Chapter Thirty-Four
Two days of riding brought them to the Karilus Wall. For Chris, every minute was a nightmare of senses strained to rupturing. Koraudian troops swarmed everywhere, like red ants to carrion, and Quinnon was right: they were headed for Ballion, almost five hundred miles away, where the Wall’s protective fortress tapered into gentle foothills. But Mactalde wasn’t moving troops. He was adding troops. Judging from the direction they were moving, these were fresh troops, straight from Koraud.
They had been able to avoid contact with the troops until the morning of the second day when an advance patrol spotted them and killed the wounded Guardsmen with the first shot. They’d outrun them—keeping Eroll in his litter only because Quinnon had had the foresight to tie him in—but the encounter left Allara shaking and vomiting.
Every night, fireworks lit the western sky with color-coded messages. According to Allara, that meant her father was back in Glen Arden, or maybe even Ballion itself, organizing more troops. If they were lucky, Quinnon was right about the Cherazii opening the dams to keep Mactalde at bay.
When they finally reached the top of the Wall path, it was crawling with Laeler troops, some on their way up, some on guard duty, and some passing through on their own trek to Ballion to try to intercept the Koraudians. They stopped at the aid station long enough to get both Eroll and Allara tended to. Then they’d boarded an express skycar back to Glen Arden.
Chris was asleep on the floor when the car rocked to a stop, late in the second day. He squinted himself awake from the early morning talk show he’d been watching in his hotel. He’d slept for almost the entire forty-eight hours of the trip from the Wall to Glen Arden, and he was about to go nuts sitting around in his hotel, watching TV and eating takeout Chinese. If his body in Lael hadn’t needed the rest so desperately, he would have forced himself to stay awake in the skycar. At least here he had Quinnon and Allara to talk to.
He rolled off his stomach and inched himself up to sit against the edge of the corner cabinet. He rubbed at his eyes. He’d been able to take a quick bath at the top of the Wall, while the surgeon had attended Eroll and Allara, but after two days of sleeping in the same clothes, he felt grimy all over again.
Through the glass wall in front of him, the lights of Glen Arden danced in the darkness and reflected against the inky water.
“Why are we stopped?” His voice croaked.
Quinnon stood next to the window. “Not sure yet.” He opened a pane and thrust out his head to peer down the length of the train. Cold air blew fat raindrops in around him. He ducked back in and fastened the window. “The tracks are jammed as far up the line as I can see. Probably full of troops and foreign dignitaries and who knows what else. ” He scratched a hand up the white stubble on his face. “We could be stuck here all night if we try to get straight through to the palace. Might be better to divert to Faramore Station near the bridge and ride up to the palace from there.”
From the front of the car, where she was huddled under a mound of blankets, Allara’s voice murmured, “That’s all the way across the city.”
“You decide. Spend another night here, or take a few more hours to cross to Faramore and catch a water taxi up to the palace.”
She sat up, and in the dim light of the globes, shadows caverned her cheeks. The laceration on her forehead had faded into a black bump, split down the center with a rough line of red, but two days of hard riding and two more of constant motion in the skycar hadn’t done much to speed her concussion on its way to healing.
She sat with the blankets over her knees and her arms over the blankets. “The sooner we get home the better. Tell the engineer.”
Quinnon crossed to the corner behind her and tugged the silken cord to ring a bell in the engineer’s car. He gave it three hearty tugs, followed by a jingle.
“That’s the signal for Faramore Station?” Chris asked.
Quinnon didn’t bother to nod. “Go back to sleep, the both of you. I’ll wake you when we’re close.”
Allara nodded and shifted back under her blankets. For her, sleep actually meant closing her eyes and forgetting for a while. But Chris had gotten his fill of talk shows and takeout food.
He eased to his feet and stretched the stiff muscles in his back and legs, then joined Quinnon at the window. “Home again.”
Quinnon only grunted.
Of course, it wouldn’t take long to get his fill of Quinnon’s conversation either. He leaned his shoulder against the window and braced himself for two more hours of one-sided grunting.
________
Midnight was knocking by the time their train finally reached Faramore Station. The public skycar stations were some of the tallest buildings in the city. The whitewashed Faramore station stretched five stories with half a dozen docks at every level. Even with the right of precedence granted the royal train, it took a full forty minutes to pull into a coveted ground-level slot.
The South Shore of the Hub borough claimed sole access to the only road off the island, via Faramore Bridge. The bridge’s proximity to both the upscale Taïs Quarter and the commercial Hub, with its bustling dockyards all along the harbor, made it one of the busiest parts of the city at any time of the day. Tonight, the roar of the people packing the streets drowned out even the clatter of the skycars.
Quinnon sent Yemas and the other Guardsman ahead to secure a taxi, then enlisted two station boys to carry Eroll’s litter around the street corner to the taxi stand.
He ducked his head back into the car, where Chris and Allara waited. “All right, let’s move. Keep your heads down and don’t draw any attention. I don’t much like the feel of things out here tonight.”
Chris helped Allara to her feet and steadied her. She swayed a moment and gritted her teeth.
“Still having headaches?” he asked.
She gave a tight nod.
“As soon as we get home, you need to go to bed and stay there for a week.” Not that she would.
With his hand under her elbow, they moved forward. At the door, Quinnon took her other hand and helped her down. He had turned his Guardsman tabard inside out and belted his sword over the top of it. Beneath his wide-brimmed hat, his scarred face looked less like a princess’s bodyguard and more like a dissolute footpad.
Chris’s face wasn’t well known, so he had little fear of being identified. Allara might be more of a problem, especially since her coat had no cowl for her to hide behind. But tousled and wan, on foot in the midst of a civilian crush, she wasn’t immediately recognizable either.
They walked down the covered platform—with the footsteps of the passengers from the level above clunking overhead—and through the double doors. Every building along the main thoroughfare, every shop and every home, flickered beneath glass-encased flames strung overhead. The lights smeared the slate of the night, darkened only by the massing shadows of people.
Chris knew enough about the South Shore to know it was always buzzing, even in the dark of night, but tonight a manic energy leapt through the crowds. The drone of voices was deafening—a shout without anyone in particular seeming to be shouting. Glimpsed expressions showed in one face the glitter of wide, ecstatic eyes, and in another the stolid determination to push on through and be done with this place and this night as soon as possible.
“What’s going on here?” he asked.
Quinnon plowed down the street without answering. He opened a passage through the crowd by dint of either his forceful “make ways” or, when that didn’t work, even more forceful shoves.
Chris followed on his heels, one hand around Allara’s waist, and the other under her elbow. She could probably have walked under her own power if she had to. Over the last few days, she’d shown just how much she could accomplish with sheer willpower when she wanted to. But the very fact that she didn’t try to avoid leaning against him showed how exhausted she was. Her eyes were buttoned closed against the lights, and she gnawed her lower lip.
“Hang in there,
” he said. “You’re almost home.”
She nodded.
They rounded a corner into a large square. Beneath the three domed towers of what appeared to be a university, the mob came to a head. A dozen men stood on the steps with their feet spread and their hands on their swords.
At their fore, a slender man in a white coat leaned toward the crowd. “Why should Lael grovel in fear while her leaders prostitute themselves to treachery?”
Allara stopped before Chris did. “Steadman.”
He released her elbow and reached for the pistol holstered against his chest. “What’s he doing here?”
In front of them, Quinnon cursed and kept ramming through the crowd.
“We are a free people, are we not?” Steadman shouted. “We are an intelligent people, an educated people! Is it right our government should shackle us with the outmoded traditions of religion?”
With every question, the people crowded nearer. Even those who stared askance were dragged forward at the sound of his voice. Murmurs of agreement swept from lip to lip.
Steadman raised a fist. Globes swayed on their wires, and the guttering light illuminated his eyes and the scar on his upper lip. “We are tired of waiting, Lael! Are we not tired of waiting? Mactalde is at our door even now. But it is not he who will destroy us!”
At the edge of the crowd, almost lost in the shadows of a sculpture gallery, the green of a Guardsman uniform glimmered. Quinnon angled toward it, but the Guardsman stared at Steadman, rapt.
Two more steps, and Chris recognized Yemas. They’d suspected him of Nateros sympathies before. Now, Chris had no doubt. Yemas panted, his face flushed. If Steadman demanded the crowd to throw themselves into the lake, Yemas appeared ready to comply.
Allara breathed out. “If they knew we were here, they’d stone us all.”
“They don’t know we’re here.” Chris tried to sound reassuring.
On the steps, Steadman clapped his hand against the rapier at his hip. “I ask you. Is it right—is it decent—is it natural that men should be dragged across the worlds, unwilling and unprepared? It is witchcraft! Is not this war a judgment upon Lael?”
Quinnon reached Yemas and shook his shoulder. “What are you doing here? I told you and Rantim to find a decent taxi and make certain those station boys got Lord Thyra safe into it.”
Yemas dragged his attention away from Steadman. “Rantim’s with the taxi. I returned to show you the way.”
“You so sure about that?”
Yemas looked back at Steadman, then past Quinnon, past Chris, straight at Allara. Sweat glistened on his lip, and something near to hatred crawled across his face.
When had that happened? Back in Réon Couteau, he had at least remained respectful to Allara.
Allara’s steps dragged, and Chris let her pull him to a stop.
“We have borne enough of this villainy!” Steadman shouted. “We have borne enough of this infamy! In our own city, our own capital, the witch and her minions cavort in freedom, piling upon us new abominations!”
Chris’s hand sweated against his pistol grip. “He shouldn’t get away with this.”
“It’s all right,” Allara said. “Just keep moving.”
Steadman railed on: “Lael has suffered under the necromancy of the Searchers for thousands of years, but it is upon our generation that the vilest of these is visited! She has conjured not one, but two Gifted! Is this not an atrocity in the sight of all educated men?”
“This is about you?” Chris said. “Why’s this about you? This should be about me.”
Yemas turned on them. Beneath his hat, sweat matted his sideburns. He shook off Quinnon and stalked close enough to Allara to stab a finger at her. “She’s the one who’s a traitor!”
Chris thrust him away. “Back off.”
Quinnon snagged Yemas’s arm from behind. “How dare you?” He pitched his voice low, but anger quivered through its hoarseness. “Your service in the Guard is finished after this.”
“Then it’s finished!” Yemas panted. “I won’t serve her! They’re right about her. They’ve always been right about her!”
She stood away from Chris. “What are you talking about?”
“You’re a traitor! I saw it with my own eyes!”
People began to stare.
“Shut up.” Quinnon hauled him around.
“No, I won’t!” Blood suffused Yemas’s face. His body shook, and the muscles in his neck and arms ridged. “I saw what she did at the Glockamon Moors! She wasn’t there to save the duke. She was there to meet the Koraudians. She signaled them. She charged from the trees with them. And she shot at her own men!”
Quinnon hit him. Bone cracked against bone. Yemas caught himself with a hand against the pavement.
Chris let go of Allara and plunged after him. He tangled his hand in Yemas’s tabard.
Quinnon pushed him back. “Leave him, and get her out of here!”
Already, the crowd was turning toward them. Murmurs spread out, rolling like the ripples of a sound wave, on and on, spreading to every corner of the square. Any attempt to pass unnoticed would be futile now. Even if these people failed to recognize Allara, they were hearing Yemas’s words. Before long, everyone in the square, including Steadman, would have heard them, if only because these were the words they wanted to hear. The damage had been done.
Chris drew his pistol and grabbed her arm. “Come on.”
She stared at Yemas as she passed him. “You’re wrong. That isn’t what happened. And if you would have asked me, I would have told you.”
He wheezed. “You would have told me lies!”
Her nostrils flared. “You’re infected.”
Chris yanked her after him. He didn’t have the luxury of slowly supporting her anymore. They had to move fast if they wanted to get out of here before Nateros’s little demonstration turned into a full-blown riot.
Nearby people shouted at them, but only a few seemed to realize who they were. Chris elbowed through them, all but knocking them over. That inner resilience of Allara’s would have to keep her on her feet and moving after him.
A burgher blocked his way and puffed a beery breath into his face. “Where you off to then? Don’t want to stay and hear a little honest talk?”
Chris pushed him aside.
Allara must have looked back, because the next thing he heard was a collective gasp.
“That’s her,” the woman said. “That’s the princess!”
Chris gritted his teeth and shoved through one last knot of people to gain the edge of the quay, where the white water taxis bobbed in their stalls. Twenty yards down the boardwalk, the Guardsman Rantim beckoned them. Chris reached back to slide his arm around Allara’s waist, then pulled her up beside him. He ran, lifting her just enough to help her keep pace. Behind them, half a dozen footsteps beat against the boards.
Ahead, Rantim scrambled down the short ramp to the boat.
Chris thrust Allara in front of him. “Tell the captain to take off!” He jumped in after her, kicked the ramp free, and turned to see what he was leaving in his wake.
The crowd spilled into the quayside. Most of them had no idea what they were chasing, but they had all been whipped to a fury by Steadman’s speeches and probably their evening’s share of ale.
“What about Quinnon?” Allara said.
“He’s coming.”
The white feather atop Quinnon’s hat slid through the crowd like the fin of a shark. He’d been closer behind them than Chris had realized. Now he emerged and headed for the next taxi in line. He had Yemas in front of him, arm twisted behind his back, and he hurled him into the boat and leapt the distance from the dock without touching the ramp. He saw Chris and Allara on the taxi ahead and raised a finger to motion them forward.
The water taxi was a trim little craft, not quite as big as the one they had taken from the palace to Belkin Bay. Its half circle of sail caught the breeze and drifted away from the quay.
Someone in the mob thre
w a clay jug at them, but it only clipped the gunnel. Pursuers crowded the bank. A few tried to hail taxis in order to follow. The rest shoved and shuffled, shouting vulgarities and echoing Steadman’s platitudes.
Chris’s blood buzzed, and his tired muscles filled with new energy. He turned to find Allara already crouching inside the passenger box, checking Eroll, where he lay on the floor
“What did Yemas mean?” he asked.
She hung her head back. “I don’t know. I think . . . I think he saw me leave the trees with the Koraudians. My pistol had misfired. I suppose—” She exhaled. “I suppose it might have appeared as though I had signaled the Koraudians, then charged from the trees with them. Yemas killed the nearest Koraudian before the man could threaten me and make it clear we weren’t allies.”
“You’ve got to be kidding me. He’s a soldier. He’s got to understand guns jam all the time. It happens.”
She raised a shoulder. “You and I both know that sometimes we believe the truth we want rather than the one that is.”