by Jaine Fenn
“And will it… remedy itself?”
“I don’t know. Probably not.”
“So this is permanent.” His gaze went briefly heavenward, then settled back on her. “You need to go home and pack now.”
“Pack?”
“Yes. One bag, as much as you can carry. No more.”
“Pack for what?”
“You’re leaving, with me. With us.”
“Leaving? To go where?” There was no shelter, no safe haven. No Shen.
“Just be ready to leave at dusk.”
“I don’t underst–”
“For once, don’t try and understand. Just do it. It’s your only chance of survival. And wear riding clothes.”
“Riding clothes? You can’t outrun this!” But he was already hustling her out. He shoved her, gently but firmly, to one side and returned to his huddle of ministers.
Bereft of other choices, Rhia left.
Outside, the storm was whipping itself into a frenzy. Flurries of hot rain smacked her, and the wind harried her all the way home. There were more people around now, most dashing between shelter. The odd shout and, once, a woman’s scream, were audible above the howl of the wind.
Back at the townhouse all the shutters were closed. Well done, Markave. Markave. Francin had said he could save her but what about Markave? And Brynan? Assuming Francin had not just gone mad. No, she had to assume he had some plan, however unexpected. The alternative was unthinkable. She had lost so much – her work, her confidence, her hope in the future – yet she had survived, at least. But this could kill them all. She went to find her staff. Brynan was sitting at the kitchen table, looking morose. Markave was cleaning dishes; hardly steward’s work, but without Nerilyn… should I fetch her back? No: there was enough to worry about already.
Brynan jumped up, and Markave turned and put down the bowl he’d been washing.
“We are in trouble.” They knew that. She tried again. “The duke has a plan. He wants to… go somewhere, and he wants me to go with him. I’m not sure where but we need to trust him. Now, he didn’t say as much but I am sure you can come with me. He has asked me to pack a bag so I suggest you both do the same.”
“What about his lordship?” asked Markave.
She’d been too stunned to give any thought to Etyan! “He won’t be harmed by the Sun but… I need to get a message to him.”
“Brynan or I could go to the villa, tonight,” said Markave. “With a carriage we could reach it before dawn.”
“No, we’re leaving tonight. I… Etyan has survived worse than this. I’ll leave a note here for him.” Not ideal, but what other choice was there? “Be ready to leave at dusk.” She turned without waiting for an answer. Her own packing conundrums were already consuming her.
She fetched her satchel and travelling bag and took them up to the study. For a while she stared at its denuded state: half the books and papers either gone or stacked in random piles; nothing left of the celestial model save a sad pile of hoops, rods and cogs in one corner.
Thankfully, the most valuable writings were untouched. The churchmen had noticed her locked ironwood chest, and asked what was in it. She said, truthfully enough, that it contained more papers, which she was sure they would deal with in due course but which they could kindly let be for the moment. So, she still had the enquirers’ papers. The question was, how many could she carry?
She unlocked the chest and lifted the papers out in careful bundles. She must take all of Father’s writings: no one else had some of his more unformed musings, and his work was all she had left of him.
While the storm rattled the shutters she sorted her papers, trying to whittle them down to a selection that would fit into her pack. Brynan brought some food around noon; he said Markave had gone to visit his sister and other son, so he would watch Kerne now.
Kerne! She’d forgotten all about him. But she had no room for that concern now. “Did Markave cover his bare skin?”
“He took a cloak.”
Cloak. Clothes. She should probably take clothes. What about food? No, clothes and food could be replaced, or found. These papers could not. She went down to her room to put on her oldest mask, and men’s clothes; they’d be best for travelling. Wherever they were going. As a concession she balled up her somewhat grubby kirtle and rammed it into the bottom of the pack. Yithi came into her room as she finished dressing. The cats! Was there any way of taking them? Of course not. But perhaps they’d be all right, somehow. She decided to believe that. Today was all about deciding to believe, and the truth be damned. The truth was unbearable. Thinking about anything beyond immediate choices would paralyse her. She stroked the cat’s head for a while, then murmured sorry to the poor beast and fled back to her study.
The rain outside turned to hail, barrages of ice drumming on the tiles and pummelling the shutters. Thunder rolled around overhead. And the light, the terrible light, still shone bright, waiting to kill them.
The storm began to abate as the day began to fade. She looked at her efforts. So much would have to be left behind.
Someone called her from below. She hoisted the bulging pack onto her back and cast a last look around her sanctum, then made herself walk out and close the door. Looking over the banister she saw three figures below, lit by soft lamplight. She hurried downstairs as fast as her burden would allow.
“This gentleman has come from the palace,” said Markave, indicating their visitor, who wore militia uniform.
The militiaman bowed. He looked rather young. “I’m Captain Deviock. The duke has charged me with your safety, m’lady.”
“Has he now?” She looked to her servants. Brynan had a bag at his feet. Markave did not.
Captain Deviock said, “With apologies, it is only your ladyship who I am to accompany.”
“What? No, you must take my people as well.”
“My orders are to bring your ladyship and one bag. That is all.”
“Your orders! Well you can take your orders and–”
“Rhia.”
She looked over at her steward; her husband. His gentle eyes were sad. “It’s all right.”
“Markave, he has to let you come at least!” She turned back to the militiaman. “Markave is not merely my servant. I have married him.”
Captain Deviock’s brows went up at that, but he said nothing, save to shake his head slowly.
“Rhia, I have to stay.”
“What?” She looked back at Markave. “I can’t leave Kerne.”
“But he’s going to die anyway!”
Markave recoiled as though struck.
“God, I’m so sorry, I shouldn’t have said that. But… if you stay you’ll both die.”
“Then I’ll die with my family.” He turned away.
“Wait!”
He paused but did not turn. His tone was soft. “Is that an order, m’lady?”
“I don’t, can’t order you any more. Please!” But she was not sure what she was asking.
“I’m afraid my mind is made up. I’m staying.” He looked over his shoulder. “I will pray for you, Rhia.” Then he walked away.
The captain’s voice was quiet but firm. “M’lady, we have to go now.”
“What? Yes. Go now.” She wanted to say something, to find some comfort for these two loyal men she had relied on so much. But Brynan was sagging where he stood, defeated but obedient to his superiors’ wishes to the last, and the kitchen door was already closing behind Markave.
She let the militiaman take her bag and lead her out into the storm-lashed twilight.
CHAPTER 48
The streets were crazy. Groups of young men ran past shuttered houses, shouting incoherently. A priest was leading a procession of loudly praying nobles up the duke’s parade; some of the small children being dragged along were crying, not praying. Rhia smelled smoke, and looked up between the houses to see a bonfire of expensive furniture stacked up against a house wall; a shrill female voice was ordering the servants to burn it al
l until a man started shouting at her, telling her she had gone mad.
Captain Deviock shepherded her through the growing mayhem in silence.
The storm was easing off, reduced to odd spatters of tepid rain and squalls of half-spent wind.
They entered the palace through a gateway near the militia barracks, coming out into a large, crowded courtyard. Rhia started at finding herself in a controlled bustle of men and horses, and turned to the militiaman. “What is this?”
“This is our departure from Shen.”
A militiaman came up to them, looking uncertain. Rhia thought how she must look, dressed in man’s clothing. “Is this the countess, sir?” asked the man.
“Yes,” said Deviock. “Please fetch our horses.”
“You’re staying with me?”
“To keep you safe, yes.”
“But where are we going? What’s happening?”
For the first time Deviock’s impassive expression cracked, his lips twitching into a smile that made him look nervous rather than happy. “The duke said you’d be full of questions.”
“Which I expect answered.”
“He said to tell you that all will become clear, but that you have to trust him.”
“Right.” She wasn’t going to get more out of this young man right now. Instead she looked around, a task made easier when a sturdy bay horse was brought for her. She mounted and, after watching her bag get safely lashed to a pack-horse, sat up tall on her mount’s back to survey the sea of heads. This was a huge, regimented endeavour, militia everywhere; checking loads, mounting up, waiting for orders. On the far side she thought she saw Francin’s chestnut curls, and near him, two cloaked figures with their backs to her. Other than them, she appeared to be the only person here who wasn’t a soldier.
“We need to move.”
“What?” She looked at Captain Deviock, sitting on his grey horse beside her.
“We have to wait off to one side. We’ll be near the back of the column.”
“What column?”
But the captain had manoeuvred his horse close enough to hers that the bay twitched and sidled. Rhia took control; she was a competent rider, but out of practice, and it took concentration to stay alongside Deviock without getting in anyone’s way. He led her along the edge of the courtyard. It was pitch black overhead, though torches had been lit all around. The main bulk of the militiamen were facing forward now, out of the gate. About a quarter were mounted, with more horses, and some donkeys, laden down with supplies. The militia stables must be empty. Francin, on horseback, was a little way back. Just behind him she saw three small figures riding two-up with militiamen. Francin was taking his children. Somehow the thought was simultaneously reassuring – if he was risking the young prince and two princesses he must be sure they were heading to safety – and disconcerting, because it implied this was a one-way journey. Most of the faces around her looked determined, in control, though sometimes a flash of panic showed, the same panic that she, that everyone, must be feeling deep down inside.
As the mass of men and horses began to advance, Deviock gestured at her to stay back. She obeyed, and contented herself with watching. Amongst the packs strapped to horses she saw the glint of metal: bundles of long staves with metal tips. Now she knew where all that iron from the red valley had gone! She also spotted more unusual items strapped across some officers’ backs. When she realised what they were her mood darkened further. Amongst her papers were a few writings from Tinkerer of Yost; the last but one holder of that post had had a fascination with devices that bordered on the heretical. He had an interest in weapons, and one in particular, a variation on the bow, had intrigued Father, though less as a weapon than because of the ingenious winding action used to fire the ironwood bolt, which employed controlled storage and release of energy.
It required metal to construct, and Tinkerer of Yost called it a handbow, though the larger versions the soldiers carried looked like they took two hands to operate. But Francin had never asked for the papers describing the handbow, so despite his protestations to the contrary he must have copied the weapon design while she was in Zekt. Which meant that whatever he had been planning probably went back that far, had in fact been in train for at least two years. But how could he have known the shade would fail? And what was his plan?
“M’lady.” Deviock was indicating the approaching end of the column. They slotted into a gap, with the captain riding on her outside. When they rode out under the gateway the clatter of hooves on stone was deafening.
Full darkness had not improved conditions in the city. Shouts, chants and the odd scream echoed through the streets. The column of militia, travelling six abreast, would have to take the widest roads that wound round the hill. As they left the duke’s parade, a mass of people, perhaps the group of worshippers she had seen before, intercepted the hundreds-strong column. From her position near the back Rhia heard only faint shouts, and saw distant, shadowy movements ahead, but she found herself remembering the riot last rain-year, so brutally repulsed by the militia. From the glimpse of rising batons and swinging swords, Francin was not treating these people with any more consideration. That day she had been an unwilling witness to the duke’s “necessary” cruelty. Now she was standing by again, but this time she was part of what was happening – was letting herself be drawn along by it. Saved by it. She must remember that: this was the only way. Even if she was not sure what way this was.
The column started moving again. Passing the point where the disturbance had been Rhia saw a dark splash on the cobbles, and a fallen figure being tended by others off to one side.
In the middle city they passed an old man in torn and stained guild robes sitting in the gutter, sobbing inconsolably. He did not look up as they passed.
The sounds became wilder the lower they went, but the streets to the side of the main thoroughfare closed in as they became poorer, so there was little to see.
Suddenly a woman hurtled out of a side-alley, throwing herself against a foot-soldier three ranks in front of them. From her bright but minimal clothes, Rhia suspected she was a prostitute.
“Take me with you! Wherever you’re going I… oof!”
Her hysterical demand was cut short when the soldier she had flung herself at shook her off. “Back with you! We can’t take anyone!”
“I’ll earn me keep!” She straightened, standing out of baton range, and exposed a painted breast to the passing militia.
Rhia winced, half expecting the men to mock the whore, or worse. But the column barely faltered, and the man who’d pushed her away shouted back, not unkindly, “First have mercy on your fallen soul!”
They came out onto the north road shortly afterwards, and crossed the stone bridge across the rain-swollen river. The road would eventually fork, becoming the two routes to Marn and Zekt, but to get to either shadowland they had to cross the skyland, several days impossible journey. Except everything was skyland now.
They had been walking the horses through the city but once on the road the column kicked into a trot, the motion passing down it from front to back. The unmounted men in front of her upped their pace to a loping jog. The road was well-surfaced, though mud still kicked up to spatter her legs.
The increase in speed wouldn’t have allowed for much conversation even if Captain Deviock had been willing to talk. Rhia concentrated on her riding. Unused to it as she was, her thighs soon began to twinge.
After a while they slowed their pace to a walk again, much to Rhia’s relief. They were onto rougher road now, though the ground was relatively firm underfoot.
They slowed further, then stopped. Rhia dismounted stiffly and accepted a drink from Deviock. The horses were led away to drink at a roadside ditch. She tried to work out where she was but beyond the ditch the land was an identical mass of dark fields. At least the rain had stopped. Looking up, faint moonlight showed through the clouds.
The stop was brief. All too soon Deviock was holding her horse for her to
mount up again.
The pattern was repeated; this time when they stopped, Rhia almost fell from the saddle, her legs weak and shaking, her body heavy. She was exhausted. This stop was longer, with the horses eating from nose-bags and having saddles adjusted. Her bay hung its head, looking as tired as she felt.
Shortly after they started up again she saw lights ahead. Her addled mind took a while to identify the inn she’d stopped at on the way to Zekt to fetch her brother. It had been a lively place then. Tonight it was wild. Every window was lit and shouts and shrieks drifted out on the night breeze. Someone had lit a bonfire in the courtyard.
Closer, and some of the inn’s customers became visible, standing, swaying and even dancing outside. Many had drinks in their hands, and some shouted incoherently, or even jeered, though none dared approach the column of armed men. As they passed, Rhia saw, to her horror, that something was moving in the bonfire. A body, twitching in the flames. She smelt a whiff of burnt meat and her gorge rose. She looked away. Beside her Captain Deviock spoke for the first time in hours, his voice muted. “Frightened people do terrible things.”
She nodded, gaze still averted, and concentrated on staying on her horse and not being sick.
The column sped up again once they were past the inn, but not for long. When they dropped back down to a walk, Rhia found herself swaying in the saddle. When she got off at the next reststop she locked her legs, resisting the urge to sink to the ground. If she sat down now, she’d never get up.
Staying here wasn’t an option: overhead the sky had cleared enough that stars showed. When the Sun rose, there would be nowhere to hide. She made herself accept a meal of leather-tasting water and hard bread, to chew and swallow, to not fall over.