Beyond the Wall of Time (8 page)

You’ve not used these muscles in earnest for years
, said the voice in her head in a tone of bored instruction.
You should have stayed below with the old man. Except, of course, I would not have let you.

She tried to ignore him. Offer him nothing, perhaps he would discard her. Up and up, her knees struggling to lock so she could
raise herself to the next rung.

In the increasingly long pauses between rungs she caught swirling glimpses of the forest around her. Oddly, its closeness
obscured her view, making it difficult to get any real sense of what the forest looked like. Extravagant was the word that
seemed to suit. A profusion of broad leaves was visible in every direction, on the trees themselves, on the parasitic plants
growing on the trees, and on the plants that grew on them. As she climbed higher the occasional shaft of sunlight picked out
a ridiculously colourful plant or a flitting bird—the outrageous spike-crested bird, the spear-billed bird and the blurwing
bird, or so she thought of them. A tiny blurwing darted between a crimson pitcher-shaped plant and a bush as large as a tree—though
it grew from the trunk of the tree they climbed—covered in yellow flowers that looked like bells. It was a magical place,
or it would have been a magical place if people weren’t forcing her to climb ever higher.

At least a hundred feet above the ground, the rope ladder steadied. She glanced upwards and saw the underside of a broad platform.
At last. From somewhere she found a surge of strength and, panting heavily, hauled herself onto the platform.

From somewhere? She knew where.

See how we need each other?

She refused to reply. He would think she was too tired to think straight. Unless, of course, he could read these quiet under-thoughts.
Desperately she hoped not.

Look around you, little swan. Look up.

With a sinking feeling, she realised this platform was not their destination. Already many warriors, tired of waiting, were
ascending another ladder, their captives interspersed between them. More came up behind her.

I can’t.
She collapsed on the platform and began to sob.
I can’t.

With a rush of heat the back of her head seemed to burst into flame. Her hands went to her head—at least she thought they
did, but in reality they jerked out and clasped the platform. Her legs splayed wide and she found herself on her feet.

“Aaaaa!” she screamed.

“Arathé!” her father and brother both cried.

She could do nothing, not even acknowledge them. She had become a prisoner in her own body.

Now you learn
, said the voice, the sound wreathed in the crackle of flame.

One hand grasped the ladder, one foot found a rung. The other foot swung up, struck for and missed the next rung—she slipped
forward, a rung catching her under the chin. That, and her foothold, kept her from falling.

Stupid bitch, stop fighting me!

The ladder spun left and right and Arathé felt she would spit up everything she had ever eaten. But even then, in danger of
falling and with fire in her head and stomach, she had enough spirit to reply:
What happened to ‘little swan’? You need some help overcoming a girl?

His answer was to seize her again and send her scurrying up the ladder. Within moments she had caught the rearmost of the
warriors; heedless, the voice sent her climbing right over him. The Padouki cried a warning and his fellows began to duck
out of her way by clinging to the underside of the ladder. It jerked and twirled crazily as she passed man after man and even
members of her own party. She saw Kilfor’s pale face with eyes wide open, and Stella gamely clinging on with her one hand.
Mustar called out to her, but she could not hear him for the sound of burning in her head.

In this fashion Arathé was driven up another two hundred feet or more to the Canopy, where the people of Patina Padouk made
their homes. She collapsed on the high platform, body shaking, limbs jerking like the legs of a frog. The burning sound faded
and her head cooled. Tentatively she raised a hand to her head, expecting fried skin, scorching at the least, but found her
scalp and hair intact.

I never want to experience that again.

She lay on her stomach, head hanging over the edge of the platform. Her eyes came into focus: she was staring into darkness,
which resolved into forest twilight. She thought she could see the ground far, far below.

This time she could not control her stomach.

The captives were given a few minutes to recover. These Noetos spent with Arathé, trying to find out why she had behaved so
strangely. His daughter would not even look at him, let alone engage in conversation.

“Please,” he begged. “Tell me what is wrong.”

She turned away, obviously distressed.

“The madwoman is to go first,” their chief captor said. “We nearly lost a man when she rushed up the ladder like a sow in
heat.”

He’ll pay for that remark.
“She will need my help to climb,” Noetos answered, careful to keep his voice respectful. “Is this permitted?”

“You may assist her,” said the man grudgingly. “However, if she knocks anyone from any of the walks, you will both pay with
your lives.”

As they set off along a swinging bridge suspended between trees, Noetos began to notice signs of a city in the Canopy. Everywhere
he looked trees sprouted huts of various descriptions: large, small, squat, tall, peak-roofed, slope-roofed, open-walled or
closed-walled. Roofs and floors were made of wood, while hides generally served for walls. Each hut was aligned the same way
and open at both ends, presumably to allow for better airflow. Given the sticky heat of the forest, he’d certainly want it
that way.

The dwellings were by no means marvels of engineering: this was not the fabled City of the Clouds, subject of nursery tales.
Ramshackle and lightweight, they looked as though they would be blown away in any sort of wind. There was no beauty to them.
No carving above the doors, no added colours or patterns on the hide. Perfunctory. The same could be said for the swaying
bridges between platforms. Certainly there were far too many signs of recent mending for the fisherman’s peace of mind.

What peace of mind? He had a daughter who had begun acting as though touched by madness, and she would not speak to him about
it. His son, as usual, blamed him for all their problems. And there was the matter of their capture and imminent interrogation—though,
given the calibre of the magicians in their party, he rated this one of his lesser worries. Of more concern was a dead emperor
wandering around somewhere. It would doubtless be a very long time before Noetos again experienced any peace of mind. He would
not waste time worrying about creaking and dilapidated walkways a few hundred feet above the ground.

Within minutes he was lost. Were they to escape their captors, he doubted he could find the ladder. Unless they were lucky
and found it by chance, or there was more than one ladder, the guards assigned them were superfluous.
At least for me: how I miss my sword! Perhaps one or two of my magic-kissed fellows could do something.
He wondered what Heredrew might be planning; the tall Falthan magician was surely not a man to be held against his will.
He would be going along with this for his own purposes.

The hut they were taken to was possibly in the poorest condition of all the buildings Noetos had seen. Strangely, it was by
no means the largest: the fisherman had expected a gathering like this to be held in some temple or civic building. If they
had such things. Patina Padouk was the northern neighbour of Old Roudhos, but very little was known about its inhabitants.
Did they worship gods apart from Keppia? How was their society organised? He tried to remember if any of his tutors had spoken
of the forest lands as part of his education. Surely this small hovel could not be a temple or gathering place.

Across the open end of the hut had been placed a rough crisscross grid of sticks, with a door-sized opening allowing entrance.
Noetos had wondered how inhabitants prevented themselves falling from the huts during a high wind, and the sticks offered
an explanation. Inside, all was smoke, gloom and sweat. Every available space had been taken by a near-naked body. Dozens
of eyes peered at him as he walked across the rough timber floor and found a place to stand against the wall to the left,
close to a recessed place in the floor filled with dirt, on which was set a small fire.
In this heat? What for?
The bitter smoke curled lazily in the close air; more than one of the captives succumbed to coughing fits.

The muttering petered out into silence. Now the sounds included the crackle of the fire, a steady, rhythmical creaking as
the hut moved back and forth, much coughing and snuffling, and repeated sniffling coming from a gap-toothed old woman with
a vacant look in her eyes.

Noetos looked about him, but could not tell which of these people would turn out to be their inquisitors. Noone wore clothes
distinguishing them from the rest, and there was no one group of faces more keenly focused on them than any other. The warrior
captain stood nearest the door, but even watching his eyes gave no indication of what was to happen or who was in charge.

It soon became clear the silence was a test—perhaps the heart of the interrogation. As a technique it had served his father
well, often drawing the guilty to speak more openly than they might while defending themselves against specific questions.
Few of the others would know what was happening here. Noetos wished he could alert them somehow, but he was certain it would
count against him.
Please be patient
, he thought, wishing he could communicate with his eyes.

Inevitably it was Conal the Falthan priest who broke the silence.

“What’s going on here? Why have you captured us? What right do you have to hold me? I am a priest of the Koinobia, a representative
of the Most High. You ought not hinder His plans. I’ve already seen Him strike a man dead.”

There’s a guilty man
, Noetos judged, even as the priest opened his mouth.
And a fool.

The silence seemed even emptier after the priest finished speaking. There had been no noticeable reaction to his outburst.
Nothing gained, plenty lost. Though it might be that Noetos simply failed to see the clues these Padouki provided; their ways
seemed so different as to be impenetrable.

Seren nodded off first. This did not alarm the fisherman. The miner had borne more than his share during the journey. The
man wanted answers as much as anybody, but day after day of hoisting a heavy pack had taken it out of his broad shoulders.
However, when other captives struggled to keep their eyes open, Noetos began to grow nervous. His eyes swung to the fire.

“Put it out,” he said thickly. When no one moved, he screamed: “PUT IT OUT!”

He lurched forward and snatched up a gourd, upending it over the flames. An acrid stench filled the hut.

“Now that wasn’t the cleverest thing I’ve ever seen,” Heredrew observed, seemingly unaffected by the smoke. “Let us hope the
patient can provide another specimen without too much trouble.”

“We are in a physic’s room?” Noetos asked, confused.

“I have no doubt. The wood used on the fire is coated with a mild narcotic, designed to calm nervous patients. Our people
are tired, and those with no magical insight or experience at regulating their bodily responses have been taken into sleep.”

“So why am I awake?”

“I would have thought,” Heredrew said, “the answer to that was obvious.”

He’s wrong, the fool Falthan is wrong. I could not touch the huanu stone if I had magical ability.

The warrior leader moved a pace towards them. “The elders will see you now,” he said. “Leave the sleeping ones here. They
would not have survived the questioning.”

“I will not leave my friends unless you guarantee their safety,” Noetos said gruffly.

The man raised an eyebrow. “Many hosts would construe such fear as an insult. But since you are completely in our power, I
understand your concern. Your friends will be well looked after.”

Noetos wanted to give this man nothing, but what could he do?

Eight of the captives were taken to another hut: Heredrew, Stella and Conal were the three Falthans though Noetos was certain
Phemanderac and Moralye, born and raised in legendary Dhauria—so intimately bound in the story of the Undying Man—would also
have remained awake had they been here. Captain Duon led a bewildered Lenares. The cosmographer seemed half-asleep and responded
feebly as Duon explained to her what was happening. Anomer and Arathé had remained awake and followed their father. It worried
Noetos to leave Seren, Tumar and his two fishermen, Sautea and Mustar, back in the physic hut, but the warrior leader was
right. They were completely in the power of the Padouki.

The Hut of the Elders was some distance away across the Canopy. A rising wind set the bridges swaying and Noetos found his
attention taken by keeping his balance. A man of open spaces, of sea and shore, he could not make sense of direction and distance
in the tops of the great trees. This was further compounded when they were forced up narrow ladders consisting of nothing
more than notched branches. Their guards climbed with nonchalance, some with bows in hand or bags of weapons and stores, while
the captives wrapped themselves around the ladders and inched their way upwards.

Finally the captives stood before the door of a hut almost identical to the one they had left.

“Come in,” said a woman’s pleasant contralto.

Lost, confused and almost completely off balance, Noetos ducked to enter the building, a hand on his daughter’s shoulder.
He was made to line up with the others along the side wall of the hut.

This time there was no doubt as to whom they would be speaking.

“Siy tell me you taken on the plateau at door of Godhouse,” said a broad-faced woman of middle years. Her voice was like golden
syrup poured into his ears and he found it easing his troubled mind.
A trick, of course
, he told himself. Four older women flanked her, two on each side.