Prisoner of Fate (31 page)

S
wift observed the old woman from the shadows of the doorway into the rear of the shop for a long time, studying how she pored over pages of the book. Her head moved rhythmically, back and forth, sometimes nodding as if she was pleased, sometimes shaking as if she was angry or disappointed. She clutched an object in her left hand throughout the reading process, which made Swift curious as to what it was that she held that was apparently so precious. An unusual light, not fixed to the ceiling or wall, appeared to float just above the old woman’s white hair and at the edge of the light’s circle, perched on a pile of books, was the old woman’s companion rat, fur glistening black, eyes glittering like onyx crystals. Swift had seen many things in her career, met a host of people from all walks of life, but the scene she was witnessing in the bookshop was bizarre. Satisfied that nothing was going to change, she silently crept from the doorway to the shop entrance and stepped into the lane.

The night air was chilly. A shadowy cat scrambled up a wall onto a ledge and vanished in the dark, but otherwise the lane was empty. She looked up. The first-floor window of the bookshop was dark. Everyone was asleep,
except herself and the old woman. She walked quietly to the end of the alley and surveyed the street. By her assessment, it was somewhere between midnight and dawn. She hadn’t heard the time tower chime for a while. The city was caught in the web of dreams and nightmares, the dead of night when thieves and murderers slid through the shadows and chose their victims. She’d spent much of her time in recent years moving through the city at this time. It was like a comfortable coat, a familiar and welcoming friend.

She glanced back at the alley before she entered the street and headed for King’s Bridge. From the River and Farmers’ Quarters, she could have backtracked north and crossed the second bridge, which would have been the more sensible route, but she always perversely enjoyed the calculated risk that crossing King’s Bridge presented. Between midnight and dawn, the guards were either sleepy, disenchanted with their shift, or high on euphoria, all of which challenged her to create different ways to get by. Amusingly, several regular guards who knew her turned a blind eye when she ventured into the Northern Quarter, as if they had no interest in the welfare of her wealthy victims.

She melted into the shadows at a corner, spotting three figures slumped against the facade of a cobbler’s shop, but once she heard them mumbling incoherent phrases she relaxed, realising they were euphoria addicts, and walked by, ignoring their murmured greetings. The streets were becoming littered with drug addicts.
The Joker’s fortune is built on people’s wretchedness
, she decided. She remembered the cautionary advice of her mentor, Killer Dagger. ‘A little euphoria, now and again, when you’re not working, can be a fine thing, girl, but use it when you need a clear head and you’re deader than your target.’ His words stayed with her. Like everyone, she experimented
a little with the purple powder, but rarely, and only when she was alone and intent on being alone.

At King’s Bridge, the Main Way was alight with wire-lightning street lamps and she was surprised to see the guards at attention and alert like their daytime counterparts. Intuition warned her that she would be unwise to play her normal games. With her plan to cross into the Northern Quarter to pay the Joker’s house a silent visit thwarted, she watched the bridge for a while, fascinated by the unexpected change and speculated why the guards were acting with caution. Possibly someone had made an attempt against the princes’ lives, or against the Seers, or perhaps there was anticipation of that happening. She’d been commissioned to strike against Lastchild, Gift and the Joker. Perhaps word was out of those commissions and they were waiting for her. That would add to the reasons for her earlier pursuit by the soldiers when she climbed into the old woman’s bookshop.

She saw a familiar guard leave his bridge post and descend the riverbank alone, so she slipped between the buildings, making sure that she couldn’t be seen from the bridge by any of the remaining guards and descended the bank. ‘Mudwater,’ she whispered, ‘it’s Swift.’ The guard who was pissing into the water hastily tucked himself in and grabbed for his thundermaker that he’d leaned against a mooring pole on the bank. Swift crouched and hissed, ‘It’s Swift.’

The guard lowered his weapon. ‘What do you want?’ he asked quietly.

Swift went closer. ‘What’s going on?’

‘If I shoot you now, I’d be a rich man,’ Mudwater noted.

‘If you tried to shoot me, you’d be a dead man,’ she retorted, placing her hand on her knife in case the guard was serious.

Mudwater laughed quietly. ‘It’s for the Ranu,’ he said.

‘Who?’

‘The ambassadors. You’ve seen the ships in the harbour.’

‘No.’

Mudwater whistled softly. ‘You should take a look then. Ships of metal with no sails. Five times bigger than any ship ever before. They sail by magic. And they’ve got airbirds bigger than a block of houses.’

‘Bullshit,’ she remarked.

‘Go and look for yourself,’ he challenged.

She silently studied the shadowy figure, visible only in the bridge light reflected by the river. ‘I will,’ she finally said.

‘It’s worth it,’ he replied.

Swift turned and started to climb the embankment, but a click from behind made her dive right as Mudwater’s thundermaker boomed and a pellet punched into her side. She came up onto her feet in a single fluid motion, drew her knife and threw it with lethal precision. Mudwater grunted and toppled backwards into the river. Swift heard the splash, but she was already retreating into the shadows between the buildings.

‘Is it possible for you to avoid trouble?’ Batty asked as she inspected the thundermaker wound below Swift’s ribs. Swift gritted her teeth as the old woman’s fingers explored the extent of damage. ‘The metal is still in here,’ Batty said. ‘It will have to come out.’

‘I can’t go to a surgeon,’ Swift complained. She warily eyed the rat perched on the desk among the piles of books, staring at her bathed in the white sphere of light floating overhead.

Batty shook her head. ‘This is simple. I can do this.’ She rinsed a cloth in the bowl of hot water by her side
and carefully bathed the wound. ‘The city is too dangerous for you. We’ll leave tonight, after dark.’

‘We?’ Swift asked.

The old woman nodded. ‘I said we.’

‘But why are you going? No one knows about you helping us.’

‘Not yet, but they will soon enough. That’s how the world works.’ Batty rinsed the cloth again and rose from her chair. ‘You stay there. When I come back, I’ll fix the wound.’ She took Swift’s tunic and placed it over the girl’s shoulders before she disappeared into the dark bookshop.

Swift looked up at the light, still unable to spy any wires or cords holding it aloft. Then she stared at the rat. ‘What are you looking at?’ she challenged. The rat blinked and returned to its steady, black-eyed gaze, which made Swift even more uneasy. She turned her attention to the open book on the desktop. Full of the spidery scrawl, interspersed with hand-drawn pictures, to her it was illegible. The tiny back room shelves were crammed with books.
Why would anyone want to own so many books
? she wondered.
Life is too short to waste on sitting in a small room deciphering scrawl.
She shivered from the chill air on her skin and tried to adjust the bloodied tunic to cover more.

Batty returned and asked Swift to follow her upstairs. ‘We’ll go slowly so you don’t hurt too much.’

‘It doesn’t hurt. It just stings,’ Swift replied.

They mounted the stairs into the room next to where Chase was sleeping. Dull pre-dawn light filtered through the slats of the shuttered window. Another soft sphere of light floated near the ceiling. ‘How long has that been there?’ Swift asked.

‘Just now,’ the old woman replied. ‘Give me the tunic.’ Swift slipped the tunic from her shoulders and handed it to Batty. She noticed a blue blanket stretched
across the floor. ‘I need you to lie on the floor,’ the old woman instructed.

Swift obeyed by gingerly sitting on the rug and then lying on her side as the old woman directed. ‘Are you a healer?’ she asked.

The old woman’s green eyes narrowed. ‘I have been many things. Close your eyes.’

Swift closed her eyes and a moment later the old woman’s hands gently pressed against her side, covering the wound. ‘You will feel warm,’ the old woman explained, ‘and then you’ll sleep.’ Swift opened her eyes. ‘Close your eyes!’ Batty ordered and Swift obeyed, surprised at the strength in the old woman’s tone. As Batty promised, she felt unusual warmth spread across her skin and deeper around her wound and under her ribs. She also felt suddenly exhausted, as if the night’s errand and the pain were conspiring to send her to sleep. She considered fighting the tiredness, but it rapidly overwhelmed her and she sank beneath its comfort.

‘Meg Kushel. Does the name mean anything to you?’

Swift shrugged, fascinated by the intensity in Batty’s green eyes as the old woman awaited her answer. ‘No. Should it?’

‘You can call me Meg, then.’ The old woman poured the steaming broth into a second chipped red mug.

‘So why didn’t you tell me your name the first time?’ Swift asked.

Meg smiled, her face cracking into deep lines, her green eyes sparkling mischievously. ‘I liked the name you gave me—Old Lady Time. It felt like a good name. Definitely better than Batty Booker, which is what everyone persisted in calling me.’ She passed the mugs to Swift. ‘Take that to your sister and nephew. I’ll make some more for your brother and us.’

‘We’re only half-related,’ Swift reminded her.

‘You’re still family,’ Meg argued. ‘Go.’

Swift carried the mugs up the stairs to Passion and Jon. Chase stood in the doorway waiting. ‘You’re up?’ she asked.

‘I feel good,’ Chase replied, flexing his chest muscles. ‘The old woman is a miracle healer.’

‘Her name is Meg,’ Swift told him as she handed the broth to mother and child. ‘I’ll bring yours,’ she added.

‘I’ll come and get it.’ He followed Swift downstairs to the little cooking galley before the shop entrance. The old woman, frizzy white hair tied back in a loose ponytail, was waiting with three more mugs. ‘Where’s the rat?’ Chase asked.

‘Whisper is doing whatever she needs to be doing,’ Meg answered. ‘How are you feeling?’

‘Like I never got hurt,’ he replied, grinning. ‘What did you do to make all the scars heal as well?’

‘Old remedies,’ Meg evasively replied. ‘Drink this,’ and she passed a mug to the young man. ‘I’m making food for us to take tonight,’ she informed him, returning to stirring a big black pot on her tiny wood stove. ‘We’ll have to hunt for food when we’re in the hills and mountains.’

‘Mountains?’ Swift asked.

‘We’re going through Shesskar-sharel,’ Meg explained, ‘and from there into Ashua.’

‘I’ve never heard of this place,’ said Swift. ‘Why are we going there?’

‘The answer to your Seer’s mystery is there.’

‘How do you know that?’ Chase asked.

‘I just know,’ Meg told him.

‘Is it in your books?’ he asked.

Meg shrugged and sipped her broth before answering, ‘Yes and no. The books I have don’t tell me
what I need to know, but they tell me where I might find what I need to know.’

‘Why are you so interested in all this?’ Swift asked.

‘The Seers and I have a history. That’s all you need to know,’ Meg told her.

‘That’s not enough,’ Swift argued. ‘I think you’re hiding something.’

Meg adopted a grim smile. ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘You’re right. I am hiding something. And I’m not telling you what it is. Take that as you want.’

Swift’s eyes narrowed at the new authoritative tone in the old woman’s voice, but when she looked at Chase he seemed nonplussed by the unsatisfactory answer. ‘I’m going up to speak to Passion,’ she said, making her annoyance bristle in her voice.

‘Tell your sister what we are planning to do,’ said Meg. ‘We’ll leave as soon as it’s dark. We’ll take a boat upriver and from then we’ll travel on foot.’ Swift didn’t answer as she climbed the stairs.

‘They escaped.’

Seer Law stared at the tattered orange garb of the poor man as he would at a stray dog in the street, wondering if the creature was dangerously diseaseridden. ‘And you have no idea where they could have gone?’

‘No, Master Seer,’ the messenger confirmed. He held out his skinny fingers in expectation.

Law drew a small pouch from his blue robe and dropped it into the outstretched begging hand. ‘Find out where they have gone,’ he ordered. He dismissed the messenger and retreated into the rear room of the temple, where the furniture was minimal and crudely fashioned—five mallee-wood stools, a simple gum bench table and two plank beds for the acolytes rostered to stay overnight. He paced the room, his
anger mounting. His Eminence, since King Hawkeye’s death, was favouring others over him, especially Word. Word should be doing menial tasks like organising the hunting down of a petty thief, not him. Now he had to report that he’d failed.
Why am I on trial, mighty Jarudha
? he silently pleaded, gazing up at the vacant ceiling. He heard a soft knock and a shaved acolyte head appeared in the door. ‘What?’ he asked peremptorily.

‘There is an important visitor, Seer Law,’ the acolyte announced, bowing his head.

‘Who?’

The acolyte was rudely pushed aside and a soldier in red armour strode into the room and stood immediately before Law. ‘Me,’ Hordemaster Fist declared. Three soldiers entered behind the Hordemaster.

‘What is the meaning of this intrusion?’ Law asked indignantly.

‘It seems we have a mutual problem,’ Fist replied, looking for a place to sit. He settled on a stool and lowered his bulky frame. ‘Sit down, Law,’ he ordered.

Law looked at the three soldiers and his cowering acolyte. ‘Should this be a private talk?’

Fist waved his right arm and the soldiers withdrew. Law nodded to the acolyte who followed in the soldiers’ wake. ‘Satisfied?’ Fist asked.

Law sat facing the man well-known to everyone as Prince Shadow’s personal protector. Fist’s bearded face was hard, blunt like his manner, and his dark eyes glittered with fearsome energy. The frightful livid scar across his nose and cheek gave him the appearance of a brutal man. ‘What is the “mutual problem”, as you described it?’ Law asked.