by Ian Irvine
By the rising moon she found a cluster of seven upjutting rocks which broke the wind. Sitting with her back to the broadest rock, Maelys rubbed her scratched and blood-streaked calves. She gnawed at the end of her loaf until her jaw ached, washing the gritty residue down with a swig of warm, smelly water from her water skin. She pulled her robes around her, for it was a clear, cool night, pillowed her head on her pack and, despising herself for her cowardice, eventually slept.
She woke with beads of sweat sliding down her back. The sun, though only a handspan above the horizon, was blazing directly on her. After more hard bread and murky water she climbed a hillock to check on her surroundings. The advance guard of the Defiance were already moving northwest, though a long tail stretched back to the camp. Word of the great victory must have spread, for she counted eight small bands of pilgrims moving in to swell their numbers. Further off, carrion birds circled above the unseen battlefield.
Maelys had decided to follow the caravan at a distance, for the next few days at least. After that, when her food ran out, she would have to find a way to survive in a world where the God-Emperor’s spies took note of every traveller to enter the smallest village.
A day later, she was following the trampled path of the caravan through another patch of woodland, treading carefully to avoid the droppings of horses, oxen and ill-mannered people, when she realised that she wasn’t the only person shadowing the Defiance. She’d seen that tall, lean figure ahead yesterday afternoon. Maelys had assumed he was going to join the caravan, but he was just as far behind it now.
Losing sight of the fellow, she slipped into the vase-shaped depression formed where five trunks spread from the gnarled base of a tree. Its smooth bark was covered in scribbly marks, like the glyphs of a dead language. Was he one of Phrune’s minions, hunting her?
She crouched down, feeling for her knife, but saw him further ahead, moving on. He wasn’t after her; he was following the caravan. But why keep so far back? A spy could learn nothing from this distance that the whole country didn’t already know.
Shortly, peeping out between the trunks, she saw him again, moving slowly and carefully. He had to be up to something. Maelys noted where he made camp that afternoon, in a copse by a rivulet, and once it had grown dark she crept close.
It was the tall, hollow-cheeked supplicant whom Phrune had repeatedly turned away. He was sitting cross-legged on the ground in front of his camp fire, staring into the flames and occasionally rotating a carcass, the size of a large hare, on a spit.
Fat dripped into the fire, which blazed up. A breeze carried the smell of roasting meat to Maelys and she salivated. She’d eaten the last of her dry bread for lunch and, not having found anything edible despite hours of searching, faced the prospect of going to bed hungry and getting up to more of the same.
He didn’t look like an assassin, though. He was staring at the dirt between his boots, as if in a deep depression. Maelys was about to turn back to her dismal camp when he called, ‘I know you’re out there. Either show yourself, or go away and leave me in peace.’
His voice had a bitter edge which matched the downcast look on his face. He’d suffered unjustly, or believed he had. She didn’t sense any threat in him though, so after a long hesitation she moved into the circle of fire-light.
‘Hello,’ Maelys said, uncertainly.
He stared at her. ‘The little healer! What are you doing out here, all alone and defenceless?’
‘No one would harm me,’ she said softly, maintaining the role.
Again his smile displayed that hint of long-endured bitterness. ‘Sister, there are people in this world who would eat your living flesh and lap at your flowing blood for the sheer joy of making you suffer. Go back to the Defiance where it’s safe, and go quickly.’
‘I –’
‘I’ll escort you, if you wish,’ he said softly. ‘I would not see you come to harm after your great deeds on the Deliverer’s behalf.’ Sarcasm this time, and she couldn’t work out why.
‘I – I can’t.’ She surprised herself by revealing her vulnerability to another, and a stranger at that, but, despite Tulitine’s earlier words she felt that she could trust him. If she didn’t trust someone she would be lucky to survive.
‘Why not?’ He indicated the ground.
She sat down with a weary sigh, trying not to look at his dinner. ‘I’m not a healer. At least, not a qualified one, and I’m wearing this habit so I won’t be recognised.’
He didn’t look surprised. ‘If it would fit, I’d borrow it from you. Disguise is the only way I’ll ever get to plead my case to the Deliverer.’
‘What is your case?’
He waved a hand; he didn’t plan to tell her. ‘You don’t look as though you’ve eaten in days. You’re welcome to share my supper.’
‘I – I don’t –’ Her mouth was so thick with saliva she couldn’t get the refusal out.
‘There’s plenty for two.’ He prodded the carcass with the point of his knife. Clear juice ran out. ‘Besides, I can easily catch another. There are few better hunters in this country than me.’
His words chilled her. What sort of hunter was he and why was he so bitter about the Deliverer? He snapped the backbone and handed her the rear half, which was almost too hot to hold. ‘Thank you,’ she said, sinking her teeth through the crispy skin into juicy white flesh which, to a half-starved woman, was unbearably delicious.
Neither spoke until they had finished and wiped their hands and faces on handfuls of dry grass. ‘Since you’re not of the Healing Order, may I see your face? I like to know who I’m sharing my food with.’
She hesitated; but after all, she couldn’t hide forever. Maelys drew back her hood. He studied her face as if committing it to memory, then sighed. ‘I’ve a feeling we’re after the same thing.’
‘What are you talking about? You don’t know anything about me. I’ve never been to this land before.’ Why had she given that away?
‘We’re now on the southern border of Crandor. You must have heard of Crandor, wherever you’re from. It’s the largest and wealthiest country in the world. At least, it was wealthy before the God-Emperor came to power.’
‘Of course I’ve heard of Crandor,’ she said mildly, ‘and I’m not as far from home as you are.’ The native people of Crandor were dark-skinned and filed their teeth to points, and they didn’t speak the way he did.
‘I’m very far from home, but we were talking about you – and how you stole the son of the God-Emperor out of his most impregnable dungeon.’
She paled. How could he know that? ‘Nonsense!’ she cried. ‘You’re mad.’
‘I see you don’t deny it. Little sister, the whole world knows about Nish’s daring escape from prison and his desperate flight into the mountains with a mysterious raven-haired woman with a southern accent, who saved him over and again.’
‘I haven’t heard any such tale.’
‘You would have if you’d spent time with the Deliverer’s other followers instead of hiding under your healer’s robes.’
‘Anyway, there are millions of women in the world like me.’
‘Not like you, and not here. Besides, the village of Tifferfyte saw you drop out of the sky on a stolen flappeter, and the full tale was spread across the world by skeet before those who would use the Deliverer for their own purposes took control. Need I go on?’
‘Go on,’ she said limply. She had to know what the world was saying about Nish, and her. Though if a man who had never seen her before could recognise her so easily, surely there was nowhere in Crandor she could hope to hide.
‘And then the incredible escape from Tifferfyte under the very nose of Seneschal Vomix, using Arts that were never known before. All Crandor knows that tale too, though not just from Monkshart’s twisted half-truths. A girl who escaped with you spread the true tale, and even your name. You’re Maelys, aren’t you?’
No point trying to conceal it any longer, though surely the God-Emperor knew her
identity too, and was even now hunting down her family. Nor could she blame Jil for telling the story – to be the bearer of such a tale would feed her and Timfy for weeks. ‘I am.’
‘So why aren’t you standing in the place of honour beside the Deliverer?’
‘I … like Nish too much. Monkshart is afraid Nish will become fond of me too, and give up his plan to become the Deliverer. Monkshart wants me dead.’
He shivered. ‘Then run for your life, Maelys. He’s a dangerous man and, sooner or later …’
‘But I swore to help Nish become the Deliverer.’
‘I’m sure he wouldn’t hold you to that promise at the risk of your life.’
‘I didn’t swear to Nish. He never wanted to become the Deliverer.’
‘Really?’ he said sourly. ‘He looked as though he was loving every minute of his pampered life.’
‘He was crushed by his time in prison. It’s taken him months to get over it.’ She didn’t want to say any more. It was none of this man’s business and she was beginning to worry about what he wanted with Nish. No wonder Nish had yearned to run away. ‘Anyhow, he saved us all in the battle.’
‘Yes, he did. I doubted him before that, but who could do so afterwards?’
‘You didn’t give me your name.’
‘You can call me Thommel.’
Which implied that he didn’t plan to reveal his real name. ‘Why are you shadowing the Defiance, Thommel?’
He gave a twisted grin, but didn’t answer.
‘I saw you trying to get an audience with Nish, and Phrune repeatedly refusing you.’
‘I don’t want to talk about it,’ he said coolly, as though she’d trespassed on a forbidden topic.
Thommel was too difficult. She took the hint and stood up, saying formally, ‘Thank you for dinner. It was delicious. I hope you find what you’re looking for.’ She turned away, holding her back straight, though it was impossible to make a dignified exit wearing her tent-like robes.
Thommel sprang up. She shot a glance over her shoulder in case he had ill intentions after all, but he was just standing by the fire, looking anxious.
‘I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to be rude. We do share a common interest in Nish and … if we travelled together, we could watch each other’s backs.’
She hesitated, remembering the aunts’ childhood warnings about men and their uncontrollable desires. But Nish wasn’t like that, and she didn’t think Thommel was either.
He added the clincher. ‘I’ve another hare hanging in the tree. For breakfast.’
They followed the caravan for another three days, and Maelys couldn’t remember when she’d last eaten so well, which was fortunate because she’d never felt so hungry.
Thommel turned out to be pleasant company after all, except where Nish was mentioned, though, despite Maelys’s oblique questioning, he revealed nothing more about himself. He went to every village they passed, to hear the latest news. Maelys wished she could go too but it didn’t seem worth the risk. She felt so lonely that she even missed the acerbic company of her mother and aunts.
Everyone knew about the Defiance’s great victory, and another attack on its growing force was expected at any time. The caravan was harried every so often by flights of flappeters, though there was no sign of an enemy army. But then, there hadn’t been the first time, either.
On their fourth morning together, Maelys and Thommel were sitting on a small pointed hill looking down at the camp as the sun rose, when suddenly people began to run everywhere. She leaned forwards. ‘Something must have happened during the night. Something bad.’
‘I’d better sneak down and find out.’
Thommel was gone a long time, and returned at a lope. ‘Someone tried to assassinate Nish in his bed,’ he panted, ‘and it wasn’t the first time. There was an attempt two days ago as well – by the guard.’
Maelys could feel the blood draining away from her face. ‘But you’re not saying that Zham –’
‘It wasn’t Zham. Both times it happened when he was off duty. But that’s not what’s caused the real stir.’
She felt all cold inside. How could it get any worse? ‘What is it?’
‘Monkshart has gone into an uncontrollable rage; he’s stalking the camp like a madman.’
‘Thommel, what’s going on?’
‘Nish fled in the night, with Zham, and no one has the faintest idea where they’ve gone.’
THIRTY-SIX
The first two days after Nish’s injury were a blur of pain and fever accompanied by the strangest dreams: that a small, black-haired woman was tending his wounds, and she had the softest hands he’d ever felt.
Unfortunately, once he regained his wits, Nish discovered that his healer was tall, elderly and dark-skinned, with filed teeth and a brisk, no-nonsense manner, but he kept dreaming about Maelys and often woke, crying out her name. Monkshart came to Nish each time, soothing him and reminding him that Maelys had died in the massacre at Tifferfyte.
He knew it to be true but he didn’t want to believe it.
A few days later, Nish was lying awake in the early hours when he heard a rustle outside his tent. The flap was pushed aside, letting in a faint light from the guard’s lantern. It wasn’t loyal Zham, who was taking the few hours he allowed himself off duty, to sleep.
‘Is that you, Monkshart?’ There was no answer. Nish tried to turn over, though it proved so exceedingly painful that he stopped halfway.
He could hear heavy breathing, as if the intruder had been running, and smell the rank sweat of a man who hadn’t bathed in months. ‘Monkshart? Phrune?’ No one else ever came into his tent save the tall healer who changed his dressings, and it wouldn’t be her at this time of night.
Nish hadn’t used his unreliable clearsight in ages, but now the intimation of danger was so strong that, ignoring the pain, he hurled himself sideways off the bed, roaring ‘Help!’ The dagger missed him by a few hairs, then he struck the floor hard and rolled under the bed. The guard, his face a mask of determined terror, fell to his knees to slash at him in the gloom.
‘Help!’ Nish shouted. ‘Help, help!’ He scrabbled the other way, saw a small gap between the tent wall and the ground and tried to roll through it. The stitches popped in his back but he barely felt it. He couldn’t think about anything but getting through that gap, though he knew he was too slow.
He was expecting to be stabbed to death when two men burst in through the flap and hurled themselves on the treacherous guard. Tearing the knife from his hand, they dragged him outside and gave him the beating of his life. Nish could hear fists and boots striking flesh for a long time, then a man said, ‘He’s bleeding bad.’
Not even Monkshart could discover who had corrupted the guard, for in the middle of the beating he’d thrust a hidden dagger into his femoral artery and bled to death in a minute.
Zham was abject when he appeared at the flap, as if it had been his fault for not standing guard twenty-four hours a day. ‘I’m sorry, surr,’ he said, his broad jaw knotting. ‘I was so tired I had to sleep for a few hours. It won’t –’
‘Zham, it’s not your fault,’ Nish said wearily, for he ached all over and his back was in agony. The healer redoing his stitches was nowhere near as gentle as the one who still haunted his dreams.
‘Of course it’s his fault,’ Monkshart said coldly from the background. ‘He set himself up as your protector and –’
‘Monkshart,’ Nish gritted. ‘Get out of my tent and don’t ever come back without my express invitation.’
There was a dead silence. The healer stifled a gasp, bent over and busied herself with her stitching.
‘Deliverer –’ said Monkshart in a strained voice.
‘Out, and if you trouble me again I’ll set my Defiance on you.’
It felt good to humble him; foolhardy but very good. At that moment, if Nish could have crushed Monkshart like a cockroach he would have done it. The tables were turned and from now on he’d be the one givin
g orders. The astonishing victory in battle had confirmed his authority.
Monkshart’s eyes flashed; he ground his teeth together, looking as though he was going to burst with rage. Only with the most enormous effort did he maintain self-control and bow his head as if deferring to his master.
‘Surr!’ he said formally, then stalked to the flap, flung it open and went out.
‘Deliverer,’ the healer said quietly, ‘You’ve made an enemy who will never forgive you. And he’ll deal with Zham and me for overhearing.’
She wasn’t reproaching Nish, though she had a right to. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said, and he was. ‘Gather your gear and go home to your village right away. And thank you, for all you’ve done for me.’
‘Beware, surr,’ she added on the way out. ‘There’s something wrong inside Monkshart.’
Nish’s euphoria faded and he began to feel the burst stitches. Why hadn’t he shown more self-control? His life was difficult enough without making an enemy of his most powerful ally. He should have sent Zham to fetch Monkshart back and made amends, but the pain caught up with him first and he couldn’t face it.
Only after the nurse had gone, and Zham had taken up his post, did it occur to Nish to wonder who wanted him dead. And why.
The caravan rolled on without incident apart from nightly attacks by flappeters and other flying creatures, unidentifiable in the darkness. These did little damage, for Monkshart’s guards kept close watch now, and bonfires burning on all four sides of the camp gave them good light in which to fire their heavy crossbows. Massed fire had brought one flap-peter down, after which the others kept out of range.
Two days after the first attempt on his life, Nish was lying awake listening to his night guards boasting about how easily the latest attack had been beaten off, when something rustled on the canvas floor of his tent. He turned up the wick of his lantern and froze, for what he was looking at couldn’t possibly exist.