Justice

by Ian Irvine

  There was a long pause.

  “The wyverin created the Engine in the first place,” said Tali. “And now it’s awake again. We can’t risk it making any more. We’ve got to put it to sleep.”

  “We don’t know the spell,” said Tobry, “and even if we did, we don’t have the power to use it. The sleep spell was mighty magery—it exhausted Lyf, and he was a far greater magian than any of us, with the power of king-magery at his command.”

  “Then the wyverin has to be killed.”

  “How?” said Rix. “It eats rock, earth, metal, flesh—anything! And it can’t be burned, frozen, trapped, starved or poisoned.”

  “No magery we have can touch it,” said Glynnie in a remote tone, as if her mind was elsewhere. “No weapon can pierce its armour. No warrior can stand against it…”

  Tobry picked up the sketch and studied the wyverin’s cavern. “Then if Hightspall is doomed—and the wyverin is going to be hunting in the ruins—we’d better make plans to get away while we can.”

  “What are you talking about?” Rix snapped.

  Tobry tapped the paper below the wyverin’s head. “It spent ten thousand years asleep in this cavern, its sore eyes streaming tears all that time. There were twin stalagmites three feet high where they’d been falling.”

  “So?”

  Tobry did not speak for a minute, then his words fell into the silence like an anvil onto an eggcup. “There might be enough gueride in them to make another Waystone…”

  No, Rix thought. No, no, no!

  “Herox put the wyverin in perpetual torment just to get enough gueride to make the first Waystone,” he said. “Sneaking into its cavern to steal the stuff would make the past six months seem like a birthday party.”

  “And trying to use a perilous Waystone, untutored, would be even more reckless,” said Tali.

  “But if the land can’t be healed,” said Tobry, “and the wyverin can’t be put to sleep, a Waystone may be our only hope of survival.”

  “No one’s risking their life based on my damned sketch!” said Rix. “It could mean anything, or nothing. And more likely nothing.”

  “Then do another sketch,” said Tali. “See if it confirms the first one.”

  Rix squirmed. “I really don’t want to, Tali. My art has caused too much trouble already.”

  “What’s our other choice?”

  “You don’t have the faintest idea what you’re asking,” he said coldly.

  “Please try.”

  He loaded his brush and made some enigmatic blue-grey marks on a fresh canvas. They might have represented the upper snout of the wyverin. He took a clean brush and had just picked up some red paint when the strength drained out of his right hand. The brush fell, spattering red paint across the carpet. His hand went numb, starting at the wrist, then turned blue, then grey. Then black.

  “My gift’s gone,” said Rix, studying his black fingers, which were beginning to shrivel and hook into claws like a mummified hand. “Gone for good.”

  “Rannilt?” said Tali. “Can you heal Rix’s hand?”

  Rannilt glanced at it for a second. “Can’t heal stuff that’s dead. It’ll have to be cut off.” She looked down again.

  Tali was staring at Rix as if expecting him to be devastated by the loss of his hand and his gift of divination, but all he felt was a vast relief, a lightness that lifted him onto the tips of his toes.

  “I’m glad it’s gone,” he said. “No one should know in advance what life has in store, otherwise where’s the joy in unexpected good fortune?”

  “Or the hope when you know about the coming darkness?” said Glynnie.

  He went to her side and they looked out the window, up at the windswept stars. Glynnie took his good hand. She was smiling.

  “The future is a blank canvas, and that’s the way it should be,” said Rix. “Whatever is to come, we’ll face it when it comes.”

  “And in the meantime, we’ll live every moment to the fullest.”

  “Let’s raise a glass to that.” He turned back to the table and the last bottle of wine.

  “And to absent friends,” said Jackery.

  “And forgiveness?” said Tali, taking Tobry’s arm.

  “Yes, forgiveness.” He kissed her on the forehead. “And most of all,” Tobry added, looking through the doorway at Rannilt, who was lost in her world of healing magery, “to the child who never gave up.”

  “To Rannilt,” said Rix, and tears stung his eyes. She was the true hero of their story.

  As they touched goblets, the earth gave a deep, warning shudder.

  THE END

  BY IAN IRVINE

  The Three Worlds Series

  The View from the Mirror Quartet

  A Shadow on the Glass

  The Tower on the Rift

  Dark Is the Moon

  The Way Between the Worlds

  The Well of Echoes Quartet

  Geomancer

  Tetrarch

  Alchymist

  Chimaera

  Song of the Tears Trilogy

  The Fate of the Fallen

  The Curse on the Chosen

  The Destiny of the Dead

  The Tainted Realm

  Vengeance

  Rebellion

  Justice

  extras

  meet the author

  Mike Benveniste

  IAN IRVINE, a marine scientist who has developed some of Australia’s national guidelines for protection of the marine environment, has also written twenty-seven novels. These include the internationally bestselling Three Worlds fantasy sequence (The View from the Mirror, The Well of Echoes and Song of the Tears), which has sold over a million copies, a trilogy of thrillers set in a world undergoing catastrophic climate change, Human Rites, and twelve books for younger readers, the latest being the humorous fantasy quartet Grim and Grimmer.

  Email Ian: ianirvine@ozemail.com.au

  Ian’s website: www.ian-irvine.com

  Ian’s Facebook page: http://facebook.com/ianirvine.author

  introducing

  If you enjoyed

  JUSTICE,

  look out for

  THE CROWN TOWER

  Book One of the Riyria Chronicles

  by Michael J. Sullivan

  Two men who hate each other. One impossible mission. A legend in the making.

  Hadrian Blackwater, a warrior with nothing to fight for, is paired with Royce Melborn, a thieving assassin with nothing to lose. Hired by an old wizard, they must steal a treasure that no one can reach. The Crown Tower is the impregnable remains of the grandest fortress ever built and home to the realm’s most prized possessions. But it isn’t gold or jewels that the wizard is after, and if he can just keep them from killing each other, they just might succeed.

  Chapter 1

  Pickles

  Hadrian Blackwater hadn’t gone more than five steps off the ship before he was robbed.

  The bag—his only bag—was torn from his hand. He never even saw the thief. Hadrian couldn’t see much of anything in the lantern-lit chaos surrounding the pier, just a mass of faces, people shoving to get away from the gangway or get nearer to the ship. Used to the rhythms of a pitching deck, he struggled to keep his feet on the stationary dock amidst the jostling scramble. The newly arrived moved hesitantly, causing congestion. Many onshore searched for friends and relatives, yelling, jumping, waving arms—chasing the attention of someone. Others were more professional, holding torches and shouting offers for lodging and jobs. One bald man with a voice like a war trumpet stood on a crate, promising that The Black Cat Tavern offered the strongest ale at the cheapest prices. Twenty feet away, his competition balanced on a wobbly barrel and proclaimed the bald man a liar. He further insisted The Lucky Hat was the only local tavern that didn’t substitute dog meat for mutton. Hadrian didn’t care. He wanted to get out of the crowd and find the thief who stole his bag. After only a few minutes, he realized that wasn’t going to happen. He settled for protecting his p
urse and considered himself lucky. At least nothing of value was lost—just clothing, but given how cold Avryn was in autumn, that might be a problem.

  Hadrian followed the flow of bodies, not that he had much choice. Adrift in the strong current, he bobbed along with his head just above the surface. The dock creaked and moaned under the weight of escaping passengers who hurried away from what had been their cramped home for more than a month. Weeks breathing clean salt air had been replaced by the pungent smells of fish, smoke, and tar. Rising far above the dimly lit docks, the city’s lights appeared as brighter points in a starlit world.

  Hadrian followed four dark-skinned Calian men hauling crates packed with colorful birds, which squawked and rattled their cages. Behind him walked a poorly dressed man and woman. The man carried two bags, one over a shoulder and the other tucked under an arm. Apparently no one was interested in their belongings. Hadrian realized he should have worn something else. His eastern attire was not only uselessly thin, but in a land of leather and wool, the bleached white linen thawb and the gold-trimmed cloak screamed wealth.

  “Here! Over here!” The barely distinguishable voice was one more sound in the maelstrom of shouts, wagon wheels, bells, and whistles. “This way. Yes, you, come. Come!”

  Reaching the end of the ramp and clearing most of the congestion, Hadrian spotted an adolescent boy. Dressed in tattered clothes, he waited beneath the fiery glow of a swaying lantern. The wiry youth held Hadrian’s bag and beamed an enormous smile. “Yes, yes, you there. Please come. Right over here,” he called, waving with his free hand.

  “That’s my bag!” Hadrian shouted, struggling to reach him and stymied by the remaining crowd blocking the narrow pier.

  “Yes! Yes!” The lad grinned wider, his eyes bright with enthusiasm. “You are very lucky I took it from you or someone would have surely stolen it.”

  “You stole it!”

  “No. No. Not at all. I have been faithfully protecting your most valued property.” The youth straightened his willowy back such that Hadrian thought he might salute. “Someone like you should not be carrying your own bag.”

  Hadrian squeezed around three women who’d paused to comfort a crying child, only to be halted by an elderly man dragging an incredibly large trunk. The old guy, wraith thin with bright white hair, blocked the narrow isthmus already cluttered by the mountain of bags being recklessly thrown to the pier from the ship.

  “What do you mean someone like me ?” Hadrian shouted over the trunk as the old man struggled in front of him.

  “You are a great knight, yes?”

  “No, I’m not.”

  The boy pointed at him. “You must be. Look how big you are and you carry swords—three swords. And that one on your back is huge. Only a knight carries such things.”

  Hadrian sighed when the old man’s trunk became wedged in the gap between the decking and the ramp. He reached down and lifted it free, receiving several vows of gratitude in an unfamiliar language.

  “See,” the boy said, “only a knight would help a stranger in need like that.”

  More bags crashed down on the pile beside him. One tumbled off, rolling into the harbor’s dark water with a plunk! Hadrian pressed forward, both to avoid being hit from above and to retrieve his stolen property. “I’m not a knight. Now give me back my bag.”

  “I will carry it for you. My name is Pickles, but we must be going. Quickly now.” The boy hugged Hadrian’s bag and trotted off on dirty bare feet.

  “Hey!”

  “Quickly, quickly! We should not linger here.”

  “What’s the rush? What are you talking about? And come back here with my bag!”

  “You are very lucky to have me. I am an excellent guide. Anything you want, I know where to look. With me you can get the best of everything and all for the least amounts.”

  Hadrian finally caught up and grabbed his bag. He pulled and got the boy with it, his arms still tightly wrapped around the canvas.

  “Ha! See?” The boy grinned. “No one is pulling your bag out of my hands!”

  “Listen”—Hadrian took a moment to catch his breath—“I don’t need a guide. I’m not staying here.”

  “Where are you going?”

  “Up north. Way up north. A place called Sheridan.”

  “Ah! The university.”

  This surprised Hadrian. Pickles didn’t look like the worldly type. The kid resembled an abandoned dog. The kind that might have once worn a collar but now possessed only fleas, visible ribs, and an overdeveloped sense for survival.

  “You are studying to be a scholar? I should have known. My apologies for any insult. You are most smart—so, of course, you will make a great scholar. You should not tip me for making such a mistake. But that is even better. I know just where we must go. There is a barge that travels up the Bernum River. Yes, the barge will be perfect and one leaves tonight. There will not be another for days, and you do not want to stay in an awful city like this. We will be in Sheridan in no time.”

  “We?” Hadrian smirked.

  “You will want me with you, yes? I am not just familiar with Vernes. I am an expert on all of Avryn—I have traveled far. I can help you, a steward who can see to your needs and watch your belongings to keep them safe from thieves while you study. A job I am most good at, yes?”

  “I’m not a student, not going to be one either. Just visiting someone, and I don’t need a steward.”

  “Of course you do not need a steward—if you are not going to be a scholar—but as the son of a noble lord just back from the east, you definitely need a houseboy, and I will make a fine houseboy. I will make sure your chamber pot is always emptied, your fire well stoked in winter, and fan you in the summer to keep the flies away.”

  “Pickles,” Hadrian said firmly. “I’m not a lord’s son, and I don’t need a servant. I—” He stopped after noticing the boy’s attention had been drawn away, and his gleeful expression turned fearful. “What’s wrong?”

  “I told you we needed to hurry. We need to get away from the dock right now!”

  Hadrian turned to see men with clubs marching up the pier, their heavy feet causing the dock to bounce.

  “Press-gang,” Pickles said. “They are always near when ships come in. Newcomers like you can get caught and wake up in the belly of a ship already at sea. Oh no!” Pickles gasped as one spotted them.

  After a quick whistle and shoulder tap, four men headed their way. Pickles flinched. The boy’s legs flexed, his weight shifting as if to bolt, but he looked at Hadrian, bit his lip, and didn’t move.

  The clubmen charged but slowed and came to a stop after spotting Hadrian’s swords. The four could have been brothers. Each had almost-beards, oily hair, sunbaked skin, and angry faces. The expression must have been popular, as it left permanent creases in their brows.

  They studied him for a second, puzzled. Then the foremost thug, wearing a stained tunic with one torn sleeve, asked, “You a knight?”

  “No, I’m not a knight.” Hadrian rolled his eyes.

  Another laughed and gave the one with the torn sleeve a rough shove. “Daft fool—he’s not much older than the boy next to him.”

  “Don’t bleedin’ shove me on this slimy dock, ya stupid sod.” The man looked back at Hadrian. “He’s not that young.”

  “It’s possible,” one of the others said. “Kings do stupid things. Heard one knighted his dog once. Sir Spot they called him.”

  The four laughed. Hadrian was tempted to join in, but he was sobered by the terrified look on Pickles’s face.

  The one with the torn sleeve took a step closer. “He’s got to be at least a squire. Look at all that steel, for Maribor’s sake. Where’s yer master, boy? He around?”

  “I’m not a squire either,” Hadrian replied.

  “No? What’s with all the steel, then?”

  “None of your business.”

  The men laughed. “Oh, you’re a tough one, are ya?”

  They spread out, taking firm
er holds on their sticks. One had a strap of leather run through a hole in the handle and wrapped around his wrist. Probably figured that was a good idea, Hadrian thought.

  “You better leave us alone,” Pickles said, voice wavering. “Do you not know who this is?” He pointed at Hadrian. “He is a famous swordsman—a born killer.”

  Laughter. “Is that so?” the nearest said, and paused to spit between yellow teeth.

  “Oh yes!” Pickles insisted. “He’s vicious—an animal—and very touchy, very dangerous.”

  “A young colt like him, eh?” The man gazed at Hadrian and pushed out his lips in judgment. “Big enough—I’ll grant ya that—but it looks to me like he still has his mother’s milk dripping down his chin.” He focused on Pickles. “And you’re no vicious killer, are ya, little lad? You’re the dirty alley rat I saw yesterday under the alehouse boardwalks trying to catch crumbs. You, my boy, are about to embark on a new career at sea. Best thing for ya really. You’ll get food and learn to work—work real hard. It’ll make a man out of ya.”

  Pickles tried to dodge, but the thug grabbed him by the hair.

  “Let him go,” Hadrian said.

  “How did ya put it?” The guy holding Pickles chuckled. “None of your business?”

  “He’s my squire,” Hadrian declared.

  The men laughed again. “You said you ain’t a knight, remember?”

  “He works for me—that’s good enough.”

  “No it ain’t, ’cause this one works for the maritime industry now.” He threw a muscled arm around Pickles’s neck and bent the boy over as another moved behind with a length of rope pulled from his belt.

  “I said, let him go.” Hadrian raised his voice.

  “Hey!” the man with the torn sleeve barked. “Don’t give us no orders, boy. We ain’t taking you, ’cause you’re somebody’s property, someone who has you hauling three swords, someone who might miss you. That’s problems we don’t need, see? But don’t push it. Push it and we’ll break bones. Push us more and we’ll drop you in a boat anyway. Push us too far, and you won’t even get a boat.”