Ecko Burning (8 page)

“I need you to see something.” Undaunted, Triq stepped after him.

“Chrissakes!” Now, he paused to round on her, a harsh black grin slashed under the cowl, a focused effort of rejection. A loose piece of cloth blew into his arm and stuck there, flapping. “What the fuck -?”

“Something Jayr’s taken to Nivvy, something... something we don’t understand. I need your eyes, your fingers...” She waved a hand as though she’d run out of words. “Guess I thought you might be able to see -”

“See
what
?” He peeled the fabric from his skin, held it up and let it go, whirling over and over down the street.

“Ecko, please.” Triq half-stepped forwards, blinked as though struggling to focus. “This is important. Critical.” She grinned, briefly mischievous. “Come on, or I’ll drag you by force.”

“Like you could.” He met her gaze. Gold in blazing moonlight, it shone like she was Queen fucking Midas, like everything she touched...

Fuck!

She was closer than he’d realised. Under the reek of cheap alcohol, she smelled like soft leather, like horsehide and sunshine and spring. She snorted, warm air on his skin, said again, “Please?”

He found himself backing away from her, like she was some sorta siren, luring him to a rocky doom. “I told you,” he said it again, hammered it home, “I’m fucking done here. I played your errand boy, okay -”

“Ecko, we all went through the rhez together,” she said. “What happened to friendship? Camaraderie? Loyalty?” The stones in her cheeks glittered. “You came here because you
had
to?” Her tone was disbelieving.

I don’t care, I don’t care!

“Yeah,” he said, bitterly. “Now, I don’t only hafta be a superhero, I hafta have a fucking
team.”

“Name of the Gods.” Disgusted, she turned her back on him and went to walk away.

In the darkness, he could see the world around him shattering like glass, the halogen-lit green walls of Eliza’s lab stark behind darkly broken, pointed shards. He could see the expression on her face as it melted under his flame.

He called after her, “I’m not gonna be controlled, Triq. I’m gonna find a way outta this. Gonna find the flaw and drop a grenade in it. A dragon-load of C4. A psychological fuckin’ tac-nuke!”

He curled his palms tight, twisted them into hard, controlled fists, crushed his sensitive fingertips into his own grip, hurting.

Triqueta stopped, turned back. In the moonlight, the stones in her cheeks glittered as though she had four eyes, all of them looking at him.

She said only, “Keep sulking, Ecko. Bitch and whine until the grass-rot kills us all, kills the world under us. And then you’ll be stuck here. Alone. In a dead world. Until the end of the Count of Time. But hey - at least you’ll never’ve given in.”

And then she turned, and walked away.

Scribe Mael had decided that Fhaveon didn’t offer the best ales - but that he’d better have another one, just to make sure.

The festival of the harvest had ended. It was late now, the traders and merchants were packing up and Mael had drifted away from the last shouts of the bazaar. Leather tankard in hand, he had found himself a place at the very back of a rising tier of stone seats, looking down at the half-circle of open sand that was the city’s theatre.

It was still hot, breathless and unsettlingly so. His pince-nez, precious ground glass from the Archipelago itself, had kept sliding down his nose until, irritated, he’d taken them off. He could still see at distance, though, and he was half-watching Saravin pour a well-earned horn of water straight over his head. The big freeman had won his latest round clean, taking the elite guardsman Gharran by two points. The well-drilled posers of the soldiery had speed, but they couldn’t match Saravin’s experience - or his repertoire of dirty tricks.

The old scribe sat back, grimacing at the lukewarm froth in his tankard. The seats below him were mostly occupied by off-duty soldiery. They were relaxed, loud and boisterous. As their numbers grew, they cheered and jeered the various combatants and entertainments. Their ale was plentiful and free-flowing, much of it brought to them.

One of them nudged his companion and nodded down to where Saravin stood, dripping water into the sand. They both chuckled.

The sound had an edge.

With another sip of ale, Mael watched.

Around him, the wind was picking up; the garlands flapped against their moorings and fragments of autumn grass blew free, spiralling through the air. The scatterings of soldiers beneath threw their tankards at each other and roared with good humour.

Mael was uneasy, though he could not have explained why. He glanced this way and that, not sure what he sought.

The next round would be a given, so it was said. One of the city’s older warrior freemen, a man named Mantine, had been blessed by the Gods even to get this far; he was no match for the soldiery’s darling and champion, the veteran tan commander Cylearan. The winner would face Saravin in the final round, the climax of the contest and the height of the evening’s revelry.

And then?

Mael sipped ale thoughtfully.

In the arena, it seemed as though a rag-coated jester had almost heard his question. The jester looked up at him and smiled, made grand gestures, announced a tumble of his fellows. Armed with vastly oversized, softly padded weapons, they raced across the sand and up into the stands, shrieking and having mock battles, imitating certain of the combatants with exaggerated gestures that had their audience roaring. Their performance was embellished and humorous - the sounds rose into the evening and the seats of the theatre slowly filled.

The combat-tourney was a regular sideshow at holidays such as these, something rarely taken seriously. The winner usually received a ribbon and a pat on the back.

But not this time.

This time, Merchant Master Phylos had made a big noise about the tourney. He’d donated a little something from the Terhnwood Harvesters’ Cartel - a craftmaster’s blade, marked with his sigil, a weapon of such finely created beauty that it was worth almost more than metal.

And Saravin had already implied that there was more at stake here than simply the victory itself.

Was that why the event was so popular, this return? Why the seats were filling with soldiers, carrying ale and laughing, calling for their friends?

Mael leaned back, squinting at the closest seats, peering at the furthest ones. The theatre was fuller then he had ever seen it.

He made an effort to master his thoughts.

The Angel. Ask for Fletcher Wyll.

He still didn’t know if he would go.

The sun sank lower, the light long and warm and fading. At any moment, it would meet its death upon the peaks of the far distant Kartiah, pouring its light down the sides of the mountains and into the plainland. It suited the mood of the holiday, the wordless unease that had tainted the crowd throughout the day. The odd restlessness had crept in here too. Somehow, in the dying of the light, Mael could see Rhan’s fall from the clifftop, the darkness that had flooded to fill his absence...

...that shadow was under everything.

Mael watched the jesters, watched knots of young warriors slide between the seats, seeking an empty place.

The comedy seemed ludicrous, playful and painful, a game of touch and ego. A prank.

But the soldiers below him were roaring with laughter - the seating was almost solid with them now. Phylos’s offer had been a good one, it had piqued their interest and they were calling aloud, a scatter of combatants’ names, wanting one of their own to do well. Shouts of rivalry between the differing tan were few - the occasional scuffle was inevitable and good-humoured.

But how could they not understand... How did they not see...?

The people’s fear was being managed, Mael realised - that was where the unease had come from, the feeling that the holiday was hollow. And that fear made them easier to lead.

Still watching the jesters, Mael understood that Rhan himself had not been forgotten - the new regime was too smart for that. No, Rhan had been
blamed.
The city’s guardian had been uncaring, oblivious - he was a scapegoat.

But wasn’t it also true?

Under the new rule, Selana’s rule, the people would have to work harder. There were rumours of disease in the harvest, now being controlled with strategic crop-burning. If the people were willing to tighten their belts, do without luxuries, ration everyday items, then they would all win through together.

Mael sipped his ale.

All of that, though, still didn’t explain why this tourney was so populous - why the entire soldiery had mustered to watch the outcome - or why Phylos had thrown his hefty weight, and the weight of the Cartel, behind it. Mael tilted the tankard again, and realised that he had found the bottom.

He blinked, rummaged for his pince-nez.

The herald was chasing out the jesters, returning to his place. Mael found his glasses, blinked again, and looked around him.

Double took.

At the back edge of the arena, the opposite corner to Saravin, stood Mostak himself, tan commander, a shorter, sharper, tighter version of his dead brother - and ruler of the city should anything happen to his niece. He was cloaked, his hood up against the sun, but Mael knew the way he moved, the lines of his body and his half-hidden features. He had drawn the man a hundred times.

Saravin, too, still loitered at the arena’s edge. As Mael watched, he moved to wish both new contestants a good fight.

Now, the herald held his arms high, bellowed for silence. The soldiers gave short jeers and calls, but they sat back. When Cylearan appeared, the theatre erupted in cheers that bordered on frenzy.

Mael held his breath, empty tankard forgotten. He watched Mostak - but the commander stood stock-still.

A rustle of tension went through the seats. First out onto the sand, Mantine was the oldest of the fighters, a freeman of wagon and manor, who’d been wielding staff and spear for nearly forty returns. The crowd called his name almost derisively, there was a faint “boo” from someone Mael didn’t see, though they were swiftly shushed.

The soldier Cylearan was younger, though not by much. She was a seasoned Range Patrol veteran, still a very handsome woman, tanned and slim and elegant. There was a languorousness to her that shouted like massive confidence, as if she had the entire soldiery behind her. Half of the youngsters in the audience must have trained under her at some point - the other half wished they had. She’d disdained her Fhaveon shield with its winged device, disdained any kind of parrying weapon; she carried only a long, single blade, which rested almost casually over her shoulder. In the sun it glinted like real metal. Her hair was tied back tight, military fashion, her garments were functional, but she wore them like the finest gowns. As she walked - sauntered - out onto the flat sands, she played her audience like a performer.

They loved her and she knew it.

Mostak shifted. Though he was a distance away, it was almost like Mael could feel the commander’s unrest drifting upwards like smoke. Behind him, way down at the base of the hard-walled cliff, the sea shone with the dying of the sun.

What is really happening here?

Mael found himself on the edge of his seat, its stone biting into his flesh. Somehow, this event had become pivotal, and he had no idea why.

Mantine leaned on his quarterstaff. From somewhere behind him, a fruit rind struck his shoulder and rolled into the sand. He didn’t flinch.

The herald raised his arms, called the rules - contact only, first to three touches. He indicated watchers, five of them, spaced about the semi-circular front of the arena. They bore pennons of various colours that they could lift for a touch.

“Samiel be your witness!” The herald’s ritual call seemed barbed with irony. “Begin!”

* * *

From the opening, it was apparent that Mantine was outmatched; Cylearan was playing with him. Mael had not been watching the tourney up until now, and the Gods knew he was no warrior, but he found himself wondering how the rhez Mantine had got even this far. The man was a solid fighter, spinning the staff end over end with a double-handed efficiency that he must have learned defending land or caravan.

But Cylearan was a vet of twenty returns’ experience. The pirates that Mantine had battered as a hobby, Cylearan had trained to batter professionally. He aimed one end of his heavy staff at her ankle, then spun it backhand to feint at her shoulder, then spun it back again to catch her hip as she ducked into it. The moves were good, they were almost too fast for Mael to follow...

But they were not too fast for the soldier.

She sidestepped, ducked as though she was dancing, caught the third blow with the edge of her blunted blade hard enough to split splinters from the wood. It was a fast cross-parry -forceful enough to slam the staff away from her, to leave her with an opening.

But she didn’t take it. She backed up, indicated with her free hand for Mantine to come at her again.

Below Mael, the soldiers were absolutely silent, their breath caught.

Cylearan was grinning. Mael couldn’t see from up here, but he could guess that the expression was similar to the one that Saravin wore sometimes - that tight, combat-grin of real, physical elation. Her hair was drifting free of its tail and wisps framed her face. Maybe she was laughing.

Mostak watched the performance from the arena’s edge, his tension palpable. Saravin, too, stood watching.

Mantine came forwards again. The sand under his feet was dark and solid. Again, the staff did the left-right-left. This time, Cylearan’s real metal blade met it three times out of three, each impact sending it bouncing back to pivot again. With each parry, her footing was flawless.

But this time, Mantine didn’t stop; he drove her back, the staff hammering alternate upswings, his grip reversing faster than Mael could see. Cylearan met every one by pure instinct; her gaze didn’t leave his. It became a rhythm, and, unable to bear the rising tension, the crowd broke into scattered cries and cheering.