Taste of Lightning (8 page)

The men stowed their gear under the canvas cover, and pulled their dark woollen hats low over their brows. Without a sound, they leaped onto the bank. Perrin followed; the reeds rustled as he landed, and someone chuckled softly. Tugger swung Perrin around, and smeared the dark paint more carefully across his face with his thumb. Then he nodded, and they were off, gliding between the trees in their usual order: Tugger, then Pigeon, Doughty, Perrin, and the twitchy Fello in the rear. Doughty muttered, ‘Hey, Snake, any wild beasts nearby?'

Perrin grinned back at him. ‘I'll let you know.'

It seemed like a quarter of the night had passed before they emerged from the woods. They'd circled the Palace carefully from the river; now they were on its eastern side. Almost imperceptibly Tugger signalled. Perrin still had trouble seeing his signals; sometimes Tugger seemed to communicate with his men through mind-speech. Perrin found himself on his stomach beside the squad leader. Tugger muttered, ‘There it is, lad. Arvestel.'

The landscape was muted grey and green in the faint light of the single moon. The hills of southern Baltimar were like shallow bowls upturned on a tabletop with a silvery-green velvet cloth thrown over them. Beyond two low hills lay Arvestel, nestled in a valley: the Palace of ivory, the Royal Court, the soft, corrupt heart of the enemy. The towered Palace was all shining domes and slender spires; pennants drooped, colourless in the waning light. All around the Palace spread an embroidery of ornamental gardens: hedges and urns and clipped trees and fountains.

Tugger passed Perrin the glass. ‘Patrols all around the Palace. Guards round the walls. They must keep those stitched-together beasts for the inside. See anything?'

Perrin peered. He was aware of all the men waiting, listening, respectful. For the first time on this mission, he wasn't just the raw kid: he was the expert. He said, ‘I can see something.' And they all took a breath, even Tugger.

‘What is it? What is it?' That was Fello, quick and nervous.

‘Steady,' murmured Tugger. ‘Let me see, Snake.'

Perrin said, ‘It's gone. Sorry. Looked like one of those half-men you were talking about. With claws instead of hands.'

Doughty swore softly. Perrin decided he'd better not push it too far. ‘I can't see anything now,' he said truthfully.

‘The Balts are holding the boy at the corner of the east wing, closest to us. See those two towers with the big flags? Below that, just above the first row of battlements. Those three long windows. That's our target, lads.'

Perrin passed the glass to Fello; they all took a turn, scanning the walls, checking the terrain. Perrin didn't have to worry about any of that, Tugger had said. His job was the beasts. The others would take care of everything else. ‘But I want you in the room. You'll be with me. Clear? The boy's not far off your age. People like you. Might make life easier.'

Suddenly Perrin understood. ‘He's not expecting us, is he?'

‘We've tried to get word to him, but we don't know. There's a chance he might even be . . . hostile.'

‘Hostile? To being rescued?'

‘Captives can get attached to their captors. I've seen it happen. That's where you come in. Make friends. Persuade him we're here to help. Clear?'

Perrin took another look through the glass at the three corner windows. The others were muttering about hooks, and ropes, and signals; Perrin didn't listen. This time he really could see a patrol on the battlements. Three men. They looked ordinary enough, in the scarlet-and-blue uniform of Palace guards. Much smarter than the drab Rengani mud-brown. It wasn't what the Balt regular army wore, of course, but even the Balt battle gear was a tasteful shade of blue-grey . . .

Three men. Two with short swords, for close fighting. No shields. Not expecting any action, and why would they? What was the third man holding – a whip? Perrin squinted through the glass. It was a lead, a pair of leads. The patrol moved past a gap in the battlements, and Perrin grinned to himself as he saw the dogs. Two big black-and-tan hounds with square muzzles. They'd be vicious in attack, but they were just ordinary dogs; nothing he couldn't handle with his eyes shut. He'd never entirely believed Tugger's stories about the half-men, half-beasts, but it was still a relief to know that this was going to be easy after all.

On the way back to the boat, Perrin suddenly stopped short and cocked his head.

‘Sst!' Fello alerted the others.

Perrin sang a low growl of chantment that made the hair stand up on everyone's neck. ‘Surroan?' muttered Tugger.

Perrin, still singing, shook his head. He dropped to his haunches. ‘Keep still,' he whispered.

A huge wild boar stood on the other side of the clearing. A big, heavy sow, with jowls flecked with foam. She raised her head and grunted.

Perrin lifted his voice. The sow swung her head toward him and squealed. She pawed the ground. Perrin couldn't see her eyes in the shadows.
Come on, princess. This won't take
long, then you can go on your way.
He sang, low and sweet, and stepped toward the sow. She lowered her head – in submission, or ready to charge? Perrin heard someone's breath catch. For a long moment, he and the sow stared at each other. Then she swung her head away and trotted off through the trees.

‘By the bones!' Doughty clapped him on the back so hard he nearly fell over. ‘That was a close one! Lucky –'

‘No luck about it,' said Tugger swiftly. ‘Well done, lad.'

‘It was nothing,' said Perrin modestly. It
was
lucky: lucky the boar was close enough that he could bring her closer without having to sing for long. He couldn't pull that trick too often, but knowing that tomorrow night was going to be so simple, he'd wanted to do something impressive. He was almost disappointed that Tugger wouldn't see him try his chantments on any man-monsters.

He just managed to stop himself from whistling.

The next day it rained. ‘Damn you, Wispy,' muttered Fello. ‘Can't stand to be wrong, can you?'

They spent an uncomfortable day crouched under canvas in the boat, well hidden in the reeds. Pigeon went out once, but didn't see anything unusual.

‘Hunting party from the Palace. Just some fat Baltish kids fooling around.'

‘Hope they run into that big boar from last night,' said Fello. ‘Give em a fright. Did I tell you about that, Wispy?'

‘Only about twenty times.' Wisp winked at Perrin, who sat quietly sharpening his dagger. Perrin recognised the subdued, tense mood of the men: it was the same before any battle. He reached into his knapsack and pulled out his finger-harp.

Now was not the time for rousing tunes or comic songs; he played the old ballads of Rengan that the men had learned as early as breathing, songs they'd heard as they lay in their mother's wombs. The steady drumbeat of rain on the canvas kept time, and the irregular drip of water as it slid off the brim of Tugger's battered hat made a counter-beat. Perrin kept his eyes on his fingering, but he saw Wisp raise a hand to his face, and Doughty turn away. He judged the moment Tugger was ready to say, ‘That's enough,' and played a merry little jig to finish up.

The rain eased slightly around sunset, but didn't stop. ‘No need to worry about moondark,' said Wisp. ‘We got enough cloud to block ten moons.'

‘And enough mud to drown a damn battalion,' growled Pigeon.

As the dial on Tugger's pocket-clock crawled toward midnight, the men grew quiet. Perrin was tense, but not afraid. The danger for him was the dogs, and he wasn't scared of them. Even if that big old boar-sow jumped out at them in the woods on the way, he knew he could handle her.

‘Time, lads,' Tugger said softly. Perrin was the first to his feet.

‘I'll have a swig of spiced wine waiting for you,' said Wisp. ‘Good luck, lads.'

‘We'll make our own luck tonight,' said Tugger sternly, but he laid a hand briefly on Wisp's shoulder.

‘See you on the other side,' croaked Wisp. It was the traditional soldier's farewell, and Perrin lifted one hand to acknowledge it.

This time it was impossible to creep silently through the woods; the rain had turned the ground to slush. Doughty slid, and when he scrambled up, he was limping. ‘It's not bad.' He shrugged off Fello's hand. ‘It'll come good. I swear it, Tug, it's not that bad.'

‘Stand on it,' said Tugger.

Doughty swore, and grimaced, and his leg buckled. ‘Back to the boat,' said Tugger. ‘Now. Send Wisp to catch up.'

The remaining four struggled on. Low branches lashed their faces, thorns snagged their clothes, and always the mud slid and sucked under their feet. At last they reached the place where there was no cover between them and the Palace gardens.

‘Right, lads. Count of one hundred between. You first, Pigeon. Go, go, go.'

Perrin's stomach turned over. They were crossing the open ground alone, every man for himself. What was he supposed to do after that? He'd thought Tugger would look out for him. He hadn't listened to the briefings. It was too late to ask now. Pigeon and Fello were already gone.

‘Ninety-nine, a hundred.' Tugger waved him forward, eyes down on his pocket-clock. ‘Make luck for yourself, son. Go, go, go.'

And Perrin was off, running through the rain toward the dim, wavering lights of the Palace, bent double and gasping for breath as the wet ground slammed up beneath his feet. The rain was blinding. His dagger-belt was loose; it flapped at his side. He clutched it with one hand. Where were the lights? All the lights had gone out. No, there they were. He was veering south . . .

He slammed face-first into a hedge and the ground came up to meet him with a smack. Automatically he rolled, pressed himself flat. He groped for his dagger-belt, his hands slippery with mud and rain, and managed to pull it tight.
Don't panic,
Perrin. All you have to do is creep through the garden.

He crawled along the line of the hedge until he found a gap. But beyond the gap was another solid wall of greenery, parallel with the first. He blundered beside it; this one ran in a curve that took him right round the other side of the Palace. Another gap, a straight avenue, then bang, into yet another hedge. At last Perrin realised he was trapped inside a maze. Tugger hadn't mentioned a maze. Had he?

Back and forth Perrin crawled in the rain for what seemed an eternity, inching his way forward, sometimes forced back on his tracks. The hedges were too slippery to climb, and too dense to burrow through.

Then at last he was out, with a gravel path under his hands and knees. He rolled over and turned his face up to the rain. He guessed he'd only advanced twenty paces in all that time. The sky was black; the water fell out of it like stones. Far away, someone was shouting.

Someone was shouting.
Perrin stumbled to his feet and set off again, head down, shoulder to the rain. The lights were close now, looming out of a sudden cliff of solid shadow. The Palace wall. What was he supposed to do?
Low, get low, behind this
fountain.
He cursed the rain and wiped his hair out of his eyes. He couldn't see a damn thing.

There was a noise. Shouting again. Perrin tensed. It might be all right. It might be the shout of one patrol to another, calling, ‘all's well'.

But he knew, even then, that it was all wrong.

He waited and waited, but no patrols came by. He heard voices, close to the Palace wall, but no more shouts. He glimpsed the flicker of lights. For no real reason, he started to run, crouching, toward the wall.

‘Snake!
Snake!
'

Pigeon's long arms wrapped around him from behind and brought him to the ground with a thud. ‘You frugging idiot,' he hissed in Perrin's ear. ‘What are you playing at? I've been watching you march around that garden like you were on parade this full quarter of the night. Keep your head down. We're safe enough here. By the bones. As if things weren't bad enough.'

‘What's happened?' whispered Perrin. Pigeon held him tight around the waist, so tight he could hardly breathe, and rocked him cheek to cheek.

‘Fello's gone. Got stuck in that frugging maze and the patrol found him. Don't know where Tugger's got to; no sign of Wispy either. Shut up and let me listen.'

‘Fello's captured?'

‘Dead.'

Perrin swallowed. For a long time the two men were silent, rocking back and forth in the rain. Pigeon didn't seem to realise that he was clutching Perrin like a child with a rag doll. The rain beat down. Nearby, dogs barked, an excited clamour. Pigeon let out a long sigh, and released Perrin. ‘Hear that? Come on, Snake. Go, go, go.'

Pigeon disappeared into the dark. Perrin gaped after him.
Go where?
On hands and knees he crawled after Pigeon. Now he heard other noises too: the scrape of metal on stone, the whirr of a rope through a pulley. Trust Tugger to get it right, even when everything else was turning to piss and mud. Tugger had pulled it off, climbed the face of the Palace with his pegs and toes, secured the rope and let it down.

Out of the rain Pigeon grabbed him again, shoved his mouth close to Perrin's ear. ‘You're up. Go, go, go.'

He yanked the rope around Perrin's waist and tightened it, boosting Perrin up the wall. Confused, Perrin groped for foot and handholds. This wasn't the plan.
But the plan was all
blown to pieces.
There were supposed to be four of them scaling the wall, two teams of two. Big Doughty was supposed to pull Perrin to the top. When he'd practised with Doughty before they sailed south, it was almost like flying; he'd pushed off lightly from the rocks as he rose effortlessly higher.

Tugger dragged him upward, rough as a sack of carrots; his hands and knees scraped on the stone, his hips banged into the wall. He couldn't see how high he'd come. Tugger stopped pulling. Perrin dangled at the end of the rope. If Tugger let go . . .