City Of Hope And Despair Part 12

Tom climbed shakily to his feet, pausing to help Mildra up once he'd done so. From across the road Dewar stared back at him with obvious dismay. "I don't know what the breck you hit that Rust Warrior with, kid, nor where you've been hiding it, but good job very good job. Don't suppose you got Bryant at the same time, did you?"

There was no sign of Seth or his horse. Tom shook his head. "No."

Dewar grunted. "Thought that would be too much to hope for; which means he'll be back, I suppose."

Tom didn't comment. He was staring at where the Rust Warrior had stood scant seconds before. A small black smear on the ground was all that marked the monster's pa.s.sing. His second thought was no headache! no headache! He felt slightly disorientated, a little light-headed, but that was all. He felt slightly disorientated, a little light-headed, but that was all.

Mildra also seemed to be examining the ground. She stooped and picked something up. Tom recognised it immediately as the dull orange-red gemstone Kohn had worn around his neck, the one the giant had shown him on the barge their first step towards friends.h.i.+p. The strip of leather that supported it was gone, but the stone seemed undamaged.

"Kohn's heart stone," Mildra murmured. "Somehow it's survived whatever the Rust Warrior did to him."

"Heart stone?"

"Yes," she said, her gaze still fastened to the pendant. "Every Kayjele is given one at birth. They believe the stone forms a home for their essence, their spirit, everything that makes them who they are."

Tom found himself staring at the stone as intently as the Thaistess. It was now all they had to remember the gentle giant by. "What will you do with it?" Images of Kohn striding beside him on the road or sitting with him during their days on the barge chased each other through his mind.

"I'm not sure." She frowned thoughtfully. "I suppose I should try to get it back to his family, if I can. That's what he would have wanted." There was a quiver in her voice as she said this last, and Tom realised the Thaistess was close to tears.

"I... I wish I'd done something sooner," he said.

She put her arm around his shoulders. "Don't blame yourself, Tom!" This was spoken urgently, insistently. "You acted as soon as you could, and you saved us all from that awful thing."

All except for Kohn, he thought but didn't say. His gaze returned to Dewar, and he remembered then that Seth Bryant had seemed to recognise him. What was the name the former innkeeper called out? "King Slayer", that was it. What did that mean? What had Dewar done to earn such a name and the hatred which Seth so clearly displayed?

Ever the pragmatist, Dewar would miss Kohn princ.i.p.ally for the Kayjele's strength and willingness to carry things. Their horse, which Mildra had named Beauty, must have bolted during the encounter, taking most of their provisions with her. Fortunately, Kohn had still been carrying some and the giant had possessed enough good sense to put his bundle down before attacking the Rust Warrior, which meant they each still had a change of clothes at least. The a.s.sa.s.sin always kept coins and any valuables about his person, a habit he had been grateful of more than once in his life.

While his two surviving companions seemed incapacitated by grief over their fallen comrade, he set about dividing their remaining possessions into three bundles. Might be an idea to trust the two of them with a little money as well, he decided, just in case they became separated at some point.

Despite his outward calm, Dewar was more shaken by this latest incident than he cared to admit. In many ways Indryl, fabled capital of the Misted Isles, seemed a lifetime ago, yet some details remained as fresh in his mind as if they were but recent yesterdays. He'd always known the surviving member of the Twelve were out there somewhere, keeping their heads down while building new lives for themselves under a.s.sumed ident.i.ties, and he'd always known they would never forget.

Of course, he had no means of knowing how one of them came to be running the Four Spoke Inn in Crosston, but given their shared former profession, he could make a shrewd guess.

a.s.sa.s.sination had been an accepted mechanism of government in the Misted Isles for centuries part of the political order. Killings were carried out by the Twelve and overseen by the First. It had been an elegant, effective system, with each a.s.sa.s.sin working independently, rarely if ever meeting or even knowing who his fellows might be. They weren't public faces, weren't known to anyone apart from the First. The Twelve were self-policing, and would hunt down relentlessly any outsider who committed a murder and tried to pa.s.s it off as their work, or, indeed, one of their own who made a hit that had not been officially sanctioned. The system worked well, until Dewar was a.s.signed the unthinkable. He had been tasked with killing the king.

In all his years of service he had never hesitated, never questioned a sanction no matter how prominent the target might have been nor, conversely, how apparently insignificant. But he paused to query this one. Regicide seemed a little extreme, even for the Twelve. However, the sanction was immediately confirmed, which meant that saying no and staying alive became mutually exclusive options.

They called him King Slayer; the irony obvious and fully intended. Because, for the first time in an otherwise exemplary career, he failed. It could have happened at any time: blind luck turning against him. The king leant forward at the wrong moment; the poisoned dart that would have killed him in seconds missing by a fraction and sailing past to bring an abrupt end to the life of a royal aide. There was no opportunity for a second attempt. Bodyguards surrounded his highness in an instant and Dewar made good his escape, avoiding capture by the skin of his teeth.

It took him years to make sense of what came after. The First disowned him, acknowledging that the attempt had been made by one of the Twelve but denying that the hit was officially sanctioned. In a fit of rage, the King declared all the Twelve outlaw, to be hunted down and tried for treason. Only the First was exempt. The rest of the order were forced to flee for their lives, and it was common knowledge that not all made it. Two were captured and very publicly hung, drawn and quartered, while at least three more were said to have been killed while trying to escape.

A political mechanism which had been in place for centuries was torn apart at a stroke, and he had been the unwitting instrument of its destruction. Had that been the plan all along? Was this a deliberate move to strengthen the royal hand by removing the Twelve, long seen as a counterbalance to imperial autocracy? But that made no sense. He'd come within a hairsbreadth of actually killing the king. No, this smacked more of desperation, of pragmatism by the First, who sacrificed the Twelve to save his own skin, and of opportunism by the king, who seized upon the incident as an ideal excuse to destroy the Twelve's power base once and for all.

Dewar didn't doubt that he'd been the p.a.w.n in some dark political machinations, but felt increasingly certain that unfolding events had skewed the outcome into a completely new form. The king and the First had become allies by circ.u.mstance, not by design, and Dewar drew some small satisfaction from knowing how uneasy an alliance that must be. Did either of them sleep well at night?

None of which altered the fact that he was the scapegoat, a figure of hate and the prime target for both a powerful national state and its agents, and also the surviving members of an exiled a.s.sa.s.sin caste. King Slayer they dubbed him; partly in cruel jest and partly because making the attempt made him just as guilty as succeeding would have done.

The only place he could ever imagine being safe again was within the walls of Thaiburley; the towering, dense hub of the human world.

Dewar was neither proud nor ashamed of his past. Regrets were pointless, nostalgia a luxury he'd never allowed himself. His past was simply there, a tapestry of events forever unfurling behind him as he progressed through life. People might occasionally see a part of that constantly evolving picture but the whole was his and his alone. Everybody had one, even someone as young as Tom or as sheltered as a Thaistess, but their histories were of no more interest to him than his was any business of theirs. So he said nothing to expand on comments already overheard and made no effort to satisfy the curiosity evident in the glances coming his way, particularly from Tom. Let them wonder. His past was his own.

THIRTEEN.

The prime master's sense of foreboding grew more p.r.o.nounced with each pa.s.sing day an irritation that wouldn't be soothed, an itch that refused to go away.

The incidents of bone flu had grown more frequent until it had become impossible to keep a lid on the situation. There were new cases reported among the arkademics each day, outbreaks occurring in rapid succession, and he had felt compelled to share what little he knew about the disease with the other members of the council. The prime master was impressed and more than a little proud of how calmly his colleagues took the news. These really were a fine lot of people, and their most extreme reaction was to censure him for not having shared the burden earlier. In truth, it made him a little ashamed at ever having doubted their character.

While he was now completely open with his fellows on the Council of Masters, he chose to be a little less candid when it came to the a.s.sembly, whom he had addressed on the subject of bone flu that very morning. There were considerably more in Thaiburley's second tier of government than the mere dozen of the Council, and while the prime master knew for a fact that the a.s.sembly boasted many dedicated and highly competent men and women, inevitably in such a comparatively large set of people characteristics such as integrity and courage varied. A vessel was only ever as strong as its weakest point, and he couldn't risk word of the darker implications of bone flu leaking out and causing panic across the city.

So he stood in front of the a.s.sembled members and smiled, projecting confidence and implying a far greater level of control over the situation than actually existed.

He explained that this was a new disease, told them that the causes and vector were as yet uncertain but that the medics were giving the problem their undivided attention and that a cure would soon be found. He stood there and blithely described the symptoms, advising anyone who experienced a persistent tingling in the arm, followed by a sense of coldness in the limb should seek the advice of a medic, just to play safe.

He didn't state that such tingling might have nothing to do with resting on the limb for too long but could instead be an indication of restricted blood flow for far more sinister reasons, a sign that changes were occurring. He didn't need to. They'd heard the stories. He wasn't there to deny the reports, but merely to make them seem more mundane and less frightening, It was one of the most polished and accomplished performances of his life. As he spoke he could feel the tension in the a.s.sembly hall dissipate and watched as people visibly relaxed. He left the room surrounded by smiles and applause, whereas he had entered amidst furrowed brows and frowns.

It wouldn't last, this optimistic mood. All he had done was buy some time, but that was as much as he could do for now and time was what they needed most; apart, perhaps, from a miracle or two.

As the prime master walked back through the airy corridors of the Residences, flanked by half a dozen council guards in their ceremonial white and purple capes, his thoughts turned to Tom and his companions. Had it been a mistake to send the boy beyond the city? Could his formidable talents have been turned against the bone flu if he were still here? Perhaps; yet the gut feeling persisted that Tom's mission was vital to the long term future of the city, and experience had taught the prime master to trust such feelings.

He and his colleagues would have to find their own way of dealing with the disease.

The past couple of days had seen the prime master unburden himself to varying degrees, to both the Council and the a.s.sembly, but there was one thing he had yet to discuss with anybody, something he wouldn't disclose until absolutely the last minute: namely the tingling in his own arm, which had started that very morning.

The truth was that the prime master was scared; more scared than he had ever been in his long and eventful life. In the past he had triumphed in seemingly impossible situations, more than once when the odds were stacked precariously against him, but each time he'd been in with a fighting chance, whereas this was an enemy he had no idea how to fight.

The inn looked to have seen better days; in fact, the whole town did. There was a sense of tired resignation in the air, as if whatever reasons people may once have had to settle here were now long gone. The visitor scowled, wondering whether anything worthwhile could truly be found in such a place.After a moment's hesitation the man pushed the door open and stepped inside. Ulbrax knew a bit about taverns, enough to know immediately that he didn't much like this one. It was the sort where everything stops when someone new enters; or at least it did when he came in music, conversation, even the motes of dust in the air seemed to pause in their aimless flight to take stock of this stranger.

He was reminded of the moment the demon first stepped into the taproom at the Four Spoke Inn, but couldn't believe he cut anywhere near as impressive a figure.

He strode up to the bar, wearing his most engaging smile an expression salvaged from the Seth days. After ordering a drink and ensuring that at least some of the conversation his entrance so effectively curtailed had sprung back to life, he said to the barman, "I'm looking for a man called Morca."

The barman stared at him but said nothing.

"Do you know him?"

Sill no response. If the suggestion to come here had originated from any other source, he might have thought this was a joke at his expense, but demons weren't noted for their sense of humour. He perched on a stool and supped his ale, conscious of still being the centre of more attention than he cared to be. He decided to wait only as long as it took to finish his drink. If this stony silence and complete lack of response to his query continued until then, he'd leave and seek help in more welcoming surroundings.

With perhaps two good quaffs remaining, a shadow fell over him. He looked up to find the sour-faced barman standing in front of him once more. "Follow me." So the man could speak.

Ulbrax slipped from his stool and did as instructed, heading down a narrow corridor that led off the taproom. The barman opened the door at the far end to reveal a darkened room and beckoned him to enter. "Wait in here."

Half expecting what might follow, Ulbrax stepped inside, to be suddenly grabbed from behind and held, feeling the cold kiss of steel at his throat and an ironhard physique pressed against his back. "Don't move!" a voice hissed in his ear. He smelt garlic and something sweet on the man's breath while the stubble of whiskers rubbed against his ear tip. "If you so much as twitch a muscle, you're dead. Understood?"

"Understood," Ulbrax replied, determining to do as instructed even though his right arm was trapped a little awkwardly behind him.

"You were asking after a man named Morca."

"Yes."

"Who are you?"

"I'm the man who's currently holding a knife pointed at your b.a.l.l.s," he replied, and did risk moving then, just enough to twitch the tip of the weapon in question against his captor's genitals.

"Hah!" The blade at his throat vanished and he found himself pushed forward, staggering several paces into the room before he could regain his balance and swivel around, just as a lamp blazed into life. Standing before him was a great bear of a man, arms crossed and the knife that had so recently been pressed against Ulbrax's jugular held casually in one hand. The man's face was stretched into a broad grin, though that was far from the most noticeable feature, because his face was also creased by a more permanent mark, a livid scar which began above his left eyebrow and continued down the cheek to disappear beneath thick brown stubble which almost const.i.tuted a beard. The scar was clearly the legacy of a slas.h.i.+ng wound from a sword or perhaps a knife. By the look of it, he'd been lucky not to lose an eye.

"You've got nerve, I'll grant you that much," the man said, sounding more amused than angry.

Ulbrax had no intention of relaxing just because the stranger had a winning smile; he had little doubt that before him stood a dangerous man. "Morca, I take it," he said.

"Perhaps, but you still haven't told me your name."

Some cultures believed that herein rested a form of power, that knowing a person's true name gave you access to their soul. A load of hogwash as far as he was concerned, so he had little hesitation in saying, "Ulbrax."

The man nodded, as if this was the response he'd expected. "And I'm told you sometimes use a different name."

"Seth, Seth Bryant" though admitting as much felt odd now, even after so short a time.

"Good enough." The bear uncrossed his arms, halfspun the knife hilt in his hand and slammed it into a sheath at his belt. "I'm Morca. Understand there's folk need killing. If so, I'm your man."

Ulbrax slipped his own blade away but remained alert. "That's what I heard."

"From a mutual golden-haired friend, no doubt. And did this winged fellow happen to say anything else?"

"Only that you could mobilise a party of suitably vicious b.a.s.t.a.r.ds in short order."

Morca nodded. "True enough. And who is it we'll be looking to kill?"

"A small party: man, woman and boy."

"A family, you mean."

"No, unrelated."

The big man shrugged. "Same difference. And do they all want killing?"

Ulbrax wondered whether this Morca simply enjoyed slipping the word "kill" into every other sentence or whether he had perhaps accepted a wager to do so. "The boy and the man. Do with the woman what you will she's not unpleasing on the eye but the man's mine. I claim the privilege of ending his worthless life and will take apart anyone who denies me that pleasure, one bone at a time."

"We'll bear that in mind. Now, where will we find these three unfortunates?"

"By my reckoning, they should have reached the edge of the Jeeraiy about now."

Morca gave a brief bark of laughter. "The Jeeraiy? Are you mad? Have you any idea how big that brecking place is?"

"Some, yes."

"And it's not just the size. The Jeeraiy is a mess of waterways and land spits and bogs and floating plant rafts, of shallow lakes and quagmires... Finding anyone in an area that vast would be tricky enough even if everything happened to stay where it is, but it doesn't! The geography constantly s.h.i.+fts with changing water levels and the movement of floating islands. There are no maps, because maps are pointless. You could send an army in there and still not stumble across who you're looking for!"

Ulbrax kinked an eyebrow. "I don't recall any mention of this being easy."

"I don't need easy, but by the same token I could do without impossible!"

"They're following the Thair going into the Jeeraiy and they'll be trying to do the same on the way out. I imagine if you travel along a straight line between where the river enters and leaves, you'll find them readily enough."

Morca shook his head, as if in exasperation. "You don't get it, do you? There are no straight lines, not in the Jeeraiy. It would take blind luck for us to find them, and there are more ways to die in that place than you could possibly imagine. I'm not about to waste my time by sending men blundering around in there with the odds stacked so heavily against us."

Ulbrax reached calmly to his belt and produced a knife, not in any threatening way but holding it out as if it were a gift. "Perhaps this might help."

"What is it?"

"A throwing knife. It belongs to the man, Dewar. Do you know of any decent diviners around here?"

Morca considered the knife. "You're sure it's his?"

"Positive."

The big man smiled. "Well, why didn't you say so before? We might just be in business. Even with this and a diviner's guidance, I'll have to hire more men people who are used to the Jeeraiy."

Ulbrax shrugged. "Then do so."

Morca held out his hand. "The knife?"

"Of course." Ulbrax handed the knife across with a surprising sense of reluctance: this was the weapon he'd intended to kill the King Slayer with, but no mind any blade would do.

"Wait for me back in the bar," the other man said, heading towards the door. "This shouldn't take too long."

"I'll be there," Ulbrax a.s.sured him. "And, Morca... don't fail me."

He paused on the threshold and looked back. "Oh, I won't." He grinned. "Your three friends are already dead. They just don't know it yet."

"This can only be the Jeeraiy," Dewar murmured, almost to himself.

"You've been here before?" Tom asked.

"No, but I've heard of it. The soil in the Jeeraiy is said to be the most fertile and productive in the whole continent."

"I can well believe that," Tom said, "at least to judge by the size of the gra.s.s they grow around here." Before them stretched a vista of tall, yellowish gra.s.ses that grew taller than even Dewar's head. Tom glanced at their leader. Of the three of them, he was the only one who had not been born in Thaiburley, the only one with any previous experience of the outside world. Not for the first time, Tom wondered about the man's past: who he had been, where he was from, and why he had chosen to settle in the City of Dreams.