Dark Heart Part 34

She ran the knife across his fingers again, more forcefully this time, raising blood. Still he clung to the boat.

'There's something in the water,' the man said, his voice shaking.

The fish had lowered its head under the surface, but it wouldn't be far away. In fact, there was a long black shadow nearby. He could probably see it.

'Swim to sh.o.r.e, you can make it,' Lenares said.

He made no move to obey her.

'I warned you.'

She stabbed the knife towards his hand. He let go of the boat just in time and she missed his fingers. The blade thunked into the gunwale. Immediately the man began to drift backwards-only relative to the boat, Lenares told herself.

'Swim!' she shouted to him.

He dog-paddled furiously, trying to stay above water, all the while calling her vile names.

The fish raised its head directly behind him.

Don't look, little Lenares.

Olifa noticed she was looking beyond him, turned his head, saw the fish and shrieked in a high-pitched voice.

We wait until beyond range of the magic-killer in your boat, the Daughter said. Then we strike.

'No, Lenares! Come back, I beg of you!'

Who could resist such a plea? She didn't want him eaten by the Daughter-fish. Now she had the knife, what could he do? She put a hand to the tiller.

The water around the miner erupted. Six fish, each as big as the first, formed a circle-a hole-around the frantic man, who uttered one last cry before the creatures lunged. A frenzy of thras.h.i.+ng, water bubbling and boiling, then turning red. One or two things bobbed to the surface. Bits of meat. A boot with no toe.

And now I really do have to recuperate, said the Daughter. And digest everything that has happened today. Laughter, then silence.

QUEEN.

CHAPTER 15.

CONAL GREATHEART.

THE DHAURIAN ATTIRE HAD been a good idea in Dhauria, but a fortnight of warm summer rain had rendered Stella's robes practically unusable. She sighed and rubbed her clammy hands on the wet fabric. The garment had been practical and comfortable in the hot westerly winds that swept over Ikhnos, but then the humid southerlies rolled in, bringing low cloud and persistent drizzle that no clothes, let alone a flimsy robe, could keep out for long.

Surprisingly, it was Robal who called the halt and sought the nearest town. His salt-and-pepper whiskers, now a proper beard, dripped rainwater onto his sodden robe: he looked ridiculous and he knew it.

'We're practically begging to be robbed,' he said, explaining his choice of road. 'Not to mention the chafing. At least my trousers were waterproof. And,' he added grimly, 'I want to be rid of this red stain.'

'Might be horses here,' said Stella. 'And they might even be willing to sell them.'

'We are hardly going to be set upon by thieves,' Heredrew said, ignoring Stella's jibe. His mood, never bright, had descended into barely controlled fury at their enforced walk. He couldn't even use the blue fire to communicate with Andratan, he said, for fear it would be wrested from him by the G.o.ds. Robal had laughed at that, pointing out the fable in which men steal fire from the G.o.ds, but Heredrew had not shared the humour. He'd wondered aloud how much longer his Maghdi Dasht castellan would wait without communication before annexing the keep and kingdom both, a.s.suming his master had somehow perished. Stella had privately wished the castellan good fortune, but had been prudent enough not to mention this sentiment to Heredrew.

The Undying Man's hands twitched as he spoke. Probably wis.h.i.+ng someone would set upon them.

'Perhaps in this town we'll find someone who acknowledges Andratan's authority sufficiently to give us horses,' Conal said brightly, an innocent smile playing on his lips.

Heredrew's other sore point neatly targeted. He had admitted to his companions that the level of submission to his authority was far lower than he had imagined; certainly far lower than he'd been led to believe by the Ikhnos factors. He had invoked the Seal of Andratan in every town and village they had pa.s.sed through, and at only one place had the locals been obliging enough to sell-sell, not give!-them a weary pony and wearier dray, to allow Phemanderac an easier pa.s.sage. The sorcerer had very nearly decided to reveal his ident.i.ty in one small town, a few days north of Foulwater, where his seal was met with scorn and outright hostility. Stella had been able to persuade him to stay his hand, though she herself had been incensed that night when catching the cook urinating in their stew. She had not objected to the beating Robal had given the man, and had held a drawn sword when Heredrew ordered the villagers a.s.semble and told them their days of disrespect and ease were over. They would respect the Seal of Andratan, or someone would be sent to teach them respect.

Heredrew turned his head slightly towards the priest. 'Perhaps in this town we'll find someone sufficiently desperate to take you off our hands. A stablemaster, perhaps?' He raised an eyebrow to Stella. 'How much do you think we would have to pay to have him taken on as an apprentice?'

'We might get the forequarters of a horse in exchange,' said Robal, deliberately loud enough for the priest to hear.

'Hindquarters,' Heredrew corrected, drawing a snort of laughter from the guardsman.

Men make easy friends and even easier enemies, Stella reflected as she followed Heredrew and Robal, her self-appointed guardians, in their approach to the town gate. Behind her Kilfor and his father led the dray. Phemanderac and Moralye rode inside it. Women are much more careful with their trust.

The rain doubled in intensity as the Falthans sheltered under the stone arch. Farmer's Flat, the carved words on the keystone told them. Stella caught a whiff of sulphur as they waited for Robal to negotiate their entrance. Towns, just like people, had their unique odours; this was less pleasant than most. She wondered what they manufactured here that required such a foul chemical.

'Farmer's Flat? Not what I called it last time I was here,' Heredrew said.

'Oh?' Conal turned to face him. 'Stinkpit, perhaps? Smelltown? Dungheap? Did you curse it because some peasant forgot to tug his forelock? Or perhaps because the women were less than accommodating?'

Heredrew tilted his head towards Stella, but she was a little too slow in realising he was requesting her permission. A moment later his hand flicked out and he fetched Conal a brutal slap across the cheek. Struck, Stella thought, by a hand that is not there.

'And so the mighty Undying Man answers his critics,' the priest said, spitting out blood and phlegm.

'No, I would normally bring in experts to give you answer,' Heredrew said equably. 'And, believe me, they are expert. Autocracy depends on the enforcement of discipline, as I'm sure your Archpriest has demonstrated.'

'He has you there.' Stella carefully kept any sympathy out of her voice: for a priest, Conal had been remarkably unrepentant about his actions in Dhauria. She had fought hard to prevent Heredrew slaying the man; had bargained her cooperation in the Undying Man's attempt to save the world-if indeed that was what he was doing, and his altruism was not a front for something more nefarious-to win Conal's life. Bitterness and gall had been her reward. Conal now seemed to despise her as much as he had once been infatuated with her, convinced she had been collaborating with the Enemy of Faltha from the start. A natural reaction, she supposed, but one a priest ought to be above, or at least recognise for what it was.

Not this fellow. He was stamped with the same mark as his master, the Archpriest, who had tried to capture and interrogate her for the crime of having been captured by the Undying Man during the Falthan War.

And this Conal was the Archpriest in miniature. Best to remember that. There was only so far this man could be pushed before he pushed back; and, despite his lack of magical power, he had already proved-twice-that he was capable of extraordinary feats. Once to save her; once to kill her. The man bore close watching.

The Falthans were admitted to the town of Farmer's Flat, the odd smell commented on by no one, out of politeness. Once inside the walls Moralye took the lead. She had proved time and again her useful talent for identifying the friendliest people in town, the most pleasant and least expensive lodgings. If anyone could secure horseflesh, she was that one. It was a little late in the afternoon for a visit to the stables, so she led them down a street she had never previously seen, in a land she had never been in before, trusting some obscure instinct to reveal a place to eat and stay the night.

Stella admired the woman immensely. Moralye had been jerked out of her world by forces she had read about but never expected to experience; had been confronted with the legendary bogeyman of her culture, yet had set to with vigour to understand what had happened; and, even more commendable, to make herself useful. Phemanderac professed himself delighted with her, and Stella had to agree.

Within minutes Moralye had engaged a group of young women in conversation. Less than two months in a strange land and she could converse like a native: the sharpest mind of them all, no question. Her intelligence was frightening. But the formidable a.n.a.lytical mind was hidden now as she laughed and giggled with the local women, words and gestures describing cloth and shape and colour, a whirling exchange too fast for Stella to follow. The body does not age, she acknowledged, but the mind still atrophies. What would she be like in a thousand years? How had Kannwar kept his mind lively?

The young Dhaurian scholar beckoned them over, and within minutes an impromptu market stall had opened on the side of the road. Women from all over the town brought cloth, and in some cases complete garments, for the strangers to cast their eyes over. The prices asked were high, but no one complained. Heredrew's supply of Bhrudwan coin seemed inexhaustible, and the fabric was good quality. Each Falthan accepted a complete outfit-some of the garments were mismatched but even the worst of the clothes was more suitable than the filthy and frayed robes they wore. Heredrew and Phemanderac were the only exceptions: Phemanderac because his robes had been protected by travelling in the dray; Heredrew due to the fact that no garments came anywhere near fitting him.

New clothes would be made overnight, the women promised, in addition to the garments they had purchased. Stella shuddered, picturing the women working by dim candlelight into the small hours, but none of the seamstresses looked displeased at the prospect. They bade the visitors farewell and hurried to their homes.

The town, though substantial, apparently had only one public eating place: the aptly named Boiling Waters Tea House. Steam rose from behind the low thatched-roof buildings of the tea house, borne away on the wet wind, but despite the wind and rain the buildings seemed to give off an even more concentrated unpleasant smell, as though rotten eggs were stored inside. Apparently the tea house kept a small cottage where travellers could stay overnight, but, despite the rain, none of the party appeared keen.

'Perhaps we could try our luck in the next village,' Robal said, a hand over his face. 'I wouldn't want to dine in a place that smells like this.'

'The next village,' Heredrew said, 'is a long way north of here and a great deal less civilised. Besides, you have resplendent new robes waiting for you here. Who wouldn't want to be seen in that orange tunic?' He paused, then added thoughtfully: 'It seems this place has improved since last I was here.'

Stella gave Conal a sidelong glance, but the chastened priest did not rise to the bait. Good boy, she thought; and the thought must have been reflected on her face because Conal turned away, his own face twisted.

He loves me and he hates me. Not good news. He could do anything and justify it.

As they entered the tea house, two or three of the closest groups beckoned them further in, broad smiles on their faces. Many wore no tunics, not surprising in the sudden, oppressive heat of the room. 'c.u.mmin 'n shut the hole behind yer!' one young man cried. 'Man could freeze his stones orf out there!' His companions laughed at his wit.

The interior of the Boiling Waters Tea House took their breath away.

Rather than a standard wooden floor, a series of boardwalks wound around open grey earth, brown pits of mud and pools of steaming water. What had looked from the outside to be a series of buildings was revealed to be one vast structure with many roofs, interspersed with gaps open to the sky, and no interior walls. Groups of Bhrudwans sat around talking, laughing and singing; a surprising contrast to the way the more solemn Yacoppica Tea House far to the south had been. Here and there tall, thick poles of pale wood supported the roof, and around them were hung dozens of labelled bags filled with herbs.

They were approached by a smiling woman wearing a garland of flowers around her neck. 'Welcome,' she said. 'For one fena each you can have your own cauldron and choice of herbs, or for-'

Smiling even wider than the woman, Heredrew took her arm. 'We'll have your premier service, in the seats closest to the Matron.'

'Ah!' she said, not at all discomfited by his interruption. 'Are you a regular visitor to the Tea Chain?'

He laughed. 'Regular, yes. But my visits, though regular, are s.p.a.ced out longer than I'd like. Last time I was here this was open ground. I remember the Matron though. I trust she is as timely as ever?'

'But...but sir, the Boiling Waters Tea House has been up for thirty years or more.'

'I'm older than I look. Now, our seats, please?'

'Payment?' she responded.

Heredrew pulled out his Seal of Andratan. The woman paled visibly, then nodded and beckoned them forward.

'Finally some respect,' he said as they followed the woman along a narrow boardwalk between two mud pools.

'Fear, more like,' Conal muttered, but Stella didn't think the Undying Man heard. He couldn't have: he was not the sort of man to ignore an insult-accurate, as this one was, or otherwise.

Her fellow Falthans were clearly uncomfortable in the presence of the Destroyer, though not as uncomfortable as she. But the discomfort went both ways. Stella suspected that if not for their company, Kannwar would have punished many of those who had dealt with them with such insolence. He was trying to act even-handedly, presumably because he needed her cooperation to fulfil the task he had accepted. He had been forced to lay aside his pride. Stella smiled to herself. She could not conceive of a more fitting punishment for the man.

The pale young woman indicated their seats. Unlike other seating in the tea house, these were fixed to the floor, and arranged in a semicircle around a small pool. The rear seats were raised somewhat, as though to afford people a view of the pool. A few people, better dressed than the average patron, had congregated there, sitting, talking and generating an air of expectancy. Above them the roof was open to the darkening sky: rain hissed into the steaming pool by their feet.

'The Matron will be along shortly,' their host said.

'Thank you.' Stella smiled rea.s.suringly at her. She was unsure why they needed a matron, or why they had to be seated here, in a very public part of the tea house, in order to be served by her.

Phemanderac and Moralye sat closer to the pool, engaged in a conversation in a language Stella did not know. The native language of Dhauria, she supposed. Probably debating some esoteric philosophy. The dominie did not seem to be getting the best of it either.

Kilfor and his father were quiet. The older man had been experiencing pain in his joints, brought on by the damp weather, he said. His son kept a close and loving eye on him, fussing terribly over the old reprobate whenever he thought people weren't watching. He was doing it now, adjusting Sauxa's collar.

The woman who had guided them here remained standing nearby. Stella had just begun to wonder why when the woman gathered herself and knelt in front of Heredrew. 'Please, sir,' she said, 'you have the seal. Our family has lived here for generations, and we understand the power Andratan wields. You are undoubtedly close to the Undying Man, an adviser perhaps. Thus I would ask a boon, sir, an answer to a simple question.'

The Undying Man's eyebrows rose. 'Ask your question.'

'My brother was recruited fifteen years ago and taken to Andratan to serve the Undying Man. His name is Porcaro n.o.be. He had long black hair and was a well-favoured man, powerful in magic and loved by all who knew him. Have you any news of him?'

Stella watched Heredrew carefully. He was not able entirely to mask his reaction: his eyebrows twitched when the woman gave her brother's name, and he focused an intense stare on her. She noticed it too, Stella was sure.

'Woman, I am but one of many in that vast fortress. There are a thousand servants, a hundred jailers, dozens of tutors and recruiters, and more students than I have ever bothered to count. Andratan is more like a city than a castle. Surely the chances of me knowing your brother must be slim?'

The woman bowed her head, and for a moment Stella thought she would accept his words. Then she looked up, and the intensity of her gaze almost seemed to burn the air.

'Sir, forgive me for speaking, but I must. The sum of your words is nothing, yet your eyes tell me something else. You know him, or at least what happened to him. Please, sir, if you have even a mite of compa.s.sion, and wish to honour the n.o.ble name of Andratan, tell me of my brother.'

A squawk of derisive laughter from Conal, quickly disguised as a cough. That one still treads close to the cliff, Stella thought.

The girl's eyes were wells of misplaced hope. Courageous, undoubtedly magically gifted at least to a small degree, and about to be cruelly rejected.

'I'm prepared to do better than that,' Heredrew said. 'I can take you to see him.'

'No, Drew!' Stella cried. 'Don't be so cruel!'

Her words were almost obscured by the shouts of pleasure from the woman, who began jumping on the spot and clapping her hands. Then moisture sprang up around her eyes. 'You wouldn't be teasing me, sir?'

'Trying to ensure good service, more like,' Conal muttered, in a voice more distinct than he no doubt intended.

Heredrew fixed Stella with his grey eyes-grey today, they might be any colour tomorrow-clearly asking her to take responsibility for her companion. She nodded, took Conal by the arm, and led him a few paces down the boardwalk.

'Conal, you are alive only on his sufferance and by my sacrifice,' she said to him, reverting to the Falthan common tongue. 'For someone who has expressed such a strong wish for everlasting life, you do take the most extraordinary risks. Don't you understand he could erase you from existence? Or entrap you in an eternal agony of torment? Why do you do it? Why do you bait him so?'

'Perhaps my death would bring you to your senses,' he replied, his chin jutting in defiance, an altogether ridiculous sight.

'It is not I who needs to find good sense,' Stella said. 'Yes, you have an excuse for your actions, but being overpowered by the magician in your head is starting to wear thin. Do you not yet understand? The latter G.o.ds are about to burst back into the world, to its ruin, and the man you and I despise may be our only hope. So, priest, you face the age-old dilemma about means and ends. Would you prefer the world to end in fire over acknowledging the Destroyer as our saviour?'

'Those aren't the only choices,' Conal said stubbornly. 'The Most High will have many plans. Did He not say to Leith, your husband'-he hissed the word-'that he was but one of many called to walk the path? Do I have to remind you of the Castle of Fealty and the prophetic painting there, which showed Leith as one of many potential saviours? And, when ultimately he failed, did Hal not step in and take his place?' His eyes flashed. 'So it was then, so it will be now.'

'Oh, Conal, so many of the Most High's plans have been opposed by those believing themselves right. I remember a young girl running to the arms of the charming Tanghin rather than remain obedient to her village headman, only to discover Tanghin was in reality Deorc, the Destroyer's henchman. How many of the Most High's plans did I turn over that night?'

'Your argument makes my point,' Conal said. 'You trusted a man in disguise and were enslaved by him. Well, I will make no such mistake. I do not see Drew, the suave charmer who apparently fills your eyes and your heart, but rather the Destroyer, the torturer of innocents like Arathe of the Bhrudwans.'

He turned on his heel and found a place to sit behind the group, on the highest level of seating. Stella stared after him, forcing her hands into rigid fists at her sides, reminding herself that even he was not the true enemy.

The woman who had dared ask Heredrew her question had vanished, no doubt to make preparations for a journey from hope to bitterness. As much as Stella opposed Conal's rejection of the Undying Man, she was not blind to his essential wickedness. Conal was right, in a way. 'Drew' did fill her heart, but with fear, not love. She had not forgotten, would never forget, what he had done to her.

How he had allowed her to escape him, how she had fought for a week through the cold and privation of the Bhirinj highlands in winter, barely surviving, believing she was free; only to find a cottage with smoke rising from the chimney. She had thrust open the door to see him standing by the fire, laughing, as he revealed he had engineered her escape for his amus.e.m.e.nt and her education.

How he had demonstrated his ruthlessness to her and to his entire army by commanding his most loyal and upright general to put a defiant village to the flames. The man-she could not remember his name, only that he had been known as the Red Duke-refused, and he had been staked and burned, along with his staff. Their cries had been horrible.

How he had then put the entire village to death as a demonstration of his power, nailing the men to the doors of their houses so they could watch his soldiers cut the hands and feet from their children, and rape their wives and daughters. 'I have something to show you!' he had cried before the slaughter had begun.

These and other memories cascaded through her head as she returned to the seats around the pool to await the arrival of the mysterious matron. No, she would not forget what sort of monster lurked underneath the so-attractive skin of the man Heredrew. Conal was right, in a way, but could not have been more wrong.

Yet she had seen little of the Destroyer's evil since Heredrew had joined them north of the Great Desert. Nor had her companions, Conal's complaints notwithstanding. For example, when they emerged from the blue fire into the caustic lake, Sauxa had been ready to take to the sorcerer with his knife, despite the fact it had only been the Undying Man's magic that had saved them. But now the old man talked with him as with any other companion.