A flicker of light washed across the buildings either side of them, the glare enhanced by the rain-wet surfaces. Behind them thunder rumbled.
‘Did you betray us?’
Just like his father, always direct. No wonder I like the lad.
‘No.’
‘Then who did?’
‘I’ll let him tell you that story.’
Another rumble rolled across the city.
‘Huh,’ Mustar said, as he attempted to work it out.
‘We can’t stay still,’ said Noetos. His right knee threatened to buckle under him, but he knew he could not rest, not for a moment. Who is it that can hunt with lightning? Is this some new Recruiter trick? Could the man I allowed to escape my ambush be behind this?
He thought back to the scene under Saros Rake. Surely there was no possibility the last remaining Recruiter might have regained his power? If such a thing were possible, why had everyone made so great a fuss over Noetos’s huanu stone? If its uncanny power to drain magic from whatever it touched was only temporary, why was huanu stone held in such awe? ‘Your carving there is worth all of Palestra, with plenty left over,’ Omiy the alchemist had said to him. No, even at their most powerful none of the Recruiters could call down lightning. This was surely no Recruiter trick.
The street levelled out; Lecita Stream, normally a pretty, sparkling brook, lay quiescent before them. They were well into the Oligarchs District, not a part of Raceme ordinary people frequented. Of course, Noetos had not been an ordinary person twenty years ago when he’d come here to play with Lycana and his friends. They had run up and down the Oligarch streets, to and from the Summer Palace. Times of happiness, times of privilege, almost impossible to recall under the low stormclouds. Under the Neherian assault.
The two men stood at the edge of the stream. Flashes of brightness flickered against the sullen sky; a wielder of immense power searching for him, or for his daughter.
‘Ah, they still haven’t built a bridge,’ Noetos remarked. ‘Can’t have the gentry mixing with the riffraff. We’ll have to wade.’ More thunder from behind underlined his thoughts. ‘Come on, before the lightning catches us again.’
They were halfway across, up to their waists in water, when a swift whistling was followed by the staccato thunks of arrow shafts into the bank ahead of them. Beside Noetos, Mustar grunted in surprise.
‘Where are my wits?’ Noetos growled as he grabbed the lad by the arm and dragged him to the far bank. ‘Damn Neherians, this is how they fight. Hide and strike, then run away. Cowards.’
His words were answered by a second volley of arrows. This time they hissed into the water behind them.
‘Hah. Knocked down by the wind. Foolish weapons in these conditions.’
Mustar said nothing, drawing Noetos to look across at the young Fossan. His face was pale. Mustar is a solid lad; a few arrows landing wide of the mark wouldn’t frighten him, surely? Well, perhaps this on top of the lightning, he conceded.
Mustar stumbled as he tried to climb the bank. Despite his own weariness, Noetos gave him a hand up.
‘You all right?’
The boy grunted something that could have been a ‘yes’, or at least Noetos took it so. He shrugged. He hadn’t taken Mustar for a coward. Still, it had been a dangerous journey across the city, and it wasn’t finished yet.
Ahead lay the Artisans District, an area of Raceme unfamiliar to Noetos. Artisans Way followed the stream, and would lead them directly to the Man-o’-War but leave them vulnerable to any other archers the Neherians had emplaced.
‘What’s preventing the Neherians from crossing the stream and taking this part of the city?’ the lad asked in a strangely brittle voice.
‘Look above you. I saw movement in the windows of the tenements. Cohamma will have posted archers to hold the Neherians.’
‘So the stream is now the line between Neherius and Raceme?’
‘Looks like it. If so, the city is neatly divided in two. They have much of the wealth, but we have most of the people. Come, Mustar. We’ll find a way through this district. Captain Cohamma can’t be far away. And with him, no doubt, will be the man who can convince you of my innocence with regard to the fate of Fossa.’
The man at the centre of Noetos’s angry thoughts surprisingly appeared in front of them as he and Mustar drew close to Suggate. Unsure of the disposition of the rival forces, Noetos had led Mustar to the city wall and around it until they reached Suggate itself. Here, in contradiction of all good sense, Bregor had apparently been given command of the gate.
Suggate was choked with angry and fearful people trying to get into the city from the Shambles, and others, equally persistent, trying to get out. The rain, heavier now, had ponded against a low point at the base of the city wall, and those waiting for their chance to escape the city stood, shivering and miserable, up to their ankles in water. A lone soldier tried to maintain order, but was largely ignored by those trying to get through the gate.
‘I see they’ve given you another innocent group of citizens to care for,’ Noetos grated at the man. Let Mustar figure that one out.
Bregor ignored the comment; perhaps not even hearing it. ‘Noetos, you fool, why are you making young Mustar walk with an injured leg?’
‘What are you jabbering about, man?’
Noetos looked over at the lad, who had sunk to one knee. Bregor knelt beside him, plucking ineffectually at the broken shaft of an arrow embedded in Mustar’s thigh.
‘Oh. Mustar, I’m so sorry. I didn’t notice.’
Bregor snorted. ‘You never do, fisherman; that’s your problem.’
Noetos discovered his children had left him a reservoir of anger, after all.
‘Is that so? I might be blind perhaps, but I’m no betrayer of villages. Young Mustar here was wondering who sold Fossa to the Neherians. Care to tell him?’
‘I betrayed no one,’ the Hegeoman said, though surely Mustar had noted the change in tone.
‘A technicality: you intended to. Tell the boy!’
‘Can’t this wait until Mustar has been treated? Or do you intend him to die, just as Opuntia died, as a result of your blindness?’
Noetos roared and jumped on Bregor, pummelling him with his fists. The man grabbed him around the neck, reducing his effectiveness; still, he knew he landed at least one satisfying blow on Bregor’s face.
‘Enough! Enough!’ a voice cried. Hands pulled Noetos to his feet; other hands assisted Bregor. Some of those trying to get through Suggate had obviously been told to help Bregor; the lone soldier continued to bark commands, his sword drawn, as the two men were pulled apart.
‘It’s all right, we know each other,’ Noetos said to the soldier, breathing out his rage.
‘I’ll talk to the Fossans myself,’ Bregor said, the words slurring past a thick lip. ‘I don’t need you to complicate things. In the meantime, don’t you think we ought to give some thought to the fate of Raceme?’
‘Aye, and as to that, why have we only one soldier guarding the wall’s weakest point?’ Mustar asked, one hand on his thigh, where the shaft had been broken off not far above the skin. ‘What happens if the Neherians sweep around the city and attack this gate? The guard can’t even control the citizens of Raceme. The Neherians could take the gate and be in the city before Captain Cohamma or his men have a chance to resist.’
‘What is Cohamma thinking?’ Noetos agreed, frowning. All it would take…’ He paused, thoughtful. ‘Mustar, stay here. Climb the gate and keep watch. Any sign of the Neherians, you run down this street and let Captain Cohamma know.’
‘Climb the gate?’ Bregor echoed incredulously. ‘You just don’t see anything but yourself, do you, Noetos? He’s got an arrow in his leg, cry Alkuon. Climb the gate yourself.’
‘I’ll do it,’ Mustar said. ‘Just send someone up here to tend it, and not a sawbones. I’ll hear Bregor’s story while I’m waiting.’
A short time later Noetos walked wearily down Suggate Way towards the Man-
o’-War and Captain Cohamma’s command post. The lightning had stopped now, at least.
As the fisherman approached the Man-o’-War, he thought about Mustar. The boy would be fine back at gatehouse, but his absence felt like a loss. So many people lost. He wanted to gather them all to him, shelter them from the storm breaking all around them. Curling a lip, he recognised his father’s sentiments: protect your own at all costs. Part of the leadership training he’d received as a boy.
Leadership? According to his daughter, apparently, he was no leader.
‘Swordsman.’
For the second time that afternoon Noetos failed to realise he was being spoken to.
‘Swordsman!’
A small, neatly dressed man wearing the green and white—and, unlike the other Racemen soldiers Noetos had seen, ‘white’ meant exactly that in this case—stood before Noetos, head bowed slightly, his whole demeanour screaming obsequiousness. Noetos remembered his sort, having witnessed a parade of self-serving men seeking favour from his father. They had all possessed smooth voices and smoother wits. His father had hated them.
‘Captain Cohamma requires your presence,’ the man said.
‘Tell him I’ll be at his disposal in a moment.’ Noetos made for the door of the Man-o’-War.
‘He also bade me tell you that your son and daughter are with him down by the floral clock.’
Rage swamped Noetos more swiftly than an unseen wave. He placed a hand on the man’s shoulder and tightened his grip until he drew a gasp.
‘And why are my children not out of harm’s way, as I instructed them?’
‘I…forgive me, sir, you are hurting me.’
‘So I am,’ Noetos said agreeably, and increased the pressure slightly.
‘In…in Raceme, sir, all competent sword hands are required to defend the town in time of crisis.’
The man spoke rapidly, breathing heavily through his nose. Noetos smiled. It doesn’t take much to break through the shell of your urbanity, does it?
‘So, when one o’ your men told the captain about your son’s skill with the blade, the captain sent me to look fer ’im.’ The cultured tones were giving way to a rougher speech. Noetos knew he was behaving badly, but did not loosen his grip. ‘His sister—please, sir!—his sister refused t’ be parted from ’im, so she was given a blade and stands beside ’im. Please, sir, let go me arm!’
‘Take me to them.’
Noetos gave the man’s shoulder a shove—this is not the person you wish to push, his mind whispered traitorously—and followed him to the upturned carts and assorted furniture that served as Captain Cohamma’s defences.
After a brief scan of the area, the fisherman realised that this would be no ordinary street battle. Raceme’s streets were wide and without cover: no force could advance on an opponent without risking decimation from hidden archers. The Lecita Stream, flanked by broad avenues, offered little cover for the Neherians. Ample evidence of failed attempts to storm Cohamma’s position littered the stream’s grassy banks and floated in the water.
Stalemate.
Noetos closed his eyes briefly in anger as a realisation struck him. Bregor was right, Alkuon curse the man: he had just assessed the tactical situation before seeking out his own children. Curse his upbringing.
There they were, either side of the captain himself. Safely sheltered behind an upturned haywain. Noetos strode across the street to Cohamma. Giving Anomer a passing nod, and not quite meeting his daughter’s eye, he took the captain by the elbow.
‘They make no further attack?’
‘Nay,’ came the taciturn reply.
Probably offended at how Noetos had walked in and taken command, though he’d obviously sent men out searching for him. Nothing for it. I’m a leader. You’ll have to reconcile yourself to that, Cohamma.
‘And you are agreed that their next move will be to flank us?’
‘Aye, that was m’ thought.’ The captain’s eyes lightened. Someone to talk tactics with.
‘So why is there no force posted on Suggate?’
‘They bayn’t landed on Ring’s Beach,’ Cohamma said. ‘No boats light enough. Suggate is safe.’
‘And what’s to stop them breaking out through Water Gate and flanking the entire city that way? Come on, man, I’d think of it, and so will they, if they haven’t already. We hold the line here, arrayed against what might be nothing more than a shadow force, while they enter the city through Suggate and roll it up behind us.’
‘Or they scale th’ wall anywhere ’long its length,’ Cohamma growled. ‘Nuffin’ we can do, son. Not enough bodies. We lost more’n half our soldiers and most’ve our volunteers in the first attack.’
‘At least post another scout by Suggate, man!’ Noetos growled. ‘We need some warning if they outflank us.’
‘Aye, well, send one of your men.’
‘It’s already done.’
Cohamma’s features went flat at his words.
‘Then stop jawin’ and incline yer milit’ry brain t’ getting’ these salties outta the city.’
‘Yes, sir.’
Noetos offered a lazy salute, and just like that effective command of the battle had been handed to him. He took in the scene around him: several soldiers, having witnessed his confrontation with the captain, watched him warily in the dimming light. He wondered if any other commanders had survived the Neherians’ initial attack. Soldiers were normally quartered in barracks within the Raceme Fortress or under the Summer Palace, and both places had been outflanked early in the conflict and were now well behind enemy lines. Unlikely, then, that his command of the remaining forces would be challenged.
My defences. For now.
A slow hour passed behind the barricades. Dagla sat propped against an oaken table, eyes closed, his left shoulder all over with blood. His chest was moving though. Good. Noetos had become quite fond of the boy. Gawl stood beside Dagla, alternating between poking his head over the barrier and ducking down to check on his…well, his friend. Noetos smiled. His ‘army’ of miners was doing just fine. Further down the line of carts and furniture Seren stood, talking quietly with Tumar, and Anomer and Arathé, who had just joined them. Beyond that, nothing but the rainsoaked gloom.
Noetos walked over to his children, his mind crammed with a dozen different opening lines. Suddenly nervous, he chose one without thinking.
‘If you wanted me to wash, Arathé, you could have waited for this rain to do the job,’ he said.
As soon as the words were out of his mouth, he knew he’d made the wrong choice. The rain suddenly picked up in intensity, roaring all around them, and hail began to fall. For a vain moment Noetos hoped the noise had masked his foolish words. He became suddenly detached, as though a copy of him watched as they impacted upon his daughter, then his son, and saw their faces harden. Angry tears started from Arathé’s eyes.
‘Muhh vih (clap) eeah (clap), you maay (clap) (finger flick) oh (clap)!’
She placed her hands on her hips and glared at him, seemingly unaware of the hail clattering around them.
‘Mother’s dead, and you make a joke?’ Anomer interpreted, his voice flat.
‘The joke wasn’t about your mother’s death. I’ve told you how much I regret that.’
Anomer took a sharp breath. ‘Arathé has today learned that her mother has been killed. Worse, despite my explanation, she seems to think it may have been her father’s fault. You certainly think you had something to do with it; she’s been in your mind, remember. And we stand here discussing this while under siege by the Neherians. Do you think this is a time for humour?’
‘Find shelter!’ people cried somewhere in the distance. ‘Get under cover!’ The words barely registered in Noetos’s mind.
There is so much of your mother in your face, son, he wanted to say, but he knew the words could not be spoken, not now. In your face, and in your words.
‘No. No more humour,’ he said. ‘But I admit to being surprised that my daughter would r
eact this way towards me before giving me a chance to explain what happened, or even before I could tell her how glad I am to discover she is alive. Arathé, we have a great deal to talk about. Can we leave any further impromptu swimming until then?’
His daughter turned her face to him and, even in the gloom, he saw the unnatural flash of her eyes. In that moment he began to realise how dangerous his daughter might be. Pushing him off the wharf may have been a mild response.
The hail pounded on the cobbles around them. The table offered shelter of a sort, but thumbnail-sized stones rattled off his helmet and tunic and stung his bare arms.
Arathé spoke again in her unique hybrid language, too fast for Noetos to follow.
‘I know more than you think,’ she said, her brother interpreting. ‘I…hear things. I can’t explain what I mean. I’ll listen to you, but I will know if you don’t tell the truth.’
‘What do you mean? What things do you hear?’
Noetos pulled his children down further under the table; one of the hailstones found and bruised his forearm. The late afternoon had become unnaturally dark.
‘I said I can’t explain it. I have a connection to a voice of knowledge. I don’t know who it is, but through it I can hear what is happening. Many strange things are happening across the world, and they are all linked.’
A cold spike of fear stabbed at Noetos’s heart. ‘Don’t you question the source of this voice? What if it is misleading you?’
‘No,’ Arathé said. ‘I hear only truth. It may not be all the truth, but the voice speaks no lies. I’ll show you.’
A sudden heat seized Noetos’s brain, followed by an eerie feeling of openness, as though all boundaries to thought had been removed. If he strained he could hear…a voice, for a fleeting instant, then nothing. The hail stopped, and the sky began to lighten.
‘No, Arathé!’ Anomer took his sister by the shoulders and began to shake her. ‘Don’t use your mind-voice, the risk is too great. You know something is looking for you.’
The heat faded from the fisherman’s mind, but he could not convince himself he had imagined it.
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