"This isn't your ship, is it, sis? It's Old Race, scavenged from the remains of their technology and put together piecemeal. And this isn't your final destination, either, is it?" As Jenna helped crew position a gantry so that they could reach a rock platform filled with more modern machines and crates, which the crew then proceeded to load, he persisted. "All this equipment? What are you up to, Jenna? Where are you going?"
Jenna span to face him. "Going, brother? We aren't going anywhere. In fact, we're running away from somewhere — as fast as we can."
"Somewhere or something?" Slowhand said with sudden realisation. "On the ship, what you said when those things came. You knew what the k'nid were, didn't you?"
"The k'nid?"
"Yes, the k'nid. The things that attacked your ship."
"Oh, so they've been given a name."
"Is it those things you're running from? What the hells are they? Where do they come from?"
Jenna stared at him defiantly, as if she were not going to answer, but then, as he held her eyes, she seemed to relent slightly. "There has been… a mistake," she said slowly, swallowing. "We need to rearm, reinforce, return to rectify what we have — "
"That is enough," Querilous Fitch interrupted, grabbing Jenna by the wrist and spinning her around. "This civilian cannot be allowed to know the business of the Final — "
"Hey!" Slowhand shouted, moving forward. "Get your hands off this civilian's sister or you're gonna find out just how uncivil he can — "
Fitch's gaze snapped to him and, for a second, Slowhand swore he could see the blood vessels in his eyes dart and writhe like a nest of snakes.
"Or what?" he said disdainfully, and the archer suddenly found himself airborne, though this time with no dirigible beneath him.
The dismissive snap of the arm with which Fitch had accompanied his words had, seemingly without any effort on his part at all, flung him upwards and backwards with such force that he found himself hurtling through the harbour towards the energy panel from which the dirigible crystal fed. He impacted so hard that the wind was knocked completely out of him.
"My Gods, Jenna," he gasped weakly. "What has the Faith done this time?"
Jenna stared but no answer came and suddenly, seemingly instinctively, his left hand shot out to grab a small node on the panel, gripping it tightly so that he dangled there. This, Slowhand found strange, because there was no way — instinctively or otherwise — that he would grab such a device having seen the kind of power it channelled. Sure enough, his whole arm buzzed with a strange energy that spread through his bones to his ribs, but however much he wanted to he found he couldn't let go. In fact, he suddenly realised, his other arm was reaching for the opposite node.
Slowhand felt a bolt of panic. He stared down at Fitch and saw the mage grinning coldly up at him. Damn it, it was the threadweaver who had made his arm lash out. And now he was forcing him to raise the other.
Querilous Fitch was in his head.
Below, Jenna snapped her gaze from Fitch to her brother and then back again, for a moment uncertain what was happening — but then it dawned on her. If his right hand connected with the other strut he would complete the circuit, and if that happened his whole body would be channelling the energy of the panel. Slowhand didn't want to know what would happen to him if it did. But the fact was, in his current position, there was nothing he could do to stop it.
His hand rising jerkingly, face twisted and sweating profusely, fighting against Fitch's will, he looked desperately at Jenna. His sister was clearly uncomfortable with what was happening, but it seemed her conditioning was preventing her from doing anything about it.
Fight it, sis, Slowhand thought. Help me.
And as if she had heard his plea, her gaze snapped to him once more, her brow furrowing deeply.
Decide who and what's important to you, the archer urged. Make your choice.
Suddenly Jenna was struggling with Fitch, trying to turn him away from Slowhand, to break his hold. But despite his frame, the threadweaver seemed to be as strong in body as he was in mind, and would not be turned. As the struggle continued, so did Slowhand's, his grip no more than inches away from the second node now. Groaning, he tried to fight against Fitch, but whatever part of his mind the threadweaver was manipulating it was inaccessible to him. Slowhand craned his neck to watch as his right arm rose ever upward and then suddenly spasmed in shock as it made contact and completed the circuit. The effect was agonising and the archer screamed and bucked, held as the current locked all of his muscles, seemingly gluing him to the panel. But as his body danced, he nevertheless managed to form one word in a guttural tone.
"Jennnnnaaaa…"
Below, Jenna continued to struggle with Fitch but then, as if he had tired of a dog snapping at his ankles, he snapped his hand to the side and Jenna was thrown away from him to slam heavily into a pile of crates. Some of the crew turned, shocked that their Captain had been treated in such a way, but it was clear that none of them would do anything about it — dare challenge the threadweaver — and they continued to work. For her part, Jenna stared daggers at her so-called lieutenant, wiping a spot of blood from the side of her mouth. But for the moment she was evidently too weak to pick herself up and retaliate. If she even dared take Fitch on.
Slowhand realised that if he were going to live he had to get out of this himself. Thankfully, as Fitch had used some of his energy to throw Jenna aside he had felt a fleeting and slight reduction in the threadweaver's hold. Enough for him to be able to pull his right hand away from the contact panel. If he could work on that…
Slowhand moaned with effort, not only of trying to pull his hand away but also trying to make his intent as little obvious as possible. If Fitch spotted what he was doing, he had no doubt that his hand would be struck back to the panel in a second — and then he would be a dead man.
Slowly, though, it began to work and with a sudden jerk of his limb he realised it was free of the connection, though the panel behind him continued to throb with the charge it had built up. Slowhand took advantage of this, making his body buck as if it were still part of the circuit, but secretly concentrating on the effort involved in freeing his right leg. It, too, broke free, though for a second the archer held it in place, making Fitch think he was as much constrained as he had always been.
"Hey, Fitch," he gasped. "Shouldn't I be dead by now?"
The threadweaver's eyebrow rose in surprise that his victim was able to speak, let alone breathe. Suddenly Slowhand felt a resurgence of the power, Fitch forcing him further onto the panel and, teeth gritted, he fought against the push with all of his will.
"Threadweaver. I'm starting to think you couldn't weave your way out of a papyrus bag."
Below him Fitch growled.
"Querilous Fitch," Slowhand taunted further. "You think maybe that should be Querilous Oh-There's-A-Hitch?"
That did it. As Slowhand had hoped, Fitch was the kind of man who, despite his power, couldn't resist venting his anger in a more physical form. The threadweaver lurched towards him with a snarl.
As he did, his mental hold on Slowhand relaxed and, feeling his body untense against the panel, the archer made his move.
He dropped to the floor and, as he impacted, threw himself into a forward roll, hands snatching behind his back for Suresight and an arrow from his quarrel. He came upright, the bow readied. Slowhand could have killed Fitch there and then but, without knowing exactly why, he didn't. Instead he fired off, in quick succession, four arrows aimed at Fitch's arms and legs. Flitch tried to deflect them, but he had no chance. The threadweaver was suddenly picked up and carried off his feet by their speed and power, thudding into the packing crate behind him. Fitch roared with anger, trying to pull away from the arrows that held him, but they were so solidly embedded in the wood through the folds of his cloak that he was trapped.