The Promise of the Child (67 page)

Lycaste looked in disgust at the soldier. “You do it! I'm not touching a dead Amaranthine.”

“Fine.” Huerepo sighed theatrically, stuffing his pistol into Lycaste's hand and rummaging through the dead Immortal's blood-soaked clothes. The Vulgar sniggered suddenly, lifting a handful of soft-looking pink jelly. “Found some of his brains inside his undershirt.”

Lycaste recoiled, cursing.

“Maybe they still contain his powers,” Huerepo said thoughtfully, appearing to genuinely consider taking the glob of offal. “Might fetch a pretty price.” He shook his head, glancing at Lycaste and dumping the brains on the stone step. “Don't look at me like that, Lycaste. But it's true that they don't rot—we wouldn't have had to worry about the smell, at least.”

Lycaste handed back the pistol irritably. “Come on, I'll go first this time.”

A tangle of dead Amaranthine lay on the decorative floor around one of the cell doors, some with their faces burned away to the bone. As Lycaste watched, a bolt trembled and flew off the door, bouncing across the floor towards him, where dozens of other bolts were scattered. He saw that the whole metal door had been sealed closed with hundreds of rivets across its face. Only a few of them remained now.

Lycaste and Huerepo raised their weapons as the last three bolts whizzed off, watching the foot-thick, specially coated door crumple and dent and finally shear from its hinges to crash onto the floor. A tall, slender Amaranthine was standing inside the open cell, his thin underclothes pulled around him for warmth. Lycaste took in the hollow cheeks and curved blade of nose; it was how Sotiris said he'd look.

“Hugo Hassan Maneker?” he asked diffidently, the rifle tipped downward.

The Amaranthine checked among the bodies, kicking some over to see their faces. He cursed, glancing at Lycaste warily. “What?”

“I was told to come and find you. I'm a friend of Sotiris's.”

The Immortal regarded at him with renewed interest. “Sotiris is here?”

Lycaste looked at Huerepo. “I don't know. He said he'd meet us when he could.”

Maneker pulled a cloak from a victim, shaking it out and draping it around his shoulders. “I must find him.”

“He told me to take care of you until he met us again.”

The Amaranthine looked sharply up at Lycaste, then down at the Vulgar. “I don't think that will be necessary.” He made as if to pass into the hallway, and Lycaste put out a hand.

Maneker rounded on him, the skin on Lycaste's chest suddenly smarting as if from an invisible slap. “I do
not
require a Melius and a Vulgar to assist me!” The air appeared to prickle with extra density between them. “I thank you both for your loyalty to my friend, but you should have left for safety a long time ago.”

Lycaste rubbed at his sore skin, squaring his shoulders. “He is
my
friend, too, Sire Maneker, and I will not disobey him.” Huerepo glanced up worriedly.

The Amaranthine hesitated, the hint of a smile crossing his face. “And where would you take me, given the chance?”

“There is a galleon on the roof,” Lycaste said, astonished at his sudden bravery but determined to hold his nerve. Huerepo shook his head and muttered, stamping into the hallway to check for Lacaille.

Maneker appeared to think, glancing among the dead at his feet. “I have been in this cell for many months. What has become of Zigadenus? He's retreated to the First I suppose?”

Huerepo glanced back, sensing Lycaste's confusion. “He fell, Amaranthine, at the Battle of Vanadzor. His son has succeeded him, but …” The Vulgar fell silent a moment, regarding the rings on his fingers. “I could barter our way aboard the vessel, if it came to it—this single stone will be worth more than the entire Voidship.”

Maneker stared at Huerepo, straightening his back. “It is an odd pair you make. I'll go with you to the roof—to see what there is to be seen, if nothing else.”

Lycaste turned to Huerepo, his skin still smarting. “Do you want a lift?”

“A
lift
?” Huerepo's face twitched with embarrassment. “Of course I don't want a bloody lift.”

“All right,” Lycaste said dubiously, eyeing Maneker. “I don't expect Sire Amaranthine will wish to slow down for you.”

The Vulgar glared at Lycaste, his face reddening. “Yes … very well, pick me up.”

They passed the body of the fallen Amaranthine once more, Maneker pausing only for an instant to look at the man.

“Did you know him?” Lycaste asked.

Maneker did not reply, pushing ahead up the spiral stair. His breath, thin and wheezing, laboured as they climbed higher.

“How was he?” asked Maneker suddenly. “Sotiris, I mean. How did you find him?”

Lycaste shrugged, though the Amaranthine couldn't see the gesture as he raced ahead. “He was himself. Strong. He saved me.”

“Saved you?”

“I had been … wounded. I was dying. Sotiris healed me.”

Maneker looked back, into Lycaste's eyes, but did not stop. “He didn't say anything about a dream? A recurring dream?”

Lycaste tried to think. “Not that I can recall, Amaranthine.” He was determined to be on his best behaviour, despite the exhilarating thought that not long ago he had been prepared to fight an Immortal. He chided himself again for being so foolish.

“You were dying?” Huerepo asked from atop his shoulders.

“I think so.”

Up ahead, Maneker snorted. “Where is this roof?”

They came to a smashed trapdoor in the ceiling, the lock melted, wind and rain whistling through the gaps in what remained of the wooden door, accompanied by the sounds of the battle raging all around the house and possibly atop it. Maneker was already opening it, and, before either Lycaste or Huerepo could protest, the Amaranthine had made his way out onto the roof, the door slamming closed again.

“Throw me up before you climb out,” Huerepo said. Lycaste nodded and gingerly pushed open the trapdoor. Huerepo scrabbled from his back and dived out into the rain, the trapdoor slamming shut again.

Lycaste glanced back into the gloom towards the way they'd come, hearing the smashing of crockery and the overturning of furniture in the grand chambers of the prison level. He thought of the rusted sword, leaning against the hearth. There was still time to run and hide, perhaps wait out the battle for this place for a chance to slip away. He pushed his hands through his oily hair, turning in a slow circle as conflicting fears pushed him this way and that. Up there was a ship that might take him to safety, but also to his death.
Should have left that ring with the dead woman and slipped through the gates
, he thought, pacing the narrow hall. He shook his head, groaning.
Should have gone home to Kipris, that's what I should have done.
The vertigo returned for a moment as he thought of how far he'd come in less than half a year, how much he had changed. Lycaste stopped, looking up at the trapdoor. But he hadn't really changed at all. Still he whined and sulked and trembled at the thought of what might come to pass, fearful of anything he did not know. He ground his teeth, rubbing his hands, hearing the bellowing of war above him as it rattled the wooden door, droplets of rain swirling through the holes and dampening his face. This was the World, not the tiny cove he came from. This was life.

Lycaste took a deep breath, suddenly finding that his entire body was shaking violently, and opened the door.

The Voidship was gone, the space it must have occupied filled instead by blistering flashes and carnage that slammed and vaporised every shadow on the roof. Lacaille were crouched at the crenellated battlements around the spire, firing down into the smashed roof as Vulgar swarmed and shouted. Many of the Lacaille dead had fallen and rolled, jamming among the black tiles and creating cover for the Vulgar. In the night around them, Voidships thundered past on high parabolas, blowing the little people over with each strafe.

Maneker stood—like a Melius hero from one of Lycaste's strip serials—in the middle of it all, his back to the trapdoor, his loose clothes flapping around him. Lycaste climbed up and crouched, a new light forcing him to shield his eyes. The Amaranthine had raised his arms above his head as if beseeching the blustery moonlit clouds. His hands directed a floating, coiling snake of fire, its ends branching away from the Immortal's fingertips. Lacaille and Vulgar alike fell silent for a moment, entranced by the white fire. Lycaste watched it stretch out across the roof and into the night, looping and closing around a passing Voidship. The ship's hull squealed and burned away in a bright sparkle, dashing its contents across the spire and incinerating many of the Lacaille who had been watching. Huerepo crouched and fired into the mess of remaining Prism on the other side of the roof, the replying shots smashing into the tiles he was hiding behind and splashing their molten pieces towards Lycaste.

Lycaste ran, throwing himself behind Huerepo's cover, his feet stinging where their thick skin had made contact with the glowing wreckage. Maneker melted two Voidships that were bolting straight towards him, their glowing hulls swinging into each other and merging in a sloppy embrace. Lycaste glimpsed the chambers inside one of the vessels liquefying, their occupants already nothing but white-hot embers. The two ships fell as one, spearing through the southern face of the grand house in a glittering explosion that knocked over everyone but the Amaranthine.

Below, on the blackened grass of the sculpted lawns, Lacaille droppers loosed their bouncing salvos of padded troops and vehicles, all protected by the same rubbery orange material. White shock troops were unpacking themselves chaotically from their orange inflatables and harnesses as the tanks rolled forward, firing into the lower halls of the house with barely a pause.

On the far side of the roof, the view dropped away to darkness. Zipping points of light that were either Voidships or their released munitions swarmed over the river valley and invisible remains of the bridge, some blossoming into explosions, others turning and darting elsewhere. Inchoate shouts and screams and booms drifted up to them, only to be torn away by the keening winds.

Through the ragged silver-green clouds they could hear the bellowing of something far larger approaching them, a kraken parting the vapour. Lycaste looked up as the shape loomed over them, turreted, gnarled, built unlike any of the other things he had seen over the course of the long day. It hovered, jets roaring, whipping and billowing Maneker's stolen robes about him. A mandible-like rear door swung down, extending jerkily to become a fluted ramp and revealing a gathering of fantastically suited Jalanbulon troops. They were flanked by anatomically unusual, slightly larger Prism people of a kind unknown to Lycaste, some dropping to one knee and sighting their rifles on Maneker. The tall Jalan commander at the front of the group was suited in complex white armour much like a scaled-up version of the sort the Lacaille wore. He stepped forward onto the wobbling ramp, long hair buffeted by the ship's howling downthrust, and pointed a gauntleted hand at Maneker.

“Amaranthine!” he called out in a surprisingly high voice, “Enough of this! The Second is lost!”

Whatever speech the commander had prepared was interrupted by sudden falconet fire from a fleet of smaller Vulgar balloon ships, their men dropping on ropes from the floating craft. The unknown Prism vessel twisted in the air as it was fired upon, spilling the white-suited Jalanbulon and his generals into the blackness. Lycaste, Maneker and Huerepo watched the tumbling figures for a moment before the tiles they stood on were also struck, crumbling and hurling them over the edges of the garden and down to the city walls.

The moonlit stone rushed past, Lycaste's stomach thrown around inside him as he tumbled, Huerepo clinging to his neck and choking him. From nowhere a hand found his, gripping tightly. Maneker took Lycaste's other arm, the three falling together now, wind rushing in their ears and eyes, the view swinging and roaring. The grip on his hand tightened and the whole world began to slow down.

He opened his eyes, seeing the great belly of the unknown ship fall past, turgid black smoke pouring from its exhausts. Tiny men dropped and spiralled languidly around them like sycamore seeds, everyone appearing lighter than air. The white Jalanbulon roared as they fell—Lycaste found he could hear them quite clearly—some striking the city streets below and bouncing, others swept away in the throwing-knife blur of passing Voidships beneath. A weight from behind and above struck them, squeezing them together, and he turned to look into the huge eyes of the Prism-suited commander as he grabbed at Maneker's sinuously fluttering cloak.

Time slowed seemingly to a lifespan in a single breath. Lycaste watched the Asiatic's great jaws contort in the twisted grimace of a scream. Beside the glowing moon a new light flickered, burning and warming until the darkness of the night receded. A curve of land like the inside of the world began to show through the moonlit clouds, all the falling bodies fading away in the new light like stars at dawn. Lycaste gaped, his eyes tracing the rivers that slithered between the emerald roots of mountains, their twists glimmering silver like streams of mercury. A new wind, powerful and cold, suddenly clawed at his hair, his chest, his face. He opened his mouth and it filled him, drumming his cheeks and drying his tongue. And then the old world that he knew was gone.

The great house crumbled and fell, illuminated in a spiralling froth of sparks. The spent fires of fallen Voidships allowed Sotiris to see some of the stones as they tumbled from the citadel's peak, thumping the ruins of the walls and streets on their way down to the city gates.

He patted the snorting zeltabra. It, too, had raised its long head to watch the structure fall to earth. Sotiris could already hear the beginnings of revelry from the ruins, but the silhouettes he saw dancing around some of the distant fires were not those of Melius people, the voices not those of the Old World. The
Prism
had won this battle, they held the city now. Elatine would treat the loss of Vilnius Second as a personal slight, likely placing a bounty on Sotiris's head for his treachery. It would have to be a very large sum indeed, Sotiris reflected as he toyed with the leather reins. Assassinating an Immortal was a job few in the Investiture would entertain.