Tetrarch (Well of Echoes)

by Ian Irvine

  ‘What’s a nylatl?’

  He explained, and though it was a bright day, both cast a glance at the undergrowth and moved closer to him.

  ‘Have you lost your parents?’ Nish asked a while later.

  ‘They’re going to meet us down the road,’ Meriwen said quickly.

  ‘They’re not!’ Liliwen wailed. ‘We’ve lost them and we’ll never see them again.’

  ‘How did you become separated?’

  ‘We were waiting outside the front gate,’ said Liliwen. ‘Mother and Father were trying to get something from the house. All these people came running down the road, screaming. Millions!’ she said hyperbolically. ‘We got carried along with them and when we went back, our house was on fire. Mother and Father were gone.’

  ‘It burned to the ground,’ said Meriwen. ‘We waited for ages but they didn’t come back. Then people started screaming and running away, so we ran too.’

  ‘Your parents are probably up ahead,’ said Nish. ‘Waiting for you.’

  ‘I hope so,’ Liliwen said doubtfully.

  This was developing the wrong way. He could not afford to take on someone else’s problems. Two girls, alone on the road with no one to look after them, did not bear thinking about. He told himself that this situation must have been repeated countless times in the war, but it made no difference. He knew the girls now and could not abandon them.

  The day grew hot, and Nish’s leg more painful with every step. Liliwen was struggling too. They came to a rivulet trickling across the road, its reeds trampled into mud. Nish eyed the brown water, swallowing raspily. If he drank here it would probably make him sick.

  The girls stood by. ‘I can’t go any further.’ Liliwen wiped away tears of pain.

  Her sister pointed upstream to where a pair of umbrella-shaped trees leaned towards each other. ‘It’ll be cool in the shade.’

  ‘I don’t think it’s a good idea to stop yet,’ said Nish. ‘The enemy –’

  ‘We don’t need your help,’ said Meriwen, eyes flashing.

  ‘Yes, we do. Don’t be silly, sis.’

  The shade looked beautifully cool, and Nish’s throat was as dry as the soles of his boots, so he accompanied them up the wooded stream, gripping his mallet. It was a good place for an ambush. There were all kinds of vermin on the road, desperate for whatever they could get.

  His stomach began to bubble and churn. The stream was about a long leap across, and here flowing clear and clean. The girls cooled their feet in the running water. Nish drank until he was bursting, then looked for fruit, nuts or anything else edible. He found nothing; it was too early in the season. Judging by the trails twisting through the scrub, plenty of game came to drink, though he doubted if anything would be slow enough for him to thump with the mallet.

  ‘I don’t suppose you’ve got flint and tinder in your pack?’ he said to Meriwen.

  ‘Of course! Do you want to make a fire?’

  ‘I need to boil water and bathe my wounds.’

  She handed him a flintstone, a small packet of tinder and a little cooking pot with a wire handle. Nish gathered dry wood and soon had a fire going. It gave off just the faintest trail of blue smoke. He heated water, cleaned his wounds, then poked the dirty bandages under the boiling water. After a few minutes he fished them out with a stick and, when they were cool enough, wrapped the wounds again.

  His stomach was now churning like a milk separator. Those wretched oysters! Nish hobbled into the scrub to relieve himself. It took a long while, and he had just turned back when he heard a muffled cry.

  The girls! Why had he gone so far from the fire? He ran a few steps before realising that he was heading in the wrong direction. Everything looked the same in this scrub. Walking in a circle until he found his footmarks, he followed them back. When he finally burst into the clearing by the rivulet, the girls were gone.

  If he lost them, Meriwen and Liliwen were as good as dead. Their abductors would take them away from the crowded road. Which way? They might have gone up the stream, or off into the scrub. He hunted for tracks.

  There were tracks everywhere. Hundreds of refugees had filled their water bottles here. Nish hobbled back and forth, feeling panicky. Why hadn’t he been more careful? He’d had a bad feeling about this place from the beginning.

  Tracks ran into the scrub here and there, though none were the right size. Wading the stream, he searched the other side and came upon several sets of marks leading upstream. Among them he saw a small bootprint. Nish limped that way.

  There could have been two abductors, or even three. Bad odds, especially if they were armed. One man with a sword would make short work of his mallet. Hopefully they would not take the children too far, or Nish’s injured leg would beat him. He followed the tracks for a few hundred paces by the water, came into a clearing and lost them on hard ground.

  Now what? Nish stopped, cupping his ear. Was that a groan? No, just the wind rubbing two tree trunks together. Had they gone back across the stream? He could see no tracks there. He took the risk and kept going. Despair crept over him. If he lost them he would never be able to forgive himself.

  There – a footprint in the soft mud of a dried-up pool. It belonged to one of the girls, and the dry grass was crushed beside it. He followed stealthily and, anxious minutes later, caught a flash up ahead, perhaps the sun reflecting off a pack buckle. Creeping forward, he peered between the trees.

  There were two of them: big, unshaven ruffians in filthy clothes. Each had hold of a struggling girl but, as Nish watched, the taller of the men struck Meriwen across the face and threw her down on the grass. Nish had a moment of panic, a failure of nerve. There was no way he could attack them both. He closed his eyes, feeling sick. Then Meriwen screamed.

  He hurled himself through the trees, ignoring the agony in his leg, and swung wildly at the man who held Liliwen. His leg folded up and the blow missed. Thrusting Liliwen to one side, the man lashed out.

  The blow caught Nish on the side of the head, making his skull ring. He staggered backwards. The man came after him, arms flailing. Nish did not have the strength to lift the mallet above his head. All he could do, as the bearish man lunged, was to swing it up, underarm.

  The amateurish attack took the man by surprise and the heavy, iron-bound mallet caught him fair under the chin. His head snapped back so hard that his feet lifted off the ground. He fell, legs thrashing.

  The other fellow flailed at Nish with a cudgel, which caught him on the elbow. The mallet went flying and Nish’s whole arm began to go numb. The backswing crashed against his ribs. The third blow was aimed at his head.

  Nish ducked but the cudgel clipped the top of his skull, knocking him to his knees. His vision blurred; he could hardly see. His hand, scratching on the ground, found a pebble. Nish hurled it at the ruffian’s face. It missed.

  The man kicked Nish’s legs from under him. Nish went sprawling. The man lunged. Hands big enough to throttle a steer went around his throat. The fellow gave out a horrible, black-toothed grin and squeezed.

  TWENTY-SIX

  Nish tried to push him off but the man pinned his shoulders with his knees. Then he tried to knee the ruffian in the groin but was in the wrong position. He kicked and squirmed. It was no good. The huge thumbs dug into his windpipe.

  Tossing his head from side to side, he managed to gasp, ‘Please, don’t!’

  The man spat in his face. As Nish began to black out, he gave one last, despairing heave. It failed.

  There came a nauseating pulpy thud and the man collapsed on top of him, his eyes wide open. Nish choked; the fingers had locked around his neck. He tried to push the fellow off but he was far too heavy. Nish managed to get his fingers under the man’s thumbs and prise them away. Liliwen was on her knees, heaving on one arm. Together they rolled him to one side.

  Nish could not stand up. He wiped his face and gasped, ‘Thank you. Are you all right?’

  She nodded stiffly, avoiding his eyes.

  ‘
What happened?’

  ‘I whacked him in the back of the head with your mallet,’ whispered Liliwen. ‘I’m sorry. I didn’t know what else to do.’

  ‘You did well,’ said Nish, clasping her hands in his. ‘You saved my life. No one could have done better, Liliwen.’

  Meriwen was sitting up, looking at the other man, who had stopped kicking. Judging by the angle of his head, his neck was broken.

  ‘They did not harm you?’ Nish asked Meriwen.

  ‘No,’ she said in the faintest whisper. ‘We’re both all right.’

  ‘We’d better go,’ said Nish, ‘before they recover.’

  ‘Yes.’ Liliwen was still staring at her victim.

  He was not going to recover either. Liliwen’s blow had crushed his skull and killed him instantly. Nish suspected she knew that. A difficult thing for a twelve-year-old to cope with. Difficult enough for him, for that matter. Nish checked the other ruffian. His neck was broken. He, Nish, had killed a man.

  ‘Come on!’ he said. ‘There may be more of them.’

  Nish wiped the bloodstained mallet on the ground when he thought Liliwen was not looking, and led the way back to the road. The girls collected their packs and they kept going all day without stopping. Liliwen did not complain about her blisters. The girls said virtually nothing. As did Nish, though his leg was in agony, his throat was so swollen that every breath hurt, and he was seeing double. He was too caught up with what had happened. He had killed. The fellow had been a villain, certainly, but hadn’t desperation driven him to it? Could he, Nish, end up like that one day?

  ‘Is it far to Kundizand?’ Nish asked when the day was near its end. He did not want to spend the night out here.

  ‘Not far,’ said Meriwen.

  They turned a corner at dusk and the lights of the town were twinkling ahead of them. They had not seen a lyrinx all day but he could not allow himself to relax until, finally, they reached the gates.

  They were passed through without question. The normal checks had been suspended; just to be human was a passport. The town was bursting with people. As well as its normal population of eight thousand, there were at least thirty thousand worn out, desperate refugees. Every bed had been taken long ago. Every street was jammed; people were bedding down in the alleys and everywhere else that was out of the way of direct traffic.

  They fought their way through the throngs, Nish keeping close by the twins. It would be easy to lose them and impossible to find them if he did.

  ‘Where were you to meet your parents?’ he asked.

  ‘In the town square, by the wind clock.’

  The square was an explosion of people – it took a good fifteen minutes to struggle from one side to the other. Eventually they reached the clock, which was striking the hour of seven. Its screw-shaped scarlet sails twirled merrily in the breeze, though down in the square the air was still and stifling. Nish and the girls worked back and forth for an hour without finding anyone the twins recognised.

  Liliwen burst into tears. ‘They’re dead, I know it.’

  ‘Father said he’d be here,’ Meriwen said soothingly. ‘He never breaks his promises, Liliwen. We have to keep looking.’

  Nish thought he saw Colm’s sisters, Ketila and Fransi, across the square. He shouted their names but the sound was swallowed up in the din, the crowd closed again and he could not find them.

  By the time the clock struck nine, Nish could barely move. ‘We’d better find a place to sleep –’ he began, when a tall woman screamed, pushed through the crowd and threw herself at the girls.

  ‘Meriwen, Liliwen! Where have you been? We thought we’d lost you.’

  Meriwen burst into tears. ‘We went home, Mummy, but you were gone. We were so afraid –’

  ‘But you did as you were told. Good girls!’ The woman embraced Meriwen, and then Liliwen.

  ‘Where’s Father?’ Liliwen asked anxiously. ‘Is –’

  ‘He’s just over there,’ said the woman. ‘Troist!’ she yelled. ‘They’re here!’ Shortly a stocky, handsome man in a lieutenant’s uniform shouldered through the crowd, beaming from ear to ear.

  He embraced his daughters, gathered the family up and was shepherding them away when Meriwen said, ‘Wait, Father. I must thank this man –’

  Troist spun on his heel, inspecting Nish and evidently not much liking what he saw. ‘Who the blazes are you, fellow?’ he demanded, his lip curling.

  ‘My name is Cryl-Nish Hlar, surr, and I –’

  ‘If you have rendered my daughters a service, I thank you for it.’ He reached into his coin pocket.

  ‘Father,’ said Liliwen, ‘he saved our lives! Two horrible men grabbed us and took us into the forest –’

  ‘What?’ cried Troist. He spun around to his daughters. ‘Are you all right, girls? They did not harm you? By heavens –’

  ‘We are untouched,’ said Meriwen calmly. ‘But only because Nish attacked them with his mallet.’

  ‘Give me their descriptions, man,’ cried Troist. ‘I’ll see they hang for this.’

  ‘They’re dead,’ Nish said softly. ‘I broke the neck of one of them, and the other your daughter struck down with this mallet when he had his hands around my throat.’ Nish pulled down his collar, revealing the bruised and blackened flesh.

  ‘The devil!’ cried Troist. ‘I owe you an eternal debt, man. Name it and you shall have it.’

  ‘I want no payment,’ said Nish, ‘but … I see you are an officer in the army. You may be able to advise me.’

  ‘Oh?’ Troist said warily.

  Nish lowered his voice. ‘It is a matter of the utmost secrecy. I must speak to a senior officer, the master of the city, or a representative of the Council of Scrutators.’

  Troist took another look at him. ‘You are not from these parts.’

  ‘I have come all the way from Einunar.’ Nish said no more. He did not know whom he could trust and the news he carried was a great burden to him.

  ‘The master of Kundizand is not here,’ said Troist. ‘Neither is any representative of the Council. Perquisitor Unibas was in Nilkerrand when it was attacked and has not been heard of since. We are quite as lost as you are, I’m afraid.’ He shook his head wearily.

  ‘And the army?’ said Nish.

  ‘Slain, or scattered to the four posts of the compass. The enemy’s favourite trick is to attack the command tents first with flying lyrinx. I fear that all my senior officers were killed, else there would not be this chaos now. Had I not been on leave I would be dead too.’

  Nish turned away in despair. He had no money, no papers, no friends. If he did not get treatment for his leg, he was likely to lose it. He had to trust someone and this fellow had an honest look about him. And you could tell a lot about people from their children. Meriwen and Liliwen were bright, resourceful and well brought up. He turned back to Troist.

  ‘Then I must trust you, surr. I am in the service of Scrutator Xervish Flydd and carry vital intelligence about the war.’

  ‘I wondered about your accent. You’d better come with us, Cryl-Nish. We cannot talk of such matters here.’

  He introduced Nish to his wife, Yara, who was an advocate. She was a half-head taller than Troist, with a lean, horsy face, big teeth and flared nostrils, though she had an elegant manner. Her dark hair hung in a single plait all the way down her back.

  Troist was short and muscular, with a small head capped in sandy curls, a blunt nose and a square jaw. His eyes were blue, his shoulders broad, his fingers thick and blunt. He exuded capability.

  It took an hour to force their way through the crowds to their inn, though it was only a few blocks away. Cramped and musty, their room was considerably better than the hovel Nish had last slept in. He lay on the floor with his head in his hands and could scarcely believe that he had survived.

  There was no possibility of a bath, for the overcrowding had exacerbated a water shortage, but Yara announced that dinner was on its way. Shortly a skinny lad staggered in under a lad
en tray. The smell made Nish drool. He had not had a proper meal since leaving the manufactory a month ago, and this smelt better than anything he had eaten there.

  The girls told their story over dinner, then Nish his, leaving out only such details about the amplimet and the Aachim invasion as might be considered strategic information. These he would reveal after the children were asleep.

  ‘So, your father is Perquisitor Jal-Nish Hlar?’ said Troist.

  ‘Yes. Do you know him?’

  ‘No, but I’ve heard much about him. Hmn.’

  What did that mean? Nish’s father had a lot of enemies.

  Troist questioned Nish in detail about his father. No one could be too careful, for the enemy had been surprisingly successful at recruiting spies and impostors. Finally he seemed satisfied, whereupon Yara began, for she had travelled to Tiksi a good few years ago. Nish must have answered to her satisfaction, for she made a sign to her husband, to which Troist nodded. He glanced across to where the twins were curled up together on the small bed asleep.

  ‘Well, Cryl-Nish,’ said Troist, ‘your tale astounds me, and that doesn’t happen often. It was a happy day when you ran into our daughters on the road, and I will never forget your service.’

  ‘Thank you, surr. If I may, I will tell you the rest of it, for I’m deathly tired and my head still throbs from the blows I took.’

  ‘Does it?’ said Yara, coming up close with her candle. She checked his skull with long cool fingers, turned his head from side to side and looked into his eyes. ‘I don’t think there’s any damage, apart from a minor concussion. I’ll mix a potion for you.’

  While she was busy, Nish told Troist about the amplimet, what he knew of Tiaan’s geomantic abilities, and all she had done at Tirthrax.

  ‘There has been rumour of an enormous fleet of craft, that resemble clankers, coming over the mountains from the west,’ said Troist. ‘No doubt our leaders have the scrutator’s despatches, though no news has come down to me. But of course I am only a junior officer.’

  ‘Though a brilliant one,’ said Yara, handing Nish a mug. ‘Drink this.’