“So you didn’t shred it in jail then?”
Guyen tensed. “You heard about that?”
Vadil roared. “Heard? Are you kidding? Heard. Laughed. Got drunk. Laughed some more. Thought you might have done it too. Wouldn’t blame you—Devotions types are a waste of air. No offence.”
“None taken,” Guyen said. How could you take offence at Vadil? He was unfiltered, something to respect in a man. In fact, most Flags players were genuine types, even likeable with their laissez-faire attitude towards life. The stable door swung open again and Selius appeared.
He threw his hands up in mock astonishment. “Well, if it isn’t the celebrity pitman.”
“Hallo Selius.”
“Surprised to see you back here, Yorkov. I’d have thought you’d want to keep your head down.”
“Leave the boy alone,” Vadil said. “They found him innocent, didn’t they?”
Selius offered a resigned grunt. “I suppose you want your job back?”
“If it’s still available.”
“Well, there’s nothing to do tonight.” Guyen feigned disappointment. Selius sighed. “Come back tomorrow afternoon. Silverware up in the trophy room needs polishing. Damn constant job that is.”
Vadil chuckled. “Sorry, grounds marshal, my fault. I should stop adding to the collection.”
“Would you?” Selius replied sarcastically.
“Of course not, man.”
He shook his head. “Sent to try me, you all are.”
“I think I left something in the stable,” Guyen said. “I’ll just—”
“Yes, yes.” Selius turned to Vadil. “What did you want to see me about, Shevrin?”
The Outlaw clapped him on the back. “It’s the fencing around the pitch, Selius.”
“What about it?”
“It needs to be higher, man.” They disappeared into the gloom.
The others emerged from behind the cart. “He’s a big unit,” Rossi observed.
“You’re not wrong,” Guyen said. They were alone. “Right, let’s do this.” He pushed through the stable door.
All was quiet save the occasional snort from inside the stalls—thirty in all, housing some of the most expensive horses in the city. Mist strolled over to one. “They’re massive,” she said.
“Toughest Flags mounts in all Sendal.”
“I’ve seen bigger,” Rossi muttered.
Toulesh flipped him a rude hand gesture. Return, Guyen sent. The simulacrum folded in. That was better. He needed his wits for this, despite the apparition’s undoubted entertainment value.
“How are these things for riding?” Mist asked.
“He can’t ride,” Rossi sneered.
The arsehole wasn’t getting a rise that easily. “They’re all right,” Guyen replied, “just be firm with the reins.” A pair of Chestnut mares stood halfway along the row, swishing flies with their tails. They were a few hands shorter than the other horses, and good-natured. “We’ll take these two,” he declared, patting the nearest on the nose. It snorted. Even the calmest Flags mounts were temperamental.
Rossi tried a stall further down. “This is more like it,” he called over, ogling a towering black stallion—one of the more challenging beasts in the stable. Hopefully, it would throw him, then they could leave him behind. Not that Mist would be happy about it, she’d been arguing his usefulness all day, and with some success—his naked ambition would provide all the drive they’d need to find Cotes, which should lead them to Yemelyan. But the scrag couldn’t be relied on. Once he’d earned his promotion, he’d need watching.
Mist disappeared to unlock the outer gate, and they found saddles, tacking up the three horses quietly and quickly despite the finger-numbing, icy metal bit-guards. They added blankets and water, rope and spare torches to their packs, and Rossi tied the bird carrier to his saddle.
Several minutes later, Mist pushed through the stable door.
“Finally,” Guyen said. “Where have you been, sightseeing? What’s that?” He nodded at an extra satchel slung over her shoulder.
“Goodies,” she said, opening the bag for them to see. It was full of flashbangs.
Guyen swore. “What the hell are you doing with those? They’re—”
“Explosives? Yes, I know. Found them in the armoury. They might come in useful.” She tied the bag to her Chestnut’s saddle.
“You’d better ride gentle,” Guyen said, “or you’ll be vapour.”
“Mist by name.”
What was the point? “Did you unlock the gate?”
“Yes.”
“Come on then.”
They led the horses into the yard, mounted, and trotted towards the exit. A shout rang out from the stables. “You there! What are you doing?” Selius stared, arms wide in disbelief.
Damn. Guyen aimed a boot at the Chestnut’s midriff. Rather than quickening the pace, she reared. The others disappeared through the gate. Selius broke into a run.
“Fuck. Come on, horse!” Guyen shook the reins.
“Yorkov!” Selius screamed.
The mare snorted, breaking into a canter.
“Yorkov! I’ll have you for this, see if I don’t!” The grounds marshal’s cries faded into the hubbub of the city.
A few blocks from the hexium, they slowed to a trot and headed out of Carmain, galloping through Eastgate thirty minutes later. The gate guards shouted curses at their backs, but gave no chase.
The smog of cook fires and chimneys dissipated as they left the urban sprawl behind, revealing an indecisive sky. Stripes of cloud rolled by, the tenuous remains of daylight striking the landscape with an unearthly quality, a blanket of uniform grey. The weather was ominous to say the least, but the route was simple, the roads should be decent, and it was only ten miles. As long as they didn’t lose the light, they should be all right.
One thing the indecisive weather was settled on though was the temperature, which was cold—bloody cold—especially when the breeze blew. The leather gloves stashed in Lyla’s pa’s coat were a godsend, if on the small side, but they were no help for freezing toes—already like someone else’s. They’d probably snap off at some point, but you’d never know till you removed your boots and they fell out of your socks. The Chestnut paid no heed to the cold, snorting white steam from her nostrils, working to maintain the pace. Smoker seemed a fitting name. You have to name your horse. It’s the done thing.
Little lay to the east of Carmain. Unlike the sprawling south, it was devoid of structures or settlements, the land too boggy—not that you’d tell today by the frozen, rutted road. They passed no one. And why would they? What kind of madman would venture out in this weather?
Up ahead, Mist and Rossi handled their mounts with ease. It was all right for them—they’d all but grown up on horseback. Guyen held Smoker’s reins loosely, sitting upright as he’d learnt exercising the mounts. But his back soon ached. Remembering the advice of a stablehand, he relaxed into the horse’s rhythm, loosing Toulesh to run alongside. It helped, but as if to compensate, the weather worsened, the chill wind picking up, and by the time Carmain had faded to a smudge on the horizon, even his teeth were frozen.
Mist passed a hipflask. “Have a swig of that, Greens. Warm ya up.”
He sniffed. It smelled like chem. What the hell. He took a slug. Immediately, his mouth and throat burned. He panted in cold air. “Globes, woman. What is this?”
“Surgeon’s Comfort. The good stuff.”
“Damn, girl! Are you trying to poison me?”
“Why would anyone use that as a poison?”
He groaned. “Forget it.”
It began to snow, and the day darkened. He stuck out his tongue, at first enjoying the relief from the burning spirit, but soon blinking heavy flakes away. He looked up, half-expecting to see red lightning, but nothing of the sort presented, the sky just a featureless grey canvas. Five minutes later, the flurries had reduced visibility to a few feet. Even horses were blind in these conditions, so they
took respite in a wood. It was a chance for a stretch, at least. Mist lit a torch, and grey outlines turned into green foliage. She crouched down and began pulling apart the flashbangs. That probably wasn’t the best idea—a flame so close to gunpowder.
Guyen stamped the floor, hoping it might restart his circulation. “What are you doing?” he asked.
“Repacking the powder,” she replied.
“Why?”
“Bigger bangs.”
“You’re insane.”
She squealed. “Thanks. You say the nicest things.”
Rossi peered out into the blanketing snow. “How long is this going to last?” he complained. “I’m fucking freezing. They’ll find our bodies in the morning. Ice blocks we’ll be.”
Guyen passed the Surgeon’s Comfort. “Stop moaning. Have some of this.”
He took a swig. “Shit!” He panted in air, face screwed up like a shrivelled orange.
“Still cold?” Guyen asked wryly.
“No, thank you.”
“Shame.”
Rossi grunted a sour laugh. “I shouldn’t be here, you know. I should be with Ariana, looking after her.”
A pang of guilt flickered. “She’ll be all right.”
“If she’s in danger, it’s your fault,” he snapped.
Well, that was true enough. “I couldn’t stop her defending me,” Guyen said. “I tried, believe me.”
“Oh, I do believe you. That’s the worst thing about it.”
“She’s too good for you.”
“Well, she’s certainly too good for you then.”
Mist sighed. “Boys!”
Rossi stifled a curse. “You really think your brother’s at this place?”
“Yes. Jal had something to do with his arrest. I can feel it in my water.”
Mist tutted. “I told you to be careful of her, didn’t I?”
“I was careful. I didn’t realise she was criminally insane though.”
“And it only took her murdering her own husband to clue you up? Ha!”
He groaned. “She probably gave the order to kill me, and Sark.”
“Well, obviously.” Mist discarded another empty shell. A wolf howled in the distance. Smoker whinnied.
It was another half hour before the snow flurries had dissipated such that the road was visible again. Mist transferred the repackaged explosives to her pack, dumping the empty shells and satchel, and they rode on. The trees thinned, and they passed reed beds on either side, then several miles later, the road split in two. Guyen recalled the map from Silver’s Den.
“Left,” he called.
Mist steered her Chestnut accordingly, and they headed north. The road narrowed, bordered by marshland, tall reeds stooping overhead. After a while, they closed in on a shadow on the horizon. Guyen tried to marry the features with the map. A ridge marked Alamedes ran north to south. This must be it. They’d need to cross, but it hadn’t looked so high in two dimensions. Something splashed in the marsh. Slipping focus, a vague form like an alligator outlined yards away. Guyen tugged at the faint nether light surrounding it, hoping to scare it off. Smoker reared, almost throwing him. He cursed. Had she sensed that? Horses reacted badly to sodalight, the main reason it was useless for riding at night—perhaps manipulating Faze on horseback was a bad idea too.
“Can’t you control that thing?” Rossi said.
“I’m doing my best. She’s skittish.”
“A bad horseman always blames his mount, gutterfill.” Even the arsehole’s putdowns were unoriginal.
Atop the ridge, the cold took no prisoners. Overhead, the stars spotted patches of clear sky, Silvera taking over the duty of illuminating the landscape. At this rate, it would soon be too dark to find their way without torches. A wolf pack silhouetted on a higher peak, watching on, howling, keeping their distance.
The other side of the ridge was steeper, and the horses slipped on loose frozen rocks as they descended, but they reached the bottom without mishap and continued along the track. Cypress trees shot up on either side, as disturbed bats swooped low, worrying the horses. Guyen stroked Smoker’s neck, keeping a firm pressure on the reins, speaking soothing words. It was unnecessary, but made him feel better—the flying vermin gave him the creeps. As they were about to clear the trees, Mist pulled up, raising a hand. Voices sounded. They dismounted and tied up the horses, then edged towards the treeline.
Up ahead, the road disappeared, replaced by swamp. In the frosty half-light, it looked like a path glistened on its surface. In the way, three soldiers gathered around a fire beside an unhitched army wagon.
“Must be Cotes’ men,” Rossi whispered. “Is this the only way through?”
“Yes,” Guyen said. “Unless you want to ride several hours for the river and fashion a boat.”
“We’ll have to deal with them then.”
“Agreed,” Mist said.
“What do you mean, deal with them?” Guyen hissed.
“This is war, Yorkov.”
There’d always been the likelihood violence would play a part, but so soon? “There must be another way?” he grunted.
“We could try asking nicely,” Mist offered.
“What about a distraction? Long enough for us to slip past?”
“Too risky,” Rossi said. “They’ll sound an alarm if they discover us.” He paused. “I could shoot one from here, but that would give us away too.”
“You think?”
Mist clicked her tongue. “You know, they say these swamps are haunted. Superstitious lot, rankers—maybe you could scare ‘em, Greens?”
Rossi stifled a laugh. “What’s he going to do? Recite poetry at them?”
“How would that scare them?” Mist asked, her tone quite serious. “No, I was thinking he could use his powers.”
“Powers?”
Guyen stifled a snort. “Ages, Mist! I’m not a conjurer. I can’t magic solutions out of thin air.”
“There must be something you can do? What about when you made my goblet explode—couldn’t you do that with their skulls?”
“He did what!” Rossi exclaimed.
Guyen ignored him. “It doesn’t work like that. Not on people. Besides, I need to see things properly to choose new ways for them to be.”
“Why?”
“I can’t change something if I don’t understand it.”
“Turning my goblet into sand was deliberate? You owe me a glass then.”
He hesitated. “I don’t know.” What about the other times he’d manipulated Faze—the Impossible Bridge, the ship, snapping Rossi’s reins all those months back? He’d not known what he was doing then, but there’d been a way. Maybe she had a point.
She sighed. “I guess we’ll just have to kill them then.”
“What? No!” Damn his so-called powers. There had to be a better way. Perhaps he could target the wagon? “I’ll see what I can do,” he managed.
She nodded approvingly.
He gritted his teeth and slipped focus. The clamour rose immediately, the constant pitch separating into pulsing waves of harmonics. He pulled back from the feeling, checking his control. The sound subsided. That was good—almost mastery.
He tried again. This time, he let the clamour build, imagining the Song within it. He fell into the sound, and the harmonics morphed into a choir. Across the swamp, red tendrils of nether light hazed over the water’s surface, the floating roadway glowing, and the wagon lit up, its constituent parts outlining—the carriage, the brass work, the wheels. It made sense that a vehicle, designed to move, would be brighter in the Overlay—it possessed more possibilities than earth or trees. But this was something else. There’d never been this level of detail before. Not at this distance. It had to be the Song—it had never sounded this clear. One of the wagon’s wheels shimmered. Could he cast Mass on it? Break the axle? He tried pulling up another version, but it was too difficult to make out from this distance.
What else?
His eyes slid to one of the shim
mering spokes. It jittered in place. Perhaps he could target that—the image was more precise. He thought back to Mist’s globe, and the Overteller at the observatory. He’d moved them rather than changing them, attached momentum. Could he do the same now? He caught a version of the spoke at a different angle, as if the wheel were turned slightly, and willed Faze into it. A purple thread snaked up from the swamp, streamed across the ground, and attached itself. The wagon creaked. A man looked up. That was no good, it needed more. He tried again, repeating the process on another spoke. The Song rose, wilder, brighter, and Faze bled into the wagon like ink into blotting paper as it began to roll. The rankers turned to look, jumping up in alarm as it slammed into the murky water several yards away, one spinning wheel throwing up spouts of water.
Guyen pulled back from the Overlay. It was hard, sticky. He clenched a fist and summoned Toulesh. The simulacrum folded in, and the clamour returned to its usual high-pitched whine. The wheel slowed.
“Did you do that?” Rossi stammered. “How?”
“It’s a gift.”
“What are you? A witch?”
“Be quiet.”
The rankers stalked over to the wagon, swords front like they expected it to spring up and attack them. It didn’t, and they spread out. One of the horses whinnied. They turned towards them.
“Shit!” Mist hissed. “Hide!”
They scrambled for cover. What an idiotic attempt at distraction, Guyen thought. All you did was alert them. He ducked behind a tree next to Rossi, as Mist concealed herself the other side of the path. Now what? A ranker headed towards them, burning torch painting the foliage in dancing shadows. He stalked past Mist, and she sprang out behind him like a cat. He whirled, raising his sword, but was slow. Much too slow.
She cut his throat.
He fell forwards, sword and torch clattering to the ground.
This was the plan? If so, it was a dark one.
The dead man’s comrades called out. “Ethur?”
“Little help, please,” Mist hissed.
They scrambled over, dragging the corpse into the bushes, another level of grim macabre.
Rossi stamped out the sputtering torch and the foliage retreated into near-blackness. “Shit, girl,” he hissed, “you don’t mess around.”
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