An Artist's Eye (Dica Series Book 5)

by Clive S. Johnson

  34 An Urban Legacy

  Such a clear, unsullied sky barred nothing of the moonlight, against whose glare even the stars glistened brightly. The craulena could easily have done without lanterns for the buildings along the top of the ridge remained brightly lit by the moon as they passed alongside.

  After their relief at escaping from the tunnel, and so coming back into Leiyatel’s gaze, the jubilation of the craulena’s occupants had slowly subsided. Their fraught day was quickly catching up with them. When Breadgrinder had insisted he was fresh enough to drive on, Phaylan had not objected. He’d again settled back against his seat and absently gazed through the windows.

  Buildings had hemmed them in all that time, although they were clearly dilapidated and long abandoned. Many had been little more than ruined exterior walls, but the craulena’s slow progress up the gentle rise steadily revealed more and more that appeared intact.

  Now, perhaps an hour later, almost all had walls, some with fragments of roof. They even looked less weathered, complete enough to suggest the craulena’s noisy passage might indeed disturb their sleeping occupants.

  Whether the edge of his own sleep robbed him of sense he couldn’t be sure, but the prospect of catching sight of folk scampering along those streets seemed more tenable. Phaylan even thought he’d glimpsed some movement down an alleyway, but discounted it. “Just dozing off or seeing ghosts.”

  He remembered Mirabel, rather vividly it seemed, from a day earlier in the year when they’d been with Bridget, a young friend of theirs, on the quayside at Grayden harbour. They’d bumped into an old trader, one who’d long supplied Mirabel’s mother with linen when she’d been alive. He’d looked to have fallen on hard times, though.

  “Sorry, Misses,” he’d said to Mirabel, after expressing his sadness at her ladyship’s passing, “but I were wondering if thee could ‘elp me wi’ one of them there new-fangled license things. It’s just that I’ll need one soon to keep trading. I don’t suppose thee could see thee way to putting a word in with thee dad for us? For old time’s sake, as it were.”

  Mirabel had drawn the trader away so they could speak more privately, leaving Bridget asking Phaylan, “Who the heck was that?” as she’d placed her hand on his arm. He couldn’t remember her having shaken it, though, certainly not as roughly, nor spoken with such a deep voice.

  “Open your eyes,” urged Breadgrinder, who shook him again but more forcefully this time. “Quick, afore we lose sight of it.”

  Phaylan looked up and saw Breadgrinder pointing and so followed his finger’s aim as he pushed himself up in his seat.

  About twenty yards away, stark against a doorway’s black opening, the figure of a moonlit child stared back at them.

  “The air must be breathable,” Breadgrinder enthused. “It must be safe outside. Quick, let me past before it runs away.” He struggled to get from behind the wheel but Phaylan held him back.

  “Look,” he said, almost pushing the big man back into his seat. “Where’s the child now?” and Phaylan pointed.

  “He’s still there. Why? Why are you trying to stop me?”

  “Drive the craulena towards it, Breadgrinder. Go on. Turn this great noisy beast and its glaring gaze so we can shed light on what we see.”

  “Are you mad? Do you want me to scare the living daylights out of the poor mite?”

  Phaylan only opened a hand towards the steering wheel, his other still barring Breadgrinder’s escape. Something must have struck the man himself for he paused and stared again before sitting back down and stoking the engine. The wheels scrawped against the bare rock of the street as he slowly brought the craulena tightly around in a circle.

  The lamplight slid across wan walls and dark lingering alleyways, past wide-eyed windows and dull-witted doors, fluidly marking the craulena’s intimidating swing. Now but feet away, and awash with yellow light, the child proved to be no child at all.

  Black sockets - round and empty - were all that stared out from its finely pocked face, as dull as old iron and showing less life. They could now see that it had the size of a child but not the proportions - too slender, too long-limbed. It also clearly lacked a child’s vitality for its feet lay buried beneath a thick layer of dirt, clearly laid down over long millennia.

  For a moment, Phaylan thought its face had coloured and so leaned nearer the window, only to find testament to the air’s meagre moisture - a thin blush of wind-scoured rust.

  “What the heck is it?” Breadgrinder asked.

  “Whatever it is, it’s bloody creepy,” one of the seamen muttered, now close-pressed behind them, but who remembered to add, “sir.”

  When Phaylan at last dragged his eyes away, he thought them slow to adjust to the light of the moon, but then realised it had already set. He quietly asked Breadgrinder if he wouldn’t mind moving the craulena on.

  “Put us out of sight of it and we’ll call it a night. We’ll not be able to see the towers now we’ve no moon so I think some rest might be in order. It’s been a long day.”

  A suitable place was soon found where the engine was finally doused, letting silence flood in. The night had turned chill, making the windows mist with their breath.

  Phaylan pulled his coat about him and closed his eyes. Not for the first time did he wonder what this place had once been, but then remembered Dialwatcher’s strange comment. What had the steward hoped to gain by the venture? What had he expected, and why?

  A cold draught at his back made him shift his position, but the hard seat this time refused him its comfort and his leg quickly became cramped. Phaylan sat up and stretched, feeling the ache subside, but then caught sight of something through the window.

  The squeak of his hand against the pane alerted Breadgrinder. “What’s up?”

  Phaylan didn’t reply, too intent on peering through the smeared window. He quickly cleared yet more but then started and drew a sharp breath. Breadgrinder had leant in nearer so he could follow Phaylan’s stare.

  “I saw it too,” he quietly said. “Over there, against the stars in that gap.”

  “Something’s moving out there,” Phaylan said, “something coming and going. What on Earth could it be? Quick. Spark the lamps.”

  Breadgrinder fumbled with the cable, jerking away at its knob until Phaylan reminded him about the naphtha. Breadgrinder cursed, alerting the others, but found the right lever. More jerking and curses, and finally a dull thud marked the lamps’ ignition.

  “I’ve lost that bleeding valve again,” and he fumbled yet more. “Ah,” and a click. The wan light slowly brightened to reveal a small group of diminutive figures, all busy dismantling the craulena’s nearside wheel.

  35 A Bounded Plain

  The descent onto the plain had been hair-raising, so precipitous that the camper van fast overcame its inadequate brakes. Its unprepared occupants were as quickly overtaken by very real fears.

  They’d immediately plunged into the ridge’s almost pitch-black shadow, the moon having by now slipped well down the western sky. At the bottom of the slope, after the sudden levelling had rammed their backsides hard into their seats, the camper van had chased across the plain behind the ridge’s lengthening shadow until Falmeard finally managed to bring them to a halt.

  Prescinda was staggered they were still alive. The fact they’d kept to the road at all seemed a miracle. The pale surface may have stood out even in the starlight, but Falmeard’s valiant attempts at steering between its edges had been little better than hit and miss.

  Once her heart had sunk back from her throat, Prescinda drew a deep breath and stared at the rising ridge on the far side of the plain. The calming she’d sought evaded her for the towers on top looked even more imposing from below. Their glittering rise turned out to be short-lived, though, in the fast waning moonlight. Soon even their summits faded, leaving them eerily silhouetted against a panoply of stars.

  Prescinda shivered and drew her jacket tightly about her, her breath thinly hazing the starlit air.
“I wouldn’t want to have to do that again in a hurry,” she carefully measured, but it seemed only she who could yet utter words.

  The persisting silence felt too oppressive. “Do you know what’s at the end of the road, Falmeard? Did the mural tell you what to expect?”

  He tried to answer but his own voice hadn’t yet caught up with him. He coughed and slowly passed his hands over his drawn face. “Err,” he managed, “well, not really, no, not explicitly.”

  She dared looked at him at last. “Not explicitly?”

  “No, not really.” He swallowed, shifted in his seat and shook his head, presumably casting off the horrors of the last few minutes. “The mural told me only that ... that Eastern Walk leads to...” He took a deep breath. “Leads to Leaten der snaca eyn dragan.”

  “To where?”

  Nephril now seemed more recovered himself. “Let the serpent draw in,” he said with an academic’s air of pride.

  “As I too understood it at first, Nephril,” Falmeard said. “To somewhere that lets the serpent be drawn in as I’ve since refined it.”

  “But you do know what it means in practice, surely?” Prescinda sought. “I mean, you must do.”

  “Err, well, not exactly.”

  “The serpent?” Nephril absently pondered.

  “I don’t understand,” Prescinda said, shaking her head, “you’re the one who’s meant to go there, aren’t you?”

  Falmeard nodded.

  “Then why serpent and not simply Falmeard?”

  “Maybe the ancient engers,” Nephril suggested, “did not wish Falmeard’s name made plain for all to see. But why call thee Serpent, eh, Falmeard?” but the supposed serpent did not answer.

  “Oh well, I suppose all we can do,” Nephril said, “is carry on and find out,” which they soon set about doing. Falmeard this time, however, drove them quite sedately along what had become a ghostly road.

  It felt to Prescinda as though they weren’t moving at all, despite the crunch of gravel beneath the wheels and the occasional jar of the camper van’s otherwise gentle sway. The view ahead seemed not to change, certainly not for long stretches of time, not until she had to lower her head to see the tower tops, or lean forward for a clearer view south as she kept watch for the yellow light.

  When the ridge ahead eventually filled the view, Prescinda broke the persisting silence. “You know, I noticed there were lots of snake’s hidden away all over the mural. Were they there to guide you through it, Falmeard?”

  “I don’t think we’re far from the end of the road now,” he said.

  “Eh? Where?” Prescinda sat up and stared ahead. The starlight revealed little on the slope before them, making it look like a black wall across their way. She certainly saw nothing of note, not even the road now, and realised they’d at last come to its end.

  The camper van stopped, silently tinkling and crackling and clunking to itself as its doused engine rapidly cooled. She knew they had to save naphtha, but the engine’s constant drum had been such a reassuring companion these past few days. Now, its silence only heightened how unearthly the place felt.

  “If you’ve got any cat’s blood in your ancestry,” Falmeard said, “then you might stand a chance of seeing more than I can, but otherwise I’d say we’re stumped until sunrise. Whatever we’ve come here for, it’s not at all obvious in the dark.”

  They had to agree, and so once more fell to routine. Quickly out of the cab and into the back of the camper van, Nephril’s seemingly unending stew soon sat before them again. Tonight, though, its rich flavour and wholesome warmth seemed even more comforting somehow, a palliative for the barren confines of the bounded plain.

  “For the want of light, eh?” Falmeard said when they’d at last sat back, stomachs full. He stared at the lamp, standing between them on the table. “I’m not sure I could sleep through ‘til sunrise, though, so I suppose it’s going to be a long night.”

  “Light?” Prescinda said as she put her head on one side and stared more keenly at the lamp herself. At first the others just looked at her until their own lights clearly dawned.

  They were soon back in the cab, this time with the lamp in Falmeard’s hand. Once settled in, the door firmly shut and each on the edge of their seats, he brought it against the window pane and shielded their eyes from its light with an old engine rag.

  They could none of them see anything against the reflections in the glass. Prescinda leant forward and cupped her hands about her face, and pressed them against the pane. It took a while for her eyes to adjust, by which time Nephril had followed suit.

  What they’d earlier taken to be a steep, bare slope, rising in front of the camper van, now clearly revealed a cut, a short way in and open to the sky. There seemed to be a door at its far end, some ten yards away, although Prescinda couldn’t be sure.

  Nephril expressed the same thought, but then voiced what she’d only taken as the fancy of a long day’s fatigue. “The door,” he said, “seems to have a figure embossed upon it.”

  “The lamp doesn’t throw nearly enough light,” Prescinda said, “but I’d swear there’s also something written above it, across the top of the door.”

  “An inscription?” Falmeard enthused.

  “Maybe,” Prescinda said, “but whatever it is, it won’t be readable until we’ve better light,” but then she heard the cab door swing open before quickly slamming shut.

  Moving at the centre of the lamp’s now flickering glow, Falmeard carefully made his way around the front of the cab and into the mouth of the cut. He paused, long enough to glance over his shoulder, but then turned from his watchers’ unseen stares and warily stepped towards the door.

  “Are you sure he’ll be all right out there in the bad air, Nephril?”

  “Fear thee not for he was wrought for such, but I fear more for thine own safety. Mine weft and weave be inferior to Falmeard’s, so I hope he remembers what we agreed and comes back without delay.”

  Falmeard clearly hadn’t forgotten, and soon clambered back into the cab, a glint of more than just lamplight in his eyes. “Leaten der snaca eyn dragan is written there as clear as the daylight we sorely lack.” He grinned.

  “So,” Prescinda asked, “if it’s definitely the right place, how do we get in?”

  “We don’t, not at night I’m afraid.” He sighed but looked uncomfortable when Prescinda’s stare demanded more.

  “You’re keeping something from us, Falmeard. I know you are. I’ve known you long enough to tell.”

  Falmeard remained silent.

  “Look, light of my poor old sister’s life,” she said between clenched teeth, “if you don’t tell me, I’m going to go out there and kick that bloody door down. So, make up your mind?”

  For a moment, Falmeard looked as though he’d been rendered lifeless until something flickered deep within his eyes. “All right,” he finally said, flicking his gaze between her and Nephril. “We don’t get through this door at night because Leaten der snaca eyn dragan tells me we can’t.”

  He studied Nephril and asked, “What ancient meaning does the sinuous serpent bring to your mind, Nephril? Can you remember the old tongue’s mechanicking use?”

  Nephril frowned, bringing lines of sepia to his parchment face as he kept repeating, “Sinuous serpents?” Then his eyes widened. “Ah. Light.”

  “Light indeed. Only light can open that door, only daylight. Therefore, all we can really do now is sleep. Time for bed I reckon,” and he opened the cab door once more and stepped out, this time handing the lamp to Prescinda.

  She stepped down herself and rushed to the back of the camper van, followed by Nephril. On his own way past Falmeard, though, Nephril paused and raised an eyebrow, but then only shook his head and quickly passed on.

  “And Falmeard?” he called back before vanishing behind the camper van. “Remember to knock us up at first light. Thou wilt likely see it from the cab afore us as usual.”

  “I will. Scout’s honour,” but the refer
ence plainly meant nothing to Nephril. “First light. I promise,” and then the rear door slammed shut.

  Falmeard smiled. A glint still shone in his eyes, but one for which the missing lamp could now no longer take credit.

  36 An End in Sight

  “Quick, Master Breadgrinder, move the craulena,” Phaylan urged.

  “I can’t. They’re all around the wheel. They’ll get crushed.”

  “But they’re not people, for Leiyatel’s sake. I don’t know what they are, but I do know they’re not alive. Now, MOVE US!”

  “But they are alive. Look at them.”

  “Give me strength. We haven’t got time to ... look, just nudge them out of the way, make them realise they can’t stay there.”

  Breadgrinder sighed but did nothing.

  The craulena continued to cough and choke as it warmed its newly fired engine, bright sparks floating away into the night air from its vent. Phaylan had thought the figures would have scattered at the din, but they’d ignored it.

  “Come on, Breadgrinder. If they damage that wheel, we’re all dead men. We can’t afford to be out there long enough to make repairs.”

  The big Nouwelmer swore as he finally joined the engine to the wheels. The craulena abruptly jerked and rocked back and forth against the brake. The figures remained just as busy, although one appeared to have gone to sleep, now standing motionless behind the wheel.

  “Quick, man,” Phaylan hissed, “at least roll forward a bit to warn them.”

  Breadgrinder did, but his clumsy control knocked two of them over. They thrashed their limbs where they lay but seemed unable to get up. Breadgrinder stared at them, paralysed by the sight.

  “What have I done?”

  “Change places,” Phaylan ordered, although not strictly within his authority, but Breadgrinder seemed relieved and quickly squeezed out of the way.