, Tom knew which of the three he could most easily have lived without; though the horse would have been useful, if only to get Mildra to a healer or medic.

  Tom couldn't even think about trying to sleep again, so he sat watching Mildra, the looming presence of Kohn on the Thaistess's far side. Tom would have sworn that he barely took his eyes off of her swaddled form, yet found himself lulled into a semi-dreamlike state by the burning embers of the fire and taken completely by surprise when a remarkably calm and collected voice said, "Larl reeds, good thinking."

  Startled, he jerked his head around to see the Thaistess roll over, if a little gingerly, and begin to push herself up into a sitting position.

  "Mildra! Are you…"

  "I'm fine." And she certainly looked and sounded it, though Tom was struggling to reconcile this very awake, very aware person with the limp and bloodied girl he had been tending such a short time ago.

  Kohn made a noise which he took to be an expression of happiness.

  "Thank you, Kohn," Mildra said. "And to you, Tom," she added, smiling at him. Then her expression changed, as her fingers explored his handiwork. "By the Goddess; how many reeds did you pack into this thing?"

  "A few," he admitted uncomfortably. "You had us worried."
Us
seemed far easier and safer to admit to than saying that
he'd
been worried sick.

  "Sorry, but the wound was a serious one and it's not easy to heal yourself. I had to turn my abilities inward, start rebuilding from the inside out, and the pain was… excruciating." She shuddered, and Tom felt a pang of guilt, remembering his own part in deflecting towards her the thrust that had done the damage, however inadvertently. "I had to sink into a healing trance in order to focus." She continued to fiddle with the bandage. "Would you help me get this off?"

  Tom hesitated, abruptly embarrassed at touching the young woman's naked flesh now that she was awake, when he'd been perfectly at ease doing so when she was hurt and unconscious. He eventually made a token effort at helping but was relieved when she proved able to do most of the work herself. As she uncovered the actual wound, Tom could only stare. He'd seen healers at work before but rarely on anything as serious as Mildra's injury looked to have been, and the gaping, bloody hole that he'd seen mere hours before had now disappeared, a subtle ridge of scar the only thing to mark its position.

  "My first war wound." She smiled again. "What happened after I went under?"

  "Kohn and Dewar fought off the attackers," he replied. "I… hid us." It sounded pathetic even to his own ears, though evidently not to Mildra's.

  "Thank you," she said again, reaching out to briefly squeeze his hand. "You saved my life as well as your own."

  "But how did I do it? I thought my abilities drew on Thaiburley's core, so how do they work so far away from the city?"

  Mildra smiled. "It's the river, Tom. Ultimately, the city's core is a gift from the goddess, and the Thair links Thaiburley to its mother as if the river were an unsevered umbilical cord. I can sense her presence in the waters constantly, and so long as we remain close to the Thair our abilities – my healing, your hiding – will continue to work as if we were still inside the city's walls."