The Last Hour of Gann (173 page)

She could try
to fight. Iziz had plenty of weapons on him. Unfortunately, the only one she had any hope of getting at down here was the dagger in his boot, whereas he was in the perfect position to lop her head off.

‘He won’t do it,’ Bo Peep said sleepily. ‘He wants the baby.’

But he could still kill Meoraq.

‘He’s going to do that anyway. If you make him mad, at least he’ll kill Meoraq quickly.’

Nicci had died quickly. That didn’t make it easy.

‘If you do nothing, he’ll definitely die hard.’

But if she waited, she’d have more time to plan and maybe stumble into a better opportunity to take one of his swords.

‘Or lose it,’ said Bo Peep’s ghost. ‘If you see the chance, little girl, you take it. Maybe there is a God
and maybe there isn’t. Maybe He helped Scott cross the wires that raised that boat and maybe He didn’t. Maybe this and maybe that, but you know damn well He isn’t going to drop out of the sky and put a gun in your hand, so you forget all about good opportunities and better ones. If you see the chance, you take it.’

Fuck it. Amber made a grab for the dagger in Iziz’s boot.

Iziz yanked his foot up and then slammed it forward, catching her in the chest and sending her skidding backwards through the mud until she collided with one of the Manifestors. He kicked her too, and Iziz leapt up and slapped him. “You touch my Eshiqi again and I’ll whip you bloody! Geozh!”

“I’ve got him. Urgath, get over here, what’s wrong with you?”

Amber spat mud, raised her head to catch a glimpse of metal—the shine of a buckle on the side of Iziz’s boot—and dropped it again, knowing it was all over now. Meoraq was dead; she’d helped to kill him.

Iziz stood over h
er a long time without speaking. “Get up,” he said at last.

“Fuck you,” Amber replied.
The enormity of her risk and the self-disgust behind her failure combined to make her feel a little drunk. “Kill me on the ground, motherfucker.”

Several raiders hooted, hearing this. Several more wandered over to watch.

“Get up,” said Iziz again. Over his shoulder, he added, “Bring me the Sheulek.”

It was on the tip of her tongue to tell him to fuck off again
, but she knew this might be the last time she saw Meoraq, the last time he saw her. She didn’t want to be lying in the mud for that.

She climbed to her feet as they dragged Meoraq into the courtyard. He did not appear to be conscious, but they took no chances; his wrists were bound behind his back and then tied to his belt.

“That’s far enough,” said Iziz, and the raiders holding him let him drop. He collapsed face-down, but proved he was at least alive by rolling slowly onto his side and spitting out a mouthful of mud.

Iziz let her stare, but at her first hesitant step forward, he caught her by the arm and pulled her back. He studied the ground, gauging the distance between them and Meoraq, and took her with him all the way to the outer doors of the shrine. “He looks dry,” Iziz remarked, keeping his grip on her arm. “
Lkonu, give the Sheulek a drink.”

With a snort, one of the raiders beckoned to the human acting as a serving slave.

“No,” said Iziz. “He looks very dry. Make sure he gets a long drink.”

Lkonu
got up and took one of the big travel flasks from a sled. He needed the help of two others to stand Meoraq up to pry his mouth open. While they held him, Lkonu stuck the neck of the flask all the way into Meoraq’s mouth and began to pour.

The first few swallows must have been good, but they kept coming. Meoraq choked, tried to turn away; they held his head and kept pouring. He began to struggle, violently enough that they had to put him on the ground, but
Lkonu stayed with him the whole time and kept pouring. How much did those flasks hold? Two gallons? Three? Amber saw his chest heave, water spewing from around the neck of the flask. She heard the sound that Nicci had spoken of—that bubbly shout that people make when they’re drowning.

At last,
Lkonu came to the end of it, holding the flask up by its bottom and shaking to get the last drops. Then he took it away and the raiders pinning Meoraq to the ground let him go.

He kicked once, feebly. His mouth yawned. His head swiveled slowly side to side and then, in near-perfect silence, a great torrent of water erupted out of him. Most of it went spilling back into him and then came out again as foam. The raiders found this uproarious.

“God and Gann,” said Iziz, watching her, only her. “They come together out here. Understand that…and pick a sword.”

She looked at him, tears and mud drying stiff on her face, frozen to her heart. “Are you going to make me kill him?”

“I can’t make you do anything,” he replied evenly. “We all have a choice. My mother told me that. Didn’t yours?”

“No. Wasn’t really her style.” She looked at Meoraq again, lying on his back and choking on the froth of his own watery vomit, still too weak to roll over. “She was always a victim.”

“Sword, Eshiqi.” Iziz spread his arms, inviting her to take her choice—all of Meoraq’s and his own besides. “You wanted it enough to risk his life and yours, so don’t flinch now. Take it and swallow the consequences.”

Everyone was watching now. Raiders, Manifestors, even Eric, the newest slave of the bunch if you didn’t count Amber herself. Everyone except Meoraq, who didn’t do anything but breathe, and couldn’t do that very well.

The wind and the salt in the spray stung her eyes. She pointed at Meoraq’s samr, because she’d practiced with it before and because it was the heaviest and had the best chance of taking someone’s head off clean if…if that was where this was going.

Iziz drew it from the sheath strapped to his back and handed it to her. “All right,” he said, unclipping both kzungs and holding them, one in each hand, relaxed. “We’re going to play a game. You see your man there? If you can reach him—
” The kzungs in his hands twirled in the careless manner of a trick played too many times to be considered showboating anymore. “—you can have him.”

“You lie.”

He shrugged. “I never said you could keep him, but I’ll give you one hour’s liberty. That’s fair, isn’t it?”

Raiders consulted one another and
, after much serious talk and dramatic gestures, unanimously agreed. Very fair.

“One hour to do what you will with him. If you want to run or leap into the sea or just give him one last poke, that’s up to you. But you have to put your hand right on him, you mark?”

“And if you reach him first?”

“Probably won’t be pleasant. Just remember, it doesn’t end until you have him or until you cry surrender.
If you cry, the game is over.” His head cocked. He smiled. “But if I reach him first, Eshiqi, you don’t get to cry anymore. You just get to watch. So really, the wisest thing for you to do is cry right now, before we get started.”

But she would never get another chance.
Amber gripped her sword in both hands, holding it the way she’d trained during all those long, boring winter days.

Iziz snorted and slapped at his chest. “Let’s have it, then. Make me bleed.”

She stabbed. His sword smacked down on hers hard enough to sting her palms and numb her elbows. He could have disarmed her. He could have cut her throat on the backswing if he wanted to. He just stood there, his arms relaxed at his sides, his throat black and cool, waiting.

Amber stepped back, suddenly feinted left and swung from the right. He knocked her sword aside and slapped her with the flat of his blade.

The raiders cheered.

They stared at each other. Amber reached up shakily and rubbed at her cheek. She wasn’t even cut.

“Ease up,” suggested Iziz. “Your arms are too stiff and they’re telling me what you mean to do. A relaxed stance keeps secrets.”

She
lunged, coming in low and slashing sharply up, but he was there to knock her sword uselessly aside and slap her other cheek. His men cheered again.

“You really are a fierce little thing, aren’t you?” Iziz murmured.

Amber feinted again, stabbing for his heart and then thrusting down with all her weight, hoping to nail his boot to the ground. His playful swat became a hasty leap backwards and she darted forward, slashing and stabbing and skidding in the mud. He let her come four, maybe five steps, and then he stopped parrying.

And started attacking.

Even as she scrambled to defend herself against the steady rain of blows, she knew he wasn’t trying to kill her. He was just thinning her nerves and wearing her out. And it was working. As she began to slow, so did he, until they were just standing and staring at each other once more.

“I can see your arms trembling,” said Iziz.

She stabbed. He knocked her sword aside and took a step forward. Amber backed away with her sword raised and yes, it was shaking. He took up every step she put between them until her back bumped against the outer doors of the shrine.

“So.” Iziz looked around, his spines relaxed and throat black, calm. “You began the game with fifty paces to claim and now have, what? Seventy-five? Do you cry, Eshiqi? You have to say the words.”

‘Say it,’ said Bo Peep. ‘You don’t have to mean it.’

True. She might even get that fabled better chance, but she had the sword in her hand right now and that might never happen again.

Amber screamed and lunged at him. All around them, raiders hissed and stomped, calling encouragement to her as she drove the smirking Iziz back. As he parried with one sword, the other played, flicking at her hair and cutting at the fastens of her girdle until it popped open and fell off. Her tunic gaped; the sight of her naked human breasts set the raiders to roaring, even louder after she shrugged out of the useless, flapping tunic and threw it to the ground. Bare-chested, she pressed the attack and Iziz agreeably backed up until he was maybe three meters from the place where Meoraq lay. There he stopped, content to parry her increasingly ragged thrusts and slashes until, with a snort of disdain, he clipped one of the kzungs back on his belt and gave her a shove.

She staggered, flailing wildly to keep her balance. She kept her feet, but lost her momentum. Panting, her arms like hot lead hanging off her shoulders, she cou
ld only look past him to Meoraq, but he gave her nothing to draw strength from. He lay in the mud without moving, unconscious or…no, he had to be unconscious.

“On your knees, Eshiqi,” Iziz warned her. “Cry to me.”

Everyone was watching, listening. Beneath their expectant silence, she could clearly hear Scott picking his stupid ship apart in the garage, actually bashing his way into it with the reassurance that they could fix that later, just keep going, keep at it, grab that panel there and
pull
. She could feel the waves hitting the cliffs, feel each wet slap vibrating up through her naked feet to shiver in her bones. The wind blew saltspray in her eyes like tears; Amber had none left of her own.

She stabbed the samr down into the mud—not a calculated
expression of defeat but only to brace herself against—and dropped beside it on her knees. She did not look at Iziz. She didn’t look at anyone, not even Meoraq. Now and then, she could feel her head shaking slowly back and forth, but she felt none of the disbelief the gesture confessed. She felt tired. Not angry, not defiant, not even grieving and sick and scared anymore, but just…just tired. God did not live at Xi’Matezh and He wasn’t sending a helicopter. There was only her and she’d tried and failed, so what else was there to say?

“I cry,” said Amber.

Iziz cocked his head and put one foot forward. He waited.

Amber bent over, palms up to either side of his scuffed boot, and the very instant that her sweaty brow touched leather,
Scott’s ship in the garage exploded.

She was not immediately conscious of the noise—it hit her ears like a ton of cotton, deafening
her before she knew what it meant—but only of an intense heat lashing up her back, so that her first thought, when she could think, was that someone in the crowd had whipped her.

She cried out and
fell flat, twisting around to see her unwhipped back, and when that finished making no sense to her, she finally raised her eyes and saw three raiders lying dead in the mud. And not just dead, she realized, not just that, but decapitated. She saw the smoke next, the smoke that was not only pouring out through the open doorway of the garage in a greasy, black fog, but also sprouting straight up in the air through the much bigger hole in the roof and sort of…folding under. Roaring. She could hear almost nothing, but the smoke was roaring.

Amber looked up at Iziz. He did not look down at her. All his attention seemed fixed on his hand, which he had apparently been holding up, perhaps in some sign to his men that she hadn’t seen because she’d been bent over his boot, but anyway, he was looking at that hand with a deep, frowning confusion because it was now missing all its fingers. The strip of blackened, shiny-burnt metal that had sheared through three necks to cut them off was now lodged in another raider’s chest. That man was s
till standing. Except for the thing jutting out of his tunic, he didn’t even seem all that hurt.