by Patty Jansen
The Knights had blindfolded him and tied his arms behind his back before he could do anything. They pushed him out of the arena and through the crowd. As many people were cheering as shouting.
“Show them, show them!” a man yelled.
Show them what?
He struggled against the Knights’ hands. “Stop pushing. I can walk. Where are you taking me?”
“To the only place sorcerers belong,” the man holding him growled. “I hope you had a good look at the sky, because you won’t see it again.”
People around them were calling for the Queen, and then there were other voices from further away.
“Let the boy go, tyrants!”
“Down with the oppression!”
“Give us our houses back, and our businesses, and our money!”
“Death to Pirosian scum!”
There were more scuffles and screams. People bumped into him. Knights shouted in hoarse, out-of-control voices. Daggers came out of sheaths. The sound of people running. Something heavy landed near his feet with a dull thud.
Isandor tried to free his arm to pull the rag from his eyes, but the Knights held him too tightly. He wanted to see these people. There were still supporters of the old king in the Outer City? The revelation confused him. The deeds the king had done, according to the books about the fall of the royal family, horrified him.
But what if those books had been written by Knights?
He did remember that last book Carro had bought, the one that described all the wonders of icefire, not just the bad things. Deadly, but very useful and powerful.
Why had he never known that people still supported the old king?
He was running through the street. Even though he was blindfolded, he could see. People were in his way, running, pushing each other. Their unintelligible screams filled the air. Their words were garbled bursts of sound that meant nothing.
Some had sticks and tried to push him. He kept slipping, his flippers finding no purchase on the trampled ice.
I am much faster in the water.
The water, where the fish were fresh and wet and where the females waited for him.
He needed to get back there.
Isandor stumbled and gasped, realising how he’d been holding his breath and how lack of air had made him dizzy. By the skylights, what was wrong with him?
The Knights were dragging him along at a fast walking pace, having left the shouting crowd behind. Judging by the echoing footsteps, they were somewhere in the alleys of the Outer City. The ground was uneven, and every now and then, the Knight holding his arm kicked his wooden leg, and then laughed when he stumbled.
“Hey,” he shouted. “Where are we going? Where are you taking me?”
His angry shouts echoed in the street, and were taken up by other voices.
“Where you be taking him? He did nothing,” one man said in Outer City slang.
“You’ll be taking him away like Merro,” another man yelled.
“Where is Merro?” This voice was more educated.
The Knights sped up, tightening their grip on Isandor’s arm. The sound of running footsteps followed them. Isandor was heartened by that. Certainly the Knights were less likely to harm him when there were witnesses. He had to face it. His time with the Knighthood was over. He might as well make the transition into evil complete.
He reached out for icefire. The strands sizzled and crackled. He could feel them on his hands bound behind his back. His body drank in the power he had denied for so long.
“You go, boy. Show them,” the man with the educated voice growled.
They want me to do this? Isandor felt the rush of icefire swirl around him. A satisfying rush.
Next moment, the rag flew from his eyes with a gust of ice-cold wind. The rope that held his wrists fell to the ground.
Isandor stopped, panting, still holding the strands of icefire.
The Knights had taken him to one of the darker alleys behind the markets. There were many other people here, but strangely no one took any notice of him. The Knights were shouting and swearing, their weapons drawn, their backs to him.
Isandor couldn’t restrain a chuckle. They hadn’t realised that he made the icefire whip up the wind? Amusing. He grabbed another strand. It crackled and sizzled when he whipped it over their backs. The men shielded their faces with arms and hands.
Isandor ran as fast as he his wooden leg allowed.
Behind him, a man yelled, “The prisoner! Stop the prisoner!”
Isandor skidded into a side alley only to find many people were already hiding there, all dressed in black.
A man at the front yelled, “Here he comes. Step aside, step aside everyone!”
People shuffled aside.
“This way!” a man shouted and opened a door for him at the back of the alley.
Isandor didn’t think, didn’t question; he ran through the open door, along a narrow passageway that zigzagged between limpets, their side doors, their outroom collection buckets, composting trays and broken furniture.
He ran and ran, charged by the power of icefire. His leg worked better than it ever had before. He felt like he was flying, running like a normal man.
All the time, he saw images of snow sliding under his belly, of partygoers in the streets running away and screaming their incomprehensible words. Where to go? Where was the ice plain with his females? Where was the ocean? This maze had trapped him. It was dizzying . . .
Breathe.
Isandor stopped, gasping.
He had to find that Legless Lion whose heart beat in his pocket. At times, he became the Lion, and Legless Lions could stay under water without breath for much longer than he could. If this went on, those images would kill him.
He made his way through the alleys, pulling his cloak tight around his neck so his red shirt wouldn’t show. Shouts and cries rang in the night, sounds of fighting. The sky glowed orange ahead, and there were the telltale billowing clouds of a fire. Some of the limpets belonging to poorer families were made from light, foamy material that burned like fire bricks, and gave off thick smoke that made people who breathed it sick for days.
A group of youths tromped through the street, their faces hidden behind scarves, carrying sticks and shovels. He slipped in with the group, shaking his hair loose from the ponytail. No one protested the presence of one extra person.
“. . . yeah, and they took Indo, too,” one boy was saying.
“What? He wouldn’t harm a puppy.”
“Everyone who was there, they said. Did you see what happened to the Queen’s bears?”
“Didn’t see, but heard. And they think we did it?” This boy sounded angry.
The other boy shrugged. “We’re Outer City folk. Can’t be trusted.”
“Always the same. We got to stop the Knights, you know. Stop them right here. We can’t be ruled like this.”
A few others grumbled consent.
The street opened out into the market square. Two lines of Knights stood on both sides of the meltery doors. Isandor recognised their uniforms: these were Jevaithi’s personal guards.
Jevaithi.
What was she still doing here?
The group of youths marched on, but Isandor stopped, barely aware of their receding footsteps. Jevaithi, the only other Imperfect he knew who lived in the city. Jevaithi, whose eyes pleaded to him for help. And help he would.
Isandor stumbled across the square, deliberately unsteady, his eyes unfocused and his gaze directed at the ground.
“Hey, you!” one of the Knights said.
Isandor took the last few steps in a stumbling rush and leaned against the meltery’s outer wall. His heart thudded in his throat. The Knights fell silent.
He swallowed a mouthful of air, and another one, and let it out in a mighty belch that made acid rise into the back of his throat.
“Hey, you. Move along,” the Knight repeated.
“Be a moment,” he said, slurring his words.
He dug under his cloak and undid the fastening of his trousers. He’d seen drunks often enough to know they always pissed everywhere. Cold bit into delicate skin, and all of a sudden, he needed to piss. A yellow hole melted into the ice of the meltery’s outer wall. The Knights laughed and continued talking. He was no longer a danger to them, just another drunk.
Finished.
He refastened his trousers and leaned against the icy wall.
The door clanged and two Knights came out of the meltery. Their voices carried over the square.
“. . . should have been here long ago.”
“. . . is so embarrassing . . . what do you think she . . .”
“And all this on the whim of a spoilt brat.”
Then he ran through the streets, his flippers slapping on the hard ground. Someone threw a stick at him, but it missed. He barked at the man; he tore the cloak off his shoulders. The fur of my fellows.
A deep gasp of breath. His face pressed against the ice wall. By the skylights, he had almost passed out. The Legless Lion heart beat against his leg, in unison with his heart.
One of the Knights called out, “Thank the skylights, there he is.”
Isandor glanced over his shoulder, still panting. Another Knight was crossing the square at a trot.
“Got the sled,” he shouted to his comrades.
“Good. Let’s get out of here.” One of the Knights went back inside the meltery.
“Hey, move along, you drunkard!” This shout was directed at Isandor.
“Jush . . . jush a moment . . .” Isandor stumbled a few steps, fell back against the meltery wall, swallowed air, and let out another burp.
“Disgusting,” the Knight mumbled and went inside.
Isandor took as long as he dared to push himself off the wall, aware of the Knight guards’ gazes on him. He moved away slowly, swaying on his feet. A faint breeze brought the sound of shouts and yells from elsewhere in the Outer City. The orange glow of fire had intensified. Once the surrounding ice had melted, those ancient building materials burned well. Isandor hoped the blaze was away from limpets of people he knew. He hoped someone was controlling the fire. He hoped his mother was all right.
The meltery doors opened, flooding the ice-covered ground with yellow light. A couple of Knights came out, long shadows over the empty square.
“We’ll take you to the sled as quickly as we can, Your Highness.”
Isandor couldn’t believe his luck. She was going to walk right past him . . .
His vision faded. He ran on clumsy flippers. I’m much faster in the water. He shot out into the market square. Skidded to a halt. On the other side of the square was a building which glowed with yellow light such as humans had. There were a bunch of people gathered around it. What they couldn’t see was that a blue man hid around the corner.
Isandor gasped. He recognised the blue form of the man, taller than him, broader and with expressionless black eyes. He carried a dagger in his blue-marbled hand, blood dripping from the blade.
This was a true servitor. Tandor’s.
Chapter 23
* * *
THE SKY HAD turned deep blue, and the meltery’s owner had grown restless by the time the door opened, letting in a blast of cold air that made the fire in the stove flare up.
A group of Knights marched in and came to a halt before Rider Cornatan’s chair. Saluted.
One stepped forward and bowed. “The sled has arrived.”
“What took you so long?” Rider Cornatan’s voice sounded annoyed. He broke his glare at Jevaithi, which he had managed to maintain for much of the time he’d sat opposite her. Undressing her with his eyes.
“There’s a few houses on fire near the festival grounds, and the eagles had some trouble with the smoke, and when we got back, we had to come the long way. There are also too many people out to take the sled through the streets.”
Rider Cornatan raised an annoyed eyebrow. “I hope you left an adequate guard with it.”
“We did.”
Rider Cornatan gave him a sharp look, but let the unspoken truth hung between them. No normal person could have inflicted the injuries that had killed the driver of the other sled. No normal human could have slaughtered those bears, and so there was no guarantee that this not-normal apparition wouldn’t attack the new sled with guards.
He rose from his seat. “Let’s go then. Are you ready, Your Highness?”
Jevaithi scrambled for her cloak, which a Knight held up for her. She met the meltery’s owner’s eyes across the bar, where he was putting away glasses.
“Rider Cornatan, can you make sure he is compensated for the earnings he didn’t take while we were in here?”
Rider Cornatan grumbled something to a younger Knight, who went to the bar. A few of the men gave her strange glances, but the owner took the money and bent his head to her.
“Your Highness, you are always welcome here.”
“Thank you.”
She met the man’s eyes and held his gaze while walking to the door, in a daze. Please help me, if you can. The citizens were her saviours, if she could still be saved after tonight.
The man didn’t give any sign that he had understood what was going on. As citizen of the Outer City, there was probably nothing he could do.
Jevaithi followed Rider Cornatan outside, every step bringing her closer to the palace, to her bedroom.
A thin mist hung over the marketplace, a damper over the voices of revellers walking across. A powder-like drizzle of snow drifted from the sky. The air smelled of smoke.
The Knights started across the marketplace, with at least six close to Jevaithi. They were all taller and broader than she, and she didn’t see much beyond cloaks and hands on swords.
She shivered. Something pricked at her senses. Icefire was thicker in the air than ever. It buzzed and shimmered, lining roofs and gutters. It danced on top of a lamppost. It didn’t touch the Knights; it bent around them.
Maybe—she was getting ideas—maybe she could use it to defend herself, later, when she and Rider Cornatan were alone in her room.
A voice rang out from beyond her circle of guards, “Watch out, Your Highness!”
She turned around, and saw nothing but Knights’ backs.
“Keep moving, Your Highness,” the Knight behind her said. “There’s nothing—”
“By the skylights!” another yelled.
There was a sickening snap. All around her, Knights were yelling and pulling swords.
Jevaithi shouted, “What’s happening?”
Someone shouted, “Move, move!”
A man at the back of the group screamed, his voice descending into a beastly wail, which was followed by a hard snap, and silence. There was the sound of a sword being drawn, and another. Footsteps scuffling in the snow. Knights closed in around Jevaithi.
Silence, except for the Knights’ breaths, which made puffs of mist in the air.
“Where is he?” a Knight asked.
“Um—just what exactly are we looking for?” another whispered. “Did you see what killed him?”
In the silence, Jevaithi shivered. She couldn’t see anything with all these men in her way, but she felt it well enough: icefire burst from something a couple of steps in front.
The thing that killed the driver and the bears.
Another scream, short, loud and sharp. It broke off abruptly.
“By the skylights,” one of the Knights whispered. There was horror in his voice.
Bodies pressed closer to Jevaithi. The short-hair cloaks smelled of oil and beast. Slowly, the Knights shuffled back towards the meltery. They nodded signals to each other, and Jevaithi found herself being lifted off the ground by a couple of strong arms. The Knights went faster, first at a trot, then a full run.
Men screamed behind them. A few Knights stumbled. A waft of cold air descended on Jevaithi. Through the gap between two of the Knights, she saw what they were fleeing.
A blue shadow, like the Legless Lion had been
. This one was a man, taller than any of the Knights. His face was hard and white with a blue tinge. His eyes were dark holes without expression.
The protecting group around her fell apart as Knights drew swords.
“Go away, you spawn of sorcery!” someone yelled.