Mirron made to speak but the Advocate held up a hand.
'No ifs, no buts. I do not care about personal feelings and who used to love who or who is whose father. He is an enemy of the Conquord and he will be hung out for every citizen to see. The people want proof and I will give it to them or you lot can all pack your bags. Do I make myself clear? Good, now get going. My Exchequer assures me the tide is about to turn.'
The Advocate turned on her heel and swept out.
'Short and sweet,' muttered Arducius.
'It is often the way,' said Jhered. 'Come on, Mirron, the carriage is at the gates.'
'Why are you so shocked, anyway?' asked Ossacer. 'It is no more than he deserves.'
'He is still one of us,' she said. 'Even though he must die, we shouldn't disrespect where he came from and what he used to mean to us.'
'Wrong,' said Ossacer. 'He was never really one of us and I for one would love to have the eyes to see him swinging in his gibbet.' Mirron started. 'You don't mean that.' 'Don't I?'
'You're a bastard sometimes, Ossacer,' she said.
'No, Mirron, I'm a realist. I think you should be too.'
'Much though I hate to break up these loving goodbyes.' Jhered glared at Ossacer. 'The carriage is waiting, Mirron Westfallen. We have to go.'
Mirron nodded, confused by her anger. 'Fine. Let's get it done.'
'Good luck, Mirron,' said Ossacer.
'Right,' said Mirron.
'Look after yourself,' said Arducius.
'You too, Ardu. We'll send word.'
'Mirron!' called Jhered from the door to her rooms.
'Who are you, my father?'
'No, but I am the man who'll throw you into the harbour if we miss the tide. Come on.'
She raised her eyebrows and closed the door on her brothers, her fountain and Kessian's sailing boat. Tears threatened.
'Stay afloat,' she whispered.
There were no obvious signs of panic on the river and road journey back to Wystrial, for the most part at any rate. The news of the outbreak had spread halfway to Skiona but those a long way from the port were simply happy to be where they were and reports were that the quarantine had been very effective.
But in the last thirty miles or so, Fleet Corvanov began to feel uneasy. She saw plainly abandoned farmsteads, empty of livestock and human life. The traffic, hardly heavy at the best of trading times, was non-existent, and the last messenger station had passed on rumours and stories that made no sense whatever.
They had warned her not to go near the port, that the station just beyond the gates was abandoned and its staff gone but she could not ignore her Marshal's orders. She had asked others to come with her but they had refused and the fear in their voices and faces was confusing and worrying.
Plague was a strange demon, she considered on the last mile to the messenger station. The gates to the port itself were a couple of hundred yards beyond it. The spectres of unstoppable disease were powerful and difficult to oppose. Rumour and myth grew and spread faster than any virus. But medical facts were, in Corvanov's opinion, the more persuasive weapon. And they told her that anyone moving about in the port today would be free of the disease. Either a survivor or one whom it had passed by. But not sick and not a carrier.
She smiled and shook her head when the crest of a rise granted her sight of Wystrial. The gates stood open. Flags flew across the port. Sails moved distantly, in and out of the harbour. It was quiet but that was no surprise. The breeze was offshore and little sound would reach her ears here. She was heartened to find the ring of soldiers enforcing the quarantine had gone. They'd be inside, helping where they could.
Corvanov pushed her horse on past the abandoned station and down the gentle slope towards the port. It was mid afternoon and the warmth of a bright early genas day was waning. Trepidation moved through her. The reality of what she might find inside began to gnaw. If the plague had swept through the whole population, she could expect to find decay, desperation and grief beyond measure. At least she brought hope with her. People were coming. Help was at hand.
She slowed to a gentle trot on approaching the gates. There were no guards. No one to acknowledge. She breathed deep and carried on. Just a couple of strides inside the port, her horse skittered, snorted and stopped. He was shivering all over, his nostrils were flared and his eyes were wide. He backed up.
'Shh, it's all right. Come on, young fella, I won't let anyone harm you.'
She kicked at his flanks and clucked but he didn't budge. A nervous whinny escaped him. He backed further up and lost control of both bladder and bowels. Corvanov stroked his neck and looked around her.
'All right, all right. Take it easy, there's a good boy.'
Wystrial was tightly packed this close to the gates. Roads led left, right and straight away from her. Buildings crowded close. Doors were hanging open, shutters too. The streets were dusty and strewn with the rubbish of days. And it was silent. There was no one at all as far as she could see in any direction. And inside the walls, with the breeze captured, she could smell the foul reek of decay. She shuddered and dismounted, throwing the reins back over her horse's head. 'All right, boy, see you back at the stables.'
He knew where, to go and, released of control, cantered back out of the gates and towards the messenger station. Corvanov became acutely aware of her solitude. She was armed with gladius and buckler like any Conquord messenger but the very fact she gained comfort from them here in her home port was frightening itself.
She walked down the Portsway and into the forum. It clearly hadn't been open for days. Was everyone dead? There had been the sails in the harbour so surely not, and anyway, the town didn't feel deserted.
Corvanov stood in the centre of the forum and turned a full circle. She felt like screaming for someone, anyone, to walk in so she knew she wasn't alone. There had to be survivors here. If the plague had wiped out everyone, there would be rotting bodies everywhere. Corvanov shivered. Nothing. Not a dog or a cat. Nor a single bird flying overhead or perched on a rooftop.
She drew her gladius. It didn't make her feel any better. The stench of death was not so prevalent here but it lingered in the air. A shout filtered to her across the dense quiet. Relief cascaded through her. She realised she was sweating. The noise had come from the dock and she sheathed her blade and hurried out of the forum.
Down the hill from the forum she went, passing street upon empty street, devoid of any life or sound. Rounding a gentle right-hand bend, the harbour came into view ahead of her. Ships crowded the wharfs. Flags were flying and sails were raised out in the deep water just off shore. And there were people thronging the dockside. Every inch was crammed, or so it seemed.
Corvanov broke into a run for a few paces before the peculiarity of the situation stopped her. There were so many people at the dock. Bitter's should have destroyed at the very least three quarters of Wystrial's eight thousand population. There had to be at least six thousand people down there.
They weren't moving either, for the most part. Just standing as if awaiting instruction or for something to appear. Statuesque. But not everyone. By each of the seven ships tied up along the wharf, men stood bellowing orders. Without the break of the buildings, the sound was loud over the silence dominating the rest of the dock. Corvanov blinked. It really was true. No one else was making a sound. She craved the barking of a dog. Anything that would make this scene in any way normal.
Abruptly, the tenor of the shouting changed. Three people moved through the still mass and trotted up the slope towards her. Not a single other head so much as flickered in her direction. Corvanov didn't know what to do. Part of her still grabbed at the tendrils of possibility that there was some rational explanation for all this. That those heading her way were coming to warn her away from the plague.
But it wasn't that. What she was looking at ... God-embrace-her, what was she looking at? Bizarre and frightening. She fought the urge to turn and run from the people of Wystrial. But her desi
re to find out what was going on overcame the crawling of her skin and the screaming of her mind. This wasn't an occupation and she could see no enemy. She had no reason to flee.
So why was that urge almost overwhelming?
Corvanov clung to her courage and stood her ground, watching the three men approach. They were in no particular rush. Their trotting had become a steady walk up the incline away from the harbour and none had a weapon drawn. She recognised the man in the middle and relaxed a little. He was twenty yards away when she hailed him.
'The plague must have been kind to leave this many survivors, Master Lianov,' she said.
There was no response. Not even an acknowledgement that she had spoken. How could he not have heard her?
'What's everyone doing down there? Supply boats is it? I'm bringing a message from Marshal Mardov. She's sending help and reinforcements. They're ...'
Corvanov trailed off. Lianov and the other two were looking at her but they weren't hearing her. They just walked on towards her. Worry gripped her again and she took a step backwards. Now Lianov's head turned fractionally and the three of them hurried the final paces.
They weren't right, none of them. Their skin didn't have the weathered tan of the harbour-dweller. It was a sick tinge, like plague still clung to them though she knew it could not. And one of the men had an ugly cut across one arm, now she looked. A cut that had not been dressed or seen to. It was filthy and crawling.
'Oh dear God,' she breathed.
Maggots. And at the last, a base instinct bade her turn and run. A hand grabbed at her back but didn't snag her cloak. She heard renewed shouts from behind her. She was a Fleet, faster than any of them on foot or horse back. God-surround-her, she wished she'd paid attention to her stallion now. He'd sensed the wrong, whatever it was.
A pain seared through her lower back, a heavy impact sending her stumbling. The knife was long, its blade sharp. She tried to get back to her feet but her strength was draining away, like her blood on to the dusty cobbles.
'Master Lianov,' she said, holding up a hand. 'It's me. Fleet Corvanov. Please. I'm not an enemy.'
The three men stood over her where she lay, lying on one side, a hand grasping uselessly at the knife in her back. She gasped at the pain that washed over her, shook her head to clear her eyes and stared at Lianov, searching for recognition. Perhaps there was a flicker but nothing more. He was as blank as a corpse and his eyes were empty of feeling.
'What's happened to you?' she said, the tears coming, the hopelessness suffocating. 'Why would you do this? Please, don't do this.'
Harbour Master Lianov drew the gladius from his belt and plunged it through her ribs and into her heart. They had turned and walked away from Corvanov before her sight faded.
Chapter Eleven
859th cycle of God, 16th day of Genasrise
The three Gatherer ships had made good progress west across the Tirronean Sea towards the eastern Gesternan port of Kirriev Harbour, a six-day journey at a steady five knots. From there it would be a further two days or so upriver to Ceskas, the border town that held indistinct but uncomfortable memories for all the Ascendants.
Jhered walked across the deck of the Hark's Arrow. It was as if he had stepped back in time ten years. Mirron stood alone, staring out at the Gesternan coastline that closed in on both sides as they sailed up Kirriev Inlet. It was a staggeringly beautiful landscape. Mists partially obscured soaring cliffs covered with lush green vegetation that hung down over ledges and adorned sweeping narrow terraces. Flowers were just starting to burst through where the rock protected the soil from wind erosion and the first genastro birds were beginning to nest. Their calls were echoing and somehow haunting, like a warning. Apt.
He stood behind her, silent for a while. She was wearing a thick cloak against the breeze off the sea. The hood was up and it was hard to see where exactly she was looking. Straight ahead, probably, as with every day.
'How are you feeling?' he asked.
She turned to him, face framed by her hood making her look so beautiful. He felt it deep in his heart and the vulnerability and loss in her eyes tore a hole in him.
'I don't know what to feel,' she said. It was more than he had prised from her in the last four days. 'Every moment we draw closer but I feel more distant.'
Jhered frowned. 'I don't follow you.'
'I'm sure we're going the right way but there's so much we don't know. He could take my son anywhere and I would never see him again. He could take him into terrible danger and I wouldn't be there to protect him. How do we know he's even still alive?'
This last was a whisper and Mirron turned her face back to the sea.
'Needle and haystack, I know,' said Jhered. 'And he's alive, I stake my life on it. Anyway it's not as bad as you fear. Gorian is not going to stay quiet. If anything Harban said happens, we will have found Gorian and if we do, we find Kessian too. Kark is readying for a war they believe is coming and that, if nothing else, is a reason to travel there. They have eyes across southern Tsard and into Atreska. If anyone has information, it will be them.'
Mirron shook her head. Long hair fell from where it had been tucked inside her hood and she scraped it back.
'You make things sound so simple and they aren't. He stole my son for a reason and he isn't going to let him get away without a fight. And Gorian knows how to fight, doesn't he? And if the Karku do have information, do you think they'll share it with us? Harban wants Kessian dead. They have no interest in us rescuing him.'
'Yet Harban came to Estorr specifically to ask for the Ascendants' help.'
'And look what we're sending. A mother who can barely keep a cogent thought in her head. Some help I'll prove to be.'
'For one thing, that's rubbish and for another, that isn't what I meant. They need our help, they'll have to give us information in return. Simple trade.'
Mirron sighed and turned to face Jhered once more.
'Why are you doing this, Paul? God-embrace-me, why didn't you retire and relax five years ago. You don't need to do this any more. More than anyone I know, you've earned the right to some peace and quiet.'
'Think I'm too old?' His reply was a little more gruff than he'd intended.
Mirron put a hand on his arm and even managed a smile. 'Oh, Paul, I'm not trying to insult you. Although you are a little grey. Seriously, though, I feel safer because you're with me. But Harkov could easily have led. You know the Advocate wouldn't have forced you to go. Why did you put yourself back in the front line again?'
'It ought to be obvious.'
Mirron blushed. 'That's not enough, though, is it?'
'Yes it is,' said Jhered. 'Look, I made a promise to protect you and Ossacer and Arducius when the war was won. And I don't break my promises. There'll come a time when you don't need my protection and I'll gladly retire to my villa at Lake Phristos that same day. Anyway, I like travelling with you. It's a rare thing to indulge in these days so I'd like to make the most of it.' 'Ah, promises,' said Mirron.
'Yes. Badges measuring a man's respect and honour. You know there's one I have yet to fulfil? Made it to a man called Han Jesson from a village called Gull's Ford in Atreska before the war started. Tsardon raiders had taken his wife and son and I promised I'd return them. Think I've forgotten that promise? You know he disappeared from his home years ago. Probably went to look for them himself. Doesn't make any difference. If we end up in Tsard, I will look for them. Even if it's to return their bones, I will look.'
'Isn't that just personal pride?'
'Probably,' said Jhered. He tapped his chest above his heart. 'But in here, I feel a pang whenever I think about it. I haven't given it my best and that sits badly.'
'But if this man is already dead ...'
'It doesn't matter. Like you said, pride. But what if they are still alive out there and wanting rescue? I don't make promises lightly.' Mirron understood. He could see it in her eyes. 'Why did you ask, Mirron? Really?'
'Because I worry about you,'
she said. 'It's the law of averages. How many more times can you put yourself in harm's way before you fall?'
Jhered laughed. 'I'm the Exchequer of the Gatherers, Mirron, not your father.'
'But I wish you were.'
Jhered stared at his shoes while the wind rattled the mast lines and snapped the sail canvas.
'So do I,' he said and put a hand to her cheek. ‘I couldn't ask for better.'
The new Marshal Defender of Atreska, Megan Hanev, had endured the worst fifty days of her life and from the look on General Davarov's face, the situation was not about to improve. An endless procession of misery, that's what her tour of Atreska had been. Unadulterated desperation and poverty. She had seen the ruin of lives, the ruin of her country.
She barely recognised it. Only Haroq City had remained largely intact. Outside of the capital, farmland was weed-grown when it should be prepared for seed or showing the first of the spring crops; the roads were similarly overgrown, imperial highways cracked and ill-maintained, local roads gone to ruin, no more than mud and wagon ruts; and in the towns and cities, basilicas were rubble, forums defaced and broken up for their stone. Houses of Masks were burned and defiled.
Everything the Conquord had built in Atreska had been systematically destroyed or plundered. It would take another decade to put it to rights. Megan seriously wondered if there was the will to do so. Refugees travelled north, south and west to try and find better lives in other Conquord territories now the borders were open again. Many had even chosen Tsard to the east. She didn't blame them.
But they blamed her. Or rather the Conquord for abandoning them while the Tsardon occupation force, for such it had been despite Yuran's protestations, raped the country. What depressed Megan the most was the manner in which those who remained had returned to a bare subsistence way of life. It was out of necessity of course but it had made them insular and aggressive, prepared to fight their own to keep what they understood to be theirs.
A Shout for the Dead Page 10