Farlander (61 page)

As his master confronted him, Nico backed away, appalled, from the expression on his face. He knew what Ash was proposing, and started to shake his head slowly, with determination.

‘You want to die here?’

‘Don’t leave me then. We’ll make a run for it together.’

‘We are trapped, Nico. We must be creative and find a way out of this for you at least. Now, get in.’

‘I won’t do it.’

‘
Please
, Nico. Listen, they come.’

It was true. The sound of footfalls could be heard, pounding along the street outside.

‘Now!’ commanded Ash, and entirely against his will, Nico felt his body step over to the gaping space of the exposed privy.

A hard shove sent him toppling into it, where he landed on his back. His body settled into a sodden, stinking mound which had the consistency of mud, and which tried to claim him. He retched again, and this time he vomited.

‘Hush!’ whispered Ash from above him as he lifted the privy bench back into place.

Nico clamped a hand across his mouth, gagging and shivering in silence. ‘Make your way to the docks when it is clear,’ instructed Ash through one of the holes. ‘You will see a statue of one of their generals – you cannot miss it. I shall meet you there at dawn if I can. But if I do not return, Nico, then leave this city. Go home to your mother. Live a long life and think well of me.’

The old farlander tossed down a purse of coins. It clinked mutedly in the foulness next to him.

‘Farewell, my boy.’

‘Master Ash!’

But Ash was gone. Nico could hear him slithering out through the window, and then footsteps scraped by the entrance, and someone shouted, and they were after him.

Others remained behind. Lamplight flickered through the holes overhead; shadows passed by, the scuff of heavy boots and the closeness of shouted commands echoing in the reeking space immediately overhead. Nico closed his eyes and tried to breathe in without gagging. He tried, with all his will, not to think of what they would do to him if he was caught.

Light flickered against his eyelids, but by the time he had gathered enough courage to look upwards it was already fading.

The chase moved on. The room overhead became dark and silent.

He waited. He heard more shots in the distance. A scream. People shouting.

Nico lost track of time. He found that not moving at all was the best way to minimize the sensation of the ordure against his skin. He lay in perfect stillness, trying to breathe without actually breathing.

He wondered how Ash fared, and was certain, despite the sheer scale of the trap set around them, that his master would find a way clear of it. That at least gave Nico some hope.

Dogs barked. Again voices. Nico’s heart stopped in mid-beat as footsteps returned to the entrance.

‘They searched in there already,’ came a woman’s voice.

‘Those idiots? They might be good at waving their swords around, but I doubt their skills at observation.’

Boots scraped overhead once more. A lamp flickered, casting shadows.

‘Where is Stano? Did you see him?’ The woman’s voice sounded worried.

‘Aye, the R
shun ran him through in the fog. Bad luck, that.’

‘Dead?’

‘He looked it.’

The woman seemed displeased at that. ‘When we catch these bastards, I will have first crack at them.’

‘Be my guest.’

The voice was directly overhead now. Lamplight shone through the hole. Nico cringed away from it.

A face appeared. Its eyes met his.

Suddenly, teeth shone bright.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

The fog had barely thinned by dawn.

It blanketed the streets like a layer of vaporous snow, obscuring everything within it and everything without, even the rising sun itself, which was just a vague glow without heat. Daylight, for those unfortunate enough to be up and about at this early hour, was nothing but a thin luminescence that added form to the morning chill. Pedestrians collided awkwardly on the pavements. Carts ran across the paths of other carts, while draft mules snapped teeth at each other in their nervousness. The fog reeked: it clung to the backs of throats, stung the eyes. It coated every surface with moisture, so that even the sagging flags of the district dripped wetly.

Ash hurried along the street. His cloak was sodden through, as were his clothes beneath it. He carried his sword with him still, though he kept it hidden from sight. Dried blood stained his hand where it had trickled from his reopened wound. The old farlander walked with a slight limp.

Ahead, the monument reared up through the fog, a huge spike rising into the murk. Struggling figures were spitted along its vertical length, their death throes frozen in skilfully cast bronze. Ash stopped beneath it: General Mokabi, three times larger than life, stood at the base of the spike, looking outwards. His expression was fixed in a victor’s triumph, though it was a hard-won victory as seen in the weary lines of his flesh. He held arms akimbo, his head slightly thrown back: as though relishing the admiration of others at this his greatest achievement.

Nico was nowhere to be seen.

Ash released a breath and sat down heavily upon the parapet encircling the monument. He winced as he took the weight from his feet.

Dawn was turning to early morning. He wrapped the cloak tighter around himself, though the damp wool held little warmth. He did not stir again. After a while it was as though he became part of the monument itself, so that, as the traffic increased across the surrounding square, no one noticed him sitting there, waiting.

Mid-morning passed into late morning. Still no sign of Nico.

The old farlander stood up, and walked for a time around the base of the monument, to work some heat back into his legs. He scanned the surrounding fog as he went. In the distance, a clock chimed out the hour.

By early afternoon, Ash sat down again with his sword in his lap, courting trouble – it was against the law to openly bear arms within the city. His thumb stroked the leather scabbard, his gaze darting out from the folds of his hood. A breeze stirred from the sea, which lay somewhere off to his right. Autumn leaves scuttled dry and brittle along the ground, shed from trees he could not see. The fog stirred, creating spaces within itself, though it still refused to lift.

The clock chimed again. Slowly, Ash rose. ‘
Nico!
’ he cried out.

The sound of his voice was muted, lost in the wrapping of fog.

Around his ankles the dead leaves swirled. The old man hung his head.

*

‘Tell me, precisely now, what happened?’

It was Baracha, and he was losing patience with his comrade.

Ash sat for some moments in silence.

The boulders they all sat upon were slick with dampness, giving the appearance of black, volcanic rock. Here and there, within depressions on the rock surfaces, minute pools of brackish water reflected bands of twilight, breaking occasionally into free-running rivulets that ended in slow monotonous drips. Nearby, a gull pecked halfheartedly at a dead crab.

‘I hid him away, and tried to lead them on a chase. It was a mistake.’

‘You think so?’ remarked Baracha, sarcastically.

‘Father,’ Serèse interrupted sharply.

Ash stared down at the wavelets lapping against the stones at his feet. The sea was out there somewhere, hidden and silent save for these fringes of itself.

Aléas tried to speak, but it emerged as a croak. He tried again. ‘It’s hardly Master Ash’s fault. It’s a miracle he got out at all.’ Baracha glowered at his young apprentice, but Aléas spoke on. ‘We would have been captured ourselves if not for Serèse’s sharp eyes.’

He was the first to state aloud what they all knew must have happened to Nico.
Captured.

‘What happened to you?’ inquired Ash, looking up from the water’s edge.

‘Serèse thought we were being watched when she returned to the hostalio, so we slipped out before they could make a move against us. If not,’ and he met his master’s eyes before he said it, ‘we would have all been as geese in a bag.’

They were quiet for a time. It was not a comfortable silence shared amongst comrades; instead it was an individual isolation, each wrapped in their own concerns. The wavelets washed against the shore. Behind, the city murmured on, its sounds subdued and ghostly.

Baracha studied the old farlander perched on his rock. He shook his head again. ‘You’re pondering something. Out with it.’

‘In the morning, we should proceed with the plan.’

‘We should, should we? That would leave us little time to prepare, Ash.’

‘These fogs tend to last for a few days. Tomorrow should continue the same as today. After that, who knows?’

Baracha stroked his beard, beads of water dripping from its frazzled ends.

‘Plan?’ inquired Serèse. ‘What plan?’

‘I have made some arrangements,’ replied Ash, ‘which might gain us entrance to the tower.’

‘But what of Nico?’ she demanded. ‘Are we simply going to leave him in their hands? Sweet Er
s, what must he be going through even now, while we sit here glum and bickering between ourselves?’

Gently, Ash replied: ‘I am well aware of what he will be going through, Serèse. We will not be forsaking him. By now he will be held within the Temple of Whispers, for that is where the Regulators work from. So. If we wish to save Nico, that is where we must go anyway.’

‘Save him?’ snapped Baracha, standing tall. ‘We’ll do no such thing! The boy is lost to us, and we all know it. We can risk no more lives on fools’ errands. If we storm the temple, we do so to take down Kirkus.
That
is our mission here, nothing else.’

‘And we shall stay true to our mission. But before we finish with Kirkus, he will tell us where to find Nico. You may do what you like then. I will go and find my apprentice.’

‘And I, too,’ agreed Aléas.

‘You’ll do as you’re told, boy,’ snapped the Alhazii. ‘As soon as we finish our task, you’ll be leaving along with me. For if you’re even still alive by then it will be a miracle in itself, and I will risk you no further.’ His bluntness stunned Aléas to silence. ‘And you, daughter, all fired up and spirited, I know what you’re intending, but I tell you right now, you will not be coming with us. I will not risk you at all.’

‘You can’t stop me, father.’

Baracha took a step towards her, his big fists clenched. He restrained himself with a visible effort. ‘I can stop you,’ he told her – and none doubted it.

Serèse flung herself to her feet, her own fists clenched, and glared up at his towering bulk. ‘If it was your own apprentice,
father
, would you not attempt to rescue him?’

‘Perhaps,’ he admitted, while avoiding Aléas’s gazes ‘if there was any chance of success. But since when did I owe that boy anything? Ash should have taken better care at looking out for him. It’s hardly my fault he has fallen into their hands.’

Serèse turned away in disgust.

‘He is right, Serèse,’ said Ash, raising a palm. ‘You cannot come with us. We will need someone to remain outside, to provide a means for our escape. Getting in is one thing, but your father speaks the plain truth. It will be a miracle if any of us survive. If we do, then getting away will require yet another. We will need you for that most of all.’