Tetrarch (Well of Echoes) (57 page)

When he had his breath back, Nish emptied the water from his boots, wrung his socks out and put them on again, and squelched off into the forest, setting his course by the moon, roughly south. He was not going anywhere in particular, just away from Morgadis.

Daylight found him in the same hilly country, the same dense forest. His belly rumbled but he could find nothing that looked edible. Nish found a hole in the base of a tree, checked that there was no venomous creature inside and curled up on the floor.

Two days later he was still walking, slowly now. It was too early in the season for fruit, nuts or seeds. There could have been all kinds of roots and tubers here but he had no idea how to find them, or which ones were edible and which poisonous. He saw animals and birds all the time but hurled sticks and stones to no avail. His attempts at traps and snares were equally unsuccessful.

Another day went by. Nish could think of nothing but food. He tried some strands of green algae growing in a pond by a creek. It was slimy, tasteless and seemed to have no nutrition in it at all, for he felt just as faint when his belly was full of the stuff.

He was sitting by the creek with his back to a tree, wondering if there were any fish or crustaceans in the water, when he saw a bee emerge from a hole in the trunk of a neighbouring tree. Another followed it, and a third.

He climbed up the knobbed trunk and looked in. It was a hive, thickly clustered with bees. They could be rendered docile by smoke but he’d already failed to strike a single spark from the only iron object he had, his belt buckle. Driven by his flabby stomach, he broke the end off a branch and bashed it with a rock until he had a chisel-shaped point.

Climbing up, he inserted the stick into the opening, found the centre of the nest and prised. The stick stuck in the wax. He prised harder and the bees swarmed toward his face.

He fell out of the tree, picked himself up and raced toward the water. They followed. One stung him on the back of the neck, another on the arm. He splashed into the creek, down to a shallow pool and ducked under. He felt more stings across his neck and shoulders. He must have carried the bees down with him.

Nish tried to brush them off, ran out of air and came up. The swarm, hanging low over the water, went for him. He swam underwater across the pool, coming up on the other side of a log. He clung on there, watching the swarm, which showed no signs of going away.

It was half an hour before he finally emerged from the water. The bees were gone. He did not feel good at all; he had been stung in at least a dozen places and there were lumps across his back, shoulders and neck.

Sitting on the bank, shivering and trying to warm himself in the sun, Nish noticed that there was something on the end of his stick. It was a large wedge of comb, golden honey oozing from it. He picked off a few dead bees and crammed a chunk into his mouth. As the sweet honey trickled down his throat it felt like a very good day.

It did get better after that. He came upon a solitary nut tree whose bounty from last season, long fallen, had begun to sprout. Nish stuffed his belly to bursting with the mouldy fruit and filled the sleeves of his coat. His stomach ached all night but it kept him going until, after five more days of walking, he reached a fringe of the forest. There he hesitated.

He did not see how Minis was going to find him, one solitary individual in a wilderness. However, the constructs could not readily travel through the dense forest so he’d better keep to the edge.

He crept along the borderlands for another four days, staying to the shadows, heading south. He was wary of being seen, for lone travellers were vulnerable. Nish found enough food to subsist on: a sick rabbit one day, several crayfish in a pond the next.

On the thirteenth day after fleeing Morgadis he was rising from his bed of bracken when a horse whinnied not far away. Taking up a stout stick, he went to investigate. That proved to be a bad decision.

A detachment of soldiers was riding in his direction. They wore a uniform different from Troist’s army and were leading a double file of prisoners, looped together. These looked like yokels; farm labourers and the like, all dressed in ragged homespun. It must be a conscriptors’ gang, the land equivalent of a naval press gang. Any man between the ages of fourteen and sixty who lacked the necessary papers could be taken by force for the army, and conscripts were the lowest of all soldiers. They began their lives in chains and usually ended them in the belly of a lyrinx. They were paid nothing but their clothing and keep, and once taken, even if in error, were seldom freed.

Nish had experienced enough of the army. He ducked behind a tree but the movement must have caught someone’s keen eye. A shout rang out. He ran toward the forest, which unfortunately was thin here. It would be hard to find a decent hiding place. He darted between two trees, turned sharply left behind a screen of pungent pepperbushes and ran on tiptoe across the grass, trying not to make a sound or leave a trail.

At least two mounted soldiers were after him; he could distinguish the hoofbeats. Ahead, the land was flat, though to his right it sloped down to the creek where earlier he had found the crayfish. It was not deep enough to hinder his passage, much less the horses, but the water would hide his tracks if he could get far enough ahead.

They were too close. They would run him down. Nish rolled over a great fallen tree and ducked down behind it, creeping along to the other end where there was space enough underneath to hide.

The horsemen came pounding out of the trees. ‘Where’s he gone?’ cried one, a tall man with long trailing locks and a bushy red beard.

‘Not far,’ yelled the other, a nuggetty man with a mean look in his dark eyes. ‘He couldn’t have gotten away. Must be hiding.’

They walked their horses forward, the nuggetty one heading for the fallen tree while the other approached a clump of wiry shrubs. He had a solid stick in his left hand and looked as though he would enjoy using it.

Nish edged back under the trunk. He might just get away from the other side if the man was not too careful in his search. Unfortunately he proved to be meticulous. It was as if the soldier knew Nish was there, for he worked his way along the trunk, leaving nothing to chance. Should he attack the fellow and try to bring him down, or run for it?

If Nish attacked he had to succeed, else the other horseman would have him in seconds. Nish studied the soldier. The fellow looked strong and mean. Backing under the nest of branches, he waited until the man went past, then leapt out at him. The soldier must have seen him from the corner of his eye for he whirled the horse in its tracks. There was no time to run; Nish sent the stick spinning through the air with all his strength.

His aim was high but his luck held. The horse reared, the heavy end of the stick took the nuggetty fellow in the face and he went off backwards. Before he could recover, Nish caught the side of the saddle, threw himself half onto the horse and screamed ‘Go!’

The frightened horse bolted through the trees towards the water. As he pulled himself into the saddle, behind him Nish could hear the roars of the unhorsed soldier.

‘He went that way!’

The rider came after him. The other fellow would be running for help. When,
if
they caught him, they would beat him senseless for this affront, and to give the other prisoners a lesson they would never forget. No one cared about the fate of a conscript.

Splashing into the water, Nish rode up the centre of the stream. Unlikely it would make any difference with his hunter this close behind, but he needed all the help he could get. The man was not yet in sight but Nish could hear him. Breaking away from the stream, he walked the horse into the deep forest. The trees were closer together here, and it was darker; easier to hide, though the ground was moist and he left clear tracks.

After riding for a good while, he turned into another gully and stopped. He could hear nothing. Had he lost the fellow? It did not seem likely. Perhaps he was waiting for Nish to move.

Walking the horse up the other side, Nish wondered at the unnatural silence. There was not a sound to be heard. He continued up the steep slope, the horse’s hooves breaking through leaf litter and slipping on clayey yellow loam. Nish felt vulnerable. The horse was panting as it struggled up the slope.

Nish reined in, cocking his head. Feeling uncomfortable without knowing why, he turned across the slope, and as he did a pair of riders rose up on their stirrups and came at him. Another few steps and he would have walked right between them.

Nish kicked his horse into a run, slipping and sliding across the greasy slope. Passing beside a black-trunked tree, so close that his knee struck it a painful blow, he turned sharply on the other side, angling toward the creek. Going around a tilted standing stone shaped like a tooth, he pounded along the edge of the creek. One rider was close behind. Nish caught occasional glimpses of the other, at the top of the slope.

No use trying to get up that way. He shot by a copse of trees as dark and dense as a wall and looked back. The soldier was gaining. Nish turned sharply along the line of trees, splashed across the creek and up the other side, coming out into open woodland, though the forest continued beyond that. He was halfway across when two more horses appeared on the far side. Nish turned away. The pair who had been following him came out of the trees.

His horse was tiring. No matter what he did, they were going to catch him. No, never give up. If he could get between the pairs, he might make it back into the forest again, and then, who knows?

‘Go!’ he shouted, kicking the horse into a gallop and putting his head down. ‘One last effort!’ He patted the heaving neck. The horse responded, running like the wind. Nish had never gone so fast. Both pairs of riders turned to cut him off, but their mounts were tired too. He shot between them with not a dozen paces to spare.

Nish shook his fist in their faces, and now they were slowing, falling back. Another trap? He slowed too, wondering what was going on.

Out of the forest came a construct, its weapons at the ready. Out of the frying-pan … Then Nish saw that the machine bore the same colours that Minis’s had. Minis had found him.

With a great sigh of relief, Nish walked his horse forward. ‘Minis!’ he yelled, waving his arm above his head. ‘Minis.’

The top of the construct came open and a tall figure stood up on the platform. It was not Minis.

‘Hello,
Marshal
Cryl-Nish Hlar,’ said Vithis.

T
he following day, when she had been in Nyriandiol for about a month, Tiaan was permitted to sit upright, though she had to be lifted into position and laid down afterwards. Gilhaelith sat with her, and together they redesigned the wheeled chair so she could move it by herself. It was her most pleasant time since Tirthrax. There were moments when she quite forgot Minis, and once, to her shame, even little Haani was not a lead blanket wrapped around her heart.

It took several days to rebuild the chair, but as soon as the wheels were fitted, its inadequacies became apparent, not least that it was useless anywhere where there were steps, or on the stony ground outside.

‘This is no good at all.’ Gilhaelith was struggling to get it up the single step from her room.

Tiaan moved uncomfortably in the seat, for the brace was pinching her. ‘What about a chair that walks, like a clanker with four legs? I’m sure I can design one. I’ve seen their workings a hundred times, and whatever I’ve seen, I can remember perfectly.’

He regarded her, thoughtful. ‘No wonder you picked up geomancy so easily.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘That Art is based on the patterns and forces of the natural world. If you can recall and recognise them, you’ve already taken the first step.’

‘And my work as an artisan was the second …’

‘Indeed. Geomancy is unlike all other forms of the Secret Art. Perhaps that is why mancers have, as a rule, struggled to master it. It’s alien to their way of thinking. Tell me, how would you move such a walker, Tiaan? I don’t see –’

‘I would build a controller for it, using my hedron to draw power from the field.’

His face lit up. ‘I’ve wondered, sometimes …’ Pushing her under the shade of the vines, he ran into the house, shortly to return with paper and a piece of charcoal.

Tiaan began to sketch, and after various failures settled on something like a miniature clanker, with two thick legs at the front and another two at the back.

‘I don’t think we can make that here,’ Gilhaelith said. ‘What if it were more like this?’ He sketched a different arrangement.

She ran it forward and back in her mind. ‘The legs will catch. But if we were to make it this way …’

They worked well into the night, and though Gurtey’s cabal of servants muttered and scowled outside, it was a good day. Gilhaelith must have enjoyed it too, for he lingered afterwards. He seemed less strange, more complete now that he had revealed a little of himself.

The final design did not resemble a clanker at all. The metal legs were spider-slender and placed at four corners of a hardwood frame, for balance. A seat was mounted on the frame so Tiaan’s head would be at her head height when standing. The mechanism to drive the legs, a simplified version of a clanker’s innards, would go beneath the seat. Gilhaelith’s smiths would build it while Tiaan made the controller, and that was such slow work that the walker would likely be finished first.