It was butchers' work before long, the 'ifrit lying slack and leaking from a hundred punctures, like a water-skin pricked by a swarm of sandflies. It was enough, Jemel thought. He waded through the muddy run-off to the creature's head, gazed for a moment into the abiding glitter of its hot eye, and thrust his scimitar in to follow his gaze.
The whistle shrilled for a moment, and was cut off. The fire dimmed and died around Jemel's blade as he withdrew it; curious, he touched his hand lighdy to the steel and found it hot beneath his fingers. Clean and dry also, as though he'd sunk it into the Sands at noon, or into the sands of the djinn's country at any hour; and yet the 'ifrit: was full of water, and that was so cold
...
Yet more opportunities to prove that, as the glimmering black body clouded over, turned to mist and faded with its death. All its remaining water was left behind as though it had been always a separate thing, the 'ifrit simply the living skin that contained it. Jemel touched his chest uncertainly, thinking of heart and belly and guts as something alien, other than himself; and then he was deluged by the water's collapse, knocked from his feet with the force of it, spluttering beneath it for one terrible moment before it could spread out across the wide grassland and let him come slowly to his feet. He had been sodden before, wetter than he could remember; now, smeared all over with liquid mud, he felt as though the wetness had soaked all the way through to the dry desert soul of him.
That must have been why he was laughing.
He squelched over to where the knight was lying spread-eagled and struggling to rise under the weight of chainmail and mud on all his many garments, under the exhaustion of a days fighting and this hackwork to follow, under the paralysing grip of his own all-consuming laughter.
Jemel reached his
left hand down, gripped a gauntl
et and hauled mightily. Felt his feet start to slip, just as the knight came up; for a moment they hung in balance, each dependent on the other for a desperate support. Then their legs scrambled for purchase and found it, they saved themselves with an ungainly lurch together, and still managed not to let go of each others hands, neither of their weapons.
Briefly they stood eye to eye and grinning broadly; then the knight took a pace backwards, released his grip and bowed formally.
'My thanks, for your sword and your wisdom too, for knowing how to meet it.'
"That was my friend's wisdom, more than mine,' and he was already looking around to find Marron, to be sure of him, left alone with enemies all over. He seemed well, but more than that, he seemed distant; too much so. Like the creature that Marron used to carry in his blood, Jemel could go only so far from him and be comfortable.
So he turned and began to trudge through the mire. There were other Ransomers, too many of them and not all like this; Jemel meant to be at Marron's side before any started to ask questions about what he'd said
before. None had reacted violentl
y to Marron's face and he still might not have given his name, but that didn't mean that he was safe among them.
The knight was at Jemel's elbow in a moment, and beckoning to his men where they stood a little distance off, on the other margin of this temporary swamp the 'ifrit had made in its fighting, in its death, first ploughing up the grassland with its writhings and then saturating it with all that water.
Jemel was still astonished by the water, and still confused. He had stood often beside the Dead Waters and been overwhelmed by so immeasurable a quantity, when a man's remaining days of life in the Sands could be counted out in waterskins; he had seen those waters rise up and flood Rhabat, and what had happened here was a puddle, the rushing roaring river was a trickle next to that. But yet the Dead Waters were a poison, and a man's life could only be measured by what he might drink. What this 'ifrit had drunk first a man might drink after, Jemel had tasted it on his lips and not died, been sharply refreshed; and he had rarely been all wet with water, had never been half-drowned in so very much. He was shaken by the simple solid fact of it, by the mud that sucked at his legs and the unaccustomed weight of what he wore, and he was baffled by the sweetness and purity of what had come from the belly of an 'ifrit.
He had grit on his lips now, and spat rather than swallow. Almost he wanted to run back and jump into the river just as he was, to have its fierce currents suck all the filth from his skin and clothing. There might be a rock he could cling to, to save being washed away and battered to nothing, to a brutal end on other rocks between here and the true sea that he had not seen, that he could not quite imagine. If there were, if he did, he wondered if he might lie in the water and open his mouth and have the river scour him inside as well as out, if it might flow swift and harsh through gullet and belly and gut to leave him cleaner than marble, cleaner than the high dunes after a sandstorm, cleaner than starlight on a dreamless, sleepless night
...
That picture in his mind showed him another unexpectedly, almost the same, and he wondered if he knew now why the 'ifrit had been so full of water, and how it had grown so big; but there was dry grass under his feet now and Marron was not so far ahead, and there were other questions that mattered more. Questions that he dared not ask, despite that laughing moment that he'd shared with the knight.
No more laughter in Jemel, then, and none that he could see or hear in the knight. Marron was laughing, though; possibly laughing at them both, though his eyes were fixed on Jemel. He was on his knees beside the broken man he'd saved, they'd saved together. There really shouldn't have been anything funny in that, but he was definitely laughing, though he did it as quietly and privately as he did everything.
'Mud-babies,' he said, in response to Jemel's stare. 'We had a story when I was growing up, where a barren woman makes herself a family of babies from the river's mud. She loves them dearly, until her carping neighbour tells her that they're dirty. So she fetches a bowl of water and she washes them, and they all dissolve to mud again. You look just like a mud-baby, I'd be afraid to wash you
...'
The Sharai told the same story only drier, with a single baby made from sand and spittle. Perhaps all the stories would be wetter in a country like this, where they could let so much water run to waste.
'The 'ifrit nearly washed me into the river,' he grunted, scowling at Marron for his mood. If ever there was a time to be serious, to be vigilant, to watch every word, this must be it.
'You pricked it like a waterskin, it dribbled itself to death.'
'I think it was a waterskin,' he said, 'I think it made itself that way, just a skin and filled itself with water, to be long enough to reach the bridge. Those we fought at Rhabat must have eaten a lot of rock to make the size they did. This one lacked the time to feed itself, perhaps.'
'It might have been smaller and done its work as easily,' the Ransomer said at his side. 'That bridge was built to fall; I was sent ahead to capture it before they could knock out the pins that held it from collapsing. My commander will be displeased with me, but even he didn't foresee a demon rising from the river.'
I think the demon foresaw Marron, standing on the bridge; and so it made itself so long, to strike so high and have a chance at him. Though why it would, when he is harmless now
..
.
'Tell your commander of this,' Marron said, perhaps not so harmless after all; he did after all know the ways of these people, as Jemel did not. 'Tell him that these demons, these 'ifrit are the true enemy. We can know that, without knowing why they are so active against us. Against us
all,
as you have seen. Tell him to bless his weapons, and to hunt 'ifrit. Tell him there is more virtue in cleansing this or any land of such monstrosities than there is in hunting men who say their prayers another way than he, more honour in this fight than in burning women and children, tell him that. And say that Marron said so.'
Jemel flinched at the name; the Ransomer seemed not to react to it at all. 'I do not think that I will tell the marshal what you say, but I might tell Sieur Anton.'
There was a stillness that had no connection with the wind, a chill that was nothing to do with ice-water still dripping from their clothes. Jemel felt it in Marron, and in himself; each of them was suddenly very watchful of the other, though their eyes they kept fixed on the Ransomer.
'Your man here,' Marron said, speaking just as carefully as the knight had before him, 'he could live, but he needs urgent care. He would die before he reached your camp, if you tried to carry him. He needs healing, and we can fetch him to it; but you must trust us, and those whose land this is.
'Trust him to Surayonnaise sorcery, you mean.' 'Yes. If you want him to five.'
'Sieur, no!' That from one of his men behind. "We should kill them both, the Sharai killed ours
...'
And would you see Tryss die, after what's been done to save him? By these men, as much as ourselves?'
'We've only his word for that. Tryss is tough . . .'
'Not too tough to break. You helped bear him back from the demon's shadow, you know his hurts. The boy's right, we have no infirmarer fit to heal those. Give me your word that he'll be returned to us unharmed, lad, and you can have him.'
'Returned and healed, I swear it.'
'Marron,' Jemel said, 'how can we take him? How can we go? The bridge is gone, and we cannot cross that water.'
Which was good news for Surayon, perhaps, that neither could the Patrics, or this army of Patrics, these Ransomers. There was another army to the south, of course, come from Ascariel; and then there were the Sharai to the east, who might be on either bank or both. When all those armies met, Jemel thought, there would be a killing great enough to dam even this river, if it were not blocked already with the dead of Surayon.
But Marron only smiled, and said, 'Esren.'
It sounded lik
e a summons, though spoken quietl
y, as Lisan spoke it. Jemel looked instinctively for a distortion of light in the smoky air, and could not see one. But he saw the Ransomers look wary, and back off up the road; he heard Marron say, 'Yes, keep your distance — and put up your weapons, you could do great damage here. You too, Jemel.'
He slipped the point of his scimitar into the sheath on his belt, and slid it home. Then, only then did he turn, to see a carpet waft its way towards them, hovering at knee-height above the torn and trampled grass. He could have laughed again, perhaps, at the absurdity of it, except that he was not given the time.
'Esren, take up Jemel and this wounded man. Take them to Lisan, at the palace.'
'I will, Ghost Walker.'
That was wrong, he was not Ghost Walker now; but there was more wrong than words could cover. Jemel twisted back, met Marrons steady a
nd expectant gaze, and was startl
ed again by the soft une
xpected brown of the eyes; startl
ed into stammering as he said, 'What, what about you
...
?'
'I am not coming.'
'Marron
'I have to speak to him, Jemel.'
'About what? Peace, no more killing? He will not hear you.'
'No. About war, and slaughter. He will hear me, I think. Tell the others, Jemel; there are other armies on the march, other commanders who need to hear. Esren, take him now.'
'No!'
But there was a band of solid air about his chest, a weave of wind that he could neither find nor fight. The djinni lifted him onto the carpet as a man might lift a struggling babe, and set him down beside the broken Ransomer, and carried him away so swiftly that he barely had the time to watch his friend dwindle out of sight, out of all staring.
15
Little
Lights
Tired of cautious counsels, Imber had struck out wild and chancy, and taken his
little
army with him.
Had struck out wild and chancy and wrong, and was paying for it now, finding it priced in equal parts shame and frustration.
Had overruled Karel to do it, in front of his cousins own men, and so shown himself to be callow and foolish and unfit for any command, all those accusations that Karel conspicuously did not level against him. He felt them all the more keenly because he had to make them all himself.
It had all been so clear to him at the time, at the noon to which this was the sunset. They had traile
d the Sharai army all d
ay, like carrion crows drawn to the stink of smoke and blood. Even though the dead were Surayonnaise or occasionally Sharai and so cursed either way, he had still been sickened by the slaughter, farms and villages surprised and brutally destroyed. The Sharai had been swift about their work; the Elessans could have followed from the mountains to the sea and found nothing but leavings, gleaned not a life, not a thread of life from the ruins.
And so, when he had ridden to the top of a sudden knoll and stood in his stirrups and seen how the river turned in a long loop ahead of them before coiling back so far that almost it met its younger self, Imber had made a decision. The Sharai forces were keeping to the north bank, and so had been forced into a wide detour; he and those he led would cross by the arching stone bridge he could see just ahead, and cut across the narrow span to meet the river returning. That way they might hope to get ahead of the Sharai, if they pressed hard now. At the least, the shortcut would bring them in touch with those they chased.