The Heretic (Beyond the Wall Book 1) (10 page)

‘Where’d you get her?’

Shepherd’s chest tightened. The metronomic clank of metal striking metal echoed around the hangar. Over one shoulder, he watched a man with long arms like an ape’s, in greasy overalls and dark goggles, yank the starter on a two-handed angle grinder and bend it into a sheet of warped hull. Sparks flew across the stone floor, and the air smelled of grease and flame. His mouth was dry.

‘Won her in a card game,’ he shouted above the noise. Despite the practised rehearsal, Shepherd could see that Barack caught the obvious lie, which had seemed solid enough to Shepherd hours earlier.

A nineteen-year-old with a freighter? Was there any lie that could convince?

Despite the tiny flicker of recognition in the corner of the old man’s eyes, nothing more about it was said. Barack ran a small outfit, an outer-rim chop shop whose main clientele would have told more frequent, and more dangerous, lies. Doubtless the old man cared little for where his work came from, only that it kept him in coin.

Barack glanced at the floor, then back at Soteria.

‘She’s been shot at before—there’s some scarring on the hull,’ he said as he laid a hand gently on the bulkhead, ‘but she’s armoured, and that’s holding up pretty well. She tried to hide a few of her systems from me, but I kept on digging until I found ’em. Not seen their like before—they’re older’n me. She might once have seen service with the Magistratus at some point—which would explain the armour and the medical bay—but that was a while ago and ’t’ain’t rare that old Magistratus freighters find themselves in private hands.’

‘What systems?’

‘Navigational and propulsion mainly. More’n likely obsolete technology replaced by the last owner or even before. Nothing to worry yourself about.’

‘I need her ready for work,’ Shepherd replied. ‘And I need any trace of ownership removed. Can you do that? I mean,
any
trace.’

Barack’s eyes narrowed. For a while he didn’t answer. The angle-grinder had finished decorating the floor with orange spray, and the workman had lifted up the goggles to examine his work. Then Barack said, ‘I can do that. It’ll cost more’n I usually ask, though. And I’ll be wantin’ payment up front.’

‘That’s fine.’

There’s enough to get her ready and keep me going for a little while.
‘I need you to make sure there are no tracking systems on her as well.’

‘It’ll be done.’

‘How long?’

‘A week,’ Barack said. ‘No longer. You stayin’ nearby?’

‘I haven’t decided.’
And I wouldn’t be telling you, even if I had.

‘Well, you come back this way in six or seven days and we’ll finish up our business. You’ll be wanting t’leave payment with me ’fore you go.’

Shepherd nodded and pulled a pouch of coin from his pocket. ‘A deposit. We’ll talk about the rest when you’ve finished.’

Barack eyed the pouch before he took it. It disappeared into the folds of his overalls and he turned without another word. Shepherd watched as Barack went over to the mechanic with the angle-grinder and began to wave towards Soteria, giving instructions. Shepherd hated to leave her in a place like this, alone and unprotected. He knew each scar by sight; knew every curve of her sinuous hull. She might be old, but she could still move.

Basic fighter manoeuvres are all about energy, Raine.
His father’s lessons echoed in his mind.
Too much energy and you might get in range, but overshoot. Too little and you lose manoeuvrability if you’re defending. The right balance shifts according to where you are, who your attacker is and the ship you’re in. This old girl is heavy and fast, which is usually good, because you can bug out quicker. Smaller guys will have more manoeuvrability than you, if their drives are big enough. But she’s got surprises in her.

The loading ramp was down and the hold drew Shepherd’s gaze. He knew the deck was clean—not a drop of blood would be discovered by Barack—but as he watched, a crimson shadow seemed to spill across the slick metal. A chill crawled up his back and he shivered. He closed his eyes, willing the image to dissipate.

He’s gone, and they’ll come looking for the ship. So deal with it. You owe it to her to protect her.

He shouldered his small pack and left.

Shepherd reached into the pack, pulled out a bundle of rags and laid them carefully on the wooden counter. He was aware of the man watching him and wondered if the man could see the sweat gathering on his forehead. He unwrapped each layer slowly, taking as long as he could, dreading the moment when he saw it again. Terrified he might not be able to hold it together.

As he peeled away the final layer, the bile rose in his throat. He rested his hands on the counter to keep them from shaking. The last time he’d held the pistol which nestled amid the folds of cloth, he had killed two men.

He could smell the cordite on himself even now. The metallic taste of blood crept across his tongue. Two thunderous reports rang in his ears, and his hands, even pressed to the counter, felt the violent kick. He watched the two men buck and sway as the bullets punched through them; watched them fall, shock etched forever on their dying faces.

‘Are you listening?’

What?

‘Hey, are you listening to me?’

No, I need to leave. I shouldn’t be here.

‘Yes,’ Shepherd said, blinking. The man’s eyes were cold grey. ‘Yes, sorry. I was somewhere else for a minute.’

‘Look, you may got all day, but I ain’t,’ the man said. ‘I’ll give you an even hundred, an’ that’s me bein’ generous.’

Too low. The pistol’s worth triple that. ‘
I need something to replace it. Let me see what you have.’

The man stayed perfectly still. For a long time, he said nothing, then he slowly wrapped the pistol in its cloth and placed it below the counter. He regarded Shepherd again, then turned away and pushed through the red curtain. When he returned, he was carrying a case stitched in brown leather. He set it down on the counter, opened it and removed three smaller, wooden boxes. He opened them in turn.

Each contained a pistol.

‘All in good working order,’ the man declared. ‘All cleaned and oiled. Fine weapons, all of them. Take whichever one y’want, an’ I’ll accept yours in exchange.’

Take the deal and it’s over. A new start. That’s what you wanted.

No.

‘Try again.’

‘What d’you mean?’

Shepherd picked one up. It felt light in his hands and he knew it would kick hard, would take time to re-aim. It was a complex unit—more moving parts made it more likely to jam up. Style over substance.

‘These are for dead people,’ Shepherd said quietly. ‘You know it, I know it. It’s like you said—we don’t have all day.’

‘An’ you need this weapon gone,’ the man replied coldly. ‘You know it, I know it. Take your pick.’ He fanned a hand across the three pistols.

He’s right. You need it gone.
‘Go back in there, offer me something worth my time. Don’t make me ask again.’

The man stared at him, wondering whether the boy was a threat. Shepherd balled his hands into fists and stared back. The man nodded slowly and turned away. This time he returned with a single box. He set it down on the counter and licked his lips as he moved to open it. Shepherd rested his hand on the box and the man looked up at him nervously.

Shepherd shook his head. He released the brass latch with his thumb and eased open the box.

C
HAPTER
N
INE

THE VOICES meandered like whispers on the wind. He reached for them, but they were fleeting, almost ghostly. He concentrated, pursuing them, but they were like echoes inside his head.

Shepherd told himself to focus. To
listen
. To seize each word and hold on to it. To use them to pull himself back.

Somewhere, in the distance behind the voices, a crow cawed.

Slowly, as he fought to regain his consciousness, the voices became clearer and more distinct.

‘We didn’t know what to do,’ a man’s voice whispered. It trembled, was edged with what sounded like fear. ‘We removed his wet clothing and wrapped him in blankets. He was so blue, his skin was like rubber and frozen. We couldn’t understand what he was saying—he made no sense. He kept saying Vaarden’s name. Over and over again.
Vaarden
. Then he was gone.’

Shepherd listened carefully. He didn’t know who they were talking about, but each word might teach him a little more about where he was, who had taken him.

‘You were right,’ another man assured quietly. His tone was calmer, the timbre much deeper, but Shepherd also heard weariness and apprehension. ‘You saved his life. For now. He has a fever from the infection in his leg. We’ll know more if it breaks.’

‘If?
If
it breaks? He’s just a boy. There must be something more we can do.’

‘We need to keep him warm and keep him hydrated. Wet his lips as often as you can.’

‘And his brother? Where’s Ishmael?’

No answer came.

Shepherd kept his eyes closed. He breathed gently and didn’t move. They seemed close to him, and certainly in the same room.

In the darkness of his closed eyes, he tried to work out whether he was injured. He was warm and lying on something hard and flat, perhaps a cot, or some other kind of simple bed. Something heavy lay on top of him, smothering him—its coarseness scratched his neck—and his head was propped on something soft that felt like furs. He couldn’t feel his pistol on his thigh, but that didn’t much surprise him. And he felt no pain save the ache inside his head—a throbbing like the morning following an evening spent with home-brew. His lips were dry and cracked.

He could hear the wind swirling outside and a noise that sounded like flapping. The whole place reeked of unwashed skin and burnt wood.

‘Jordi won’t understand what we did…’ the first man began to say, but his voice succumbed to emotion and he fell silent. Finally, he whispered, ‘Is Ishmael dead?’

‘Taken, certainly. Perhaps alive.’

‘You don’t believe that.’

‘On no account tell the boy. He needs to regain his strength. And we need to know what he saw. Why he ended up in the river.’

‘He knows this forest better than anyone else in the village. It couldn’t have been his error.’

‘I know.’

‘Who is
he
?’

Shepherd guessed they were now talking about him.

‘The time will come for answers, but for now, you must trust me.’

‘His being here puts us at risk.’

‘No. In fact, he’s the only hope we have. And he’s awake now, listening to us, so perhaps we ought to introduce ourselves.’

Shepherd heard shuffling. He opened his eyes.

The preacher from the shuttle was looming over him. He wore the same longcoat as before, but the scarf was now down around his neck, revealing his face. He seemed older, his skin even more calloused than Shepherd remembered. His lips were thin and tight and unsmiling. Behind the preacher stood another man. He was tall and slim, also huddled in a thick coat with a woollen scarf wrapped around his neck. The corner of his mouth twitched as his wide eyes darted between Shepherd and the preacher.

Shepherd glanced around. He was in a domed tent. The only light came from a single oil lamp hung in the centre, a dull orange glow casting murky shadows all over. There were five cots, each identical to the one he lay on, set out in such a way as to make optimum use of the space available. Each was piled with blankets or pelts and meagre personal effects. Another thick pelt covered his body. He shrugged it off and onto the floor and swung his legs round.

Mistake.

Suddenly, his head began to reel and yaw, and bile rose in his throat. He tried to place his hand on the cot to steady himself, but he caught the edge and his grip faltered. The floor came up to meet him as he fell, pitching sideways and spiralling downwards. But as quickly as he had begun to tumble, he was seated again, the preacher next to him, gripping him tightly.

‘It will take a while for you to regain your senses completely. Be patient and you will recover fully.’

‘What did you
do
to me?’ Shepherd snarled.

‘You were poisoned.’

‘By you.’ He wanted to reach out, stretch his hands around the man’s throat and squeeze hard.

‘It was unavoidable. But, nevertheless, I’m sorry about that.’

‘That supposed to mean something to me?’

‘It means something to
me
. Really, I’m sorry for the way you were brought here. But as I said, it was unavoidable. You wouldn’t have come.’

‘You could’ve asked.’

The preacher chuckled and, although Shepherd didn’t find much humour in the moment, he eased a little. ‘For all the good it would have done us,’ the preacher replied.

‘What do you want?’

‘First of all, I’d like to make good on our contract.’

‘You’re Conran?’

‘It’s not my name, but you were dealing with me, yes.’

‘So pay me and we’ll forget all about the kidnapping.’