“Mister Hannar,” Fowley said, placing another crown atop of a tower of coins. “Our little window-wrecker. There you are. Come in.”
The warder nudged him in the back and he shuffled forward, head bowed, the chain between his shackles scraping across the floorboards. He stopped obediently at the metal ring set into the floor, waiting to be shackled to it. He had no idea what Fowley was going to say. He didn’t much care.
“Wod, remove Mister Hannar's irons would you?”
Stone frowned as the turnkey unclipped the keys from his belt and knelt down to unlock the restraints. “What is this?” Stone asked. “Another trick? You want me to try and escape so you can catch me and increase my debt? I won’t do it. I won’t play your stupid games!”
“Calm yourself, boy. It’s no trick.” Fowley leaned back in his chair. “You are free to go. Your debt has been paid in full.”
“My...” As the heavy shackles snapped open, Stone almost sank to the ground. “Paid? But how? I don't...”
“The costs to the Crick and to this institution have been settled to our satisfaction, including your recent liabilities, administration fees and restitution for the considerable damage you caused to my office. Three hundred and seventy crowns in all. Cash. Quite the surprise. Such a shame your family couldn’t have found the money earlier…”
Stone didn’t quite believe what he was hearing.
“But I…”
“No thanks necessary, Mister Hannar. Wod will show you out.”
Stone felt dizzy. Fowley motioned for him to stand but he couldn’t. Instead, he felt Wod-Ghan haul him up onto his feet. What was going on? How had—
“On behalf of Ash House and its charitable trustees,” Fowley said in a disinterested monotone, “I wish you the best of luck for the future.” The Warden picked up a piece of paper from his desk and held it up. “Don’t forget your receipt.”
“I still don’t…”
Fowley waved the paper dismissively. “Goodbye, Mister Hannar.”
Stone gingerly stepped forward, ankles aching, legs weak. He took the receipt. Fowley gave him one last look of disgust.
“Get out, boy. Before you incur an extra fee for wasting my time…”
Stone stumbled backwards, head spinning, still confused as to what was going on. Was he dreaming? If he woke up still on the floor of the cell with some fella cuddling up to him for warmth, he was going to be sorely disappointed. But this couldn’t be real. Could it? As Wod-Ghan held him by the arm, he clutched the receipt Fowley had given him, wishing he could read what was written on it. He knew a few words — street names and store fronts, mostly. Not enough to learn who had paid three hundred and seventy crowns to set him free. The only real family he had left was his father. Surely it had to be him?
He almost fell down the stairs that led to the front desk, but Wod-Ghan’s vice-like grip kept him upright.
“What’s going on?” he asked the burly warder.
“Yer debt is settled,” Wod said gruffly. “Says so on that piece of paper the Warden just give you.”
“But who paid it?” Stone held out the receipt. “Could you read it for me?”
Wod-Ghan heaved open one of the huge metal gates. Daylight flooded in. He grabbed Stone by the arm and pulled him out into the street.
“Please? Tell me who paid my debt. I have to know.”
Wod-Ghan sighed and snatched the receipt from him. The warder scanned the contents. “Says here, Osti-Mar Hrardhan paid off yer debts.”
“Who? I don’t know any—”
“Says she’s yer aunt.” The warder slapped the receipt against Stone’s chest. “Now be off with ya. ‘Fore Mister Fowley changes his mind and I ‘ave to drag your sorry arse back in for another turn on the wheel.”
Stone watched Wod-Ghan turn and go back into Ash House, hauling the gate shut behind him. He stood in the street, in his grey debtor’s smock, surrounded by people yet utterly alone, clutching the receipt to his chest.
“Aunt?” he mumbled to himself. “But I don't have an aunt…”
37. AT LEAST HE’D GOT TO FLY
THE CART LURCHED FORWARD, picking up speed. Slowly at first, then faster and faster, out through the gate and onto the roadway, iron-tyred wheels clattering over the old stone. Roon-Kotke clung to the mast, the sail swollen to bursting in front of him. Junn-Kri gripped the wooden sideboard, holding on for dear life. Lokke sat wedged into the front corner, sword in his hand; while Lor-Qui held onto a handle on the side of the blower, his face grim.
Faster they rumbled, the clatter of the metal-rimmed wheels now a roar, the smouldering remains of the drawbridge nearing, the gap in the roadway looming.
Hannar-Ghan knelt at the back of the cart, barely holding on. Like Lokke, he couldn’t take his eyes off the horde of gromes now swarming out of the keep, bounding over broken stones, flowing around Mila like water around a pebble. They all ignored the Yafai captain, orange eyes fixed on the fleeing cart. Some wore armour plate, others carried the same colossal swords they’d seen earlier, when they’d watched thirteen waggons carry a monstrous army off to the Briar.
Unlike the gromes Junn had set loose in the fortress, these beasts moved with purpose. With direction. If this was an indication of what the Kajjon machine could do, it was terrifying.
They had to warn the Briar.
Faster and faster, vibrations from the flagstones thrumming through their bodies like a mild Ampa charge. But was it fast enough? Lokke glanced at Lor, who had his eyes closed. He nudged him with his boot. “Have we got enough speed?” he shouted over the rattling racket of the wheels.
Lor opened his eyes and then closed them again.
The gatehouse flashed past, shadow then light. Lokke caught a glimpse of the huge chains that once raised and lowered the drawbridge, now hanging slack; felt a jolt as the roadway angled upwards; heard Roon-Kotke bellow a defiant yell…
Then into the air, launched from a raised lip of stone, a brief moment of sweet silence, then the hum of wheels spinning, someone shouting. Lokke closed his eyes too. Nothing he could do. They would either land on the other side or just miss it, slamming into the edge of the bridge at a speed that would shatter the cart and probably kill them all. Even if they somehow survived the impact, they would have no time to savour their good fortune, as they fell eighty feet to the hard earth below.
After everything he’d been through, it would be a worthless death. A forgotten fate. The world would stay its current course — Mordume would live; his wife would go unavenged; the Empire would get no warning of the grome legion that threatened to tear it apart from within.
Lokke felt the wind in his face.
At least he’d got to fly before he died.
***
As it turned out, the cart cleared the gap by a decent distance, crunching down hard on its front wheels, axles groaning, a loud snap as something broke off. Lokke couldn’t see what. He hoped it wasn’t something important. Like the brake.
They sped along the roadway, outpacing the gromes, narrowly avoiding the craters gouged into the paved surface by the oconic cannon that had fired upon them earlier. Lokke held onto the side as the cart clattered across the flagstones, the forest flashing by below. Nobody spoke. Hannar-Ghan sat with his head bowed. Roon-Kotke ignored him. Lor-Qui monitored the Blower, assessing the power of the air flow it produced. Junn-Kri watched to see if they were being followed. They weren’t. The gromes had halted at the broken drawbridge, unwilling or unable to leap the chasm.
It had taken them the best part of a day to travel from the gate to the fortress on foot, but in the wind-powered cart the journey seemed to take a matter of moments. Soon enough, Lor-Qui cut the blower and they began to slow, coming to a stop just before the oconic gate.
“Lor!” Roon-Kotke barked, jumping down from the cart. “Get that gate up and running. We’re leaving this blasted place.”
“Yessir! Are you back in command, sir?”
Roon-Kotke looked over at Lokke, who no
dded back.
“Yes, I am. Quickly now, caster. Before we have company.” The Corporal turned to look back down the roadway. “Junn, what do you see?”
“Dust in the distance, Corporal. I think they’re coming.”
“You heard the boy, Lor.” Roon-Kotke clapped his hands together. “Hurry up with that gate. I don’t want to cut this exit as fine as we did with the spiders. Junn! Give him a hand…”
“No!” Lor-Qui shouted, annoyed.
“Junn!” Roon-Kotke corrected himself. “Stay out of Lor’s way!”
Lokke squinted into the distance. The dust cloud was larger now.
“They're getting closer,” he said.
“I can't cast the gate any faster.” Lor-Qui’s hands shook as he linked two copper pipes together. “There is a strict procedure that needs to be followed. If the oconic flow is not correctly managed, the pipes not secured, the portal will not open. Or it will…”
“Yes, yes. It’s complicated. We get it. Just get the damn thing working.”
“That’s what I’m trying to do!” Lor-Qui checked the pipes again, tapped the capacitor’s casing. He yanked down on the lever and spoke the final words of the gate binding. The gate expanded with a sigh, bubbling upwards to fill the blackiron arch, revealing the metal seal at Refu Ruka with its three iron dials.
“Hourglass?” prompted Roon-Kotke.
“Lost it,” said Lor-Qui, working the first dial, spinning it around to point at the first number of the metal seal’s combination.
“Then how will we know when the gate is about to collapse?”
“We won’t.” Lor positioned the second dial. “When this last one unlocks, be ready to push,” he said, hand moving to the third dial. “All of you.”
“I can see them now,” said Junn, looking back along the roadway.
“Push!” yelled Lor-Qui, as he span the third dial into place. Lokke joined the others at the seal, shoulders up against the thick metal barrier, heaving for all they were worth. The protective door rolled aside and Lokke felt the cool air of the Terminus, saw the two casters — Fisty and Star Man — pointing their weapons at him, chambers open, oca fizzing.
“Don’t shoot!” Roon-Kotke cried.
Lor tumbled through the growing gap, followed by Junn-Kri. Roon-Kotke waved at Lokke to go through next and he was only too glad to follow the order. He backed through the gateway, feeling the chill of transition as he stepped between places, travelling across hundreds of miles in an instant. He watched Roon-Kotke come through after him. Hannar-Ghan followed, but the Caster-Corporal stood in his way, barring the Sergeant’s return.
“No,” Roon-Kotke said. “Not you.”
“Hey!” Hannar-Ghan stepped back onto the bridge, a look of confusion on his face. “What are you doing?”
“Yes, what are you doing, Corporal?” asked Lokke.
“He’s not coming with us. He’s one of them.”
“Come on, Roon.” Hannar-Ghan held his arms out in a gesture of surrender. “We can talk about this…”
“No.” The Corporal blocked the gateway. “You’ve ruined everything!”
Hannar-Ghan glanced behind him. Lokke could see the gromes now, a pack of them, some bounding forwards on all fours, others running upright, swords and shields in their huge hairy hands.
“Roon, please,” the big caster said, moving to step through the gate.
Roon-Kotke pushed him backwards with both hands. “Fuck you, Han! Fuck you! I trusted you. I believed you were the one person I could rely on, the one person who would never let me down. But you betrayed me. Betrayed all of us. You threw six years of friendship away and sold us out to the Yafai, as if our lives, my life, meant nothing to you.” He shook his head. “How could I ever trust you again?
“Look, I made a mistake. A long time ago. I was just a kid. It happened long before I met you.”
The Sergeant chanced another look behind him again. The first line of gromes, three abreast, were almost upon them, sunshine glinting off blades big as girders.
“You used me!” Roon-Kotke shouted.
“No. I never… It’s not like that. You’re my closest friend. My only…”
“Our whole friendship is a lie! You’re a liar! All those years… Why should I believe anything that comes out of your mouth?”
“Look, Roon. We can fix this.”
“No. It can’t be fixed. I’ll always be wondering whether you'll betray me again. The uncertainty will hang there like an executioner’s axe, waiting to fall. I can't live like that. I just can't.”
“But I…”
“You’re not my friend. Perhaps you never were. You’re not one of us. You’re one of them. You made your choice back in the fortress. So stay here with your Yafai brothers. With their monsters. It’s obviously where you belong.”
Hannar-Ghan looked back at the Gromes running towards him. He stared at the flagstones. He stepped back.
“Alright. Leave me here. But for what it’s worth, I’m sorry.”
“It’s not worth a damned thing,” Roon-Kotke said with a snarl. He didn’t take his eyes off the Sergeant. “Lor, close the seal.”
“Wait.” Hannar-Ghan glanced at the rest of them through the portal. “I have something to tell you. Something important.”
Before Roon-Kotke could protest, the big caster grabbed him by the shirt and pulled him close, whispering into his ear. Then he pushed the Caster-Corporal away with such force that Roon-Kotke toppled backwards and landed on his arse.
“My debts are paid,” said Hannar-Ghan, kicking out at the capacitor, gromes rampaging behind him, barely thirty paces distant. It was the last thing any of them saw as the portal collapsed, the connection ebbing away like a receding tide.
38. OF SOME CONSIDERABLE MEANS
STONE WANDERED THE STREETS, not caring where he walked. He was amazed to be free, happy to be so, but confused by the reasons behind it, even a little angry.
For a start, who was calling themselves aunt Osti? He didn't have a relative by that name. His mother had a younger sister, name of Lini-Zoza-Kotkedhan, but they'd lost touch when she’d married a wool draper and moved south. He wasn't sure about his father's side. As far as he knew, his runaway dad had been an only child, his parents (Stone’s grandparents) had long since gone to the After.
As for angry, his release from Ash House had happened so fast, and he’d felt so overwhelmed by it, he didn’t get a chance to confront the warden about his mother. He hadn’t got to see her. Didn’t even know where she was buried. He certainly didn’t believe the story Fowley had spun about a sudden and deadly illness. What about the cuts on her face? The bruises on her arms? What about getting banged up in irons because she ‘displeased the Warden’?
Something didn't sit right. But Rakou's balls, he didn't know what it was. Perhaps he’d never find out what happened. And, as for the person who had stumped up the coin to pay off his debt, it didn’t matter. He now had his chance to flee, and he needed to take advantage of it, before Fowley realised he'd made a mistake and cut the wrong prisoner loose. So he headed for home, fast as his aching legs could carry him, planning to change his clothes, dig out his savings and make a run for it. He didn't yet know where. Couldn't stay in Ocos. Too many bad memories.
His hidey hole beneath the old Hannar stables was just as he'd left it; his savings still safely tucked behind the loose brick, just where he’d hidden them. He sat on his bed for a moment, the old tin on his lap, staring at the empty shelves opposite, once full of spoons and thimbles, rusted iron, bleached bones and strips of canvas. His knife lay on one of the shelves now, next to the spot where his beloved toy soldier used to stand. He opened up the money tin and counted out a half-crown. He'd buy the soldier back on his way out of the city.
Slipping off the grey Ash House smock, he dug out his muck-scrapping gear — the only clothes he had left. He was just about to pull on his shirt when he heard the familiar noise of tins clanking and the wooden board sliding aside in the crawls
pace above.
He froze for a moment. heart thumping fast in his chest. Someone was inside. Again. Someone had found him. Again. But how? He looked around to find something to defend himself with. How he wished he hadn’t sold the lances. Even though he didn't know how to cap a binding, the oconic weapons made effective clubs. Instead, he snatched up his old knife from the shelf, dimmed the long lamp and retreated into the shadows as the trap door opened with a creak.
“You there, pup?”
The Yafai’s voice? What the—?
“I don't mean you no harm. Can I come down? I just want to talk.”
Stone stayed silent. He gripped the knife tightly. Couldn’t blame the Yafai bitch for coming back. She probably wanted to kill him. Exact some revenge for tying her up and stealing her coin.
He heard the sound of footsteps on the ladder.
“You patched me up good. Needed a few days rest, but now I'm fighting fit. Well, almost...” He heard Mila drop to the floor. “I know you’re there, pup. Saw you come in…”
“Don't come any closer,” Stone said, voice shaking. “I have a knife!”
A blunt, rusted knife, as sharp and deadly as a wooden spoon.
“Alright,” Mila said. “I'll stay right here. As I said, I'm not going to hurt you. In fact, I came to apologise.”
Stone peeked through a gap in the shelving. She was dressed in the same long black coat, same peaked cap with a grey feather. Unlike the last time he’d seen her, she had some colour in her cheeks.
“Apologise for what?” Stone said.
“Why for not settling the debt between us earlier. Despite what you might think of me, I'm a woman of my word.”
“It was you?”
“Aye, took us a while to find you in that prison... I was sorry to hear about your mother.” Mila held up a small bag. “Here...”
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