Sir Thursday (21 page)

T
he New Nithling patrol was easily evaded, the Not-Horses stretching their legs to gallop without the burden of the double-ride sack. Arthur, experiencing this for the first time, was at first terrified and then, after it became clear he wouldn’t just fall off, exhilarated.

The Not-Horses had much greater stamina than earthly horses, but even they could not sustain a gallop for long. After the Nithling force was nothing but a distant speck on the horizon, beyond the low hills of the current tile, Troop Lieutenant Jarrow raised his hand. His Not-Horse slowed down to a canter, then to a brief trot, and finally a walk, with Arthur’s and Fred’s mounts following their leader.

They continued at a walk for the rest of the day, with half an hour’s rest at noon, amid the ruined city of the last tile they needed to cross. It wasn’t much of a ruined city. There were only outlines of old buildings, one or two bricks high, and grassy barrows that might or might not contain interesting remnants. Troop Lieutenant Jarrow explained that there had never actually been a city there. It
was built as a ruin, when the Architect had made the Great Maze to be a training ground for the Army.

The officer also showed them how to recognize a tile border—an important thing to know, because anyone within a few yards of a border at sundown ran the risk of having different portions of their body simultaneously transported to different places.

Not all tile borders were marked in the same way, Jarrow explained, but most borders were obvious from a change in the color of the vegetation or the soil, showing up as a continuous line. The border from the jungle to the ruined city, for example, was very clear, as every vine-hugged tree on the southern edge was almost yellow instead of a healthy green.

The border from the ruined city tile to the marsh was not as evident, since there was no clear line of color change or difference in vegetation. But Jarrow pointed to a low cairn of white stones in the middle of an area where the ground slowly changed from a short green grass to low shrubs that were almost blue. Significantly, the cairn was a semicircle, round on the northern side and sheer on the south. It had been built to show the southern border of that tile.

The marsh proper began soon after. Jarrow let the reins
slack, and his Not-Horse picked a way through the spongy sedge and the tea-colored pools of water, the others following in single file.

In the middle of the tile, or near enough by Jarrow’s estimation, they found an island of slightly drier, somewhat higher ground, and here they set up camp. Jarrow again kept watch as Arthur and Fred removed the Not-Horses’ harnesses, wire-brushed and oiled them, and polished their ruby eyes. Then they rubbed down their lightning-charged tulwars, sharpened them, and rubbed grease on their boots and their mail hauberks. All in all, this took till dusk.

Deep in the marsh, with the sun dipped below the horizon, they could only see one of the changed tiles around them. Looking to the east, where there had been nothing to see, there was now an imposing mountain, a dark silhouette against the starry sky.

“We ride to the Citadel in the morning,” said Jarrow. He’d used the last of the sun to consult his almanac, choosing not to show a light after dark. “I’d like to ride now, and if we had different tiles we might have done it. But there’s a mountain pass to go through now, and a forest, and the Eastern Water Defense.”

“The
what
water defense?” asked Arthur.

“It’s part of the Citadel and doesn’t move. A dry lake
that can be flooded by opening sluice gates from the subterranean springs below the Citadel hill. It should still be dry, but…”

Jarrow’s voice trailed off. The three of them sat in the starlit darkness, listening to the sounds of the swamp. Their Not-Horses stood quietly nearby, also occasionally talking to one another in their soft, dry language that perhaps only the oldest of troop sergeants might understand.

“Should be dry, sir, but perhaps won’t be?” asked Fred after a while, greatly daring.

“Yes, it may have been filled,” said Jarrow. “While tectonic strategy has proved masterful as always, there are so many New Nithlings around that some were bound to end up near the Citadel, and the different groups have been joining up on the plain below the hill…a nuisance really. Not a siege, not by any means.”

“What exactly is the Citadel, sir?” asked Arthur.

“It’s a mighty fortress, Green. Four concentric rings of bastions, ravelins, and demi-lunes, all sited to support one another with cannon and musket, and the approach ramps covered by firewash projectors. Then, within the third ring, there is the Inner Citadel, a Star Fort built upon a hill of hard stone. The Inner Citadel has earthen ramparts seventy feet thick abutting walls forty feet high, and it is armed with sixteen royal cannon, thirty-two
demi-cannon, and seventy-two small cannons the artillerists call sakers. Though there has been a terrible shortage of powder for them, ever since Grim Tuesday was deposed by this new Lord Arthur—”

Jarrow stopped talking as Arthur suddenly whimpered in pain and clapped his hands to his head. He felt as if a missile had struck the center of his brain, exploding into a vast array of memories. Images, sounds, smells, and thoughts reverberated everywhere within his skull, so many that he momentarily felt disoriented and sick. Every significant memory from the day he lost his yellow elephant to the approach of the three Bathroom Attendants was overlaid all at once in a crazy mishmash of instant recollection.

The pain disappeared almost at once, and the memories slowly retreated deeper into his head, sorting themselves out as they went, though not in perfect order. However, he did know who he was and what had happened, and that he was in great danger from Sir Thursday.

“Are you all right, Trooper?” asked Jarrow.

“Yes, sir,” whispered Arthur.

“Memory pain,” said Fred. “I punched myself in the mouth once because of it. Got a fat lip. Did you remember anything useful, Ray?”

“Maybe,” said Arthur guardedly. He was in a tough
position. He wanted to tell Fred everything, but that would only put his friend at risk as well. “I’ve got a few more things to think through anyway.”

“You two rest,” said Jarrow. He stood up, loosened his tulwar in its scabbard, and began to pace quietly around their small island. “I’ll keep watch.”

“Don’t you need some rest too, sir?” asked Fred.

“I have much to think about,” said Jarrow. “And I do not need to rest yet. Piper’s children need more sleep than drafted Denizens, and those Denizens need more sleep than regular soldiers like myself, who were made for the profession of arms by the Architect. But even I need to sleep more than our red-eyed comrades here, who sleep only in their stables and then no more than once a seven-day. I will rouse you before the dawn, or if there is the suggestion of trouble.”

There was no alarm in the night, though Arthur woke several times, disturbed either by some night noise or by a twinge of discomfort, born from sleeping on the ground with only a saddle for a pillow and a rough, felted blanket for bedcovers.

Arthur was woken properly by Jarrow before any sun was visible but as the higher stars began to fade. Without the need for breakfast, and being forgiven shaving as they were in the field, the trio quickly saddled the Not-Horses
and went on their way, the two boys working hard to bear in silence the aches and pains that had come from the previous day’s ride and their night on the ground.

Arthur did not spare too much attention to these pains, or to the swamp he was traveling through. His mind was fully occupied thinking about what he was going to do, and what Sir Thursday might do to him. The Trustee had to know who Arthur was, because either Lieutenant Crosshaw or Sergeant Helve would surely have reported his presence. Or possibly Sir Thursday might have known all the time and had Arthur drafted on purpose, rather than by bureaucratic accident.

But why would Sir Thursday summon all the Piper’s children in the Army to the Citadel if he only wanted to get Arthur? There had to be more to it, Arthur believed. There was also the question of what he was going to do if the opportunity presented itself for him to try to find the Will or get hold of the Fourth Key. Should he take it and put himself at risk of retribution? Or should he be a good soldier and follow orders and not give Sir Thursday any excuse to put aside Army Regulations and do something horrible to him? If he just tried to be a good soldier, he might end up having to serve his hundred years, and he’d never get home—

Home. The Skinless Boy. Leaf. The—

“The letter!” Arthur suddenly said aloud, slapping his head again. He’d just remembered the letter from Superior Saturday, the one threatening his family. As Ray, without his proper memory, he’d dismissed it as a hoax. But now that he remembered everything, it brought home everything he had feared would happen with the Skinless Boy.

“We must be quiet from here,” ordered Jarrow, wheeling his horse to address Arthur and Fred directly. “The pass ahead should be clear, but we cannot count on it. Close up on me and ready your swords. We will charge through if the way is blocked.”

Arthur rode close enough to almost touch knees with the lieutenant, while Fred did the same on the other side. If they had to charge, they would do so as a tight mass of Not-Horses, a wedge that should punch through any New Nithling ranks that stood against them.

As they advanced, Arthur looked around properly for the first time in at least ten minutes. They were leaving the swamp, heading west, and the tile ahead was dominated by two rocky hills, with a shallow gorge between them that was perhaps half as high. The rough road they were on led into the gorge.

“Can’t we go around?” he asked. He couldn’t see anything too formidable to the north or south.

“There are mud pools to the north today,” said Jarrow,

tapping his Ephemeris. “And thistle-scrub south. Very slow for the Not-Horses. This way is somewhat steep, but the road is wide and good. Beyond the pass, there is grassland and a bucolic village. After that is the easternmost fixed tile, which is the Eastern Water Defense. If we are not waylaid, and the water defenses are dry, we should be at the Citadel by late afternoon.”

They were not waylaid, but well before they saw it, they knew the Eastern Water Defense was not dry. It had been flooded, and some of its water was spilling over into the adjacent tile, running down the main street of the bucolic village, a lovely but uninhabited collection of narrow lanes and charming houses that surrounded a large village green bordered by several pubs, a blacksmith’s forge, four or five small shops, and an archery range.

“Was there ever anyone here, sir?” asked Arthur as the Not-Horses waded up to their fetlocks in the water streaming down the main street, their noses held high to show their dislike for the stuff.

“Not permanently,” replied Jarrow. He spoke quickly, and his eyes were never still, darting this way and that as he looked all around. “But in the past, whenever
this tile came close to the Citadel, the White Keep, Fort Transformation, or one of the other fixed locations, the taverns would be manned and a fair established for the day. We should be able to see the Citadel in a minute. Once we are past these buildings.”

The road began to rise after the town, then leveled out again. There were stands of tall cypress at intervals along it, but the view was clear straight ahead. As they reached the flat, Jarrow stopped and gazed out, shielding his eyes with his hand.

Arthur and Fred did not look so much as stare, their mouths open wide enough to catch any small insects that might have been about.

There was a broad, mile-wide lake ahead of them, stretching north and south onto other tiles and on out of sight. Its eastern shore lapped the edge of the village tile, which was marked by a line of tall pines, many of them shorn of western branches.

Beyond the lake was a giant wedding cake of a fortress, spread over many miles. The outer line of angled bastions—which to Arthur looked like short, broad, triangle-shaped towers—formed the bottom of the cake, then a hundred and fifty yards in and fifty feet higher there was the second line, and one hundred and fifty yards in from that and up fifty feet again was the third line. Beyond
that line was a hill of stark white stone, and on the hill was a star-shaped fort, each of its six points a bastion that held half a dozen cannon and perhaps two hundred defenders. Right in the middle of the Star Fort was an ancient keep, a square stone tower a hundred and fifty feet high.

A huge cloud of green smoke hung above the outermost defense line to the southwest.

“Firewash smoke,” said Jarrow grimly. “There must have been an assault sometime this morning. But I heard no cannons…we must be very low on Nothing-powder. We must go back to the village—we will have to build a raft.”

“Can’t we signal the Citadel somehow?” suggested Arthur. “Sir?”

“I have no communication figures,” said Jarrow. “None could be spared for me. If we signal with smoke or mirror, the New Nithlings may see it and send a raiding party. They must be established in force on the western plains. I have never seen a firewash cloud as big as that one.”

It was not as difficult to make a raft as Arthur had thought. They simply took a dozen barrels from the nearest pub, three of its doors, and a quantity of rope, cordage, pitch, and nails from the blacksmith’s, along with some of the tools. Under Jarrow’s direction, the barrels were lashed
together, the doors nailed to the top, and the likely places for the barrels to leak smeared with pitch.

The raft was assembled by the lake’s edge, very close to the tile border with the bucolic village. Arthur was acutely aware of this, though he managed to stop himself from looking at the position of the sun all the time, and he didn’t ask Jarrow where the village was going to go at sundown.

But he got more nervous as the afternoon progressed. It was perhaps half an hour short of dusk when they finished, with the final touches being three oars from planks ripped out of the pub’s benches.