Exile's Challenge (50 page)

“And if they resent his hanging?” Var asked.

“Who could?” Talle returned. “God, Tomas, the man insulted me, questioned my authority. Would you see him go free? Besides, what does it matter if they resent me—us—so long as they fear us and obey?”

For an instant, Var wondered if the Inquisitor played with him, but Talle's expression was entirely complacent, as if the man only enjoyed his contemplation of Jaymes's demise and Var's part in it, so Var smiled and ducked his head and said, dissembling, “I've a certain fondness for him, yes. He's surely a character.”

“Undoubtedly.” Talle chuckled. “But not so much as should jeopardize your standing here, eh?”

Var shook his head, not liking himself for the silent lie.

“So, then,” Talle said, “do you organize it and see him hanged on … do we say, Sunday? When all the indentured folk may come see him swing. Let all of Grostheim see him, eh?”

Var nodded and emptied his glass. “I'll see to it,” he promised.

It was Thursday: he had three days to organize the escape. He no longer doubted but that he should; and God help him for what he did.

Surely, he thought as he paced back to the barracks, it was a betrayal. But also an affirmation; though of what he could not be sure.… Friendship? New loyalties? He wished, sincerely, that he had never been granted this command, never met Jared Talle or Abram Jaymes, never seen Salvation. But he had, and the past could not be changed, only the future made better, and Tomas Var could not stand by to watch a man he deemed innocent hanged by the neck, no matter the cost to himself.

So …

 … The horses were easy to arrange. It was not unusual that an officer requisition animals for riding beyond the city walls, and Var had a pair ready. The supplies—of trail food and blankets, such stuff as they'd need—he'd already organized. He had his own Hawkins rifle and had taken possession of Jaymes's. He had powder and shot to see them through to God-knew-where, so he need only stow the gear on the animals and break Jaymes free.

That, and wonder at his insanity—which he elected to ignore: Abram Jaymes was his friend and he could not retain his honor and watch the man die on Talle's gallows.

So …

He went into the barracks and announced that the Inquisitor would interview the prisoner. He was Major Tomas Var—the Inquisitor's dog—and none dared question him. Abram Jaymes was brought out from his cell in shackles, and when Var demanded the key it was given him. He pocketed the thing and gestured that Jaymes proceed him.

They quit the barracks and stepped out into the square beyond. Jaymes shuffled awkwardly, hampered by the chains connecting his ankles. It was close on dusk. The new-come swallows darted amongst the buildings, black shadows against a sky the color of drying blood; gulls mewed, but otherwise a sullen quiet pervaded Grostheim. The guards outside saluted Var and watched him go with his prisoner. He crossed the square, Jaymes stumbling ahead, and took the avenue leading to the governor's mansion, to where Talle sat ensconced.

Then Var caught up and turned Jaymes into a side street. Under the shadow of a porch he unlocked the shackles and beckoned the man to follow him.

Jaymes said, “About damn' time. Those chains were startin' to hurt me.”

Var said, “Shut up.” He felt very afraid that Talle would somehow sense what he did—or already had, and that all of this was part of the Inquisitor's malign game, and at any moment they be apprehended.

Jaymes grunted and went after him; in the burgeoning twilight Var could not see his smile.

“Here.” The horses were saddled ready, tethered beneath the outcrop of a partially burned building, a legacy of the winter's riots. “Put these on.” Var tugged a dead marine's greatcoat from the bundle stowed on Jaymes's mount, a tricorne hat.

“We playin' at soldiers?” Jaymes chuckled. He seemed far less concerned than Var with the dangers of their situation.

“Dammit, yes,” Var replied. “How else do we get past the gates?”

Jaymes went on smiling as he pulled on the blue coat and settled the tricorne on his head. He seemed confident—far more so than Var, who waited nervously, wondering what madness possessed him that he throw away his life for this grinning old fool.

“Major?” Jaymes aped a salute. “Shall I do?”

“You'd best,” Var gave him back, “or we're both dead.”

“Well, let's see.” Jaymes swung astride the patient horse. “I'm ready if you are.”

Var nodded curtly, fear and irritation blending. “Then let's go.”

He turned his own mount down the alley, Jaymes following behind, and they rode toward the gates.

The evening, for all of spring's promise, was chill, but Var felt sweat bead his brow and trickle anticipatory down his back. The sun was set now and the darting swallows replaced by bats that swept like dark omens through the shadows. The clopping of the hooves sounded unnaturally loud, and Var wondered if the faces that watched them pass knew of his subterfuge. Cold, sharp fingers seemed to run down his spine
as he momentarily anticipated the appearance of Jared Talle, the Inquisitor's hands flung up in the arcane movements of hex magic. He was not sure which should be worse: sudden death at Talle's hands, or the ignominy of arrest.

But he was committed now and could not turn back: his path was chosen, for honor's sake, and friendship—he rode toward the gates.

Jorge Kerik was again on guard, and recognized Var.

“Major!” He saluted. “I'd not thought anyone would go out so late.”

“The Inquisitor's business, Captain.” Var returned the salute. “We're to scout the environs, for fear of demons.”

Mention of those dread entities was enough. Kerik shouted that the gates be opened, Var and Jaymes rode through, followed by Kerik's shout: “God be with you both.”

“Amen to that,” Jaymes chuckled. And then: “Tidily done, Major.”

All Var said was “Ride, damn you,” as he dug his heels against his horse's flanks and lifted the bay to a gallop.

He wanted to get as far from Grostheim as he could before Talle realized what had happened and sent chasers after them. He wanted to ride wide and far, knowing that all his past was given up now, all his career and loyalties; knowing that the Autarchy must now deem him outlaw and he be no different to any branded man running from his master. He felt lost and afraid, alone, with all the width of Salvation spread before him—and likely, he thought, nowhere to hide.

Morrhyn woke sweat-sticky and shuddering, the dream still so vivid in his mind that it was awhile before he could control his limbs and stumble from the bed to splash welcome water on his heated face, and even then he must kneel and brace himself before he might rise to face the awful truth of revelation.

The Breakers came again! Or would, did all their filthy plans come to fulfillment—the which depended on … He shook his head, denying the horror of that knowledge. It was too gross, too far beyond the comprehension of any caring man. It was, to him, unthinkable … but to the Breakers, to Chakthi?

He tugged on shirt and breeches. His hands shook as he laced his boots, and when he pushed through the flap of his lodge it seemed the sun burned accusing on his face, the breeze that ruffled his hair a lash of condemnation for his lack of foresight.

They name me the Prophet, eh? What poor prophet that I failed to foresee this.

He paused only long enough to make brief obeisance to the Maker, raising his hands and face to the four corners of the world and the mountains beyond, praying the while that the dream did not come too late, and went at a run to where the Lakanti tents were pitched.

Lhyn called to him as he passed, asking if he'd take breakfast with her, but he did not hear her in his urgency, or even smell the biscuits and meat savory in the pan. Arrhyna and Flysse watched him go by and saw his face and turned to Lhyn for reassurance of what they saw there, for his expression frightened them.

“Wait,” Lhyn urged when they'd go after him, to know what drove the wakanisha so swiftly—so urgently—on his way. “Has he dreamed of your husbands, he'll tell us in time. We can only wait.”

Morrhyn found Kahteney's lodge and slapped his hand against the entry flap.

“Are you awake, brother? I'd speak with you.”

The curtain was thrust aside on the instant, Kahteney beckoning Morrhyn inside, the lodge filled with the sweet smell of brewing tea. Kahteney's face was pale, his eyes stretched wide as any owl's.

“I'd have come to you. I dreamed …”

“Tell me,” Morrhyn urged.

Their dreams coincided: a fire sweeping over the land, consuming everything; the Breakers come again, their resurgence dependent on the terrible sacrifice neither Dreamer cared much to discuss.

“If it happens,” Morrhyn said, “then I think we are lost. It shall deliver them all the knowledge they need, and they shall find Ket-Ta-Thanne and Salvation, and destroy the People and the Grannach and those folk who live beyond the mountains. It shall give them dominion over this world and all the others.”

Kahteney nodded, his angular face planed deeper by the horror as he asked, “What shall we do? What
can
we do?”

“All we may,” Morrhyn said, “but it shall not be easy. Listen …”

Davyd woke struggling against the hand that clamped against his face. He tried to shout and could not for the pressure there, so he reached up to grasp the strangling wrist and force his attacker away. He reached for his knife, thinking to plant the blade between his assailant's ribs.…

Then heard Arcole say, “In God's name, be quiet! Would you bring all Chakthi's Tachyn down on us?”

Davyd's eyes opened and he saw Arcole straddling him, gagging him.

Arcole saw the awareness there and released his grip; Davyd let go the knife.

“God, I thought you'd kill me!” Arcole glanced at his shirt. A pinprick of blood showed on the dirty material. “You dreamed?”

Davyd nodded. His mouth was very dry and he gestured at the waterskin, waiting until Arcole passed it to him and he had swallowed sufficient to loosen his tongue before speaking.

“Where's Rannach?”

“On guard,” Arcole said.

“Bring him. He must hear this.”

There was such immediacy in his voice Arcole did not hesitate, but rose and went to where Rannach stood his early-morning watch.

When they returned to the banked fire it was to find Davyd crouched over the embers, his blanket drawn tight about his trembling shoulders, his face haunted.

He stared aghast at Rannach, who gasped, “Debo? He's dead?”

“Not yet.” Davyd shook his head, weary and urgent at the same time. “But …” He paused, shaking. “Listen …”

Taza had not expected such a welcome. He had thought that the deliverance of Chakthi's grandson must bring him acclaim, a position of honor amongst the Tachyn, but it was as if he were no more than a messenger, a mere carrier, and he sulked as Debo was given to Chakthi and the Tachyn akaman raised the child high above his head.

“My grandson!” Chakthi shouted. “Vachyr's child is given back to me!”

Debo screamed, demanding that this strange man set him down. Chakthi ignored the boy's wailing, holding him aloft as he paraded the camp.

“You shall be praised in time.” Taza felt a hand on his shoulder and turned to find Hadduth smiling at him. “Let Chakthi have his pleasure for now, and later he'll reward you.”

Taza nodded sulkily. “It was not easy,” he said, “bringing him here. I risked much.”

“I know.” Hadduth's hand grasped firmer. “But you were aided, no?”

“You?” Taza looked askance at the Tachyn Dreamer. “That was you?”

“Not alone.” Hadduth's smile was enigmatic. “There are … others … who aided your dreaming.”

“The golden warrior?” Taza looked about the camp and saw no sign of that strange figure. “He's here?”

Hadduth said, “Not yet. But now you've brought us Debo …”

“I thought …” Taza said, and shrugged.

“Thought what?” Hadduth asked pleasantly.

Taza shrugged again and said, “That Chakthi should welcome his grandson's savior.”

“He does,” Hadduth said. “He will—but for now he's only delighted that Vachyr's child is delivered him.”

Taza said, “Shall I be adopted into the Tachyn, then? Shall you teach me to be a wakanisha?”

“Yes,” Hadduth answered. “And more; far more.”

Owan Thirsk knew he was close to death, and welcomed that promise of oblivion. He was drained in ways he could not previously have imagined, as if the pahé Hadduth fed him leached out all his spirit, so that he no longer cared to live but only looked forward to the ultimate calm of his life's ending.

Hadduth had used him badly. The wakanisha had got language from him—Evander's tongue—and knowledge of Salvation, of its geography and social structure and all Thirsk knew of Grostheim and the forts, of the soldiers and the people, both branded and free. And as the Tachyn sucked out his dreaming knowledge, there had come into Thirsk's mind a terrible figure—a dread warrior armored in gold, whose horse clattered with bleached skulls—and Thirsk had known that he was forced to commune with true devils. That the laughing figure whose eyes glowed red as furnace fires was, truly, the embodiment of all evil, of destruction rampant and unthinking, uncaring—save for annihilation. And Thirsk, the owh'jika, had aided that creature in its plans, and that likely Salvation should fall because of his aid.

He longed for death. It should, he hoped, be an atonement before God.

The ragged man tethered like some captive animal to the ground could barely open his eyes as he felt Hadduth's kick.

“This is the owh'jika,” Hadduth said. “He taught me the language of this land, and how to enter the minds of its people so that I can send them dreams that drive them mad and set them to killing one another.” The Tachyn Dreamer chuckled. “It is most satisfying to set them to slaying one another.”