Dark Heart Part 7

'What will it matter, if you are able to wrest the secret of immortality from the Undying Man? Master, why must we continue this research?'

'Because I will it!' Dryman snarled, and his face, as he turned it towards Torve, glowed with an inhuman light. 'Because I do not live like other men, and I should not be forced to die like them!'

'You have power,' Torve said gently. 'Must you also live forever?'

'How can one have power when death but awaits its chance to end it? True power can only belong to an immortal.'

Torve felt the life drain from the boy lying broken between them, but said nothing, continuing instead to distract his master.

'And when I die? You will train another Omeran, no doubt, to replace me?'

'Who knows? I may decide you should remain by my side forever. Would that not be a fitting reward, Torve, for your unflagging devotion?'

Torve knew his master would be watching, but could not stop himself shuddering. Doing this forever? He could imagine nothing worse.

'Ah, Torve, he has slipped away from us while we talked. Fool! Why did you not pay attention?'

Torve ignored the man's ravings. If you haven't learned much tonight, master, I have. You are vulnerable when absorbed by your research. Watch out: one day my Lenares will catch you and kill you herself. And the moment you're dead, I will be free.

Torve finished his Defiance, his body shaking with the effort. The vigorous exercises were traditional among the Omeran, and had evolved over thousands of years into a way to suppress hatred and rage, to allow them to channel their emotions productively in the service of their masters. A defiance of all that had been done to them. 'It is why we have survived when all other races fell to the Elamaq,' Torve's father had told him in the days before he'd been taken to become the Emperor's pet. But now he wondered whether the Defiance kept Omerans in thrall.

Torve had been unsure what to think when he had been commanded by the Emperor to accompany Captain Duon's great expedition to the northlands. He was to look out for the blood of immortality, the Emperor had told him. For whom could the Emperor trust, apart from his faithful slave, to bring the blood back south without sampling it along the way? Eventually Torve decided to be pleased by the opportunity, especially since it afforded him the chance to be close to the intriguing young cosmographer. Yet the Emperor had clearly not trusted him, for after the events of the Valley of the d.a.m.ned had played out, and the great Amaqi army had been destroyed, Torve had discovered that the Emperor of Talamaq had hidden himself within his own expedition.

For a time Torve wondered why he had not recognised his master. Yes, the Emperor had gone everywhere and done everything behind a golden mask, and no one, not even Torve, his closest confidant, knew what his uncovered face looked like. But the voice, the sardonic tone, the burning eyes, ought to have betrayed the man. Nevertheless, Torve had not even suspected the real ident.i.ty of Dryman the mercenary soldier until the night they spent with the Children of the Desert, when Dryman had revealed himself as the Emperor and forced Torve to accompany him on a hunt. They had taken a young girl that night, s.n.a.t.c.hed her right out of her tent, from between her sleeping parents.

But what surprised Torve-no, shocked him-was Lenares' inability to recognise the Emperor. She had the uncanny talent to a.s.sess anyone she met using her strange vision of the world-the numbers never lie, she told Torve-and had done so when she had first met the Emperor. She had summarised his master perfectly. 'You want to live forever,' she'd told him. 'You are afraid to die.'

The Emperor had been angered by that. Shocked that a halfwit girl had seen through him. So when the Children of the Desert had confronted their guests about the death of one of their own, Torve had expected Lenares to unmask Dryman as the murderous Emperor, thus condemning the man to death and setting Torve free. But she had not. Not because she could keep a secret, much less that she thought this a secret worth keeping. No, she had said nothing because she simply hadn't recognised him.

Something about the soldier bothered her, Torve knew. She had said so on occasion. It was all there: in his voice, his manner, the hunger in his deep eyes, even the callus on the bridge of his nose where the mask usually rested. But she could not see! No matter how many hints Torve offered; clues that skirted right to the edge of the prohibition laid upon him not to reveal Dryman's true ident.i.ty.

He could only think that Dryman had spread some sort of glamour over them. But the Emperor had rejected magic, along with everything else that came from the G.o.ds. So how could this be?

He would wait, he would watch, he would learn. And somehow he would tell Lenares what she needed to know without breaking his vow of obedience. Then this dreadful grind of torture and death would finally be over, and he and Lenares could be together.

The first reports that Raceme had been occupied overnight by the Neherians began filtering back to the hill above the city soon after dawn. Knots of Racemen began to gather, coalescing into crowds, and finally forming a great a.s.sembly around the largest of the bonfires. Duon followed them, accompanied by the enigmatic Dryman.

'Tell me what they say, Captain,' Dryman ordered.

Duon bridled at the casual a.s.sumption of command, but said nothing. Time enough later for confrontation.

'A few of the men went into the city just before dawn,' Duon reported. 'They got as far as the Money Exchange-I don't know where that is, before you ask-and were confronted by red-bibbed soldiers, armed with swords and spears, coming the other way. The southern gate had been undefended, so the Racemen suppose the Neherians were only then securing the city. As the sun rose the Racemen could see red bibs atop buildings and in the intersections of the main streets. A fight broke out and one of the Racemen was killed. The others ran away, though that is not how they describe it, brave soldiers they imagine themselves to be. They left their friend's body behind, of course.'

And how many bodies did you leave behind, brave leader? The cynical voice took Duon by surprise, as it always did.

'So, in essence, this tribe's town has been conquered by another, stronger tribe,' Dryman said. 'Is this of any real importance? Will it prevent us resuming our task?'

'Forgive me, soldier,' Duon said, his mouth drying as he spoke, knowing he risked much. 'I have been meaning to ask. What task is this?'

Dryman turned to the captain. Duon searched the man's face in vain for any sign of pity, of mercy, of humanity. He hadn't meant to precipitate the confrontation so soon, but here it was, and he could no longer avoid it.

'What task?' Dryman echoed. 'The task your Emperor set you, of course. You of all people should remember. It was you, after all, who reported to us the wealth and vulnerability of the northlands.'

'But we are only four-'

'Has the Emperor appeared to you? Has he told you to abandon your task? Where is your pride in your commission?'

'Look here, man, pride is not the issue. What can we achieve? We were supposed to be here with thirty thousand men!'

'Ah, so obedience to your Emperor is a matter of convenience? When you no longer have the resources you asked for, obedience ends?'

That stung. 'These are just words, Dryman. Anyone can see the futility of what you're asking. How many baskets of treasure can we bring home on four backs? Wouldn't we do better to return to Talamaq and apprise the Emperor of the failure of his mission?'

The mercenary took a step closer to the captain. 'Think on this then. Have you asked yourself why we were directed northward after our defeat? Clearly, someone or something wants us to continue with our mission. You came through the hole with the rest of us. Have you not yet asked yourself what could have been the purpose of this supernatural intervention?'

Duon paused. And into the silence came the voice from the back of his head, the voice that had tormented him ever since the day they'd left Talamaq.

Really, how can I do anything with you if you insist on remaining so obtuse?

Shut up, Duon thought. I don't believe in you; you are a product of my fear of failure- Oh, come on. You know I'm real. And if I'm real, why resist the notion that there are things going on you know nothing about?

I don't want to know anything about them. Or you. Stubborn, a child refusing to face reality. Duon knew he was behaving like a fool.

Do you want to wrest back power from Dryman? the voice asked seductively.

Oh.

'I don't know anything about supernatural forces,' Duon said to Dryman. 'I'm just a soldier. I'd need to have new orders to deal with supernatural forces.'

The voice in the back of his head groaned.

Dryman smiled the smile of a man who has manoeuvred his adversary to exactly the place he wants him.

'Then it is fortunate you have me with you, for I have encountered supernatural forces before. Somewhat of an expert, in fact. Just listen to me, and all will be well.'

Now do you see why you must take my advice?

No. I see why I need advice. Yours may be no better than his. But speak away; I will listen. On one condition. You explain exactly who you are and how you gained access to my head.

A tickle of sound moved across his mind, as though someone had run a fingernail gently across his skin. A woman's voice-the woman's voice-as clear as a mountain stream: That's the best question you could have asked him.

Who was that? the other voice asked.

Duon said nothing, tried to think nothing. He didn't think the woman and the cynical man would like each other, and he didn't want them talking together-or worse, fighting each other-in his head.

'Eat your fill,' Dryman said. 'Take whatever extra food these fools offer you, and scavenge anything you think will be useful. We'll soon be on our way north. The real treasure is still some distance away.'

Dryman patted him on the shoulder, as though Duon had just pleased his master with a new trick, then walked away.

Finally, Duon thought, I have my mind to myself.

Not quite, the woman's voice said. I want to find out who you are, and how you can mind-speak. Are you here, around the fire? If you are, stand up and wave your arms. Then I will make contact with you.

Not likely, Duon replied, and tried to break his mind away from the contact. He began to sing a children's nonsense rhyming song in his head.

But he had so many questions, and could not prevent them forming even as he gave himself to the song he'd learned from his mother. Who was the woman in his mind? Was she the same woman as the one who spoke nonsense syllables and, if so, why could she speak so clearly to him and not to others? And who was the hated cynical man who had been speaking into his mind for months? And why would a mercenary such as Dryman care about the wishes of the Emperor? Above all, how was he, Duon, to get the better of the mercenary and reclaim his rightful place at the head of the remnants of the expedition?

Duon sat with Torve, rolling slivers of meat into b.a.l.l.s and wrapping them in greased paper. He could feel the woman in his mind. She was somewhere out there, close by, moving around the fire, hunting for him. She wanted to examine his secret voices, but he didn't want even to acknowledge them. He wanted to be left alone.

'Generous of these people to include strangers in their largesse,' he said to the Omeran.

'How do they know we are strangers?' Torve said. 'We might be residents. The town is large enough that people might a.s.sume they simply haven't met us before.'

'Look around you. Have you seen anyone else with skin as dark as mine, let alone yours? And don't you think our inability to speak fluently with them might be a hint? And our clothes-tattered, odorous and of a fas.h.i.+on completely different from anything any of them are wearing. Enough reasons?'

Duon reflected on how far he had fallen. Debating with an Omeran! Let alone losing his temper with one. He wasn't one of those who believed Omerans were only animals, but neither did he hold with treating them as humans. Something unnatural about that. Still, when one of them was the only person who would listen to you, it made him easier to accept.

'These people are grieving over the loss of fellow citizens and loved ones,' Torve said. 'They have just been told they may have lost their city. They may still be in danger of attack. How much time do they have to consider the differences between one man and another?'

'You make a good point,' Duon said. 'But now, just after having been dispossessed by strangers, is precisely when they are likely to be at their most suspicious.'

As if conjured by his words, a group of people came towards them. Duon recognised the burly, red-haired man he had spoken to just after they'd arrived in this place; two others had been with him. A dumpy, plain woman and a thin, elegant boy with piercing eyes. They accompanied the man now. Something stirred at the back of Duon's mind.

The woman tugged on the boy's arm. 'Heeh,' she said. 'Hee thum wheeh heeh.'

She has no tongue. She is the one.

'You're the fellow I spoke to last evening,' the burly man said. 'I'm still curious as to where you are from.'

'Did I not say?' Duon replied, thinking carefully. 'We're from south of here.'

'Oh?' the man said, his deep voice freighted with suspicion. 'My children'-he indicated the woman and the boy-'and I are also from the south. From Fossa on the Fisher Coast. I don't remember seeing you before. Which village is your home?'

'We come from further south than you, I'm sure,' Duon replied.

The man's gaze sharpened. 'Neherius?'

You do have a talent for saying the wrong thing, said the cynical voice in Duon's head. The woman-the burly man's daughter-immediately put her hands to her temples.

'No, we are strangers from far south of Neherius,' Duon said, ignoring the voice. 'Further south than any kingdom you know.'

He watched out of the corner of his eye as the woman whispered in her brother's ear, her hands gesticulating all the while. He could hear the sounds she made, they echoed in his mind, not in his ears: Vuh baak mann heehs me shpeek.

Duon wondered suddenly: Am I the only one who can hear her? Or can she mind-speak with her brother and father? If she can, why is she whispering in her brother's ear?

Because she doesn't want you to hear her, imbecile, said the cynical voice in his head. She doesn't know you can hear her spoken words through your mind-link.

Mind-link? Duon thought at the voice. And what do you know about such things that you can put a name to it?

He dragged his thoughts back to the conversation. 'Why does where we live matter?' he asked the red-haired man.

'You should know-ought to know, if you've just travelled north-that this land is at war. The Neherians have invaded the Fisher Coast. It appears that Raceme has fallen to them. Now I'd like to know how you found yourself in a city, the name of which you didn't even know, unaware that there was a war going on.'

'Arathe says the mind-talker is one of these men,' the man's son said, interrupting his father. 'She thinks it's the man you're talking to.'

'What's wrong with your daughter?' Duon asked. Far too rude, but he was shaken. To have been found so quickly! He didn't know enough yet about his mind-voices to determine whether they should be kept secret, but he knew he didn't want this tongueless woman to learn any more about him.

'She had her tongue cut out by the servants of the Undying Man,' said the burly man. The anger underlying his voice was unmistakable. 'You've heard of the Undying Man, I take it?'

'I've heard of him,' Duon answered guardedly. I've met him, actually, he thought as he answered. I spent some time in his fortress, a little over two years ago now, as his guest.

He wasn't trying to communicate, it was just a memory, but it lay across the forefront of his mind. Of course she picked it up, like a bird spying a s.h.i.+ny thread.

Did you? Her mind-voice sounded excited. Two years ago? I was in Andratan then.

A pause. Duon looked at the woman, stared right into her eyes, and saw they were every bit as piercing as those of her brother.

'Whah ihh veay ooh ooh ush?' she asked. At the same time, her voice lanced through his brain: What did they do to us?

Then the cynical voice rang out in Duon's head; and, as it spoke, it was clear to Duon that the girl heard it too. Two of them, afflicted in the same manner. The likely explanation for their ability to mind-speak each other.

Come north to Andratan and find out.

CHAPTER 4.

SECRET ENCOUNTER.

LEFT TO HER OWN devices while Duon and Dryman wasted time talking with the Racemen, Lenares began to wonder why her fellow southerners refused to discuss what had happened to them. She had many questions and seemed the only one willing to examine them. Were the others not interested in how they could have travelled thousands and thousands of paces in a single moment of time? Why were they all consumed by the events in this small place?

Dryman would hear no questions when he returned. 'We are leaving soon,' he said brusquely. 'We're going north. Eat as much as you can, collect food, look for discarded shoes and clothes, beg anything you can't steal. Be ready, or you'll answer to me.'

So Lenares and Torve spent the morning scavenging from people ill able to afford to give anything away. Lenares found herself wanting to remain here, knowing that nothing could be as important as finding and halting the hole in the world (she still thought of it as one hole, though knew it might be two), but Dryman was insistent. He did not care about her feelings and would hear none of her arguments.

'North,' he said. 'We must go north. The Emperor demands it.'

The big hairy red man called Noetos seemed in charge of the local people, even though another man, Captain Cohamma, thought he was. She knew two captains, Duon and Cohamma, and neither was listened to. But the people were prepared to listen to the hairy man, which was odd, because he came from somewhere else. Not as far away as she and her fellow southerners did though. 'He defied the Fingers of the G.o.ds,' the women around the cooking fires said to each other. Duon told Dryman what they were saying, and Lenares listened. What fingers of which G.o.ds? she wondered, but her thoughts were lost in Duon's commentary.

'He fought and killed a dozen Neherians with his sword. He stood there and breathed in the whirlwind, sucking it out of the sky. Sunaiya was there, she saw it. He didn't want us to leave Raceme last night, but Captain Cohamma forced us out. Now the Neherians have control of our city. Who should we listen to? Who cares where he comes from? He wants us to try to retake Raceme-is that a good idea? Haven't we lost enough already? How can we survive without our homes? Who will bury our dead?'

Now Lenares watched the women leave the cooking fires and settle down to work. Their men had gone somewhere-Duon said that many of them had gone with Captain Cohamma to scout the city, to see if any of the secret ways were undefended-leaving the women to find food. Fed up with doing nothing, Lenares stood up, stretched her legs and joined them.

She could not understand their language, but it did not matter. She could see their numbers, interpret their moods, read their fears, their determination to do what had to be done. There was something rea.s.suring about working with these women. Knocking on the doors of huts and begging for food was better than sitting with the captain and the soldier. Taking food to others was better even than spending time with Torve, who seemed afraid to look at her.