Dark Heart (40 page)

And looked straight into the eye of an enormous fish.

Take hold of the boat, little Lenares
, came the Daughter’s voice, though weakly, as though from a great distance, and full of pain.

Lenares clamped her arm under the bow seat, and the massive eye vanished.

‘You’ll enjoy it,’ Olifa said, fondling her. ‘Women always enjoy it—’

A great weight crashed into the bottom and side of the boat, lifting it up and out of the water. Lenares held fast, managing to wedge one of her feet under the stern seat, but Olifa was not so lucky. He grabbed at something, anything, which turned out to be Lenares, but she shook him off. The boat thumped back down into the water with a splash, and the man was no longer in it.

Lenares got to her knees and looked for a weapon. Under the stern seat was a pack, with a knife strapped to the back: she snatched at it and missed, then grabbed it on the second attempt. She stood, making the boat rock from side to side, and searched the water for Olifa.

Nothing.

She wasn’t letting go of the knife in her right hand, so she began to do up her tunic with her left, but couldn’t manage it, so unnerved and fumble-fingered his attack had left her. Why? What right did he have? And what good was cleverness if it could be defeated by mere strength? She was angry at Olifa for betraying her, at herself for being so weak, and at the Daughter for saving her.

Where was the big fish?

A splash beside the boat made her scream. A hand reached out of the water and grabbed the gunwale, tipping the boat alarmingly. She sat down with a squeal. A head followed the hand.

‘Lenares, Lenares,’ the miner said, spitting out water, ‘pull me back into the boat.’

No please, no sorry, no promises not to do it again.

‘Why should I? You frightened me. You were going to hurt me.’

‘I can’t get my boots off, no,’ he said. ‘They are miner’s boots with steel toecaps, and they will pull me down, yes, down to drown. You don’t want me to drown, oh no. Who will guide you back to your friends? Who will help with the boat? Only Olifa, oh yes.’

‘Yes, I do. I do want you to drown. Drown, mister.’

‘It’s my boat.’

The worst thing he could have said.

‘It was my body!’ Lenares screamed, and brandished the knife.

Behind Olifa the big fish raised its head out of the water and opened its mouth, revealing two rows of saw-sharp teeth.
Run your knife along his knuckles
, the Daughter said.
It will make him let go. The cut doesn’t have to be deep. If you don’t, he’ll climb back in and do worse things to you.

Lenares nodded to the fish, took her knife, looked Olifa in the eye—more than he’d done to her, with his cloth over her face—and ran the blade briskly across the tops of his fingers.

‘Aaah, girl, what are you doing?’

‘Making you let go. So let go, or I’ll chop your fingers right off.’

‘You can’t do this to me. I have the huanu stone!’

‘I’m not magical,’ she said. ‘Not strong either, only clever. So your stone avails you nothing. Let go.’

She ran the knife across his fingers again, more forcefully this time, raising blood. Still he clung to the boat.

‘There’s something in the water,’ the man said, his voice shaking.

The fish had lowered its head under the surface, but it wouldn’t be far away. In fact, there was a long black shadow nearby. He could probably see it.

‘Swim to shore, you can make it,’ Lenares said.

He made no move to obey her.

‘I warned you.’

She stabbed the knife towards his hand. He let go of the boat just in time and she missed his fingers. The blade thunked into the gunwale. Immediately the man began to drift backwards—only relative to the boat, Lenares told herself.

‘Swim!’ she shouted to him.

He dog-paddled furiously, trying to stay above water, all the while calling her vile names.

The fish raised its head directly behind him.

Don’t look, little Lenares.

Olifa noticed she was looking beyond him, turned his head, saw the fish and shrieked in a high-pitched voice.

We wait until beyond range of the magic-killer in your boat
, the Daughter said.
Then we strike.

‘No, Lenares! Come back, I beg of you!’

Who could resist such a plea? She didn’t want him eaten by the Daughter-fish. Now she had the knife, what could he do? She put a hand to the tiller.

The water around the miner erupted. Six fish, each as big as the first, formed a circle—a hole—around the frantic man, who uttered one last cry before the creatures lunged. A frenzy of thrashing, water bubbling and boiling, then turning red. One or two things bobbed to the surface. Bits of meat. A boot with no toe.

And now I really do have to recuperate
, said the Daughter.
And digest everything that has happened today.
Laughter, then silence.

QUEEN

THE DHAURIAN ATTIRE HAD been a good idea in Dhauria, but a fortnight of warm summer rain had rendered Stella’s robes practically unusable. She sighed and rubbed her clammy hands on the wet fabric. The garment had been practical and comfortable in the hot westerly winds that swept over Ikhnos, but then the humid southerlies rolled in, bringing low cloud and persistent drizzle that no clothes, let alone a flimsy robe, could keep out for long.

Surprisingly, it was Robal who called the halt and sought the nearest town. His salt-and-pepper whiskers, now a proper beard, dripped rainwater onto his sodden robe: he looked ridiculous and he knew it.

‘We’re practically begging to be robbed,’ he said, explaining his choice of road. ‘Not to mention the chafing. At least my trousers were waterproof. And,’ he added grimly, ‘I want to be rid of this red stain.’

‘Might be horses here,’ said Stella. ‘And they might even be willing to sell them.’

‘We are hardly going to be set upon by thieves,’ Heredrew said, ignoring Stella’s jibe. His mood, never bright, had descended into barely controlled fury at their enforced walk. He couldn’t even use the blue fire to communicate with Andratan, he said, for fear it would be wrested from him by the gods. Robal had laughed at that, pointing out the fable in which men steal fire from the gods, but Heredrew had not shared the humour. He’d wondered aloud how much longer his
Maghdi Dasht
castellan would wait without communication before annexing the keep and kingdom both, assuming his master had somehow perished. Stella had privately wished the castellan good fortune, but had been prudent enough not to mention this sentiment to Heredrew.

The Undying Man’s hands twitched as he spoke. Probably wishing someone would set upon them.

‘Perhaps in this town we’ll find someone who acknowledges Andratan’s authority sufficiently to give us horses,’ Conal said brightly, an innocent smile playing on his lips.

Heredrew’s other sore point neatly targeted. He had admitted to his companions that the level of submission to his authority was far lower than he had imagined; certainly far lower than he’d been led to believe by the Ikhnos factors. He had invoked the Seal of Andratan in every town and village they had passed through, and at only one place had the locals been obliging enough to sell—sell, not give!—them a weary pony and wearier dray, to allow Phemanderac an easier passage. The sorcerer had very nearly decided to reveal his identity in one small town, a few days north of Foulwater, where his seal was met with scorn and outright hostility. Stella had been able to persuade him to stay his hand, though she herself had been incensed that night when catching the cook urinating in their stew. She had not objected to the beating Robal had given the man, and had held a drawn sword when Heredrew ordered the villagers assemble and told them their days of disrespect and ease were over. They would respect the Seal of Andratan, or someone would be sent to teach them respect.

Heredrew turned his head slightly towards the priest. ‘Perhaps in this town we’ll find someone sufficiently desperate to take you off our hands. A stablemaster, perhaps?’ He raised an eyebrow to Stella. ‘How much do you think we would have to pay to have him taken on as an apprentice?’

‘We might get the forequarters of a horse in exchange,’ said Robal, deliberately loud enough for the priest to hear.

‘Hindquarters,’ Heredrew corrected, drawing a snort of laughter from the guardsman.

Men make easy friends and even easier enemies,
Stella reflected as she followed Heredrew and Robal, her self-appointed guardians, in their approach to the town gate. Behind her Kilfor and his father led the dray. Phemanderac and Moralye rode inside it.
Women are much more careful with their trust.

The rain doubled in intensity as the Falthans sheltered under the stone arch. Farmer’s Flat, the carved words on the keystone told them. Stella caught a whiff of sulphur as they waited for Robal to negotiate their entrance. Towns, just like people, had their unique odours; this was less pleasant than most. She wondered what they manufactured here that required such a foul chemical.

‘Farmer’s Flat? Not what I called it last time I was here,’ Heredrew said.

‘Oh?’ Conal turned to face him. ‘Stinkpit, perhaps? Smelltown? Dungheap? Did you curse it because some peasant forgot to tug his forelock? Or perhaps because the women were less than accommodating?’

Heredrew tilted his head towards Stella, but she was a little too slow in realising he was requesting her permission. A moment later his hand flicked out and he fetched Conal a brutal slap across the cheek.
Struck,
Stella thought,
by a hand that is not there.

‘And so the mighty Undying Man answers his critics,’ the priest said, spitting out blood and phlegm.

‘No, I would normally bring in experts to give you answer,’ Heredrew said equably. ‘And, believe me, they are expert. Autocracy depends on the enforcement of discipline, as I’m sure your Archpriest has demonstrated.’

‘He has you there.’ Stella carefully kept any sympathy out of her voice: for a priest, Conal had been remarkably unrepentant about his actions in Dhauria. She had fought hard to prevent Heredrew slaying the man; had bargained her cooperation in the Undying Man’s attempt to save the world—if indeed that was what he was doing, and his altruism was not a front for something more nefarious—to win Conal’s life. Bitterness and gall had been her reward. Conal now seemed to despise her as much as he had once been infatuated with her, convinced she had been collaborating with the Enemy of Faltha from the start. A natural reaction, she supposed, but one a priest ought to be above, or at least recognise for what it was.

Not this fellow. He was stamped with the same mark as his master, the Archpriest, who had tried to capture and interrogate her for the crime of having been captured by the Undying Man during the Falthan War.

And this Conal was the Archpriest in miniature. Best to remember that. There was only so far this man could be pushed before he pushed back; and, despite his lack of magical power, he had already proved—twice—that he was capable of extraordinary feats. Once to save her; once to kill her. The man bore close watching.

The Falthans were admitted to the town of Farmer’s Flat, the odd smell commented on by no one, out of politeness. Once inside the walls Moralye took the lead. She had proved time and again her useful talent for identifying the friendliest people in town, the most pleasant and least expensive lodgings. If anyone could secure horseflesh, she was that one. It was a little late in the afternoon for a visit to the stables, so she led them down a street she had never previously seen, in a land she had never been in before, trusting some obscure instinct to reveal a place to eat and stay the night.

Stella admired the woman immensely. Moralye had been jerked out of her world by forces she had read about but never expected to experience; had been confronted with the legendary bogeyman of her culture, yet had set to with vigour to understand what had happened; and, even more commendable, to make herself useful. Phemanderac professed himself delighted with her, and Stella had to agree.

Within minutes Moralye had engaged a group of young women in conversation. Less than two months in a strange land and she could converse like a native: the sharpest mind of them all, no question. Her intelligence was frightening. But the formidable analytical mind was hidden now as she laughed and giggled with the local women, words and gestures describing cloth and shape and colour, a whirling exchange too fast for Stella to follow.
The body does not age,
she acknowledged,
but the mind still atrophies.
What would she be like in a thousand years? How had Kannwar kept his mind lively?

The young Dhaurian scholar beckoned them over, and within minutes an impromptu market stall had opened on the side of the road. Women from all over the town brought cloth, and in some cases complete garments, for the strangers to cast their eyes over. The prices asked were high, but no one complained. Heredrew’s supply of Bhrudwan coin seemed inexhaustible, and the fabric was good quality. Each Falthan accepted a complete outfit—some of the garments were mismatched but even the worst of the clothes was more suitable than the filthy and frayed robes they wore. Heredrew and Phemanderac were the only exceptions: Phemanderac because his robes had been protected by travelling in the dray; Heredrew due to the fact that no garments came anywhere near fitting him.

New clothes would be made overnight, the women promised, in addition to the garments they had purchased. Stella shuddered, picturing the women working by dim candlelight into the small hours, but none of the seamstresses looked displeased at the prospect. They bade the visitors farewell and hurried to their homes.

The town, though substantial, apparently had only one public eating place: the aptly named Boiling Waters Tea House. Steam rose from behind the low thatched-roof buildings of the tea house, borne away on the wet wind, but despite the wind and rain the buildings seemed to give off an even more concentrated unpleasant smell, as though rotten eggs were stored inside. Apparently the tea house kept a small cottage where travellers could stay overnight, but, despite the rain, none of the party appeared keen.

‘Perhaps we could try our luck in the next village,’ Robal said, a hand over his face. ‘I wouldn’t want to dine in a place that smells like this.’

‘The next village,’ Heredrew said, ‘is a long way north of here and a great deal less civilised. Besides, you have resplendent new robes waiting for you here. Who wouldn’t want to be seen in that orange tunic?’ He paused, then added thoughtfully: ‘It seems this place has improved since last I was here.’

Stella gave Conal a sidelong glance, but the chastened priest did not rise to the bait.
Good boy,
she thought; and the thought must have been reflected on her face because Conal turned away, his own face twisted.

He loves me and he hates me. Not good news. He could do anything and justify it.

As they entered the tea house, two or three of the closest groups beckoned them further in, broad smiles on their faces. Many wore no tunics, not surprising in the sudden, oppressive heat of the room. ‘Cummin ’n shut the hole behind yer!’ one young man cried. ‘Man could freeze his stones orf out there!’ His companions laughed at his wit.

The interior of the Boiling Waters Tea House took their breath away.

Rather than a standard wooden floor, a series of boardwalks wound around open grey earth, brown pits of mud and pools of steaming water. What had looked from the outside to be a series of buildings was revealed to be one vast structure with many roofs, interspersed with gaps open to the sky, and no interior walls. Groups of Bhrudwans sat around talking, laughing and singing; a surprising contrast to the way the more solemn Yacoppica Tea House far to the south had been. Here and there tall, thick poles of pale wood supported the roof, and around them were hung dozens of labelled bags filled with herbs.

They were approached by a smiling woman wearing a garland of flowers around her neck. ‘Welcome,’ she said. ‘For one fena each you can have your own cauldron and choice of herbs, or for—’

Smiling even wider than the woman, Heredrew took her arm. ‘We’ll have your premier service, in the seats closest to the Matron.’

‘Ah!’ she said, not at all discomfited by his interruption. ‘Are you a regular visitor to the Tea Chain?’

He laughed. ‘Regular, yes. But my visits, though regular, are spaced out longer than I’d like. Last time I was here this was open ground. I remember the Matron though. I trust she is as timely as ever?’

‘But…but sir, the Boiling Waters Tea House has been up for thirty years or more.’

‘I’m older than I look. Now, our seats, please?’

‘Payment?’ she responded.

Heredrew pulled out his Seal of Andratan. The woman paled visibly, then nodded and beckoned them forward.

‘Finally some respect,’ he said as they followed the woman along a narrow boardwalk between two mud pools.

‘Fear, more like,’ Conal muttered, but Stella didn’t think the Undying Man heard. He couldn’t have: he was not the sort of man to ignore an insult—accurate, as this one was, or otherwise.

Her fellow Falthans were clearly uncomfortable in the presence of the Destroyer, though not as uncomfortable as she. But the discomfort went both ways. Stella suspected that if not for their company, Kannwar would have punished many of those who had dealt with them with such insolence. He was trying to act even-handedly, presumably because he needed her cooperation to fulfil the task he had accepted. He had been forced to lay aside his pride. Stella smiled to herself. She could not conceive of a more fitting punishment for the man.

The pale young woman indicated their seats. Unlike other seating in the tea house, these were fixed to the floor, and arranged in a semicircle around a small pool. The rear seats were raised somewhat, as though to afford people a view of the pool. A few people, better dressed than the average patron, had congregated there, sitting, talking and generating an air of expectancy. Above them the roof was open to the darkening sky: rain hissed into the steaming pool by their feet.

‘The Matron will be along shortly,’ their host said.

‘Thank you.’ Stella smiled reassuringly at her. She was unsure why they needed a matron, or why they had to be seated here, in a very public part of the tea house, in order to be served by her.

Phemanderac and Moralye sat closer to the pool, engaged in a conversation in a language Stella did not know. The native language of Dhauria, she supposed. Probably debating some esoteric philosophy. The
dominie
did not seem to be getting the best of it either.

Kilfor and his father were quiet. The older man had been experiencing pain in his joints, brought on by the damp weather, he said. His son kept a close and loving eye on him, fussing terribly over the old reprobate whenever he thought people weren’t watching. He was doing it now, adjusting Sauxa’s collar.