Mage's Blood (42 page)

‘Ready?’ he asked confidently.

Cym frowned. ‘Are you sure you know how to steer this thing?’

Alaron shrugged. ‘Nothing to it.’ Actually there probably was, but he could remember a few things from college – and anyway, what was the worst that could happen?

His father was holding a cup of thick black coffee. He gave an approving nod and Alaron waved back, then he turned his mind to the flight. Air-gnosis had always been hard for him, for he was an Earth-mage, the diametric opposite. But as he’d worked he had found a small affinity – and he’d also found that he’d enjoyed building the skiff, when he wasn’t picking splinters out of his fingernails.

I’d never have finished it without Cym, but she would never have known how to start without me
. He closed his eyes and let the gnosis throb into the keel. The craft gave a small shudder and lifted slightly. He locked eyes with Cym in growing excitement as she poured in her own energy, slowly saturating the keel until the whole craft was straining against the moorings.

‘Cast off!’ he called, Cym translated into Rimoni and the young men jerked the slipknots mooring the skiff. It rose into the air, two feet, three feet, six, a dozen. Everyone gasped in excitement – and then a sudden gust swirled through the glade and filled the sails. Cym gave a small squeal and he grabbed at the tiller.

‘Turn!’ she shouted, pointing at the trees before them, and he laughed at her discomfort and pulled the tiller about so that they glided lazily about the glade. Below them, the Rimoni cheered and the children ran after them, waving wildly. He felt a swelling pride as he waved back. Even their fathers were on their feet.

All sorts of hopes bloomed inside him, but as they turned, they lost the breeze and the heavier aft end of the skiff dragged about
so they were facing into the wind.
That’s bad, isn’t it?
he thought, trying not to worry. The sail flapped against the mast, then caught the wind again, but on the wrong side, and they began to drift slowly backwards, the tiller now useless.

That’s definitely bad
, he admitted, while Cym screamed, ‘Alaron – do something!’ and gesticulated frantically behind him to where the giant window of his mother’s drawing room loomed.

‘Shit – take her down,’ he cried, trying to release the gnosis in the keel, but it was circulating inside the wood and he couldn’t draw it out quickly enough. Cym scrambled under the sail, but that just shifted most of the weight to the rear and the craft tipped backwards. Cym fell into his lap with a squeal, and below them the gypsies howled in dismay as the tip of the mast struck an upstairs window.

‘
Rukk!
Stop—’ Cym’s full weight fell onto him and her forehead caught him a dizzying blow. The craft lurched again, levelling out, then the drag from the mast made it pendulum forward and the rudder smashed through the drawing room window, right where his mother normally sat. The mast sheared off, dragging against the window frame, and the canvas ripped on the shards of glass falling all about them. He clutched Cym and tried to shield them both from the glass and timbers as the hull propelled itself into the room, smashing through an oil-painting of Lord Gracyn Anborn before wedging itself in the hole and settling amidst the ruined furniture.

Gretchen opened the door beside them, shrieked and vanished. Outside, all was silent. Alaron buried his face in Cym’s hair and prayed this wasn’t happening. She smelled of cloves and patchouli, and her body was firm and warm. Perhaps this was all a dream?

‘Alaron, let me go, you idiot,’ she hissed at him. She shoved herself backwards and staggered to her feet. ‘
Rukka mio!
’

He lifted his head and gazed about him. The room was a sea of debris. The broken mast was still fastened to the hull by tangled rigging, and its tip jutted out through the shattered window. There was broken glass everywhere.

Cym sank to her knees, her shoulders shaking. It took him a few seconds to realise that she was laughing hysterically.

But all that work
… He felt more like crying than laughing, but when a sound finally gurgled up out of his throat, it was somewhere between the two. He rolled clear and lay panting in the midst of the destruction.

A few seconds later, a multitude of children peered through the window, chorusing, ‘
Ooh!
’

‘Cym?’ he finally managed, ‘do you think your father will still want to buy?’

There had been no deal, of course, but they had parted on good terms. ‘My daughter will help your son again,’ Mercellus told Vann. ‘This is better than the circus.’

Alaron didn’t feel too bad, all things considered. Yes, it had been a disaster, and yes, the Rimoni had laughed uproariously … but Cym had put her arm around his shoulder and kissed his cheek. ‘We’ll make it work properly next time,’ she had whispered in his ear. That was worth more than gold.

Alaron sat alone in the stables of Anborn Manor, watching the rain plummeting down. It was the end of Febreux and Vann was away again. Cym was gone too, off with her kin, travelling somewhere in the lowlands to the north. The wind was moaning about the eaves like a man in pain, and the trees bent and branches whipped about. He hadn’t seen another soul apart from Gretchen for weeks, but that suited him, as he poured all of his concentration into the skiff. They had decided to repair it here, where he didn’t have to be so cautious of anyone sensing his gnosis. He worked on the house too, repairing the damage his skiff had caused as well as the depredations of winter.

He read up on piloting too. There was more to it than he’d thought.

‘Perhaps if you’d read all that first, we wouldn’t have crashed,’ Cym remarked before she left.

‘But that isn’t the way men learn things,’ he’d tried to explain.

Somehow his crippling depression had been jettisoned like ballast
in a storm. Being active and having a purpose had helped, but mostly it was the company, he realised: people to share things with, to work alongside, to laugh with, to commiserate with. Even just a friendly cup of tea and honey cakes with Gretchen was enough to get him by.

He used the amber periapt sparingly and discreetly. Elsewhere, the legions were drilling and men and munitions were pouring into the capital, readying for the great march to Pontus. He would be one of the few young men left behind when six Noros legions marched off – but he was oddly content rebuilding the skiff and gently fanning the small fire he had built from the ashes of his life.

The spring rains had set in, so there would be no chance to test his repairs that afternoon. He settled his hand on the keel and closed his eyes, feeding it, gently exhaling his energies into the timber. If he had had his eyes open, he would have seen the wood take on a soft lustre in the dim light of the shadowy workroom.

He suddenly stiffened as a small surge of Air-gnosis flooded up the keel to greet him. He opened his eyes and groped about, feeling for the hammer. Someone moved in the gloom and he froze, his heart hammering.

An old man was standing at the opposite side of the workbench, staring down at his hands, which were touching the other end of the keel. Though tall, he was stooped, and his white hair was wild. His unkempt beard had twigs sticking out, and his eyes were unfocused. He looked like he’d been dragged through the undergrowth. Mud and grass stains smeared his ragged clothing – which, when Alaron looked closer, turned out to be just a nightshirt. He was soaking wet, as if he had just walked in out of the downpour.

‘Kore’s Cods – who the Hel are you?’ Alaron gasped, more startled than afraid.

The old man cowered. ‘
Mmngh!
’ he choked, then flinched at the sound of his own voice. ‘
Mmngh!
’ He clapped a hand over his own mouth and fell to his knees.

‘Sir – sir?’ Alaron grabbed a horse-blanket and ran to him. ‘Here, let me help.’

The old man looked up at him, his eyes wide with dread. ‘
Gggnhh!
’ His eyeballs rolled back in his sockets and he toppled over, senseless.

Alaron yelled to Gretchen for help.

Northern Lakh to Kesh and Hebusalim,
on the continent of Antiopia
Shawwal (Octen) 927 to Safar (Febreux) 928
9–5 months until the Moontide

A wagon rumbled into the encampment and within seconds it was surrounded by young men all fighting like jackals for the tiny sacks the soldiers threw down. Someone tried to climb up, took the butt of a spear in the face and toppled backwards into the uncaring press. Kazim fought no less viciously than the others. The last time he’d eaten, two days ago, it’d been a tiny morsel of mashed chickpeas. He clubbed a boy in the back of the head and snatched up his portion, then fought forward to grab another three of the little sacks from the wagon, ducking as a spear-butt whistled over his head. Then he was staggering out, smashing a foot into the belly of one of those who preferred to lurk on the fringes and ambush the dazed victors of the fray as they emerged.

Whatever he had expected of the shihad, it had not been this. They had been part of the march for three weeks now. For four days
they had walked north through the dry heat of winter, begging food and places to sleep along the way. At first people were generous, as the Amteh faith was prevalent here in northern Lakh. ‘Blessings of Ahm’ were generously handed out: dry breads and leaf-plates filled with daal and fresh well-water. But when they arrived three days later at their first staging camp, their tiny group was swallowed into the chaos. Haroun went to find the Godspeakers to ask what was going on while Jai and Kazim sought food and water. But the only supplies here were secreted in wagons guarded by a contingent of soldiers. A thin man who’d been there a week told Kazim not to approach them. ‘They don’t care if we starve,’ the man growled.

‘But this is the shihad,’ Kazim exclaimed.

‘Tell that to the soldiers and see where it gets you.’ The other man laughed grimly. ‘All I want to do is kill Rondians, but at this rate we’ll never live long enough to get there.’

Kazim went to talk to the soldiers anyway. They all had chainmail and domed helms with spikes, and curved swords. Their beards were braided and their eyes were little pieces of coal. They were Keshi mercenaries in the service of the mughal – and they were roasting chickens on their fires and swilling fenni.

One, a captain, strolled to meet him. He had a scarred face and a world-weary air. ‘Piss off, you little shithead,’ he snapped, to a chorus of laughter.

‘But we have no food,’ protested Kazim, ‘and you have plenty.’

The captain bit off a haunch of chicken and swallowed. ‘Yes, we do,’ he agreed. ‘And you don’t. Get lost,
mata-chod
.’

Kazim stood his ground. He was the same height as the soldier and was bigger-built. Still, the soldier had a sword. His eyes flickered to the men behind. They were all armed and would take this man’s side in any fight.
This isn’t a good idea
. He backed away a little, but tried one last time. ‘Please sir – a chicken – I have rupals.’

The captain snickered. ‘
I have rupals
,’ he mimicked mockingly. ‘One chicken? Okay, let’s call it one hundred rupals, shall we?’

‘One hundred rupals – I could buy ten chickens for that at home!’

‘Then go home!’ The captain turned away.

‘Okay, one hundred rupals.’

The soldier smiled nastily. ‘Price has gone up. It’s two hundred now.’

Kazim glared angrily, while his stomach wept at the smell of the roasting birds. ‘Okay. Two hundred.’

The captain pulled a spitted chicken out of a fire and held it out. ‘Money first,’ he said, waving the chicken as if teasing a pet dog. Kazim fought to keep his temper in check. He held out the money, all he had, the captain snatched it, then dropped the chicken to the dirt. As Kazim instinctively dived for it, Jai yelled, ‘Kaz—’

The captain’s boot crunched into his jaw and light burst inside his skull. He felt himself fly head-over-heels, backwards into an empty nothingness.

When Kazim came to, his jaw was throbbing, but it didn’t feel like it was broken. He opened his and looked around dazedly. Jai was hunched over him. It can only have been a few seconds, because the captain was still standing over him, laughing. Kazim glared back, memorising his face.

‘Come on,’ hissed Jai. He was holding the dirty chicken. The scuffle had brought onlookers, ragged men who were staring at the chicken.

Kazim spotted a broken stick lying in an open fire and grabbed it, then got unsteadily to his feet. ‘Stay behind me,’ he hissed at Jai, and walked forward determinedly.
The first person to try me gets this stick in the face
. But no one did; they just parted and let them through, gazing hungrily after them. They split the chicken with Haroun, but Kazim was careful to take the biggest portion.
I’m the warrior here
, he told himself.
I have to stay strong
.

For the next six days all they had to eat was a little bread they’d begged from nearby farms. The soldiers drew their swords when approached. Someone created a Dom-al’Ahm from old bricks, only a waist-high thing, with pots for domes, where Haroun and other scholars led prayers. They prayed for victory over the infidel, but it was the prayers for food that became louder and louder.

Then the wagons began to arrive. Initially there were just three
wagons a day to feed eight thousand men, and eighty per cent of them failed to get anything to eat that first day, but gradually more supplies arrived and at last they could at least feel they were not weakening further. Desertions racked up as the winter sun baked them, and there was wild talk of storming the soldiers’ camps – but they all knew that was suicide. There was nothing to do but pray and make do, or go home.