The Braided Path: The Weavers of Saramyr, The Skein of Lament and the Ascendancy Veil

by Chris Wooding

  ‘Put out that fire!’ Chien screamed. He kicked the blaze into burning clumps of wood and stamped on them. One of the other guards threw a pan of water across the embers, soaking Chien’s boots in the process, while the remaining two had got their rifles up. Somewhere beyond their circle of vision, their attackers were repriming their weapons, ready to shoot again. The light dimmed suddenly as the fire was dispersed, and darkness took the camp.

  ‘Mistress Mishani! Are you hurt?’ the merchant cried, but Mishani did not reply. She had already clambered over the low rocks to the other side, keeping them between her and where she imagined the attackers to be, hiding her from the camp. Her heart was hammering in her chest with that same horrible nervous fear that had gripped her when the assassins came for her at Chien’s townhouse. Were these more of the same? Was it her they wanted? She had to assume so.

  ‘Mishani!’ Chien called again, a tone of desperation in his voice; but she did not want them to find her. Right now, they were in the open, and they were the targets these new killers would go for. That gave her a chance.

  She heard an anxious blast of breath, and suddenly remembered the horses. They had been tethered to a post on the near side of the camp. She could almost make them out if she squinted, ghostly blue shapes jostling in alarm. By Shintu’s luck, they still wore their tack; the guards had been told by Chien to put up Mishani’s tent each night before unsaddling their mounts. Her disdain for sleeping rough just might save her life.

  ‘Mishani!’ Chien cried again. Mishani was happy to let him carry on doing so. He was drawing attention to himself. Through a gap in the rocks, she could see that Chien and his remaining guards had adopted a defensive stance now, grabbing what cover they could, their guns pointed outwards. But the riders were not attacking yet. Dousing the fire had made the assassins’ job of picking targets a lot harder. Mishani thanked the moon sisters for their decision to stay out of the sky tonight, and then crept to the horses.

  The twenty feet that she had to cross felt like a mile, and she had the terrible intuition that at any moment she would feel the brutal smack of a rifle ball and know no more. And yet, to her mild disbelief, the moment never came. She slipped the tethers of her horse from the post and swung into the saddle with a stealthiness that surprised even herself.

  That was when the second attack began.

  They came in from three sides this time, in pairs. One of each pair had a rifle raised, the other a sword. They fired as they galloped in, and Chien’s men fired back at the same time. By good fortune or poor aim, the defenders came off better: none of them were hit, but they managed to kill one of the horses as it bore down on them, striking it directly between its eyes so that it crashed to the ground and rolled over its rider with a cracking of bones.

  And then there were swords, crashing against rifle barrels or the guards’ own hastily drawn blades, and the cries of men as they fought desperately. Mishani, who had stayed motionless since the attack had begun for fear of drawing attention to herself, put heels to her mount. At her signal, it bolted, and the acceleration took her breath away. The cool wind caught her great length of hair and blew it out in a streamer behind her, and she plunged away into the concealing darkness.

  Then, seemingly from nowhere – her eyes were still labouring to adjust to the night – there were other horses alongside her, blocking her in, and a hand grabbed the reins she was holding and pulled her horse to heel. All around, there was a percussion of hooves as they slowed hard and came to a halt, and guns were trained on her. Other men went racing away towards the camp, where Chien and his guards fought a losing battle.

  A tall, broad-shouldered man – the one who had stopped her horse – studied her. She could not make out his face, but she glared at him defiantly.

  ‘Mistress Mishani tu Koli,’ he said, his voice a deep Newlands burr. Then he chuckled. ‘Well, well, well.’

  SEVENTEEN

  The town of Zila stood on the southern bank of the River Zan, grim and unwelcoming. It had been built at the estuary of the great flow, where the waters that had begun their six-hundred-mile journey in the Tchamil Mountains blended into the sea. It was not a picturesque place, for its original purpose had been military, as a bastion against the Ugati folk who had occupied this land before the Saramyr took it, guarding the bottleneck between the coast and the Forest of Xu while the early settlers raised the city of Barask to the north. It had been here for over a thousand years now, and though its walls had crumbled and been rebuilt, though there was scarcely a building or street left that had existed back then, it still exuded the same brooding presence that it had possessed in the beginning. Cold, and watchful.

  It had been constructed to take advantage of a steep hill, which sloped upwards from the south and fell off in a sharp decline at the riverbank. A high wall of black stone surrounded it, which curved and bent to accommodate the contours of the land. Above the wall, the slanting rooftops of red tile and slate angled backwards and up towards the small keep at the centre. The keep was the hub of the town; in fact, the whole of Zila was constructed like a misshapen wheel, with concentric alleyways shot through by streets that radiated out from the keep like spokes. Everything was built from the dense, dour local rock, quite at odds with the usual Saramyr preference for light stone or wood. There were two gates in its wall, but they were both closed; and though there were pockets of activity on the hills outside the silent town, they were few and far between. Most people had drawn back within the protection of the perimeter, and made what preparations they could for the oncoming storm. Zila waited defiantly.

  The Emperor’s troops were coming.

  It was early morning, and a soft, warm rain was falling, when Mishani and her captors arrived. They rode in along the river bank, down to the base of the sharp slope between the walls of Zila and the Zan. Docks had been built there, and steep, zigzagging stairs to link them to the town itself. But no craft were moored; they had been scuttled or cast adrift and floated out into the sea, to prevent the enemy seizing them.

  The riders dismounted, and a man broke away from the dozen or so who milled about and walked over to meet them.

  ‘Bakkara!’ said the man, making the gesture of greeting between adults of roughly equal social rank: a small dip of the head, tilted slightly to the side. ‘I wondered if you’d be back in time. We’re closing the last gate at noon.’

  The man he had addressed – the man who had captured Mishani’s horse, and the leader of the party – gave him a companionable blow on the shoulder. ‘You think I’d let myself get locked out and miss the fun?’ he cried. ‘Besides, there’s probably more food in there than in the rest of Saramyr, my friend. And a soldier fights on his stomach.’

  ‘Might have known you’d be where the meal is,’ replied the other, grinning. Then, catching sight of Mishani, he added: ‘I see you brought back more than just supplies.’ He glanced over at Chien, who was battered and bloodied in his saddle. ‘That one has seen better days.’

  ‘He wouldn’t have seen any more of them if we hadn’t arrived when we did,’ Bakkara said, casting a look at the merchant. ‘Bandits. These two were the only ones that got out alive.’

  ‘Well, I hope they’re suitably grateful,’ replied the man; then he looked at Mishani meaningfully and winked at Bakkara. ‘One of them, anyway.’

  Mishani gazed at him icily until the humour faded from his face. Bakkara bellowed a laugh.

  ‘She’s a fearsome thing, isn’t she?’ he roared. ‘It wouldn’t do well to mock her. These are nobles we’ve got here.’

  The man glared at Mishani sullenly. ‘Get inside, then,’ he said to the group in general. ‘I’ll take care of your horses.’

  Mishani and Chien were forced to walk up the stone steps from the dock to the city. Chien was struggling because of his injuries, so their captors made allowances for him, and their progress was slow.

  Mishani looked up at the towering walls above them. They were being brought into a city in revolt, and
forced to weather it with them against the might of the armies of the empire. She did not know whether to thank the god of fortune or curse him.

  The men who had attacked them had undoubtedly been her father’s, though she had certainly not told Barakka that. She did not believe that bandits would choose a party of armed guards rather than any of the other dozens of unarmed travellers that had been scattered across the plains last night. Besides, they were too singleminded in purpose, and too few. Bandits would never attack an enemy which outnumbered them.

  She had no idea how the men had tracked them this far, but it had shaken her that they had managed to get so close to her once again. What if she had been in her tent when they rode through it? It was plain now that her father did not care whether she came back to him alive or dead. She felt a slender knife of sadness slide into her gut at that. It was a terrible thing to admit to herself.

  Then Bakkara and his riders had turned up. Perhaps she could have got away if not for their intervention, but the point was moot now. They had slaughtered Avun’s killers by weight of numbers, in time to save Chien’s life but not those of his guards. And then, instead of setting them free, they had asked Mishani and Chien to accompany them. It was phrased as a request, but they were in no doubt that they were captives. And besides, Chien needed medical attention, which they offered at Zila. Mishani acceded, to spare herself the humiliation of being tied and taken anyway.

  Despite their purpose, they did not treat her like a prisoner. They were talkative enough, and she learned a lot from them during their journey, and the short camp they made on their way back. Most of them were townsfolk from Zila, peasants or artisans. They had been despatched to raid supplies from the travellers passing south down the bottleneck – without harming anyone, they took pains to emphasise – and bring them back to bolster the stocks in the city for the oncoming siege. Their scouts had reported several armies due to reach them the next evening to crush the revolt, and they were by turns fearful and excited at the prospect. Something had sparked an unusual zeal in them, but Mishani could not divine what. They seemed more like folk with a purpose than desperate men fighting for their right to feed.

  But it was Bakkara that Mishani spent most of the journey with. An ingrained sense of political expedience dictated that she should not waste time with the foot-soldiers when she could forge relations with their leader; and he, apparently, was as happy to talk as his subordinates. He was a big man: swart, with small dark eyes, a stubbled lantern jaw and a squashed nose. His black hair was bound into ropes and tied through with coloured cord, swept back from his low forehead to hang down to his nape. Though he was nearing his fiftieth harvest, his bearish physique made him more than a match for most men half his age. In his voice and his eyes were a weary authority, a soldier who had seen it all many times before and had resigned himself to seeing it again.

  It was through Bakkara that Mishani learned how they had known who she was, and why his men’s reaction to their impending fate was so optimistic.

  ‘It’s not my habit to rescue noble ladies,’ he had said with a rough grin, in response to her question. They had been riding through the early hours of the night, and the atmosphere had a surreal and disjointed quality, as if their group were alone in an empty world.

  ‘Then what prompted you to break with tradition and kidnap me?’ she asked.

  ‘Hardly kidnapping, Mistress,’ he said. He used the correct title, though the mode he spoke in was anything but subservient. ‘Unless you want your man back there to ride the rest of the way to your destination in that state.’

  Mishani angled her head, and the faint starlight caught the sharp, thin planes of her cheek. ‘We both know that you would not let me ride away now,’ she said. ‘As for Chien, I care little for him. And he is certainly not my man.’

  Bakkara chuckled. ‘I’ll be straight with you,’ he said. ‘Anyone else, we’d have let them go on their way. But not you. On the one hand, Ocha forbid harm should come to you; and I wouldn’t like to let you go riding on your own any further south. Things are getting worse down there.’ His face creased in a twinge of regret. ‘On the other, you’re an asset too valuable to pass up, and Xejen would kill me if I did. We may need you at Zila. So I’m afraid that’s where you’re going.’

  Mishani had already worked out what her situation was before he mentioned Xejen’s name and confirmed it.

  ‘You’re Ais Maraxa,’ she said.

  He grunted an affirmative. ‘Aren’t you lucky?’ he said sarcastically.

  Mishani laughed.

  ‘You’re something of a legend in the Ais Maraxa, Mistress, as I’m sure you know,’ Bakkara continued with a wry tone. ‘You were one of those who saved our little messiah from the jaws of death.’

  ‘Forgive me, but you do not sound like the foaming zealot I would have expected of a man in your position,’ Mishani said, provoking a bellow of mirth from the soldier.

  ‘Wait till you meet Xejen,’ he returned. ‘He should match up to your standards much better than I.’ His laughter diminished a little, and he gave Mishani a strange look. ‘I believe in Lucia,’ he said eventually. ‘Just because I don’t spout the dogma doesn’t make my strength of conviction any the less.’

  ‘But you understand it is rather harder for me to see the point of view your organisation espouses,’ Mishani explained. ‘For you, she may represent an ideal, and objects of worship I find are more effective when worshipped from a distance; but for me, she is like a younger sister.’

  ‘Worship is a strong word,’ said Bakkara uncomfortably. ‘She is not a goddess.’

  ‘That much I am certain of,’ said Mishani. She found Bakkara curious. He did not seem entirely at ease with his professed allegiance, and that puzzled her.

  ‘But she’s something more than human,’ the soldier continued. ‘That much I am certain of.’

  Mishani brought herself back to the present, and back to the frowning walls of Zila that rose above them as they climbed the steps, helping the wounded merchant. She was recalling all that she knew of the Ais Maraxa, remembering old conversations with Zaelis and Cailin, mining titbits of information from the past like diamonds from coal. It had been too long since she had paid attention to the Ais Maraxa; she had never given them as much credit as she should have. Now she had been away and out of contact for over two months, and in her absence the Ais Maraxa seemed to have showed themselves at last to the world at large. She would never have thought them capable. It was what everyone close to Lucia had feared.

  They had begun as nothing more than a particularly radical and enthusiastic part of the fledgling Libera Dramach. Stories among the peasantry concerning a saviour from the blight were already rife long before the name of Lucia tu Erinima was heard. It was a natural reaction to something that they did not understand: the malaise in their soil that could not be checked. Though the Libera Dramach strove for secrecy, there were still those among them who talked, and stories spread. The tale of the imprisoned Heir-Empress became mingled with the already established webwork of vague prophecies, hope and superstition, and fitted in perfectly. In their eyes, the appearance of a hidden Heir-Empress who could talk to the spirits was a little too coincidental with the spread of the blight. It made sense that she had been put on Saramyr by the gods to engage the evil in the land. Certainly, there could be no other reason why Enyu, goddess of nature, would allow an Aberrant to be born into the Imperial family. Suddenly, the peasants talked not of a god or a hero who would save them, but a little girl.

  Still, the organisation that would become the Ais Maraxa remained nothing more than a mildly over-enthusastic splinter of the Libera Dramach. Until the Heir-Empress was rescued.

  The presence of their figurehead in the Fold was the incitement that they needed. Lucia’s preternatural aura and her seemingly miraculous escape from death convinced them that the messiah they had dreamed of was here at last. They had become more vocal in their dissent, arguing that total secrecy was not the answ
er; they should spread the news that Lucia was alive throughout the land, to gather support for the day when she would lead them. Much of the peasantry had seen their faith crushed when the Imperial Keep fell, and telling them of the child’s escape would only redouble their joy.

  Zaelis had forbidden it outright, and eventually the dissenting faction had quieted. Several months later they had left without warning, taking with them some of the most eminent members of the Libera Dramach. It was not long after that reports began to filter back of an organisation calling itself the Ais Maraxa – literally ‘followers of the pure child’ in a reverent dialect of High Saramyrrhic – that was spreading uncannily accurate rumours far and wide.

  Zaelis had fretted and cursed, and Cailin had sent her Sisters to divine the extent of the danger the Ais Maraxa posed; but it seemed at least that their worst fears had not been realised. Those few who had split from the Libera Dramach to form the Ais Maraxa had kept the location of the Heir-Empress a secret. Only a very select number knew where Lucia was. The rest of the organisation knew only that she was hidden, and passed that information on to others. It did little to reassure Zaelis, who thought them reckless and irresponsible; yet it had seemed for years that they were content to spread their message, and in the end Mishani had begun to discount them as virtually harmless.

  Now the gates of Zila stood before her, and she walked at Bakkara’s side into a town that was soon to close itself up for a siege. She wished she had paid more attention to Lucia’s fanatical followers, for the oversight might yet cost her dearly.

  The estate of Blood Koli lay on the western side of Mataxa Bay, on a cliff overlooking the wide blue water. Far beneath it were white beaches and coves, unspoilt stretches of sand that dazzled the eye. Several small wooden villages of huts, jetties and walkways built on stilts sprawled from the feet of the cliff out into the bay, and tiny boats and junks bobbed against their tethers. Several massive shapes bulked out of the sea in the distance, enormous limestone formations covered with moss and bushes, their bases worn away so that their tops were wider than their bottom ends, like inverted pinecones. The fishermen glided around them, stirring pole-paddles, and cast nets in their shadow.