‘Once we get to the city, Kutch would be on his own. I’d need an assurance he wouldn’t just be abandoned.’
‘I’ll see that he’s all right. You have my word on that.’
‘Let’s understand each other. If I get you both to Valdarr, my commitment ends and we part.’
‘So you’re saying yes?’
Caldason sighed. ‘I suppose I am. But don’t take it as meaning I support your cause or whatever this plan is you’re brewing. I’m doing it for the boy.’
Kutch beamed. ‘Great!’
‘Don’t get too excited, we’re not there yet.’
‘Thank you, Caldason,’ Karr said.
‘Save your thanks. You might end up regretting this. As I’ve said before…’ He eyed Kutch. ‘…people around me tend to die.’
‘Your enemies certainly seem to.’
That brought to the surface something Kutch had pushed from his mind. He rose to his feet. ‘Gods, Reeth, I forgot! Your
arm
!’
Karr joined the chorus. ‘Yes, your wound! We’re sitting here talking and -’
‘Easy.’ Caldason waved them back. ‘Don’t get into a panic on my account.’ With no particular urgency he rolled up first the sleeve of his jerkin, then the stained shirt sleeve beneath. His arm was caked with blood. He spat into his hand and began wiping the gore away. The exposed skin was unbroken. There was no wound. ‘I said it was nothing.’
Kutch gaped at the unblemished flesh. ‘But…’
‘Sometimes things look different in the heat of a fight,’ Caldason told him.
‘I could have sworn you took a blow,’ Karr said, puzzled.
‘A trick of the light maybe. It’s of no concern.’ He rolled down the sleeve. The action implied a finality, a closing of the subject.
Karr and the apprentice exchanged a look. Neither felt like arguing with him.
‘Now get yourselves ready,’ Caldason said. ‘We’re leaving.’
9
Serrah Ardacris didn’t care.
It didn’t worry her that her stolen boots were the wrong size and hurt her feet. Or that her clothes, snatched from washing lines, scavenged from rubbish tips, were mismatched and ill-fitting. It was only of vague interest to her that for two days she had eaten scraps, drunk rainwater and slept fitfully in doorways.
Serrah hadn’t gone anywhere near her quarters, of course, or attempted to contact anyone she knew. She understood how the Council for Internal Security worked; what was possible, what their resources were. So she kept moving. Dirty, exhausted, mending too slowly from her beating, she hobbled as much as walked Merakasa’s packed streets.
She was in a curious, befuddled frame of mind, her head full of fluff and dim stars. She felt discorporate, as if observing herself from afar. She was cautious of watch patrols and paladins. But perversely, part of her hoped she’d run into them and make an end of it.
Although she was largely indifferent to her condition, two genuine fears prowled at the edge of her consciousness. One was that she would turn a corner and see Eithne. Or something purporting to be her. In fact, twice she thought she had, and each time her insides gave a giddy lurch before she realised the error. Never mind that she knew her daughter to be in her grave.
Serrah’s other dread centred on tracker glamours. The thought of bloodhound spectres and homing revenants penetrated her daze and iced her spine. She wondered whether her former masters wanted her badly enough to justify the expense.
As she roamed, her grasp on reason ebbed and flowed. When the tide was out she had to fight down the urge to scream aloud or pound her head against a wall. To see if anybody noticed. To verify her existence.
In lucid moments she dwelt on the identity of her rescuers and their motive, like a dog worrying a well-chewed bone.
She wandered out of a prosperous area and into a poor one. From citizens parading in finery to beggars with outstretched hands; from bedecked carriages to pigs rooting in the streets. A surprisingly short distance separated the credible, quality magic of wealth and the questionable, second-rate charms of penury.
Here the underprivileged relied on costermongers hawking low-cost spells. Shoddy merchandise smuggled from foreign sweat shops where child labourers toiled in dangerous conditions without proper magical supervision.
There were the counterfeiters’ stalls, too. When people couldn’t afford to be particular they gambled on fakes. Sometimes the imitation glamours worked. Other times they disappointed, even harmed. Occasionally they proved fatal.
The touts and bootleggers were unlicensed traders, and the penalties for such illegality were harsh. For protection they employed lookouts. Some paid roughnecks to create a diversion should law enforcers happen by. Mostly they guarded their safety with bona fide magical defences; dazzle glamours, ear-splitter banshees, deception clusters and the like.
Serrah could have been a wraith floating through the drab crowds and gutter stenches. But even where abnormality was common, many shrank away from the wild look of her. She was heedless. Because a notion that had been drifting like fog in her brain had crystallised and she knew what she needed.
A weapon.
The marvel was that she hadn’t felt the lack before. Two days since her rescuers had made her give up her sword prior to scaling the wall of the redoubt, and only now did she notice the want. The small, quiet voice of what might have been sanity urged her to rectify the deficiency.
She looked around,
really
looked, and studied the current of humanity. Naturally, just about everybody carried at least one weapon. Serrah had little doubt she could take what she wanted from any of them, despite her injuries.
Then she spotted him.
Militiamen invariably patrolled in pairs, especially in a ghetto district. This one was just leaving his partner. Perhaps to take a short walk to a watch station, or to make his way to some off-duty pursuit. He was the taller and by far the strongest looking of the two. That was why she chose him. It was the same kind of contrariness that made people who hated heights go to the edge in high places. In her physical state she should have picked a civilian. But she was spoiling for a fight with authority.
Old instincts took over, a legacy of her training and experience. Slipping into predatory mode, she stalked him.
Wherever he was going, it was with purpose. He moved swiftly, elbowing through the crowd, obliging those in his path to step aside. His manner was haughty, cock of the walk, and he drew glances that mixed deference with contempt. Serrah followed at a distance, making sure there were plenty of people between them, never losing sight of his broad back.
The militiaman entered marginally quieter streets. Serrah trailed him as he went into crooked lanes, emptier still and rubbish strewn. When he cut into a deserted alley she increased her pace and closed the gap. Her heart was hammering.
She hailed him with,
‘Hold!’
It was the first time she’d spoken out loud since escaping. The gravel-edged sound of her own voice startled her.
He turned, hand on sword.
Serrah stared at the blade like a starving woman spying meat.
‘Well?’ he said.
She lifted her gaze. ‘I want…’ Speech wavered, dried up. The blood roared in her ears. She just looked at him.
He studied her in turn. Her dark-ringed, intense eyes, ashen complexion and greasy, matted hair. The bruises, sores and grime, underneath which he could see she had been, might still be, quite pretty. He relaxed, judging her no threat.
‘What’s your business?’ he pressed.
Serrah focused. ‘You’ve something I want,’ she told him, coming closer.
He wrinkled his nose at the odour her unbathed body gave off, and waved a hand to fan himself. ‘And you’ve something I
don’t.
’ Then a false understanding dawned. A leer gashed his full-bearded face, revealing teeth the colour of slush. ‘Unh,’ he grunted knowingly. ‘Got a thing about uniforms, have you? Or is it the purse that draws you?’ He slapped a bulge at the side of his tunic.