by Ian Irvine
Nish crawled through the elbow-deep water towards the hole. The mechanism raced, rattled, raced again. The air-sled seemed to accelerate then the prow struck the rocks and slid across them. Nish heard the plug shear off, not that it mattered now. They were on the platform, safe.
‘Stretchers off first,’ Flangers bellowed.
Heavy feet ran across the deck.
‘Look out for that following wave,’ cried Clech. ‘Hang on!’
Nish was at the hole when the wave crashed over the rock platform, lifting the air-sled and turning it around. The surge began to carry it back towards the water and he lost his bearings momentarily. Before he could grab the rim, the prow of the air-sled must have gone over the edge, for it dropped sharply, he was carried down with the water and slammed against the inside of the prow.
He clawed his way up for air, aware that seawater was spurting in through the spear hole again and there was nothing he could do about it. The plug and hammer could be anywhere.
‘Get off!’ Flydd was roaring.
‘Hoy!’ yelled Flangers. ‘Grab that stretcher before it floats away. Carry them up the slope away from the surge.’
Nish heard people shouting, yelling and screaming; he could see the hole above him but the air-sled had caught on a projection at the edge of the rock platform and was still suspended, prow down, so steeply that he could not climb the wet metal.
At this angle the water was up to his shoulders and would soon rise above his head. He tried again, slipped and went under, and salty water went up his nose and down his wind-pipe.
He splashed up again, spitting out water and gasping for breath. Could he squeeze up along the side of the craft, where the hull tapered?
‘Where’s Nish?’ came Aimee’s high voice.
‘I thought he was out,’ said Flydd. ‘Has anyone seen him?’
‘I’m in here,’ he croaked, though he did not think he could be heard over the crash of the waves and the grinding of the keel against the rocks.
There was nothing to hang onto along the side, no way to pull himself up. He had swallowed so much seawater that he felt ill, and was seized by a deadly fear that he was going to drown.
‘Here!’ he screeched, banging on the underside of the deck with his knuckles.
‘He’s still inside,’ said Aimee. ‘Get him out before it sinks. Chissmoul, do something.’
‘Can’t! Wave tore – controller – away,’ she said dully. ‘We’re finished.’
‘Be buggered!’ snapped Flydd. ‘Flangers, can we get to the hole? He must be trapped down in the prow.’
‘I’ll try and drop a rope down to him,’ said Flangers. ‘Nish, can you hear me?’
‘Yes! Hurry up.’
‘I won’t be long. Stay calm. We’ll get you out.’
‘Big wave!’ sang out Clech. ‘Move away from the edge.’
The wave hit the air-sled, metal ground on stone underneath Nish and the craft moved further onto the rock platform; the angle of its tilt shrank fractionally, though not enough for him to climb out. He was waiting for it to drop further, thinking he was safe, when the surge went the other way, carried the air-sled with it over the edge, and it dropped like a boulder.
On the way down it tilted again, the water carrying him the other way in a great surge and slamming him against the inside of the stern. The air-sled kept falling, hit the bottom stern-first, rolled over and thumped down on its deck.
Nish lay there with the water over his head, battered black and blue; even his teeth hurt. Stay calm, he told himself as he rolled over and sat up. Just swim to the hole, out and up. But first he had to find the hole in the deck, and there was not a skerrick of light down here.
He took a deep breath, steadied himself, and could hear the precious air gurgling out through the spear hole. How long would it last? He could not guess, but at least that told him where the prow was – behind him. Nish swam the other way, sweeping his hands out from side to side, and shortly came up against the mechanism. The exit hole had to be to his left and it didn’t take long to find it. He felt through the hole and touched the seabed!
It was completely blocked by hard sand. In his dazed state he had not taken in that the air-sled was upside down. Panic exploded; he was trapped and, as soon as the last of the air was gone, he was going to drown.
Nish fought for self-control and tried to think, but in the darkness and the strange environment his thoughts were unusually sluggish. The air-sled was already half full of water so he didn’t have long. He took another breath and probed through the hole. Could he dig enough sand away to get out?
That would depend on what the seabed was. If it was all flat sand he was doomed, for he’d never move enough to reach any of the sides and get out from underneath. But if the deck was partly resting on rocks there could be a gap at one side or one end.
He wouldn’t know until he tried. Nish began to claw away the sand with his hooked fingers but it proved slow work, since the sand to either side kept slumping into the hollow. He needed a better, faster digging tool.
Crawling through the water to the broken mechanism, he kicked it with the heel of one boot until it fell apart. After sorting through the pieces, he settled on a clamshell-shaped metal cover. He could dig five times as fast with it.
He attacked the sand, lifting it inside the hull and dropping it to the side so not a grain would fall back in. The sides of the hole kept slumping, but in a few minutes he had excavated a hollow down to the length of his arm, and rather wider than the exit hole. Putting his head and shoulders down, he felt around.
Solid sand lay to his left, but ahead and on the right he felt a depression in the seabed, though there was no way of telling how far it went. He pulled himself down to his hips and felt again. The way ahead was blocked but the depression continued to the right. He was almost out of air, so Nish went backwards into the air-sled and squatted there, catching his breath.
The water level was much higher now, up to his neck, and the air was still gurgling out as rapidly as before. It would be gone in a few minutes. And what if he went through and there was no way out, or he became stuck?
Nish could feel the panic rising again, his claustrophobia returning. It was much harder to fight this time, for the thought of being trapped and waiting to drown made him want to shriek and batter his fists against the deck. He took another breath, and another, now having to tilt his head back to do so.
All right, he thought, here goes. Don’t do anything in haste – that will only make the panic worse. Taking the deepest breath he could draw, he grabbed his scoop and went through the hole and out along the seabed depression under the deck, concentrating on moving quickly but steadily. He wove to the right, trying to slip through the water like an eel.
Beside him he felt rock; ahead the depression continued. He swam along it confidently but it ended, everywhere, and panic exploded in his mind. The urge to scream and thrash was almost irresistible, but he knew that would be the end of him.
He went backwards, found that the seabed depression continued further to his right, on the other side of the rock the deck was resting on, and moved that way. His chest felt tight now, and he was a little short of breath, but he had to keep going. Left, left, right, then straight ahead, and he felt sure he had to be near the edge.
He touched the deck overhead to check, and encountered the ridge along its side. Only half a span to go, but now the way was blocked by a curving ridge of sand that must have been thrown up when the side of the air-sled hit the bottom.
He attacked it steadily, carving the face away and sliding the sand to his left. His chest was heaving now; he had only a few seconds’ worth of air. Nish kept on steadily, knowing it was his only option, and broke through. Carving another layer away to be sure he could get out, he let the scoop fall.
The passage proved a tight squeeze, and the pressure on his chest made the urge to breathe desperate, but he forced himself to keep going and felt his legs come free. He had to breathe
; had to; and there wasn’t time to swim to the surface, but if he could just reach the stream of air issuing from the spear hole …
Nish breathed out as he dragged himself across the hull, seeing red flashes before his eyes, and clamped his mouth over the ragged hole, heedless of the sharp metal edges cutting his lips.
He drank down the warm air, gasping it and feeling it bringing life back to his numb limbs. In, out, in, out, he breathed, then looked up to the surface. He couldn’t see anything. It might be two spans up, or twenty.
However deep it is, he thought, I’m going to make it. Nothing is going to stop me now. He swam up slowly, trickling air out of his nostrils, and in under a minute his head broke the surface.
‘Hoy!’ he yelled to the people standing on the platform. ‘Where’s that bloody rope you were going to send down?’
Flangers tossed it to him and they hauled him out, and he embraced them one by one, even Flydd. The militia gave him a quiet but heartfelt cheer.
‘Back from the dead,’ said Aimee, ‘and we’re going to follow you all the way to victory.’
TWENTY-NINE
‘I know Roros well,’ said Flydd after they’d collected their packs and weapons, plus what little food they’d saved, and climbed the first hill. Higher hills blocked their view to north and south, and inland.
‘The coast forms a series of rocky ridges and little coves here,’ he went on, ‘rising up to steep, barren hills, and there’s an abandoned watch-tower on the highest. That’ll be it there, see, where the cliffs rise straight up from the sea. A league beyond it, across the river, is Roros.’
‘Not tonight,’ groaned Nish, whose every bone and joint ached. ‘I feel as though I’ve been set upon and beaten.’ He stumbled and nearly fell.
Flydd put an arm around him. ‘We can’t get there tonight, and they wouldn’t let us in the gates if we did. Besides, after our brilliant performance in Taranta we’re not going to turn up looking like drowned rats. We’ll sleep in the watch-tower, if you can make it that far.’
‘Has someone got my gear?’ Nish mumbled, feeling close to collapse.
‘I’m carrying your pack,’ said Flangers, ‘and the staff, but I lost your sabre. Sorry.’
Nish could not have cared less. ‘It was Vivimord’s, anyway.’
‘It was a beautiful blade,’ said Flydd, ‘though designed for dark purposes. I’m glad it’s gone. I always had an uneasy feeling about it.’
‘It did everything I asked of it,’ said Nish. ‘And sometimes, when I was fighting with it, it seemed to go to the target of its own accord.’
‘A handy thing in a melee – unless it starts choosing its own targets.’
Nish squirmed away from that thought. ‘I was always in control of it.’ Except for the time he’d saved Huwld’s life, he realised.
‘I dare say. Anyway, it’s not the right weapon for the Deliverer … or whatever you plan to call yourself.’
‘Vivimord gave me that title. I won’t be using it again.’
‘What are you going to call yourself, in this campaign to bring down the God-Emperor?’
‘Nish,’ said Nish. ‘I’ve been Nish to my friends half my life. It’s a fine, ordinary name and suits me perfectly.’
‘Emperor Nish,’ said Flydd sourly. ‘It doesn’t have an imperial ring to it.’
‘Since I don’t plan to be emperor, it doesn’t matter!’
‘Quite!’ snapped Flydd. ‘As for the blade, I’ll get you a better one in Roros. They make fine weapons here.’
‘I wouldn’t mind my serpent staff. I’m not sure I can stay on my feet without a prop.’
Flangers handed it to him and they made their slow way to the watch-tower. Flangers eased the plank door open, checked that its three levels were unoccupied by man or beast, and they went inside and barred the door. Nish had no idea what they did after that. He staggered up the stairs to the open lookout platform at the top, where the warm air was so humid and soupy that the only bedding needed was a coat for a pillow, and collapsed.
When he woke late the following morning, the hot sun was burning his bruised face and Flydd was gone.
‘He went to Roros at dawn, in disguise,’ said Clech as Nish stumbled down the steps. The fisherman was sitting on the floor with his splinted legs stretched out in front of him, before a small blaze burning in an open fireplace. ‘Hungry?’
Nish could have gnawed off his right arm. ‘What have we got?’
‘Fried ham and seagull eggs.’
The last remnants of the purloined Taranta ham sat on the stone floor beside him, below a sling bulging with little eggs hanging from a rusty hook. Clech sliced ham as neatly as if he were filleting a fish and tossed it into a pan. Scooping out a handful of seagull eggs he crushed them in his fist and strained the eggs from the shell through his grubby fingers into the pan.
‘Did Flydd say when he’d be back?’ said Nish, sitting down. He was so sore that every movement took an effort.
‘Nope.’
After breakfast he went outside and tried to work out a plan to attack the empire, but Nish could not see how he was going to raise an army without being captured or assassinated. He had to have an army; but he could not raise one; but he had to have one. The dismal thoughts went back and forth, without hope of resolution.
He was sitting in the shade of the tower, looking over the cliffs at the sea and wistfully remembering those placid and mostly carefree times on the cliff tops of Gendrigore, when Flydd rode up the track from the south on a large black horse. Nish remained where he was, fanning himself with a banana leaf. The midday heat of Crandor was almost unbearable and at the cliff tops there was a slightly cooler breeze.
‘Any luck?’ he called as Flydd was tethering the horse to a bush.
‘Ah, there you are. Luck with what?’
‘Whoever you went to Roros to see. How do you know people there, anyhow?’
‘That’s a silly question, Nish, after all the time you’ve known me. The scrutators had to know the most important, influential, clever and talented people in the world, in every field, and when we went out in the world we didn’t carry written records. We were taught to remember everything.’
‘I thought you lost most of your old memories in renewal?’
‘It turns out they weren’t lost at all – I’d just forgotten how to find them – and they’re slowly coming back. Ten years ago I knew a thousand names and faces in Roros, and on the way here I’ve remembered half of them. Of course, many have died, and some are in the God-Emperor’s work camps and prisons, but it’s surprising how many are still around. I met half a dozen this morning – contacts who make it their business to know what’s going on – and they’ve given me much to think about.’
He looked Nish up and down. ‘You look like a rat-gnawed corpse.’
‘Thanks! I don’t feel too hot, actually.’ Nish flapped his banana leaf and wiped the sweat off his throbbing brow.
‘You’ve got fresh purple bruises over last week’s yellow ones, and your head is like a melon.’
‘Enough compliments – I can’t afford for it to swell any further,’ Nish said drily. ‘I’m going to lie down in the shade. I’m not designed for this climate.’
‘Good idea. Get some more sleep. We’re going out tonight and we won’t be back till late.’
‘Going where?’
‘I’ll tell you when we’re nearly there.’
It was after ten when they left, and everyone was asleep apart from Flangers and the guards. Flydd mounted the horse and helped Nish up in front of him, onto the horn of a saddle as hard as stone, then flicked the reins and the horse began to pick its way down the gritty track.
‘Shouldn’t we be disguised in some way?’ said Nish after a while.
‘What for?’
‘Wisp-watchers.’
‘Already taken care of.’
Flydd did not say how. He wasn’t in a talkative mood and neither was Nish, who endured the jolts in pain-filled sil
ence. They turned onto a paved highway and followed it over a river on a bridge of many arches, before taking a muddy cart road that led towards the shore.
There were fields on the left, freshly harvested, and an infestation of shanties and shacks to the right, like a series of boils growing out from the high wall of the city.
Turning in at a minor gate in the wall, Flydd said in Nish’s ear, ‘The guards have been bribed. Pull your hood down and keep out of the light. Say nothing.’
He rapped on the gate with the butt of his knife. The gate was opened and a pair of watchmen, one thin as a bean, the other a stocky wrestling type, stared at him.
‘Who comes?’ said the wrestler.
Flydd said something incomprehensible and held out what appeared to be a signed and sealed safe conduct, on vellum. The wrestler took it and held it close, squinting at it in the lantern light. Flydd tapped his serpent staff on the cobbles, whereupon one of the wrestler’s eyes rolled to the left, the other to the right. He swayed and passed the vellum up to the beanpole.
He did not even look at it before saying in a shrill voice, ‘That seems to be in order,’ and handing it back.
Something slipped from Flydd’s hand to the beanpole’s in the exchange, he waved them through and the gate banged behind them. They rode up a muddy road between houses that leaned out above them on either side, before following a winding path through a hundred unmarked alleys and mean streets until Nish marvelled that Flydd could find his way at all. Eventually he turned up a winding thoroughfare to a series of mansions on a flat-topped hill standing above the coast.
‘This should be the place,’ said Flydd as they approached a large house of several storeys built of grey stone, surrounded by a high wall with spikes along the top.
He scanned the street before approaching the high iron gates. A uniformed guard shone a lantern on his face, and Nish’s. He nodded, swung the gate open, locked it behind them, and held the reins of the horse.
Flydd sprang down. Nish tried to follow and fell off, for one leg had gone numb from sitting on the horn of the saddle. Flydd helped him up. Another guard led the horse away and Flydd set off down a paved path with flower beds on either side. Nish stumbled after him, aching in bone and sinew, and his entire backside feeling bruised.