Revenant

by Bevan McGuiness

  All around them, life went on as normal. Or at least what Slave presumed was normal. Normal life for him was a battle for survival in darkness. What normal meant for these people was a mystery to him. He chanced a look at Myrrhini. Her face, mostly hidden beneath the hood that shadowed her flame-filled eyes, was blank as if she, too, were lost in thought. He wondered what was a normal life for her.

  From what he had gathered, her life was in that strange world these people called Eztli-Ichtaca, the world of could be. She had told him that she could See destinies and possibilities hovering around people that changed and shifted with their every action. But what that meant he had no idea — he could only guess at what she Saw with those strange, burning eyes. He hoped the hoods they had both pulled up gave enough cover.

  The market was a little quieter than he had hoped. Most of the merchants had already packed and left by the time they made their way into the large open area. One or two merchants noticed their passage, one even made a desultory attempt to engage their custom, but was easily rebuffed. Slave noticed an agent standing at the outer edge of the market area. He was watching them, only out of curiosity at the moment, but that could change.

  They were almost through when a gruff voice accosted them. ‘You two looking for work?’

  Slave was about to ignore him when Myrrhini stopped.

  ‘How much?’ she asked.

  ‘How much what? Work or money?’

  ‘Both.’

  ‘Work till sunset, seven crowns.’

  ‘Eight.’

  ‘Done.’

  ‘That is eight each,’ Myrrhini said.

  The merchant laughed. ‘Each.’

  ‘What is the work?’

  ‘Just pick up and carry.’ He half turned to indicate the pile of goods behind him.

  Slave picked up the first box. ‘Where?’ he asked.

  The merchant gestured at a horse-drawn cart nearby. ‘Onto that, then come with me and unload at my storage rooms.’

  Slave started walking. The box was oddly heavy for its size, making him wonder what it contained. But not for long. This was a trivial thing, secondary to the need to make the watching agent lose interest. A couple of simple labourers would be less interesting than two robed strangers hurrying through the market at near dusk.

  Or so he hoped.

  The merchant had a lot of boxes, but they were quickly loaded and soon the horses were urged into motion. Slave and Myrrhini walked alongside the carriage in silence while the merchant — who told them his name was Camaxtli — prattled on and on about failing sales, the hard times, the impending destruction of the world and other gloomy topics. The man, Slave decided, was either more involved in the workings of government than he should be or simply an abiding pessimist. It seemed there was no end to the man’s talk, until he stopped abruptly, reining in his horse beside a nondescript building in a street full of such buildings. A number of other merchants were also unloading their wares at the end of the day. The street was busy with prattling merchants and their less voluble labourers.

  Slave almost relaxed with the simple work, but there was something in the merchant’s nature that did not seem quite right. Something about the way he moved, how he watched, that made Slave feel cautious. He could not at first identify what it was, but then in a sudden moment of clarity, Slave realised the man was as alert to watchers and threats as he himself was. And not alert in the way of a merchant wary for valuable goods might be, more in the way of a warrior alert for ambush.

  ‘You are no merchant,’ Slave said.

  ‘Of course I am, what would make you …’ the man started to bluster, but he stopped when Slave threw back his hood.

  ‘What are you?’ Slave asked.

  Camaxtli narrowed his eyes speculatively when he saw Slave’s face. He flicked a glance at Myrrhini, still with her face hidden in the shadows of her hood.

  ‘Come inside,’ he said, ‘we can talk.’

  ‘Shouldn’t we finish unloading first?’ Slave said.

  Camaxtli gave a curt nod. ‘True,’ he said.

  The last few boxes were carried inside and stacked with the others before Camaxtli pulled open a small door in the rear wall of the room. Beyond the doorway was another room, glowing with the light of a single lantern. In the moment after he opened the door, Slave heard the end of a quiet conversation that ended not quite quickly enough. His left hand sought his Claw beneath his jerkin while his other hand grabbed Myrrhini’s arm.

  ‘Careful in there,’ he whispered to her. ‘Keep as far away from me as possible.’

  Myrrhini allowed herself to be guided into the room by Camaxtli while Slave followed unobtrusively behind them.

  Awaiting them were six men, all armed, all watching intently.

  Slave took stock of his situation — seven potential opponents, all armed with swords or axes, all lightly armoured with heavy leather; two doors apart from the one by which they had just entered; a table occupying the centre of the room, six chairs, a game of cards spread out on the table, mugs of ale at varying levels of emptiness. Between himself and the exits — two men for the door to the left, only one who was looking a little unsteady, possibly more drunk, to the right. Head to the right.

  All eyes stared at Slave’s face. Three men rested their hands on the hilts of their swords, one laid a hand on the haft of his axe.

  ‘It’s him,’ muttered one man.

  Slave looked at the speaker. He was a hard, lean man with an ear missing. His arms were bare under a heavy, padded leather jerkin, showing hard musculature. An agent, Slave decided.

  ‘Who?’ asked Camaxtli.

  ‘It’s that Slave. He came in with Keshik.’

  ‘I wondered if he might be,’ Camaxtli said.

  ‘And if that’s Slave, that’s her,’ the agent said, pointing at Myrrhini. ‘That’s Myrrhini.’

  Camaxtli’s eyes widened.

  Myrrhini threw back her hood and fixed her flaming eyes on the agent.

  ‘Sssa, the eyes of the Quanhtli,’ the axeman exclaimed. His hand came away from his axe as he dropped to his knees. The other men followed suit, except for the agent, who stood defiantly.

  Myrrhini Saw with her flaming vision the man’s choices and knew his immediate destiny. Kneel, or die by the whirling blades of Slave’s Claw. She raised her chin slightly, summoning all the pretence of haughtiness she had learned at the Place.

  ‘Do you know what these eyes See?’ she asked the agent.

  He slowly shook his head.

  ‘I thought not. They See your destiny and at the moment, yours is very short.’

  The agent looked away from Myrrhini to regard Camaxtli. ‘What possessed you to bring these here?’ he demanded.

  Slave was not fooled by the agent’s attempt at misdirection. He saw the man’s hand slip towards his sword, sensed the tensing of his muscles, smelled the sudden sweat. The agent was preparing for action. Slave took two long steps across the room to drive his Claw deep into the man’s chest. With a savage twist and jerk upward, he found the heart. The agent fell to lie, unmoving, on the floor. Slave wrenched his Claw out of the dead body and stepped away from Myrrhini, towards the right-hand side door.

  Camaxtli stared, ashen-faced, at the dead man, then at Slave.

  ‘Why did you do that?’ he asked.

  Slave did not answer. His focus was on the other fighting men in the room. Their reactions were varied, unpredictable, ranging from cold preparedness to quaking fear. They were all still on their knees before Myrrhini, overcome by the sight of those flaming eyes. Although, Slave realised, it was not the eyes themselves but what they represented to these people. In their minds, she was a queen.

  I should use that, Slave reasoned.

  ‘Your queen demands you tell her why you hired us,’ he snapped at Camaxtli.

  The merchant swallowed convulsively as he looked up at Myrrhini.

  ‘I was being watched by agents. They suspect I am smuggling goods into the city. I thought it wo
uld look suspicious if I did everything alone.’

  That agent wasn’t watching us.

  ‘What do you smuggle?’

  Camaxtli lowered his gaze to the floor. ‘Just trinkets, nothing much, just silly little trinkets for the fancy of the wealthy.’

  ‘Trinkets?’ Slave asked with a raised eyebrow.

  Camaxtli dropped his face to rest on the floor, but he did not answer.

  Slave reached out and grabbed the arm of one of the kneeling men. He dragged him to his feet and shoved him towards the door into the storeroom.

  ‘Go and bring me a box,’ he ordered.

  The man shot a look at Camaxtli as he left. Slave reached down and dragged the merchant to his feet.

  ‘Just what are these “trinkets”?’ he asked again.

  Camaxtli was pale and sweating. He would not meet Slave’s eye. In disgust, Slave shoved him back down to the ground. As he did so, he found himself wondering what he was doing. This was nothing more than a distraction; he had to leave the city as quickly as he could yet he had allowed himself to be entangled in this nonsense.

  He remembered the events in the marketplace and turned to Myrrhini. She had accepted this job, not him. Was it something she had Seen? In which case, he would have to be alert for whatever reason she had done this.

  The man returned with a box, which he placed on the floor in front of Slave.

  Slave knelt beside it to wrench the top off. It came away easily to reveal numerous small devices packed in straw. A scent rose that Slave recognised immediately. His head snapped up to stare at the merchant.

  ‘Trinkets? These are not trinkets, they’re weapons.’ He reached in and carefully removed a small glass container topped with a bladder attached to a nozzle. Slave smelled the nozzle carefully. ‘This is rethyl poison.’

  Camaxtli started to deny it, but Slave’s expression made him change his mind. He nodded.

  ‘Are they all like this?’ Slave asked.

  ‘No.’

  ‘What else is there?’

  ‘Some other poisons, some Apros Smoke and a little Myele Fire.’

  ‘Myele Fire? No wonder the agents are watching you.’

  ‘I need all this,’ Myrrhini suddenly said.

  Slave swivelled his head to stare up at her. She did not return his gaze, fixing her flaming stare instead on Camaxtli.

  ‘You will load all your boxes onto your wagon and take us with it out of the city.’

  Camaxtli went to protest, but swallowed his words at the sight of Slave rising with his Claw at the ready.

  ‘Now,’ Myrrhini added.

  With everyone working, the boxes were loaded quickly. Camaxtli sat ready to leave, his hands holding the reins loosely. Slave and Myrrhini squeezed into a space arranged among the boxes so that Slave could see the merchant and reach him with his Claw. When all was ready, Slave jabbed Camaxtli in the back with the Claw.

  ‘Drive,’ he instructed.

  Camaxtli flicked the reins, urging the horses into motion. The afternoon had given way to early evening, taking the sunlight with it, leaving deep shadows behind. There were people moving around, walking easily, chatting happily and laughing together. Slave took their happiness into account as he kept watching the streets. If the people were happy, the chances of there being any danger abroad were slim. Any agents patrolling were likely to be less alert or suspicious.

  As the darkness deepened, Slave found himself becoming more comfortable. No matter how long he had been away from his underground cell, he still had to struggle with the underlying panic at the sight of open sky. He had learned to ease himself at night, but the day remained a risk.

  He crouched motionless, aware of Myrrhini fidgeting behind him. She had her right hand resting on his shoulder as if reassuring herself in some way. Through her hand, he could feel her heartbeat; her heart was racing, as was her breath. Slave saw a patrol of agents approaching the wagon. He pulled back further into the space, pressing against Myrrhini.

  ‘Late out tonight, Camaxtli,’ the lead agent called out.

  ‘Sssa, it was a bad day. So I thought I would make a start on trading this stuff for something that will sell.’

  ‘Heading to Sullito?’

  ‘No, further north. I am going to try Domito.’

  ‘That’s probably a wise decision at the moment.’

  ‘Why do you say that?’

  ‘Haven’t you heard about the disease in Sullito?’

  ‘Disease?’

  ‘Sssa, ever since the Wall let through that flood, disease has been spreading all along the coast. If I were you I would keep away from the coast of the Silvered Sea.’

  ‘Thanks, agent.’

  ‘Have a good journey, Camaxtli.’ The agent went to walk away, but stopped. ‘And try not to smuggle anything back. I know we didn’t catch you this time, but that doesn’t mean we don’t know about you. If we catch you next time, it will be exile, you know that.’

  ‘Sssa, I know that. It’s why I gave up smuggling after the last time I got caught.’

  ‘Ha! And I gave up drinking after my last hangover.’ The agent laughed. ‘Get on with you, old man.’

  Camaxtli flicked the reins of his horses and continued towards the main gate. As he drove, he muttered to himself almost incessantly. Slave listened with increasing interest. The merchant was not grumbling about the weather, the poor day’s trading, the agents or even being driven out of the city with his goods, he was reciting poetry. He kept on muttering poetry to himself as he urged his horses down dark streets, past homes and places of business — the former lit from within, the latter darkened, awaiting the new day — until reaching the main gate.

  The gate faced west, towards the Silvered Sea and the Umut. Slave pulled further back into the small gap, more out of view of the agents guarding the only gate into the Hidden City. He had sometimes wondered why the city bothered with a gate when it was ringed only by a low wall but, on asking, was never given a reason. Presumably it was to do with regulating the flow of goods in and out of the city, although if that was the main aim, the low wall would pose little barrier to a determined smuggler.

  When he saw the gate, he wondered still further about the security of this city. The gate was little more than a simple farmer’s gate — a gap in the wall — watched over by a pair of apparently ambivalent agents. They gave Camaxtli a cursory greeting, cast a disinterested gaze over the wagon and let him pass.

  ‘That was too easy,’ Slave whispered.

  ‘Don’t forget,’ Myrrhini said softly, ‘this city has been watched over by a queen with mystical sight. She can See crime, invaders or any other threat. This city does not even need this gate.’

  ‘So why can’t she See us?’

  ‘Her vision is almost gone. She can barely See past the walls of her own tower.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘The Great Revenants are somehow draining her powers.’

  ‘But not yours?’

  Myrrhini shook her head. ‘Not yet, at least. In fact, the opposite seems true. I can See more every day.’

  Now that they were past the wall, the city vanished behind them, to reveal the endless plains of Midacea, lit only by the gentle light of Yatil. Slave eased himself out of the enclosure behind Camaxtli to sit beside him.

  ‘Where are we going?’ the merchant asked.

  ‘North, for now,’ Slave told him.

  8

  Tephan somehow survived his injuries, living through the night until the sun rose on his weakened body. The Tulugma healers hovered by his side, expecting his every breath to be his last, but they were surprised at his hold on life. Keshik visited him during the morning, after finishing a long conversation with Zhan Tien and a black-clad woman who never offered her name.

  He sat cross-legged on the ground near Tephan, regarding the man with mixed feelings. As young men they had been rivals. Their tussles had often led to drawn weapons, even bloodshed on several occasions. To have described them as friendly rivals wou
ld have been overly generous. They hated each other with a passion unusual for the controlled, disciplined life of the Tulugma.

  ‘Why are you still in the Kuriltai?’ Keshik asked. ‘Was the thought of life outside too hard for you?’

  Tephan drew a rasping breath. ‘I don’t answer to you,’ he gasped. The wound across his throat was savage. It had clearly missed the voice box, but he would forever bear the memory of Maida’s blade. Keshik had seen such injuries before: Tephan’s voice would never be the same.

  ‘No, you don’t answer to me. I always wondered who you thought you answered to.’

  ‘Only my Tuk.’

  ‘And then only when you felt like it.’

  Tephan tried to laugh, but the wound in his throat prevented him, producing a gurgling sound more like a death rattle than a laugh.

  ‘Why haven’t you left the Kuriltai?’

  ‘I am Habigga now, serving the Ogedei himself.’

  ‘You? Serving the Ogedei? Is he mad?’

  ‘He trusts me.’

  ‘Then he is mad. You are less trustworthy than a julle.’

  ‘The Ogedei thinks otherwise.’

  ‘Habigga?’ Keshik shook his head. ‘Kabutat by choice. Nothing more than an assassin.’

  ‘And you? You are more?’

  Keshik did not reply.

  ‘I thought not. You’re a paid assassin, without honour, without a home. A waste of your training and an insult to the Tulugma.’

  Keshik went to rise. As he did, he appeared to lose balance slightly, having to put his hand out to steady himself. It landed on Tephan’s ankle, twisting quickly as he gripped. Tephan let out a sharp cry of anguish as his ankle cracked. It was not broken, but he would not be walking for some time.

  ‘My training did not end when I left the Kuriltai,’ Keshik said. Tephan could not answer past his pain, so Keshik left to the sounds of Tephan’s cries of agony, not making any attempt to hide his smile.

  Maida stood outside, waiting for him with a disparaging look on her face.

  ‘What was that about?’ she asked.

  Keshik said nothing, he merely pointed at the cut across Maida’s throat. Maida instinctively raised her hand to her throat, feeling the wound. Her words came back to her: Don’t look forward to Keshik taking back my blood.