Rix ran down the stairs to the dressing room, exchanged his kilt for mustard-yellow woollen trews, selected a pair of black knee-boots and heaved them on. He reached for his favourite weapon, a magnificent red broadsword he had been given on his seventeenth birthday, then hesitated.
‘Is that a new one?’ said Tobry, pointing to a battered scabbard at the back. A square hilt, tightly wound with worn black wire, protruded from it.
‘Actually, it’s a family heirloom, and ages-old. Mother told me to use it but I don’t like it.’
‘Why not?’
‘It’s too light. I’m afraid it’ll break,’ Rix lied.
Tobry carried the scabbard out into the salon, drew the sword, sliced the air across and down, then diced it. ‘It’s beautifully balanced.’ He flicked the tip, ting. ‘Lovely metalwork. It’s titane, almost unbreakable. And damnably hard to forge.’
It had a bluish tint and the blade was slightly curved, like a sabre, though it had cutting edges on front and back. An inscription down the blade was so worn as to be illegible save for the first two words, Heroes must.
‘Heroes must?’ said Tobry, looking from the blade to Rix, then back to the blade. ‘What does that remind me of?’
Rix had no idea. ‘Mother said it’s enchanted to protect its owner,’ he said reluctantly. His throat tightened. He thumped his chest a couple of times to clear his air passages.
Tobry ran a finger along the flat of the blade and pale yellow swirls appeared in the air around it. ‘No ordinary charm, though.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘It’s not meant to work against soldiers, or wild beasts.’
‘Really? What’s the good of it, then?’
‘It protects against magery.’
Sweat formed in Rix’s armpits. ‘Why would anyone attack me with magery?’
‘I can’t imagine,’ Tobry said drily. He handed it to Rix and went out.
The sword jerked like a dowsing rod and swung around until its quivering tip pointed towards the heatstone. For a few seconds Rix strained to hold it, then it stilled like any other lifeless blade.
Was the magery of a sword enchanted to protect its owner worse than the attack of some uncanny creature? Probably not. He slammed it into its scabbard and belted it on, shuddering. After considering his kilt, head to one side, he tossed it into his bag in case the weather turned warm.
Tobry reappeared with a small case containing balms and potions, bandages and needles.
‘What’s that for?’ said Rix irritably.
‘When some beast tears your legs off, I’ll be able to sew the loose skin over your stumps,’ Tobry said casually.
Rix felt a phantom pain at mid-thigh level, but shook it off.
‘Why go at this time of night?’ asked Tobry.
‘It’ll be light when we get there.’
‘And by the time the servants wake Lady Ricinus, she won’t be able to order you back.’
Rix didn’t bother to reply. Tobry knew him better than he knew himself.
‘What are we hunting?’ Tobry went on.
‘I don’t care, the more savage the better. I need to cleanse myself.’
‘Of what?’
‘I can’t tell! But there’s something wrong inside me.’
‘Drinking and wenching aren’t crimes. Even Lady Ricinus encourages you in that.’
‘I’d feel better if she disapproved. What kind of a mother urges her only son into debauchery?’
Tobry opened his mouth, but wisely closed it again.
‘Something is badly wrong with the world,’ said Rix. ‘And I feel as though it’s all down to me.’
‘Hightspall’s troubles began over a century ago.’
‘I know. Yet I still feel it’s my fault!’
Tobry frowned at that. ‘Well, I’m not sure that killing some unfortunate beast is the answer.’
‘Right now,’ Rix said bleakly, ‘it’s the only answer I’ve got.’
CHAPTER 8
Tali kept seeing that frozen moment — the singing blade, Mia’s body on its feet and her eyes begging Tali to save her even as her head flew through the air. She could not take it in, tried to deny it, rationalised that Mia had chosen to use her feeble magery, but Tali knew she had caused the tragedy. After her mother’s death she had vowed not to be a docile slave. Now Mia was dead because she had been so reckless. She would never get it right.
If only she hadn’t lost her temper with Orlyk. If only she hadn’t woken with the blinding headaches that had driven her into that uncontrollable rage. If only she hadn’t ducked the last chuck-lash. But she had, and gentle Mia, whose quick thinking had saved her life, was dead in her place. Nothing would ever be the same again.
Why were the innocent Pale held as slaves, anyway? Why was the wonderful gift of magery such a crime? What gave their masters the right of life and death over Mia, or any of them?
No other Pale posed such questions; they accepted the slaves’ lot. Tali’s aged tutors, Nurse Bet, Waitie and Little Nan, had always shushed Tali when she spoke up, and the other slaves avoided her. Only Mia had stood by her.
The body had been taken away and the other Pale were back at work, as far from Tali’s grotto as possible. She was tainted now and they wanted nothing to do with her. She looked down at the blood spotting her hands. Nothing could bring Mia back — the best Tali could do was offer her own life in recompense.
She laid her right hand over the blood on her left, took a breath, then said, ‘On this precious blood, I swear to make up for what’s been done to the Pale. For you, Mia. And your poor little boy who never had a chance.’
It was done. A binding blood oath. But first she had to escape and she did not know how. In Cython, only docile, obedient Pale survived. Those who displayed boldness or daring earned a one-way trip to the heatstone mines. Yet to find a way out she had to be bolder than any of them.
Work in the grottoes had finished early because of Lyf’s Day, but it was too early for dinner and Tali wasn’t ready to face the accusing stares of the other Pale. She wandered down the outside passage to the entrance of a partly excavated tunnel. A team of Cythonian miners had been working there for weeks, using the chymical technique of splittery to cut a defile down to the next level.
A slave gang was pushing a heavily laden rock cart up the slope, the women gasping and grunting with every heave. Sweat carved runnels down their dusty faces. I’m going to free you, too, Tali thought. Every one of you.
Down at the workface, a Cythonian miner was trowelling the rusty, chymical powder called thermitto into channels chiselled into the rock. He turned away and a red-faced firer wearing smoked-glass goggles packed a length of silvery ribbon into the thermitto, ignited it and stood well back. Tali, who had seen splittery done before, hastily averted her eyes.
The thermitto burnt with a roar and such blinding, blue-white ferocity that molten rock trickled from the ends of the channel. Shortly, the rock split with resounding cracks and a second gang heaved the debris out of the way. The miners began to set up the next shot. Tali continued.
But a hundred yards past the tunnel she stopped, for there was a ward post around the corner and if she approached without a pass the guards would sound the clangours.
Having nowhere to go, she crept into an empty breeze-room where a little waterwheel in a stone flume drove a set of ticking box-fans, pumping air down to the lower levels of Cython. She huddled in its darkest corner, holding her throbbing head, and forced the bloody images of Mia’s death out of her mind. She had to focus. The Cythonians were watching her, her enemy might be after her already, and she had to find a way out where no one ever had.
How could she save herself when she did not know who was hunting her?Ticker-tick-sniffle-tick. The box-fans might have been counting down her remaining moments. Or mocking her increasing panic as she struggled to think of any plan to escape.