The Company of Glass

by Tricia Sullivan

  When she spoke, he found he was trying to memorize her voice, knowing she would soon be gone – and that he’d find himself being trampled or skewered, or in the middle of some other predicament. There was a tingling at the back of his head at the sound of her voice.

  ‘I know you don’t know who I am. It’s all right. Come and sit here, and let me look at you.’

  ‘I can’t,’ he said, but his legs were taking him towards her. They sat at the table and she held his hand in hers, making him feel large and uncouth. Then she whispered to him of things she said he must try to remember, but afterwards he couldn’t remember, no matter how he tried to recall the bewitching tones of her speech.

  He did remember how she stood and in the grey gloaming she went among the dark-leaved plants and returned with a red flower, and she gave it to him.

  ‘There,’ she said. ‘Now you can’t tell me you have never seen a rose.’

  Vorse’s Whip

  Lerien King of Everien had lost his castle, his army, and his Seer. But he still had a sword and fifty-odd men who were just crazy enough to chase a mob of Pharicians across the bridges of the Floating Lands and towards the exotic sight of the city that only appeared once every nine years, for a day.

  They had been riding hard, and it had taken every bit of animal affinity the Clan warriors possessed to persuade their horses to cross some of the bridges that the Sekk had left extended. Time had become their enemy, and it was evening when they reached the last island. They found it deserted. The Sekk and its army had already passed over into Jai Pendu.

  ‘It’s too late,’ Stavel said. ‘They are already gone – and look, the sun is on its way down.’

  There was a deep cutting in the top of the island where the causeway of Jai Pendu had landed. The causeway lay in a parabola, its centre close to the waves, each of its ends reaching high into the Floating Land and Jai Pendu, respectively. Lerien stood at the head of the cutting and looked down the white stone causeway at the magical city. A pale thread could be seen arching over the sea and entering the base of the city. The White Road was still there.

  ‘Come,’ he said. ‘We cannot turn back now.’

  They were halfway across the causeway when the army began to come back towards them, no longer marching deliberately, but running pell-mell.

  ‘Retreat!’ Lerien cried. ‘Use your bows. Hold the end of the bridge!’

  But this proved impossible: the army was no longer composed of half-tranced automatons, but terrified men of Clan and Pharice alike, ranked and unranked. They ploughed through Lerien’s men, who desperately tried to muster their countrymen and make some order out of the madness.

  Fighting was not Lerien’s job here. He had to gather his men and try to get them away from the Pharicians – for now that the spell was broken, the Clans and the Pharicians had all begun to attack each other with a wild energy. He collected a unit of Clan foot soldiers who had managed to come through the entire experience intact; with their wits returned to them, they were only too glad to be directed. Lerien sent them back towards the mainland, using Stavel and Ketar to keep off the Pharicians so that his people could cross in safety. Once this was done, he rode back to the causeway, looking for more groups that might be similarly guided through the storm.

  But the cause of the storm greeted him instead. Tarquin’s Company were charging across the causeway, turning the foam red where they passed. They were solid and real and their battle screams could be heard on the breeze. If Lerien remembered his fight with Vorse, if he remembered the Company as dangerous before – well, they had eighteen years of practice under their belts now.

  He rode forward to meet them, hailing them in a loud voice. Vorse took one look at Lerien and drew out his whip with a cruel smile.

  ‘I could have killed you once,’ he said. ‘Do you call yourself king? We will soon divest you of that illusion.’

  Lerien had never been so shit-scared in all his life. He saw all the warning signs in Vorse’s face, but he didn’t dare back down now.

  ‘I am king,’ he said. ‘And you are cowards if, instead of helping your kinsmen, you cut them down where they stand. Where is Quintar?’

  ‘We answer to no man, and I’ll give you respect on the day you can hold your ground against me, you fat laggard.’

  The whip shot out and wrapped around his neck. With a jerk, Vorse dislodged the king from his horse and Lerien found himself being dragged towards the slashing hooves of the Snake’s warhorse. The sky spun overhead and his legs kicked out and churned the earth as he fought.

  He couldn’t breathe, much less speak; but even as things were going from bad to worse, he was thinking his intention in four clear words: Not this time, Vorse.

  The Company of Glass

  Istar had lost sight of Chyko. He had gone down the path towards the base of the tower with its red crystal, but the surge of the crowd was pushing her up the path, towards Night. She could sense in the mass movement that something had changed. The fixation of the soldiers had weakened; they were no longer so focused, and instead began to look around as if they didn’t quite know where they were. The collective will of the army was wavering. Pharician soldiers around her broke off, and the Company chased them back down the spiral. There were dead bodies everywhere, and at the sight of these the men made even greater haste to be gone.

  When she looked up the path, through a parting in the crowd she saw the Sekk and Tarquin. The two were wrapped around one another like lovers, making an unlikely tableau against the shards of the crystal. She pressed towards them. They resembled statues, but Istar knew that their balance was a result of strength matched against equal strength, will against equal will. Their muscles trembled and they were breathing hard.

  Istar looked around again for Chyko, but she could no longer see any of the Company, and now the massed soldiers had begun to move decisively down the path. Tarquin must be winning. Then Night wrapped a leg around Tarquin and unbalanced him, and the two went down in a tangle.

  Tarquin was on top of the Sekk, but he was dripping with sweat and his hands slipped off its throat. Night needed no further invitation to slither away and rise, unhurt and apparently unwearied. Tarquin was on his knees, breathing hard, furious but exhausted. The Sekk put out one finger and touched Tarquin’s face, and Tarquin seemed to go limp. His eyes closed.

  The face of the Master was grave and beautiful as it bent over Tarquin like a raven. Its hands slipped down the warrior’s cheeks, thumbs resting gently on each eyelid, and Tarquin tilted his head back to offer his throat. The Sekk made a sound like dark velvet deep in its chest.

  Istar didn’t know what to do. The Company had raged down into the bottom of the city; the army was fleeing; but the Sekk still had the Glass, and she was standing in the centre of Jai Pendu while Tarquin fought for control.

  Then Pallo came limping up the spiral, covered in blood, his bow strung on his back and knocking against his legs. ‘Hello,’ he said with a weary smile. ‘I had a hunch I’d find you up here.’

  Istar pointed to the Glass held by the Sekk. ‘We have to get it away from them,’ she said. The two figures were nearly on the edge of the pathway. Below, the spiral looped turn upon turn; a fall would be fatal.

  Pallo inched a little closer.

  ‘Be careful,’ Istar said. ‘They could go over the edge.’

  One of the Sekk’s palms covered Tarquin’s eyes. There was a moment of quiet, and then Tarquin started to struggle again. The two wrestled on their feet, breathing hard and trembling with exertion. The Sekk, although slight, appeared to match Tarquin’s strength so exactly that the two balanced against one another almost without moving.

  Pallo crept closer.

  ‘Cut it out, Pallo!’ Istar shouted. She had visions of the foolish Pharician pitching right over the edge of the pathway if one of the combatants moved suddenly. Almost as if sensing and responding to her fear, the Sekk suddenly dropped against Tarquin and scooped its arms around his legs, seeking to upset him
. Tarquin took a long step back and balanced himself, but in the movement a small vial fell from around his neck, its thong broken. Pallo scurried over and snatched it up before it could roll over the edge.

  Istar hesitated. She was wondering whether she could jump on the Sekk’s back and slit its throat, but now Tarquin was thrashing again and the figures slid a few yards down the spiral, skidding on broken pieces of red crystal.

  Pallo was studying the vial. It reminded Istar of the kind her father had used for his poisons; Mhani had saved all his possessions even if she was afraid to use them. Pallo brought it to his nose.

  ‘This is not the time,’ she cautioned. ‘For once could you not do something stupid.’

  ‘I know what this is!’ he cried. ‘It’s Freeze! Wait!’

  He poured a little of the stuff over the tip of an arrow and then shot the Sekk in the leg from point-blank range.

  ‘Pallo, you stupid idiot!’

  Tarquin stumbled as Night suddenly stopped resisting him. The Glass fell from the Sekk’s slack hand; Istar leaped forward and caught it as it was about to fall over the edge of the path. She glanced once at Tarquin – who was on his hands and knees, utterly spent, shaking his head and saying no – before turning and running back down the spiral.

  Tarquin never took his eyes off Night while he was recovering his strength. True to the reputed powers of Freeze, Night didn’t move. At length, Tarquin got to his feet and brought out his sword. He was alone now.

  He had sworn he would kill it.

  He would kill it. He would kill Night.

  It stood motionless, breathing lightly, hands relaxed at its sides. He already knew it couldn’t see – but what might be happening in its mind? How had it acquired the power to put him in a trance? And where was she coming from? The memory of the garden lingered in his mind. He had been unaware of struggling with Night. He had only known he was with her, and that it was quiet in the garden where things were growing as they should. But thanks to Freeze he was back in Jai Pendu now, where nothing ever happened as it should. It was his obligation to kill this creature and then to go control his men.

  He didn’t want to control his men. They had been wronged; it seemed easy enough to understand that they should go on a rampage now, finding themselves freed from the nightmare they had endured all this time. He didn’t want to restrain them any more than he would want to stop a starving predator from hunting. And – speaking of predators – it was time to kill Night.

  This was the thought that made him sweat.

  He made himself walk up to it and look at it closely. Its face was sable, the nose and mouth mere suggestions of features and the teeth blackened as if by some unholy fire. There were vague hollows where the eyes would have been, but no brows, no visible veins, no blemish of any kind. It was like a doll’s face, Tarquin thought. It did not possess much glamour – certainly it was not individual enough to be beautiful. Strange that Night should have proven so powerful, when up close it looked like a rather badly formed Sekk. He pressed the naked blade to its throat. If it had been the most attractive of Sekk, he would have been able to kill it. He had been trained to do so by long practice. But he no longer thought of it as a Sekk. It was more mysterious than that. It was Night, his nemesis.

  He liked having the edge of his sword pressed against its throat. He liked it that Night was still and he could move. But it was not so easy to draw that blade across the black skin when the enemy was not even struggling.

  Count to ten, he told himself. Then do it.

  He counted slowly, softly, whispering the words to himself. At three he thought briefly of Mhani and whether she would still want Chyko in this condition. At seven he thought of Keras. It sounds as if it will be your doom, she said. At nine he thought of the heavy texture of the red hair where it spilled over his face, and for an instant, he flashed the curious sensation of cupping his hands over her swollen belly, and he wondered what that meant between nine and ten. On ten he jerked the sword violently to slit Night’s throat.

  But Freeze didn’t last as long as he thought.

  Night was quicker than any animal he had ever seen. It removed itself from his sword range effortlessly and glided down the path, leaving Tarquin to follow clumsily, cursing himself for whatever hesitation had come over him. He couldn’t catch up with it, and it slid through into the place of Three Doors undeterred by anyone – all the army either had been beaten back by the Company themselves or had followed Istar with the Glass when she and Pallo left him winded and confused with Night.

  Ice was still there. Half-hidden in the darkness, he seemed semi-dimensional until Tarquin actually touched him. There was no sign of Night. Tarquin glanced at the door marked by the Eye symbol, and uncharacteristically said a quick prayer to the Animal protectors that Night had returned to its watery beginnings, now that its mission here had failed. Then he leaped on Ice’s back. There was still the matter of the Company, and he was torn about what to do. He could bring them into line, he was sure. He could probably bring them back to Jai Khalar in triumph, and then the day would have been won.

  He would not have gone to his doom, as Keras said.

  He would not lose.

  But there would still be an Artifact called the Company of Glass, and they would still be connected to it, somehow. It would be even more fodder for the Scholars.

  Ice tossed his silvery mane and carried him down into the fray.

  With Pallo at her heels, Istar raced back the way she had come, leaping over dead bodies all the while. The Company was still on the loose and killing as she loped across the bridge. The wind was blowing hard. The day had almost passed. The army was fleeing across the last island like a cluster of iron filings when a magnet is placed near, with the Company following in a rage. The horses of the Company charged over and through bodies without regard for affiliation. Men threw down their weapons and fled for the next island in droves. To her shock, she glimpsed Lerien’s blond head in the clash, and she saw Clansmen attempting to organize, but the tide was against them. Istar tried to bend her will into the Glass, to control the Company, but she couldn’t even effect a scratch.

  ‘Damn it, Pallo!’ she cried. ‘What good is this thing? I can’t use it!’

  Pallo’s call of warning reached her a split second before someone’s fighting stick caught her across the side of the head and she reeled, wishing to stay out of trouble – but there was nowhere to run. Everywhere was carnage and destruction. Unexpectedly she spotted Xiriel. For a second she mistook him for one of the Company. He was fighting like nothing she’d ever seen. He had picked up a Pharician spear and was ruthlessly hamstringing anything he could get near, then rushing in and stabbing for the kill. She watched him dispatch four or five men this way, startled by both his strength and his sudden, focused hostility.

  She gazed at the Glass in her hands, wishing she knew how to focus her will the way a Seer might. The Company was out of control. The army had broken ranks completely, its members looking for cover or fleeing as the Slaving spell shattered and left them in an unfamiliar place, no longer gripped with the need to fight. The same could not be said of Tarquin’s men: they continued to slaughter anything in their path. They were relentless in their energy and indiscriminate in their approach. Istar could think of no way to stop them.

  She was being swept along, dodging Pharician arrows and feeling wholly out of her depth, when Tarquin appeared out of the infantry, mounted on the extraordinary horse. She was marvelling at the sight when a Wolf Clan soldier came at her and Istar was hard put to use her sword and hold on to the Glass at the same time. She got a cut in across his legs and was ducking one of his axes when Tarquin reached her.

  ‘Give me the Glass,’ he called, and ripped into the Wolf who stood between them as though hacking down a tree with his sword. The Wolf crashed into Istar and she fell. Blood gushed over her. Tarquin was standing over her, the horse splashed with black gore and wearing not an ounce of leather waiting just beyond his shoulder
. She passed him the Glass wordlessly. It was slimy and red. His fist closed around it and suddenly he grinned at her with broken teeth.

  ‘You’re not the worst fighter I’ve ever seen,’ he said. Then he vaulted on to the horse and shouted her father’s name.

  Istar stumbled after Tarquin’s horse. The top of the island was a wreck of bodies from edge to edge. Most of the men she saw were Clan, freed but still compelled by circumstances to fight. The Company moved among them on horseback to devastating effect. Lerien’s horse was running loose. The king had pulled one of the Company to the ground and had him in a hold that would break his neck in a moment. But an arrow flew out of the melee and pierced Lerien’s right eye. Chyko came riding in after, laughing as the king crumpled to the ground. The Snake that he’d saved threw open his arms and the two embraced on the field. Then Tarquin arrived, clocked Chyko on the head with his sword hilt, and leaped back as the Wasp whirled to face him. Annoyance changed to joy on Chyko’s face.

  ‘Quintar, you son of—’

  ‘Go back,’ Tarquin said. ‘You are being used. You must go back.’

  The two men were astonished. ‘Go back? You must be mad!’

  ‘No!’ Istar stumbled towards them, dodging a thrown axe and climbing over a dead horse. A Pharician took a swing at her, but some nearby Seahawk interposed himself and took the Pharician out of her way. Istar pressed on, hardly noticing her surroundings, though the sounds of battle were tapering off. ‘Don’t send them back, please …’

  Chyko looked at her curiously. ‘It’s the boy,’ he said. ‘The one inside the red crystal. Come, boy, and—’

  ‘Back to your horses,’ Tarquin commanded, stepping between Chyko and Istar. ‘Go back. The time for killing is over.’

  ‘I wish it could be,’ said the other warrior, but Chyko was still trying to peer around Tarquin, who blocked the Wasp’s view of his daughter. The rest of the Company had begun to gather, witnessing the exchange.