Farlander (55 page)

He didn’t know why he felt such an intense premonition, for he had experienced no tragic dreams or heard morbid readings from the Seer. He simply felt a great heaviness whenever he thought of his old friend, as though certain he would never see him again.

The whole sorry business of this vendetta made him feel like that. Osh
did not think it could end in any way but badly for all of them.

At the open window, he braced his body against another gust of wind. Somewhere out of sight, a shutter banged once, twice, and then fell silent.

I have grown melancholic in my old age
, he reflected, but then he chuckled at his own folly. He knew that his age had nothing to do with it.

Osh
pulled closed the shutters, sealing out the storm that approached across the mountains. He shivered once more, then returned to his books and his padded chair by the welcoming warmth of the fire.

*

It was late afternoon in Q’os. The Five Cities taverna was as busy as always at that hour, with the local dockworkers and street merchants knocking off for the day, and the customary mix of outlanders staying in the area’s many hostalios drawn by the taverna’s fine foods and wines. In a corner, beneath the little hissing flame of a gaslight fitted to the smoke-stained plaster of the wall, six individuals sat huddled in private conversation. The local patrons paid them little notice, save for the occasional glance at the young woman in her brown leathers, for she was a sight for sore eyes to working men who had sweated for their wages since dawn, and likely to return to wives aged beyond their years by regular childbirth and hard, daily graft.

‘It’s impossible,’ Serèse kept her voice low, though the noise in the taverna was enough to easily mask her words. She seemed not to notice the occasional lingering attentions of the male patrons elsewhere in the taproom. Perhaps she was simply used to such scrutiny, and had learned to ignore it. ‘I’d doubt if there’s anywhere in the Midèr
s more heavily guarded than the Temple of Whispers just now. I can’t see any way it could be breached.’

Baracha, musing over his shot glass of rhulika, raised a single eyebrow in disbelief.

‘I tell you it’s true, father. Even the moat around the tower has been filled with some kind of fish, tiny things with a craving for flesh. They draw crowds every day, for the city watch has begun to dangle criminals into the water just for the sport of it. I saw it only three days ago. There was a great feeding frenzy, and when they drew the man from the water, the flesh on his legs was stripped to the bone. How do you reckon on getting past such an obstacle?’

Nico, sitting in glum silence next to his master, looked up at that revelation. He had never heard of flesh-eating fish before.

‘I’ll tell you this,’ Baracha said, still unconvinced. ‘In all my life I’ve never known a place that could not be breached, given enough time and inspiration. If we cannot swim the moat, we can raft across it.’

Serèse sighed in exasperation. ‘Only if you can get past the boat patrols – and evade the watchers on the steeple itself. And the regular patrols along the shore.’

‘Then we disguise ourselves as one of the boat patrols, row across to the tower itself, climb it.’

‘Even at night you’d stand out. They’ve positioned lights all around the lower floors. You wouldn’t get ten feet before a patrol or one of their flyers spotted you.’

‘So we forget the moat. We steal ourselves some priests’ robes, cross the bridge, enter the main gates in disguise.’

It seemed easy, the way Baracha put it.

‘Yes, except no one is allowed through the gates until they’ve placed their hands through a grill. They’re checked, to see if the tips of their little fingers are missing or not. In fact, no one is allowed to even set foot on the bridge until they’ve been checked for that proof of identification.’

‘Well then, the answer’s obvious,’ said Aléas, and all eyes turned to him. He grinned handsomely. ‘Each of us chops the tips from our little fingers, waits some moons for them to fully heal, then walks inside unmolested.’

‘Shut up, Aléas,’ warned Baracha.

Aléas raised his eyebrows and glanced at Nico. A look passed between them, though Nico didn’t match his friend’s easy smile. He was tired today. He had slept poorly, haunted by nightmares in which he had relived, over and over again, his actions of the previous night.

‘If you are to find a way inside,’ Serèse continued, ‘it must be by some method they have not foreseen.’

Aléas was bored of this. ‘He can’t stay in the tower for the rest of his life. If we can’t breach the place, we can wait for him to come out. Maybe during the Augere. Maybe he will come out then.’

‘And what if he does not?’ demanded Baracha. ‘They almost had us last night. Even now, as we speak, they’re likely combing the city for us. All of us are outlanders here, save for you. It’s only a matter of time before they find us out. This is hardly a friendly city in which to linger, in case you hadn’t noticed.’

His words silenced the group. Nico found himself observing the rest of the taproom to see if they were being watched.

There: a man turning away too quickly from Nico’s glance. Nico studied him for a moment, waiting to see what he did next. The man ordered himself another drink, and continued the conversation with his companions.

Nico breathed again, trying to relax. The fellow had likely been staring at Serèse, nothing else.
I’m seeing phantoms,
he told himself.
This
foul city is getting to me. I wish we could leave now and never return to it.

Baracha sat back and exhaled loudly enough to show his displeasure. ‘We should take it as a compliment,’ he consoled. ‘They show us a great deal of respect.’ But it was no answer to their problems, and Baracha was clearly troubled as he smoothed the long sweep of his beard.

For the length of their conversation, Ash had been sitting quietly with his gaze lost in his drink and the hand of his wounded arm resting in his lap. As the silence lengthened, he raised his glass of wine with his good arm, took a sip, and set the glass back down.

‘We are all forgetting the obvious,’ he said unexpectedly, without looking up.

Baracha folded his arms and sighed. ‘And what is that, oh wise one?’

‘They are expecting stealth. Not attack.’

Aléas stared, eyes wide. ‘Storm the gates, you mean?’

Ash nodded, faint humour pulling at the corners of his mouth.

‘A wonderful thought,’ said Baracha, ‘except of course that it would need an army.’

Ash studied each of their expressions in turn. He took another sip of the wine, set the empty cup back on the table with a thump of decision.

‘Then, my troubled friends, we must find ourselves an army.’

*

It was bright outside, the sun shining in a rare clear sky. It was not a particularly complimentary light however, for it merely showed up the city’s drab, lacklustre character even more clearly than usual. As it filtered its way down into the canyon-like streets Nico watched as it transformed itself into something thin and muted instead.

‘Meaning no offence here,’ Aléas said, ‘but I fear Master Ash might have lost his wits at last.’ He was standing outside the taverna, along with Nico and Serèse, as their two masters discussed something beyond earshot.

‘I suspect he had few to begin with,’ replied Nico drily. ‘Do you think they will really go through with this? Truly?’

Aléas considered this question while he studied his master. ‘They’re both of the same cut,’ he said, with a curt nod. ‘Now that one has suggested it, the other will feel that he cannot back down. They will do this, even if they risk all in the trying.’

It was enough to set Nico’s stomach afloat. He looked up at the distant heights of the Temple of Whispers, visible even from here in the eastern docks. He could not believe they were truly considering an attack on such a stronghold. Surely it was just talk, despite what Aléas might think. Their plans would amount to nothing in the end, and they would be forced to leave the city without finishing their vendetta. It wouldn’t be the first time, or so he had heard.

But Nico understood Ash only too well now, and knew himself to be cradling a false hope. He turned away from the sight of the tower, tried to turn his thoughts to other things.

Serèse studied him carefully. ‘How are you this morning?’ she asked.

‘A little tired,’ he confessed. ‘I didn’t sleep well. I think I will be glad to leave this place.’

‘You do not like it here.’

‘No, I don’t. There are too many people and too few places to be alone.’

Aléas slapped his shoulder. ‘Spoken like a true farmer.’

‘When, in all the world, did I ever claim to be a farmer?’

‘You didn’t. It’s the smell, mostly.’

Nico was in no mood for their usual banter, and would have said something short-tempered in return if he had not seen Baracha departing just then. The Alhazii jerked his head at Aléas and his daughter, beckoning them to follow.

Aléas nodded goodbye to Nico. ‘Stay safe,’ said Serèse as they hurried to catch up.

Ash approached, his head bowed in thought.

‘I must make some inquiries,’ he informed Nico. ‘Come.’

‘Wait a moment.’

Ash turned back, impatient.

‘This thing you’re proposing – to attack the tower, I mean. It sounds like madness to me.’

The farlander’s dark skin looked thinner in the afternoon sunlight. He had lost a good deal of blood the night before. ‘I know,’ he said, and his voice sounded tired. ‘But not concern yourself with it. I made a promise to your mother to keep you safe, remember?’

‘I think my mother’s notion of safety and your own are two different things entirely.’

Ash nodded. ‘Still, I mean to keep my promise. When we breach the tower, you will not come with me. It is too dangerous. You are hardly experienced enough for such a venture. I agree, Nico, there is a touch of madness to this plan, but I fear that a little madness is necessary if we are to see through our vendetta. When we are inside, you will stay with Serèse and help us to escape the immediate area if we make it back out.’

‘It isn’t only myself that I’m concerned about.’

A little colour returned to the old man’s face. ‘I understand. But this is our business, Nico. These are the risks we must take.’ He cast further debate aside with a shrug.

‘Enough talk. Come.’

*

The house was on a street of many houses, all of them empty shells of former dwellings, their windows smashed or boarded up, their interiors strewn with wreckage, a few burnt black and gutted. Only the house itself was still lived in, neighboured on each side by a derelict in a terraced row of derelicts. Even then it looked barely more habitable than the rest of them. Its windows were grimy with soot and blanked from within by dark curtains. Paint that may once have been an optimistic yellow hung peeling from the brick walls. A weather-vane – depicting a naked man holding a bolt of lightning – dangled from the guttering of the roof and swung, creaking, in the soft breeze.