Context (40 page)

‘...
traitor,’
the pedlar
had told Tom,
‘but there’s no need to draw things out. . .’

If he had stayed, could he have
prevented this?

Another twitch of movement, from
the same cage as before.

There
were glittering flecks in charcoal-encrusted flesh which had bubbled as it
roasted. Perched atop the cage and peering down inside, Tom wondered whether
the torturers had used femtocytic healing insertions to keep their victims
alive longer than any human should endure.

‘…er…’

Tried to speak, but its tongue
had been slit in two, and half of it was blackened.

‘Don’t talk.’

Tom held on to the cage,
steadying himself. Inside, the roasted remnant moved, and groaned.

‘...
er... ire…
’

There was only one thing Tom
could do for the man.

‘...
ware ... erk-ire…’

Braced with his feet, reached
inside his tunic.

‘…ess…
’ Acknowledging Tom’s intent.

Blade, shining where it caught
the light.

‘...ah...’

Entered, and did its work.

No-one
talked to him as they returned through deserted tunnels to the Bronlah Hong.

While the others went to the
communal chambers, looking for company, Tom went alone to his sleeping alcove,
pulled the drape across, and lay down on his pallet, knowing there would be
little sleep tonight.

He remained unmoving, aware of
the hard mattress beneath his back, eyes open and controlling his breathing,
while the long hours passed.

But sometimes the curtain which
separates dreams, thoughts and passions tears a little, rips just enough, and
at some point in the grey pre-dawn hours, slipping among those reality-states
which are neither consciousness nor sleep, a true memory visited him.

He is fourteen SY old, sitting
alone in a quiet tunnel near the marketplace, closing his eyes and holding the
stallion talisman, remembering the day of its creation, his poetry-in-progress
floating still above his holopad.

And a woman’s voice says: ‘Don’t
get up on my account.’

Her chin is elegant, her
complexion olive and flawless, dark hair hidden beneath her burgundy cloak’s
hood.

‘May I?’ And then she is holding
the silver talisman. ‘Quite beautiful.’

‘It—it’s a stallion. A mythical
beast.’

He can’t believe he is talking to
this woman.

‘And this poetry?’

‘Mine. I write
—’

‘Competently.’ The display
rotates at her gesture, though it is access-keyed only to him. ‘A nice sense of
space, for someone who has never seen the sky.’

Shortly afterwards, she is
inserting a small black ovoid capsule inside the stallion talisman, which has
somehow split in half for her. She shows him how to seal it shut, how to open
it again with a gesture.

Then, grimacing: ‘If only I had
more—well, I don’t.’ Glancing along the corridor. ‘Life is a mortal pilgrimage,
my friend.’

She places the talisman in Tom’s grasp,
clasps her own hand over his fist.

‘When the dark fire falls, seek
salvation where you
—’

But then she is standing.

‘I won’t tell anyone,’ he says.

Fingertips brush his cheek.

‘Good luck.’

And then she breaks into a silent
run, is gone.

Tom stares into grey twilit
shadows, and swallows once, remembering.

The next morning, in the crowded
marketplace, a sudden-hush descends, and he sees her being led to the round chamber’s
centre, manacled, head bowed in defeat, surrounded by armed militiamen.

Then an officer raises his baton,
and the ceiling-disk rotates, and a stairway to the stratum above spirals
downwards and slats click into place.

And this is her moment.

She dabs at her eyes, as though
the manacle bar weighs nothing, and flicks something aside. And when she looks
back at her captors, everyone can see that her eyes are pure obsidian, black
upon black with no surrounding whites, and it is Father who whispers the
shocked recognition, a memory of ancient tales: ‘A Pilot!’

In those eyes, a golden glimmer.

And Tom looks away, before a
blinding flash fills the marketplace and people fall screaming, clutching at
their eyes.

Her cape flies at a trooper, then
she whirls into action, ducking low, leaping high, kicking and striking,
thrusting troopers into each other’s line of fire, before breaking free and
sprinting for the stairs.

Tom’s two fists are clenched as
he screams silently for her to run.

Her foot lands on the fifth rung,
flying upwards fast, and it looks as though she’s reaching freedom but then the
spitting, lancing beams impale her, and it is a broken, lifeless body which
topples to the flagstones, and lies twisted and angular, forever still.

Sweat coated his body.

It was the time he met a legend,
and knew that she was real. It was the moment that changed his life. But more:
she had given him a warning, fifteen Standard Years before, which he had not
recognized until this second.

For the roast-meat stench of her
half-burned face brought back a more recent waking memory, of the poor wretch whose
suffering he had ended with a borrowed blade today, and the half-formed words
of warning which the dying man had tried to utter.

‘...
ware...erk-ire…’

And perhaps Tom did sleep then,
and maybe dream, but when he awoke it was with a vision fading before his eyes,
of eerie red-clad children who moved in silent synchrony beside an icy lake, of
the edelace which had attacked one of their number, and the old man who had
used his cane upon it. A cane from whose point black flames had sprouted. As
black as those within the spacetime maelstrom which had whirled and roared
inside the Seer’s chamber, and bloodily snuffed out his life.

Dark fire.

There was an enemy, whose nature
or purpose Tom could not know, but of whose existence he was suddenly certain.
And for sure, he knew one of its names.

Dark Fire.

~ * ~

24

NULAPEIRON
AD 3419

An
icy atmosphere had settled in the merchanalysis hall, where dim glowglobes
slowly orbited in the dusty gloom. Master Grenshin sat hunched before his narrow
desk.

‘I’m not getting any younger,’ he
said finally. ‘I’d hoped...’

‘Sorry.’

‘An you need references, Gazhe—if
that’s your name—’

‘It isn’t.’

‘I’ll provide the references
anyway. Call by later.’

‘Thank you, sir. The others... I
think they’re all renewing, though I’m not sure.’

‘I know. They think things might
be safer elsewhere.’ Shaking his head: ‘Dark times, my young friend.’

‘I fear so.’ Tom stood, pulled
his new dark-green travelling cloak around himself. ‘Sir? Do you know anything
of a certain schachmati game which took place while we were on holiday?’

Master Grenshin tugged at his
skullcap, adjusting it. ‘You mean Viscount Trevalkin. Against Trader Vulan.’
Then, with ancient weariness veiling his eyes: ‘Vulan lost.’

‘And so did his vassals.’