The Temporal Void (88 page)

Edeard gave a short nod. ‘I know.’

Topar cast out a strong seclusion haze. ‘I’ve been sending scouts out into the provinces,’ he said. ‘Good men: ex-constables, sheriffs, even a few reserve officers from the militia. People who know how to look after themselves, people I can rely on.’

‘We wanted to build up a picture of these damn raids,’ Finitan said. ‘See if there was a pattern behind them, a purpose.’

‘That’s where it gets strange,’ Topar said. ‘If they’re trying to soften us up for an invasion, they’re going about it in a very odd way. There have been no bandit raids at all in the Rulan province since midsummer; in fact, the west seems clear of all disturbances. They’ve moved steadily east through the three largest mountain ranges, causing a lot of damage, and setting light to a wildfire of fear and rumour. In fact, that’s our worse enemy right now. Any dispute that results in violence is attributed to bandit raids, from landowners fighting with poachers to a tavern brawl, so bad is their reputation. It’s hard to determine what’s real and what isn’t. The provincial governors aren’t reliable at the best of times, now any trifling squabble is seen as an excuse to petition Makkathran for militia support.’

‘It doesn’t help that Owain sent the regiments out so willingly before,’ Topar said. ‘Expectations of support were set too high.’

‘He’s left you a real mess,’ Edeard said.

‘Yes. That’s politics, and to be expected. But we took a very good look at the information we can confirm. It’s a worrying result.’

‘In what way?’

‘Basically, we’ve established there are six main packs of bandits,’ Topar said. ‘Two are heading along the Ulfsen Mountains. One is using the Komansa range for cover. Two started out in the Gorgian Mountains, though one of those is now heading north east along the Yorarns. And the last is plaguing the Sastairs all the way down to the southern coastal provinces.’

Edeard closed his eyes, trying to picture what he’d just been told on a map of the known lands. ‘They’re stretched quite thin, then.’

‘I prefer the term “widespread”,’ Topar said. ‘We’re a basically peaceful society, and their physical impact is minimal given the size of the areas concerned, but the disturbance and worry they cause is near universal.’

‘So what are they doing?’

‘One last thing.’ Finitan pulled a piece of paper across the desk, and started to read. ‘In Plax province there were raids on Payerne, Orastrul, Oki, Bihac, and Tikrit. All villages or small towns. The manor houses and their lands at Stonyford, Turndich, Uxmal, Saltmarch, Klongsop, Ettrick, and Castlebay have also suffered extensive damage during the last two months.’ He gave Edeard an expectant look. ‘Anything ring a bell?’

‘I’ve heard of the Uxmal manor, the Culverits own it. I think it’s a big parkland holding, they raise sheep there.’ He had a nasty feeling one of the families from the third floor had gone there to make their new home.

‘Indeed. Every one of those estates belongs to an ally of mine,’ Finitan said. ‘Allies and supporters also have considerable assets in or around the targeted villages.’

Edeard felt cold. ‘How could bandits know that?’

‘Somebody told them,’ Topar said. ‘Someone who has conducted a comprehensive search through the official Treasury registry.’

‘It took us a while to work it out,’ Finitan said. ‘Everyone I met at a party or dinner was complaining about their losses. I heard nothing else. I thought the invasion had already begun until I realized my allies were being singled out.’

‘Lady!’

‘Which brings us back to the question of who are they and what are they doing?’

‘They must have collaborators in the city,’ a shocked Edeard said.

‘At the very least,’ Topar said. He exchanged a worried glance with Finitan. ‘There’s also the question of the guns. If there isn’t another city equal to us . . .’

‘No,’ Edeard said. ‘The Weapons Guild . . .’
They had the longbarrel pistols all this time. But whoever supplied the bandits with repeat-fire guns killed Ashwell.

‘Too early to make that accusation,’ Topar said abruptly. ‘And we have no proof whatsoever.’

‘This is why we asked you in,’ Finitan said. ‘I know a lot of your power comes from whatever relationship you have with the city itself, but you still have the strongest psychic ability I have ever known.’

‘A week ago a report came in of a raid on Northford,’ Topar said. ‘That’s a village in the Donsori Mountains, Edeard, just four days ride from Makkathran for the Lady’s sake. Rapid-fire guns were used. We know that for a fact. One of the Ulfsen mountain groups must have pushed eastwards in the last month.’

‘If we can capture one of them alive,’ Finitan said, ‘We might just be able to find out what exactly is going on, who those collaborators are.’

‘I’m going to take a small group of the best people I know and trust,’ Topar said. ‘We’ll have ge-eagles and ge-wolves, and the best pistols available. Even so, I could do with some help.’

‘Oh Lady,’ Edeard put his cold tea cup back on the desk. ‘When do we leave?’

*

Despite all he’d been through in Makkathran, the city had made him soft, Edeard acknowledged on the second day. An easy life was an easy trap to fall into. Life on the road was a sharp reminder of the way he used to live. Making camp each night. Looking after the genistars himself rather than asking a servant. Collecting wood to make a fire. Cooking his own food. Sleeping under a blanket and an oilskin beneath the nebula-swathed sky. That was cold enough. Then after the third day they didn’t even have a fire for fear the bandit crew would notice it, and they were high in the Donsori Mountains by then.

But at that he did better than Dinlay and Macsen. They were real city boys. So he alleviated his own discomfort by enjoying theirs.

Their third night out from North Gate they camped on the side of Mount Iyo, half a day’s ride from the main road through the mountains. There was still a lot of traffic on the road, with caravans and wagons and carriages rattling along the broad paved slabs that switchbacked along the rugged slopes. But all of them were accompanied by packs of ge-wolves. The wealthier travellers had their own guards as well. There were also daily patrols of local militia squads. Edeard’s own party went under the guise of trading Guildsmen, a common enough sight on the roads. As well as himself and Topar, they had Boloton, an ex-sheriff from Oki who had spent over half of his seventy years roaming across the countryside. The second of Topar’s companions was Fresage, a huge man whose bulk was mostly muscle, another outdoors type who had seen membership in a southern provincial militia as well as serving ten years as a costal warden. In turn, he was good friends with Verini, born to a caravan family, who was taking a decade-long break from the eternal trade routes to scout round new markets and learn the roads in different territories. Then there was Larby, who had the manners of a Grand Family son yet was clearly comfortable with road life, and proficient with a pistol. He said little about his background, but Edeard suspected he had been affiliated to the families in a fashion not too dissimilar to Argian.

That just left Dinlay and Macsen to complete their number. By the end of the first day, saddle-sore himself, Edeard was beginning to think he shouldn’t have asked them along. Macsen had proved particularly difficult to convince: he was naturally concerned for Kanseen, who was due in just a few weeks. However, they stuck it out and learned from the others quickly enough. That they’d adapt was never Edeard’s concern. His main worry was that the three of them would be absent from Makkathran at the same time. Such a thing would be noticeable to a suspicious mind. If there was someone in the senior ranks of government collaborating with the bandits they might raise a warning – even though they’d never know exactly what to warn against. And it would be difficult getting word out here ahead of Topar’s group.

As their party progressed, their main source of information was fellow travellers. They didn’t even have to ask difficult questions; those who used the road frequently were unrivalled gossips. Rumour of a bandit crew was strong. There had been another raid after Northford, at a hamlet called Regentfleet. Five families dead and the buildings torched. The local governor was demanding assistance from Makkathran’s militia regiments to catch the bandits. Regentfleet was uncomfortably close to Sandmarket, the provincial capital.

‘They’re heading south, then,’ Topar said when they first heard the news of Regentfleet. Which is why they eventually left the main road to strike out across the high terrain by themselves. It was hard going, even for the stoic ge-horses, a type which blended traits of high endurance with speed; not as fast as terrestrial horses, they still had the stamina to keep a fair pace going even on the rocky slopes away from the road.

Topar led them along the edge of the woodlands which dominated the middle slopes. Thick forests of tall spindly kalkand trees whose feathery blue-gold fronds spent the winter months curled up in tight whorls.

They made camp that third day under overhanging branches which dripped an unpleasant waxy sap from their newly budded scarlet sporecones. A small stream trickled along one side, allowing the horses and ge-wolves to drink. That night they sent their ge-eagles roving around the peaks and swooping through the valleys. The big birds had a trait Edeard had never known of before, a near-perfect night-sight. There were no colours to the vision he received from them: the world they flew over was drawn in shades of grey, but still the features were sharp and true. Edeard could see small creatures scuttling along oblivious to the birds gliding silently overhead.

‘You’re still young, you can still become an apprentice to the Blue Tower yet,’ Topar taunted when Edeard remarked upon the trait. Like the Weapons Guild, the Masters of the Blue Tower kept secrets that might work to their advantage.

The ge-eagles found nothing that night. Topar and Edeard called them back in the early hours to rest before breaking camp early the next day.

Edeard woke to the sound of Dinlay cursing heavily, hopping about on one foot as he held his other boot high. His glasses were still on the roll he used as a pillow, so his face was screwed up as he squinted at the boot. ‘Ladydamnit!’

Everyone else was lifting their heads, using farsight to scan round, anxious they’d been discovered. Everyone apart from Macsen, who was on watch. He was unperturbed, just sitting on an old fallen trunk watching Dinlay with cool amusement.

‘Bloody Honious!’ Dinlay took a bad hop backwards, and tripped on a small rock. He landed hard on his arse and let out a distressed grunt. Edeard winced in sympathy as the flare of pain burst out of his friend’s mind.

‘What? What?’ Dinlay spluttered.

‘You okay back there?’ Macsen called in a voice that was far too calm. It triggered a suspicious grin on Edeard’s face. When he pushed his farsight into Dinlay’s boot he found a mush in the toe that had been a utog beetle, a native insect with a particularly prickly carapace.

‘Did you . . . ?’ an outraged Dinlay gasped. ‘Was that you . . . ?’

‘Me what?’ Macsen replied innocently.

The others were chuckling now as Dinlay started shivering, partly from the bruise on his buttocks and partly from the cold; he was dressed only in a thin shirt and cotton under-trousers.

‘May the Lady crap on you from a great height,’ Dinlay muttered darkly. His third hand pulled his glasses on to his face, then began scraping the squashed remains of the beetle out of his boot.

‘Children, children,’ Fresage said with a shake of his head. He pushed his blanket back and rose ponderously, flexing his arms to work out the knots earned from sleeping on rough ground.

Edeard pulled on a thick sweater of his own and clambered to his feet. He never could get comfortable just lying on the ground. A careful farsight examination of his own boots revealed they were unused by nesting insects, and he pulled them on.

Topar had snatched up a pistol as soon as he’d woken. Now he gave Macsen a disapproving glance and clicked the safety catch back on.

Boloton and Larby started rolling up their sleeping blankets. Now his boot was clean, Dinlay transferred his attention to his toe. Several utog spikes were sticking through his woollen socks. He removed them one at a time.

‘Well done,’ Edeard said to Macsen. ‘Just how I envisaged a District Master would behave.’

Verini was grinning along with the rest of them. ‘How did you three ever clear the city of gangs?’ he mused quietly.

Macsen flashed Edeard a profoundly guilty smirk.

‘You’re so pathetic,’ Dinlay grumbled.

‘Got to do something to stay awake,’ Macsen murmured. He pulled a kettle off the little stove that burned Jamolar oil. ‘Tea, anyone?’

‘You do have a use,’ Fresage mocked.

‘Few and far between, but those I have I excel at.’

Edeard and Dinlay exchanged a look. ‘Not what Kanseen says,’ Dinlay said smugly, and pulled his boot on.

Edeard took his cup over to Macsen. ‘You’re an arse,’ he said, grinning as his friend poured out the boiling water.

‘Yep, and that’s just on the plus side.’

Edeard stirred in one of the hand-tied linen tea packets which the tenth-floor housekeeper had made up for him. The others had ribbed him mercilessly about those, but they wound up ‘borrowing’ them at every meal.

‘How much longer is this going to take?’ Dinlay asked as he held his cup out.

‘For all this is empty land, there aren’t that many places the bandits can hide out in,’ Topar said, drinking down his own tea. ‘Shepherds use the high pastures for grazing, and it’s turning cold up here now.’

‘They will have found themselves half a dozen remote camp sites,’ Fresage said. ‘And they’ll shift between them.’

Edeard gave the valley to the south a shrewd gaze. The Donsori Mountains weren’t the highest range on Querencia, yet the snowcaps were creeping downwards again as the last weeks of summer passed away. And the forests that smothered the mid-slopes were changing colour, the fronds on the dominant kalkand trees were shading towards beige as they began to contract. Below the treeline, the gentler lower slopes had a yellow tinge. Grass deprived of water during the dry summer months was just starting to taste rain again. Clumps chewed down by terrestrial sheep and cattle along with the roaming flocks of native chamalans were putting up their last wispy sprouts before the snows came once more. The soil on these remote lands wasn’t rich enough to support farms. There were a few isolated cattle stations but that was all. Though with the peaks fencing away clouds the air was beautifully clear. Visibility stretched for miles.