by Ian Whates
He explained that this was a new disease, told them that the causes and vector were as yet uncertain but that the medics were giving the problem their undivided attention and that a cure would soon be found. He stood there and blithely described the symptoms, advising anyone who experienced a persistent tingling in the arm, followed by a sense of coldness in the limb should seek the advice of a medic, just to play safe.
He didn't state that such tingling might have nothing to do with resting on the limb for too long but could instead be an indication of restricted blood flow for far more sinister reasons, a sign that changes were occurring. He didn't need to. They'd heard the stories. He wasn't there to deny the reports, but merely to make them seem more mundane and less frightening,
It was one of the most polished and accomplished performances of his life. As he spoke he could feel the tension in the assembly hall dissipate and watched as people visibly relaxed. He left the room surrounded by smiles and applause, whereas he had entered amidst furrowed brows and frowns.
It wouldn't last, this optimistic mood. All he had done was buy some time, but that was as much as he could do for now and time was what they needed most; apart, perhaps, from a miracle or two.
As the prime master walked back through the airy corridors of the Residences, flanked by half a dozen council guards in their ceremonial white and purple capes, his thoughts turned to Tom and his companions. Had it been a mistake to send the boy beyond the city? Could his formidable talents have been turned against the bone flu if he were still here? Perhaps; yet the gut feeling persisted that Tom's mission was vital to the long term future of the city, and experience had taught the prime master to trust such feelings.
He and his colleagues would have to find their own way of dealing with the disease.
The past couple of days had seen the prime master unburden himself to varying degrees, to both the Council and the assembly, but there was one thing he had yet to discuss with anybody, something he wouldn't disclose until absolutely the last minute: namely the tingling in his own arm, which had started that very morning.
The truth was that the prime master was scared; more scared than he had ever been in his long and eventful life. In the past he had triumphed in seemingly impossible situations, more than once when the odds were stacked precariously against him, but each time he'd been in with a fighting chance, whereas this was an enemy he had no idea how to fight.
The inn looked to have seen better days; in fact, the whole town did. There was a sense of tired resignation in the air, as if whatever reasons people may once have had to settle here were now long gone. The visitor scowled, wondering whether anything worthwhile could truly be found in such a place.
After a moment's hesitation the man pushed the door open and stepped inside. Ulbrax knew a bit about taverns, enough to know immediately that he didn't much like this one. It was the sort where everything stops when someone new enters; or at least it did when he came in – music, conversation, even the motes of dust in the air seemed to pause in their aimless flight to take stock of this stranger.
He was reminded of the moment the demon first stepped into the taproom at the Four Spoke Inn, but couldn't believe he cut anywhere near as impressive a figure.
He strode up to the bar, wearing his most engaging smile – an expression salvaged from the Seth days. After ordering a drink and ensuring that at least some of the conversation his entrance so effectively curtailed had sprung back to life, he said to the barman, "I'm looking for a man called Morca."
The barman stared at him but said nothing.
"Do you know him?"
Sill no response. If the suggestion to come here had originated from any other source, he might have thought this was a joke at his expense, but demons weren't noted for their sense of humour. He perched on a stool and supped his ale, conscious of still being the centre of more attention than he cared to be. He decided to wait only as long as it took to finish his drink. If this stony silence and complete lack of response to his query continued until then, he'd leave and seek help in more welcoming surroundings.
With perhaps two good quaffs remaining, a shadow fell over him. He looked up to find the sour-faced barman standing in front of him once more. "Follow me." So the man could speak.
Ulbrax slipped from his stool and did as instructed, heading down a narrow corridor that led off the taproom. The barman opened the door at the far end to reveal a darkened room and beckoned him to enter. "Wait in here."
Half expecting what might follow, Ulbrax stepped inside, to be suddenly grabbed from behind and held, feeling the cold kiss of steel at his throat and an ironhard physique pressed against his back. "Don't move!" a voice hissed in his ear. He smelt garlic and something sweet on the man's breath while the stubble of whiskers rubbed against his ear tip. "If you so much as twitch a muscle, you're dead. Understood?"
"Understood," Ulbrax replied, determining to do as instructed even though his right arm was trapped a little awkwardly behind him.
"You were asking after a man named Morca."
"Yes."
"Who are you?"
"I'm the man who's currently holding a knife pointed at your balls," he replied, and did risk moving then, just enough to twitch the tip of the weapon in question against his captor's genitals.
"Hah!" The blade at his throat vanished and he found himself pushed forward, staggering several paces into the room before he could regain his balance and swivel around, just as a lamp blazed into life. Standing before him was a great bear of a man, arms crossed and the knife that had so recently been pressed against Ulbrax's jugular held casually in one hand. The man's face was stretched into a broad grin, though that was far from the most noticeable feature, because his face was also creased by a more permanent mark, a livid scar which began above his left eyebrow and continued down the cheek to disappear beneath thick brown stubble which almost constituted a beard. The scar was clearly the legacy of a slashing wound from a sword or perhaps a knife. By the look of it, he'd been lucky not to lose an eye.
"You've got nerve, I'll grant you that much," the man said, sounding more amused than angry.
Ulbrax had no intention of relaxing just because the stranger had a winning smile; he had little doubt that before him stood a dangerous man. "Morca, I take it," he said.
"Perhaps, but you still haven't told me your name."
Some cultures believed that herein rested a form of power, that knowing a person's true name gave you access to their soul. A load of hogwash as far as he was concerned, so he had little hesitation in saying, "Ulbrax."
The man nodded, as if this was the response he'd expected. "And I'm told you sometimes use a different name."
"Seth, Seth Bryant" though admitting as much felt odd now, even after so short a time.
"Good enough." The bear uncrossed his arms, halfspun the knife hilt in his hand and slammed it into a sheath at his belt. "I'm Morca. Understand there's folk need killing. If so, I'm your man."
Ulbrax slipped his own blade away but remained alert. "That's what I heard."
"From a mutual golden-haired friend, no doubt. And did this winged fellow happen to say anything else?"
"Only that you could mobilise a party of suitably vicious bastards in short order."
Morca nodded. "True enough. And who is it we'll be looking to kill?"
"A small party: man, woman and boy."
"A family, you mean."
"No, unrelated."
The big man shrugged. "Same difference. And do they all want killing?"
Ulbrax wondered whether this Morca simply enjoyed slipping the word "kill" into every other sentence or whether he had perhaps accepted a wager to do so. "The boy and the man. Do with the woman what you will – she's not unpleasing on the eye – but the man's mine. I claim the privilege of ending his worthless life and will take apart anyone who denies me that pleasure, one bone at a time."
"We'll bear that in mind. Now, where will we find these three unfortunates?"
<
br /> "By my reckoning, they should have reached the edge of the Jeeraiy about now."
Morca gave a brief bark of laughter. "The Jeeraiy? Are you mad? Have you any idea how big that brecking place is?"
"Some, yes."
"And it's not just the size. The Jeeraiy is a mess of waterways and land spits and bogs and floating plant rafts, of shallow lakes and quagmires… Finding anyone in an area that vast would be tricky enough even if everything happened to stay where it is, but it doesn't! The geography constantly shifts with changing water levels and the movement of floating islands. There are no maps, because maps are pointless. You could send an army in there and still not stumble across who you're looking for!"
Ulbrax kinked an eyebrow. "I don't recall any mention of this being easy."
"I don't need easy, but by the same token I could do without impossible!"
"They're following the Thair going into the Jeeraiy and they'll be trying to do the same on the way out. I imagine if you travel along a straight line between where the river enters and leaves, you'll find them readily enough."
Morca shook his head, as if in exasperation. "You don't get it, do you? There are no straight lines, not in the Jeeraiy. It would take blind luck for us to find them, and there are more ways to die in that place than you could possibly imagine. I'm not about to waste my time by sending men blundering around in there with the odds stacked so heavily against us."
Ulbrax reached calmly to his belt and produced a knife, not in any threatening way but holding it out as if it were a gift. "Perhaps this might help."
"What is it?"
"A throwing knife. It belongs to the man, Dewar. Do you know of any decent diviners around here?"
Morca considered the knife. "You're sure it's his?"
"Positive."
The big man smiled. "Well, why didn't you say so before? We might just be in business. Even with this and a diviner's guidance, I'll have to hire more men – people who are used to the Jeeraiy."
Ulbrax shrugged. "Then do so."
Morca held out his hand. "The knife?"
"Of course." Ulbrax handed the knife across with a surprising sense of reluctance: this was the weapon he'd intended to kill the King Slayer with, but no mind – any blade would do.
"Wait for me back in the bar," the other man said, heading towards the door. "This shouldn't take too long."
"I'll be there," Ulbrax assured him. "And, Morca… don't fail me."
He paused on the threshold and looked back. "Oh, I won't." He grinned. "Your three friends are already dead. They just don't know it yet."
"This can only be the Jeeraiy," Dewar murmured, almost to himself.
"You've been here before?" Tom asked.
"No, but I've heard of it. The soil in the Jeeraiy is said to be the most fertile and productive in the whole continent."
"I can well believe that," Tom said, "at least to judge by the size of the grass they grow around here." Before them stretched a vista of tall, yellowish grasses that grew taller than even Dewar's head. Tom glanced at their leader. Of the three of them, he was the only one who had not been born in Thaiburley, the only one with any previous experience of the outside world. Not for the first time, Tom wondered about the man's past: who he had been, where he was from, and why he had chosen to settle in the City of Dreams.
They moved forward, following a path that had been forced through the grasses, where a swathe of great stalks were flattened and broken, leaving a way broad enough for them to tread comfortably in single file.
"Keep your ears open," Dewar cautioned as he led the
way. "This path is freshly made, and whatever's responsible can't be too far away."
Tom felt a sudden jolt of alarm. He'd assumed this was a man-made track they were walking; it hadn't occurred to him that an animal might have created it. He tried to picture the undoubtedly huge and powerful beast that must have been responsible for trampling such a wide course through these tough grasses, and decided that on reflection he'd rather not.
Tom was startled once as they walked through this forest of grass when they disturbed a long-legged bird which took to the air voicing strident alarm, and he was troubled more frequently by buzzing, nibbling insects, but nothing larger emerged to threaten them.
The grasses ended abruptly. One moment Tom was plodding forward between towering stalks, the next they had fallen away. It was as if the final veil of grasses were a curtain, swept aside dramatically to reveal a stage. And what a stage. The three of them stood for silent seconds and simply stared at the panorama that had opened before them. A vast plain of water stretched away on every side, interspersed with lumps and mounds and tufts of land and grasses. Scythe-winged birds sailed lazily over the water, mouths gaping as they presumably fed on the abundant insects, and waterfowl bedecked the surface like multi-coloured jewels. It was now late in the day, and the sun sat bloated and orange a little above the waterline, casting the scene in oddly subdued pastel light, lending everything a magical, surreal edge. Even the birds seemed to fly in slow motion.
This landscape was undeniably beautiful, but Tom was puzzled. "What happened to the river?" he wanted to know.
"This is the river, Tom," Mildra said.
"These marshlands, this vast plateau of grassy swamps with its lagoons and islands and headlands, is what results when the great torrents that form the Thair pour out from the mountains and hit flatter land," Dewar explained. "The waters slow and spread out to become what we see here."
"And we're supposed to cross this how, exactly?" Tom wondered.
"We get help," Dewar said, nodding towards a cluster of crude wooden buildings that huddled on an apparently solid piece of land to their left. The buildings looked to be built on short stilts. "Don't be fooled into underestimating these people based on their homes," Dewar warned. "Wood will be far easier to come by in the Jeeraiy than stone. What you're seeing here is the product of expediency, not necessarily simplicity."
A great snorting noise drew Tom's attention back to the water, and he saw a large mud-grey head emerge, nostrils flaring and eyes staring at him. The face reminded Tom a little of a horse's, but stretched sideways so that it was broader and flatter. He wondered whether this was the animal responsible for the path they'd followed – it certainly looked to be large enough.
Somebody hailed them as they approached the village; a dark-skinned fisherman, standing upright in his boat and gathering in his nets. Seconds later a gaggle of half a dozen children came bursting from among the buildings to greet them. They didn't come to beg or pester, just to say hello. Mildra was enchanted, crouching down to gather in her arms the first girl to reach them, and even Dewar's frown seemed a little less sour than usual.
"Careful with that one," a matronly woman said as she came towards them in the children's wake. "She bites."
"No, I don't!" the girl in Mildra's arms asserted, and promptly stuck her tongue out.
"I'm Gayla," the woman continued, "headwoman of the village. Please be welcome to our homes and our hearths." Her face bore such an open, innocent expression that Tom couldn't help but grin in response to the smile the woman presented; a smile which broadened as her gaze fell on Mildra. "The goddess has touched you, child. You are truly blessed."
"I suspect I'm not the only one," Mildra said in return. "Thank you for your welcome. We won't trouble you for long but would be grateful of roofs over our heads for this one night."
"Of course. And food?"
"That would also be very much appreciated."
Dewar had appointed himself leader of their little group from the very first, and Tom was intrigued to see how he'd react to Mildra taking the initiative here, but if he resented the Thaistess's initiative he managed not to show it.
Gayla's promise of food proved to be an understatement. The villagers welcomed them with open arms and insisted on preparing a feast in their honour. Two plump fish, each as long as a man's arm, were slit open, rubbed with oil and stuffed with herbs befo
re being wrapped in broad leaves then baked by burying them beneath hot coals; smaller fish were scored, seasoned and griddled; a large pot of a piquant soup – made from shellfish and vegetables that Tom could never have attempted to identify – was cooked over a fire pit, a small deer was spitted and slowly roasted, while balls of elastic dough were deftly kneaded and slapped onto hot plates above the fire pit to produce wonderfully fluffy flatbreads. Everything was accompanied by a salad of watercress and aromatic, flat-leaved herbs.
Tom bit into a piece of the bread, which seemed infused with a rich smokiness from the fire and was delicious, especially once he'd folded it around a chunk of freshly-carved venison.
The whole village had turned out, evidently determined to treat the party's arrival as cause for celebration. The more Tom saw of these happy, welcoming folk, the more convinced he became that they needed little excuse to stop whatever they were doing and hold a party.