Nona began to wind the chain around the wall pin. After one turn the second layer of chain started to slip off the first. There wasn’t enough pin exposed to wrap one turn next to the other, and no point to that anyway. She needed to build out.
Slowly and with enormous care she managed to wrap three turns around the pin, each layer of chain resting on the one below, but inevitably the whole lot began to slide, then collapsed and fell off the pin.
She knelt, the gritty stone hurting her knees, racking her brain for other ideas. How many prisoners had done the same before? How long had it taken before they resigned themselves to failure and sat helpless, shivering in the dark, waiting on the mercy of the Noi-Guin?
“I was in that convent five years . . . They must have taught me something useful.”
They taught you to reach the Path. That’s the only true power.
Nona frowned. “Actually they didn’t. They told me to go slow, serene, approach it gently. I didn’t have any success until I learned to use my anger. To run at it. Use my speed . . .”
She wrapped the chain around the pin again, slow, thoughtful. It slipped off.
I need to use my speed.
Nona threw herself into the space between heartbeats. In the darkness of the cell nothing changed save that the chain went from flexible to stiff, resisting motion at the speed she demanded of it. She began to wrap it around the pin again, forming an ever-widening coil against the wall. Unable to slip, because she gave them no time in which to slip, the layers of chain spiralled out to six inches on each side before Nona ran out of chain. She threw herself at the circular coil, with the wall pin at its midst, and gripped the outer edges, hauling to try to rotate the whole lot. With no time to slip, the links locked together and for one small fraction of a second the whole coil acted as if it were a solid, unbreakable body. A moment later the mass of links fell away from the wall, a shapeless weight of chain hanging from her fingers.
Did it move? A note of interest from Keot now.
Nona didn’t know, but she got ready to try again. Struggling with a hopeless task in a dark cell might offer little comfort, but it beat thinking about that knife and what was coming.
31
THE GRAMPAIN MOUNTAINS rose in a ridge that crossed the Corridor. North and south the range marched into the ice, buckling the sheet for scores of miles until at last the ice grew deep enough to drown even the peaks. Many referred to them as the Empire Wall, tacit acknowledgement that it was the terrain more than the legions sent by successive emperors that took most credit for holding back the Scithrowl hordes for the last century.
“Sherzal’s palace is not far from this place.” Zole paused to scan the snowcapped ridge. She had abandoned her range-coat in favour of the jacket worn by the Lightless who had been pretending to be a hunter. They had managed to wash most of the blood spatters off and to disguise the rest with mud. “I’m sure I know these mountains.”
Kettle raised a brow. “I’ve not visited the area. I crossed to Scithrowl through Windsong Pass, twenty miles north of here.” Her gaze roamed the landscape of fractured rock ahead of them. Lightless watchers could be stationed anywhere.
A minute earlier a mountain goat had broken from the shadow of a boulder on the slope just above them. The shock had set Kettle’s heart pounding, and the moment of panic had allowed Nona’s awareness to push along the bond they shared. Kettle could feel the girl, watching from her eyes. Why they couldn’t speak to each other she couldn’t say. Perhaps the Tetragode had barriers that limited their contact. Either way, she hoped Nona would draw comfort from their approach. She tried to bury the thought that even with all the Grey Sisters and all the Red she would not be confident of breaching the Noi-Guin’s stronghold.
“That peak, with the snow pluming off it.” Zole nodded towards it. She couldn’t point: her wrists were bound behind her, tethered to a rope Kettle held. “I am sure it can be seen from the palace.”
“How sure?”
Zole paused before answering. “It is hard to say. It might just be similar, or appear very different from a new angle. But Sherzal’s palace is on the western flanks of the Grampains and you can see the southern ice from her towers. It cannot be too many miles from here.”
Kettle bit her lip, continuing to hunt the slopes. Even if Sherzal were only five or ten miles away it could take a day or two to cover the distance across the cliffs and ravines of the Grampains. It seemed unlikely that her troops would patrol the mountains in any number. The Scithrowl threat was always met at the passes. The invasion game was just a question of whether the enemy would try to force passage through the lowest and easiest pass, contending with the strongest defences, or pit themselves against the elements to risk a high pass and lighter defences.
“Let me concentrate a moment.” Kettle stopped walking. She had been pursuing the thread-bond she had with Nona. Where a shadow-bond would give a sense of direction as the crow might fly or the shadow points, the thread-bond seemed to remember the path taken. But in the folds of the mountains’ roots it had proved hard to follow, like sniffing out the vague trace of scent where someone had passed. Now though, with Nona sitting in the back of her mind, Kettle found it easier to discern her path. It wasn’t really a sniffing, or a seeing, more of a knowing. Kettle felt her way through the options before her and let the right one draw her to it. “Down there.”
* * *
• • •
KETTLE SPOTTED THE first watch-point a mile on. Then a second and a third. The Lightless observed her advance from rock shelters on the slopes above. Another mile of hard climbing brought Kettle and Zole to a series of steps so artfully made as to almost appear natural. They led up to the dark mouth of a cave at the base of a sullen cliff of grey stone.
From a distance the size of the cave mouth proved impossible to judge. The mountains offered nothing by which to gain a sense of scale, not even a stunted tree. As Kettle came closer she realized that the opening was actually a modest one, through which a carriage would have to scrape its way.
The ground at the base of the cliff proved fairly level, a shelf in the mountainside, carpeted with broken stone, frost-shattered from the cliff above. They trudged up towards the entrance, Zole stumbling from time to time to make herself appear more prey than predator.
“Stop!” Five figures broke from the cave mouth, grey-robed Lightless, four with crossbows. In the midst of her clarity-trance Kettle took them all in, down to the heavy bolts in the bows of the two to the left and the fanned needle-clusters in the bows of those on the right. A shot from either of those crossbows would launch a funnel of a dozen or more poisoned darts, making evasion or deflection near impossible. “Who are you?”
Kettle had been wishing, ever since the Lightless who pretended to be a woodsman had bitten out his tongue, that she had asked the names of his companions. Her knowledge of the Noi-Guin was substantial compared to the rumour and myth that most people laid claim to, but it didn’t extend to knowing if their servants adopted new names and adhered to any particular convention.
“Mai,” she said. It’s easier to lie when you’re telling the truth. “I’ve brought this prisoner for Tellasah to interrogate. She has information about the convent.” Kettle raised her head to dispel any suspicion that she was hiding beneath the hood of the robe she’d taken from the Lightless. She reached out to shove Zole’s shoulder, sending her stumbling forward, getting the girl closer so that she might work the magic she’d claimed would make this ruse succeed.
Four crossbows lifted, four fingers tightened on triggers. Back in the cave, that looked to broaden as it went on rather than to narrow, Kettle caught other motion.
“Come here, you!” Kettle pulled on the rope, making a show of holding Zole back whilst at the same time letting her close another yard on the five Lightless immediately before her.
“One more step and I’ll have her shot, then you.” The man in the centre of the five watched Kettle with pale eyes set in a broad face. He ov
ertopped six foot, his solid build apparent despite his robes. He bore no obvious weapon but darkness smoked around his hands. Kettle could sense the shadows around him. This one had been pushed further into the night than his companions, further than her too.
“Mai of the Lightless is taking me to Tellasah.” Zole kept her face down and her voice was quiet but it seemed to burn through the air. Nona sensed it buzzing in Kettle’s skull. “I am her prisoner.”
Kettle felt the words building up, spiralling around her, demanding that she accept their truth. It was almost true, after all. It would be easier to believe it.
“Tellasah will want to see me,” Zole said, her voice resonant.
“Tellasah will want to see her.” The officer nodded. His pale eyes never left Kettle’s face. The lack of malice in them worried her. Cruelty bred stupidity but the quiet dedication of the Lightless promised only efficiency, and success in attaining their goals. “Escort Mai and her prisoner to the holding cells.”
The man indicated the cave and at his signal four more Lightless came forward. The first of them had a slightly puzzled look. “I’m to take this woman to the cells, Arthran?”
The man looked down at his subordinate, a frown creasing his forehead. “Yes, take Mai and her prisoner to the cells.”
Kettle could see the tension in Zole’s jaw as she stood, head down, some mutter on her lips.
The woman nodded and indicated that Kettle should follow her. Two of her companions moved to flank Kettle and Zole, the third bringing up the rear. “Come.”
* * *
• • •
THE ENTRANCE TO the Tetragode opened out beyond the cave mouth into a natural cavern of impressive dimensions. A score or so Lightless occupied the space, some busy with a stack of barrels and crates near the centre, others armed and ready in natural galleries along the rear wall. Kettle tried not to look around too obviously but set that desire against the need to understand the challenges attendant on leaving again. She wondered briefly how the supplies came to be there. If they were brought in by foot across the foothills then the cost would be stupendous and the trail left for any curious party to follow would be hard to miss.
Kettle was glad of the escort in as much as it meant that the woman in front of her was leading the way. They had soon passed enough junctions for it to grow clear that becoming lost was a real possibility. She was less glad of the audience. It made little sense to her that her prisoner needed three extra guards here when the ideal time to escape would have been out among the foothills with just one captor.
The tunnels were natural, cut by ancient rivers, but shaped here and there by pick and hammer. The floor, where not level with the hard-packed sediment of those vanished rivers, had been evened out with rubble or well-secured planks. Wooden steps allowed easy passage up the steeper inclines.
The spread-out and labyrinthine nature of the Tetragode was perhaps as important a defence as the strong points, but did mean that most of the complex lay empty at any given time. The long galleries returned to darkness once Kettle’s party had passed through and silence stalked them. The nun felt a sense of familiarity, having explored the caverns beneath the Rock of Faith at length, and behind those thoughts Nona added her own appreciation of deep places.
The first major checkpoint came as a small fortress built around the exit from a cavern that could have housed a large fortress. Lightless watched from the battlements and raised a portcullis when hailed.
In the long, stone-clad tunnel that led through the fortress a single Noi-Guin waited, seated at a desk set in their path. A score of murder-holes pierced the ceiling and the walls for ten yards before and behind the desk.
Where Kettle’s attention focused discreetly upon the walls, Nona drank in the details of the Noi-Guin. Echoes of Kettle’s memories informed Nona that the assassin who had tracked her on her ranging had been similar in appearance. Additionally, Sister Tallow’s report to the convent table had described the two she fought outside the novice dormitories years before to be clad in the same manner.
The Noi-Guin’s most striking feature was the black-skin mask that covered his face, with just a slit exposing the eyes and perforations at the nose and mouth. Taken from the hull of a tribe-ship, the stuff was as flexible as silk unless some object tried to move it too swiftly, in which case it became rigid and tougher than steel.
A close-fitting leather hood, descending to spread out over the shoulders, prevented Nona from telling how far the black-skin extended. Red Sisters who were hunska primes or full-bloods, as most were, would wear black-skin only over their torso as otherwise it could resist their fastest movements with unfortunate consequences. Also the stuff, being fabulously rare, was often in too short supply to be used more widely. The rest of the Noi-Guin’s outfit was black leather, variously ridged or reinforced with iron plates. The dark grey cloak was presumably a concession to the enduring chill of subterranean life and shed when action was required.
“Where are you going?” The Noi-Guin studied them, his eyes like black beads within the slits of his mask.
“Arthran received this woman at the west-cave. He instructed me to escort her and the prisoner to the holding cells.” The Lightless stepped aside, leaving Kettle and Zole fully exposed to the Noi-Guin’s scrutiny.
“I don’t—”
“I’m Mai of the Lightless.” Kettle interrupted the assassin. It was better to break decorum than let someone state their opinion out loud. Once anything was spoken it became harder to change. “You know me, surely?” She stepped up beside her prisoner.
“You know her.” Zole’s whisper buzzed through the air. She stood, head bowed, the tendons in her neck rigid with the effort of working her geas.
“I know her.” A whispered reply from all four of the escort. Kettle heard it echoed behind the walls too, coming down through the murder holes above them. “I know her.”
“I don’t know this woman.” The Noi-Guin stood, though slowly, puzzled.
“You know her.” Zole’s whisper came more intense, bleeding through the air. Kettle had to restrain herself from shouting it out.
“I know her!” One of the escort yelled it, proud of the fact.
“No.” The Noi-Guin raised an empty hand, as if fending off the suggestion. The fingers of his other hand quested for the hilt of the knife at his hip. “I don’t know you.”
Zole changed tactics. She raised her head and her voice. “Your watch is over. Go to your beds. Now!”
Kettle couldn’t help but glance at her. The ice-triber’s face had grown pale, her eyes black wells. Her whole body trembled with effort and a trickle of blood ran from one nostril.
The Noi-Guin stood, seeming to struggle with the concept. Behind Kettle the four Lightless turned on their heels and began to walk away. From the sounds behind the walls, footsteps, doors opening, closing, others were also following the suggestion.
Seconds passed and still the Noi-Guin stood there while his servants walked away.
“Leave.” Zole spoke the word through gritted teeth. The sound sunk into the stone, the command hanging between her and the assassin in the silence that followed.
The Noi-Guin closed his fingers around the hilt of his blade.
An instant later, without warning, as if something snapped, Zole slipped her bonds, snatched out the knife hidden beneath her jacket, and threw herself over the desk at the Noi-Guin.
Even Kettle, who had seen Zole training on dozens of occasions, was taken by surprise, shocked by the girl’s swiftness. Both feet struck the assassin’s stomach, driving him back. By the time Kettle had drawn her sword Zole had one hand around the Noi-Guin’s wrist, controlling his knife while driving her own up into his armpit.
The Noi-Guin brought his arm tight to his body to trap the blade bedded in his flesh, and drove his forehead forward towards Zole’s face. She twisted her neck to avoid the head-butt and, hooking her leg behind his knee, drove the man backwards to the floor.
Kettle lost sig
ht of the conflict as she turned. Three of the four Lightless were still walking away. Their leader had halted in confusion. Kettle drew her knife in her off-hand and hoped that the Lightless hidden by the walls were already out of their compartments. With doors closed behind them they would be shielded from being distracted by the sound of the fight.
Moving fast, Kettle sliced the woman’s throat from behind and strode past without a second glance. Back along the tunnel an awful screaming started, so agonized that Kettle couldn’t tell if it was Zole or her enemy. A moment later the nun caught up with the rest of the escort. She sliced two more throats and buried her knife between the vertebrae of the third. In the darkness behind Kettle’s eyes Nona winced at the brutality of it. Without her own heart pounding, and without the imminent threat to life and limb, she found such killing much harder to watch.
Kettle spun around. The first of the Lightless had her hands to her neck, blood welling between her fingers, but she had yet to fall. Kettle raced past her towards the desk that stood amid the murder-holes. Behind it Zole and the Noi-Guin were still entangled, but the oak bureau blocked all save the flailing of legs.
The scene that greeted Kettle as she ran around the desk was a grisly one. Zole had trapped the Noi-Guin’s knife-arm, scissoring it between her legs while she forced her thumbs into his eyes. His screaming ended suddenly.
Behind Kettle the first thump of a body hitting the ground echoed along the tunnel. Three more followed as Zole regained her feet. She wrenched her dagger clear and stood back from the spreading pool of blood in which the Noi-Guin lay.
Kettle blinked. “You killed a Noi-Guin.”
“His mind was confused.” Zole reached up to squeeze her forehead, wincing as if she had a headache beside which all other considerations, such as the gore her thumb was smearing across her temple, were secondary. “Do we have time to take his clothing?”
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