Dark Heart (11 page)

This angered the men. ‘You saw our bravery. We risked their arrows and their swords to spy out the city. But it is not our city any more.’

‘Then where are we to go? How can we leave our sons and daughters behind, unburied, unmourned?’ The women began to cry bitter tears.

The burly red-haired man stood before them. ‘This is what we do,’ he said. ‘We go north. We leave Raceme to the rats for just a little while. Let them get fat and complacent. We regroup, find some willing friends, and then we return to drive the rats out. What better burial gift could you offer your dead than that?’

The men muttered at this, but the women saw the sense of the red-haired man’s words. ‘We go north,’ they said. ‘For a little while.’

Captain Duon settled back on his haunches. The sun had begun to descend, and still Dryman slept on. Why should Duon wake the man? He knew the mercenary would want to be informed, but it was his own fault he slept, since he had been up most of the previous night prowling about.

All around, the survivors of Raceme broke camp with a minimum of fuss, despite the demands of crying children and a number of injured men and women. Duon tried to estimate how many people were on the hill: five thousand at least, maybe more. The red-haired man was right. There was nothing even this number could do against a well-prepared enemy, especially without the element of surprise. Perhaps if another storm was to come…but Duon knew little about the weather in these parts; and hadn’t the cosmographer said the storm had been unnatural? Unnatural enough, at least, to disgorge them into the city at the moment it had been destroyed.

They could stay here on this hill no longer anyway, as he doubted there was much, if any, food left in the Shambles. And the longer they remained, the greater the chance their conquerors would send out a sortie against them. Someone, somewhere, would surely offer them shelter.

Finally Duon could wait no more. People were leaving the hill in groups, all moving north. Oh, how he wished he could leave the hateful soldier sleeping there, to wake alone on an empty hillside—or better, to be captured by the Neherians. He wished he were the sort of man who could take his sword and cut open the mercenary’s throat. But he’d seen the threat in the other man’s eyes, and knew that if the attempt failed he’d never outrun the man’s vengeance.

‘Dryman,’ he said, shaking him by the shoulder. ‘Time to wake.’

The mercenary moved from deep sleep to fully awake in a split second.

‘Where is everyone going?’ he asked, a scowl on his face. ‘Why have you waited so long to wake me?’

‘I’ve been busy preparing, as you instructed. You said nothing about being woken.’

The man was on his feet and at Duon’s throat in an instant. ‘Don’t shave the ends with me,’ he snarled, his hand under the captain’s chin. ‘You have neither the wit nor the strength to deal with me, boy.’

The man’s voice thundered like a storm, and a dreadful weight settled on the captain’s shoulders. Duon thought about nodding, but noticed the gleam of a knife in the soldier’s hand and thought better of it.

Dryman took silence as acquiescence. ‘Where are the Omeran and the halfwit?’

Duon spread his hands. ‘I thought you sent them on some task.’

‘They were tasked to prepare for our departure. They should be here. He had better not be…no, he wouldn’t. Couldn’t.’ The man shook his head, but his eyes narrowed. ‘Go and find them, Duon.’

Again Dryman treated Duon as his servant. The mercenary could do it because there was something about him that must be obeyed.
I am a captain, the leader of the Emperor’s great expedition. Who is this soldier?

Duon nodded respectfully to the man, resolving as he strode away to speak to Lenares about him. Perhaps if they put their heads together they could bring the man down somehow.

It is not only a matter of pride,
Duon told himself.
This man is dangerous, and has his own agenda. Despite his arguments, and no matter what may be done to me or my family, it is my duty to return to Talamaq and humble myself before the Emperor. But I will not humble myself before this man.

Her fingers were cool against his skin, touching him gently, brushing his cheek, running slowly down the line of his jaw. Their touch thickened his throat and set his skin burning. She brought her mouth towards his, her eyes closed, her hair cascading over one cheek. As her lips touched his, she made a small sound in her throat. Little intimacies, each one fanning the flame of his desire.

He closed his mouth over hers, and drew in her breath. Months of travel, weeks of deprivation and days of fear had done nothing to sour it; he had never tasted anything so sweet. She pressed herself against him. He could feel the swell of her and fought to maintain a degree of control.

But what could he do—what could either of them do—against the power they had unleashed? The threat of discovery, of death, was not sufficient to prevent Torve from raising his own hand to her face and touching her skin, her hair, with all the tenderness he possessed.
The body has its own language,
he acknowledged, closing his eyes to savour every sensation.
Listen, Lenares, as I speak to you. As my body loves yours with its own language.

They clung to each other, moving slowly, tentatively, desperately afraid of hurting and being hurt, while taking pleasure where it was offered. After a time he opened his eyes to find hers, less than a hand-span away, focused intently on him. Lustrous, deep, pupils wide open.

‘There is more, isn’t there,’ she said, her breathing fast and shallow against his neck. ‘More for us to explore. Do you know what it is? Will you show me?’

His heart rose into his throat.

‘Yes,’ he said thickly. ‘I have witnessed what comes next. I will show you.’

Duon made two careful circuits of Shambles Hill, but saw no sign of the cosmographer or the Omeran. He took the opportunity to talk with a few of the remaining Racemen, but none had seen his companions recently. He did not think to speak with the women, who would have been able to tell him of a man, and a woman with hot eyes, who had left some time ago in obvious pursuit of the oldest magic.

Curse the man!

Duon meant Dryman, not Torve; after all, how could an Omeran be held responsible for what he did? Especially since the Emperor had sent him away north with the expedition, and therefore freed him from the obligation to obey his master?

And why had the Emperor done that? In what way was the Omeran’s presence necessary? If there truly were supernatural entities involved in their tale—and how could Duon doubt it, given the voices in his head, and the way in which they had been ripped from their own lands—why had they selected the Omeran for survival when thousands of more useful men had been slaughtered?

He had not asked enough questions, it was clear, allowing instead the flow of events to take him. This was not the behaviour of a commander. He would gather together his band—his, not Dryman’s—and the questions would be asked, and answered.

Duon crested the brow of a small hill and the ocean came into view. The northern seas were just as he remembered: cool, blue-green and inviting, so unlike the treacherous southern ocean. He imagined himself fleeing, running away from Dryman and the remnants of his expedition, finding an empty beach, building a shack and spending his days fishing. A fantasy, he knew, but one that made far more sense than continuing north. Not, he reminded himself, something a leader could entertain.

His eyes narrowed, and he shaded them against the sun with his hand. Something was moving below him.
Somebody struggling—no, fighting.
Duon drew his blade.

No,
he corrected himself, as the cynical voice in his head began to chuckle.
Not fighting.

I have a fever,
Lenares told herself. Torve had infected her with something, it seemed; her skin flushed hot under his hands. She didn’t care where he put them. No, she did care, she wanted him to put them on her private places.
I am sick. My body is no longer under my control.
Yet the delicious sensations coursing through her at his touch felt nothing like fever.

The merest touch from another person was normally enough to enrage her. Her body was hers, and people were supposed to stay well away from it. But there were parts of her, secret places, now longing for his touch.

She had never experienced numbers like this before. Skin on skin, love open to love. She felt herself slowly drawing towards an inexplicable, unguessable completion.

Simply noticing a small scar under Lenares’ chin undid Torve.

Had he thought it through—had he known something of the emotional aspects of the physical expression of love—he might have anticipated this. As it was, the sight of the scar landed like a blow to his stomach. Perhaps the scar was the legacy of some deeply traumatic event, or the result of a careless injury, its cause already forgotten. It didn’t matter. What mattered was that Torve suddenly saw not Lenares, his beloved, but the poor woman trapped by the collapsed building back in the city. He saw that woman’s bleeding body, saw it respond to his touch in an entirely different fashion from the one beneath him now.

Different, but so similar. Shortness of breath, flushed skin, sweat, inarticulate groans, uncontrolled movement. The idea that he was tormenting Lenares took hold of him, and he could not shake it. His hands moved over her, his mouth again found hers, then moved away as he fought himself a moment longer; but the images of all those he and his master had tortured swam before his eyes, and his desire vanished like a startled bird.

‘Torve?’ she said, her voice rough with her longing. ‘What is it? What is the matter?’

He pushed himself up on his hands, rolled off her and straightened her tunic.
Oh, Father, Son and Daughter, what have I become?

‘I…’ He could not explain. Would never be able to explain. The Emperor had ruined everything.

‘Oh!’ Lenares said, rolling away from Torve and finding a sitting position. He turned to follow her gaze, and saw a man on the hill behind them. His stomach clenched.

‘Captain Duon!’ Lenares cried.

Her innocence was so obviously feigned it took Torve a moment to realise she had spoken to someone, another moment to acknowledge who it was, a third to seize the excuse this offered him—
No need to explain now, she’ll assume I saw Captain Duon coming
—and a fourth to understand that Lenares had been engaged in uncharacteristic deception. She was trying to keep their liaison—their almost completed liaison—a secret.

Contrary emotions swirled in his breast. Relief, regret, guilt, horror and confusion at war within him. He was aware enough to realise that this incident might make it impossible for him to love anyone; that perhaps, now the association had been made, he would always be unable to separate the act of love from the act of torture. But he had no way of erasing the miserable memories infesting his mind.

It was as though, having discovered at her hands he was human, the knowledge had been stripped away.

Oh, life was so cruel.

‘Dryman is very angry with the two of you,’ Captain Duon said as he approached. Torve sensed the effort the man put in to keep his voice even, to keep his distaste at what he’d seen from the surface.

‘Is
he
here?’ Torve asked. Impossible not to ask. ‘Has he—did he see?’

The captain came over and pulled Torve to his feet. ‘He saw nothing, he knows nothing. And the less he knows, the better you, I and your…and the cosmographer, will be. Do you understand me? I will say nothing to Dryman about what I’ve seen, even though I have a suspicion he might not like to hear what half the remnant of his army has been getting up to with each other. And in return you will say nothing to him about anything I might do.’ Captain Duon licked his lips, then cocked his head, as though listening to something. ‘It is very important we don’t allow ourselves to be commanded by this man. We must keep our own counsel. He’s not to be trusted. I have no hard evidence for this, not yet, but I know it to be true.’

‘He is evil,’ said Lenares. ‘There is something false about him. He does not add up.’

Torve almost laughed at Lenares’ use of the cliché, then realised she meant the phrase literally. Dryman’s numbers didn’t create a full picture for Lenares to read; he was able to keep part of himself hidden from her. As long as she worried about this, as long as she worked to unmask Dryman, she was dangerous to him.

Captain Duon nodded at Lenares’ words, clearly paying them respect.

‘Very well, Captain, we will respect your confidences as you respect ours,’ Torve said, looking to Lenares for confirmation. His breathing had returned to near normal, but the blood still pounded through his body, a pulsing recognition of what he had so nearly done. A growing regret had begun to overwhelm his relief. He knew he wished to share everything he had with Lenares, and realised he might never have another opportunity to do so.

Lenares nodded, and put her soft hand in his. It was all he could do not to cast it away. Sorrow settled on him, sorrow so deep it threatened to engulf him. Beside him the girl sighed, and the sound she made was the sound of a tortured soul’s last breath, the sound of death.

DUON RETURNED TO DRYMAN with Lenares and Torve in tow, and the defensive, cryptic answers he was forced to supply put the mercenary in a foul mood. It seemed likely that, had the Omeran and the cosmographer not been there, Dryman might have struck Duon with his fists, or even his sword.

Duon could have predicted what happened next: the incident suddenly became his fault. How, Dryman said, could one expect an Omeran and a cosmographer to act in the interests of the Emperor? If there was a problem, Dryman said, it was with the fourth member of the expedition. The gods had weeded the Emperor’s great army, and had left Duon with his life. Ought he not show his gratefulness by pulling his weight?

‘You will now take responsibility for the cosmographer girl,’ Dryman said. ‘You are not to let her out of your sight. Watch her night and day. If I want to know when she bleeds and how many times she has made water, you must be in a position to supply me the details. She is an important part of our Emperor’s plans.’

What plans?
Duon wanted to ask.
And how do you know them?
But he said nothing. The mercenary had the Omeran in thrall. How could he oppose both of them?

You’ll have to win the girl’s loyalty first,
said the cynical voice.
Once you have her, the slave will follow. You saw them rutting.

Pure anger rose to the forefront of Duon’s mind at this advice given in such a cavalier fashion. How many people thought they could give him instructions?

I will hold no further speech with you until you reveal who you are and how you are able to speak into my mind,
he projected.

Not much of a diplomat, are you,
said the voice.
In fact, disappointingly unintelligent. The sort who always pays full price at the market. Your appearance no doubt sets the stallholders rubbing their hands in anticipation. What sort of bargaining position is that?

Duon was about to reply when he remembered the vow he’d just made. And his traitorous mind recalled his infrequent forays into the Talamaq markets. The voice was right: he always paid what the stallholders asked.

Of course I’m right. You have no idea how much of your mind is open to me. If you would stop dissembling and listen to my advice, we could put an end to this Dryman. I can see that you want to.

Fruitless to deny it.

Dryman chose that moment to order their departure. Duon slung a makeshift rucksack over his shoulder; it would no doubt become extremely uncomfortable for a few days. He was more worried by the journey itself, as the day they had spent outside Raceme’s walls had not been as long a rest as he needed. After their ordeals in Nomansland and the Had Hill country, they needed time to recover, and they would not get it with Dryman in charge.

Plan, he had to plan. But essential to planning was knowledge, and he had very little. Dryman kept much from him, he knew, and the cynical voice said nothing about its origins or purpose. Of most importance, however, was working out some way of thinking without the voice in his head picking the thoughts out of his mind.

He would ask the dumpy woman. She could speak directly into his mind, just like the cynical voice, but she seemed much friendlier and more likely to tell him what he needed to know.

‘Vuh wuhnn wihh vuh wahy sssouw ihs,’ said the mushy, inarticulate voice. A startled Duon realised he could hear her even when she was nowhere to be seen. Simultaneously the same voice—or, more accurately, a crystal-clear version of it—spoke directly into his brain.

The one with the wide shoulders.

A pause; presumably while someone spoke to the girl.

‘Ahhss hihh venn.’

Ask him then.

Duon pounded the heel of his hand against his temple in frustration. She had been talking for half an hour now, her two voices entwining themselves in his head. As far as he could make out, the girl was arguing with her father and brother as to how soon they should encourage Duon to explain why he could hear her thoughts. Her father was angry that a stranger should know how special his children were. If he was a danger he ought to be eliminated, Duon understood the man to be saying; though because he had to piece the argument together from the girl’s responses, it was difficult to tell. The father’s anger was a semipermanent state, according to his daughter, who didn’t seem to take the implied threat to Duon that seriously. Her brother counselled caution with regard to the southern stranger, seemingly concerned that continued mind contact would attract attention from someone or something—it wasn’t clear what.

The cynical voice,
he thought. It could not be anything else. This voice might well be responsible for the events in Nomansland that had led them here. For the hundredth time that day Duon wondered who—what—the voice was, and what its interest was in him.

Even though he could not hear their responses to the girl’s words, Duon was convinced she wasn’t telling her father and brother the whole truth. It seemed to Duon that she actively transmitted her thoughts to him; it certainly wasn’t him seeking her out, as her father thought. How else could he explain the fact that her thoughts were much stronger this afternoon than they had been this morning?

I must find this woman.

The resolution was easy to make but much harder to enact. Dryman did not insist that Duon remain beside him, but he knew he’d have to give a good reason if he was to leave the soldier’s side. So, over the course of the late afternoon, Duon increased his pace by small fractions, drawing Dryman and the two other southerners forward through the knots of marching Racemen refugees.

‘Why are we hurrying?’ Dryman asked. Somewhere ahead a child wailed.

‘Hurrying? Just keeping the leaders in sight,’ Duon replied, licking his lips.

The man’s voice frightened him. To lie to Dryman dried out his mouth. Not really a lie, just a small deception, but his mouth prickled all the same.

‘So you’ve decided to be a little less stubborn?’ Dryman said. ‘Good. The Emperor may yet be pleased with you, Captain Duon.’

And the man gave him a smile that frightened Duon more than any expression he’d yet seen.

The red-haired man’s daughter shone. Every time Lenares looked at her she was almost blinded. Her brother shone almost as strongly. Even the red-haired man glowed a little, or at least something about him did. It was not what others would call a ‘real’ shining, as she did not see it with her eyes; the effect came from the way their numbers related to each other. As usual, Lenares did not have words to explain it, but as she kept her insight to herself it did not matter. She could not tell what made this family shine, but from their numbers she knew it was good, or mostly good. She wanted to speak to the woman, but did not know their language well enough yet.

Well then, you will have to learn,
she told herself.
You still have time.

She hugged herself with delight.
And I will have time to learn all Torve can teach me.
She had overheard talk amongst the trainee cosmographers: giggling in the night, whispered secrets and the occasional unverifiable claim. It had all sounded silly to Lenares. But now she knew the secret of the warm pink feeling. Or, at least, that there was a secret.

Captain Duon hurried her, Torve and Dryman through the four thousand, seven hundred and sixteen other people walking Fatherward, away from the ruined town. He slowed down only when the family of the red-haired man came into view. It appeared that she was not the only one fascinated by this family: the captain kept casting secret glances towards them, though Lenares could see that Dryman had also noticed this attention. Could the captain see the family shining? Did he have some of the specialness Lenares had? She did not think so. He had shown no sign of it before. He had not sensed the attack in the Valley of the Damned. If he had a real cosmographer’s skills, if he was gifted with numbers, he would not have allowed the expedition to be destroyed in the ambush. So what was he so interested in?

Just ahead of them, the red-haired man called a halt. The clear sky had begun to purple towards night, and the refugees needed time to gather wood for their fires and raise whatever shelter they could.

A woman nearby claimed that the next village, called Buntha, was one more day’s walk away. Lenares wondered how large it was, and whether the villagers could help four thousand, seven hundred and twenty people.

And here came the red-haired man’s daughter now, along with her brother, walking up boldly as though they had nothing to fear.

‘My sister wants to talk to you,’ said the boy, pointing at Captain Duon.

‘You seem to have made a friend,’ said Dryman, smiling with his mouth but not his eyes. His smile hurt Lenares’ head; there was something wrong with it. It was not just that he smiled even though he was definitely not happy. Lots of people did that. It was as if he used his smile to scare people.

‘I will share with you anything of interest I learn,’ said Captain Duon to Dryman in a whisper.

Lenares looked closely at the girl’s face. It was obvious that she heard the captain’s whisper, even though she was at least ten paces away. Lenares had barely heard it herself. How had the girl done that?

‘Very well then,’ Dryman said. ‘Take the cosmographer with you. She is your charge now, if you recall, and may see much that you miss. I will have a full report tomorrow morning.’ He smiled again. ‘Torve and I have an errand or two of our own to perform. We may not be back when you return.’

Lenares saw the stricken look pass across her beloved’s face, but could not read its meaning. She would ask him tomorrow.

The two southerners were led to a small fire, where they sat and shared small portions of stream water, bread and meat from some undersized animal. There were twenty-three tiny bones in the portion Lenares was given, and she crunched on one of them before realising it, but at least the meat was hot and seasoned with a pleasant spice. She wondered if the rest of the refugees ate as well as this.

Six people sat around the fire. Along with herself and Captain Duon, there was the shining family (Noetos, Arathé and Anomer) and one other man, dark-haired, slightly portly and somewhat older than Noetos, the man with red hair. He said only two things during the entire evening. Another four men came and went; servants perhaps, though at one point they were referred to as ‘Noetos’s army’. A fifth man called Seren spent six minutes with Noetos discussing supplies for the refugees, then left.

Lenares remembered the girl had no tongue, so was unsurprised when she spoke so badly. It made her words hard to understand, but her numbers helped Lenares make sense of most of what she said.

‘You hear my words in your head’ was what she said to Captain Duon in her squishy voice. Her brother interpreted for her.

‘Yes,’ Captain Duon replied. ‘I suspect I hear more than you realise. When you are close by I seem to hear your words as you say them to others, even those you are not saying to me. And I hear your voice clearly in my mind translating the words, or perhaps I’m hearing your thoughts as you put them together to speak them. I don’t know whether you are deliberately sending me your thoughts.’

‘Sometimes I do, sometimes not,’ she said via her brother. ‘So do you hear anything when I don’t deliberately put the words in your mind?’

‘If I understand correctly, I hear your true voice, without translation.’ Then Duon held up his hand. ‘Enough: I do not have much time. My master could recall me at any moment. We can find out the mechanics of all this with experimentation. I am much more interested in what is happening to us, and why.’

‘And you don’t want your master hearing this discussion,’ the girl’s brother said. His expression made it clear this was not a question.

‘No,’ Duon replied.

Then there was an unheard exchange. Lenares focused every mote of her concentration, but could hear nothing but a faint buzzing—perhaps the sound of her own brain. The girl and her brother participated, as did Captain Duon. This, more than anything, convinced her they were telling the truth.

Powers! New powers!
Her first thought was to get them for herself.

‘I visited the place called Andratan two years ago,’ Captain Duon said aloud; and the red-haired man leaned forward, a frown on his broad, weather-scarred face. ‘I was sent Fatherward—northward—by the great Emperor of Elamaq to take the measure of the barbarians who live there. Please, I offer no offence. I am sure you share similar thoughts about those who live to your Daughterward—I mean south—if you have even heard of us. I discovered much of interest, and made my way north to the town of Malayu.’

‘Town? Malayu is a great city, the largest in the world,’ the red-haired man said. ‘Are you sure you were in the right place?’

‘Malayu is indeed a great place, as great as the Third of Brick, which is one of the parts of Talamaq, the city at the heart of our empire,’ Captain Duon said, sweeping his hand to include Lenares. ‘But it had no tri-spired Palace of Gold, no broad avenues, no great industries of brick and glass. I saw little there but squalor and oppression.’ He smiled. ‘Again, forgive me. Your eyes would perhaps see similar things in Talamaq where I would not. And, to balance this, it is true that Bhrudwo has natural resources far greater than that of the Elamaq Empire.’

‘So you went north, hoping to engage the Undying Man’s interest in some sort of trade treaty proposal?’ the red-haired man asked, the frown still fixed on his face.

‘Of course.’ Captain Duon smiled, and then passed one of those moments that had always confused Lenares. He was lying; the Emperor had always planned to invade the rich Fatherward lands. The captain knew that. His listeners knew he was lying, and the captain knew they knew. He had just told them he was spying out the land to prepare for an invasion, and everyone was happy in a way they would not have been had he come straight out and said it.

Such moments caused Lenares trouble, but today she could see what they were doing. Captain Duon had built a wall of politeness with his words; a wall he could hide behind, and one that could not be knocked down by anyone else without them being impolite in turn.