Ecko Rising (29 page)

“I’m a soulless mercantile bastard, Triqueta. I won’t spare the forces of my city to chase down a figment. But what will I do?”

“It’s not a figment...!”

Ress’s voice said, “We’re losing him.” There was an edge of fury in his tone, and Triqueta wondered, slightly stupidly, if the city apothecary had cut an artery or something.

Jade said, “No one else needs to suffer like that. Tell me, Triq, what am I going to do?”

Soulless mercantile bastard.

I’m a merchant, not a warrior and not a fireblasted gambler.

Roviarath is everything to me – I’m the heart of the Varchinde.

What will I do?

The realisation congealed and dripped like the rainwater from her hood, like the blood from Feren’s wound.

“You’re going to hire me – us – to scout for you.”

“You, yes. I trust your passion. But your scarred companion lacks a Banned-trained mount and Ress, forgive me, is no warrior.”

Triqueta said, “Hey, I’m no coward, but I’m not riding out alone.”

“You won’t have to.” Larred was grinning like a Varchinde predator. “Ah, Triq – have you not realised the one thing that tips the scales here, the thing your monster hasn’t bargained for?”

What?

Her bafflement must have shown, because Larred was starting to laugh. “If you could pick any one mercenary warrior, in the entire Varchinde, to hunt this beast of yours down... who would it be?”

She blinked, baffled.

Feren was fading now, his arms lolling from the pallet, his expression slackening lax. Blood soaked the pallet under him, the apothecary’s hands to the wrists. Ress was fighting, still fighting, for his patient’s life.

But the boy’s face...

His crazed orange hair, his growth of beard.

Oh, by the fireblasted Gods...

For a moment, an older face, harder and battle scarred, overlaid her view of the boy’s dying expression. Her blood sang his name, even as the memories flooded through her mind and body, sparking to a thrum between her thighs.

Feren gasped, an inhalation of hope.

Triqueta said softly, “Redlock.”

Ress was sweating, shaking his head in denial – he’d carried the boy to safety, just for him to lose his battle in the clean, cool air of the hospice.

Hope.

Jade watched the boy’s final moments, and his expression was troubled. “Faral ton Gattana, Redlock. Arguably the only warrior in the entire Varchinde who’s cursed hard enough to face this thing. Not to mention avenging the death of his kin.”

Triq said, again, “Redlock.”

“He’s here – came into the city yesterday morning. You might want to go have a word.” Jade grinned. “Scout for me, Triqueta – tell me what I’m facing. Give me time to gather the harvest and expect reinforcements from Fhaveon. And
then
I’ll call muster.”

Damned canny bastard.

Ress swore again, his voice catching as though on the verge of tears. The apothecary was slicked with gore across his chest, his chin.

Feren gasped, his hands fluttered as if he heard his cousin’s name and reached out to grab it. His last word was “please...” before the Count of Time came and took him away.

And the air in the hospice was still.

15: THE COUNCIL

                    
FHAVEON

Roderick sat silent. His hands twitched in his lap like reluctant strangers.

At his right shoulder, a pincer-faced military escort. Below him, the descending white tiers of the Theatre of Nine. At their base, a long carved table, flanked by eight cloaked figures, four down either side. The ninth figure, at the table’s head, was the direct descendant of Saluvarith the Founder, Demisarr Valiembor himself, Lord of Fhaveon and Master of the Varchinde.

The Council had convened, and the Bard’s presence was requested.

Demanded.

Below Roderick, the nine figures were hooded, their faces concealed. Above them, haloing both the table and the tiers of seats, the wall was carved into a great stone mural – the tale of Fhaveon’s construction, and of her battles for survival.

The Theatre of Nine was astonishingly beautiful.

Once before, he had come here – some forty returns ago when he had faced the Lord Foundersson Nikhamos with a plea to take a tan of soldiers to Rammouthe Island, to search for answers there.

But his search had failed, his escort had been savagely slain, he himself had survived the magharta only because of Rhan’s immortal, elemental friendship. The Bard did not feel welcome here. The rocklights were cold, the quartz fragments dull. Eyeless sockets no longer reflected the glory of the city’s completion – they held the deaths of the soldiers who’d died to protect him.

Died screaming.

Standing in here made those screams seem suddenly very recent.

His hands knotted at the echoes. Beside him, his escort twitched. No, whatever beauty may lay outside the white amphitheatre of the Council; in here the Grasslands’ blood flowed cold. This was not a room of celebration, it was a room of business – its sanctity tinged with fear.

Aside from the Bard and his escort, the rings of tiered seats were empty.

Roderick’s nervousness was rising, he willed his hands to stillness. From Ecko to monsters to unexplained fires to the stone creature that had fallen from the wall – there were too many fears, too many implications, now lurking behind his presence here. They were overwhelming. However cold it may be, the theatre was where the decisions of the Varchinde were made, and he had one chance, one voice, one hope of making himself understood...

They’ll lock you up!

Was he crazed? Really? Down through all the long returns of his search, there were times when he had asked himself if the world’s fear had been only a nightmare, if the thing that he ever sought was only in his mind.

Maybe Ecko was right, and none of this was real.

Maybe they had to fight anyway.

There were monsters out there, and the wall of the city had come to life. A part of the past had crumbled to dust at The Wanderer’s very doors. And though Ecko was missing, the Bard would not give up his hope.

To doubt –
to doubt now
– would indeed be madness.

Pressure flickering through his skin, he sat quiet.

Waiting.

And the voices floated up through the cold like mist.

“It seems we’ve got a rather... serious piece of business, my friends.” The Lord Demisarr had a slight hunch, his head twitched, birdlike. As he put his hood back, Roderick saw the early grey that threaded his tied-back blonde hair. “A threat to the very lifeblood of the city, it seems. Ah, Rhan?”

At the head of his side of the table and at the Foundersson’s right hand, Rhan’s power and presence were a relief – he was the only thing that brought life and light to this chill room. Above Rhan’s head, a carved creature plummeted, burning, through the sky and then rose and fought for the city’s survival.

“I’ve been out as far as Ikira and Teale,” he said. “The fires are scattered, spontaneous and unexplained. Enough of them, and they will threaten the harvest. Runners have been sent to the closest farmlands.”

Roderick had seen the damage for himself – craters and black ash, the soil hard baked, cracked as though from some colossal impact. The fires were completely random – there was no pattern or purpose that he could understand.

After a pause, Rhan said, “I believe the fires to have an elemental cause.”

His words caused a ripple of shock about the table.

“Love of the Gods, Seneschal!” At the Foundersson’s immediate left sat a small, taut man, his cloak marked with the pennon-on-spear soldier’s insignia – this was Mostak, Demisarr’s younger brother and military commander of both the city and the Varchinde itself. He was similar in features, yet a clear gaze and a solid jaw had replaced the flicker of his brother’s nervousness. “At this time of the return, fires are commonplace. Their cause is pure idleness. I will send a man to each manor to ensure that the farmers watch their crops, and that we are secure against any failure of tithe.”

“A necessary contingency.” Beside Rhan sat a man of massive height and breadth, typically Archipelagan. His hair was the colour of metal and his features were haughty and strong enough to be cruel. The force of his presence made him appear to sit at the table’s centre. This was one of the single most powerful figures in the Grasslands – Phylos, Merchant Master, lead voice of the Terhnwood Harvesters’ Cartel and the ultimate controller of the Varchinde’s cycling trade. Rhan had spoken of him many times – and always with distrust.

“These things can be controlled,” Phylos said, “before they escalate into idiocy.” The last word was a thrown weapon. Phylos’s gaze flicked sideways to where Rhan sat. Dismissed him. “The Cartel will send runners to each manor to accompany the soldiery and carry news of increased city tithes. We must be secure.”

Something about Phylos’s look to Rhan sparked Roderick’s nervousness to real fear. Already, Rhan’s carefully structured plan was being diverted by selfishness, by a tangle of old tensions and conflicting priorities, by personal differences and political strivings, by desires so far from his own... He was beginning to understand why the Council couldn’t help him.

But he had no choice. He
had
to speak and he
had
to make them understand. If only he had something he could show them...

Again, he cursed inwardly that he did not have Ecko with him. Ecko, for all his scorn, would have made them take notice.

That
thought was enough raise a brief, wry smile.

But the expression was short-lived.

“That will have consequences, Phylos.” Next to the Merchant Master sat the Justicar Halydd, elderly and spear straight, correct and merciless in her mandate. She’d been a soldier all her life and saw the world around her in very severe terms. Her cloak bore the image of the executioner’s sword. “If we demand greater tithes, the farmlands will become restive.”

“Then we’re agreed.” Phylos’s gesture indicated the matter was closed. “From now, each central manor brings their own farms’ foods or terhnwood straight into the relevant tithehall. We will secure our surplus and the Varchinde will continue to trade.”

In one speech, he had assumed control.

But.

Secure our surplus?
Roderick’s finger-tapping increased.
But the fires are genuine – and if you tithe the manors more harshly...

“I don’t think – !” Demisarr started.

Phylos was still speaking. “Mostak, the city’s soldiery may be needed to secure and defend the stockpile.”

“I don’t think – !” The Foundersson tried again.

But Mostak was answering, “Additional forces can be deployed as necessary.”

“Then the matter is closed,” Phylos said calmly. “All in favour?”

“I don’t think – !”

“That’s
enough
!” The bellow came from a woman, square faced and strong shouldered, dark of skin and hair, standing at the foot of the table. The Council silenced as she spoke – Roderick realised she was Valicia, Demisarr’s wife. “Pray
silence
, for the Lord Foundersson.”

Rhan grinned at her. Mostak nodded stern acquiescence. Phylos shot the woman a look that could have scoured flesh from bone. She flicked an eyebrow back at him, almost daring. Roderick leaned forward, and his escort loomed over him.

“Tell me,” the Bard said softly. “Will the farmers resist?”

His escort said only, “Not for long.”

Not for long.

With a tremor of fear, the Bard realised that his crisis and Rhan’s had already been lost completely – that no one in this room cared for Ecko, for fires or Elementalism, for alchemical monsters or dying boys, for stone creatures that fell from the wall... They cared only for the terhwnood.

And Phylos had turned this into some form of power play.

Not for long.

If this was how these people thought, this their game – if they cared only for the wealth beneath their noses – how was he to gain their understanding? Rhan’s warning mocked him,
They’ll laugh you out of the hall...

Roderick was belatedly realising that he was utterly out of his depth.

But he had to make them see!

Panic began to close round his throat.

“I really don’t think –” Demisarr stood to speak “– we can force the farmlands to suffer the armoured fist of cruelty from our Lordship. Feeding our people is our priority. Rhan, tell me of these fires.”

Phylos coughed as though he covered scorn. There was an open ripple of amusement, apparently at the Lord’s naïveté.

Roderick held his horror silent.

But Rhan was on his feet. “My Lord, they are not the result of carelessness, though perhaps a military watch would be a welcome thing.” He threw his words across the table like rocks, the stress on the word “watch” was palpable. “We can ration stores and redistribute the crop if necessary. But for now, I would rather understand the cause of these fires and then remove it. Mostak, you’ll assign a force to each and every manor, ensure that each manor’s farms will be patrolled. We need to know what’s doing this.”

The Bard’s tapping was growing frenzied. With one move, Rhan had effectively narrowed the field of the game to two factions – Phylos and himself. And he would defend the son of the Founder with the last drop of light in his blood.

Uphold his Gods-given oath.

Now, the Bard leaned on the back of the seat in front of him, trying to understand the subtle shiftings of power that were playing out below. Phylos and Rhan fought for control – but it was Mostak, the soldier, who held the strength that would enable one of them to win or lose.

Or was it?

With a grim smile, Phylos flicked an infinitesimal gesture.

And another member of the Nine spoke.

“With respect, I think not – my Lord.”

At the table’s foot stood a small, dark man, lean faced and empty eyed. There was no symbol on his cloak, no decor at its hem. His hair was the same almost-blue black as the Bard’s and his whisper of Tundran blood betrayed him – this was Adyle, Master of the Institute, the Council’s eyes and ears. He ignored Rhan and addressed the Foundersson directly. “There’s another issue here.”