Nico cowered against a wall, trying to find a hiding space that was not there. At every shot fired, his body tensed in expectation of instant pain. Ash pulled him roughly out into the street. They crossed it moving as low and fast as they could. Cries from both ends betrayed the occasional victims of friendly fire.
A building ahead, squat and uglier than most in this city. Its doorway was without a door, black as night. They fell through it into a stinking space without light, sparks flying and chips of stone raining down from the outer edges of the doorway behind them.
They stumbled deeper inside, the dimly seen walls covered in the faint impressions of graffiti. It was a public latrine, with a row of privy holes ranged against one wall.
Ash strode to the rear of the small building, where a few grimy narrow windows ran high up along the back wall. He smashed one with the hilt of his sword, cleared away the jagged edges.
'We must split up, boy. I am much faster on my own. If you hide I can lead them away from you.'
Nico cast a glance about him. 'Hide? Where?'
Ash swept his gaze along the row of privy holes, in a single wooden bench covered with dubious stains. The old man tugged at it till he had wrenched the bench up from its mounting. The smell was enough to make him gag. Beside him, Nico began to retch.
As his master confronted him, Nico backed away, appalled, from the expression on his face. He knew what Ash was proposing, and started to shake his head slowly, with determination.
'You want to die here?'
'Don't leave me then. We'll make a run for it together.'
'We are trapped, Nico. We must be creative and find a way out of this for you at least. Now, get in.'
'I won't do it.'
'Please, Nico. Listen, they come.'
It was true. The sound of footfalls could be heard, pounding along the street outside.
'Now!' commanded Ash, and entirely against his will, Nico felt his body step over to the gaping space of the exposed privy.
A hard shove sent him toppling into it, where he landed on his back. His body settled into a sodden, stinking mound which had the consistency of mud, and which tried to claim him. He retched again, and this time he vomited.
'Hush!' whispered Ash from above him as he lifted the privy bench back into place.
Nico clamped a hand across his mouth, gagging and shivering in silence. 'Make your way to the docks when it is clear,' instructed Ash through one of the holes. 'You will see a statue of one of their generals – you cannot miss it. I shall meet you there at dawn if I can. But if I do not return, Nico, then leave this city. Go home to your mother. Live a long life and think well of me.'
The old farlander tossed down a purse of coins. It clinked mutedly in the foulness next to him.
'Farewell, my boy.'
'Master Ash!'
But Ash was gone. Nico could hear him slithering out through the window, and then footsteps scraped by the entrance, and someone shouted, and they were after him.
Others remained behind. Lamplight flickered through the holes overhead; shadows passed by, the scuff of heavy boots and the closeness of shouted commands echoing in the reeking space immediately overhead. Nico closed his eyes and tried to breathe in without gagging. He tried, with all his will, not to think of what they would do to him if he was caught.
Light flickered against his eyelids, but by the time he had gathered enough courage to look upwards it was already fading.
The chase moved on. The room overhead became dark and silent.
He waited. He heard more shots in the distance. A scream. People shouting.
Nico lost track of time. He found that not moving at all was the best way to minimize the sensation of the ordure against his skin. He lay in perfect stillness, trying to breathe without actually breathing.
He wondered how Ash fared, and was certain, despite the sheer scale of the trap set around them, that his master would find a way clear of it. That at least gave Nico some hope.
Dogs barked. Again voices. Nico's heart stopped in mid-beat as footsteps returned to the entrance.
'They searched in there already,' came a woman's voice.
'Those idiots? They might be good at waving their swords around, but I doubt their skills at observation.'
Boots scraped overhead once more. A lamp flickered, casting shadows.
'Where is Stano? Did you see him?' The woman's voice sounded worried.
'Aye, the Rshun ran him through in the fog. Bad luck, that.'
'Dead?'
'He looked it.'
The woman seemed displeased at that. 'When we catch these bastards, I will have first crack at them.'
'Be my guest.'
The voice was directly overhead now. Lamplight shone through the hole. Nico cringed away from it.
A face appeared. Its eyes met his.
Suddenly, teeth shone bright.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
Waiting by Mokabi The fog had barely thinned by dawn.
It blanketed the streets like a layer of vaporous snow, obscuring everything within it and everything without, even the rising sun itself, which was just a vague glow without heat. Daylight, for those unfortunate enough to be up and about at this early hour, was nothing but a thin luminescence that added form to the morning chill. Pedestrians collided awkwardly on the pavements. Carts ran across the paths of other carts, while draft mules snapped teeth at each other in their nervousness. The fog reeked: it clung to the backs of throats, stung the eyes. It coated every surface with moisture, so that even the sagging flags of the district dripped wetly.
Ash hurried along the street. His cloak was sodden through, as were his clothes beneath it. He carried his sword with him still, though he kept it hidden from sight. Dried blood stained his hand where it had trickled from his reopened wound. The old farlander walked with a slight limp.
Ahead, the monument reared up through the fog, a huge spike rising into the murk. Struggling figures were spitted along its vertical length, their death throes frozen in skilfully cast bronze. Ash stopped beneath it: General Mokabi, three times larger than life, stood at the base of the spike, looking outwards. His expression was fixed in a victor's triumph, though it was a hard-won victory as seen in the weary lines of his flesh. He held arms akimbo, his head slightly thrown back: as though relishing the admiration of others at this his greatest achievement.
Nico was nowhere to be seen.
Ash released a breath and sat down heavily upon the parapet encircling the monument. He winced as he took the weight from his feet.
Dawn was turning to early morning. He wrapped the cloak tighter around himself, though the damp wool held little warmth. He did not stir again. After a while it was as though he became part of the monument itself, so that, as the traffic increased across the surrounding square, no one noticed him sitting there, waiting.
Mid-morning passed into late morning. Still no sign of Nico.
The old farlander stood up, and walked for a time around the base of the monument, to work some heat back into his legs. He scanned the surrounding fog as he went. In the distance, a clock chimed out the hour.
By early afternoon, Ash sat down again with his sword in his lap, courting trouble – it was against the law to openly bear arms within the city. His thumb stroked the leather scabbard, his gaze darting out from the folds of his hood. A breeze stirred from the sea, which lay somewhere off to his right. Autumn leaves scuttled dry and brittle along the ground, shed from trees he could not see. The fog stirred, creating spaces within itself, though it still refused to lift.
The clock chimed again. Slowly, Ash rose. 'Nico!' he cried out.
The sound of his voice was muted, lost in the wrapping of fog.