Havenstar (24 page)

‘What happens
now?’ she asked finally, not knowing whether she cared.

He gave her a
weary look. He was pale, she noted. In fact he looked sick, with
none of a Minion’s triumphant arrogance as she had seen in Baraine.
‘You’re in no danger now,’ he said. ‘What the Unmaker wanted to do
he has already done. Tomorrow he may have other ideas, but today
you are safe.’

‘He wanted me
dead,’ she said. ‘For a moment there I’m sure he wanted me dead.
You could have killed me for him. Yet you didn’t. Why not?’

‘Because he
never got around to asking me to.’ A stark answer, with the ring of
truth to it. Its corollary was chilling: had the Unmaker desired
it, Davron would have killed her, without question.

‘He did want
us to—to—’ She couldn’t put it into words. ‘You didn’t do that
either.’

He gave the
slightest of cold smiles. ‘If he’d ordered it, it would have been
done. He assumed it would happen, that’s all, and his assumption
underestimated us both. Fortunately. You would have found it a
painful experience.’

She stood
there helplessly, and wondered what she should do. He was clumsily
bandaging himself, too proud to ask her to help, and she made no
move to offer it. He was a Minion of Chaos, a servant of the
Unmaker, one of the evil ones who killed and tortured and raped at
Lord Carasma’s whim. And she was alone with him.

No, not quite
alone. It was only then that she noticed Quirk was still with them.
Someone, Baraine perhaps, had laid him, still unconscious, on the
ground behind Baraine’s horse and mule. Davron saw him at the same
time and bit off an exclamation. ‘I was looking for him everywhere!
I thought he was still in the line—’ He went to kneel by the
tainted man, and then glanced around, taking stock. His own pack
horse was still there. His mount had wandered back, and seemed
quite unruffled by its experience; crossing-horses were used to the
vagaries of ley. They had lost Baraine’s second pack animal and
Quirk’s packs with it, and Quirk’s mount was nowhere to be seen
either. ‘We’ll use Baraine’s tent for Quirk,’ Davron said. ‘I’m not
going to take him across the line again just now. Come on, Kaylen,
snap out of it. You’re wandering around like a two-year-old who’s
lost her mother. Help me—we need to get Quirk comfortable and warm.
He’s in shock.’

She forced
herself to move, to act. Together they erected the tent, settled
Quirk in as best they could, and then fixed their own tents. She
worked automatically, not speaking, not wanting to speak, avoiding
even looking at the guide.

He built a
fire and put on some water to boil. She set about cooking a meal,
using Baraine’s supplies because they were the best they had and
Quirk would doubtless need nourishing food. By the time she’d
finished, Quirk was stirring. Between them, they managed to coax
him into eating and drinking, after which he drifted off to sleep.
He did not seem to be fully aware of what had happened to him.

As she left
the tent, Davron jerked his head towards the fire. ‘Sit down,’ he
said, ‘and have this.’ He pushed a mug of char into her hand,
careful not to let his fingers brush hers. ‘You and I have to have
a talk.’

She sat down
obediently where he indicated, and sipped the drink. Scow’s char,
except it did not seem to taste as good as when Scow brewed it. She
needed it. ‘Why talk?’ she asked, forcing the words out. ‘We both
know you have to kill me. If I tell anyone you are a Minion of
Chaos, your little masquerade is over, and doubtless you don’t want
that.’ With reason. Anyone known to be a Minion could be killed on
sight; in fact it was considered the duty of citizens of any
stability to try to rid the Unstable of Minions.

He sat down
opposite her, warming his hands on his own drink. ‘I am not a
Minion of Chaos,’ he said. ‘A bonded servant of Carasma, yes, but
I’m not a Minion.’

‘What’s the
difference?’ she asked dully.

‘Barring
accidental death or murder, a Minion has eternal life, for a start.
A Minion has surrendered his soul. A Minion has renounced the
Maker. A Minion has sworn to serve the Unmaker without question for
the rest of his days. I have done none of those things.’

‘What have you
done? And why should I believe you anyway? You wear his sigil,’ she
said, pointing to his arm, now covered with his shirt sleeve.

‘On my arm,
not around my neck. I have to perform one task for the Unmaker,
just one. And only within the Unstable. That is all he can ask of
me. And then I shall be free of him. That is perhaps why he did not
order me to hurt you. He wants me for some more important
task.’

‘Oh, great.
Thanks. My welfare is rather important to me, you know.’

He ignored
that. ‘And you know I’m not a Minion because you know I can go deep
into the stabilities. You’ve seen me in Kibbleberry. If I were
truly a Minion, that would be impossible.’

She refrained
from pointing out that it would have been possible for him to have
sold his soul after she’d seen him in Kibbleberry. ‘This task you
have to do?’

‘I do not know
what it is.’

She stared at
him. ‘How can you live, knowing that one day you will have to do
something that will be ... vile and cruel and utterly beyond
forgiveness? That you won’t be able to stop yourself performing
this deed?’

He did not
answer but that flush of his was travelling up the back of his neck
and into his face once again. She watched it, mesmerised, stupidly
fascinated by the idea that someone who had sold his labour to the
Unmaker could actually still blush. ‘Why don’t you stay in a stab,
away from him?’

‘Do you think
I haven’t tried? He won’t let me. After a week or two, he drags me
back. Somehow. No matter how far I go, I have to return whether I
want to or not.’

She took up
her knife and held it out to him, handle first. ‘Kill yourself,’
she said.

He ignored the
knife. ‘Would you?’

‘Kill
you?’

‘Kill yourself
if you stood in my shoes.’

She sheathed
the knife and considered. ‘I don’t think I could live, knowing that
something so terrible was in my future. And I don’t think I would
have made such a bargain in the beginning.’

‘Ah, yes. You
turned down whatever it was he tempted you with and therefore are
in a position to scorn those who act with less virtue. You can
despise those who forget their honour, who betray what you feel
they should stand for.’

She wanted to
shout at him:
I denied my mother a second chance at life—that
gives me the right to feel self-righteous!
—but the words would
not come. She could not speak of Sheyli to him.

‘Perhaps the
Unmaker just didn’t offer you anything that you cared enough
about,’ he said, and there was more than a trace of bitterness in
him.

‘Oh, I cared
all right.’ She had killed her mother a second time… She drove away
her guilt with anger. ‘You and the Unmaker struck a bargain, like a
couple of traders haggling over a sale. One task in return
for—what? What did he offer you, Master Storre, that was worth a
life lived knowing you’re a walking future catastrophe to
humankind? Knowing that one day you will explode into action at
Lord Carasma’s bidding, even if what is required of you turns your
stomach? You may be asked to kill and maim and murder and rape and
mutilate until your task is complete. And because you are a strong,
talented, intelligent man, you will do an excellent job... What in
heaven’s name was it he offered you in return for
that
?’
When he did not answer, she added, ‘Yes, I would rather die than
live knowing that something so dreadful lurked somewhere in my
future.’

The pain in
him surfaced, stark and immediate. ‘I can’t,’ he whispered. ‘I
can’t. Maker knows, I have tried... But I’m—I’m too much of a
coward? Too selfish? I just can’t take my own life. Is that a
crime, Keris? Is it?’

‘Don’t ask me
for exoneration. You don’t have that right.’

He was silent
for a moment. ‘No, I don’t. I’m sorry.’ He fiddled with his mug and
then tipped the dregs into the fire. ‘I don’t want to have you
blabbing to everyone you meet that I am a Minion, or indeed that I
am a bond-servant of Lord Carasma, so that I end up dead by
another’s hand. We both know there’s an open hunting season on the
Unmaker’s servants. I would beg you to keep your own counsel on
this.’ He gave a lop-sided smile. ‘Another secret for you to keep.
At least you know why cats don’t like me.’

‘Do Meldor and
Scow know you wear Lord Carasma’s sigil?’

‘Yes.’

She did not
want to think about the implications of that. ‘Are you threatening
me?’

‘No. You’re in
no danger from me, unless Carasma demands it. If that were to
happen I could make no promises. Remember though, that you’re out
in the middle of the Unstable and I’m your guide. You need me, and
do you think it would help the safety of this group if you told
them I’m the Unmaker’s bondsman? Keep your mouth shut, Kaylen.
Besides, if Carasma thinks you are a danger to me, he could make
life uncomfortable for you. I am important to him, that I do know.
I think he would perform any vileness to ensure my safety, and my
anonymity. Do you understand me?’

The dryness
was back in her mouth. ‘Why hasn’t he had me killed already?’

‘He can’t
order your death. Not so long as you are the Maker’s. To do so
would be to risk his own viability here, perhaps his own existence,
even. If the Minions happened to kill you on their own initiative,
I doubt he would quibble—but he can’t order it.’

‘Couldn’t he
have contrived it so that the ley killed me? An upheaval in the ley
line?’

‘Without
breaking the Law of the Universe? Difficult. Ley lines do kill, but
purely accidentally, simply because they are focuses of unstable
power. Carasma needs to conserve the power of the ley. Every time
he uses the power, for whatever purpose, the ley line is weakened.
Look at it.’

She turned
reluctantly. The line was calm and almost colourless. Directly
opposite them it seemed narrower than it had been.

‘That’s
because it took power to materialise the Unmaker, power to taint
Quirk, power to call in that Wild to divert me while Carasma
corrupted Baraine. If the Unmaker taints too many people, if he
corrupts too many, the ley lines would start to dry up.’

‘I thought the
whole purpose of a ley line was to kill or taint people.’

His lips
smiled, a little, but his eyes remained troubled. ‘No. Ley has
other purposes, more important to the Unmaker. Ley comes from the
destruction of the world, and is then used to destroy more of the
world.’ His gaze fixed on her, firelight dancing in the blackness
of his pupils. ‘The need to conserve ley is the reason why Minions
do not often use ley power to kill, why they prefer knives and
other conventional methods or the strength of one of their pets.
But don’t feel too safe, Kaylen. Carasma may well let it be known
that he has no love for you, which could be enough to give Minions
the hint. From now on you had better watch your back, and hope that
Carasma expects me to take care of your—disposal, to protect
myself.’

‘Why don’t
you?’

‘Do you really
think I—?’ He stared at her. ‘By the Maker, Keris, I don’t deserve
that from you.’

She didn’t
answer.

‘We’ll stay
here the rest of today and tonight,’ he said finally. ‘Tomorrow
we’ll join the others. I hope Quirk will have recovered enough by
then to make another attempt to cross the ley line.’

She ignored
the sickness in her stomach and asked, ‘The others?’

‘They will
wait for us.’ He reached out to take the empty mug from her. For a
moment their gaze met again and he read something in hers that
stilled him. ‘You’re wondering if you should kill me,’ he
whispered.

She’d hardly
known it had been there, that nebulous, terrible thought. Now his
words had forced it to the surface, and she didn’t know how to deny
it.

‘To stop me
doing Carasma’s bidding.’ The harshness in his voice was softened
by acceptance; the gravel whispered. He plucked his knife from his
belt and thrust it into her hand, hilt first, just as she had tried
to do to him. ‘Then do it. Do it now. I’d rather die now, like
this, than lie awake all night wondering just when I’m going to be
killed. And perhaps this way would be the best. Perhaps you’re
right, and I have been wrong all along, to try and live.’

She read his
willingness to die in his eyes; he may not have killed himself, but
from her he would accept it. Worse, she saw his uncertainty. He did
not know if she would do it or not, and that was what unmanned her.
The thought that he could even think of allowing it, could think of
standing there while she plunged the knife into his throat or
heart, stripped her of any desire to do so.

The knife
dropped from her fingers and she saw his gaze change: his
uncertainty and pain flickered away into the lingering remains of
his yearning for her. For one brief, impossible moment she
responded by a quickening of her pulse, a rush of blood through her
body. Then, sickened, she turned away.

He was a
bonded servant of evil, everything she had been taught to despise.
How could she possibly want him?

~~~~~~~

He who hammers
evil at his last should be counted evil, even though the shoes he
makes fit.

~~~~~~~~

If poison is
cast on the waters yet the dead fish be sweet, why should the
customer complain?

—sayings of the
old Margravate

Keris had to
wake Quirk to give him his supper that evening. He sat up, groggy,
when she poked him with a tentative finger, careful not to touch
his skin. His focus sharpened as he caught sight of himself by the
light of the lantern she’d brought into his tent. His thin arms lay
across the brown of his blanket and the skin was the same colour as
the wool. Where the material was roughly mottled, or speckled
through with lighter streaks, so were his arms.