Ecko Rising (37 page)

Footsteps – hollow in the tunnel. A long, powerful stride, a billow of fabric, other feet scurrying to keep up.

He pulled back against the far corner of the weed-slick wall and sank into his hands, not needing to feign the despair.

The stern footsteps came close, closer. There was the fumble of a drop-key, the door creaked and the light opened fanlike across the stone. The shadow within it was unmistakeable.

“Rhan.” The word was pure victory, as hard as a fist.

Phylos.

“Merchant Master.” Rhan didn’t bother looking up. His sardonic bass was muted, almost a growl. He was bruised, he’d realised, bones cracked, he could feel them – somewhere, he’d been savagely beaten. “I’ll rip out your lungs and
feed
them to you.”

The merchant snorted, glowered at whatever had been scuttling behind him, and snapped the door shut. He crouched before Rhan in a crumple of fabric, took Rhan’s chin in a hand decorous with wrought terhnwood-fibre rings.

“How much do you remember,” he said softly, “my Lord Seneschal?”

Screaming. All the way down. Filthy and faithless.

“What did you do to Penya, you bastard?” He looked up, gaze burning from under his brows. He didn’t have enough energy to light a damned candle, but the anger – the anger was helping. He snarled in Phylos’s face, “What did you
do
?”

Phylos laughed, a boom like an oarsmens’ drum.

“I knew where you’d go – you’re as guileless as a child. And I have her son.” His shoulders gave an amused half shrug. “People are easy to shift, with the right lever.”

Rhan surged into movement, a graceless half lurch.

“I’ll tear off your sk–”

Slam!
He was back against the wall, ringed hand hard on his shoulder, Archipelagan strength behind it.

“You’re in no position to be making threats.” The Merchant Master radiated smug savagery: it danced in his voice, flickered across his face. “You’re finished, you bastard, you’ve hobbled this city long enough. Without you, Fhaveon ushers in a new age – an age where our terhnwood will rule everything we are, everything we want and need. I can wipe out the pirates once and for all –”

“By burning the crops?” Pinned by his shoulder, Rhan turned his face into Phylos’s like an angry lover. “You
stupid
– !”

“I didn’t burn anything, you herb-addled throwback. Believe me or not as you wish – I’m as... curious... about that as you must be.” He grinned like a hunting bweao. “Though I can turn it to my advantage.”

“Oh?” Rhan dared him, taunting. “And how would that be?”

“Love of the Gods!” Phylos spat a laugh straight back, though the pressure of his hand didn’t ease. The rock was cold, and it hurt. “You’ll be facing death for your crimes, Rhan. You may not have a future, but I’m not about to crouch here in the stink and tell you my plans.” Now, he eased the pressure, rested his hand on Rhan’s shoulder, mocking. “You’ll go to your trial, your execution and your grave knowing that you gave this city, her rulers, into my hands. And without you holding me back, I can build Fhaveon to a glory never seen.”

“‘Trial, execution and grave’? You think you can execute me for a packet of illegal herb? Whatever your grand plan may be, Phylos, the Foundersson –”

“The Foundersson is dead, you damned fool.” Phylos inhaled momentarily, as though the next sentence were one to savour. “You killed him.”

What?

The memory was stark, cold and shocking, suddenly ice-water clear.

Screaming. All the way down.

He whispered like a breath of pain, as though he’d been punched in the belly. “Dear Gods...!”

“You’ll be facing trial for the murder of the Lord Foundersson Demisarr Valiembor and the subsequent –” another savour “–
rape
of his ladywife, Valicia.” Phylos’s expression was sharp, metal cold – as through it hid glee beyond measure. “The Lady has a high heart and much courage – she’ll bring a witness testimony that will
end your life
.”

Hands. Beating at his chest. The body under him, spasming and furious
–
biting, fighting, struggling...

The memory made him shudder in shock horror – like a spear had been driven through his body.
Samiel! I couldn’t have done this!

As if it was his last, strangled air, he said, “No...”

But he knew it was true. Somehow, in that nightmare, he’d been in the bedchamber of the Foundersson. Had he been begging help, or sanctuary, or for the Lord to show courage against Phylos’s rising power? He had no idea. But he
remembered...

The struggling form of the man in his hands. “Rhan, what are you doing? Put me down, I’m not a babe any more!” Shutters shattering as the Lord went through them, the last clutch of his hand on the windowledge. Screaming
.
The long fall down into the gorge, into the night.

What had he
done
?

He was shaking, broken, hands quivering like an addict’s. His belly roiled as if he’d throw up. His mind could manage nothing but pointless, empty, looping denial.
Nonononono...

I held Demi as a tiny baby. Watched him grow. Swore my life to his defence. Stood with him as he married his wife...

...his wife! The white-flare release of an orgasm stolen.

“Get up, Rhan Elensiel.” Phylos rammed his shoulder again against the rock. Shards of pain shot through his bruised spine. The Merchant glanced back as something blocked the light chinks, moved away. “Get up, and face your own execution. Like a man. If that’s what you are.”

Rhan stared, lost in disbelief. Impossibility raged at him, a towering mockery that clamoured on all sides – how had Fhaveon been this undermined, this quickly? How long had Phylos and the Institute been laying groundwork? And how in the names of the
Gods
had he not
noticed
?

Samiel’s
teeth
– had he been asleep?

But he could answer that himself.
No, just bored. Inattentive. Drinking, smoking, entertaining his friends and varied personages of exotic tastes...

Like herbalist Penya Esamy.

He wanted to rail at himself for being such a fool – but that time was past. The initial shock, the horror, was solidifying, now sending after-echoes through his thoughts – without Demisarr, his daughter Selana would lead the Council. She was young, easily controlled. If she named her mother Seneschal, perhaps there would be hope for the city.

But if she named
Phylos...

It was an old, old story. Mainly because it damned-well worked.

By the Gods, this was crazed!

He shifted under Phylos’s hand, strove to stand. His vision darkened, cleared. Pain skittered through his back, his chest
ground
as he moved – he wondered, bizarrely curious, just how badly he’d been thrashed. How badly he’d deserved it.

His mouth tasted of salt, blood and sand.

He reached a panting crouch and managed, “I don’t know what you’ve done to me – what you’ve made me do – but it’s a
lie.
”

The Merchant laughed, unfolded to his feet with a warrior’s ease. He stood over Rhan, blood-robes saturated to his knees.

Rhan said, “You touch Selana and I’ll –”

“The way you touched her mother?” The Merchant Master turned to the door, threw the words back over his shoulder. “You’re
done.
Today, Fhaveon begins her new life.”

* * *

The Theatre of Nine still rang with echoes of the tumult.

Small beneath her father’s white cloak, The Lord Foundersdaughter Selana Valiembor was wide-eyed, struggling to master reactionary shivering. She’d faced them, all of them, from the head of that table and she’d done her damned best.

Watching her, Phylos threw his own cloak across her chair – a splash of blue in this cold, white building. They were alone.

“You did well, my Lord,” he told her gently. “Even without the grief and the outrage, the Council is a hard thing to control.”

“‘Control’, Phylos?” Her voice was clear, remarkably steady. “I thought my role was to guide?”

“Of course.” The blood-clad Merchant Master gave a slight bow, changed tack. “My Lord, perhaps now the meeting is over, there’s a matter we can discuss privately?”

“The naming of my Seneschal –”

“No, my Lord.” He smiled affectionately at her, as if the issue were farthest from his mind. “I speak of the burning – and the harvest.”

Pain flickered a line between her brows. She put back the voluminous white hood as if she set her title aside, relaxed.

“I wish I knew,” she said. “If this continues...”

“I’ve despatched runners, my Lord, following Roderick’s hysteria. The Bard may be crazed, but there’s no fault in caution.”

The girl nodded. She wandered around the table, trailing her fingertips across its cold surface, looking up at the great mural carved into the circular wall.

“Do you mean what you say to me, Phylos? That this is a new beginning?” Cold quartz lay dead in the stone. “That Fhaveon will know new life?”

“Assuredly, my Lord. Enough of saga and history and forgotten woes.” He smiled up at Rhan’s plummeting stone likeness, a sharp edge of anticipation. “It’s time we take responsibility, make our destiny our own.”

“History.” She was still looking at the great saga around her, the city’s history, her construction by Saluvarith and Tekissari, the gift of the GreatHeart Rakanne. “Meaning Roderick’s vision – ?”

“Meaning the terhnwood, my Lord. Where is our life manifest if not in the grass, in the harvest, in the life of the Varchinde? Rhan murdered your father, hurt your mother and he will pay. It is your time now.”

She turned, pale face and white cloak, the might of her forefathers graven in the stone behind her.

“Your vision is compelling, Phylos. I want to make decisions, to remember the strength of the Valiembor House.” She extended her hand to him. “You’ll help me?”

“My lord, your mother –”

“My mother is broken –”

“Your mother is
livid.
” He met her eyes, took her slim hand in his own, ran his thumb softly across her skin. “But you’re right, she’s lost her objectivity – at least for the moment.”

“Then you’ll stand with me, Phylos? Help me steer the city through the chaos to come?”

“I will, my Lord.” In a billow of scarlet, the Merchant Master sank to his knees, bent over the girl’s hand. “As the Gods are my... No.” He looked up at her, sincerity in every line of his face and being. “As
you
are my witness, Selana, Lord and daughter of Lords, I give you my life and swear that I will stand by you, defend and protect you; that I will guard this city as though she were my lover –” his hand tightened on hers, eyes searched her face “– and carry her to a future of glory and strength.”

She was staring at him, transfixed.

He came to his feet in a rush, a paean of hope. “
We
will save the Grasslands, Selana, you and I!”

And she was in his arms, slight and soft and pliant, her breath as sweet as summer sunrise.

19: SENTINEL

                    
THE MONUMENT

There was a red and jagged flash, a wound in the sky that split the grey clouds right down to the plain. There was an instant – the stallion on his hind legs, his huge body black against the Monument’s radiance. There was wet grass, shouts snatched away by the wind – and then everything screamed into motion.

His starlites flooded by the flash, Ecko kicked his heatseeker – the stallion was chill skinned in the rain but its body heat was a furnace. It was red hearted, red souled. Behind it, the Monument glowed like a kiln, a crucible of potential.

As the adrenaline jumped, everything swam, slowed. He shot forward, the grass buffeting him. He watched the colours that were the centaur’s legs, its claws, but his targeters crossed its weakest point.

One foot in the bollocks and this thing was going
down.

On the creature’s other side, the heat signature of the axeman was slow in comparison – but as inevitable as a well-thrown rock. Both axes went for the fetlock on its rear leg. The bones were delicate; even on this monster, they’d splinter like dry wood. Hack the fucker off at the ankles – Ecko liked this guy’s style.

In front of the beast, still spitting fury, the goldie girl Triqueta was outmatched and overwhelmed by the monster, a hot glow of anger against the cold mass of sky. She had no bridle – how the hell she controlled that critter, he’d no fucking clue – but she surged the horse out of range as blue-cold claws grasped at the air.

Her horse was freaked, dancing like she’d electro-jabbed it.

He spared a moment to hope that Tarvi and the chearl had gained the cover of the inside of the bank...

And his cross hairs targeted. Damn thing had balls the size of –

But the stallion was too smart.

From the colossal, upright rear, it went over – one staggeringly powerful jump that took it away from feet and axes, past where Triqueta timed her turn. For just an instant, its belly was cold blue against the sky, one side highlighted red by the stones’ glow, then it landed in the thick, wet grass and its rear claws smashed out at anything following.

It lurched, spun round, teeth bared and foreclaws ripping the grass into a mangled mess of mud and fury. Its too-human eyes were demented with reflected light.

The rain glittered as if the air was broken.

“You
presume
?” It sounded amused. “Creature-created I am, you have no skills to match me.”

“Sure I do.” Ecko shrugged. Rain soaked his skin. “You wanna find out?”

The two mares closed, now, to flank him. They were smaller, high breasted and heavy shouldered with the same core glow and cold skin. Both bore curved bows and disdainful expressions – water ran in streams from their hide.

The sky flashed again, red as blood, red as the ’bot’s target-scan, the thunder was low overhead. In the open plain, the rain was hammering merciless, it slashed into them like blade fragments.