The Promise of the Child (68 page)

He allowed himself one last chance to consider what would happen if she wasn't real, if Aaron had lied to him all this time. The Long-Life had somehow used a version of Maneker that he'd found inside Soti-ris's head—surely he could have done the same with Iro. Sotiris scowled, the night air chilling him slowly beneath his Firstling armour. She
had
been real, he'd felt it, nothing like the image of Maneker he'd met at the dream port all those months ago. She had been frightened. The thought of her still out there somewhere, terrified and alone, brought the sting of tears to Sotiris's eyes once more. He would find her. He would save her.

More detonations echoed from the remains of the house, one last stand by some harried group of Secondlings, perhaps even Jalanbulon. Sotiris swept the thoughts from his head, his face suddenly hardening as he took in the vague lights of the burning city. Sending Lycaste to find Hugo Maneker had used what Sotiris knew was to be the last of his charity. He sincerely hoped they were safe, and that his Immortal friend gave Lycaste every advantage in his quest to return home, but they were now beyond his concern. The Provincial battles were over, the war for the Old World itself now only just beginning. All that remained was to take what he had been promised.

His black messenger owl from the Utopia came fluttering to land on the pommel of the saddle. It swivelled its face to look up at Sotiris, its round eyes catching the spark of the flaming city.

“You found your friend?”

“I did,” Sotiris said, pulling off one of his gauntlets to caress the bird's feathers. “You need not report to me any longer.”

The owl twitched. “No? What of that Melius?”

Sotiris smiled kindly at it, suddenly unsure of what exactly the bird was referring to. “Go home, you've earned it.”

“As you say, Amaranthine,” the bird replied uncertainly and after some hesitation. It tensed and leapt from the saddle, disappearing silently into the night.

Sotiris did not watch it leave. His gaze came to rest on the gauntlet he'd removed, now lying limply like a metal spider in his bare hand. He didn't remember taking it off.

“Amaranthine,” he muttered, slipping it back on and flexing his fingers. The word sounded like it might once have been familiar to him, many scores of centuries before. He searched again, his eyes tracing the reflected fire on the polished gauntlet's surface, and found nothing.

Return

They'd been expected. He didn't quite understand how, not yet, but the devious Southerners had known he was coming. An uneaten breakfast spread on the grass was attracting the attention of the bolder wasps while the Cherries sat and watched him.

Melilotis counted quickly. One man (looking distinctly odd, as if something large and hungry had chewed on him in the not too distant past), a small boy and three ladies, as promised by that rat Ipheon. Someone was missing, another man, older and fatter—unlikely to pose a threat. If he were hiding somewhere, they'd sniff him out sooner or later.

Melilotis strolled into the sweet-smelling orchard and gave the three women a gleaming smile, his eyes settling on a prettily familiar face, the younger-looking of the twins. She was swollen with child. He cocked his head.

“Now, why do I know
you
, pretty lady?”

She frowned, and then he knew. Ah!

Her white eyes widened.

The taller of the sisters, equally attractive in an older sort of way, took her by the shoulders defensively. Melilotis smiled, looking her up and down.

“What is it, Meli?” asked Cladrastis, smiling sheepishly like he'd missed a particularly obvious joke. Ulmus lingered worriedly behind at the fringes of the garden.

The older sister tried to take the girl inside, standing her up unsteadily, but Melilotis held up a hand.

“Cladrastis, keep them here.” He fished quickly in the satchel at his side and brought out the spoked ring, slipping it on for all to see, while his brother grappled with the girls.

“Pentas, isn't it?” he asked her. She began to cry.

“Look at you.” He pointed at her stomach, creeping a little closer. “Not mine, I think? Been seeing some Cherry behind my back, have you?”

He reached out his hand.

“That's enough of that,” a deep voice murmured behind him. Melilotis turned, finding himself looking up into the eyes of a gruff, bearded Melius with a pot belly. In his crimson hands he held a long antique rifle. “You'll want to take that ring off, I think.”

He glanced at his brother, who had the two women in his grip.

“Let them go,” the Cherry—Impatiens, he presumed—growled, raising the rifle slightly.

Cladrastis looked at Melilotis, the women squirming as he tried to hold them.

“Don't you dare, Cladrastis,” Melilotis muttered, scrunching his fist. The ring felt hard and sharp pressed against his palm.

“Look, the Plenipotentiary was alive,” the crippled Cherry said, “we didn't kill him—he died from some illness. We buried him not ten days ago at the end of the beach.”

Melilotis didn't look at the man who had spoken, but stayed facing the plump one. “Is that so? Then you have nothing to worry about, good people.” He shrugged. “Just show me where he lies and we can be on our way.”

“You give us your word?” the fat Cherry grunted, the rifle still aimed.

“Of course!” Melilotis grinned. “Cladrastis,” he said, without looking at his brother, “let them go.”

“Meli?” The man gripped the women tighter. “Are you sure?”

He sighed. “Do as I say!”

The fat Cherry's eyes twitched to Cladrastis. Melilotis brought the ring up.

“Impatiens!” one of the women screamed.

“How have you been?” Melilotis touched Pentas's hair tenderly, curling a lock of it around a finger and laughing. He slid a hand to her swollen stomach. She looked as if she was about to faint. “I thought about you a lot, you know. What are the chances, eh?”

He glanced around at the other people, then finally at the body in the grass.

“Go inside with my brother,” he told them, directing his gaze at the crippled man, his family huddled around him. “Or the little boy gets to see your insides, too.” He cracked a smile at Pentas. “I think I'll go for a walk along the beach.” He grabbed Pentas's limp arm. “I'll take this one with me, she can show me where Callistemon is.”

“No you won't!” Her sister screamed, lunging forward in Cladrastis's grip. Melilotis pointed the ring at her wide eyes, his fingertips almost touching her lashes.

“Come on, then, you lucky girl,” he said to Pentas. “Do what you like with the other one, Cladrastis. Let Ulmus have a go when you're done.”

Melilotis wiped his mouth as he led her stumbling down to the beach. Pentas's legs finally buckled and he caught her, dragging her the last of the way over the pebbles towards a patch of sand. He paused, sweating, wondering why he was trying to make her comfortable; the pebbles would hurt more, and he
liked
it when they made noise. She whispered something through her tears.

“What was that?” he whispered back, admiring her body as he pushed her down, the ring still pressed to her slight neck. She was just as firm and toned as he remembered her, despite the pregnancy. He was excited; he'd never done it to a butterfly with a baby inside her. “Did you miss me? I bet nobody's given you anything like it since, have they, pretty lady?”

She sobbed the word again, turning her head away.

“
What
?” He had to bend his head to hear. “
Jotroffe
? Calling some other bastard's name? While you're with me you've got to say my name, pretty lady, say
Melilotis
.”

She shook her head, eyes shut. He laughed, settling atop her and smoothing one hand down the side of her waist, breathing harder. “No, Melilotis. Come on, say it.”

Melilotis took himself in hand but didn't feel ready yet. What was wrong with him? He was excited enough, damn it. After a moment, he sat back on his haunches to look at her dispassionately. She'd stopped crying and lay with her eyes closed, pulse ticking against his two fingers at her neck. He grabbed her breast with some force, trying one last time to feel something, but nothing happened. It was as if someone had castrated him without his noticing. He glanced slowly back at the grass-topped dune, unsure, sensing eyes on him from somewhere. He didn't feel like it—which was strange, because he
always
felt like it. What he really felt like, though it was very odd indeed, was going for a walk.

But that wasn't right. There was nowhere he wanted to go. He looked past Pentas to the extraordinarily green water lapping at the pebbles. A swim would be perfect, it was so hot. He might see how far he could get; the sea here was beautiful. The feeling of being observed suddenly returned, much stronger this time. Someone on the shore was staring at the back of his neck; he didn't like it.

Cladrastis abruptly ran past laughing and plunged into the waves. Melilotis called out his name in alarm, sure there was something his brother was supposed to be doing instead, but he was damned if he knew what it was. He stood, taking his fingers away from the girl's neck, and watched his brother swim out into the hot water of the cove.

Cladrastis had the right idea. Get away from the beach. He threw the ring down on the pebbles and ran out into the sea, almost tripping against the force of a swell, finally letting himself fall forward, tasting the salt rush into his mouth.

“Cladrastis, wait!”

His brother had swum far out already, the top of his head bobbing above the green. Melilotis swam a little and turned back once more. On the shore stood a small, strangely proportioned man, different in shape from anyone he'd ever seen, even a Firstling. Next to the figure was someone he thought he knew. It looked like Ulmus, but his little cousin somehow dwarfed the man at his side. Ah, well, he'd see them after his swim; he had to catch up with Cladrastis.

Melilotis turned in the water and kicked, trying to raise his head to glimpse where his brother had got to with every breath, but he could no longer see him. He slowed and swept his arms to bob upright in the waves.

“Cladrastis?”

The lime cove was empty all the way to the cliffs ahead, where the water darkened, making him shiver just to look at it. Glancing back, the distant sunny beach was empty once more.

It was as if he was the only person in the world.

Melilotis smiled slightly, raising his face to the strong sun. He ducked under and resurfaced, wiping the stinging salt out of his eyes clumsily with his knuckles while he squeezed them shut.

There was something moving down there, something he'd seen just before closing his eyes, a shadow glimmering into lightness. And a sound, lilting, almost like a song.

EPILOGUE

Perception

The old man unfastened his wrapped bundle of belongings and turned to face the sun. He had come twenty miles, he reckoned, since starting out this morning in the ice-carved valley at the edge of the flats, and could still easily make out the foothills of the mountains rising from the haze behind him. The sun warmed his creased brow, the heat of it glowing through his eyelids. The Most Venerable Sabran smiled, opening his mouth as if to drink in the warmth, and laughed a little to himself. After a while he sat, the pebbles of the cold, flat shore crunching beneath his weight.

“Yes?” He busied himself unwrapping his belongings while he listened to the voice at his ear. He searched quickly for his old wooden cup, taking it out and wiping it with the edge of his robe.

“Your kin? On the Old World?” He sat up, turning to his side as if someone were sitting there on the shore. Sabran nodded absently, leaning to dip his cup in the cold, clear water of a rock pool at the edge of the pebbles.

“You? Bound to this place?” He laughed gently, taking a sip. “And I thought all this time you stayed for the pleasure of my company.”

Sabran swilled the water around in his mouth, spitting quickly and dipping the cup again. As he reached over the pool, its reflections darkened for a moment, revealing a hunched shape beside him. He looked up sharply. “What?”

The wind keened across the shore, stirring his hair. Sabran shrugged, looking back into the pool at the grey form. “So he is free now, what of it? He will not come
here
.”

He listened, eyes searching the water. “Thresholds? I don't—”

The whispering in Sabran's ear grew loud, as if all the voices of the barren world—for there were indeed many—had chosen now to speak. The Most Venerable clutched his hands together as he listened to the parliament's fury, kneading them against something other than the cold.

“There may be one who could help,” he said through the din. The voices fell silent.

“Yes.” He smiled. “A spirit, like you, but made by Amaranthine hands. We called it Perception.”