A Discourse in Steel (22 page)

“Come on, slubber!”

The man fumbled with his crossbow, his dull eyes on the guildsmen, his motions and thinking obviously still slowed by the aftereffects of Merelda's mindmagic. Nix shoved him forward and he stumbled and fell. Meanwhile Nix pulled the gate shut behind them and latched it. There was a thunk as a bolt sank into the wood of the gate.

“Get out of here!” Nix said to the watchman and pushed him along. “Wait!”

The man turned and Nix snatched the whistle all watchmen wore on a lanyard around their neck.

“Sorry. Now go.”

Nix didn't wait to see if he obeyed. He sprinted after the still-moving wagon and leaped back onto it.

“That'll delay them a moment.”

“What is that?” Egil asked.

“This? A whistle.”

“Why do you have a whistle?”

“Why do you ask these questions?”

Egil shrugged.

Nix said, “We need a decent boat.”

“Where are we even going?” Mere called from the rear.

Nix hesitated only a moment. “The Deadmire.”

Egil shook his head and muttered.

Mere had the good sense not to dispute him, but she also had the good sense to unleash a string of curses. The Deadmire had a dark reputation.

Nix scanned the piers and docks for a likely boat. They needed something wide, with a shallow draw, oared not sailed, ideally something with some gear stowed aboard.

Mere's shout sounded from behind. “They're through the gate! More than just the two now!”

Several fishermen's boats were tied off on a long, solidly built pier to their left. He pointed.

“There, Egil! We take one of those!”

Egil pulled on the reins, turned the sweating mule. Nix was aware of eyes on them from various places along the pier, sailors up early or late tending to rigging or cleaning decks, some returning from a night of drinking, others sitting on a pier or dock. He hoped the watchman from the fish gate didn't have time to gather any of his fellows.

Nix stood up on the bench and looked back. He counted eight guildsmen running through the gate, all with blades or crossbows in their fists. Merelda's crossbow twanged and one of the guildsmen in the front stumbled and fell.

A couple “huzzahs” sounded from the watching sailors.

“Nice shot, Mere!” Nix said.

The mule balked at traversing the pier and its sudden stop almost knocked Nix off the bench.

“Hyah!” Egil said. “Hyah!”

Still the mule didn't move.

“Shite!” Nix said.

“They're closing,” Mere said, and her crossbow sang again.

Cursing, Egil jumped off the bench, went around to the front of the mule, grabbed it by the bridle, and dragged it forward.

“Move, you stubborn fakking thing!”

Nix stood, turned, and fired. He didn't hit anyone that he could see. He should've just used his damn sling. He was no good with a crossbow.

The mule snorted and tried to pull back but Egil held fast, the veins and sinews standing out on his arm, and finally the creature relented and started down the pier. Egil hustled back to the bench, hopped up, and slapped the reins. The mule picked up its pace, the wagon's wheels thumping and bouncing and vibrating as they ran over the wooden beams of the long pier.

“Right next to that boat there!” Nix said, cocking his crossbow and laying a bolt in its groove. He rose and shot back at the onrushing men.

“Thrice damned thing,” he said, and threw the crossbow into the drink.

He drew a dagger and slit the cover of the wagon behind the driver's bench.

Rose lay under her blankets, nestled between the hay bales, eyes closed, body bouncing with each bump of the wagon. A pained furrow linked her eyes, as if she were dreaming of pain. Mere crouched in the rear of the wagon, reloading her crossbow.

“Forget that!” Nix called to her. “Get ready to move!”

She ignored him, took her final shot at the onrushing crowd of men, and crawled back up to the front of the wagon.

“Help me get Rose,” Nix said. “And get the bags of food Gadd left us. Leave the barrels.”

Seemed a shame to leave Gadd's ale behind, but there was nothing for it. Together, he and Mere lifted Rose from the wagon. They turned her and Nix got her under the armpits. Once Nix had a good grip, Mere grabbed the bags of bread and foodstuffs Gadd had provided them.

Rose moaned in Nix's arms, then chuckled and said, “Him? I played dice with him. Easy chub to cog.”

“What did she say?” Mere said

“She doesn't know what she's saying,” Nix said.

“Almost there,” Egil said, his voice tense.

“You get Channis,” Nix said to him.

“Get him? We don't need him anymore,” Egil said.

“Yes we do,” Nix said. “At least till we get totally clear of the wharfs. Why do you think they're not firing?”

“They have been firing!”

“Strays,” Nix said. “Or they were aiming for the mule. Trust me, Egil. Bring him!”

Egil pulled up the reins to stop the wagon.

“Quickly now!” Nix said, and he and Mere hefted Rose out of the wagon. Egil heaved Channis up, slung him over his shoulder, and leaped down from the wagon.

Shouting from behind drew Nix's attention. The guildsmen were sprinting toward them, almost to the pier.

“Stop!” one of them shouted.

An idea occurred to Nix.

“Egil, take Rose, too! That boat there. Go.” He gave Mere one of his many daggers. “Mere, cut it free and go.”

“What?”

“Go. I'm right behind you.”

Egil maneuvered himself into position and slid Rose onto his other shoulder then plodded toward the boat Nix had indicated. Meanwhile, Nix grabbed the mule's bridle and hurriedly turned the wagon around as best he could on the narrow pier.

The guildsmen had reached the pier. They stormed down it, a long-haired fakker almost as big as Egil and the droopy-faced Committeeman, in the lead, blades bare.

“Stop and it'll go easier on you!” one of those in the second rank said.

“Fak you, you bunch of ugly bungholes,” Nix muttered, and slapped the mule on the hindquarters, hard. “Hyah!”

The mule snorted and lurched forward.

“Hyah! Hyah!”

The mule's lurch turned into a trot, the wagon bouncing and jostling back along the pier. The guildsmen saw it coming, saw their danger, went wide-eyed and pulled up.

Nix didn't bother to watch. He turned, ran, and leaped into the boat, which was starting to pull away from the dock. Egil caught him while the wide boat bobbed from the sudden weight.

Nix glanced back to see a few of the guildsmen driven into the drink by the wagon, though most managed to slip aside and narrowly avoid getting knocked off the pier. Those who hadn't fallen ran for the boat, shouting and cursing, but they were too late. The boat was away. Nix stood and gave them a fak-you finger.

Applause, whistles, and a few cheers went up from the dozen or so sailors and dockworkers who'd watched the entire affair. Nix offered them a small bow.

“A bit early for bows, isn't it?” Egil said.

“You think?”

Egil had the rower's bench and set to in earnest, his powerful arms pulling at the oars and causing the shallow boat to move quickly through the water. Channis lay in the center of the boat on his back, his dark, vacant eyes staring up at the dark sky. Mere sat on the bow bench cradling Rose.

The guildsmen stood on the edge of the pier, shouting. Those who hadn't been driven into the drink, that is.

“Shoot them,” Rusk ordered, and managed not to make himself sound eager. The boat with Egil and Nix was already well out into the river.

“Seventh Blade?” one of Trelgin's men asked.

“Don't!” Trelgin said, fumbling for something in an inner pocket of his cloak. “You'll hit the Upright Man!”

“He's down in the boat,” Rusk said, not knowing if that was true. “Those slubbers have been using him as cover long enough. Shoot them and do it fakking now! Who knows where they're going or what they intend.” He looked at the men, his face twisted in anger. “I said
shoot them.
”

The men took to their knees, cocked, loaded, and took aim.

Trelgin cursed but did not gainsay the order. He did, however, remove one of the guild's small dowsing rods from his cloak. The forked stick of ivory was inlaid with silver glyphs.

Now it was Rusk's turn to curse, though he kept it in his head and not on his lips.

Nix cursed
as the guildsmen fell to their knees and took aim.

“These slubbers can't make up their minds. Shoot, don't shoot.” He cupped his hands over his mouth and shouted, “Stick with something, you bungholes!”

One of them pointed something that looked like a stick or wand at them. Nix recognized it.

“Shite. Faster, Egil!”

The priest set to with a purpose and the boat fairly skipped over the water.

A bolt sizzled over Nix's head. Another hit and stuck into the rear of the boat.

Over his shoulder, he said to Mere, “Lay flat with Rose! Flat in the bottom, Mere!”

Merelda slid off the bench and lay flat with Rose in the shallow bottom of the wide boat. She wrapped her arms around Rose, protecting her sister with her body.

Egil ducked his head low but could hardly take cover and still row. Nix positioned himself in the boat's aft, shielding his friend as best he could with his body. Another bolt hit his satchel and stuck there.

“That's my satchel, you fakkers! You don't shoot a man's gear!”

He tore it loose and cast it into the Meander. Some of the sailors watching hooted and whistled.

A beam of sickly yellow light spiraled from the wand and snaked over the water at them. Nix recognized it the moment he saw it and cursed, but the beam fell short of the boat and fizzled.

Over his shoulder he said, “Fast would be good, Egil.”

“That was a dowsing rod, yeah?” the priest asked.

“Yeah.”

“A what?” Mere asked.

“The guild buys enchanted items from the wizards of the Conclave.”

“Wizards,” Egil said with a contemptuous grunt, then to Nix, “Why don't you buy your damned gewgaws from the Conclave instead of the Bazaar?”

“Because the one is filled with lowlifes, thieves, backbiters, and murderers. The other is the Bazaar.”

Egil chuckled, but another bolt whistled overhead, narrowly missing him, and cut his laughter short.

“Dammit! Use the Upright Man!” Egil barked.

Nix should've thought of that.

“I'm using the Upright Man for cover!” Nix shouted back at the pier, then maneuvered himself past Egil, rocking the entire boat in the process. He grabbed the Upright Man by the shoulders. “We're using the Upright Man for cover, you stupid faks! And you're all bad shots! And ugly, too!”

Channis felt cold in his grasp, limp, and with his glassy black eyes he reminded Nix of a dead fish. His skin felt odd, rough. Nix feared he might have died but had no time to check. Grunting, he dragged him back across the rower's bench, nearly flipping the boat again, and took position on the rear bench, between the guildsmen and Egil. He positioned the limp form of the Upright Man as best he could, wearing the fakker like a bad cloak.

“Let's see if your men are interested in giving you a few new holes,” he said to Channis, then, to the guildsmen, “Here he is, fakkers! Fire away!”

“Hold,” Rusk
said, and tried to keep disappointment from his voice.

They'd all heard the smaller slubber, Nix, claim to be using the Upright Man for cover. Rusk couldn't keep up the fire after that.

“You get him?” he asked Trelgin, who held one of the guild's dowsing rods at his side.

Trelgin's droopy face drooped further. “No. Too far out.”

“Can any of you handle a boat?” Rusk asked the men. Heads shook and Rusk feigned disappointment. “They're away, then.”

He'd just let them go and hope they killed Channis. Meanwhile, as Seventh Blade, he'd be the highest-ranking member of the Committee in Dur Follin. No one could say he hadn't done all he could have done and—

“I can hit them with the rod from the bridge,” Trelgin said. “Attune it there. Hells, I would've thought you'd have brought one of these yourself, Rusk. Just an oversight, I'm sure.”

Rusk cursed inwardly but kept his face expressionless. “There's an idea, Trelgin.”

He glanced out over the river. The small boat was nearly lost in the darkness, heading for the Archbridge.

“Let's go,” Rusk said and started back down the pier at a run. Trelgin and the men followed him at a sprint.

“Come on!” Trelgin said, shouting at Varn and the handful of men who'd been driven into the river by the wagon. They were even then crawling up the rocks to the shore. “Run, you bunghole slubbers! To the bridge!”

The soaked men fell in and all of them pelted along the wharf. Sailors jeered and taunted them as they ran. Ahead rose the huge arc of the Archbridge. Rusk might have been the fastest of them, but he did not set the pace. He merely kept up, hoping they'd be too late, that Egil and Nix would be out of range of the dowsing rod.

Each stride summoned a grunt of pain from Mors and his wounded shoulder, but he kept pace. Those who had fallen into the river sloshed in wet boots and shed wet tunics and shirts as they ran.

The guild's dowsing rods—one type of many enchanted items the Committee'd had made for them by sorcerers of the Conclave—could track a person or item more or less unerringly, but first it had to be attuned to them.

“Faster!” Trelgin said, his gasps wet and sloppy through his floppy mouth. “Faster!”

They eyed the water as they ran, but the docked boats and darkness kept Egil and Nix from view. Rusk kept hoping maybe they'd just cross to the other side of the river and hole up in west Dur Follin, but he doubted it. His luck didn't seem to be running that way. They'd make for the bridge, Trelgin would get the wand attuned to them, and Rusk would be obliged to continue the game still longer.

He considered simply getting square with Trelgin, making a deal in which they abandoned Channis, Rusk took over as de facto Upright Man, and Trelgin stepped in as a well-treated and well-compensated Seventh Blade. But looking at the intensity on Trelgin's face, he knew an offer like that would just get Rusk killed. Trelgin would do every damned thing he could to avoid becoming Seventh, and if Rusk made a compromising offer, Trelgin would betray him, spill the offer to the others, get Rusk killed, and take the Eighth Blade for himself.

Rusk saw nothing to do but what he was doing—sprint along Dur Follin's wharves in the small, dark hours, and pretend that he wanted to rescue a man he desperately wanted dead.

By the time they reached the Archbridge, they'd left Mors and his wounded shoulder behind. The bridge, wider than any of Dur Follin's streets save the Promenade, extended before them, reaching across the Meander, connecting eastern and western Dur Follin, linking poor and rich, old and new. Low walls and ancient custom divided the bridge into narrow walkways on the left and right sides, with a wider, central way. By tradition, wagons and carts and horses used the center way, while pedestrians used the southern walkway.

The northern walkway, meanwhile, was covered in a swirl of tents and makeshift shrines along the entire length of the Archbridge, all of them belonging to squatter cults too small or obscure to fill a proper temple. Even at the odd hour the smell of incense filled the air, as did the occasional ring of chimes and bells and gongs and chants.

Rusk and Trelgin and the men, already gasping and sweating, assayed the bridge. The wind fought them and Varn fell away, unable to keep up.

Cultists of various godlings and religious movements, perhaps preparing for the dawn, eyed them in surprise as they passed. Rusk caught blurry images of tonsured heads, tattooed arms, colorful robes and vestments.

A third of the way up, Trelgin veered right and darted between two tents, in the process knocking down a wrinkled, bald cultist in yellow pantaloons and a blousy shirt who tended a kettle of something on a small brazier. The tiny man cursed Trelgin in a language Rusk didn't understand. Trelgin ignored him and leaned over the side of the bridge, peering down at the river, the dowsing rod clutched in one fist.

“See them?” Rusk called, dreading the answer.

Trelgin didn't shout back but ducked down, his back to the ledge. He wore a grin, half droop, half teeth.

“Here they come,” he said, and the rest of them ducked low and crept up to the edge.

Nix watched
the guildsmen run back down the pier toward the Archbridge. He stood in the boat and tried to keep his eyes on them, but the boat sat so low in the water that his line of sight was blocked by piers, docked boats, and stacks of cargo.

“Can't see them,” he said.

“They'll head for the bridge,” Egil said.

“Beat them there, then,” Nix said.

Egil nodded, maneuvered them out to the middle of the Meander, then turned the small boat downriver, pulling at the oars with long, powerful strokes. Nix let Channis's body slouch in the rear of the boat—trying not to stare at the man's dark, open eyes—and took stock of the gear they'd managed to bring.

Other than their weapons and a fraction of the rations Gadd had prepared for them, they had little. The boat contained a coil of line, a net, and a large canvas tarp. Nix could turn the tarp into shelter once they reached the Deadmire, but on the whole they were ill-equipped for any kind of expedition, much less one into a haunted swamp.

Egil read his thoughts. “We're short the usual gear.”

“Aye,” Nix said. “We'll have to manage, though.”

In truth he and Egil had survived on minimal gear in many different situations. The priest in particular was a skilled outdoorsman.

“Can't stop now, though,” Mere said. “We started, we finish.”

“Aye,” Nix said.

Rose suddenly sat up, her eyes distant, and said, “What am I doing on this bum boat?”

Mere put a hand on Rose's back. “Rose, sit back. We're going for help.”

Rose sneered, the expression unfamiliar to her face. She pointed with her chin at Egil and Nix. “From these two slubbers?”

“Rose…” Mere said.

Rose's eyes cleared and her expression returned to normal. “Mere?” She glanced around. “Where are we?”

“We're on the Meander. We're going to the…to get you help.”

“I've heard of a mindmage who lives in the Deadmire,” Nix said. “Mere said a true mindmage could help you.”

“Maybe,” Rose said. She put her palm on her brow. “Maybe. There's a mindmage in the Deadmire?”

“Maybe,” Egil said.

“Maybe?” Mere said, appalled. “What do you mean, ‘maybe'?”

“Maybe's all we have unless you think Rose can withstand a month's journey to Oremal. Odrhaal's a legend, Mere, a rumor, but…I believe he's there.”

Mere cursed. Rose groaned and took Mere's attention from Nix, for which Nix was grateful.

“Legend or no, it won't matter if we don't get clear,” Egil said, heaving at the oars. “No boats in pursuit. But here comes the bridge.”

Nix had already cocked Egil's crossbow, but he unloaded it and set it aside for his sling. At least with the sling he'd have a shot at hitting something.