by Ian Irvine
‘Up the other end, somewhere. There’s Zoyl Aarp and Oon-Mie.’
Zoyl Aarp was a lad of sixteen, big and muscular, but with the face of a ten-year-old, for which he had been ragged unmercifully in the manufactory. He behaved like a ten-year-old most of the time, being prone to temper tantrums and fits of ‘poor me’. He was a brilliant, intuitive artisan, though his craftsmanship was rudimentary. He had no patience for fine work and Irisis usually finished his controllers off, but he was right for this job.
Oon-Mie was the opposite, small with a sturdy frame, a broad face marred by a flat nose, and eyebrows plucked to pencil marks. No one would have called her pretty but she had an impish grin that curled up the left corner of her mouth. Oon-Mie had three children in the creche, each by a different father. She had a one-track mind, chiefly concerning intimate relations between men and women, but it was always good-humoured. Everyone liked her and Irisis felt better just knowing she was here.
She could relax at last. She rested her head on her arm and fell asleep.
The air-floater drifted serenely across the skies, heading northeast toward the coast. Nothing disturbed its stately progress. Once, a lyrinx wheeling in the air above a burning town noted it pass by, but before the creature could react, the air-floater vanished into thick cloud. As the sun set, it emerged long enough for Navigator Nivulee to study the land below through her spyglass, and compare it with her map. Like all air-floater crew, Nivulee was small – a bony girl with waves of dark hair cascading down her back. Her uniform was too big for her and her nails bitten to the quick.
‘That way.’ She pointed a little more east, with a bleeding finger.
Twice in the night the navigator checked their bearings, using the lights of coastal cities, and a little after midnight told the pilot to go down. They went back and forth for an hour while the pilot muttered and an increasingly worried Nivulee checked her charts over and again; then finally she looked out the port side, nodded and indicated a massif that reared up to a double horn.
The pilot went around it three times in the light of a sliver of moon before the scrutator said, ‘Over there. Can’t you go any faster?’
‘We’re running on the Gornies field and it’s a long way away.’
‘Of course,’ said Flydd. ‘The Minnien field has failed. That’s why we’re here.’
The air-floater set down as lightly as thistledown. The passengers descended the rope ladder. The scrutator gave instructions to the pilot, who nodded and raised her hand in salute. The air-floater lifted off and soon was just a shadow whirring into the night sky.
‘This way,’ said the scrutator. ‘Let’s get under cover before it’s light. Then we’ll go over the plan again.’
Irisis had slept the whole trip and woke to find herself in darkness. Then she remembered. She was blind.
Someone, not Flydd, helped her down the ladder. Her feet landed on uneven ground that slipped underfoot. It felt and sounded like shale. The air smelt different: a faint salty tang mixed with the sharp odour of a crushed herb whose name she did not know. It was considerably warmer than the manufactory.
So, she was on the coast somewhere, or near it. Minnien was just a name to her and she could not have traced it on a map. There was not even a village here, only a place name so old that people had forgotten where it came from.
But there was a node at Minnien, and it had failed, causing the loss of fifty clankers and hundreds of lives. She closed her eyes and saw the bloody plain, the wrecked machines that had taken years to build, the broken bodies and the red-mouthed, feeding lyrinx. If the enemy had made this node fail, they could do it anywhere. Everywhere – in which case clankers would become useless and the war must be lost. It was up to her to find out why. The job had been daunting when she’d been sighted. Now it felt impossible.
They walked around the side of a steep slope, one foot higher than the other, for a long time. Irisis plodded along, putting her feet where she was told, holding onto someone’s hand. No one spoke. She heard nothing but slate sliding underfoot, smelt only crushed herbs and the sea breeze.
Eventually they stopped and her guide sat her down on a sloping slab of rock. Her fingers traced its smooth surface and sharp edges. Food and drink was handed around. Irisis took what she was given, listening to the talk but alienated from the faces behind it.
‘Hush!’ said the scrutator. ‘Irisis?’
‘Yes?’
‘What have you got to say?’
‘Come here.’
He moved to her side, the slab settling under his weight. ‘What’s the matter?’
She clutched his arm, felt for his ear and whispered, ‘I can’t do it. I don’t know where the node is. I don’t even know what it is. What are we supposed to do first?’
‘You could start by trying to visualise the field.’
‘There is no field.’
He sighed. ‘The node may not be completely dead. Take hold of your pliance and do what you would do if you were trying to see the field.’
She did so.
‘Tell me what you see,’ said the scrutator.
‘I don’t see anything at all.’
‘Are you sure? Other artisans have been brought here since the field failed.’
‘Then why don’t you ask them?’ she said.
‘I have. That’s part of the reason I brought you here.’
‘Oh?’
‘You are better at visualising the field than most artisans.’
‘Except Tiaan!’ she snapped.
‘Oh, stop feeling sorry for yourself,’ he snapped back. ‘Yes, except Tiaan, if you must. Tiaan is quite exceptional. But then, her heritage …’
She wondered about that as she tried again. There had always been something strange about Tiaan. Putting the distraction out of mind, she focussed on where the field should be. This time she did pick something up, the very faintest wisp rising from not far away.
Emptying her mind, Irisis allowed the wisp to flow by. Another followed it, as tenuous as mist, though with the slightest blue tinge. She traced it down. It seemed to be coming from somewhere deep underground, though it was impossible to determine where – fields were difficult to associate precisely with the structures that generated them, and anyway, she could not see the peaks.
Giving up on that path, Irisis withdrew, visualising the wisps from further away. That was better; they now made a drifting, smeared-out trail and as she shifted viewpoint again she saw another trail of wisps a long way to the left, and a third to the right.
Pulling back as far as she could go, Irisis realised that they were rising in a kind of squashed figure-eight formation, apparently offset from the twin-peaked hill they were sitting on, as if mimicking not the hill itself but some subterranean structure.
‘I think the node is regenerating the field!’ she exclaimed.
‘What?’ said Flydd.
She explained exactly what she had seen.
‘An interesting idea. Nunar herself speculated about such a possibility. Maybe that’s why you can see it now, when previously a hundred mancers and artisans could not. It may have started to regenerate recently.’
‘Or maybe I’m cleverer than they are,’ she said, nettled.
He snorted.
‘So what do we do now?’
‘Investigate the bigger problem. Find out why it failed in the first place.’
‘How do we do that?’
‘Well, you’re the artisan.’
‘And you’re the mancer!’ she said irritably ‘Nodes are the home of forces, and forces are mancers’ work, aren’t they? Artisans aren’t clever enough to work with forces. Only the weak field for us.’
‘There’s no need to be sarcastic. We’ve all got to work together. You’re pulling in the other direction, Irisis.’
‘I’m sorry,’ she said, and was. ‘I’m a moody sod. I’ve had rather a difficult few days.’
‘This is mancers’ work for the most part, but I still value your t
houghts. How would you approach the problem?’
‘I’ve no idea … Tiaan once made an aura reader, to find out what had happened to failed hedrons. I might be able to make something to do that, though …’
‘A node is a far more difficult proposition than a hedron.’
‘And more dangerous. Oon-Mie, Zoyl, listen carefully.’ Collecting her thoughts, Irisis began to describe what they had to make.
‘Hist!’ said the man on watch. ‘Something’s coming!’
‘What is it?’ Flydd said in a low voice.
‘I think … I think it’s a lyrinx.’
‘What’s it doing?’
‘It’s well down and across, walking along a ledge.’
‘What would a lyrinx be doing here?’ Irisis asked.
‘Who knows what they do?’ said the scrutator. ‘Maybe it’s a lookout.’
‘It’s not a good place for a lookout. Over on the next hill would be better.’
‘Maybe it has a nest here?’ came Oon-Mie’s voice. ‘Or it sneaks across to mate …’
‘The lyrinx are not animals,’ Flydd said coldly. ‘They’re as intelligent as we are. Now be quiet. Keep your weapons ready.’
‘It’s disappeared,’ said the sentry.
‘Keep still,’ Flydd advised. ‘We’ll wait and see.’
No one said anything for a long while; then Irisis heard whispering. ‘Will someone tell me what’s going on?’ she said waspishly.
‘Nothing’s happened,’ said Flydd. ‘Be patient.’
Finally the lookout spoke. ‘I can see it again. It’s heading back the way it came.’
They watched it move down the long slope, to Irisis’s frustration, before the scrutator took her hand, saying, ‘I think we can take a look now.’
A difficult climb for a blind woman, on a steep path littered with slipping plates of slate. ‘It was just around here,’ said the lookout.
They cast about for ages. ‘Tracks!’ said one of the soldiers.
‘The footmarks seem to have been made by someone stepping in the same places all the time,’ said Flydd. ‘Someone with a lyrinx stride. It’s not the first time it’s been here.’
After hours of searching they located a ledge under which the lyrinx had crouched when it had disappeared from their sight; but apart from a few curled-up scraps that looked like leathery mushroom, they found nothing.
‘Maybe it just wanted a place in the shade to eat its lunch,’ said the sentry.
‘I thought they et people,’ the soldier muttered.
‘They eat anything they can find, just like us,’ said the scrutator. ‘I don’t believe in coincidences. It was here for a reason, and it’s connected with the node failing.’
‘It’s here for the same reason as we are,’ said Irisis. ‘It wants to find out why the node failed, and if it’s remained that way, and how it can use this information to defeat us in the war.’
‘We’d better scout the peaks.’
Flydd divided the group into pairs and sent them out. ‘What about me?’ said Irisis as he prepared to go with them.
‘Stay here. Take another look at that pattern you saw before.’
‘What if the lyrinx comes back?’
‘I imagine it’ll eat you.’
Alone, blind and afraid to move, Irisis spent the day imagining that the beast was silently hunting her. She could smell her fear. Her armpits were drenched with it.
Nothing happened, however, and she could not remain at the highest pitch of terror all day. She would hear the lyrinx coming, anyway, for nothing could move silently on the shale-littered slopes.
Having decided on a course of action, Irisis felt able to go on with her search. She was surprised to find that the field sprang out at once. It had strengthened further. No longer wispy, it was now a chain of misty tongues like a continuous flame, though still in the shape of a figure-eight. It was a long way from being back to normal, and definitely not strong enough to drive something as massive as a clanker, but it was there.
By the time the scouts began to straggle back she knew as much as she was capable of learning. The field was coming back. The question was: why? And how? And did it have anything to do with that lyrinx?
PART FOUR
SCRUTATOR
THIRTY-EIGHT
The construct had its weapon, a kind of spear-thrower, aimed at them. ‘Put up your hands,’ yelled Nish. ‘Nobody move. Mounce?’
‘I’m like a post, surr,’ said the sergeant.
Yara edged her mount closer to Meriwen and Liliwen.
‘Don’t run,’ Nish hissed. ‘You’ll never get away.’
‘I’ll do what I think best for my children,’ she snapped, as if he were to blame.
Nish felt that he was. He should have kept a better lookout – should have been further ahead so the others would have had a chance to escape.
The construct whined forward. The one behind them remained where it was. Its weapon was also ready. The top of the first construct snapped open. An altercation ensued; they could not make out the words, but a young man came down the side, sprang lightly to the ground, moved away from the construct and held out his hands to show that he carried no weapon.
‘Don’t trust him, surr,’ said Mounce. ‘They’re treacherous devils, these Aachim.’
‘I don’t see that we have any choice.’
Nish rode forward, holding out his hands, wondering what they could want. Not until he was close did he recognise the young man as the fellow who had looked so distressed at the meeting.
Nish put out his hand. ‘I am Cryl-Nish Hlar.’
The Aachim put up his own. ‘I know you. Greetings, Marshal Hlar! I am Minis Una Inthis. My friends call me Minis.’
‘Since our meeting I’ve been demoted and am no longer marshal. Mine call me Nish. A dubious contraction, in some parts, but I have become inured to it.’
They gripped hands. The Aachim’s long fingers slipped right around Nish’s hand.
‘I wish to talk to you,’ said Minis, ‘if you will permit it?’
‘In ordinary circumstances I would be happy to,’ said Nish carefully. At any other time he would have seized the opportunity to learn more about the invaders. He was curious about Minis too, and his relationship with Tiaan that appeared to have precipitated their coming to Santhenar. Such a small affair; such vast consequences. But the safety of Yara and the children was paramount. ‘Unfortunately we are hurrying east and cannot –’
‘Just a few minutes,’ said Minis. ‘Please.’
Please? Minis was a profoundly different man from his offensive foster-father. Nish glanced at Yara, who had put herself between Minis and the children. She gave the faintest inclination of the head.
‘It’s hot here,’ said Nish, ‘and two of my companions are children. Shall we take tea in the shade?’
‘With pleasure,’ said Minis. ‘Though I can offer a cooling draught, if you prefer.’
‘I will speak to my companions.’ He went back to Yara. ‘Minis is the foster-son and heir of Vithis, the Aachim leader. He is also the man whom Tiaan … well, you know the story. I don’t believe he means us harm. He’s very polite and seems anxious to talk to me. We may do some good by speaking with him.’
Yara was watching the Aachim warily. ‘Or it might just be a game before they move against us,’ she hissed. ‘If they try anything, he dies!’ The look in her eye made his blood congeal.
‘Let’s see what he has to say,’ Nish said hastily. ‘Don’t do anything that will make things worse.’
‘How dare you! You led us into this trap.’
‘Then allow me to get us out of it.’ He whirled and rode back.
‘Girls!’ Yara snapped, ‘you will not stray from my side while the strangers are here.’
‘We don’t need to be told, Mother,’ said Liliwen, trying to look as grown up as possible.
Minis waited among the trees with a young man rather shorter and younger than himself, and a woman who might have
been Nish’s age, insofar as it was possible to tell with the long-lived Aachim. She was pale of skin but with long straight black hair, and as slender as a reed.
‘My friends, Vunio and Tyara,’ said Minis, introducing the man and the woman in turn. They both looked troubled, like children out without permission.
Nish shook hands uneasily. If this went wrong, Yara would kill him too. He had no doubt that she could.
Minis said, ‘And your own friends …? Or perhaps they are your wife and children?’
‘Neither.’ Nish managed a smile at the thought. ‘I am merely escorting them home. These are troubled times in Santhenar. It is not as safe on the roads as it once was.’
‘Troubled indeed,’ said Minis, ‘and our coming has made it worse.’
‘This war has changed the world forever. Though … it’s all I’ve ever known.’
Vunio opened the basket, which contained a variety of delicacies as well as a box that turned out to be layered with ice. Flasks were set in it. Nish relaxed a little. How could they mean any harm? He had to remind himself that he knew little about them.
‘It is sweltering in our constructs,’ said Minis, ‘so we took a trip up to the mountains and hacked blocks from the snow. Santhenar is a hotter world than our own. The mountains were more to our liking.’
‘And it is yet mid-spring,’ said Nish. ‘These plains are torrid in the summer, I’m told.’
‘You are not from these parts?’ Minis enquired.
‘My home is almost as far west as it is possible to go from here. I also come from a cool place.’
Tyara levered the stopper from the flask and her eyes met Nish’s. They were large, oval and brown as chocolate. Beautiful eyes. ‘Will you take a glass with us?’ she said. ‘It is not strong, but you will find it refreshing.’
Nish tore his gaze away, mindful how easy it could be to give offence. ‘Thank you.’
She poured the wine into a glass. It was a glorious golden colour. He held it up to the evening light, admiring the luminosity. Taking an appreciative sniff, he waited until the other glasses were poured.
‘May I make a toast?’ he said.