Ecko Rising (10 page)

With a final reminder of his offer of help, the Bard left Ecko alone.

To think.

Ecko waited until the door had closed, then picked up the bowl of food. For a moment, he was tempted to sling it across the room, but his belly grumbled again and, gracelessly, he started to shovel it down. He’d probably give himself indigestion, but he was fucking starving, and twenty kinds of freaked out, and frankly, he didn’t care. Hell, for all he knew, his stomach wasn’t even real.

This was fucking ridiculous. Wasn’t it?

Yeah, like now the shock is settling in...

His brain was doing a wall-of-death, spinning and chaos and noise. Some part of him wanted to jump screaming from the window and just pray that he’d land with a splatter on the south bank of the Thames...

...wake up in a nice, safe hospital. White walls and blankets and shit. He’d even deal with the intravenous happy juice, at least until they came to get him.

And the window was right
there
, for chrissakes.

Right.

There.

But that would be quitting. And if there was one thing Ecko wasn’t, it was a quitter.

He paced the length of the pattern-woven rug, kicking angrily at bits of broken table. He spooned more stew. The rocklight slid over him as if it were trying to make him welcome, and his skin shifted with its colour.

The stew, whatever it was, was unexpectedly good – he found himself cleaning the bowl with the breadcrust. It was rich and warm, and it left a feeling of fullness, a luxury that seemed to uncoil through muscle and nerve. He’d been a child the last time he’d eaten anything like it.

It slowed him, helped him clear his head.

Think.

His frenetic pacing eased, then stopped altogether. He put the bowl back on the tray, and tried to focus.

So, here I am then: the Little Pub on the Prairie.

He turned back to the window, to the starless sky and the batshit moonlight. The urge to jump had faded, but the smoulder of resentment had not.

Just remember: I ain’t your bitch, bitch, an’ I ain’t gonna be a rat in your maze. I’m gonna beat this.

From somewhere outside, there came a throbbing of hooves, a squeak of wheels that retreated into the night. He groaned.

Horses? You gotta be kidding me...

For a moment, Ecko had a horrible vision of trying to ride one – he could ride a bike, but anything with legs was taking the fucking piss already.
Jesus, Eliza, you’re not funny...

Chances of success at...

Without warning, he was hit by a return of his claustrophobia, a rising, panicked mental shriek.
This can’t be happening!
He needed to understand, he needed know where he was, how he got here, how he fit in – or didn’t – how much free will he had to make his own decisions. Was Eliza watching him, marking him, managing him? Could she pull his strings and make him dance? He had his start point, but how did he get even the basics – a cache of kit, a hiding place?

A fucking
map
?

What the hell was really out there?

For a second, his boosted adrenaline meshed with his fear and they screamed engine loud, thundering a pulse beat of blood in his ears. He had a sudden mouthful of stew and bile.

I have to – !

Have to – !

No!

Choking on the effort, he stayed where he was, fists clenched, fighting the rage impulse back under control. He stood, shaking, swallowing. His throat burned. He could almost hear Eliza laughing at him.

Chances of successful adjustment: 17.84%... 17.83, .82...

But she could laugh all she wanted, he was gonna sort this thing, and she could just sit there and fucking
watch.

Somehow, he was gonna do this shit.

* * *

He was standing at the long window by the desk when there was another knock on the door.

Outside, the moons shone silent, alien and compelling. They lit the square and faded sign at the foot of the building’s short foregarden. It had no design, no creatures rampant or rearing, it said only “The Wanderer” and it squeaked back and forth in a breeze that tickled his skin through imperfections in the window seals. Tight streets were paved in glistening cobblestones; an empty square seemed to indicate some sort of gathering or market space. Figures hurried, heads down, cloaked and hooded – every fucking one of them looked like the poster boy for the local Guild of Assassins.

Willya look at that
. Ecko thought, with a grin.
I’m gonna fit right in.

The knock came again. Still flickering with the last shreds of his antagonism, Ecko took three steps across the rug and banged the door open. He snarled, “What?”

Karine stood outside. With her was an older guy, slightly stoop shouldered and only a little taller than Ecko himself. He was in his fifties or more, with a worn, sun-leathered face and brown eyes flecked with an odd orange-gold.

Tiger’s eyes.

Behind him, there was a low-ceilinged, brick-and-beam passageway that hinted at more doors and some sort of stairway. There was a small, moonlit window, but nothing else.

Karine elbowed the brown-eyed man forwards.

“Ecko, this is Kale,” she said. “Kale’s just started with us, he’s still finding his – ah – feet.”

Ecko said nothing, didn’t move. He watched them, his oculars in overdrive and a peculiar, nebulous wariness starting to prickle at the back of his neck.

Kale’s core temperature was wrong, too high.

And as he met Ecko’s empty gaze, it jumped.

It
what
?

Ecko resisted the instinctive, wary urge to back up. Instead, he stood poised on his toes, blocking the doorway, waiting for the assault, the change, the demon, the dragon, the manifest deity, the whatever-the-fuck it was...

Yeah, you just bring it the fuck on...

Right now, he’d welcome the release.

But the man said, quite affably, “Ecko. How was the food?”

“Fan-fuckin’-tastic.” Ecko didn’t budge, didn’t back down. His adrenaline shivered, eager. “So what the hell’re you? Security?”

“He’s downstairs,” the man said, smiling. “I’m the cook.”

“You like vindaloo?”

“What?” Kale didn’t get the joke. They watched each other, unspeaking.

“Ecko, get out of the doorway, for Gods’ sakes.” Karine chuckled and slithered with remarkable dexterity around where Kale was standing. “If you’re going to be all bristly and paranoid, at least retreat far enough to let me get the dishes.” She flicked an eyebrow, all pert indignance. “Unless you want to clean them yourself.”

Ecko blinked.

Karine’s brusque affection apparently gave her an uncanny ability to take charge of a situation – before he’d even realised it, she’d slipped past him and was picking up the tray. “How you coping, anyway?” She winked at him. “Has Roderick started pontificating yet?”

Huh?
Ecko was getting overwhelmed, confused, he didn’t need this. Keeping both of them in sight, he retreated from the doorway. There was a whole new set of social rules and shit going on here...

Chrissakes, this just wasn’t
fair
!

Their inability to understand his banter bewildered him. And they hadn’t reacted to his appearance – it was like they hadn’t even noticed. His enhancements had been deliberately crafted, bought with pain and endurance beyond human limits – he’d given everything to look the way he did. On some level, it was supposed to give him
space
, for chrissakes, emotionally and physically...

Yet neither Kale nor Karine seemed to give a shit.

His oculars still working, scanning, searching, watching around him, watching Kale’s every move, every flicker, he reached for something else to say.

“Yeah, he’s crazy. I’m crazy. We’re all fuckin’ crazy. An’ you didn’t answer the question.”

Kale replied, quite calmly, “Why do you have no scent?”

“Chris
sakes.”
Ecko was lost, he was out of place, he was baffled, his adrenaline was hovering on the edge of a full-on ass-kicking – there was a smouldering volcano of pressure under his skin and these two were just bumbling the fuck about like there was nothing the matter. His oculars targeted the tray, the cook’s eye, ear and heart in four successive seconds.

He snarled, “Look –”

“Ecko, ease down before you strain something,” Karine told him. “The Bard’s gone to sort out a place for you to sleep – a space of your own for as long as you need it. And I’m here – we’re both here – to help you. This is The Wanderer, and you’ve landed on your feet, well and truly. If you’d calm down for two ticks, you’d realise that.”

He glared at her. “Don’t fucking patronise me.” The moonlight gave her hair a bright brown shine. She was exceptionally pretty, but he could never think like that, never go there, never again.

“Oh all right, enough,” she said. There was an edge of irritation in her voice. “No one’s going to stop you leaving, if that’s what you really want. But you need to understand, acclimatise. And let’s face it – where better than the pub?” She flashed him a grin. “Where else can you explore without having to sleep in ribbon-town inns; eat the best damned food in the Varchinde without having to hunt it yourself? Where else can you find every luxury traded by tithehall and marketplace? Where else can you see something new every morning? You stay here, Ecko, you’ll see the whole world – and the road-pirates won’t pick on you and the beasties of the deeper plains won’t think you’re lunch.” She winked at him. “
And
you’ll get to drink in your local every night.”

“Answer the fucking
question.”

Karine said, “He told you – he’s the cook.”

Kale’s core temperature jumped again, it seemed to flare like rage, almost like Ecko’s adrenaline. Ecko snorted. “So – what – you cook dinner with your fiery temper?”

That made them exchange a glance; something passed between them that Ecko couldn’t begin to fathom. His adrenals shivered again and he found himself on the balls of his feet. He’d touched something – but if they didn’t fucking cough this shit up, whatever it was, then he was outta here.

He’d take his chances.

The cook shrugged, seemed almost resigned. his shoulders slumped further, then he said, “Will you trust us if I do?”

“Sure.” Ecko glared, tasted stew, swallowed.

Kale nodded, slowly.

“Please understand,” he said, “that I was born like this. When I was younger, it was a jest, a game. And then I got older, and it wasn’t funny any more. I won’t hurt you, but...”

Born like this...

The heat started in Kale’s skull, in the back of his neck, ran like liquid fire into his face and down his spine. Patchy fur burned his skin as it spread. His shoulders hunched, his face twisted around his elongating teeth. His arms gnarled, strengthened, his toes and fingers knotted and claws tore through his flesh. His knees bent inside out and he crouched forwards, the end of his lengthening spine burst from his back, lashing furiously.

There was a snarl that sounded like pain.

The transition took seconds. Then a feral, savage thing with asymmetrical green eyes and fangs as long as knives bubbled pure hate into Ecko’s face.

Holy fucking shit!

Despite himself, Ecko was retreating. His adrenaline shrieked but he didn’t know whether to scream, puke, run like fuck or kick the thing’s head clean out the fucking window.

What the hell..?

And then it was gone and Kale was standing there, scratching at his neck where fur had melted into skin. He was shuddering violently, steadying himself on the wall. He said, “Pain is a stern teacher.”

The phrase was a like a friend.

A stern teacher.

Ecko knew...
knew
what that meant, how it felt...

But Kale was still speaking. “If you ever need to stop me, you need white metal. It upsets the balance of the beast in my blood – the wounds don’t heal.”

Karine said softly, “Kale came here to find help, Ecko. And we can help you too –”

“Just wait... wait.” Inundated with impossibility, swamped by everything that was happening around him, Ecko’d backed right up to the wall. “What’re you, some kinda werewolf? With
those
moons? How the fuck does that – ?”

“It’s not the moons,” Kale said. “The beast... gets away from me. I came here to find help, to learn control before...” His expression twisted, but not with anger. “I suppose we’re all crazed, in our own ways.”

Karine said gently, “Believe it or not, you’re among friends.”

Ecko said, his mind still reeling, “Shit, this place is a fucking loony bin.”

She grinned. “Kale’s a beast. I’m a political outcast – small matter of an – ah – admirer I really didn’t want to marry. Sera, downstairs, is a Games Champion – he killed nine opponents in a bout he was told to lose. Silfe’s a runaway. Everyone here has a history.”

“I feel so much better.”

“Look, we’ll leave you in peace for a bit longer,” Karine said. “You’ve got a lot take in. I’ll go see how the Bard is doing with your room. In the meantime –” she went to lay a hand on his arm, but he backed up “– trust us. Whatever else happens from this point on, this can be your home. If you want it.”

* * *

Ecko’s room was high under the vaulted beams and looked like something off some medieval film set. The wood was warm and rich – floor, beams, an old table and bench. There was leather on the seat coverings and pale, wax candles. Wooden shutters covered the window and an old rug covered the floor. Between the beams, the walls were brickwork, decorated with old pictures, and with hooks where the Bard had taken down his “souvenirs”.

Half enchanted and half scathing, he checked it for hiding places, verified and listed his equipment, swung himself onto a beam and waited.

As soon as this place settled down, he was gonna get some fucking bearings, case it from penthouse to basement. He needed understanding, needed to know what was out there. And he needed equipment. Currency. Weapons. Food. Maps. Kit to flee with – or to build a cache.