Dusk n-1

by Tim Lebbon

  Yet somewhere at the back of his mind, there was a new comprehension dawning. Rafe had no concept of what Hope had done, but this new expansion of his mind, the fresh revelations seemingly being laid out again and again for his perusal, seemed to offer understanding. He had only to realize how to read it.

  They found a place sheltered from the north by a jagged slope of rock. Hope set about making a fire, silent and slow.

  “Won’t the Monks see the fire?” Rafe asked.

  “It’s a risk if they’re following us this way. But there are other things out there in the night, just as dangerous, that the fire will keep away.”

  “Must we camp? Can’t we keep moving?”

  Hope shook her head, and Rafe realized for the first time just how old and tired she looked. Perhaps up until now excitement had kept her young, the childlike gleam in her eyes whenever she looked at him emphasized by the eager shapes the tattoos seemed to etch across her face. But now, with darkness blanking the tattoos and the gleam in her eyes a pale reflection of the death moon, she looked so worn.

  She said nothing more, and Rafe entrusted himself to her wisdom. She had yet to let him down.

  With the fire built, Hope quickly fell into a deep sleep. Rafe sat up, huddled under a blanket the farmers had given them along with the saddles, staring up at the moons and stars. Wondering, as he had as a boy in Trengborne, just who or what else in Noreela was looking at this sight right now.

  WHEN THEY WEREnear enough to see what the firelight revealed, Trey and Alishia stopped.

  Alishia could make out two people, one asleep, the other awake. Two horses as well, hidden back in the shadows of the rock slope, snorting in disturbed sleep. She drew Trey close, catching the hint of fledge on his breath. “Two people,” she whispered into his ear.

  He nodded. “I know. One is asleep and dreaming dreams I don’t wish to visit again. The other is… strange. There’s much more than a mind there, and I can’t touch it.”

  “Are they safe?”

  Trey shrugged. “How should I know how you topsiders are supposed to think? The one sleeping, she’s frightened and excited at the same time. And I think she’s mad. I’ll not look again.”

  “And that one sitting there?”

  “I told you, I don’t know,” Trey whispered. “Give me a moment.” He sat back and closed his eyes, and Alishia’s gaze went from him back to the figure sitting by the fire. After a few heartbeats the figure raised its head, startled, looking around as if hearing something in the night. The fire spat sparks that danced in the night air, pockets of sap bursting within the logs. The sparks stayed alive until they were high up, mixing with the stars, aiming at the weak life moon.

  Trey gasped and slumped, shaking his head, spitting, rubbing his temples as if trying to rid himself of some vile invader.

  “Trey?” Alishia touched his shoulder and squeezed lightly.

  “More than a mind,” he muttered. “There’s much more than a mind.”

  More than a mind? What’s more than a mind? “We should go to talk to them.”

  “No!” Trey said, louder than he should have. Alishia ducked down and watched the figure by the fire. It stood, shedding its blanket, and she saw that it was barely more than a boy. He looked in their direction but she could see nothing of his expression, read nothing in his stance. He seemed to carry no weapons. He glanced to the sleeping form, but that person remained asleep, dreaming whatever dreams had so disturbed Trey.

  Alishia stood and walked toward the fire.

  “Wait!” Trey hissed behind her, but she kept moving. The boy did not look dangerous. If anything he seemed afraid and alone, so surely he would welcome the company of other travelers to keep the dark at bay? Besides, he was someone new to meet, see, talk to. To question!

  “Hello by the fire!” she said as she approached.

  “Who’s there?” The boy edged quickly behind the flames, stooping to pluck a burning branch and hold it before him. “Hope!”

  Alishia frowned, wondering whether it was some foreign greeting, but then the sleeping figure sat up quickly and she knew it was a name.

  A witch! Alishia had read of witches, much good and much bad, but she had only ever seen one from a distance on the streets of Noreela City. She had heard of the tattoos they seemed to favor, used to amplify the expression of their emotions and frighten and coerce people into seeing things their way. This witch showed fear immediately… but it was soon stamped out by anger.

  “Stay away!” she said. “Keep in the shadows where you belong.”

  “I’m not here to harm,” Alishia said. “I’m cold and hungry and my horse died. I only wish to share your fire.”

  “Get away and make your own,” the boy said, waving the burning branch as if offering the flame.

  “Please!” Alishia said. He’s the one that the fledger could not see. The one with more than a mind. What’s more than a mind?

  “Are you alone?” the witch asked.

  “No, there’s a fledge miner with me, Trey Barossa. He’s hiding back there. He doesn’t think you’re safe.”

  The witch stood and shook herself, untangling her clothes, running her fingers through knotted hair. “He’s right,” she said.

  “You look as afraid as I feel,” Alishia said to Rafe, and his eyes widened, the flaming stick lowered toward the ground.

  Wider. Let me see inside.

  She felt unaccountably excited, intrigued by this boy and whatever secrets he held restrained.

  So soon? Have I found it so soon?

  But she did not know what “it” was, and the strange thoughts confused and troubled her. Only a while ago she had pleasured herself to the song of these strange thoughts. She had considered that it was the fledge miner prying into her mind, traveling using fledge to view her innermost secrets and pique her desires, but he seemed too frightened to be plotting and scheming. And the thoughts… they were further removed from him. They were almost alien.

  Alishia had begun to wonder whether she had made a mistake leaving the city.

  “He’s not scared,” the witch said. “I’m looking after him, so he’s got nothing to be scared about.”

  “Why are you looking after him?” Alishia said. “He can’t be your son.”

  “Know a little about witches, do you?”

  “A little.” Alishia had read a lot. She knew that they were mostly made sterile by the poisons and plants they made their work. And she knew that the witch could be carrying poisonous creatures to throw, or blinding powders, or chemicala. The very tincture of her tattoos could kill.

  The witch stared at her, edging slowly around the fire until she stood between Alishia and the boy.

  What’s so precious? Alishia thought. And then that other part of her mind again, the one that did not feel like her own: Could he be so precious?

  “Tell the fledger to show himself,” the witch said.

  “Trey! Come out of the dark.” Alishia heard the footsteps behind her, slow and troubled.

  “It hurts my eyes,” he said.

  “Not been aboveground for long?” the witch asked, but Trey did not answer.

  “Any more of you?” Rafe said.

  His voice sent a thrill down Alishia’s spine. She did not know why. “No,” she said. “This is us.”

  “We have no food,” the boy said. “Nothing to offer you.”

  “We have a little fledge,” Alishia said, but the witch cursed and spat into the fire. It sizzled, as if just as mad.

  “We don’t want your drug!” she hissed at Trey.

  The four of them sized one another up, and all the time Alishia’s gaze was on Rafe. He was an attractive boy, maybe three or four years younger than her, but he looked tired and worn, as if time had suddenly caught up to show him what the world was all about. His eyes reflected the fire, but only reluctantly. It was the death moon that cast its color into his hair. Maybe if I can take some fledge I can look inside, see what is more than a mind. The idea was frigh
tening-her last experience with fledge had made her sense something awful-but it thrilled that shaded part of her as well.

  “I don’t mind if you want to join us,” Rafe said at last. He threw the branch back into the fire, raising a splash of sparks. His eyes never once left Alishia’s. He backed away from the flames and sat down, and Alishia followed suit. They smiled at each other as the witch cursed and spat again.

  “Rafe, we have no idea who they are! They might be after… something. Anything. You know what I mean.”

  A secret! Alishia thought, and she almost laughed. Something tickled at her consciousness like a name on the tip of her tongue, a fact locked deep down in her mind and willing itself to be shown.

  “They don’t look like Monks to me,” the boy said.

  “Monks?” Trey had sat with his back to the fire, and he mumbled something else into the dark.

  Monks, Alishia thought. What sort of Monks did he mean? There were the bands of moon worshippers-life or death-that still practiced their religions, long gone though the magic of the land was. And there were

  …

  There were Red Monks. Red Monks like the bastard that had burned down her library, stolen something away, charred her dreams and memories to cover whatever he may have left. Red Monks. Sworn destroyers of magic.

  Magic! The shout was so loud in her head that she thought they must have all heard, but the boy’s eyes did not falter, the cursing witch did not let up in her litany. And Alishia, staring steadily into the flame, felt the darkened place in her mind open up.

  Tim Lebbon

  Dusk

  Chapter 18

  KOSAR’S FINGERS HURTlike the Black. Yet now more than ever he needed his delicate touch, the gentle manipulation that years as a thief had bestowed on him, even after his self-inflicted branding. His fingertips were raw and bleeding, but the fresh blood was all his own. He did not appear to be infected with the slayer venom.

  He breathed quietly and slowly through his mouth. His bare feet followed the contours of the ground, flexing and settling comfortably around stony protrusions, a patch of hay, a clump of horseshit. His hands were held out from his side so that his clothing did not rub and whisper. Each step took many heartbeats, so his weight had time to settle on its own.

  He had not stolen anything for years. His heart was beating hard and fast-he knew the man could not hear, yet still he willed it to quieten-and the mere act of metaphorically tracing his own steps was thrilling. However near A’Meer was to death, however much danger they were in from Red Monks and whatever else might be on their trail, he was actually enjoying exercising the talents of a thief. He could not make himself calm, composed and collected, but he was still pleased to find that his skills were not as rusty as he had believed. He had already passed two horses without so much as making them move. The stable was dark-only a little of the dusky light found its way through the holed roof-and the ground underfoot was uneven. There was a whole range of sounds ready to alert the guard to Kosar’s presence.

  He came to within an arm’s reach of success before he gave himself away. It was his sword, its unfamiliar length finally swinging and tapping against a wooden stall as he shifted.

  The man stood and spun around, eyes wide and glassy with rotwine, hand reaching instinctively for his own sword.

  So much for silent theft. Kosar leapt forward and punched him in the throat, silencing any shout he might have made, and as the man sank to his knees Kosar kicked the back of his neck three times in quick succession. The guard went limp and collapsed to the floor.

  The horses stamped in their stalls and snorted, and Kosar did the only thing he could to quieten them down: he stood and waited. It did not take long. They were all but asleep anyway, and the flurry of noise had been brief enough.

  Kosar bent to the shape on the ground, felt his wrist to make sure he was still alive, then slipped the ring of keys from his belt. He opened the first stall and saddled the horse quickly, soothing it and whispering into its ear as he moved. The horse in the second stall stood still and let him saddle up, and then he led them both out into the moonlight.

  He looked up at the big house. No lights had come on, no windows were opened, no raging owner had come running from the doors. Even if they had heard they would more than likely leave the trouble to the stable hand, not wanting to face any potential problems themselves. They were rich enough to buy new horses. Kosar had no qualms about stealing their best two. The only fact that troubled him was how much he may have hurt the lad, but it had been necessary. He was not dead. At worst he would wake up to a headache and a screaming match with his employer.

  Kosar opened the yard gates and led the horses outside, wincing at the din their shod hooves made on the cobbled road. Once out in the street he did his best to blend in. A few people gave the two horses appraising glances and that was good, that kept attention away from Kosar, with his bloodied hands and blood-spattered clothing camouflaged in the failing light.

  He made his way quickly through the park gates that Hope and Rafe must have exited while he and A’Meer were still battling the Red Monk. There were few people using the park now; night must bring new dangers, people and things drawn from below the ground at dusk’s first touch.

  A’Meer was where he had left her, propped against a tree with her sword clasped in one hand. She was unconscious now, blood painting her beautiful pale face from eyes and nose and mouth. The veins on her temples and forehead stood out in stark relief, but Kosar was reasonably sure that they had not swelled any more. Perhaps the poison had slowed, its effect come to a head, but it might yet kill her. He bent closer, trying to make out her face in the weak moonlight. Where blood did not touch her skin, it was pale and sickly as the death moon.

  “Come on,” Kosar said, holding A’Meer beneath her armpits and lifting. His fingertips stung, but she seemed to help herself up, pushing weakly at the ground until she stood propped against him. He held her there for a while, gathering his strength to hoist her into the saddle. He knew that he would have to lay her across the horse’s back, tie her there, and he had no idea what damage the pressure on her stomach might do. For all he knew it would aid the slayer’s poison in bursting her innards, but there was no alternative.

  That was his problem: he knew so little.

  Something rustled the leaves in the tree above their heads and Kosar glanced up. He was badly on edge, and exhaustion was only just around the corner. He stared through the branches and leaves at the glow of the life moon, and the rustling stopped.

  “A’Meer,” he whispered into the unconscious woman’s ear, “I have to lift you onto a horse. Go limp, let me help you up, then I’ll tie you there to stop you spilling off.” He wrapped an arm around her waist, held her uninjured arm across his shoulders and half carried, half dragged her to the horses. The animals stood still as he bent and let A’Meer fall across his shoulder. “Going to lift you up now.” He stood, placed both arms under A’Meer’s small waist and pushed. “Maybe I’ll take advantage of you,” he said. She slid onto the saddle and he paused, both arms locked straight to stop her from falling. “Come on, A’Meer, don’t give me this shit, you’re doing this on purpose.” He pushed at her arm and shoulder, slipping her sideways across the saddle so that her arms dropped down the other side.

  She was totally limp. There was no help from her, no attempt to aid him at all, and for the first time Kosar seriously thought that she might be dead. He dashed around the front of the horse and knelt by A’Meer’s head, listening hard to hear her breathing, sighing with relief when she expelled a hot breath against his neck.

  “A chair,” she whispered, “I like it over a chair.”

  Kosar laughed quietly. “I’ll get you out of here,” he said, “then we’ll see if the witch keeps her promise.”

  “Northeast,” A’Meer said. “Away from Trengborne.”

  “And toward Noreela City?”

  A’Meer moved her shoulders in what must have been a shrug.

/>   Kosar jumped onto the other horse and led them from the park. The darkness was waking behind them-more rustling in the bushes and shrubs, splashes in the large pond as something rose from the depths, hoarse giggles from a gang of shadows flitting around the park’s perimeter-and he was glad to leave.

  Once back on the streets he rode fast, conscious that night was here at last and that the darkness turned the town into a whole new place. He saw shadows darting through deeper shadows, and they may have been wraiths. A huddle of fodder wound their way along the street, their inbred insecurity making the dark their preferred home. Metal scraped along stone, and wet slapping sounds came from the dark infinity between two large buildings. Machines were silhouetted against the moonlight here and there-not as many as in the hidden districts, but there were always some-and Kosar tried not to see their sharp spears, curved shells, blocked facades. On his travels he had heard rumors of machine graveyards, and dusk gave Pavisse that appearance. They disturbed him more at night; it was then that their purpose seemed so close to the surface.

  More so tonight of all nights. Tonight, magic was on the run.

  They left Pavisse quickly and without incident. He saw no Red Monks. That was a good thing for him now, but a bad thing for the future. It meant that the Monks had probably left Pavisse ahead of them, moving out from the town in pursuit of Rafe and the witch. And that meant that, whether Hope delivered a message to him and A’Meer or not, the Red Monks stood between them.

  THE MESSAGE CAMEsoon after they had left Pavisse.

  If Kosar had had his wits about him, the messenger would have been killed. If he had been paying attention, the witch’s words would have never found their way to him and A’Meer. Many things changed in the land of Noreela that night, and many destinies were entwined. If Kosar had not fallen asleep on his horse, the future may have been a very different place.

  He was on a boat, bobbing in the network of drainage ditches he had been digging around Trengborne for thirty years. They had expanded into canals, taking up most of the land and negating their original purpose, but their digging had become a purpose in itself. The boat was of his own making. He rode it alone, pulled along by a horse on the bank, and the people of Trengborne had gathered in the distance to welcome him back from another digging expedition. They had furbats and flowers and bottles of their best wine, and one of them, a boy called Rafe, held two tankards of Old Bastard for both of them to enjoy.