Eventually, even the abandoned Lace villages petered out. The Lace did not tend to settle this far east, so far from their fishing grounds and the comfort of numbers. Those very few who did venture into these lands tended to hide their race. But even here there were the roaming bandit-like groups of bounty hunters, stopping travellers and peering into their faces. One such group had clearly captured a Lace in disguise, a worn-looking young woman dressed in towner garb. As the revenger group passed the other way her eyes fixed on them and widened. She made eye contact with Therrot and tapped meaningfully at her own teeth, before looking away.
Therrot swore when they were out of earshot.
‘If they’ve started checking teeth for Lace decorations, we’re in trouble. From now on, if we see roadblocks we’ll have to duck off the trail and pass them that way.’
It was at this time that they first heard the phrase ‘Time of Nuisance’. Nobody seemed to know what it meant, but the words hissed and buzzed in Hathin’s ears.
Other worrying news reached them from travellers coming the other way. Crackgem’s whims had become more violent of late, and he had taken to flinging up boiling hot geysers under the feet of travellers. The general view was that he should be avoided until his mad fit had passed.
‘What are we going to do if Lord Crackgem is not accepting visitors?’ whispered Hathin. The ‘safe’ route up the mountain to the Beacon School was known to very few, but even that was likely to be dangerous if Crackgem was feeling temperamental.
‘Hide out in Jealousy, at Crackgem’s foot,’ answered Therrot. ‘It would give us a chance to find this Bridle that Skein mentioned in the journal, and ask him about “Lord S”. It’ll be all right though – Crackgem will have calmed down by the time we get there.’
But Crackgem, Lord of Maniacs, did not calm down. By the time the revengers reached Jealousy, they found that a host of little camps had formed near the town. The most popular trail towards the eastern ports led between two fizzing, tutting orchid lakes, and many travellers had decided to camp outside Jealousy until Crackgem was in a better mood. The Lost, who might have spied out safe routes for them, were gone.
‘It’s not so bad,’ Therrot insisted. ‘Lots of people outside the city – we’ll hide ourselves in a big group, get lost in the shuffle.’
Unlike the dour, practical Mistleman’s Blunder, Jealousy had been built to show the benighted tribes of Gullstruck all the glories of the Cavalcaste traditions. The simple natives were meant to marvel at the magnificent stables, the family of mosaic-tiled towers, the regal palace for the governor. And marvel they did, as they might have done if they had seen a snow leopard trying to swim the warm ocean tides. To the credit of the founders, not all their plans had fallen into flinders. Crackgem’s earthquakes had left one of the towers erect, and parts of the palace still stood. Most of the street-houses were squat enough to survive too, even while the weather ate away their balustrades.
The city’s complicated Doorsy name meant ‘Reflection upon a Greater Distant Glory’. Blunt, practical Nundestruth had no time for such fancies, and translated this simply as ‘Jealousy’ and, as usual in the battle of the names, Nundestruth had won.
It did not seem wise for the revengers to spend too long in any one camp, in case it gave people time to see through their story, and so each night they joined a different bonfire. Above them glowered Crackgem, but there was no hint of the beacon that should have burned to summon Lost children to their school.
Tomki turned out to be invaluable at helping them blend in. He had a puppy-like way of bouncing up to greet people as if they knew him, and by the time they realized that they didn’t he had slotted into the gathering snug as a peg and was halfway through telling everyone a story. There was a camaraderie of the road, and many travellers gave them food out of pity for Arilou’s apparent ‘condition’.
In the camps, everyone was still talking of how all the Lost had been killed by a secret league headed by the fugitive Lady Arilou. Now, however, it also appeared to be ‘common knowledge’ that the Reckoning was a part of this conspiracy, and that the rest of the Lace were helping and hiding them at every turn.
Listening, Hathin felt sick. Was this her fault? If she and Arilou had not escaped, would any of this have happened? Perhaps the conspiracy that had really killed the Lost was manipulating the governors at every step, whispering tales of murderous Lace into their ears. But what frightened her was how readily the law and the ordinary people of Gullstruck believed such lies.
Rather than risk all four of them venturing into Jealousy, Jaze offered to slip into the city alone. However, he could discover nothing about the mysterious Bridle or Lord S. Meanwhile, the whole group listened out for mention of the Beacon School, or of anyone who might be able to guide them there between the perilous orchid lakes.
‘Nobody seems to know the way,’ Tomki told his companions late on the first night. ‘As far as I can tell, nobody ever went up there and nobody ever came down. The school kept itself completely to itself.’
‘Then I suppose the schoolmasters must have eaten rocks and burned words on their beacon,’ remarked Jaze drily. ‘Somebody must have taken them their food and firewood.’
An answer was found to this mystery the very next morning, but it did not help a great deal.
Hathin woke early and noticed that a group of young men had stopped for a rest not far from the road. They were dressed in a ‘Dancing Steam’ style, except that it seemed a weaker indigo dye had been used on the thread of their clothes, so that instead of midnight blue the cloth was patterned in green and eggy yellow. Large packs of kindling lay beside them, waiting to be hoisted on to their backs once again.
Remembering what Jaze had said about firewood, Hathin approached.
‘Friendly,’ she called out.
One of the young men stood, but did not return her Nundestruth greeting. He pointed at a bundle of kindling and gave her a questioning look.
‘You . . . You carry burnwood Beacon School way?’ she asked.
He stared at her, jutting his jaw to one side, then picked up one of the bundles, slapped it and held up five fingers. It took a moment for her to realize that he was suggesting a price. They held gaze in mute frustration for a few seconds, and then the young man gave a rasp of a laugh and turned away. He called over his shoulder to one of his fellows in a language that had no hard edges. Hearing it somehow filled Hathin with a wave of nostalgia for the cove of the Hollow Beasts, reminded her of the downy smell of the clifftop orchids, and the crackle of dry seaweed under her feet. And, yes, this language was liquid like the Lace language, but much less musical and sibilant, so that Hathin could not quite explain the sense of familiarity.
It was not hard to find out more about the green-clad men. They were notorious for being unable to speak Nundestruth. They had arrived in the area at about the time the Beacon School started, and it was thought they had come from the far side of Crackgem, near the coast. Most believed that the Beacon School had deliberately arranged for them to come and ferry their provisions, precisely because they would be unable to tell anyone else the secret route up to the school.
The common local term for them was the Sours. Their green clothing was partly the cause of this, since a ‘sour’ was a slang term for an unripe fruit, but the name was also a reference to their sullen independence.
While other farmers had fled the foothills of Crackgem, the Sours apparently remained in their village on the mountainside, only coming down to sell timber or green cloth.
‘Surely some of them must know Nundestruth?’
‘Well, if so, they won’t admit it.’
On the third night, Hathin’s group found themselves in one of the smaller camps, with a big gang of men travelling together. They spoke Nundestruth with a Mistleman’s Blunder accent, and it became clear that they were new arrivals and had already clashed with a gang of bounty hunters from Jealousy. ‘Poach,’ one of them kept saying. ‘Like steal rabbit.’ He seemed to fin
d this very funny. ‘They say if rabbit run on to land belong-them, then rabbit belong-them. Call we penny-pirate, poacher.’
‘What rabbit you hunt?’ asked Jaze.
‘Lace,’ answered the man, ending the word with a grinning hiss. Hathin’s heart lurched. ‘Take Lace Mistleman’s Blunder way, dead or live, no matter. Jealousy gang over-there –’ he nodded towards the lights of a larger camp a little way distant – ‘look Lace for takem Superior. But no find Lace, we find all Lace first.’ He laughed again, but there was a touch of uneasiness in his eye as he looked out towards the other camp.
‘Why Superior want Lace?’ asked Therrot, his hand tense in Hathin’s. The ‘Superior’ was the title of Jealousy’s governor.
‘Nocansay. Superior want Lace alive. Nocansay.’
For all their apparent mirth, the men in this group were undeniably jumpy. The general feeling seemed to be that the local bounty hunters had lost their sense of humour about the scarcity of Lace. A tiny sound from the direction of the other camp set half their camp clutching at their knife hilts as they leaned forward to listen.
Into this stillness Arilou dropped a small wandering wail.
‘Bad dream,’ Jaze said quickly, cradling her shoulders. Arilou’s mouth and eyes were both wide open, as if with fear or effort.
‘Ath . . .’ she said.
Therrot placed a restraining hand on Hathin’s arm, and she realized she’d started to rise from her seat. But she wants something, she’s upset, she needs something . . .
‘Athm,’ said Arilou. ‘Ath . . . Athern . . .’
And it was not a bubble in a stream of sound, it was a word that Arilou was trying to force her wayward tongue to shape. It was a word so familiar to Hathin that she did not recognize it at first, any more than she would have recognized the taste of air. And then she understood, and for a moment forgot how to breathe.
Hathin.
‘Haathh . . .’ Shrill. Urgent. Hathin leaped to her feet. She couldn’t help it. And in that moment, the wind changed.
Suddenly the smoke from the campfire was no longer in Hathin’s nose. Instead there was a strange damp smell of long-dead fires, and an acrid stench mixed with a reek like rotting meat.
Time came off its axle for a moment, giving the revengers time to see each others’ eyes become great moons of realization. Then just as quickly the world recovered from its shock and everything happened at once.
A crossbow bolt hit the log where Hathin had been sitting.
Jaze sprang up, hefting Arilou on to his shoulder.
Tomki flung a cloak over the fire, plunging the area into darkness.
Therrot grabbed Hathin’s arm and sprinted away from the campfire, dragging her with him. She threw a hasty glance backwards, and was in time to see a dark, slender figure burst into the middle of the camp. The darkness was too complete to make out the blue of his skin and clothes, but Hathin knew it was the Ashwalker. Sorrow had swallowed him and that had not stopped him. Nothing would stop him.
Behind them there were shouts, gunshots. Hathin and Therrot ran and ran, and then the ground gave out under them and they tumbled into a ditch. Jaze, Tomki and Arilou were already crouched in it, Tomki dragging on the elephant bird’s leash with all his strength to stop it raising its head above the brink. Jaze had his crossbow in his hand and was peering over the top of the ditch.
‘It’s chaos back there,’ he whispered. ‘Half of them didn’t realize he was an Ashwalker, and let fly . . . shh!’ He listened. ‘Sounds like a stand-off now. They’re trying to bargain with him, trying to find out if there’s a reward for us and if they can get a cut for helping flush us out . . .’
A calm voice answered the bounty hunters. A light-toned, rain-on-the-skin voice. It was difficult for Hathin to imagine the Ashwalker speaking.
‘He’s saying he only wants the ash,’ whispered Jaze. ‘They’re welcome to take our clothes and teeth jewels back to Mistleman’s Blunder for the reward.’ He glanced around the group, then looked at Therrot. ‘Think you can get them to the city?’
‘I can buy you time.’ Tomki’s voice was rapid, a touch of fear amid the eagerness.
‘No, Tomki. It’s an Ashwalker. Even Therrot here wouldn’t slow him enough to do any good. But he’ll break stride for me.’ There was no bluster or boast in Jaze’s voice. Quietly he was handing Therrot his amber monocles, his spare knife, all his most valued possessions. He had taken the situation apart like a clock, and knew that he would not be needing them again.
‘No,’ said Hathin. ‘Jaze . . .’
Figures were now leaving the darkened camp in twos and threes, walking at a crouch and sometimes pausing to run swords into sinister-looking bushes.
‘Therrot, you keep Hathin safe,’ Jaze muttered, placing a foot halfway up the wall of the ditch. ‘Put Arilou on the back of the bird, Tomki, and run with it as best you can.’
‘Jaze!’ hissed Hathin, a bit louder, and he turned to look at her in surprise. ‘We . . . We need you. To carry Arilou at least – she’ll never stay on the bird, you know that.’
‘I could carry—’ said Therrot.
‘No!’ snapped Jaze. ‘You keep Hathin safe.’ He turned back to Hathin. ‘There’s no time to say this gently. You were brought up to believe that the most important person in the world was Arilou. Well, your village is dead, and what they told you isn’t true any more. I’m not even sure Arilou’s personality exists outside your imagination. Now it’s you that matters. This is your quest.’
‘It is, it is my quest . . .’ Hathin gripped her fists and drew a deep breath, ‘and you’re not going to do this, Jaze, because I’m not going to let you.’ She was shaking, but almost without noticing she had changed to the cold, confident voice she had used for Arilou for so many years. ‘You’re supposed to help me, but I decide how, not you.’
She turned away before she could wilt under Jaze’s astonished gaze.
‘Tomki,’ she said, ‘you can move fast on your bird, can’t you? I’ve got something I want you to do. It’s . . . very dangerous though.’
A look of barely suppressed delight crossed Tomki’s features.
‘I want you to ride over to that big camp, the one with the local bounty hunters, and tell them that there’s a family of Lace here, about to be taken prisoner by the men from Mistleman’s Blunder. Don’t tell them about the Ashwalker, and be . . .’
The bird lurched upright, and Tomki flew on to its back. A second later they were gone, leaving gouge marks in the earth and a pair of floating feathers.
‘. . . careful,’ finished Hathin.
Jaze stared at her for a few moments, then carefully removed the bolt from his bow and crouched with a sigh beside Arilou.
‘And when they come . . .’ he murmured.
‘There’ll be chaos,’ said Hathin. ‘And we’ll run for the city. All of us.’
There were cries, and the sound of brush hissing in disapproval as it was ravaged by sprinting feet. Evidently Tomki had been spotted. The whistle of slings. A long pause, and then, far distant, a high, piping, excitable voice.
‘It’s Tomki,’ whispered Therrot. ‘I think he’s reached the Jealousy men.’
The other camp’s distant bonfire suddenly gave birth to a litter of smaller lights – torches, with two dozen shadowy figures behind them. An exchange of shouts in different accents. Then the line of torches leaped forward and there was a chaos of cries and rock-ricochets and shots in the blackness.
‘Now,’ whispered Jaze. It sounded like an instruction, but there was a hint of a question in his face.
Hathin nodded.
Nobody appeared to notice as they scrambled from the ditch and ran, Therrot to Hathin’s right, Jaze to her left with Arilou in his arms. As they sprinted across the scrubland, Hathin heard Therrot give a sharp gasp, and suddenly there was nobody running on her right.
She staggered to a halt, and turned. Therrot was face down on the ground. She ran back to him, shook him, found a wet patch on the back of
his head. She was trying in vain to drag him into the nearest bushes when the torches rollicked panting out of the darkness and surrounded her.
Torches. The locals had been the ones carrying torches. What if they thought she was with the men from Mistleman’s Blunder?
‘I Lace!’ she called out in Nundestruth. ‘Look!’ She snatched off her cap, and ruffled the short, soft fur above her forehead where her scalp had been shaved. ‘Look!’ She drew back her upper lip and rubbed her forefinger across her teeth. ‘Blundermen try kill, make we no good for you! Pleaseyou, take we to city belong-you or Blundermen find and kill!’ She placed both hands protectively on Therrot’s back. ‘We Lace . . .’
19
The Superior’s Soap
As Hathin and the unconscious Therrot were dragged through the night streets of Jealousy, Hathin could not help remembering Jaze’s words.
You have a duty to avoid being captured or killed . . .
What would happen when the Ashwalker worked out who had captured them, and strode up to the Superior’s house, licence in hand? Had she led Therrot into an inescapable trap? She looked on nervously as her captors paused to examine him.
Then a couple of men draped Therrot’s arms over their shoulders and took him away, and Hathin found herself being escorted by the rest of the torch parade, a heavy hand gripping each of her shoulders. When by chance she met the eye of one of her guards she felt the corners of her mouth curving up into a smile. She was too exhausted to help it, and they shuddered and looked away as if something slimy had brushed their skin.
She was dragged through a heavy gate and across a square courtyard, where white peahens slept here and there on the dark lawn.
It was only as Hathin was dragged into a candlelit hallway that she realized this did not look a great deal like a prison.
She was manhandled over a mosaic floor, between two suits of gilded armour and into a high-ceilinged room with maps painted on every wall. There was the Gripping Bird-shaped outline of Gullstruck, its volcanoes painted in a cheery cherry-red, and the vivid blue sea around it now apparently populated by several decades worth of insects and bugs that had been swatted against it.