Needle Rain (22 page)

Omi added, “I sent word to the other one, Pela, as you asked me to, though I doubt she knows where Samos Goodkin is.”

“Thank you. It only seemed right to try.”

As nightfall approached, Heloise discovered how futile her hope of avoiding the attentions of ghosts was. In the dim glow of evening, as the countryside around them shrank away into silhouettes and lilac-orange shadows, a luminescent tail assembled to the south of the horse she rode. It moved with them along the road and slowly, to her eyes, a cavalcade of ghosts was revealed. Five or six of them. To her horror, the twisted Thing curled and writhed within their luminescence.

“We have to stop. Now!”

“Why?” Bull hauled on the reins of his horse and the quagga tied to his pommel trotted to a halt alongside him. Grunt meowed in protest from the wicker cage swaying atop the quagga. “What is it, Heloise?” He followed her gaze, frowning as if he saw nothing amiss. “Are they there? Why can’t I see them?”

“Maybe they don’t want to be seen.” She slid from her horse, passed the reins to Bull, closed her eyes. “I’ll have to choose one quickly, else the other one, the Thing I told you about might reach me first. It’s there too.” She stared, thin-lipped, at Bull. “Don’t let me do anything bad.”

“I won’t.” He gripped the hilt of his sword, white-knuckled, as if that could help somehow. “I won’t.”

Would she ever get used to this?

“Remind me,” he added. “To kick Drager somewhere it hurts when we see him.”

“Sure. But not till he pulls out the needles.”

The ghosts crowded round, whispering, gaining sharpness and bodily detail as they came closer. Some of them, she felt sure, had followed her from Carstelan.

“Stop! Please! Back off!” To her surprise, they did. Except for one, a man in a striped suit, who flowed forward and introduced himself.

“Pardon my intrusion, miss.” He doffed an imaginary hat. “But I was hoping you might pick myself. My need is a simple and somewhat less terrifying one than some of those presented here.”

Heloise stared. What was this? Glancing along the motley morass of ghosts, she found she could gather at least a little information as to why they were here. A lover needing solace, a murderer seeking forgiveness, a lost fortune, a needy parent, a thief. A surface indication glimmered from all of them, though what lay deeper than that, she had no idea.

“And what are you?” she asked, almost spitting.

“An architect, or once I was one. Now?” A specter-thin hand waved. “I am reduced to this. Begging.”

One eye on the architect, the other on the Thing, she clenched her hands into fists. Praying that he only wanted to say goodbye to a building, or something equally harmless, she reached out. With a flash, he surged into her body. The ice-shock of possession hit her as she took a last breath as herself.

To her relief, this ghost did only need to see the ruins of a temple he’d helped construct. It was a long night ride several miles off their planned route, but at least it only involved standing under the stars and looking.

The second night, the ghost searched in vain for a man he intended to frighten halfway to the grave. Or so she understood. She never quite worked out the reason. The distance from the city had made a difference. The number of ghosts shrank to one or two on some nights, of course the black coiling Thing was always there. Lack of sleep and the extra work for the horses meant their travelling speed slowed to half what it could have been.

The eighth night, the ghost was a woman, Lorella, who’d died young from some accident, and she sought a last tryst with a lover. Trapped, as always, within her own body, Heloise battled to gain control, and failed, as always.

The possible permutations of such a tryst rattled like spiked caltrops through Heloise’s brain as the woman galloped the horse unmercifully toward the town where she sensed her lover now lived. North, the way they needed to go, but oh, the trauma to the horses.

Dirt clods scattered from under the hooves, spittle flew, and the horse’s chest heaved to the fearsome rhythm of the ride. Somewhere behind would be Bull, following them as fast as he could. But he couldn’t know what this ghost intended, and with his heavier weight, his mare would have fallen behind. If ever she needed him to stop a ghost from doing something, now was it.

How long ago was this? What year? Heloise thought at the ghost, striving to get an answer from Lorella. No answer. How old is he now
?
No answer.

Chances were, she didn’t know. Ghosts seemed to lose all sense of what year, or decade, or sometimes even century, they were in. This man could be fifty or seventy. About the only surety was that he wasn’t dead. The idea of Lorella making love to a stranger with
her
body, made Heloise nauseous. She lunged and scrabbled to regain control of her body, or thought she did, and it was like falling into a stone wall. Painful. The skitter-screech of fingernails drawn down a window echoed in her head. Imagined, yet apt.

And still they galloped on. Drumming hooves, rattling, jingling tack – if the horse went on like this much longer, she would die. Above, the black, star-speckled sky streamed past. To the right, at the corner of vision, where Lorella refused to look, Heloise spied a hint of light. Dawn. A triumphant cockerel crowed.

“Oh, no. No!” Despairing, Lorella slumped, allowed the horse to clatter to a halt where it stood, head down, blown, exhausted. Sunlight gleamed on sweat – the mare was lathered with it. Lorella rested with arms propped on the saddle pommel. On a rise ahead, written on a wooden sign, was the name of a village: Jikknam.

“Farewell, Yacob, I tried my very best.” She blew a kiss. “Live your life to the fullest.”

Heloise felt the ghost drain away as slowly as the night’s darkness drained from the sky, until only a feather-light trace of her consciousness remained, then she was gone.

Exhausted almost beyond mortal limits, aching, thirsty and craving sleep, she found a mango tree, dismounted, and collapsed, resting with her back against its trunk.

“Heloise! Heloise!”

Someone was shaking her.

That must be Bull. She opened her eyes, winced at the too-bright sky, and closed her eyes again. “Yes?”

“You’re okay? There’s ants all over you. Gah! Big green ones. Haven’t they bitten you?”

“No.” Her mouth and tongue were stuck together. “Guess, erm...I didn’t seem worth biting. Water. Please.”

“Here.”

Once she’d swallowed a few good mouthfuls the world steadied and made more sense. This time she kept her eyes open and levered herself upright and onto her feet with Bull’s help.

“I am so tired.”

He clasped her hand as if he’d never let it go again. Looked her over, deep furrows creasing his face. “Are you hurt? Anywhere? No? Nowhere? I couldn’t keep up. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I tried.”

“No. Not your fault. At all. Not, your fault.” Her mare was nowhere to be seen. “Where’s Maggie?”

“Ah, gods.” He hung his head a moment, then looked her in the eyes. “She’s over there in the long grass. Dead. The ride did her in.”

Though her legs refused to do more than drag her feet a few inches above the red-brown dirt, she limped over and looked down at the body. Already stiff, with flies buzzing and small black ants crawling on the mare’s protruding tongue.

Heloise sniffed and stood there shaking her head, over and over. Her body shook too, little trembles that weren’t just from exhaustion. Maggie hadn’t deserved this.

This was a bad start to the day.

“Is there any good to come out of this, Bull? Anything? I mean...hells.”

He rested a hand lightly on her shoulder. “What happened last night?”

The words refused to come out though she struggled to find them. “Ahh... Let it lie this time, Bull. I’ll tell you another day.”

The tack and saddle needed to be stripped off the mare. A ghastly business, but it had to be done. Bull unbuckled the saddle and hauled it free. “You asked if any good had come of this. Well, depends how you look at it, but we’re now within a day’s ride of the border. The orphanage is just this side of it.”

“A day’s ride?”

He nodded.

She gathered up the saddle blanket and satchels, slung them both over her shoulder and sighed. “Wish we could do more than leave her for the scavengers. A day’s ride, hey? Let’s get this over with then.”

“Today?” Bull raised his eyebrows high. “There’s a few storm clouds up there, and you’re not in shape for it.”

It was true. To the north, a raft of dull gray clouds stretched across the sky.

She eyed them, shook her head. “Yes. Today.”

If she thought any more about this, she’d likely turn around and run the other way. Well, maybe not. The unknown terror of the Thing, and the ride she’d just been on, surpassed her fear of Thom Drager. He was only a man.

“Bull, if we can get another pack animal in that village, I’ll ride the quagga.”

For once their luck held and they found someone who’d sell them a donkey, old and scabrous as it was. The price: a grint and the location of Maggie’s body. Horsemeat was a gourmet meal to these people. Every time she’d seen a man at the village, she’d wondered,
was this him
? Was this Yacob, Lorella’s lover? The man she’d been meant to make love to? And she’d shuddered inside. More debts to pile on top of what Drager already owed her.

The crow’s nest was a far more congenial place than it had been on the rougher open sea. It barely swayed at all. Standing, Samos gripped the edge and tipped back on his heels, taking the weight on his arms. He smiled. Delicious. Warm afternoon sun, a gentle and sweet sea breeze, and Ermatruse was having the time of her life gallivanting about from rigging to crow’s nest and back again.

For days they’d sailed past island after island. All of them flat with only a few yards of sand height between them being an island or an underwater playground for fish. Yet another was coming up to starboard. This one at least boasted a small range of hills.

“Hoy! What’s that pestilential creature doin’ up here,” Cork growled, as he clambered into the crow’s nest. “And what are
you
doin’ here too?” The scowl could have struck a seagull dead at fifty paces.

Ah, hang it. Sometimes violence
was
the best course. Samos grabbed a handful of Cork’s shirt and held him out, straight-armed, his feet dangling in the air.

“Time to answer some questions.” Just to remind Crow that he was an Immolator, he punctuated each word with a little shake. “Or else! Nod if you’d rather do that than have me toss you over the side.” Samos grinned his most evil grin.

Red-faced, eyes bulging, Cork looked like a floppy doll having a bad day.

“No! Don’t! I’ll answer!”

“What happened to all those other men? The ones she screwed before me? Are they dead?”

“Y-yes.”

Oh-my-gods.
He was right.
“So...she killed them with too much sex? How?” To be even asking that question made his world spin on its axis.

Cork mumbled something. The man looked a tad blue in the lips.
Have to put him down soon, lest he have a heart conniption or something.
“What? Speak up!”

“No. No, she didn’t kill them.” Cork raised his eyes. “Wasn’t her. Not her fault.”

“How? Say that again.” He lowered Cork. Dusted him off, loosened his collar. “Say it in plain English so even I can understand. The sex didn’t kill them, but they died?”

Samos commanded his pupils to open to their widest, scanning the skin on Cork’s face for telltale changes that he figured should be there if he was lying. He cranked up his hearing range. He’d seen it happen. When people lied they did certain things. There were signs he should be able to detect. Being an Immolator had to be good for
something
.

“Yes.” Cork pulled himself up straighter. “That’s it. Got it in one try. She didn’t do it.” He glanced nervously at Samos. “I’ll be going now.” And he climbed out of the nest, slow at first, then scrambling faster when he realized he wasn’t being stopped.

Samos let him go. He leaned on the edge again. He had an answer. Cork had believed what he’d said, but he’d not told everything. Something had compelled him to speak as he had and no amount of persuasion would change that. Did anybody on this ship speak without going round in circles?

He looked over the side. Time to try his newly developed lie-detecting skills on Tatiana. No choice anymore.

Then, with a few yells from the depth-sounding crew, and a spin of the helm, the ship turned slowly to starboard. People were running about down there, bringing the gheist cannon to bear.

They passed a point of land jutting out from the southern end of the hills and a little harbor opened out before them. In the harbor, gently rocking at anchorage, were five boats.

“Well, I’ll be a...” He could hear the crew chattering to each other about the boats. Somehow they knew what they were. This was where the Sungese were hiding.

“Sir! Sir!” Joss called up from the deck. “Miss Tatiana has a message for you!”

A new flag was being raised on the masthead as he’d spoken – a red sun background with crossed swords at the fore.

When he reached the deck, Joss recited the message to him:

Keep below deck and out of sight.

This ship and crew are masquerading as mercenaries. Be ready to fight but I hope to take the leader of the Sungese by subterfuge.

Samos smiled at that. If there was anything this crew was good at, it was subterfuge and lying.

Along with Joss, a sailor directed him to the galley. Teo was already there, sitting back in a chair, arms folded and heels up on another chair. He yawned at them and flipped a hand their way.

Samos inclined his head. For once he felt as if he and Teo were on the same side. “Comfortable?”

Teo grunted and closed his eyes.

“I guess this could take a while. Joss, can you find some cards or something?” He pulled out a chair. The oak galley table was bare of food and plates. In the center stood a tiny ceramic vase with a sprig of parsley poking up. It seemed the cook had a sense of humor. Or no taste.

“Cards? Sure!” The boy scurried off.

The wait turned out to be several hours long. The rumble of empty stomachs prompted him to explore the pantry and dig up some bread and cold meat that they shared between them.

Early evening, there came a series of knocks as something hollow bumped the ship. Bare feet ran across the decks overhead. There was shouting and a short but determined clash of metal on metal. At that, both Samos and Teo sprang to their feet and looked at each other.

“Do we go up?” Samos asked, already on the balls of his feet.

“No orders. I stay unless I get orders.”

The Immolator way. The imprinting held him to the orders of the Imperator’s designated commander. Tatiana in this case.
That could have been me.
A puppet, a lackey, a brainless automaton.

The sounds of fighting ceased, and from the words he could hear, and that covered a lot with his hearing, whoever it was had been overcome. He stayed. And waited some more.

A few minutes later, a crewman clattered down the stairs and knocked at the galley door, opened it slowly as if afraid of what he’d find inside.

“Sirs?” One of the crew stuck his head in. Ponytailed, brown hair, cauliflower ears. Jug was the name. “Sirs, and you –” He glanced at Joss. “You’re to come topside. Right now.”

“You have the leader then? A man named Kengshee?”

“Sure do.” He blinked and nodded.

Wasn’t lying, but the man was covering for something. Samos gave him a hard look.

“He’s our prisoner? Nobody else on the loose up there that we need to know about?”

“He’s tied up tight.” Jug grinned. “You’ll see. Follow me.”

The trek topside gave Samos plenty of thinking time. If Kengshee was restrained and under guard, what else could be wrong?

“Joss.” He put a hand on the boy’s arm. “If I tell you to, get behind me. Right?”

“Sure.”

At the last hatch to the upper deck, Jug waited at the bottom of the ladder and waved them up.

Midships, beneath the bright stars, the crew was gathered in a torch-lit crescent around Kengshee, who had his hands tied behind him and a cloth around his eyes. It was him. No way it wasn’t.

How could he ever forget Kengshee poking his sword under Pela’s chin or her eyes closing and her skin turning blue as he strangled her?

“Do I get to kick him a few times?”

“No. You do not, Mr. Goodkin. Teo, over here, please.”

Teo obliged, striding across and standing guard behind Tatiana. She sat in a chair at the outer limits of the light, her customary red leggings and wig eschewed for a plainer outfit that blended into the darkness: a vest and brown shirt, with her black pants tucked into tan boots. Even simply dressed, the look of her sucked the color out of all that surrounded her. Drew him in. Held him speechless.

“Mr. Goodkin?” she repeated.

He swallowed, sent his brain ticking over, assembling facts. It distracted him from looking at her. “I’ve not helped with his capture. You know I want a pardon from the Imperator. Where are the rest of his men?”

Kengshee spoke, his words quiet yet menacing. “That you, Mr. Goodkin? We meet again.”

“Yes. In better circumstances. Murdered any girls lately?”

“Hah!”

“Be silent,” snarled Tatiana, lips drawn back from teeth. She bent for a moment, wracked by coughs. “Mr. Goodkin. You cannot fail to notice that I’m still sick, and growing sicker. I’ve found a solution however. Mr. Kengshee here is an acceptable substitute.”

Kengshee! Samos regarded him with distaste. This man was to replace him?

Oh, dear.
He smiled at his own thoughts, mocking himself. Jealous and envious. Even though he knew it was happening, her trinketton heart was manipulating his emotions.

“There is one last thing that we must do. Mr. Goodkin?”

He swung his gaze. “Yes?”

“You must remove the pendant you hold in your hand. Before my heart can change its aim, it must sense you properly.”

Like a blow, that rocked him.

“Trust me.” Her eyes shone black at the edge of the circle of light, open and guileless. “Please, trust me.”

Truth. In every sign of face and body, he saw truth. But what she asked was impossible. Take off the pendant and trust her?

“I can’t. What you ask, I can’t do. Why should I?”

“Because I have seen you. I’ve watched you, for days. You love your Pela.” Her name sounded bitter in Tatiana’s mouth. “I accept that, respect it. It’s what makes you what you are.” She leant back, thumb propped under chin, fingers curling between those full lips. “Trust me, because I trust you. Why else do you think I’ve left you alone?”

Why else? For once, his new intellect deserted him. “I’ve no idea. It seems to me I’d be best to step away and do nothing here, apart from use the abilities that are obvious. I’m an Immolator. I’m strong, fast, deadly. Use that.”

She shook her head. “No. Not enough. Surely you understand that if I die the Imperator will be highly unlikely to pardon you? He knows what I need. You’re the ideal mate. Expendable. Nobody will miss you, except for Pela.”

Now that fact
did
hurt. “No. I can’t.”

The ring of men around them came to life. Some moved in to close the circle. Did they imagine he would attack their mistress?

Tatiana let her head rest on the chair’s back as if it had become too heavy for her muscles. Weariness weighed her words, slurred them. “I can’t make you do it, Samos, but if I die, how will you get that pardon? You have to trust me.”

Someone growled and she raised a hand. “No. It’s his decision. If he says no, he is still free to go.”

That, of all that she’d said, drove home to him what she intended. Again it was the truth. However inconceivable it was, Tatiana Ironheart had a core of goodness, and he was afraid. Without the pendant he would be hers to command without an ounce of reserve. He might as well hand her his soul on a platter.

Trust. It wasn’t that, it was fear that held him back. Fear and vanity.

“Very well.” He turned his left hand palm upward. Licked his lips. Torchlight gleamed on jade. Carefully, he unpicked and unwound the knotted leather then levered at the stone. It shifted not a fraction. Immovable. His skin had swelled up and lipped over the stone as if his body was a setting for jewelry. He put his hand to his mouth and bit down, pinching the stone delicately between his incisors. At the first touch of his mouth’s heat, the jade heart loosened. It popped out, swinging from the thong he held in his other hand.

Time counted, thudded, stabbed a primitive rhythm. A thick wave of lust waited just beyond the boundary of his body. He could feel its perverted beat, painful but bearable.

Unless he let go of the pendant, which somehow still protected him, that lust was kept at bay.

He drew in a deep, measured breath. “Here, Joss. Take care of it for me.”

“I will.” The stone landed on the boy’s palm, the thong coiling down, spiraling. Joss closed his hand, pocketed it.

Lust descended as a storm from the heavens.

“Mercy,” Samos gasped, falling to his knees.

“Do not touch that pendant again. Come to me.” He heard that beckoning request and obeyed, sobbing, crawling on his knees.