‘And we began
to wonder just what was bringing you to Pickle’s Halt,’ Davron
added. ‘And came to the conclusion it was the maps.’
Keris looked
from one to the other and shook her head in wonderment. ‘Let’s for
a moment suppose that were true,’ she said, ‘and I certainly don’t
admit that it is, what in Creation’s ordering makes you think I
would voluntarily tell you where the map—maps—could be found, or
what happened to them, let alone hand them over to someone who is
bonded to the Unmaker? You’re all out of your tainted little
minds!’
‘We had
nothing to do with your father’s death,’ Meldor said. ‘In fact,
that was the last thing we wanted. With Deverli dead, we need
another skilled mapmaker to learn the secret of trompleri maps. We
hoped to have the maps to show Piers, and to ask him to discover
how they are made.’
Scow leant
over and refilled her mug.
She said, ‘And
if he had, do you think he would have told you, just like that? My
father was a moral man. He would never have helped anyone who had
dealings with the Unmaker.’
‘Oh damn it
all,’ Davron snapped at her, ‘we want the secret so we can defeat
the Unmaker, not help him!’
‘Defeat the
Unmaker? Defeat Lord Carasma?’ She stared at him. ‘Who do you think
you are? The Maker?’
Scow stifled a
laugh. Davron threw up his hands in frustration.
And someone
screamed, loudly.
They all
turned their heads to listen. The screaming—several voices now—grew
louder and more frantic. Keris’s heart lurched painfully.
‘Downstairs,
in the common room,’ Meldor said as they all jumped to their feet.
There was a moment of confused congestion as everyone tried to
leave the room at once, then Davron shot out, closely followed by
the others. Keris—having paused to snatch up her knife—was
last.
The screaming
may have come mostly from the common room, but the cause of the
panic was in the entrance hallway, where Portron had been holding
his kinesis meeting, and they came upon it the moment they turned
the corner on the stairs. They halted as one.
Portron was
lying on the floor, propping himself up groggily on one elbow. His
bald patch was streaming with blood. Pickle was in the doorway to
the common room, blocking it with his bulk. Graval was at the front
door of the Halt, trying to lift the beam that was the bar to the
door. He could not budge it. It would have taken Pickle to raise
it, or perhaps several ordinary men.
There was
something strange about Graval. His face was contorted with agony.
He kept on releasing the bar to slap his clothing. Nothing was
visible there, yet he hit wildly at his coat and trouser legs as if
he wanted to put out smouldering sparks of fire.
Pickle took a
step towards him, but Graval gestured with a hand and a band of
colour distorted the air between the two men. The haltkeeper
staggered back as if he had been punched.
And all the
while, something was throwing itself against the door trying to
shatter it from the outside. Each time the door shuddered, people
in the common room screamed. Keris bit back a strong desire to
shriek herself. Whatever was trying to break in had to be huge. The
thick slab door was juddering, bending under the blows. The
hinges—massive chunks of iron—showed signs of stress. The bar
itself seemed to be holding, but the brackets that kept it in place
had already cracked. In between blows, the sound of splintering
wood was audible to them all. The creature was not only trying to
break the door down, but was also clawing the wood, shredding it
from the outside.
Scow stared at
the brackets as the cracks widened. ‘Chaosblast!’
Graval shook
an agitated finger at Portron. ‘You did this!’ he screeched. ‘You
with your endless kinesis! Oh, Lord help me! I cannot stand it—’ He
turned back to the door, throwing his whole weight under the bar in
one last desperate attempt to raise it. ‘Pet, pet, come pet...help
me...’
The creature
outside the door redoubled its onslaught.
Pickle turned
to Davron in outrage. ‘You! You brought that creature here. Into my
halt! Another Minion, here, in my house, with his Wild—’
But none of
them needed Pickle’s anguished accusation to know what Graval was,
or what was on the other side of the door. Keris felt her body go
icy cold. She’d stopped several steps higher up the stairs than
Davron and Meldor, but she was no more safe than any of them right
then. If the Wild broke in, people would die. She made her decision
and acted all in one fluid second that seemed to stretch forever,
and knew even as she threw her knife that she was going to kill a
man.
~~~~~~~
And the
Minions of Lord Carasma gladly do his bidding in the world he
cannot reach, for he is tied to the ley from whence he draws his
power. And therein, poor pilgrim, lies both your despair and your
hope. Remember with hope that the power of the Unmaker is finite;
remember with despair that the Minion and his pet are the monsters
of Chaos that will dog your footsteps on their master’s
bidding.
—Pilgrims XX:
32: 6
Graval remained
standing for a moment, almost as if he had been transfixed against
the massive slabs of the door by the knives that protruded from his
throat.
Keris stared,
uncomprehending. Knives. Two of them. Side by side. Only one of
them was hers.
Graval was not
pinned to the door. That was an illusion, soon broken as he slowly
slid down to his knees and toppled, already dead. There was an
initial fountain of blood as the knives dislodged, then the flow
thickened, soaking into his clothes, oozing onto the floor.
Hot raspberry
jam clotting in the pot; blood gelling on the flagstones.
The hammering
at the door was frenzied.
Keris felt her
own knees going. She lowered her eyes to Davron, to find that he
had turned to look up at her. His face was expressionless. ‘Not bad
for someone who said they can’t be accurate with a knife throw.’
The words seemed neutral, bland. Ridiculous. They had just killed
someone...
He didn’t wait
for a reply but grabbed her by the arm and hauled her up the
stairs. ‘Get your bow,’ he said urgently. ‘That pet might not give
up just because its master’s dead.’ At the head of the stairs he
peeled off in the direction of his room. She ran for her own,
propelled half by his parting push, half by her own fear. Her hands
shook as she gathered up quiver and bowstave, as she fumbled to
string the bow. The thudding blows at the door continued. They came
down the stairs together, already fitting arrows to the string,
suddenly comrades, linked by a killing, by the knowledge that they
were fighting for their lives.
It had
taken a great bite out of his neck and drunk his blood
—
There was now
a semi-circle of Defenders gathered around the door, pikes at the
ready. Some had been maudlin with liquor a few minutes earlier,
others asleep, but they all looked alert enough now. White-faced
perhaps, but tersely vigilant. The pounding on the door shattered
more of the bracket for the bar, and the upper hinge broke with a
grinding snap of metal.
She and Davron
stayed on the stairs so that they could get a clear shot over the
heads of the Defenders the moment the door burst in.
‘Your knives,’
Scow said solemnly and handed them back as if he was taking part in
some kind of ceremonial. She was glad to see they’d been wiped
clean and Graval’s body had been removed. Portron had also
disappeared and Pickle was now armed with several wicked-looking
choppers from the kitchen.
Still in a
state of shock, she heard the officer in charge of the Defenders
instruct his men to hold back to give the archers a chance once the
door broke, and realised he was talking about her, and Davron. The
officer was a large blond man with a precise way of speaking and an
accent that was so aristocratic it was almost a parody, but he
exuded an air of competent calm. He, at least, was immune from
panic.
She shivered.
There wouldn’t be much time for those arrows.
Davron glanced
at Meldor. ‘Ley?’ he asked quietly.
More of the
bracket for the bar splintered. Pickle was trying to reinforce it
with a plank of wood torn from a bench. Meldor stood tall and calm.
‘Not here, last resort only.’
‘More light,’
Pickle was roaring to his staff, ‘we need more light!’ There were
wall candles in the hallway, but no lamps.
And then a
final crack, sharp and explosive. The door was hurtled inwards,
knocking several of the Defenders to the floor. There was a howl of
wind—a blast of air—and then there was no light at all except what
came from the common room. Both Keris and Davron let loose an
arrow, but in the sudden dimness neither risked a second shot for
fear of hitting the Defenders.
There was a
stifled silence, a silence of suppressed breathing, of halted
movement, of burgeoning fear. She had an impression of a vast shape
outside the door, something lumpish and dark—
Someone
moaned, a soft sound of undiluted terror. Darkness filled the
doorway, blocking out the night. A smell of musk, wet fur and stale
urine stung her throat with acid potency.
Then the
darkness lurched and vanished.
‘It’s gone!’
someone said, incredulous.
A servant
brought a lamp, the doorway was illuminated, and there was nothing
there. The Defenders cautiously edged their way out into the yard
and Davron and Scow went with them. Pickle began dispensing orders
in a bellowing roar, calling for hammer and nails, that lumber down
in the cellar and be quick about it, and how about some action from
you lazy lot of tainted layabouts? Servants scurried this way and
that.
Keris sank
down onto the stair and leant her head against the rough wood
banister. Her eyes were on the gouge marks across the front of the
door. The slabs were furrowed from side to side to a finger-width
depth and the edges of the scoring were charred. A smell of burnt
wood lingered on, together with the more unpleasant stench of the
pet.
Someone sat
down beside her and she looked to see the Chameleon. ‘Bit of an
anti-climax, eh?’ he said.
‘Where were
you? I didn’t see you.’
‘Oh, I sort of
faded out into the woodwork,’ he replied cheerfully. ‘I’m getting
good at that sort of thing. I don’t suppose it would’ve helped me
one whit against whatever that thing was, but I
felt
loads
safer.’
She gave a
reluctant smile. ‘Ley-life, Quirk—what happened? Graval—?’
‘He sort of
went mad, I think. He’d been out in the yard all evening, and then
Master Pickle told him he’d have to come in because it was time to
bar the door, so he did. Chantor Portron was still performing
kineses. Graval went into the common room and had a drink. He sat
all huddled up like it was cold. He was rubbing his arms and
wiggling around in his seat, then he, well, he went berserk. Dashed
out and struck Portron down, cursing him. Next he laid about with a
chair, scattering all those who had been performing kinesis. Then
that thing came to the door, and Graval was trying to get out to
it—or to let it in, or something.’ He hesitated, powerless to stop
his shiver at the memory. ‘You know the rest.’
Meldor, who
was still standing on the stair in an attitude of relaxed interest,
said, ‘Too much stability here for him. Portron’s kineses must have
been the last straw.’
‘You knew he
was a Minion?’ she asked and did not try to hide the note of
accusation that crept into her voice.
‘Indeed, no.
Although I should have wondered. All that clumsiness? It was to
make us wary of him, so no one wanted to come near. If any of us
ley-lit had touched him, we’d have known. We’d have felt his
corruption, his perverted ley. And that lack of control over his
horse? The poor beast must have sensed his true nature, and been in
a panic the whole time.’
‘But why did
he join a fellowship in the first place?’
‘To spy. Why
else? Keris, how else does the Unmaker know what is going on in the
Unstable if his Minions don’t tell him?’
‘I thought—I
thought Lord Carasma was sort of like the Maker. All-seeing.’
He smiled a
little. ‘Blasphemy, Keris. Better not let Portron hear you speak of
any such resemblance!’
‘But—but he
knew things. About me. How could he have known such things? He knew
how I felt, what I wanted most—’
‘Yes. Face to
face in the ley, Lord Carasma can read any of us like a book.’
‘He knew my
mother was alive still.’
‘No, but he
might have known she was not yet dead.’
‘There’s a
distinction?’
‘Chantry
believes that all souls must pass the way of the Unmaker first,
before being made at one with That Which Is Created. Carasma weeds
out those on which he has a claim. He would know your mother had
not yet passed his way. But other than that, his powers outside ley
lines are limited. He controls indirectly, through his Minions and
their pets and his paid servants. They are his eyes and ears. This
is the first time, though, that I’ve heard of him placing a Minion
in a fellowship. Perhaps we should be flattered. It’s an indication
of how important at least one of us is to him. It is not easy to
find a Minion who can withstand a stab, even a sinkhole like Hopen
Grat, for long enough to deceive a guide and join a fellowship.
Graval was a special man. I could admire him, if he had not chosen
the wrong path for his talents.’
She clamped
her lips into a thin line, trying not to remember the sound of a
blade thudding into his throat.
Davron
re-entered the hallway. He was holding a dead hen in his hand, one
of Pickle’s layers. It’s neck had been cut open, but not quite
severed.