Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Caeles observing her from the other side of the circle.
‘He has mastery over some kind of creatures,’ Sarai continued.
‘What kind of creatures?’ Caeles asked.
‘They’re large and black. I can’t see where there’s no light reaching down through the trees, so I never made out any other details. But I know that they are armoured, like a beetle,’ she said, just as one such insect crawled up her outstretched fingers and onto the back of her hand. ‘But I saw their faces. Almost human, but black and terrifying, with angry mouths.’
The only other time Sarai spoke openly was when they were only a few days from Iilyani, and she had been interrupted by noises from above. She seemed perturbed by the rustlings amid the sparse leaves in the trees around them, and at a guess Gabel spoke up.
‘They’re called goyles,’ he said. ‘They’re only dangerous if we stop moving for too long.’
‘You never came across them between leaving the Plains and encountering us?’ the magus asked.
‘No…’ said the woman, her neck straining to look upward. The steady rise and fall of the horse made the belt around her neck jolt. ‘But we had problems with sanguisuga.’
Suddenly Rowan heard a sound like a half-strangled yell. Gabel’s horse stood at the peak of a small rise that was bare of trees, and Gabel was staring in horror straight ahead. The apex of the path rose up above the canopy, and a clear view could be seen of the way ahead. The trees made a brown carpet stretching almost to the horizon, where they gave way to a dark patch of ground, and then the bright strip of the Sihn-ha Plains. Just before this was a small clearing, many miles away still, in which the so-called ghetto town of Iilyani sat. A black ribbon of smoke that curled up from the place, right into the late-afternoon sky.
The town was on fire. Smoke wafted up from every building, forming one acrid stream of cloud that reached up and up into the atmosphere. The clearing around the town had protected the surrounding woodland, but the dwellings hadn’t had such fortification, and were being decimated by the fire.
‘Iilyani burns,’ the hunter croaked, steadying his horse as it bucked and struggled against the reins. ‘It’s on fire!’
‘I see it,’ the magus said quietly.
Rowan and Sarai joined them. Their steeds nuzzled each other, taking advantage of this brief respite.
‘Who would do such a thing?’ asked Rowan.
‘What makes you think someone decided to do this?’ said Caeles objectively. He was further down the hill, almost back underneath the canopy. He seemed disinterested. ‘It could have been anything.’
‘Because this is Luxer territory,’ the magus spat. ‘And they enjoy performing monstrous acts.’
‘Iilyani has burned before,’ Sarai said quietly, coming up beside Gabel. ‘This is nothing new.’
‘It’s new for me!’ Rowan protested. Her brown eyes were wide as she looked across at the smouldering town.
‘The Luxers hate all people of dark skin,’ Sarai told her, her face a frown. ‘They kill people like me and him.’ She nodded toward the magus.
‘Why?’
‘Why not?’ Caeles said. He could still be seen, from between the mostly-bare branches. ‘Why the hell not? It’s nothing new. Some people are monsters, that’s all there is to it.’
‘Are we all not safe?’ Rowan said hoarsely. ‘Are we all at risk of being burned?’
‘Our skin is dark, but not as black as theirs,’ said Gabel, sounding almost apologetic.
‘I’m safe,’ Caeles said, but his back was turned. Rowan ignored him.
‘Why?’ Rowan pleaded. ‘We have a darkness to us! Why are we safe?’
‘If everyone with skin like yours was the enemy,’ the old man replied, ‘then there would be no-one for these people to call friends. They need support on this continent. They had to make allowances.’
‘Then I’m coloured but not coloured enough?’ Rowan said, on the verge of tears. ‘Who makes that decision? Why should Iilyani burn and others like her people be untouched by the fire? It isn’t human!’
‘It’s all too human,’ Caeles said. He had come back up the hill to meet them. His horse, like Gabel’s, struggled against the reins, and rose and turned as its rider tried to control it. ‘It’s nothing new, Rowan; it’s old, like me. Older. Stupid things like this thrive in a dead world. Let’s get moving. Hanging around here will only attract the goyles.’
‘There’s something else,’ Sarai said. ‘If the Luxers are near, and active, then I should tell you this: the Luxers are in league with the Caballeros de la Muerte.’
‘What?’
‘I came across one of the dark knights just outside Iilyani when I was last there. It was talking with one of the Luxers, and seemed to be making a bargain.’
‘What kind of a bargain?’ the magus demanded. Rowan detected fierceness in him now that was brought out by the chilling scene playing out further down the valley. He seemed full of arcane power, overflowing with energy and rage.
‘I don’t know,’ Sarai replied. ‘I couldn’t hear the words, but … they shook hands at the end of it.’
‘Wait,’ said Rowan. ‘I don’t understand. Who are the Caballeros? What does the word mean?’
‘Don’t you recognise the word?’ Caeles asked. ‘Spanish isn’t much different to Portuguese. Caballeros means “horsemen”. They’re knights.’
‘Demons,’ Gabel put in.
‘That’s just superstition. But they’re close. I knew a man once who ran into one of them on the east coast, far past Ponta Pora, by the sea. The knight arrived by row boat, alone, when most travelled to the northern continent and passed down by land, via Panama. The knight got out of his boat too far away from the shore, and with his armour sank right to the bottom. My friend thought he must have drowned. Then he saw a shape beneath the surface, and the helmet bobbed out, then his shoulders, then his chest-plate. He just walked right out of the water and onto the shingle, like a ghoul. He attacked my friend immediately and the guy barely survived.’
‘You’re scaring her,’ Gabel warned.
‘By Irenia, I’m not a child, Joseph!’ Rowan barked. She felt ill immediately afterwards, sick to her stomach with fear and anger at the hunter’s patronising remarks. But she was afraid; the thought of someone, something encased and hidden in such armour, something unstoppable and violent, made her heart skip in her chest.
‘If the Caballeros and the Luxers have formed an alliance, then we may encounter difficulties,’ the magus said.
Rowan thought that it must have been the only occasion she could remember when the magus had said something unnecessarily.
Caeles laughed cruelly.
‘Oh, this is wonderful,’ he said, already taking his horse down the hill. ‘Just wonderful.’
Sarai was looking out over at the burning town. ‘No. No, it’s not wonderful in the slightest.’
~
That night, as they camped apart from each other, shivering without a fire, Rowan rose and sat beside Sarai. ‘Will you tell me something?’ she asked quietly.
‘Depends,’ the Scathac replied.
‘On what?’
‘If I want to answer.’
‘How do you know this Cleric has your son Isaac? If you were separated, you wouldn’t know.’
Sarai sighed deeply, and pulled up the blanket that had been given her to sleep under. It was of a loose weave, highly inadequate, and she played her gloved hands through the threads. ‘Me and Isaac heard that a man named Tan Cleric has gathered a small group of people to help him in some task that might affect us all. Somehow it’s part of his quest for those who are “different”, what your friend Caeles call “errants”. After hearing what your mysterious old magus said, I also now believe that it’s connected to this weapon he mentioned.’
‘The Hahnium,’ Rowan remembered. She absorbed such information when she had the chance. Being so cut off during her time in Niu Correntia had seeded
an insatiable appetite for knowledge within her, which faded only on the days when her illness overcame her.
Sarai nodded. ‘That’s right.’
‘Then why did you not tell the others?’
‘Because I didn’t think it was important.’
‘But how do you know any of this?’
‘I know this, and that my son Isaac is captured by Cleric, because I have someone inside that group of his.’
‘What?’ Rowan rasped. ‘But you must tell Joseph! Why haven’t you done so?’
‘Because I overheard those men talking about Cleric, and there are ears about other than mine! This person is the only one who can save my dear Isaac, and if their cover is blown, then that person and my son will die.’
*
Nineteen
ERRANTS
The stench of his clothes was getting unbearable, and he had to tilt his head upward to try and catch the scents of the rainforest instead; the bright flowers, the sap from the trees, and the smell of freshly fallen rain.
His name was Johnmal, and he had travelled a long way from the town of San Bueto. There he’d met Henrique, the courier, who’d given him the parchment he now carried. It hung unopened, on a string tied to his belt. Henrique had said it was something for which the boss had been waiting a long while, information on an old enemy newly arisen, all the way from the Hall of the Regent of São Jantuo. Johnmal kept the parchment safe by his side, hanging just underneath the flap of his short-sleeved jacket.
His trip had been longer than he expected by a few days, and now his food had run out. Hunger burning inside him, he earlier risked eating a few of the wild fruits that grew in the rainforest, plucking them tenderly and tasting them with caution. He developed nothing worse than a minor bout of cramps, which had disappeared overnight. He’d had difficulties swallowing his berries then, and now, as he neared the end of his journey, he decided against eating anything more until he returned. The forests there were unpredictable, and often things weren’t as they seemed.
The facility was just in sight, the off-white walls of the single story building visible through the vines and other plant life. The rainforest had reclaimed it during the boss’ long absence, and now all that could be seen was the odd patch of wall, one or two of the broken plastiplex windows, and the door, through a hellish tunnel of vines and branches.
The first sensor was by the door, and opened into the first room. This was just the outer shell of the facility. Only two palm-prints were recognised by the sensor: Johnmal’s and the boss’. Freshly recycled air hit him in the face. He stood a while in this tiny room, cooling himself before entering the seven-digit pin-code that let him through the second door. It hissed open, and he faced the only guard.
‘Hello, Rosanna.’
‘Johnmal!’ The girl, only eighteen, jumped and wrapped her arms around him. ‘Jesus, Johnmal, you stink.’
‘Do you mind not blaspheming?’
The girl made a face of mock disappointment, and despite the faux-expression, her face was the same round delight it had always been, with naturally pursed lips and large, brown eyes. Just four inches under Johnmal, who stood at an impressive six-three, Rosanna was athletic, toned, and possessed surprising strength. She carried her scy-staff, a double-ended scythe that glinted dully in the sparse light.
‘Oh Johnmal, you really shouldn’t take religion seriously. It’s all rubbish.’
‘Nonsense. Religion gives faith, and faith gives courage. You should remember that if you want to became a true soldier.’
‘A true soldier!’ Rosanna laughed, putting her hands on her waist. ‘The boss trusts me to guard this place, doesn’t he?’
‘Guards,’ Johnmal said, leaning close, ‘are not true soldiers.’
As he turned to walk past, the blade of the scy-staff hissed past his ear and embedded itself between the door and its frame, two inches deep. Rosanna had to stand on tiptoe to whisper in his ear.
‘Be polite, Johnmal.’
‘I’m sorry,’ he said, voice failing to conceal this lie. ‘Won’t happen again.
He smacked a mid-air kiss without turning and activated the third door, stepping casually through and hearing it hiss closed behind him.
The corridors in the facility weren’t lit, as its inadequate generators couldn’t produce the power to do so. Instead they had the plastiplex windows that were greasy and scratched, some still overrun with weeds and mess that had grown there during and after the Conflict. At least a quarter were broken, with thick roots or vines worming their way inside, making a door for insects and some of the smaller mammals of the rainforest.
Rose was the one who fixed that kind of thing. Since she and Johnmal had arrived at the facility sixteen years before, beautiful pale Rosanna had been the one most thankful and eager to please. Being raised by the boss made him her father, and she would violently protect him and his name if need be. It also meant that she fell over herself to do his bidding: clean, cook (occasionally) and repair things that had broken. Rosanna was an adept handywoman, but she hadn’t heard of equality.
The place hadn’t lost its smell during the time Johnmal had been away. It still stank of the disinfectant Rosanna put all over the place, and the stench of the creatures in the hold still drifted up the corridors every now and again. Why Rose was needed to guard the place when the boss had those abominable beasts under his command was anybody’s guess.
His hand unfastened the papyrus parchment from his belt almost subconsciously, having it ready in his hand for when he found the boss. He arrived at the small kitchen, finding it empty. He took the seat he usually took, the one facing the door he had entered through, and quietly waited, rolling the message on the tabletop as he did so.
The sun set outside, and the door Johnmal faced opened. Rose entered, still brandishing the scy-staff in her right hand, her left smoothing her hair, which was pulled tightly back into a ponytail. It hadn’t been cut since her birth, and was now astonishingly long; the sleek, dark strands were pulled into a think braid that was clasped in several places. It almost reached the floor.
‘Not seen the boss yet?’ she asked mildly, moving straight to the sink and pouring herself some water from the tanks.
‘No. Is he busy?’
‘Apparently,’ she smiled, and sat down. Johnmal studied her face.
‘You’ve gotten older,’ he said.
‘You’ve been gone a long while.’
‘Only a few weeks.’
‘It seems more,’ she replied, not looking at him but at one of the old magazines she liked to read. Her English was slightly better than Johnmal’s, who’d had to learn it as a teenager from the boss. Rosanna had been raised on it.
‘Get anything interesting?’ she asked.
‘A message from the Regent of São Jantuo-on-Lual.’
‘Really?’ she said, looking up. ‘May I look?’
‘No, I haven’t even read it yet.’
‘Why not?’
‘I don’t read the boss’ messages.’
‘Johnmal, you’re ludicrous. How’s he going to know if you’ve read it or not?’
‘I thought you believed in all we did here?’
‘I do,’ she replied. ‘But d’you think we’d need to keep that boy locked up if the boss could do everything he says he can?’
‘I don’t know,’ he said sharply, standing and moving to the sink. ‘Read your magazine.’
Rosanna stood and slipped her hands around his waist from behind, rising on her toes once more to kiss him on the cheek. ‘I’ve missed you, Johnmal.’
‘Me too.’ He turned and they kissed; by the time they’d finished the sun had gone down.
‘Rose,’ he said, still holding her close.
‘Yes?’
‘Did you and the boss get up to anything while I was away?’
‘Johnmal! The boss is—’
‘I am what?’
They turned to see him entering through the doorway that led deeper into the fa
cility. He didn’t pause as he shut the door behind him and cut his way through their embrace to get to the sink.
His white hair was just as Johnmal remembered it: cut short, but still holding its perpetual disarray. The goggles he always carried hung heavily around his neck – they hadn’t actually been worn for a long time, Johnmal could see, as they’d collected dust inside the upturned lenses. He wasn’t wearing his lab-coat for once, but his casual clothes that were of indistinct colour in the poor lighting.
His face was lined with age: he looked about mid-sixties, though he was actually closer to one hundred and sixty. He had rings under his eyes, a sure sign that he was having trouble sleeping again. His insomnia went in cycles, months at a time, confounded, he said, by noises in the night: the beating of vast wings.
‘Well?’ the boss said, washing his hands in the sink. ‘I am what?’
‘I was going to say a little old,’ Rosanna said, grinning at her boss as he looked up in surprise.
‘You youngsters. No respect for your elders. Is the sun down already?’
‘Yes, boss.’
‘I told you,’ he replied, ‘don’t call me boss. Tan. Or at least Mister Cleric.’
‘What about “father”?’ she asked.
He smiled. ‘Yes, father’s all right. Though I’d prefer Cleric. Johnmal,’ he said, turning to face the messenger. ‘What do you have for me? Anything?’
‘A scroll from São Jantuo.’
‘A personal message? From Dysan?’
‘No. It’s an interception. Henrique Martínez gave it to me.’
‘He’s one of your regular spies?’
‘That’s right.’
‘Okay then. Who was it meant for?’ he asked, unravelling the parchment.
‘A priest in San Bueto. I haven’t read it.’
‘I should hope not,’ Cleric said quietly, reading the message. Then: ‘My god.’
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