Ebony Hill (8 page)

As the man pulls something from his belt and swings his hand outward – it’s Brenon that he’s aiming for – I slash the knife wildly, an incoherent wail at last erupting from my lips. My warning is lost in a sharp crack of sound: the weapon! I was too late! An acrid smell fills my nostrils and I twist my head away, narrowly avoiding the elbow that stabs towards my face. As I raise my arm in defence, the blade bites again into flesh; I feel the resistance, and the hot flood of blood. Gorge rising, I wrench away, cracking my head against the wall.

The man’s weight against me is suddenly gone. A string of curses starts up then cuts off abruptly. Shielding my eyes against the lantern that’s thrust into my face, the hot iron smell of blood is suddenly the only thing that I know: blood on my hand, my arm. Blood spattered on my face. Guilt begins its spiralling path through my chest. What have I done? What if—

“Great ghosts, it’s Ness.” Truso’s voice reaches me. I struggle to sit up. “Girl, are you all right? She’s bleeding. Here, quickly.”

“No,” I mutter. Men are crowding too close. “He had a rifle. He was pointing it at Brenon. I thought … I … is he …?”

Brenon himself is suddenly staring into my face. More light spills across us as someone – one of the scouts – places a second lantern near my feet. “What the hell are you doing here?” he snaps.

“Leave it. She’s injured – her arm, I think. Someone fetch Saice.”

Truso is kneeling before me. Only as my eyes lock on his do I realise that I’m cowering against the wall, arms across my chest, blood streaked over everything. “Ness, where are you injured?” he asks, reaching for my wrist. “Marta will not forgive me this, nor Devdan.”

I shake my head and try to get my legs under me. My limbs are strangely weak. Truso pushes me back.

“I’m all right,” I tell him. “It’s his, not mine.” My eyes catch the faint gleam of the blade where I dropped it on the floor. “The blood I mean. When I saw that he was … that he had …”

I stare around the circle of faces before my eyes find their way back to Truso. His brow is crumpled with worry. “It was so quick, with Esha.”

He nods and grips my hands between his. I look down at his large fists.

“I stabbed him, to stop him shooting. I didn’t mean… that is …” I take a quivering gulp of air. No matter what I say, they can’t understand. I don’t either, not properly. All I know is it’s not only Esha’s face that haunts my dreams, it’s the other man as well, the one on the track, the one whose head I—

“Look out, she’s going to faint.”

Arms encircle me. Next I know, I’m sitting on the stair with my head pushed low between my knees. When the blackness draws back, I straighten and look warily around. Truso squats before me holding my shoulders. He doesn’t seem to mind the blood. Brenon is behind him, hands on his hips. Beside me one of the scouts is lying half-propped on the stairs, a bandage clamped to
his side, his face bloodied worse than Ronan’s. I know him from Vidya, I realise. It’s Farra.

“Ness, let me get this clear. You saw that para aiming a gun at Brenon so you stabbed him?”

I follow the tilt of Truso’s head and see a figure facedown on the floor, trussed tight as a turkey. Several other bodies lie scattered about, like dolls abandoned by a distracted child. One wears the dark clothing that marks him as a scout, his head twisted at an impossible angle. The rest are dressed like the para-military I stabbed. “I’m sorry. I didn’t know what else to do.”

Farra makes a noise that’s halfway to a laugh. “You’re a feisty one,” he wheezes. “Place for you in Scouts if you want it.”

Truso scowls at him. “You don’t need to be sorry, Ness. Your intervention probably saved Brenon’s life,” he says.

I risk a glance at Brenon but he doesn’t look grateful.

“Where did you get the knife?” he demands.

“That other man, the first one to come through the door. There was a fight and he fell against me. He’s unconscious, or—” I hesitate. “Or something. After that, there were people everywhere. I couldn’t tell who was winning. It was too dark. When I found the knife on his belt, I took it. I don’t know why. I didn’t intend …” My voice trails away as I think it all through. “How did they get inside?”

“Our patrols confirmed that the para-militaries were on the move. We took precautions,” Brenon says. “They paid off.”

“But how did they get this far? I mean, right into the house—”

“It was tactically economical.”

“It was a trap, Ness,” Truso explains.

I gawp, trying to make sense of his words. What if the fight had gone the other way? Wouldn’t it have been better to set their trap somewhere else? I think of Tanlin and the others, asleep and unsuspecting.

“What were you doing downstairs?” Brenon demands, as if I’m the one to have done something wrong.

“I couldn’t sleep and then there were noises outside. I didn’t know about the trap.”

“There’s a lesson in that,” Truso says. “Keep everyone fully informed.” He looks pleased with this homily. “Ness, you’re sure you’re all right? Not hurt at all?”

“Just dizzy. Something hit my head.” I take a breath. “Are they the men who killed Esha?”

“Part of the same group at least.”

A grim satisfaction wells in me.

“What’s this about Ness being injured?” Saice demands from above. “What on earth is going on, Truso? And Ness, what are you doing down here?”

Brenon makes a sound like a billy-goat eager to charge. Saice turns a full-powered glare on him. “And incidentally,” she says, “nearly everyone is awake since that rifle went off, and you are well within earshot of the girls’ dorm.”

“It was a pistol,” Brenon corrects.

Saice comes to squat in front of me, the horror on her face fading as Truso explains about the blood. Brenon issues a series of commands and the scouts disperse.

Assured that my head is still in one piece – whether it
feels it or not – Saice turns her attention to Farra. Brenon pins me with his gaze. “I’ll speak to you again tomorrow,” he says curtly. “But for now I suggest you go back to bed. And this time, stay there.”

Saice’s voice is firm. “She’ll need help getting cleaned up. She can’t sleep in that state.”

Truso wraps an arm around my waist and lifts me to my feet.

“Well done, lass,” Farra says from beside us on the stairs. “I thought I had trouble on my hands when you first appeared, but you proved yourself an asset.” His smile is distorted by a bloody gap where several of his teeth should be.

Truso’s arm tightens around me. “Even so, let’s not make it a habit.”

The night’s events ripple through the community as if someone has let loose a hive of bees. I’m late to the kitchen and two of the girls watch me warily when I enter, as if I might any moment take up a knife and attack them. I carry my porridge to the kitchen table and lower my head, pretending I don’t see the sidelong looks or hear the whispering. It’s a relief when Ronan comes to sit beside me.

“Are you all right?” he asks.

I shrug. I don’t want to talk about last night’s attack. “Shouldn’t you be out with the field crew?”

“Brenon says there’s no fieldwork today. We’re confined to the house.”

I stare at him, spoon midway to my mouth. “Why?”

“In Brenon’s words? The paras have made their intentions clear and there’s no benefit in offering them easy targets.”

“But … I thought we won. Last night.”

“We won the beginning.”

I lay down my spoon.

“Truso asked me to clear some space in the cellar,” Ronan says diffidently. “You can help if you want.”

I nod, grateful. I don’t want to be tiptoed around as if I’m damaged – or dangerous.

As we walk along the corridor he glances at me from beneath the fall of his hair. “That’s an impressive bruise,” he says.

“Yours is worse,” I tell him.

“Yours is fresher.”

“Yours bled more.”

Saice frowns from the door of the med room. “You should be resting, Ness. That was quite a scare you had last night.”

“I’m going to help Ronan in the cellar. I’d rather be doing something,” I add.

She begins to reply then, with a shrug, turns her attention back to her shelves of supplies. Ronan’s mouth quirks in a fleeting smile.

The cellar is longer than it is wide with a row of bricked bays at one end. Three have newly been fitted with doors, each carrying a heavy bolt, the smell of fresh-sawn wood not quite overcoming the cellar’s dry, stale air.

“We have to shift everything out,” Ronan says.

I trail him into the first small space. Tiered racks line the rear wall, the remains of last year’s potatoes still loitering in their depths. In the corner by the door, crocks are balanced three high.

“Why?” I ask, the answer coming to me even as the
word leaves my lips. My fingers graze my bruised cheek. “Prisoners,” I say.

Ronan bends to lift a crock. Swallowing my distaste, I do the same. As the lid shifts, I inhale the musty, stale-brine smell.

Each of the vegetable racks pulls out on runners. While I carry them, potatoes and all, Ronan angles the frame through the low doorway and leans it up against an outer wall. Together we slide each rack back in place.

Emptied, the room still looks too small for habitation. I doubt it will hold a bed – perhaps it’s not Brenon’s intention to provide one.

The second cell is the cheese store. Shelves around three of the walls are laden with pale rounds of wrapped and waxed cheese. Lifting down the first butter-yellow wheel, I pause, nose filled with its sharp, milky smell. “I used to make cheese on Dunnett,” I say. “Not hard cheese, like these. Merryn did though – she always said she’d teach me how.”

“My mother made cheese,” Ronan answers.

Side by side, each cradling a cheese like a baby in our arms, our thoughts wing their way over an ocean. Or so it seems.

“You could learn to make it here,” Ronan says, returning me to Ebony Hill.

I shake myself and look around. The prisoners at least won’t be troubled by damp, though a chill seeps from the stone walls. There are no windows – I’d hate to be without windows – and the low ceiling is oppressive.

Once we’ve moved all the cheese, Ronan knocks
down the shelves. A heavy workbench remains and an old cheese press mounted on a sturdy wooden frame. We lift the press awkwardly between us, setting it just outside the door. The bench proves heavier yet.

“We might be able to drag it,” Ronan says.

He pulls while I set my weight against the opposite end and shove. It gives ground slowly, its broad wooden feet groaning across the stone floor. By the time we’ve manoeuvred it through the door, my head has begun to throb.

As I straighten I catch a speculative look on his face. “Do you feel all right? You’ve gone pale.”

I nod, unloosing more pain in my head. I raise my fingers to the swelling on my cheek.

“Let’s take a break,” Ronan says.

“I’m fine.” I rest my hand on the fresh timber of the next cell door. “I hate this.”

There’s a pause. “The fighting, you mean? Or the idea of prisoners?”

“All of it.” I fold my arms tight across my chest.

“You could go back,” he suggests.

I shake my head. “It’d still be here – turning my back wouldn’t make it go away.”

Ronan says nothing.

“Besides,” I add, “I’d started to like it here.”

“More than Vidya?”

“Yes. No. I don’t know.” I move impatiently, flinging myself away from the doorframe. “It’s just … There’s Esha, and—” I stop. I don’t want to cry in front of Ronan. I feel as if my whole life, the life I’ve already once salvaged from
ruins, has unravelled till it offers me nothing but shreds.

“You never answered when I asked if you were glad you came to Vidya,” Ronan says.

I look at him. “It’s not straightforward.” I wipe my palms on my thighs. Ronan waits. I shrug. “I hate the way the air clogs in your throat so you feel you might choke on it,” I tell him. “And the burning in your eyes if you stay outside too long. I hate all the ruined parts of the city – the waste of it all.” I brush a cobweb from my hair and roll it into a tight grey ball between my fingertips. “And that there are always people everywhere. There’s no space to let your brain properly think.”

That’s more than I’ve ever said to Esha or Dev. I wonder how it is that Ronan has so easily unlocked my defences – though perhaps it’s not just Ronan. The last three days have filled me up with so much turmoil there no longer seems space to keep it all inside. Instead it bubbles and slops, boiling up in my chest.

But Vidya deserves more loyalty than I’ve given it. “There are good things as well,” I add. “I’ve learnt more than I could ever have imagined there was to learn. I’d never read a book before I came to Vidya. And the governors are much fairer than Dunnett’s Council ever was. People aren’t so quick to judge, or …”

My voice trails away as I stare at the cell we’ve just cleared.

“I couldn’t live in Vidya,” Ronan says.

I look at him. His lip has begun to heal, the dark line of scabbing less swollen than it was. The flesh around his eye is still puffed and purple.

“Do you sleep well?” I ask. He meets my gaze. “I don’t,” I add. “Not since—” I pause to swallow, and force the words out. “Not since Esha died. I have nightmares.”

Ronan chews his lip.

“Not just about Esha; about that man, the one I—”

“It was self-defence,” Ronan says. “He would have killed me, then you maybe, or taken you prisoner. And they’d killed Esha.” He pauses. “It was the right thing to do.”

I shake my head, my throat taut with held tears. “It was what I had to do, but it wasn’t right. It can’t ever be right.”

He looks at me, brows scrunched into a frown. After a moment he dips his head. “You might be right,” he concedes. “There was too much killing on Ister.”

Silence unspools between us, but it’s one which feels shared.

“Once it starts,” Ronan says finally, “there doesn’t seem any way to make it stop.” He snorts like a horse huffing on chaff. “Everything that’s gone before proves that; everything broken.” He kicks a potato that must have fallen from one of the racks and it scoots across the floor. “How could they do it? Ruin everything they had?”

I’ve no answer; neither of us has.

“I’ve got family still on Dunnett,” I tell him, sorting a path through my thoughts. “My brother Ty and my cousin Sophie. I want them to know the things that Vidya’s taught me, but maybe if they stay on Dunnett and know them, they needn’t know this.” The sweep of my arm encompasses all the fear and horror and guilt of the last few days.

Ronan shakes his head. “It doesn’t work like that. Once people know things, they want to change, and there are always people who resist change.”

He’s right. I know he’s right and it scares me.

“Have you any family left on Ister?” I ask.

Ronan doesn’t look at me. “There’s no one left on Ister.”

I gape. He picks up a shelf bracket. “How about that wall?” he says.

I can’t follow his thoughts. “What?”

“For the cheese. It’d be better off the floor.”

I stare at our neat pyramid of cheese then at the planks of timber leaning against the cellar wall.

Ronan fixes the runners that carry the shelf brackets, then hands me one of the first pair to slot into place. The shelf, when he stands back to judge it, looks crooked. He adjusts a runner, assesses it, and adjusts it again.

Once he’s satisfied, we slot in another pair of brackets and fix a second shelf in place. The shelves have to be strong to hold the weight of cheese.

“After the fighting stopped, Mam said things would get better,” Ronan says, studying the tools in his hands. “They didn’t. Not for us – not for anyone maybe. I don’t know about the others. Mam said we shouldn’t go near Harlan; that we shouldn’t leave our farm. We did what she said because she was usually right.” He stops.

In the pause, I reach for another pair of brackets and fumble them into place. Ronan slides a shelf across them, inspects it, and screws it firm.

“What was she like?”

“Mam? She was … she was what held us together. She …” He clears his throat. “When I was small, she was always laughing. She used to tickle us and whenever we laughed, she laughed. She wasn’t so thin then, or … anyway, things changed. She was always determined. Stubborn maybe. Till Sean died. He was her favourite; her baby. She used to call him that, even when he was ten.” His mouth twists. “He was small though. You’d only have thought he was six or seven.” The pause he leaves lies loud between us. “I tried to make it up to her when he died,” he adds at last, “but—”

“You can’t make up for a thing like that,” I say, to give him something, wishing I had more. Ronan stoops to lift a cheese and sets it on the highest shelf. We’ve a whole shelf filled before he takes up his telling.

“After we buried Sean, I went out one night, to Harlan.” His fingers rest on the wheel of cheese as if he’s checking for a pulse. “It was empty. I found an old woman at last; she heard me calling. She told me they’d all gone, the few that were left. There’d been a meeting and they’d voted to take the boats and go to Tay.”

“Tay! But – but my Pa said …”

Ronan nods. “We’d heard the rumours too, but people were desperate. There was no food. The animals had been killed and the harvests had been bad for years. There was nothing left. I went home and told Mam we had to leave. We had a boat, a small one. She wouldn’t hear of it. She was angry I’d disobeyed her. She didn’t speak to me for days.”

“What happened?” I ask, caught up in his story as if it were mine.

He half turns as if to shrug me off. “We stayed. Till … till she was too weak to carry on. Then I put her and Piers, my other brother, in the boat and loaded everything I could think off, and we left.”

We fill another shelf while I work up courage to ask the question that’s pressing on my tongue.

“Did you go to Tay?” I finally blurt, my hands tight around a wheel of cheese, fingers pressing dents into the wax.

“We didn’t land. There was no one there – just…” He hesitates. “There was a body on the wharf. Another propped against a wall. They’d been there a while.”

I swallow.

“I kept on. Piers—” His stops, shakes his head. “I didn’t tell Mam when he died.”

If I had comfort to give him, I would, but my soul feels as bare as a skerry swept and battered by the sea.

Ronan takes the cheese from my hands and places it on the shelf. It’s the last.

“I’m sorry,” I say. I think about how it must have felt, abandoning his home, his mother too ill to object, but knowing how she felt. And then …

Ronan walks over to look into the remaining cellar bays. “We could shift everything that’s left into the one at the end.” He glances back at me.

My legs feel stiff as I walk across to help him. We’ve partly cleared a stack of harvesting baskets when Saice’s voice interrupts us.

“How are you getting on?”

I stare at her blankly.

“I don’t know how you can see to work in here. Someone should clean those windows.”

Five squat frames are set close to the ceiling along one side of the main cellar. She’s right: the light that battles its way past the grime is worn thin by the effort.

“If you’re done,” Saice adds, “there are scones fresh out of the oven in the kitchen. And Ness,” her heartiness slips just a little, “Brenon wants to talk to you.”

Voices are raised behind the office door. I hesitate, chewing my lip. I don’t want to talk to Brenon, especially not when he’s already in a mood to shout.

“And I say you’ll have to wait!” his voice roars. I drop my hand and step back. “Use your head, Truso. I know they’re your people, but I’m telling you, they’re safer here than out there. Raf ’s just confirmed that I lost two of my best men to a bloody booby-trap this morning. That’s on top of four of Lynd’s team last night. I can’t spare an escort – we’re already stretched far too thin.”

Truso’s voice rumbles more quietly.

“I’ll tell you as soon as I know,” Brenon snaps, his voice calmer though still loud enough to cut through the panelled door. “Where in hell are those reinforcements?”

Two scouts approach as I stand undecided. I step back against the wall. One studies me thoughtfully. “You’re the girl from last night.”

I shrug a shoulder.

“Good job you did there.” He cocks a thumb at the door. “Waiting to see the boss?”

“I got a message that he wanted to talk to me.”

“Come back later,” the man advises. “He’s not going to like the news we’ve got for him.”

“You might pay Farra a visit,” the other man suggests. “I heard he’s getting a raw deal from that medic: he wants to get back on active service but she’s refusing to let him up.”