When True Night Falls (61 page)

Not that he’d been able to Work much anyway. There had been tremors only an hour ago, barely strong enough to feel—but the fae had been like wildfire when he’d tried to use it, and he’d had to back off before the job was really perfect. If only they’d had another hour to let the power cool down, to resume its accustomed course ... but there was no point in complaining about that now. You made do with what you had when you had it, and tried to be grateful for all the times that the fae had been workable when you needed it most.

Tarrant could have Worked it,
he thought. But there was still enough light in the sky that Tarrant couldn’t possibly join them yet. God alone knew where he was, or what manner of shelter he currently occupied. Damien found himself praying that the Hunter was safe. Without shame this time, and without regret. Because while they had little chance of success in their mission as things stood right now, they would have no chance at all without the Hunter’s power behind them.

They hurried down the narrow streets, trying to match the pace of the crowd, anxious to get where they were going. The girl struggled along beside them, her hand entwined in Hesseth’s, her face pale and drawn. It said much for her courage that she was doing as well as she was; Damien knew that the sounds and sensations which accosted her were nigh on overwhelming, and that it took all her strength to shut them out and keep going. So far she was doing well enough. Soon they would be out of this crime-ridden district and in a quieter quarter, and perhaps that would help. He hoped so, for her sake. He could almost feel her pain.

Then he heard Hesseth hiss softly beside him, a sound meant for his ears and his ears only. Without breaking stride or looking directly at her, he whispered, “What is it?”

“Footsteps. Behind us. Matching our pace. They’ve been there for a while,” she added.

Damien took a minute to listen. The noise of the crowd about them was chaotic—workers traipsing home for the night, mothers screaming at dawdling children, conversational snippets appearing and disappearing on all sides of them—and he found that his merely human ears couldn’t focus on the one noise he wanted. He braced himself and muttered the key to a Working. Power surged up through his body with such force that he wondered if he might not have taken on more than he could handle, but a moment later it subsided; the earth-fae released by the tremors was quieting down at last.

He made sure that his feet kept moving while he fashioned the Knowing, careful not to break his stride. Such a Working did not require total immersion in the currents, which gave him some hope of managing it. Carefully, gingerly, he touched his will to the surging earth-fae. Barely brushing its surface with his thoughts, but that was enough: the power was like wildfire. He tried to Work it, focusing on sound rather than vision, to detect that one special rhythm which Hesseth had noted. He heard Jenseny gasp as the Working took shape—clearly she could feel it happening—but a hand on her shoulder was enough to warn her to stay quiet. She was learning.

Now he heard it. Not one pair of footsteps but two, perhaps ten yards back from them. His Knowing broke down the rhythms of the crowd into several ordered patterns, and he could hear how much those two stood out. Too fast. Too hard. Too determined, for this meandering crowd. He slowed down a bit, motioned for Hesseth to follow suit. The footsteps kept their distance. He speeded up—gradually, hoping they wouldn’t note the deliberate pattern in his movements—and they speeded up also, so that they were neither closer nor farther behind. At last he exhaled heavily and let the Knowing fade.

“Damien?” the rakh-woman whispered.

“We’re in trouble,” he whispered back.

They were coming out of the tenderloin district now, into an area of nicer housing and wider streets. It was a good bet the crowds would thin out here, leaving them without that precious shield. That’s what their pursuers were waiting for, he realized. An open field, devoid of innocent targets. A clean line of fire.

“God of Earth,” he muttered. And he steered them eastward, even as he prayed.

Not now,
he thought feverishly.
Please. Not like this. We have too much to do. Please don’t let them stop us now.

If he had prayed to a pagan god, perhaps it would have answered. Perhaps, for a favored son, it would have staged a truly divine rescue, complete with pyrotechnics and a choir of demons. Certainly Tarrant’s Iezu seemed to have the power and the temperament to stage such a thing. But the price of changing the world through faith was that one had to forgo such convenient spectacles, and it was with heavy heart and a trembling hand that Damien steered his companions away from their intended path, into the heart of the factory district.

Here long, featureless buildings housed the manpower that had made Esperanova a city to be reckoned with. Here young men and women—and sometimes children, despite the labor laws—picked among baskets of freshly prospected gems, choosing those whose color or brilliance held especial promise. Here slender hands refined the stones one by one, not only the larger, prouder specimens but rubies as fine as dust, diamonds as delicate as powder. For some techniques only a child’s hand would do; those of an adult were simply too large and clumsy to manage the requisite manipulation. In other buildings precious metals were melted, blended, and cast into myriad decorative forms for sale in the northern cities. Fine steel blades were forged and whetted. Wood was whittled into furniture as smooth as glass. Esperanova’s wealth was based upon her labor force, and the western quarter of the city was a maze of factory complexes, large and small. All of which, without exception, would soon be closing for the night.

The streets were almost empty when they arrived, which was good cause for panic. He had taken a chance in coming here—a big one—and for a moment he feared he had gambled too much. He could almost feel Hesseth’s eyes on him as he guided them through the labyrinthine district, questioning his purpose in bringing them to such a place. Maybe even questioning his sanity. For a short while he wondered about that himself, as he herded his party from street to street, trying to avoid those streets and alleys which were truly deserted. It was getting harder and harder.

And then, without warning, a whistle split the dusky air. He felt Jenseny’s hand tense up in his own, and he squeezed it once in reassurance. For a moment he could only wait, praying that his assessment of the situation was sound. The people surrounding them had thinned out long minutes ago, which meant there wasn’t much cover left. Already he could feel the back of his neck begin to crawl, as if in response to some springbolt or firearm which was aimed at that spot—

Then they came. In twos and threes at first, and then in a herd. A swarm. Women and children and young boys and older men, red-eyed and tired and anxious to wend their way through the maze of factory streets, until they got to wherever home might be. A boundless, shapeless mass of people, who comprised by their mere presence the greatest Obscuring of all. He exhaled heavily in relief as the crowd enveloped them, sensing the potential for safety in their numbers. He felt Jenseny tense as all those new psyches battered her, as she shared their memories and their fears and ... who knew what else? He made sure he had a firm hold on her hand and dragged her forward, muttering a key under his breath as he did so. It was hard to concentrate in the midst of such a stampede, but he had no illusions about the task: his very life depended on it. And so he wove a Working even while strangers shouldered into him from the right and the left, even while he had to pull Jenseny close against him to keep the flood tide of humanity from sweeping her away, even while he had to watch for Hesseth’s coiffed head and make sure that it, too, was within safe distance.

He needed an Obscuring. A powerful Obscuring, that drew on the very nature of human distraction for its strength. For while a single grain of sand might be observed upon a granite plain (his teacher would have argued), in the midst of a sand dune it was all but invisible. So it would be with them, now. If Damien could hold onto the power—if he could channel it right—they should be able to distract their pursuers long enough to lose them.
Nothing obscures a clear trail,
Damien’s teacher would have insisted,
better than a thousand other footprints.
He hoped to hell the man was right.

The earth-fae was still hot, shrill to the touch, hard to mold. He felt an unaccustomed sweat break out on his forehead as he plunged into it, struggling to break it to his will. It would have been difficult under the best of curcumstances; done while walking, knocked about by this indifferent crowd, it was all but impossible. Once Hesseth had to urge him forward with a touch in order to keep him moving; he had instinctively turned inside himself as sorcerers were wont to do, shutting out all awareness not directly connected to his Working. Such behavior was a luxury here and now, and he was glad she had awakened him. Already several of the people nearby were looking at him strangely, which was the last thing he needed. He picked up his pace again, letting the motion of the crowd carry him along. No time now to focus on footsteps, or wonder where those two pair were; it took all he had to concentrate on the flow of the earth-power, to wrestle it into subservience. And then ... yes. There it was. The current shifted itself beneath his touch and began to reform. He held his breath, trying to stabilize it. A child running through the crowd barreled into his legs, but he barely felt it; his Working was the only thing real to him, the hot earth-fae and the dripping sweat and the pain that lanced through his limbs like needles as he struggled to tame the wild power that flowed about his feet. He no longer even knew if he was walking, and he barely knew where he was; only the power mattered now, the surging flow which the quakeling had released. Only the Obscuring mattered.

And then it was done. He let his Vision fade—and staggered for a moment, blinded by its afterimage. Hesseth tried to pull him along, but he put out a hand to stop her, and he caught up the child before the crowd could sweep her away.

“It’s done,” he gasped. He nodded toward the nearest wall. “Get out. Now.”

She understood immediately, and together they managed to get themselves and the child over to the wall, and away from press of flesh. Jenseny was shivering, clearly terrified, but at least she was still with them. Still standing. That was something, wasn’t it? Damien leaned against the brick wall and breathed deeply, trying to calm himself. It was done. It had worked. Any minute now their pursuers would be passing them by, eyes fixed firmly on the crowds ahead, unaware that their prey had turned aside. And then they would be safe for a while. Maybe long enough. One could only hope.

“What did you do?” the girl whispered. Frightened to speak but too curious to remain silent. “What happened?”

“I caused them to be distracted,” he whispered back. He probably could have spoken aloud in utter safety, but why push his luck? “When they try to see us, they’ll wind up watching other people, until it’s too late.”

“How long will it last?” Hesseth asked.

He sighed, and rubbed his temples. “Long enough. If we keep to crowded areas, we should be able to make it to the harbor unnoticed; that much’ll stay with us.”

“And then?”

He shut his eyes and allowed himself the luxury of a long, deep breath. An Obscuring like this was a touchy thing, and a thousand and one variables affected it. But one thing mattered more than any other. One single element could be their undoing.

“That depends,” he said quietly, “on if they’re expecting us.”

Night falling. Harbor shadowed. Perfect time for an ambush.

“There they are.”

From behind the bulk of a storage shed—corrugated tin, mottled with rust—the Regent’s soldiers took the measure of their prey. Tucked away in the shadow of the shed they were nearly invisible. Perfect.

“Now?” A soldier whispered, but their leader shook his head: No. Not yet.

There were few enough people on the wharf now that it was possible to make out the strangers clearly. The priest, coarsely dressed, with no sign of rank or vocation other than the sturdy sword harnessed across his back. The woman, lithe and mysterious, swathed in such layers of wool as were reserved for church tradition. And a child, thin and fearful, whose dark eyes swept over the piers again and again, as if searching for something to be afraid of. Her thick dark hair coiled like snakes over her shoulder, and she twisted its ends in her fingers as she gazed at shadows of the harbor.

“Who’s the kid?” Charrel demanded, his voice a hoarse whisper in the darkness.

“Doesn’t matter,” their leader told him. “You know our orders.”

They began to move. Slowly at first, like pack animals testing the ground for solidity. Slipping from shadow to shadow, silent as men could be, their dark clothing all but invisible in the thick, gloomy dusk. Their quarry hadn’t seen them yet, which was good. If they could manage to surround them before they responded—