The Crow (24 page)

Hem didn't speak his greatest fear, that Saliman might not come back at all. Perhaps he now stood at the prow of one of the great fighting triremes, staring ahead through the lapping darkness of the Lamarsan Sea toward the fleet of black ships that gathered malignly on the horizon. Perhaps already one of the terrible missiles of magefire had landed on the deck, splintering the frail wood, setting fire and death about it, and the great ship was sliding beneath the black surface of the waves.

Hem had seen too many times what happened to flesh and bone when one of those missiles hit a human being. He could imagine all too clearly Saliman's body torn and broken – floating burned and abandoned in the water. For a moment the vision was so vivid he was almost convinced it was true, that Saliman was already dead. He shook himself, and remembered that very few Bards came to the Healing Houses; Bards had ways of protecting themselves, after all. But Saliman would be at the thickest of the fighting. "The Light protect Saliman," he breathed to himself. "Oh, the Light protect him..."

"You're making me nervous," Soron said. He was sitting languidly on a cushion, wiping the sweat from his brow. "What will happen will happen, Hem. There's nothing we can do about it."

Soron was right, Hem knew, but nothing would stay his anxiety. Another flash of lightning and a huge clap of thunder made him jump; the thunder was so loud that for a moment he thought the walls of the Ernan were falling down. Almost instantly a great flash of sheet lightning lit up the room.

"It's going to start raining," said Soron.

"It's felt like that for ages," Hem said. "But nothing has happened."

"It will. When the wind changes."

"What wind?" asked Hem.

A heavy silence fell between them, and Hem decided to go out into the garden. It was no cooler outside than inside, but it made a change. He lay down on the glazed tiles and stared up into the darkening sky, which trembled with small lightnings. He emptied his mind and tried to call Ire, investing the summoning charm with all his power and love. He had already attempted this once that evening, but had received no response, and he feared to hear nothing again: it made him very afraid that Ire was dead. Perhaps, in his insatiable curiosity, the bird had ventured too close to the battlements and had been hit by a stray arrow.

But this time he thought he felt a faint pull in his mind, an echo of a voice that could only be Ire's. It seemed very far away. Hem sat up, puzzled, and tried the mindtouch once more: again that faint pull.
What is that bloody bird doing?
he growled to himself. Is
he hurt, and unable to come? What is it?

And where was Zelika? It was most likely that she had stolen away to be part of Har-Ytan's force, and the thought made him so furious he felt like punching the wall with his bare hand. How could she be so selfish? How could she lie to Saliman? And she would probably be killed, and that would be the end of her. At least he need never again listen to her endless strictures on how badly he pronounced Suderain... a lump rose in his throat, and impatiently he wiped away the sudden tears that welled in his eyes. If she died, it would serve her right. If he ever saw her again, he would throttle her.

A sudden lightening of the atmosphere made him look upward. It felt as if all the air had been twitched up by some giant hand. There was a pause, as if everything held its breath, and then a gust of wind, and a small pattering sound that Hem couldn't at first identify. Then he realized it was the noise of isolated raindrops falling to the ground. A big, fat drop of rain splashed warmly on his face, and then another.

"I told you!" called Soron, from indoors. "You'd better come back in; it will start hammering down soon."

"I would like to get wet," said Hem. "You should come out here."

"You'll drown," said Soron. "You don't know what it's like." He came out with a lamp that glowed phosphorescent against the hot darkness, to listen to the rustle of the leaves in the wind. He and Hem stood without talking, staring up into the sky, waiting, as the soft drops fell one by one, and steam rose from the warm tiles. Then, as gently as it began, the rain stopped.

"No chance of drowning in this," said Hem.

"You wait," said Soron, and turned to grin at Hem. "It won't be long."

At that moment, Hem heard the clear call of a trumpet. Not the harsh braying of the trumpets of the Black Army, but a trill of clear, melodious notes, which were almost immediately answered by another. As it died away, it seemed to resonate in his mind, as if it had been a flowing script written in silver over the dark sky. Soron cocked his head, listening, and drew a deep breath.

"Har-Ytan's flourish," he said. "Aye, well. May the Light be with her, and with all who fight with her."

Hem felt a cold dread, as if his insides had suddenly been replaced with empty space. He sharpened his Bard hearing, but he could make nothing of the noises he heard; a jumble of thunder, and confused rumblings.

After what seemed like ages, there was another long, loud peal of thunder, and then a crash that could have been thunder, but wasn't. Hem stared at Soron, his face harshly lit by sheet lightning that covered the entire sky.

"What was that?" he asked.

"I don't know," Soron said.

"It sounded like – like the gate falling," Hem said in a low voice. He stood in an agony of listening, his eyes dark and fearful.

"Maybe." Soron wiped his face again. He didn't like the heat, and sweated profusely and uncomfortably. "It's hard to tell."

"Do you think they have broken the West Gate?" Hem turned to Soron, his eyes large and liquid in the dark.

"It could be," said Soron steadily. "We will find out in due course."

"Where's that bird?" Hem said again, uselessly. The place on his shoulder where Ire usually sat seemed to ache with emptiness. As if to answer his question, the rain began again, a few large drops at first, making darker spots on the tiles by his bare feet, and then the spots joined together into one darkness and the pattering rose into a constant roar. It happened so quickly that he was drenched before he could react. The rain came down as heavily as a waterfall, striking back up from the ground in a spume about their feet. It poured in solid streams off the roof of the Ernan.

Hem and Soron stumbled back inside, dripping. They could hear nothing except the downpour, and, faintly above it, the rumble of thunder. Being indoors felt like being underwater. It was still warm, but the dreadful choking pressure had gone away.

"I told you what it was like," said Soron, blinking water out of his eyes.

"How will they fight in this?" asked Hem. "The rain's so heavy, you can scarce see a hand in front of your eyes."

"Saliman and Juriken knew the rain was coming," Soron answered. "I think they may have summoned it."

Momentarily, Hem brightened. "Yes, I'm sure you're right," he said. "It must have been part of their plans." But then he thought of Ire. "There's no way Ire can get back now," he said mournfully.

"He'll manage," Soron said kindly. "He's a very clever bird. I'm sure he'll find a way As for Zelika – "

"If she ever gets back here, I'll throttle her with my bare hands," said Hem blackly, and started furiously gnawing his fingernails. "If she gets back..."

He stared out into the moving darkness.

As Hem had suspected, Ire had gone on an errand to filch a treasure, an earring he had spotted on the ground near the Healing Houses, sparkling in the dim light. Someone had obviously dropped it, and it stirred his covetousness. Late in the afternoon, while Hem was busy with the last of his patients, Ire had flapped off in search of his prize.

It was gone: although Ire searched the whole area diligently, he could find no sign of it. Disgruntled, he perched on a nearby tree and preened his feathers crossly. It was then that he saw Zelika stealing out of the Healing Houses, looking around cautiously to make sure that no one saw her. Furtively she stole down the street, and turned into one of the covered alleys.

Zelika's manner piqued Ire's curiosity, and he swooped down and followed her. With unusual guile, he took great care to remain hidden; there were plenty of old awnings and trees to hide behind if Zelika, as she often did, turned to check whether she was being followed. She hurried to the Ernan, saluted the guards, and passed inside. To his frustration Ire couldn't follow her: the guards shooed him away.

Ire was now beside himself with curiosity about what Zelika was doing: he was quite certain she was bent on mischief, and although he was a little afraid of her, she attracted and charmed him. Impatiently he perched on a wall opposite the gate to the Ernan and waited to see if she would appear again, passing the time by squabbling with a couple of meenahs, the loud-voiced birds who usually spent their time scavenging the market for scraps. Since he had taken on the mantle of the King's messenger and not even the crows dared to harass him anymore, most of the local birds had begun to find Ire rather irritating. He took no notice of territorial boundaries and felt his status entitled him to be rude to anyone he chose.

His quarrel proceeded noisily, with satisfactory insults on both sides, until the meenahs gave it up and flew away, shrieking more abuse as they went. Ire fluffed his feathers and stropped his beak triumphantly on the wall. He was just wondering whether to fly back to the Healing Houses when Zelika emerged from the Ernan, dressed in full armor.

Ire almost didn't recognize her in her new attire: what gave her away was her caution. She looked carefully up and down the street, but didn't spot Ire. She began to walk quickly toward the West Gate.

It was now nearing twilight, so it was easier for Ire to remain unseen in the long shadows. He flapped slowly along, following her at a discreet distance, until they reached the huge square before the West Gate. It was thronged with ranks of soldiers, all in full Suderain battle dress. Nearer the gate were ranks of horsemen, their heavy mounts standing patiently in the heat.

Ire could count, but only up to five (a useful disability for Hem, who regularly emptied Ire's treasure troves – as long as he left five objects, the crow didn't notice anything was missing). The numbers here were well beyond his counting; it was a flock of human beings, filling the entire square, swelling into the broad roads that ran off it. Yet, for all their numbers, there was very little noise. Among the press of people the air was close and heavy, but a weight and tension lay over the soldiers that was due to more than the heat; the somberness of this gathering impressed even Ire.

The soldiers stood or squatted in orderly rows, the golden emblems on their breasts shining dimly in the gloom, or flashing weirdly now and again in the dry lightnings that illuminated the dark clouds. Some talked quietly together; others were making last checks of their battle gear, testing the edges of their blades, and throwing knives, while others merely sat, staring silently at the ground.

Zelika stopped, and stood hesitantly at the edge of the square. No one took any notice of her. Fearing to lose sight of her among the crowd, Ire flew much closer than he had dared to before, perching on an ancient lintel to keep his eye on her.

Ire was a very intelligent crow, but his understanding was still that of a bird. He had no idea what Zelika was doing, as he didn't understand the intricacies of the arguments that she had had with Saliman. However, his crow cunning, honed in his own thieving, told him that she was doing something wrong: he thought it was likely that she was seeking to steal a treasure of her own, which might be of interest to Ire himself. He was puzzled by her being here among the soldiers, in the shadow of the city walls: there could be nothing precious here.

Ire avoided the walls of Turbansk, as they were dangerous places where burning things might appear out of nowhere and explode, and where the mind-destroying noise of the Black Army – the constant throb of the war drums and the scream of trumpets – became clear and terrible. Over everything rose the smell of blood and rotting flesh and burning, made pungent by the heat. Being a crow, Ire had no objection to carrion: but here the stench frightened him. It was at the walls that you knew Turbansk was at war; deeper inside the city, it was easier to ignore.

Out of habit, Ire idly scanned the closer soldiers in case there was something he could add to his treasure trove. In doing so, he inattentively hopped off his perch onto the ground, and he also took his eye off Zelika. This was a mistake, for Zelika turned and, for the first time, spotted him.

Zelika's response was immediate and violent. She launched herself at Ire and caught him, first by one wing, and then by his feet. Panting with rage, she scrambled up, holding him upside down. Flapping furiously, Ire hung from her hands, screaming with fright and anger, twisting his neck to try to peck her. She held him at arm's length to keep out of range of his beak.

"You scrawny piece of fish bait," she spat. "I might have known you'd be spying on me. I ought to wring your filthy neck!"

While Ire could not understand what she said, the general gist of it was clear enough. He doubled his cries of alarm. "Shut up, or I'll
kill
you."

Swiftly she took a leather thong from her waist and tied Ire's feet together, so he was trussed like a chicken. Ire screamed crow obscenities the entire time. Now his fright was overtaken by his outrage: how dare she treat him, Ire, the King's messenger, like this?

The small scene was beginning to attract notice. Zelika, still holding Ire by his feet, looked around desperately, and tried to clamp his beak shut with her hand. He stabbed her viciously. He was a heavy, powerful bird, and at this point she let go of him. He fell to the ground on his back and twisted desperately, trying to get airborne. But Zelika grabbed him again, and held him so hard that she was really hurting his feet. Ignoring the blood that ran down her hand, she finally got hold of his beak and held it shut. It did not stop Ire's shrieks; they were merely muffled. Now he really did think she was going to wring his neck.