Farlander (62 page)

His words placated her a little, and she slumped back against the rock.

‘We must be quick,’ continued Ash, ‘if we are to procure everything we will need. I fear it will require most of our remaining funds.’

Serèse studied the old man’s face. ‘Do you really think you can save him?’

Before he could reply, Baracha spat on the shingle between them. ‘We’re not doing this to save the boy – will you get that into your skulls, all of you? For all we know he is dead already.’

They all turned away from each other once more. Ash stared out to sea again, studying it not by his eyes but by his ears. Baracha picked up a pebble, threw it clattering into the rocks nearby.

A flap of wings caught Ash’s attention. He was in time to turn and catch the after-image of a startled gull, flying off; it was the emptiness mostly that he saw, the space it had just occupied. He looked up and saw the white gull gliding into whiteness.

A simple smile crept over his features. He threw his hood back, took a deep breath.

‘He lives,’ he declared.

Baracha frowned. Aléas and Serèse turned to him, expectant.

‘How could you know that?’ Baracha demanded.

‘An intuition,’ he said. ‘The boy lives. And he is in need.’

*

Nico had no idea where he was.

Upon his capture, they had manacled his wrists together and shoved a hood over his head. It had been a terrifying experience – the dislocation of sight, the heavy cloth pressing against his face as he panted and struggled to breathe, the rough hands digging into his flesh, shoving and pushing him one way and the other, the slaps, the shouts, the disorientation. Voices had risen in excitement all around him. A rider had been dispatched, bearing the message that a R
shun had been caught, the clatter of hooves fading away down the unseen street. Nico had been thrown into a cart of some sort, the smell of his own filth-smeared clothes gagging him as it rocked along over the cobbles. They had crossed a bridge, or else some other structure made of wood. After the iron-rimmed wheels of the cart trundled across it, the vehicle stopped for a heavy gate to be opened, and then it passed through a stone entranceway, and halted again. Nico had been hauled out and shoved roughly along a stone-flagged floor, up some steps, through another door.

He stood now in a room of some sort. He could tell it was large by the echoes heard through the heavy cloth of the hood. A woman shouted somewhere in the distance, the sound of her tirade terminated by a loud clanging impact.

The scent of hazii smoke filled the air. People were conversing in low voices somewhere off to his left.

‘Keys,’ the male Regulator demanded, by Nico’s side.

‘I’ll need the contract if you still have it.’ It was another male voice, a new one, breathy as from the lungs of a heavy smoker.

There was a rustle of crumpled paper being unfolded next to Nico’s ear.

‘You only lifted the one, huh?’

‘One more than you ever caught, Malsh,’ quipped the female Regulator.

The smoker chuckled like a cat hacking up a fur ball, as he approached the prisoner. Nico heard the metal rasp of scissors opening, and then someone was cutting the clothes from his body without further fuss.

‘I’ll need a name, too, for processing,’

The woman’s voice was heavy with intent. ‘Forthcoming,’ she drawled.

*

Nico was led naked and still hooded through a series of iron doors that were opened in turn before him, and closed again behind, a collection of keys jangling each time. The stone floor felt gritty underfoot.

A man was talking loudly, directly ahead, his voice rebounding along the narrow passageway. He was reciting a verse or a poem of some kind, in a language only half Trade and half something else, and as Nico was manhandled onwards, the same voice neared until it seemed to be right next to his face, and then it was passing behind him, and fading faster than seemed right.

The passage veered in a gradual curve to the right. Soon it was sloping downwards, too, so that Nico stumbled along near falling each time his feet trod on air.

The Regulators stopped him with a crunch of halting feet, then turned him around.

The noise of an iron door opening on its hinges sounded like the panicked shriek of a young girl.

Nico was shoved through a doorway, his manacled hands flailing ahead of his tottering feet. The door closed with a crash, changing the sound of the confined space.

At first he thought he was alone, but then he heard the scuff of a boot, and then another from a different direction. He sensed the two Regulators breathing on either side of him.

‘Lie on the floor,’ ordered the man.

‘What?’

‘
Lie on the floor
,’ repeated the woman.

Nico was trembling. He could hear, absurdly, his own teeth chatter.

His knees began to fold beneath him, and then he was getting down on the floor, his chin resting on the stone, his ribs pressing sharp against its hardness.

He heard the squeak of leather, as fingers flexed. He heard this sound four times in all.

The first kick was enough to loosen his bladder. His body clenched around itself, and he gasped at the howl of white pain deep inside him.

‘He’s pissed himself already,’ observed the woman.

And then they laid into him properly.

Nico tried to crawl away from their blows. He could hear his own voice screaming out for them to stop. He would have told them anything at that point, for he could find no courage in this situation, stripped not only of clothes but of dignity, of spirit.

But they asked him nothing. They merely took turns at stamping on his legs, or smashing his head against the floor, or kicking his ribs; not in a frenzied way, but slowly, methodically, as though this was everday work to them, and they wanted to make a thorough job of it.

They were going to kill him eventually; he was sure of it. But as his head began to swim in a fog of darkness, the door squealed open, and the blows ceased without warning.

‘Holy Matriarch,’ panted the man with obvious surprise.

Footsteps and a swirling of robes.

‘Let me see him,’ came a different woman’s voice.

The hood was pulled free of his face. Nico lay gasping for air and squinting at the brilliance of a single lantern set on the floor.

He opened one bloody eye just wide enough to take in the newcomers. The two Regulators were bowing low at the waist as they faced a tall woman of middle years. She wore the familiar white robes of the Mannian order. At her side stood a youth, even taller, trim and athletic, clad also in white robes.

‘Have you administered the witspice yet?’ inquired the Matriarch.

They all looked down at Nico, bleeding on to the cool stone floor.

‘No, we’ve been softening him up first.’

‘Very well. You may administer it now.’

Orders were quickly given to someone outside the cell. An old priest appeared, holding a twist of white paper in one palm. He knelt beside Nico. Gently, he touched the boy’s face until Nico looked up into his eyes. A healer perhaps, Nico thought. The old man unfolded the paper. As he blew across it, a fine white dust caught Nico full in the face.

He coughed, rubbed at his burning eyes. Then weariness seized hold of him, spread him out across the floor. His thoughts began to swim through a thick haze as though he was midway to sleep. Dreams surfaced occasionally, only to disappear again without trace.

Nico experienced only fragments after that.

*

Leave us
, commanded a woman’s voice.

Matriarch?
said another.

I would speak with him
.

As you command
.

Nico was walking along a narrow mountain path. Goats chewed on the sparse grasses above him, watching him from the corners of their eyes as he passed.

Baa!
he cried out, letting them know that he was aware of their attention.

Why does he make such a noise?

It’s the spice. He’s partly in his dreams now.

Nico was thirsty, and he could scent water ahead. He crested a rise and looked down into a ravine. A river gushed along the rocks at its bottom. He grinned.

Boy!
a voice commanded, from somewhere high.

Nico looked up into a woman’s face. It was a plain face, but made ugly by the emotions shining through from behind. He was reminded of a bird, something black and malicious.

She was asking him questions, and he was talking . . . talking about his master and the city and what they were doing here. A young man stood by her side, staring down at him. His expression grew meaner as Nico talked, the lips curling back. A wolf making ready to attack.

The woman stared with eyes hard as glass, unblinking. It seemed that if he kept talking she might stop fixing him with that hungry stare. Nico wanted away from it. He wanted to return to his own private space. He talked of Cheem, and the monastery in the mountains there. He talked of Aléas, Baracha, old Osh
. He talked of the ancient Seer up in his hut, how he might scratch at his lice but could do things Nico still did not understand.

Stop rambling,
demanded the woman, and she clutched his face in her talons.

She asked of his master again: what he was planning on doing next. Nico told her of the Temple of Whispers, how they had considered ways in which they might get inside it, so they could find Kirkus, and slay him.

She became angry at him then, though he didn’t know why. Perhaps he had forgotten his chores again. Perhaps he’d had another shouting match with Los.

She squeezed his face hard, then stood up.

Perhaps your grandmother was right
, she said to the young man by her side.
If this is what they’re training to be R
shun these days, there is little to be feared
.

She hovered over Nico. A drop of spittle appeared between her thin, ruby lips. It stretched and fell, plopped against his closed eye.

You came here to murder my son, little R
shun
.
So I tell you now, your friends will soon be dead, your order destroyed, and you
– she prodded him with a toe, and he flinched from it –
we will make an example of you
.