Ecko Rising (16 page)

The blow wasn’t malicious – but was hard enough to make the point.

Sera shifted, a gentle ripple of warning. Ecko stayed exactly where he was, barely daring to breathe in case she looked up and that cleverly orchestrated gold chain snapped shut its last shackle...

C’mon Eliza, don’t do this one...

The woman rattled the dice one last time, then threw them across the table. They clattered to a stop. A circle of groans echoed round her. A couple of gamblers scraped back stools and headed for the bar.

“Wish I knew how she did that.” The older man at the bar shook his head and his companion chuckled.

“If you did, mate, we’d all be living like lords in a Padeshian brothel.”

They turned back to their ale jugs, chuckling.

Unmoving, his cowl down over his face, Ecko watched motionless, as though he could see the very fractal ripples spreading from this single, poised moment...

So. I go one way, the pattern does one thing, I go the other, it does something else? Which way’s right, for chrissakes? Which way gets this damn thing done?

Beside Triqueta, her admirer was picking himself up. He was clearly absolutely rat-assed: stumbling, muttering, his movements erratic. As the woman dropped the dice – one, two – back into the pot, he plonked himself by her side and reached for the jug.

His movements were slow, blurred by booze, but deliberate.

Watching the tableau unfold, Ecko was utterly silent, caught on a realisation – on the apex of a sudden, adrenaline rush of understanding.

It wasn’t just this decision – it was all of them. His every choice, tiny as it may seem, would affect everything else that he did, everything else that happened around him and to him and so on...

Jesus. Trying to wrap his head round the sheer
size
of this was gonna drive him batshit.

“’Nother round then!” Triqueta rattled a cheerful, rhythmic tattoo with the dice pot, caught the sightline of one of the vets at the bar and winked.

The bets started again – and a round of jeers as several of the soldier types shook their heads and pulled out.

Beside her, the leerer had descended into glowering. He refused to bet, just sat there, hands round his mug. She gave the pot a final shake and threw the dice again.

The groans redoubled. A pile of treasure was pushed over the tabletop.

The drunk muttered, “I saw that.” He came to his feet, swaying slightly, then sat back down with an unsteady thump. He was shit-faced, anger rose from him like whisky fumes.

Sera was already moving, swift and quiet. Ecko’s targeters hit
there
,
there
and
there.
If he’d wanted to, he could’ve kicked the fucker into the middle of next week, rescued the damsel and made his decision, made the pattern ripple and change round him...

But he had a better idea.

No, Eliza, I hadda give up girls. My mom told me.

Grinning, he slunk from the bar top like a sliding shadow, a soundless, scentless patch of darkness that flowed across the floor.

“I said I saw that!” The drunk was up and reeling. “You damned cheating bitch.” Turning to glare at her, he made a clumsy grab for the pot. “Damned Banned – you’re all fil–”

Sera didn’t get close. A sharp back blow of the woman’s fist broke the drunk’s nose. He spluttered and fell back, a hot rush of blood exploding down his already-soaked shirt.

“I warned you once, sunshine.” She dropped the pot, stepped back from the impact, hands wide, but her sharp, yellow eyes looking for the next threat. “You saw that, right?”

“Oi!” Another of the grunts was on his feet, stool going over “You’re out of line, bitch!”

“Don’t sweat it, mate,” a third one answered him. “He had that coming.”

“Chearlshit. If she’s not damned cheating...!”

“I’m not
cheating
, you sonofamare.” Triq wiped her bloody knuckles on her breeches and grinned. “I’m just
lucky
.”

They were all moving now, stools crashing backwards, raised voices, accusation and drunken indignation. The two older guys at the bar rolled their eyes and set down their mugs.

Ecko was close, so close, he was almost under the table.

Brawl kicking off in t-minus...

“Enough!” The doorman’s bark reverberated from the walls. He had the bloody-nosed drunk by collar and belt – a moment later the guy was sailing out of the door and into the dust.

Triqueta backed up, hands still wide.

“Hey, you know he had that coming.”

Sera nodded brief assent, rounded on the nearest and loudest. He closed a fist in the front of the shirt thing the bloke had on, and propelled him smack back into the wall, snarling. Karine reached for a bottle.

For a moment, Ecko thought she was going to smack the nearest patron over the head with it and he grinned.
Any second now...

But she was smarter than that. With a deep breath that swelled her cleavage, she bawled, “Okay you lot! This round’s on the house!”

Loose cheers scattered the aggression, the brawl dissolved before it began. As Ecko returned to his point on the bar, Karine winked at him. “Cost us less than the furniture.”

     In spite of himself, he chuckled, his adrenals uncoiling.

     
Okay, Eliza. Let’s see what you do with
this...

     He had the goldie girl’s dice in his lithe, mottled hand.

* * *

In the chaos, Triqueta of the Banned had slipped deftly – and tactfully – out of the tavern’s front door.

Swift and silent, like the final flicker of daylight, she’d untethered her little palomino mare and left the dusty noise of the ribbon-town behind.

Free.

The sun had gone, sunk to its death upon the distant Kartiah, and rich blue darkness drove the last of the light to frame the mountaintops. Triq tightened her knees on the mare’s warm, bare back and she rode away from the ribbon-town, from the Bard’s ale and music, from the squabbling drunks of the Range Patrol and her own Banned family.

Much as she loved them, there were just times...

In the midst of the almost-brawl, she’d lost her fireblasted dice. She’d split her knuckles on that sonofamare’s face and the young patrolman she’d had her eye on had wandered away... Triq knew when her luck had run out. It wasn’t her night and she was better off wrapping her thighs around the flesh they needed the most.

As a kid, Triqueta had been fostered in the unrolling, ramshackle poverty of a trade-road ribbon-town. She’d been quick with feet and fingers before she could count. At six, she’d returned to her mother in the Banned – but held to the philosophy of her errant desert sire: celebrate your life, live for the now, take what you will, but hurt none.

Above her, two moons slowly rose to sail the ripples of cloud. Oblivious to the world below and ever in opposition, they lit the wild grass to a brilliant shimmer of light.

Like the stones in her cheeks, the desert was still in her blood. She was wild souled and happiest under the sky.

She’d not seen her sire since she was a kid – not even when her mother was killed by scuffling road-pirates. As Triq’s little mare cantered way out across the edge of the sleeping farmlands, she let drop only an idle thought – that family was what you made it.

It made her smile – a touch of the warmth of the red sands at the centre of the dark Varchinde.

In the far distance, she caught a burst of laughter from the rugged Banned campsite – doubtless Syke, Banned commander, was hosting the remaining Range Patrol soldiers in a booze-laden campsite party. Syke had many and interesting ways to stay on the right side of the local soldiery. Triq chuckled quietly and leaned windwards, steering the mare away from the campsite, the tavern, the river, the final scattering of Roviarath’s tithed farmland. Uncaring of the danger – she was
Banned
for the Gods’ sakes! – she headed north-east, for the open plain.

The little mare seemed glad of the run. She lengthened her stride, mane flying, shoulders churning with power and warmth. The grass parted for her, whispered as she passed. The wind raced cold past Triq’s skin and her chuckle became a laugh, gleeful in the emptiness.

Sensing her rising mood, the horse put her heart in it and began to really run.

They left the roll of rural life behind them. The night was the sound of the grass, the strength of the animal that ran through it, her rhythm swift and clean. In the vastness of the dark, the moons, brother and sister cursed to be ever in opposition, rode with them, shining cold. Triq loved to lose herself in the Varchinde, the desolation elated her. She was tiny against the measureless grass, the infinite sky, yet its euphoria was with her and she wasn’t alone.

The sounds of the campsite had all but faded. Triq leaned back, bringing the mare to a halt.

She sat, breathing.

Faintly over the sound of the river, she could still hear them – a scattering of distant hilarity snatched away by the wind. If she looked back, she could see the tiny, red fire-points of the campsite, and the faint, glimmering skein of the ribbon-town’s windows. Brighter in the dark mid-air was the great, white eye of the Lighthouse Tower at Roviarath, heart and hub and lynchpin of the Varchinde’s lifeblood trade. “Here is help,” it said, “find me to find safety.”

Triq turned her back on it and tightened her thighs. The mare moved into an easy walk.

Banned and soldiers faded into the grass.

Away from rocklight and fire, the moons dusted the sea of sward to yellow and white, washing past her like water. The mare walked calmly, her head up and her ears forward. Triq rested in the ease of her movements. She’d known this creature from a foal, raised her and trained her – and she was a friend.

Face turned to the wind, eyes closed, Triq rested her hands on the warmth of her soft hide.

At the gesture, the mare stopped, throwing her head up and back. One forehoof thudded uneasily. Triq tensed, eyes snapping open, hand going for her small belt-blade. Her thighs urged the creature forwards.

The little mare refused. She danced back several paces, snorting.

What...?

Nervousness tickled her skin, Triq trusted the animal’s moods instinctually, relied upon her. If she smelled something, something was there.

She was chillingly aware of how small they were – herself and the horse, two sparks of life – tiny in the emptiness.

She had come out without her saddle, no tack, no weapons – only a belt-knife more useful for cutting dinner than pouncing bweao. Holding tight to her alarm and keeping absolutely silent, she stroked the mare’s shoulder and allowed her to back up. It was a Range Patrol, perhaps, or maybe late-night road-pirates. The big predators didn’t come this close to a ribbon-town – and the recent rumours of monsters were tavern-tales to scare the city dwellers.

Weren’t they? There were no such things as monsters.

She listened.

Wind, water. Grass. She shivered – how had it got so cold? – and made herself sit absolutely still. Her shoulders prickled with tension.

Slowly, she turned around.

But there was only the white eye of the lighthouse, the rippling wash of the light.

Triq’s heart hammered, but her gaze was steady. She inhaled and the slim muscles across her shoulders tensed, flexed. Belt-knife or no, she wasn’t about to open the odds on being any beastie’s late-night snack.

Silence.

Then something moved.

Close by.

She turned sharply but didn’t see it, it was below the level of the grass tops. The gentle wind-ripple of light was uninterrupted – she had no idea where it was. The mare’s ears were flat against her skull and she lifted her forehooves, skittering like a Padeshian dancer.

Was there a bweao, belly-down in the darkness? Some nightmare creature of legend and fang? Triq’s heels were holding the mare – just. If she relaxed the command, she’d gather her legs and flee.

She was fast – could she outrun it?

“Please...”

The word was barely a hiss, and utterly unexpected. It froze the breath to the sides of her throat.

For a moment, she was so damned scared she couldn’t move.

“Please...!”

It came from in front of her. She still couldn’t see it. Any minute now it was going to call her by name...

That was it – she was getting the rhez out of here.

“Please help me!”

Instead of calling her name, the voice sobbed, gave the cry of something despairing beyond endurance. She heard movement, clumsy. The moonlight scattered as something shifted in the grass.

She tensed her hands, ready. Decl– ! No sound passed her lips. She tried again, “Declare yourself!”

“There is someone there, oh thank the Goddess!” Movement again, pained, terrible movement. “I can’t stand up any more. Please, help me.” The words dissolved into a gasp.

The voice was young, hurt, male – she had no clue what he could be doing out here.

But she was fireblasted Banned and if it was some forgotten monster or some phantom figment, she’d slit it straight up its daemonic middle. Keeping her hand firmly in the mare’s mane, Triq swung one leg over her rump and slipped down into the long Varchinde grass.

It wasn’t a monster.

It was a boy.

Perhaps fifteen or sixteen returns, shock haired, badly injured and alone. His skin was parchment white, his garments black with blood. Beside him lay a crude, scratch-built crutch.

He looked oddly familiar.

She stood stunned, shook her head helplessly when he begged her for water and wondered what in the name of the Gods she was going to do with him. She was no cursed apothecary – something about not shifting him because of his back?

“You’re injured,” she said. “I don’t know –”

“I do.” He shifted painfully, gulping air. “My ankle’s broken – it’s not serious. But my hip... please, be careful... I have to get to Roviarath... my teacher... need to tell them about the monsters... need to tell someone what they
were
...”

He was desperate, babbling, Triq didn’t really hear him. She’d have to let go of the ever-more-skittish mare to retrieve the boy, she wasn’t betting the horse would stay put.