by Stephen Hunt
‘As far as healing, the proof of the pudding will be in the eating.’ Temmell pointed to a table covered with scale models of flying wings, like a particularly messy counter of a child’s toyshop. ‘Pass me that wooden-handled chisel.’
‘You mean to carve my golden fox?’ Alexamir sounded shocked.
Temmell grinned as he took the tool from the nomad, unscrewed the handle and passed it to Cassandra. ‘Indeed I do, but not with this. Bite hard on the wood, my little celestial caste beauty. Otherwise, you shall lose your tongue before you ever regain your legs.’
‘This will hurt?’
‘Excruciatingly so. Nothing is without cost. I would offer you a good swig of that foul sour milk whisky the clans produce, but I need your flesh unpolluted for this work.’
‘I am used to pain,’ said Cassandra, with a bravado she had to work to feel. ‘I trained every day in the duelling hall.’ Besides, I feel little below my thighs, sad to say.
‘Ha. A connoisseur? Let me introduce you to my wares, then.’
Cassandra was about to ask why the trickster was not going for any of his travelling potions or at least a surgeon’s bag, but instead the man lay his hands back on the bottom of her spine. The sleek golden hands seemed to flatten, almost melting into her skin, joining with her body. And then Cassandra discovered the strength of the sorcerer’s wares, only just managing to fumble for the wooden handle, squeeze it into her mouth as a shock like a bucket of acid tossed over her began to eat into her flesh. She screamed through the wood, an undignified trail of drool soaking into the woollen sheets. Nothing like this. Never! Cassandra had been trained for pain tolerance using shock foils, thin sabres with pliant metal blades charged from a rubberized hilt battery to deliver agonizing cuts. A bare handful of practice cuts were enough to render a bull-sized guardsman a semi-conscious wreck on the floor. Cassandra might as well have trained with a feather duster for all that it had prepared her for this.
‘Hold her down!’ commanded Temmell, bearing down his victim’s spine with all his weight.
Alexamir grabbed Cassandra as she thrashed insanely. Despite the nomad’s bulk, he was hard-pressed to stop her flailing off the cot. How can I twist so much? A minute ago and she was barely capable of crawling unaided across the floor. ‘You are killing her, Temmell. In the name of Atamva, show pity!’
‘I am killing what is dead inside her,’ growled Temmell with a cold detachment. ‘It is only the fire of life her nerves experience. New, beautiful fresh life.’
‘Please!’ called Cassandra through the wood; she had gnawed it to splinters. The word came out as a spittle-flooded Leaze.
‘Something new for you, today,’ said Temmell. ‘Something new for the world.’ The heat from his two-handed touch forked down across her spine and into her calf muscles, setting them twitching as though in a fit. They hadn’t stirred for so long, and now, this. Temmell chanted in a language that Cassandra didn’t recognize, oddly lyrical for a tongue that sounded so short and guttural, his head nodding as if trying to find a rhythm to match his so-called patient’s pain.
Cassandra felt as though she was tied between a train of horses, that being ripped apart was her punishment. She tried to pass out, seeking the blessed relief of oblivion, but it was denied her. Screams echoed through the hall and they were hers. No one came to end them. Until they were over. For a moment the absence of pain seemed another trick, but she was left quivering across the cot, the woollen sheets so soaked with her sweat that she might have come from a bath untowelled.
‘Cassandra,’ said Alexamir. She wasn’t sure if he had ever called her that before. It was as though she was reborn here. ‘Can you move your legs?’
‘Try, Vandian,’ said Temmell. ‘Swing them off slowly over the side and bear your weight upon them.’
She tried and, amazingly, her flesh obeyed. Hesitantly at first, then more smoothly. How many times have I woken and forgotten my condition? Attempted to move and found herself flailing as wildly as a beached creature of the deep sea, shored hard. Alexamir lifted her up under her arms, but not to carry her. To support me! Cassandra was standing. After all this time. Something so simple. She moved a leg forward and it obeyed. Her muscles felt like swinging stone and followed as slowly.
‘You see,’ said Temmell. ‘Am I not the greatest force upon this world, equal to the gods? Lucky you are, Vandian, to have fallen in with my company. There are few in all the lands of the people capable of such a feat.’
‘Feat. This is a gods-sent miracle.’
‘Walk around the tables here, bear her up Alexamir Arinnbold. Her muscles have grown stiff and weak for so long without exercise. You must walk her like a young colt, with you as her training rope.’
‘How does it feel?’ asked Alexamir.
Cassandra tottered trying to stay upright. Every step felt like wading through treacle. ‘Like freedom.’
‘Keep going,’ urged Temmell. ‘The more exercise her muscles have now, the better.’
Cassandra did hesitant laps around the model- and plan-littered tables, her flow of blood circulating at last as it was meant to. Just as she was thinking of stopping and resting, a feeling similar to pinsand-needles began to spread across her legs, a sudden flare of pain, and she was felled towards the floor as effectively as a puppet whose strings had been severed. Alexamir lunged and caught her before she hit the side of her head against a table. Cassandra stared up accusingly at the trickster.
‘Freedom has a cost,’ noted Temmell, coolly.
‘What is happening?’ demanded Alexamir.
‘I said she would walk again. I did not say for how long.’
‘The healing has not worked, has not taken?’ Could Cassandra bear the pain again for a second attempt? I’ll have to.
‘It has worked perfectly,’ said Temmell.
Alexamir angrily faced the sorcerer. ‘How can you say that?’
‘Because this is what I intended,’ said Temmell. ‘She will walk for ten minutes each day. Tomorrow she will have another ten minutes at the same time. The day after that, another. A pie-maker gives out a free taste of his wares. He does not, however, give his pies away for free.’ He smiled at Cassandra. ‘However pretty the customer doing the pleading.’
‘You must heal her. Forever. Permanently.’
‘Must?’ said Temmell. ‘I have found in the world there is very little I must do. If we shall talk about musts, let us first talk of their price. And who is to do the paying.’
‘What would you have me do?’ snarled Alexamir.
‘Oh, I don’t know. Conquer the world. Climb a distant mountain and bring me back a rare extinct flower for one of my potions. What can you do for me, Alexamir?’
‘Whatever I have to do.’
‘How pleasing. I do have something in mind as it happens. For too long you have boasted about being the greatest thief of all the Nijumeti. The women of the clans have heard this, so too the men. So oft and forcefully have your boasts been repeated that now even I, Temmell, the keenest mind of this or any other generation, have been taken in by them. I have something for you to steal, Prince of Thieves. An item worthy of your self-appointed and self-regarded title.’
Cassandra waited expectantly along with Alexamir to hear what it was to be. Temmell may not have been born to the clans, but he can certainly bluster with the best of them.
Alexamir could no longer suffer the suspense. ‘What, Temmell? Name it. Let me hear your price.’
‘It is access to the master copy of the Deb-rlung’rta, a book to be found in the Rodalian capital, Hadra-Hareer.’
‘A book,’ said Alexamir, as though he had been asked to steal a cup of horse piss from the stables of the Rodalian First Speaker.
‘If you’re growing bored of life out here, I can recommend a hundred titles from my house’s library,’ said Cassandra.
‘The Deb-rlung’rta isn’t to be found in the shelves of any Vandian house, however well-appointed their library,’ said Temmell. ‘It is the
master codex of the wind priests. It details the tidal openings and closings of Rodal’s wind dams, the tables for how the priests should react and coordinate against the weather and which spirits of the air need summoning.’
‘A book of spells,’ said Alexamir, with some measure of understanding.
‘A chapter or two is taken from it and contained in every wind dam and temple, as well as the skyguard stations, detailing local conditions. But the complete compendium for all of Rodal only exists in one place . . . the great temple at Hadra-Hareer. It is updated every year, chapters copied by hand by scribes and illuminators, then sent by flying wing to all the temples and stations of the skyguard.’
‘Look at Alexamir!’ shouted Cassandra. ‘Do you see a Rodalian standing there? He’s a blue-skinned horseman, their ancient enemy. You’re not sending him to steal for you. You’re sending him to die.’
Temmell stared coldly at Cassandra. ‘How touching. I had always wondered if a cat feels any real affection for the hand that feeds it, or if the relationship was only an accommodation. The mysteries of cats are beyond even the Astounding Temmell. Less so, those of people. Do not fret, little Vandian, my power stretches far further than a severed spine. I have a glamour to cast upon your Prince of Thieves before he is to prove his title. It will change his skin colour to a nice pallid tone and soften his noble brow and features towards the Rodalian.’
Alexamir appeared shocked. ‘You mean to change my face?’
‘Only temporarily. Perhaps a little too temporarily. Once my spell is cast, you will need to travel and be brisk about your business. Without reinforcement by me, your face will soon return to its true-blooded steppes form. And it would not do for you to lose your disguise while surrounded by citizens of the Valley of the Hell-winds. A plane will be allocated to you along with one of our budding aviators.’
‘The Great Krul will never allow this,’ said Alexamir. ‘If one our wooden pigeons is seen and reported, all the enemies of the clans will know of our new might.’
‘Yours?’ sneered Temmell. ‘I think you claim too much credit, even for a Nijumeti rider. It is not my thunder I require you to steal. Kani Yargul can be made to grasp the value of this prize. To understand the winds of Rodal is to control Rodal. I am not building the first skyguard in the history of the Nijumet to watch it torn apart in storms summoned by the cursed priests of the wind temples.’
‘Do not go,’ Cassandra begged Alexamir. ‘Not for me. Healing me is not worth it.’
‘You are wrong,’ said Alexamir. ‘It is. To me. And the cost is mine to pay.’
Cassandra shook her head. ‘If this book is irreplaceable it will be impossibly well guarded.’
‘You are half correct,’ said Temmell. ‘Impossibly well-guarded, naturally. But hardly irreplaceable. The knowledge that comprises the Deb-rlung’rta exists in piecemeal fashion inside the skull of every priest in every temple in the heights. They could come together in convention and put it back together like a jigsaw.’
‘Do not steal it, Alexamir. You steal only your death.’
Temmell laughed heartily, the first sign of true amusement Cassandra had heard from the man. ‘Oh, I do not require Alexamir Arinnbold to merely steal the Deb-rlung’rta. That is hardly a feat equal to the talents of the Prince of Thieves. He is to break into their great temple, copy the text and leave it resting in place. Seemingly undisturbed by all fingers save those of a few grubby log keepers and scribes. They must not know we have a copy until it is too late.’
‘I will do as you bid,’ said Alexamir. ‘I would do it if this spell book was resting in the dark hall of Kalu the Apportioner himself using the tongues of a thousand demons as its cushion. How am I to copy this book, though, when I have not been taught a scribe’s reading?’
‘Open the book and stare well at each page. The first enchantment I shall cast over your features. My second will make your mind a copy-book. I shall lift the impression of the script from your mind when you return.’
‘You may change his face,’ pleaded Cassandra, ‘but you can’t change the man. His manners, his accent . . .’
‘I see that the celestial caste’s education still includes the arts of spycraft. Have no fear, little Vandian, my glamour will alter the muscles of his throat. I’ll have him singing like a born rice-eater quickly enough. And as for manners, well Alexamir is an intelligent young man and, I have noted, a very fast study. He will prosper under my tutelage. Slow wits do not last long in my service.’ He turned towards the nomad. ‘I must minister to your golden fox and ensure my healing has taken. Ride to Kani Yargul and ask him to grant me a private audience before supper. Then return and carry away the Lady Cassandra. Your training for your task begins this evening.’
Alexamir exchanged a worried glance with Cassandra. She listened to Alexamir’s galloping steed as he departed, before glaring at the trickster from her cot. ‘You are using him.’
‘We are using each other. On such transactions are the foundations of civilization laid.’
‘If you call the clans civilization.’
‘I call them an opportunity. One not to be wasted.’
‘You don’t need to supervise my recovery. Whatever you did to my body, you’re sure enough of its effects.’
‘You have caught me out. I don’t need to supervise your condition,’ admitted Temmell. ‘But I do need to discuss your fears. And it is better that the Prince of Thieves is not distracted by them. His success will require a fierce clarity of purpose.’
‘Fears? You believe I am afraid of you?’
‘Only a stupid person would fail to be. And you, I think, are far from dull-witted. But it is not your fear of me that is my concern. It is your fear of Alexamir’s success . . .’
Cassandra tried to laugh. ‘So, you believe I fear walking again?’
‘No. It is the duties that are attendant upon your healing which you fear. When you have your spine unbroken, you will be able to walk. And where might you walk to, little Vandian? Naturally, you will follow all those lessons of duty and honour to your house and emperor and Imperium. Such heavy baggage. It is little wonder that you lay sprawled there, barely able to crawl with all that weight upon your young back.’
Cassandra attempted to reply, but something within her choked the words. She had to gather herself back together before she could speak. ‘Alexamir gave his word, his blood oath. He will show me the life of a nomad and then I am free to choose to return to Vandia at any time.’
‘As you choose. Of course you fear me. I can smell the terror upon you like a scent, like an expensive perfume from Ortheris. But you fear having to choose to abandon Alexamir so much more.’
Tears rolled down Cassandra’s cheeks. ‘Leave me be. This is no healing.’
‘The truth is always healing. Just not for your Prince of Thieves. He may not bring me back the Deb-rlung’rta if he knows it is also your passage home. Or perhaps he will . . . the honour of such savages! But the hesitation and conflict such a truth will cause in him is as great an enemy as a city filled with half a million ancient blood-foes of the Nijumeti.’
‘Leave me alone!’
‘What is the saying in Vandia? Family. House. Empire. No place for a low-born nomad in such a philosophy. Oh, I will fix his golden fox’s mangled legs. But you’re not going to hobble away from Alexamir until I have a copy of the Deb-rlung’rta sitting safely in my hall.’
‘What kind of man are you?’
‘I wish I knew. Truly I do. It would probably be kinder to Alexamir if he died from the charge of a temple guard’s pistol before you break his heart. But you wouldn’t want to see his death come to pass. So keep your mouth shut around him, little Vandian. Let him survive to return with my prize. Then you may allow the grand sweeping tragedy of your life to play out as it will.’ He turned before he left the chamber, giving her an ironic bow before he exited. ‘My lady of the Imperium.’
Cassandra was left to her worries, whirling around her like a murder of crows, pec
king at her. Sometimes it took another’s viewpoint to crystallize who you were and what you truly felt. She loved Alexamir, but she could not tell him. Because the trickster was correct. When Cassandra could walk, she would have to walk away from him. There was no place for Alexamir in the Imperium and no place for her here. Let him fail, but return alive. I will stay like this. Ten minutes a day and broken for the rest. Let that be my fate, please.
Her brooding was interrupted by the swinging of the hall’s wooden door. A man entered. Not a Nijumet, that much was certain. Pale white skin, a narrow face and thin black moustache. He looked like a trader; thick, high leather riding boots, worn leather trousers and a heavy furred green jacket good for sleeping out on the plains. No slave, either. Not with a pistol holster belted near his left side, a flared ornamental barrel jutting out. Meant to be fired from a wagon or saddle, if I’m any judge.
The traveller noticed Cassandra lying down on the cot and his eyes twinkled with mischief. Cassandra guessed his thoughts. ‘I’m not one of Temmell’s saddle wives.’
‘I don’t think the man has any. And you’re no mountain maid.
Kishian or Persdad?’
‘Neither. Shouldn’t you be wearing ankle irons?’
‘I’m more use to the Nijumeti able to run as free as a jackrabbit,’ said the trader. ‘I am Brean Luagh of the very fine nation of Hellin.’
Hellin? ‘I have heard of your country. You’re the only people who trade with the nomads.’ These are the traders Alexamir said would take me back to the league and the nearest Guild of Radiomen’s hold, if I decide to leave. When, lady, when.
‘Well, some of us do and some of us don’t. Business can run awful tricky out here at times. It takes a special person to rub along friendlylike among the clans.’
‘A skill you possess?’
‘Along with a few wagons filled with barrels of rubber. Very useful stuff, rubber.’ He winked at her. ‘Not many rubber trees out here in the steppes. Not many trees at all, really. Rare stuff here, you might say.’