Tetrarch twoe-2

by Ian Irvine

  ‘Meddle in the scrutators’ business at your peril,’ Gilhaelith quoted.

  Klarm waddled to the wall, which was the height of his head, and hopped up on it facing the crater. Gilhaelith perched beside him.

  ‘I’m terrified,’ said Klarm, and he did look distressed, a rare expression for a scrutator. ‘Though I say it to no one but you. If the Aachim do unite, and I’m sure they will when it comes to it, their constructs will destroy us. Flight is the only answer, if we get it first. I hear what you say but we’ve got to find Tiaan before Vithis does. Our future depends on this machine. I must send messages right away.’

  Any other man might have felt guilty. Gilhaelith felt not a twinge. Klarm began scribbling notes, after which they walked around the back of Nyriandiol to the skeet house. Gilhaelith gave Klarm three message wallets and the scrutator placed one letter in each.

  ‘Where are they going?’ Gilhaelith asked.

  Klarm told him. ‘How long will it take to school your skeets to the destinations?’

  A sharp pain struck Gilhaelith in the stomach, high up, and he bent over, clutching at the spot.

  ‘Are you all right, my friend?’

  ‘A touch of colic.’

  ‘No wonder, the gruesome stuff you feed on.’

  ‘It’s made me what I am today.’

  ‘I’ve no doubt of that,’ Klarm said dryly. ‘Can I do –?’

  ‘It’s just gallstones. The pain will pass.’

  ‘Not too quickly, I’ll warrant. My apothek has a sovereign remedy for stones.’

  ‘If it persists I may well call on his services.’ Gilhaelith forced himself to straighten up. ‘How much time, you asked? None at all.’ He took seed crystals from labelled jars on a shelf and popped one into each wallet. ‘The bird homes by following lines of force. I’ve already set these crystals to the correct destinations.’

  ‘A clever innovation.’ Klarm passed the wallets to the handler. ‘We must do business. Lost messages are one of our greatest problems.’

  ‘You may have as many crystals as you want,’ said Gilhaelith. ‘With my compliments.’

  Klarm bowed. They watched the skeets released, with an interval between each so they would not attack one another, then returned to the front terrace, Gilhaelith walking bent over.

  ‘It will not be easy to find her,’ said Klarm, ‘nor to carry her and the construct away if we do. Vithis’s spies and informers are everywhere.’

  ‘I shouldn’t wonder. Whoever finds this flying machine, and can crack its secrets, will win the war.’

  ‘Whoever finds it and tells me,’ said the scrutator, ‘will bathe in a solid-gold tub for the rest of his life.’

  ‘I wish I had it!’ Gilhaelith forced a smile. ‘Mine is of humble rhyolite.’

  ‘You haven’t done so badly.’ Klarm ran his eye along the length of the villa.

  ‘It’s taken me a long time.’

  ‘And all could be lost so quickly,’ said Klarm.

  ‘Indeed,’ Gilhaelith sighed, ignoring the ever-so-subtle threat. ‘In the twinkling of an eye.’

  ‘On a different matter entirely, isn’t your brimstone contract up for renewal soon?’

  ‘It is, but if you don’t want to renew it …’

  ‘Of course we do,’ said Klarm, ‘though many considerations have to be weighed up. The war, other suppliers …’

  ‘I’m sure we can satisfy each other, Klarm. As you know, I am the most flexible of men. And if there’s any other way I can help the scrutators –’

  ‘Do you have anything specific in mind?’ Klarm feigned disinterest, not entirely successfully. Gilhaelith had developed a rare ability to read people, even the trained impassivity of the scrutators.

  ‘One rumour has it that the construct disappeared in the northern part of Worm Wood. I am doing everything I can to find it, and if I do … well, I have no need of such a device.’

  ‘Any merchant who had it would make a fortune,’ said Klarm.

  ‘But he wouldn’t keep fortune or construct for too long,’ said Gilhaelith. ‘Nor his head! I prefer to stay attached to mine. If I hear anything, I will send word at once, by skeet.’

  ‘Thank you,’ said the dwarf, draining his tankard. ‘As always, it’s a pleasure doing business with you.’

  ‘Another porter, my friend?’

  ‘Not this time. The Council runs us harder than ever. I must go.’

  Tiaan lay in her room, trying to hear, though she caught only a sentence or two. The air of controlled power the little man gave off frightened her, but better him than Vithis.

  The door opened. Gilhaelith came in. ‘Scrutator Klarm is a dangerous man. A good friend, as long as you don’t cross him, which I have just done, but a deadly enemy.’

  Tiaan closed her eyes. Two deadly enemies, and both were hunting her. ‘You’re going to give the thapter to him, of course?’ She held her breath for the answer.

  ‘No.’

  ‘Why not?’

  Gilhaelith scowled. Clearly he was not used to being questioned by inferiors. ‘I need the amplimet, so I cannot give up the thapter either.’

  ‘But it’s vital to the war!’

  ‘There’s always a war somewhere. The amplimet may hold the key to the great game.’

  She could not believe anyone could be so greedy or stupid. ‘You fool!’ she cried. ‘What use will your precious secrets be if there is no one alive to see them?’

  TWENTY-FIVE

  Nish scanned the flame-shot darkness. A solitary figure ran along the wall but nowhere did he see a family group. He risked a shout. ‘Colm! Oinan, Tinketil! Ketila! Fransi!’

  No reply. Perhaps a lyrinx had circled around the palisade and got them. More likely they had dared wait no longer. He could not blame them. In this race, the stragglers would be eaten. He was sorry, though. They had risked their lives for him and he would have liked to thank them.

  Taking up his mallet, Nish slid like a spectre into the darkness. Which way? In the field of war you could never tell. Even if you guessed right, an hour later it might become the wrong way.

  He was skidding down the gully when something crashed through a thicket to his left. It was probably another refugee as miserable as himself, but Nish was taking no risks. He crouched down so that he would not show against the glowing skyline. Someone hurtled out of the bushes, straight for him. Nish tried to get out of the way and the man – it was a man, by the size – swung something at him. Nish thought it was a sword, and that he was going to lose his head.

  Foolishly, he threw up his arm. A piece of wood snapped against it, just a brittle stick, luckily. Nish swung the mallet hard and low, into the fellow’s midriff. He went down without a sound. Nish fled along the reedy gully until he smelt salt water. The Sea of Thurkad lay ahead.

  To go right would take him in the direction of Nilkerrand, which was still burning, and the enemy. He turned left. The coastline curved west here and, as he reached the shore, Nish saw flames reflecting on the water. Such a pretty sight, from this distance.

  As he continued on sand that squeaked underfoot, it began to grow light. Making out a low promontory, Nish broke into a trot. A flying lyrinx would easily spot him on the beach or in the dunes behind it.

  He reached the promontory as the sun rose. The headland was layered sandstone, as grey as the water. A rock platform, weathered into rectangular blocks, surrounded it. Sullen waves crashed over the edge. Picking his way across, he came upon a band of oyster shells. His mouth watered. Nish pounded an oyster with the mallet and shell fragments flew everywhere, one catching him in the corner of the eye.

  The oyster was just a smear on the rock. Nish found a pebble in one of the tidal gutters and attacked another shell, more carefully. He managed to crack it in half and picked out the oyster. It was not very big, nor did it look appetising, but he was too hungry to care.

  He ate about thirty of the little creatures, only stopping because they were salty and he had nothing to drink. Nish climbed t
he sandstone stack at the back of the promontory to look for a stream.

  From the top he could see the towers of Nilkerrand, still burning. The westerly wind drifted a greasy brown plume across the landscape. Smoke trailed upwards from several parts of the refugee camp and lyrinx circled in the air over it.

  To the south a long curving beach extended as far as he could see. Behind the beach were dunefields and salt marsh, country difficult to cross, easy to get lost in. There were hundreds of boats on the water, from majestic barges to little dinghies with scraps of sail. All were heading away from Nilkerrand, well out to sea where the lyrinx would not dare attack. He waved in the faint hope that one might come to his aid. None did.

  To the east Nish saw a road crowded with refugees. It offered the safety of numbers and the possibility of begging for food. Further on, a meandering line of trees appeared to mark a creek. Nish set off in that direction.

  Two hours later he was sitting in the shrubbery next to the road, thirstier than ever, watching the refugees go by. He had not reached the creek. His leg throbbed after the long walk through the dunes and he did not think he could go much further.

  The refugees comprised every kind of humanity imaginable. Passing him now was a fat merchant or lawyer, staggering under bags of silver plate and precious metal chains. His fine clothes were tattered and soot-stained; he was drenched in sweat and scarlet of face. He would not last long, nor his equally plump and beringed wife.

  Behind them trudged a mother and four young children, the youngest a babe-in-arms. They were dressed in peasant’s drab, coarse brown cloth that hung in baggy folds. They would not last long either. Then Nish saw the knife in the woman’s belt, the fixed look in her eye, and was not so sure. He would not want to get between her and her cubs.

  A farmer’s cart followed, a rickety affair with a wheel that squealed at the top of every rotation. The mournful nag looked as if it wanted to lie down and never get up again. An aged woman and her equally weathered man sat on top.

  The dismal procession continued. Nish was looking for someone who had been in authority and was still strong and capable. He planned to ingratiate himself, which was not going to be easy – people would be more suspicious than ever. Failing that, after his accidental success with Colm he would try to find a child to befriend, in order to get into the good graces of the parents.

  Hours went by. He kept watch for Colm and his family but did not see them. Nish saw few people who looked more competent than himself. However, around midday his eye was caught by two girls, about twelve years old, coming up the road arm-in-arm. They looked to be identical twins. Both had the same coppery-brown wavy hair, the same dark eyes and sturdy figure. Each was dressed in plain green blouse and pants, their faces shielded by broad-brimmed hats. Their little packs were identical. Superficially they could have been any children on the road, but their clothing was of fine weave and well cut. But they were alone, and that was no good to him. No point, if they had already lost their parents.

  One of the girls was limping. She sat down on a stone at the edge of the road, not far away. Taking off her boot and sock, she inspected a blistered heel.

  ‘I don’t think I can go much further, Meriwen,’ she said. ‘My foot really hurts.’

  ‘Remember what father said. If we were separated we must keep going, and never stop, until we get to Kundizand. He will find us there.’

  ‘My foot is killing me.’

  ‘It’s not far, Liliwen.’

  ‘It is! It’ll take us all day and half the night.’

  ‘The sooner we start the quicker we’ll get there.’

  ‘You sound just like Mother,’ said Liliwen crossly.

  Another group of refugees, wearing straw hats and labourer’s drab, passed by. No one gave the twins a passing glance. The world was full of lost children.

  ‘They’ll be really angry if they can’t find us. You know Father has to go back to the army tomorrow.’

  ‘If there is an army,’ Liliwen muttered.

  ‘Of course there’s an army! There will always be one.’

  ‘The beasts might have eaten Mother and Father,’ said Liliwen, clearly the pessimist of the pair.

  ‘Stop it!’ shouted Meriwen. ‘Don’t talk like that!’

  Nish, desperately thirsty and in considerable pain, could see no better prospect. Cutting through the scrub, he came out behind the girls, who were still arguing as he limped by. The wound in his leg was agonising. He walked on a dozen steps, then perched on a boulder. Pulling his trouser leg up, he began unwrapping the bandages.

  The rents in his calf muscle had been healing, but one had torn open with the night’s exertions and was trickling blood. The tooth marks were red, swollen and filled with pus.

  The twins were walking towards him. As they came by, Nish probed the wound, groaned and looked up. ‘I don’t suppose you’ve got any ointment, have you?’

  The first girl stopped. They weren’t absolutely identical. Liliwen had thicker eyebrows than Meriwen, a rounder face, and the beginnings of a bosom. ‘I’m sorry,’ said Liliwen. ‘Mother has some but she’s … not here.’

  ‘Is she coming?’ said Nish, looking down the road. ‘My leg is killing me.’

  ‘Liliwen!’ hissed Meriwen, standing some distance away. ‘We’re not allowed to talk to strangers.’

  ‘That’s very wise,’ said Nish, knowing that he must look a fright. ‘There are all sorts of wicked people on the road. My name is Cryl-Nish Hlar, but everyone calls me Nish. Actually, I hate that name,’ he said confidentially, ‘but it doesn’t seem to make any difference.’ He held out his hand.

  Liliwen took it in a way that suggested she had never shaken hands before. ‘I’m Liliwen. This is my sister, Meriwen.’

  ‘Hello, Meriwen,’ said Nish.

  ‘Hello,’ she said grudgingly, keeping well away. ‘You sound strange.’

  ‘I come from the other side of the world. I’m not very good at your language.’

  ‘Come on, Liliwen.’

  Nish rose and limped beside Liliwen. Meriwen kept to the other side of the road.

  ‘Do you live in Nilkerrand?’ Nish asked.

  ‘Yes.’ Liliwen looked up at him. ‘At least –’ She suppressed a sob.

  ‘What happened?’

  ‘The enemy came, those horrible flying beasts. Everything was on fire. Our lovely house was burnt, and all my toys, and …’ she began to sob, ‘poor Mixy.’

  ‘Who was Mixy?’ he asked gently.

  ‘Her old tomcat,’ said Meriwen, still uncomfortable with him.

  ‘I’m very sorry. I lost my cat too, when I was a kid, about as old as you.’

  Liliwen wiped her eyes. ‘What happened to him?’

  ‘Her,’ said Nish. ‘Finn was her name. A cart ran her over in the street. I cried for days.’

  ‘Did you?’ Meriwen thawed a little.

  ‘I loved my old Finn,’ said Nish. ‘She used to sleep on the end of my bed at night. She kept my feet warm in winter. I can still hear her purring sometimes, when it’s dark.’

  They continued along the road. ‘What’s the matter with your leg?’ asked Meriwen.

  ‘I was attacked by a nylatl,’ said Nish. He showed them the wounds. ‘It nearly killed me.’

  ‘What’s a nylatl?’

  He explained, and though it was a bright day, both cast a glance at the undergrowth and moved closer to him.

  ‘Have you lost your parents?’ Nish asked a while later.

  ‘They’re going to meet us down the road,’ Meriwen said quickly.

  ‘They’re not!’ Liliwen wailed. ‘We’ve lost them and we’ll never see them again.’

  ‘How did you become separated?’

  ‘We were waiting outside the front gate,’ said Liliwen. ‘Mother and Father were trying to get something from the house. All these people came running down the road, screaming. Millions!’ she said hyperbolically. ‘We got carried along with them and when we went back, our house was on fire.
Mother and Father were gone.’

  ‘It burned to the ground,’ said Meriwen. ‘We waited for ages but they didn’t come back. Then people started screaming and running away, so we ran too.’

  ‘Your parents are probably up ahead,’ said Nish. ‘Waiting for you.’

  ‘I hope so,’ Liliwen said doubtfully.

  This was developing the wrong way. He could not afford to take on someone else’s problems. Two girls, alone on the road with no one to look after them, did not bear thinking about. He told himself that this situation must have been repeated countless times in the war, but it made no difference. He knew the girls now and could not abandon them.

  The day grew hot, and Nish’s leg more painful with every step. Liliwen was struggling too. They came to a rivulet trickling across the road, its reeds trampled into mud. Nish eyed the brown water, swallowing raspily. If he drank here it would probably make him sick.

  The girls stood by. ‘I can’t go any further.’ Liliwen wiped away tears of pain.

  Her sister pointed upstream to where a pair of umbrella-shaped trees leaned towards each other. ‘It’ll be cool in the shade.’

  ‘I don’t think it’s a good idea to stop yet,’ said Nish. ‘The enemy –’

  ‘We don’t need your help,’ said Meriwen, eyes flashing.

  ‘Yes, we do. Don’t be silly, sis.’

  The shade looked beautifully cool, and Nish’s throat was as dry as the soles of his boots, so he accompanied them up the wooded stream, gripping his mallet. It was a good place for an ambush. There were all kinds of vermin on the road, desperate for whatever they could get.

  His stomach began to bubble and churn. The stream was about a long leap across, and here flowing clear and clean. The girls cooled their feet in the running water. Nish drank until he was bursting, then looked for fruit, nuts or anything else edible. He found nothing; it was too early in the season. Judging by the trails twisting through the scrub, plenty of game came to drink, though he doubted if anything would be slow enough for him to thump with the mallet.

  ‘I don’t suppose you’ve got flint and tinder in your pack?’ he said to Meriwen.