by Paul S. Kemp
They eyed the water as they ran, but the docked boats and darkness kept Egil and Nix from view. Rusk kept hoping maybe they’d just cross to the other side of the river and hole up in west Dur Follin, but he doubted it. His luck didn’t seem to be running that way. They’d make for the bridge, Trelgin would get the wand attuned to them, and Rusk would be obliged to continue the game still longer.
He considered simply getting square with Trelgin, making a deal in which they abandoned Channis, Rusk took over as de facto Upright Man and Trelgin stepped in as a well-treated and well-compensated Seventh Blade. But looking at the intensity on Trelgin’s face, he knew an offer like that would just get Rusk killed. Trelgin would do every damned thing he could to avoid becoming Seventh, and if Rusk made a compromising offer, Trelgin would betray him, spill the offer to the others, get Rusk killed, and take the Eighth Blade for himself.
Rusk saw nothing to do but what he was doing – sprint along Dur Follin’s wharves in the small, dark hours, and pretend that he wanted to rescue a man he desperately wanted dead.
By the time they reached the Archbridge, they’d left Mors and his wounded shoulder behind. The bridge, wider than any of Dur Follin’s streets save the Promenade, extended before them, reaching across the Meander, connecting eastern and western Dur Follin, linking poor and rich, old and new. Low walls and ancient custom divided the bridge into narrow walkways on the left and right sides, with a wider, central way. By tradition wagons and carts and horses used the center way, while pedestrians used the southern walkway.
The northern walkway, meanwhile, was covered in a swirl of tents and makeshift shrines along the entire length of the Archbridge, all of them belonging to squatter cults too small or obscure to fill a proper temple. Even at the odd hour the smell of incense filled the air, as did the occasional ring of chimes and bells and gongs and chants.
Rusk and Trelgin and the men, already gasping and sweating, assayed the bridge. The wind fought them and Varn fell away, unable to keep up.
Cultists of various godlings and religious movements, perhaps preparing for the dawn, eyed them in surprise as they passed. Rusk caught blurry images of tonsured heads, tattooed arms, colorful robes and vestments.
A third of the way up, Trelgin veered right and darted between two tents, in the process knocking down a wrinkled, bald cultist in yellow pantaloons and a blousy shirt who tended a kettle of something on a small brazier. The tiny man cursed Trelgin in a language Rusk didn’t understand. Trelgin ignored him and leaned over the side of the bridge, peering down at the river, the dowsing rod clutched in one fist.
“See them?” Rusk called, dreading the answer.
Trelgin didn’t shout back but ducked down, his back to the ledge. He wore a grin, half droop, half teeth.
“Here they come,’ he said, and the rest of them ducked low and crept up to the edge.
Nix watched the guild men run back down the pier toward the Archbridge. He stood in the boat and tried to keep his eyes on them, but the boat sat so low in the water that his line of sight was blocked by piers, docked boats, and stacks of cargo.
“Can’t see them,” he said.
“They’ll head for the bridge,” Egil said.
“Beat them there, then,” Nix said.
Egil nodded, maneuvered them out to the middle of the Meander then turned the small boat downriver, pulling at the oars with long, powerful strokes. Nix let Channis’s body slouch in the rear of the boat – trying not to stare at the man’s dark, open eyes – and took stock of the gear they’d managed to bring.
Other than their weapons and a fraction of the rations Gadd had prepared for them, they had little. The boat contained a coil of line, a net, and a large canvas tarp. Nix could turn the tarp into shelter once they reached the Deadmire, but on the whole they were ill-equipped for any kind of expedition, much less one into a haunted swamp.
Egil read his thoughts. “We’re short the usual gear.”
“Aye,” Nix said. “We’ll have to manage, though.”
In truth he and Egil had survived on minimal gear in many different situations. The priest in particular was a skilled outdoorsman.
“Can’t stop now, though,” Mere said. “We started, we finish.”
“Aye,” Nix said.
Rose suddenly sat up, her eyes distant, and said, “What am I doing on this bum boat?”
Mere put a hand on Rose’s back. “Rose, sit back. We’re going for help.”
Rose sneered, the expression unfamiliar to her face. She pointed with her chin at Egil and Nix. “From these two slubbers?”
“Rose…” Mere said.
Rose’s eyes cleared and her expression returned to normal. “Mere?” She glanced around. “Where are we?”
“We’re on the Meander. We’re going to the… to get you help.”
“I’ve heard of a mindmage who lives in the Deadmire,” Nix said. “Mere said a true mindmage could help you.”
“Maybe,” Rose said. She put her palm on her brow. “Maybe. There’s a mindmage in the Deadmire?”
“Maybe,” Egil said.
“Maybe?” Mere said, appalled. “What do you mean, ‘maybe’?”
“Maybe’s all we have unless you think Rose can withstand a month’s journey to Oremal. Odrhaal’s a legend, Mere, a rumor, but… I believe he’s there.”
Mere cursed. Rose groaned and took Mere’s attention from Nix, for which Nix was grateful.
“Legend or no, it won’t matter if we don’t get clear,” Egil said, heaving at the oars. “No boats in pursuit. But here comes the bridge.”
Nix had already cocked Egil’s crossbow, but he unloaded it and set it aside for his sling. At least with the sling he’d have a shot at hitting something.
“They won’t shoot,” Nix said, hoping to make it true by saying it.
“Maybe not with crossbows, but they will with that rod.”
Nix didn’t dispute that point. He sat in the bow, his sling and a few lead bullets ready to hand, as they neared the Archbridge. He scanned the wharf, as much as he could see, the edge of the bridge, but saw nothing. He eyed the water around them for boats. Still none.
They all fell silent as Egil pulled them closer to the monumental rise of the Archbridge. Nix had spent his entire life in Dur Follin and the scale of the bridge still awed him. It looked as though it had fallen out of the Three Heavens, like a holdover from another world, a world too large and well-made and – he admitted it to himself – too beautiful, for the otherwise small, dirty, ramshackle world of Ellerth.
At its apex, the arch soared a long bowshot above the smooth waters of the Meander. Many people had leaped from the apex over the years, the despondent or sick, perhaps wanting to fly for a few moments from the largest thing they’d ever seen before the Meander shattered their bodies and ended their pain.
Makeshift shrines and tents covered the walkway on the near side of the bridge – the whole of it sarcastically named the Road to the Heavenly Spheres. The colorful lanterns and paper lamps that hung from the bridge’s edge looked like a line of will o’ the wisps. The street of shrines was gaudy by day, but had a certain loveliness to it when seen from the water under cover of night.
Nix thanked all those ridiculous gods for the lanterns and lights. If he had any chance to spot the guild men, he’d owe it to the lanterns. He slipped a lead ball into the pouch of his sling, let it dangle loose in his hand.
Chimes rang in the night breeze, the soft sounds drifting down from above like ethereal music. Massive stone posts jutted from the waters to support the arch, the thick beams like the arms of a submerged god determined, even in death, to keep the bridge from sinking into the water. Graffiti covered the posts above the water line. Rumor had the posts hollow, filled with ancient rooms and treasure and devices secreted there by the ancient race who’d left the Archbridge as their legacy. Nix figured he’d test that rumor one day.
Nix caught a suggestion of movement along the stone rail of the bridge, a head popping up to peer over and the
n back down again. He couldn’t be sure it was the guild men.
“I think I see them,” he said. He loaded a lead ball into the pouch on his sling, swung it loosely at his side. Egil drew harder on the oars. The bridge loomed over them, painting the sky with its stone arc.
The head popped up again, lingered for a time. Another joined it. Another. Then they all went down out of sight.
“That’s them,” Nix said. He whirled the sling over his head, the weapon humming in his grasp. He waited, waited…
Three figures rose up over the edge. The distance and the darkness prevented Nix from seeing which of them was holding the wand, so he picked one at random and let fly. The lead ball flew true and one of the heads snapped back and disappeared. The other two disappeared for a moment but returned quickly, standing up fully, one of them leveling the wand at Nix.
“Shite!” Nix said, dropping another ball into his sling pouch and spinning it up to speed. “’Ware!”
The yellow beam from the wand forked down from the bridge like a bolt of lightning, straight at Nix. Nix dove forward, landing in Egil’s lap, and the bolt missed him, striking the bottom of the boat. He pushed himself off Egil so the priest could renew rowing. He’d lost his sling bullet in the scrum, so he reloaded the pouch, but before he could fire, Egil had them under the bridge and out of sight of the guild men.
“Shite,” Nix said. “Mere, you all right? Rose?”
“I’m fine,” Mere said. “Rose is all right, too.”
Nix said, “They’re going to try to hit us with that wand when we clear the bridge on the other side.”
“Aye,” Egil said. “We could fight the current, go back, debark on the western bank. Get out of the city during the day, when the river’s crowded.”
Nix looked across the river to the western bank, with its finished stone buildings, municipal towers, the manses of the nobility, the temples. Rose spoke from the front of the boat, her voice small, but the tone and cadence her own.
“I don’t know how much longer I have.”
“That seals it then,” said Nix.
“Aye,” Egil agreed. “We’d probably run afoul of the Watch on the west bank anyway. We go, then. Ready?”
“Ready,” Nix and Mere said.
“Other side,” Trelgin said. “Not you,” he said to one of the men. “Keep an eye and make sure they don’t try to sneak back out the way they came. Current would lose a fight with that priest.”
“Aye,” the man said, still rubbing his shoulder from where he’d taken a sling bullet.
Rusk, Trelgin, and the rest of the men dashed across the bridge, leaping the low walls that divided its sections. When they reached the other side, all of them leaned over the waist-high rail and looked out and down on smooth waters that looked like black glass.
“I don’t see ’em,” one of the men said softly.
“Me either,” said another.
“Not out yet,” said Trelgin.
A Watch whistle sounded from back on the wharves. Another sounded from elsewhere along the piers. A third.
“Orangies comin’,” said Varn, who’d finally caught back up with them.
The wharf would be thick with Watch soon. They’d bought off plenty of Watch sergeants, but Rusk would just as soon avoid the hassle if he could. They’d have to head to the west side of Dur Follin and make their way back to the east with the day’s traffic.
“We need to move,” Rusk said.
“Not yet,” Trelgin said, eyeing the water and holding the wand.
The whistles sounded again and Rusk grabbed Trelgin by the arm and whirled him around. “We’re leaving,” Rusk said.
Trelgin’s lazy mouth twisted up in a snarl but before he could speak one of the other men hissed, “There they are.”
Rusk could not hide his frown and Trelgin could not hide his smile. The Sixth Blade turned back to the edge, rod pointed.
“Mere, I need you to shoot at them, too” Nix said. “Aim for the one with the rod. Just try to keep him down. If we can get out of range of that rod, he won’t be able to attune it. Then we’re clear.”
Egil fought the slow moving current and kept them under the span of the Archbridge while Mere took up her crossbow, cocked, and loaded.
“Ready?” Nix asked her. She nodded. “As fast as you can, Egil. Go.”
The priest grunted as he pulled at the oars and the boat rapidly picked up speed. Nix started to spin his sling over his head as the underside of the Archbridge passed over them. Mere crouched in the front of the boat.
As they cleared the edge of the Archbridge, Nix spun his sling rapidly over his head, ready to loose a shot. Egil worked the oars hard and the boat cut through the water. Nix looked up along the edge of the bridge but without the lanterns and lamps of the cultists to light it, he could see very little.
“See anything?” he asked Mere.
“No,” she said softly.
The yellow, jagged beam of the rod cut through the air between the bridge and the boat. Nix didn’t have time to curse before it struck the front part of the boat. He loosed his sling bullet in answer, heard Mere’s crossbow twang, but had no idea if either of them hit anything. Egil kept at the oars, opening the space between them and the bridge.
“Did it hit you?” Nix shouted at Mere.
“No,” she said, and Nix breathed a short-lived sigh of relief. “But I think it hit Rose.”
Nix crawled over the Upright Man, past Egil on the bench, and to the front of the boat. Rose lay on her side, curled up in the bottom of the boat, eyes closed. Her hands and face were wan, as pale as a spirit. Mere hovered over her, her short, dark hair wet on her head, the crossbow still in her hand.
Nix held his hands over Rose’s skin, palms down.
“What are you doing?” Mere asked.
Nix had the ability to feel lingering enchantments. He wasn’t unique but he knew from his time at the Conclave that the gift was rare.
His skin warmed and the hair on his arms stood on end. He put his hand on Rose’s cheek. She murmured something in slurred cant.
“Shite,” he said softly.
“They got her?” Mere said.
“They got her,” Nix said.
“What did it do to her?” Mere asked, alarm in her tone. “What does it mean?”
“It didn’t hurt her,” Nix said. “But she’s attuned to the rod.”
“It means they can follow us,” Egil said.
Nix glanced back at the bridge, up at the rail. He could see nothing in the darkness, but he knew the guild men were there, and he knew they’d be coming.
“Got ’em,” Trelgin said. The sigils carved into the rod glowed with a soft yellow glow. “Got ’em, boys.”
The men nodded and grinned.
A headache lodged in Rusk’s right temple and each beat of his heart sent a stab of pain through his head. He fought down a nearly overwhelming impulse to grab Trelgin and pitch him over the side of the Archbridge.
“You look displeased, Seventh Blade,” Trelgin said to him, his eyes sly in the running wax of his droopy face. “We’ll be able to follow them now, get the Man back unharmed.”
“Aye,” Rusk said, though it came out half-snarl.
Trelgin turned toward the water, holding the dowsing rod by each end of its fork. He spoke a word of power – taught to the guild by one of the Conclave’s wizards – to activate it. The sigils pulsed as he held it and even Rusk could see the rod pull against his hold, following the direction the boat had taken.
“Which one did you get?” Varn asked. “The Upright Man?”
Trelgin shrugged and slipped the rod back into his tunic. “Don’t know, but we’ve got a way to track at least the one. Unless they split, that means we can track them all. We need a team and a boat. We’ll have the Upright Man back quicklike. He’ll be generous to everyone who worked the job, don’t you think Rusky?”
“Yeah,” Rusk lied. He tried to sabotage the pursuit as best he could. “We can’t spare many me
n for this. Just a few good blades.”
“I plan to see it through all the way,” Trelgin said. “So me, Mors, and Varn. You ain’t gotta come, Rusky. Maybe you got work to do in town, yeah?”
Earlier in the day Rusk had been Seventh Blade to a vicious bunghole of an Eighth Blade and he’d seen no way out of the situation. But now he did see a way out, and he had no intention of letting it get away.
“No, I’m in,” Rusk said. “With Kherne and Dool.”
Trelgin’s eyes widened at that. Kherne and Dool were men loyal to Channis from way back and Rusk knew that quite well. But he figured however things landed, they’d look better if he hadn’t manned the group half with his own people.
“We’ll have to take boats,” Rusk said.
“Boats?” Mors asked.
Rusk nodded. “They’re in a boat, and we can’t get caught flat. We may need to cross the river. Could be they’ll just drift down current a bit then cross over and run east. Then it’s a foot race.”
“I’ll see to the boats, then,” Mors said. “I know some smugglers work with the guild. They’ve got those small riverboats. I’ll make them tithe two.”
“Good,” Rusk said, then to Varn, “Get some gear and rations and get it in the boats. A week’s worth anyway.”
“A week?” Trelgin asked, an accusation behind the question. “Could take longer than that.”
“A week,” Rusk said, squaring up to him. “We ain’t chasing them all over Ellerth. We run them down within a few days or we turn the dowsing rod over to some blades-for-hire and let them get it done.”
Trelgin puffed out his chest. “And I say we keep after until it’s done.”
“Then you’ll keep it up on your own,” Rusk snapped. “I’ve got a guild to run until Channis returns.”
“If he returns,” Trelgin said, his tone that of a man who thought he’d made a point.
“That’s right. If.”
Trelgin slurped to keep from drooling. “Hoping that tat grows an eighth blade, Rusky?”
“If it does,” Rusk said. “Aster’s likely to call you to be my Seventh Blade. Remember that, yeah?”
Trelgin tried to sneer but it came out a grimace.