by Ian Whates
"Is that it?" Birhoff exclaimed. "Is that small tube really supposed to renew the core of the entire city and save us?"
"It wouldn't need to be enormous," one of the Councillors said – Tom couldn't recall his name.
"Indeed not," the Prime Master agreed. "This is all about replenishment and the flushing out of impurity rather than total replacement. Besides, I'm not sure core material is governed by physical constraints as we know them."
"What…" Birhoff said, pausing, her brows knit as if her next words were of the utmost import and needed careful selection. "What if we didn't just use this to replenish the core?"
"How do you mean, Carla?" the Prime Master said, an ominous note in his voice.
"Think about it," she said. "The Rust Warriors have seized significant territories within our own city, despite the best efforts of our arkademics and guards and the Blade. They've done so because the core that we rely on, that we draw our powers from, is the very thing that spawned them. The core is corrupt, compromising our abilities and supporting our enemies. But here, come to us quite literally as a gift from the goddess, is a source of pure untainted core material, which has arrived in our hour of greatest need. Can that really be coincidence? And what do we intend doing with it? Entrust it to the care of this poor lad from the City Below and send him into the very heart of enemy territory. Forgive my impertinence, but am I the only one to see that this is madness? Instead of throwing away such an unexpected but glorious gift, why not utilise it? We could draw upon the uncompromised power it contains and drive the Rust Warriors from our city and, once we've done so, then worry about cleansing the core."
"Very eloquently put, Carla," the Prime Master said, "but you're not in the Assembly now. This isn't a debate. Our priority, above every other consideration, is to restore the core. Once we've done that, the Rust Warriors and even bone flu itself will cease to be a threat."
"I'm sorry if I presumed too much, Prime Master," Carla said quickly, displaying a facile humility which wasn't about to fool anyone. "I merely thought the case worth making."
"Which you have done and done well, but the core must be replenished and the sooner we do so the better."
Tom could only agree, relieved that no one seemed swayed by Carla's speech.
"Physical access to the core is limited, for obvious reasons," the Prime Master explained, turning towards Tom. "There are two communion platforms, one on this Row, the other two Rows beneath us. Both are in areas of the city we've lost to the Rust Warriors. This was one of the matters we were set to discuss at the meeting before your most welcome arrival. We'd assumed that this was pure coincidence – these aren't by any means the only sectors of the Heights the Rust Warriors now occupy – but after hearing what you've said, I'm inclined to believe it's deliberate. That being the case, it seems likely that the two platforms will be heavily defended."
"All well and good," Kat interrupted as he paused for breath, "but this still doesn't get me back to my men."
The Prime Master turned to her with a regretful smile. "Tom isn't exaggerating, Kat. From what he says, every second is indeed vital. If the city should fall, anarchy and death awaits us all – you, me, the Tattooed Men. So I'm asking this for all our sakes: help Tom. Work with him as you did before. By doing so you'll be helping everyone, including your own people, and I guarantee that afterwards you will be returned immediately to wherever you wish to go."
Tom stared at Kat, willing her to agree. Somehow whatever awaited him wouldn't seem so daunting with her prickly presence beside him. She in turn stared at the Prime Master, chewing her bottom lip for a thoughtful second before asking, "What's in it for me?"
Tom thought he knew Kat and that nothing she might do could surprise him anymore. He'd been wrong. He stared at her, astounded at her audacity. This wasn't some market stall holder she was addressing, ripe for a bit of bartering. This was the Prime Master of all Thaiburley for Thaiss's sake. Didn't she realise that? He held his breath and waited for his mentor's response, not entirely sure what to expect.
"Apart from saving the city and your people along with it, you mean?" the Prime Master said with arched eyebrows and the hint of a smile.
"Yeah, exactly; apart from all that. Look, you've got soldiers and guards, right? I'll bet none of them fight just for the warm glow of knowing that they're serving the city. Doing the right thing and saving all those innocent citizens won't put bread on the table or clothes on their backs now, will it. You pay them for what they do, right?"
The Prime Master nodded. "Indeed we do." The smile was definitely there now.
"So why do you expect me to put my life on the line here purely from a sense of duty? I mean, no one's talked about paying me and you don't even ask for that sort dedication from your own men."
"A point well made," the Prime Master conceded. "Now, let me see… would a sum of gold sufficient to keep you and your Tattooed Men in comfort for a full year satisfy you?"
Kat didn't hesitate. "Deal!"
Tom finally let out his breath. "Now can we get going?" he asked.
The answer, it emerged, was no.
Deciding on details, that was what delayed them. One thing Tom had learned since he'd arrived up-City was that things tended to take longer in the Heights than he was accustomed to. In the City Below, he'd have checked his knives, adjusted his backpack, and then set out; simple as that. Here, everything had to be planned.
Taken individually, everything made sense. Of course they would need protection: both the Blade and a contingent of Council Guards would accompany them. "The guards' weapons have been primed by arkademics," he was told. "They should be effective against Rust Warriors." Of course, Tom needed to know where they were going. "The Blade know," the Prime Master assured him, "but in case you get separated…" He then touched Tom's thoughts in a way that he had before and suddenly Tom did know. He could sense the core beating at the city's heart just as he could feel the restless coil of power at his back. Of course they needed all the help they could get. "I would come with you," Assembly member Birhoff said. "But I have to report to the assembly on the outcome of this meeting." Tom was grateful for small mercies. Of course everyone wanted to wish them luck and offer them brave words. He could understand all of that; it was just that the combination of all these things took time.
He tried to avoid Kat's gaze, realising that he could have whisked her to and from the Stain a dozen times before all was ready. Mercifully, she seemed unconcerned by the fact, though she did corner him at one point, evidently as tired of the delay as he was, and say, "Can't you just zap us there the way you brought us both here from the Stain?"
Tom shook his head. "I have to be able to visualise a person or a place clearly, or it doesn't work, and I've never been to the core."
"Well, can't the Prime Master go there and then you can visualise him?"
Again he shook his head. "The Prime Master can only jump to very specific places within the city, not anywhere the way that I can."
"Hey, so you're more powerful than the Prime Master now?"
"No, of course I'm not."
But she wasn't having any of it.
The final delay was an unexpected one. It came from the Council Guard, or rather their commander, a Captain Verrill. The Prime Master had assigned seven of the Blade and a dozen of the Guards under Verrill's command to accompany Tom, and the captain seemed none too pleased at the prospect.
Tom had met Verrill before. The tall, powerful-looking officer was never far away when the Prime Master was around. He'd always been civil to Tom and, on occasion, had even threatened to crack a smile. In fact, he gave every indication of having a personality beneath the professional veneer, which was something Tom couldn't have said with any certainty of the others he'd met among the white-and-purples.
Verrill had always struck Tom as unfailingly loyal, yet now he hesitated, as if uncomfortable with what was being asked of him.
"Is there a problem, captain?" The Prime Master asked,
presumably sensing the same.
"No, sir, not a problem, but… our sworn duty is to safeguard you and the other members of the council, not anyone else. No offence intended." This last was said with a quick glance in Tom's direction.
"Indeed it is, Captain," the Prime Master said with a smile. "Your diligence does you credit, as ever, but these are unusual times. By accompanying Tom you will be safeguarding me, and all the council members. If you stay here and Tom fails in his endeavour, Thaiburley will fall. What then of your duty? Should Tom succeed, we'll all be safe. So, you see, protecting him protects us all. There's no conflict in what I'm instructing you and your men to do, captain; safeguarding Tom will not represent a dereliction of duty but rather its strongest prosecution.
"We'll still retain a pair of guardsmen each and a contingent of the Blade, but, to be frank, should you fail, it won't really matter how many there are to safeguard us. We're no longer of any consequence in this, not compared to Tom. So please, Captain, do as I ask with a clear conscience."
That seemed to settle it, which meant that all the obstacles were cleared and they could finally set off, though, on reflection, Tom wasn't really sure why he was in such a hurry. Rust Warriors. The very thought of those silent, inhuman killers sent a shiver coursing through his body at least as chill as anything Thaiss's ice tanks had ever delivered.
At Pilgrimage End he was mistaken for a prophet, a wild man returned from the mountains of Thaiss enlightened by the goddess. His appearance doubtless contributed to this misapprehension. After narrowly surviving his fight with Bryant – or whatever the man's real name had been – and escaping the Jeeraiy, Dewar had become obsessed with catching up to Tom and Mildra. Though, looking back now, he couldn't have said why. Perhaps the Prime Master had touched his mind with more than merely the threat of blood magic reprisal in that interview back in Thaiburley. The obsession had driven him relentlessly forward, overriding awareness of his own body's needs and appearance. He'd eaten little and slept little, while his thoughts never strayed to such trivial concerns as hygiene and grooming. So it had been an unkempt and decidedly dishevelled figure that arrived at the abandoned temple, and the days spent unconscious in its ruins since hadn't exactly improved the situation either.
Strange, Dewar could see all this clearly now, when at the time he'd been oblivious to any aberration in his mental state. With the benefit of hindsight, he recognised that sanity had deserted him during the trip here, and, indeed, that he and it had been less than fully acquainted for many years. His time in Thaiburley's under-City, his servitude to Senior Arkademic Magnus, his determination to better himself by moving ever forwards and upwards, all of this had been motivated by one thing: the need to prevent his past from ever catching up with him. The torment and horror he'd inflicted on others, both at Magnus's behest and before, had been a safety valve, his way of sharing the pain and unfairness of his life – all the injustice the world had ever dealt him. His suffering had been constant, why should others be spared?
The pleasure gained from such deranged interludes had proven ephemeral and unsatisfying, driving him to ever greater lengths to scratch an itch that could never be reached. He had abandoned all restraint, allowing the darker side of his nature to flourish unhindered. It had always been there, but at the start of his career had turned this to his advantage, channelling such urges into his work and earning significant sums in the process, not to mention notoriety and appreciation for his inventiveness. Few of the victims in those early days could ever be described as innocents; though he doubted the same was true of those he'd dealt with in Thaiburley.
Not that he was ashamed of this period – Dewar was far too pragmatic for that. Nor did he feel any remorse for the people who had suffered and died at his hands. It had happened; nothing he could do about that now, so best to accept that period for what it was – the past – and move on.
It struck Dewar as ironic that during all those years nobody had ever treated him as a madman. Dangerous, evil, cruel, untrustworthy – yes, all of those things; but never mad. Yet now, when perspective had returned and he was able to think with logic and clarity, he was being mistaken for a prophet left mentally unbalanced by an encounter with a goddess he didn't even believe in. He didn't lie to the Thaissian priests when they took him into their temple to bathe him, shave him, feed him, anoint him with oils, and provide warm soft bedding for his comfort. He didn't need to. They saw in him a man touched by destiny, and they were right. They saw before them a man fully focused on a mission beyond their ken, and they were right in this too. Where they erred was in thinking that either the mission or the man was in any way holy.
Dewar now knew what he had to do. For the most part he was willing to dismiss the threat held over him by Thaiburley's Prime Master as pure bluff. Perhaps it wasn't, perhaps the drop of blood drawn from Dewar's pricked finger really could be used to bring all manner of retribution down on his head, but he doubted it, and there was nothing he could do about the situation in any case. Besides, by his reckoning he had done more than enough to discharge his duty where the boy and the Thaistess were concerned.
No, high time he stopped bothering with the affairs of others – he had his own life to put in order.
From Pilgrimage End Dewar walked the mountain paths to Pellinum, encountering little along the way apart from two small groups of pilgrims headed in the opposite direction, and some miserable weather. Fortified by the ministrations of the priests and enjoying the benefit of a full stomach for the first time in many days, he used the walk to build up lost muscle and regain a degree of fitness.
Pellinum liked to boast that it was the largest settlement this side of the vast floodplain known as the Jeeraiy, and indeed it might have been, but the place seemed little more than a village to someone accustomed to the vastness of Thaiburley. In fairness, though, it was a sprawling metropolis when measured against Pilgrimage End.
On his second night in Pellinum, Dewar saved a wealthy man from a mugging, chasing away the attackers before helping the victim home. Though badly shaken, the man showed little sign of injury but every sign of gratitude and relief. So it was that Dewar gained access to one of the largest and notoriously secure dwellings in the town's most affluent district. Once inside, he slit the man's throat, robbed him, and then used some of the proceeds to pay off the two muggers.
The next morning found him on a boat bound for Stoutford, a settlement on the easternmost edge of the Jeeraiy. He was by no means the only passenger and soon fell into company with a portly, wheezing fellow whose laugh was even more expansive than his waistline. This larger-thanlife character proved to be the agent of an ambitious trading company out of Kathay, seeking new markets. As the day wore on the two shared a bottle of wine Dewar had brought along for the journey, and then another. After the second bottle had been emptied of all but the dregs – with the assassin drinking considerably less than he appeared to – Dewar's new friend was, it had to be said, slightly the wrong side of sober. This didn't stop the fellow from producing an ornate silver hip flask from an inside pocket and offering it to Dewar. The assassin sniffed at the open mouth, detecting nothing beyond the unmistakable alcohol-laden caramel of Kathan brandy; and a very decent one it proved to be at that.
By the time their boat nudged up against the quay at Stoutford, the trader was snoring soundly, the empty silver flask lying on the seat beside him. Or it was, until Dewar pocketed it for safe keeping. He slid out from the seat on his transient friend's other side and left him there, confident that the fellow would awaken with a heavy head but lighter pockets, courtesy of the substantial purse the assassin had just lifted from him, a comfortingly heavy weight now ensconced within the folds of his own clothing.
Once ashore, Dewar wasted no time in spending some of the purse's contents, replenishing supplies and then acquiring a sound horse and some good quality tackle to match. Within an hour of stepping off the boat he set out for Eastwell, a town that straddled the great trade route which bi
sected the continent. As he left Stoutford behind, Dewar spared a thought for his inadvertent benefactor, wondering if he were awake yet.
The horse served him well and they made good time. Dewar judged his mount's strength and stamina with precision and so avoided riding the beast into the ground while getting the most out of it. Nonetheless, the horse was exhausted by the time they arrived at Eastwell and he rewarded it with two nights' rest at a good stabling facility, where it was able to rest and feed and regain its strength, ready for the last stage of the journey.
It had taken a little over two days to reach Eastwell, a town he had passed through before and whose taverns he knew well enough to engineer an encounter with fellow travellers. On the second morning following his arrival, Dewar reclaimed his horse and joined a trade caravan as it trundled out of the town on the road to distant Deliia.
Deliia was perilously close to familiar territory, and he didn't want to run the risk of his arrival being noted; far better to merely be one of a crowd rather than a lone horseman riding through the gates. Once at Deliia his plan was to sell the horse and seek passage on a boat. One bound for the Misted Isles.