Farlander (43 page)

The other Special looked up from where he sat whittling a length of wood. ‘They always carry a bell with them, so, if they get trapped, they can untie the clapper and ring it for help. Uses up less air that way, than shouting.’ He jerked his head towards the wall. ‘He’s panicked, though.’

Bahn eventually left them in their dingy cell of a room. On his way back, riding in the same small-wheeled cart drawn along two metal rails by a dwarf mule, an alarm sounded out. They had reached a crossing of tunnels where, from a passage on the left, came the clanging sound of a bell loud enough to spook the draught mule.

‘Come on, now,’ said the driver, attempting to sooth the frightened animal, just as a detachment of Specials ran across the junction before them, moving at a crouch and armed with punch-knives.

The mule shied up in alarm and kicked its hooves at the air. Failing to jump free of its harness, it only grew worse in its panic.

With hands held out, the driver went forward to calm his mule, clucking his tongue and speaking soft words to it. The mule snapped at him with its teeth, eyes rolling, then it began to shoulder-charge the wall, harness and all, colliding against it with dull thuds like a great fist smacking the ground. Bahn climbed out and stepped forward to lend a hand. It was clear they would have to restrain the animal before it broke its own neck.

Bahn could approach no closer, with the driver in his way. He retreated around the back of the little cart and squeezed along the other side of the tunnel until he had cleared it. He paused, a hand held up to protect his face, the mule’s back legs kicking out next to him, splintering the wood of the rig and its own hooves along with it.
No good this way
, he thought.
Need to get round to the front
.

He leapt forward just as the animal dropped its legs again. But the mule sensed him coming and lashed out a hoof that caught him a breathtaking kick to his side. Bahn rolled to the ground, felt the iron rails biting into his back. He lay there desperately trying to find breath.

There was no calming the creature. In the end, the driver had to put an end to its life with his knife drawn across its throat, a grim determination on his face.

Merciful Fool
, Bahn thought, some time later, his hand still clutching his throbbing side, his legs striding ever faster towards the beams of sunlight that blasted down the entrance-shaft like the welcoming hand of some benign god . . .

This is where my brother lost his mind.

*

Bahn felt too rattled to climb the hill to the Ministry and make his report immediately. His shift was over for the day, regardless, so he decided to leave the report until the morning, and instead stopped a passing rickshaw and gave the man his address as he climbed into the narrow seat, and took in the glory of the clear open sky overhead.

The streets were crammed with the usual bustle of traffic and commerce. The rickshaw wove through the throng with some difficulty, as its owner pulled Bahn along at a slow jog, shouting out when he needed a clear path. Heading through the Barber Quarter, they passed streets where Bahn had grown up as a youth, a poor but close-knit district of hairdressers and small-trades shops and crumbling tenement buildings, though lined now mostly with beggar carts and gossiping prostitutes, a sight he would never have witnessed during daylight hours before the war began. He watched the street-girls as the cart trotted past them, their flimsy garments concealing little from his roving eyes.

It was late in the afternoon when he arrived at their home in the northern quarter of the city, located as far from the Shield as one could get. With relief that his work was done for the day, he stepped off the rickshaw in the street in front of their townhouse just as his sister-in-law Reese was pulling up in her own cart.

How strange these occurrences are, Bahn thought, sensing something of Fate, of the Dao, in this coincidence, his brother still lingering so strongly in his thoughts.

Reese embraced him with a kiss to the cheek as he led her into their small two-storey dwelling. It was somewhat more spacious than the first home he and Marlee had shared above the public baths together, though it was still cramped. The house was empty, which surprised him for a moment, until he recalled that she and the children were visiting her own sister today.

He and Reese drank chee and chatted on the first-floor balcony, having not met since her last visit to the city.

‘Where’s Los today?’ he enquired politely, thinking he should ask about her latest partner, at least for form’s sake.

Reese merely shrugged. Bahn knew that Los could disappear for days without any word of his whereabouts. Gambling and whoring, Bahn supposed, from his vague impressions of the man. Los was of enlistment age, which meant he was either avoiding the draft or he had succeeded in buying his way out of it.

It was a shame, Bahn reflected, since the man would no doubt return to her when he was again out of money and with nowhere else to go.

‘It will be time for your daughter’s naming ceremony soon,’ Reese observed with a forced smile.

‘Aye,’ said Bahn, trying to keep his breathing shallow. He had found that his bruised side did not hurt so badly that way.

‘I’m keeping some foodstuffs aside for it. Some potatoes for pies, some peppers preserved in oil. It’s all I can manage, I’m afraid.’

‘That’s kind of you,’ sighed Bahn. ‘Marlee doesn’t seem to believe me when I tell her there is no extra food to be found anywhere.’

Reese nodded thoughtfully, staring into her cup.

‘Something’s bothering you,’ he said. ‘I can always tell.’

She didn’t speak, so he continued and as he tried to think of what he should say next, it suddenly came to him what was troubling her.

‘It’s Nico, isn’t it?’

Her eyes flinched and she looked away. ‘He’s gone,’ she confessed.

‘Gone? Gone where, exactly?’

Again that shrug, as though everything was hopeless.

‘He’s left the city to take up some . . . apprenticeship.’

‘What?’

The pain in his side suddenly worsened. He deliberately slowed his breathing as he waited for her to answer. It was clear that Reese wanted to say more, but she hesitated in her response, then seemed to give up on the effort, as though it was too ridiculous to voice aloud.

‘Have you heard from him? Is he well?’

She didn’t seem to know.

Normally, Reese could talk easily with Bahn. They had a closeness of sorts, an openness that had intensified after his brother Cole had left her, Nico’s father, as though this shared loss allowed them to share other things of intimacy and worry. They often spoke of Cole, sharing what little rumour they had heard of him from old veterans they had run across, or who had visited on purpose with some news. Cole’s last-known trail had led to Pathia, where, it was rumoured he had been hanged for a highway robbery, though others claimed he was now a longhunter, crossing the mountains into the world of the Great Hush, to live wild there for months on end. How unhinged he must have become, Bahn often considered, to have abandoned a woman such as this to go and live in the wilderness by himself.

The pain in Bahn’s side had now spread into his bladder. He needed to relieve himself. Cursing his body for its poor timing, he excused himself and stood up.

‘Are you all right?’ Reese asked him.

‘Yes. Just a few sore ribs, I reckon.’ He did not wish to mention the tunnels, with their inevitable reminders of Cole.

Bahn made his way down to the backyard privy and found that he was pissing blood. With his tunic hauled up and clenched in his teeth, he probed the ugly bruises on his side, and checked once more for any fractured ribs. Contenting himself that they were all still intact, Bahn swept back his hair, smoothed down his tunic, and turned to go.

As soon as he returned to the balcony he wondered if it had been a mistake to leave his sister-in-law on her own. Reese still sat with one arm resting on the wooden rail, and the other holding the cup in her lap, but was now surveying the tree-lined street with a brooding stare.

She didn’t seem to notice as he sat himself down again gingerly. In anyone else he might have suspected this behaviour as some sort of self-indulgent drama – but not in Reese.

‘What are you thinking?’ he asked her, softly.

She turned back to face him, her brief smile holding something of an apology. The cup of chee now seemed forgotten in her hand.

‘I was just thinking . . . I was thinking how Nico and Cole are both gone now.’

Her voice was quiet, restrained. Bahn was reminded of the faint yelling of a man trapped in the earth, with nothing to see or feel or hear but the darkness all around him.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

The sister moons shone overhead in a dark, star-spattered sky. They rose with a fullness that narrowed the eyes – one dusty white, the other blue – and they climbed together on a course that took them partially along the Great Wheel, the visible galactic core, obscuring that vast stain of starlight. Only once in a year did the two moons rise together in all their fullness and, in doing so, they heralded the coming days of autumn. Perhaps it was the reason they had been given their names: the Sisters of Loss and Longing.

The two figures hiking up the hill were small and insignificant beneath this vista of galactic sky. The night was bright enough to see the ground in front of them, and they walked with their heads down, watching their footfalls, thoughtful. Because of this, it was almost a surprise to them when they drew up before the tiny shack at last, noticing it squatting there in the dimness all of a sudden, set against a sound of coursing water that was reminiscent of flames snapping on a distant fire. There was no fire lit in the tiny hut tonight, but a single lantern burned within, spilling a tongue of welcoming yellow light through the mouth of the open doorway. Without hesitation they followed it inside.

The Seer sat cross-legged upon a mat on the floor, a book lying open on his lap. He was squinting down at it through a pair of exceedingly thick-glassed spectacles, as one hand scratched idly at his lice.

It was some time before he acknowledged his visitors, and Nico stood there with dwindling patience, willing Ash to at least clear his throat and announce their presence.

When the Seer looked up at them at last, he smiled and set the book carefully to one side amongst a stack of others. He beckoned them to sit.

Ash began to speak. The older man nodded, listening closely, occasionally exchanging a question for an answer. Their words were soft, respectful of the night hush around them. The old Seer did not seem to be bothered by this late-night intrusion; rather, he seemed to welcome the company. It was as though he had been expecting such a visit from one of the R
shun tonight.

As he and Ash finished their conversation, the Seer gathered up a varnished featherwood box from one corner of the shack, and settled it on the floor beside him. Items appeared from the box in his trembling fingers, and Nico examined them closely as they were arrayed upon the mat.

A square of black slate lay with a lump of chalk resting upon it. Beside these, a bundle of what looked liked dried reeds, each about a foot long. They were left untouched for some minutes as the Seer composed himself with a series of carefully focused breaths. Then he announced his readiness to proceed by a swift clap of his hands.

As he set to work, his hands moved fast for one of his age. He began by tossing the bundle of reeds against the mat, and quickly sweeping a hand across them to divide the resulting pile in two. He then gathered up the right pile and, in a blur of motion, flicked reed after reed from one hand into the other, stopping each time he was left with four or less in his right hand. As he did so, he would lodge the reed or reeds between two of his fingers, and he would begin the whole process once more, minus those ones already singled out.

Once all five fingers held reeds between them, he stopped to count how many there were. The resulting number seemed meaningful in some way. He chalked a mark on the slate – just a single line – and threw down the reeds to begin all over again.

It was a lengthy process, during which the Seer would occasionally scratch another line of chalk on the slate, either a solid line or a dash, which gradually built up into a series. Nico lost track of time and his eyes were already drooping when the Seer finally appeared to reach the end of his task, with six lines in all now scratched on the slate.