No Present Like Time (26 page)

“It’s not as elegant a carriage as he might have wished,” Mist remarked dryly, but with obvious relief.

I laid Lightning on his side, on the floor because the seats were occupied by our sea chests. The wound in his back started bleeding again, dark and clotted blood. Mist stanched its sluggish flow with the last of the cloth. “What am I supposed to do?” she snapped. “I don’t have the faintest idea how to care for casualties. Jant, come with us to Awndyn. Tris is three thousand kilometers away, and at the moment your report is hardly San’s vital priority!”

“But I have to help San muster fyrd against Gio.”

Wrenn said, “You can’t stop Gio; you’re just a messenger…Shit, I’m sorry, Jant.”

I said, “Don’t you
dare
go after Gio! Sit up there with the driver.” Wrenn hopped onto the bench with the nervous obedience of a captain receiving direct orders. I took the opportunity to whisper, “I’ll accompany you to Awndyn and we won’t stop en route. But when I leave you, don’t trust Mist. She doesn’t fancy you, Wrenn; it’s all bluff. Ignore her seductive words and low-cut tops if you know what’s best. Without Lightning, you and I have little protection from her schemes. And—I never thought I’d say this, but—beware of Zascai. Too many are Gio’s devotees.”

“Jant, this is overcautious.”

“No. Do as I say. When I return with San’s orders I want to find you alive.” I climbed into the coach and thumped the ceiling. The driver cracked his reins, and we gathered speed down the straight road. The forest formed a block on both sides, a palisade of trees. The Remige Road was so silent that I found it hard to believe our desperate fight had actually occurred.

W
e reached the manor house after five hours and I ransacked it for medicines. I explained everything to Swallow Awndyn, who made sure that the Archer was given a clean bed. The manor’s resident sawbones was a sensible man, but seemed to be completely out of his depth.

I wrote a letter for Swallow’s courier to deliver posthaste to the Doctor at Hacilith University: “For the hand of Ella Rayne only. Follow the bearer to Awndyn manor where Lightning lies in a serious condition from rapier wounds. A single thrust pierced his wing twice and made a puncture lesion in his back near the kidneys which pours blood at the slightest provocation. Rapid pulse and dyspnea; the rapier blade was dirty. C.J.S.”

I caught a few hours of sleep but it was late on Monday evening, a full twenty-four hours after we were ambushed, when I felt able to leave Lightning and set out for the Castle.

I flew in a strikingly clear sky. A full moon gibbered over the forest. Above me, stars between stars; the familiar constellations could scarcely be distinguished among the litter of faint points of light. The immensity of what had happened began to weigh on me. “Saker,” I said aloud. Lightning was hurt. But why now? He had survived so long. I had never known him injured by Insects; he could only be hurt by people, now that the Empire was turning on itself. I flew, chilled by extreme loneliness. Tern has abandoned me and now Lightning was gone. I need to take a bit more scolopendium, I thought, and was suddenly terrified that I might. I was vastly more afraid of scolopendium now that I was alone.

Strange. I beat my wings, finding their strength reassuring. I can rely on no one. Whatever I am going to do is up to me now and I have to stay alert. We must trust the Emperor. My wingtips brushed the forest canopy as I flew low, throughout the night, back to the Castle.

I
followed the Eske Road in, a gray line ruled through the woods. If I had to rely on my compass, then the crosswind, gentle as it was, would have pushed me northward kilometers off course.

By dawn, the Castle was a dark smudge on the horizon. Even at this distance I could sense the tension: something was wrong. Dozens of tiny fires were scattered just inside the forest’s fringe where it ended at the clear grass of the demesne surrounding the Castle.

Hundreds of specks fanned out from under the trees—running men who purposefully converged on a few sites and set to work. I approached watching timber being felled, ranks formed out of thronging mobs. They abandoned carts to choke the final approach of the road, and at the forest’s edge they were winding back the huge wooden arms of trebuchets. I counted six machines of the largest class. Men with shovels were rapidly topping up their counterweight boxes with earth, while another team systematically dismantled the last watchtower on the Eske Road, carting blocks back and distributing them, stacking a pile beside each catapult.

Just forward from the trebuchet line, Gio’s rebels drew up into a long ragged crescent in front of the Castle’s east wall, centered on the Dace Gate. Facing them across the open ground, with their backs to the Castle and the outer moat, was a much smaller formation, the Castle’s defense.

They were framed between the Northeast and Southeast towers: Fescue Select, Shivel Select in front of Fescue General, Shivel General—the full fyrd of two Plainslands manors, but only two. Either the rebellion was very widespread or the manors could not marshal men in time. Their banners cracked in the breeze, a sound that always filled me with dread. The center was a solid block of heavily armored hastai—veteran Select infantry—and a figure so huge that as I angled over them I easily recognized Tornado. To either side ranked pikemen raised a forest of jostling pikes. Cavalry pawed restlessly at the flanks, Hayl’s white horse pennant above the larger group. All the loyal fyrd were unusually well equipped and their armor shone—they were offering a deliberate contrast to the ragged rebels.

Hundreds of helmets glinted as they looked up to see me flying over. I waved my arms in acknowledgment. Don’t look at me, I thought; watch the rebels! I passed above the curtain wall, reassured by its bulk. Along the east wall, longbowmen of the Imperial Fyrd were stationed between the crenellations—I suddenly realized that the toothed tops of the towers were not just for decoration; the defenders on the parapet could shelter from missiles behind each merlon tooth. But the Castle was the only fortress to have crenellations—the Insect forts, like Lowespass, didn’t have or need them. The Castle was a fortress designed for protection against people as well as against Insects. “Shit,” I said aloud in astonishment. “How long ago had San anticipated this?”

The two forces faced each other, hearing the clacking as six trebuchet arms wound tight and still tighter. Each side waited for the other to move first. I banked around the Southeast Tower thinking that I couldn’t tell Tawny anything that he couldn’t see from the ground, so I circled up two hundred meters in the dawn air, wary of more arrows.

Archers detached from the main crescent of rebels and advanced slowly, their line like a loose screen. Tornado’s infantry responded by locking their hooked square shields together into an unbroken wall. A second later the ranks raised their shields over their heads, forming a makeshift roof against the arrows. The odd formation was unlike anything I had seen before, but I admired Tawny’s ingenuity.

With a crash of counterweights, the arms of all six trebuchets jerked up. I was far above them and saw, in plan, six stones arc out. One smashed down just in front of the machine—the stone had been too light; the middle two fell short, ripping up turf swaths; a fourth crunched through the canopy of the farthest plane tree in the paddock and dropped into the moat in a white water spout. Two rocks seemed to grow in size as they came up under me, shrank on their descending trajectories and struck the crenellations. Bowmen dived out of the way as chips flew off the facing stone.

A distant roar of exultation burst from the woods, tinged with fear at their own audacity. Teams of men hauled on the capstans to rack the trebuchet arms down; then others staggered forward and rolled a stone into each sling.

Appalled, I thought, isn’t Tawny going to
do
anything? People are actually damaging the Castle itself. Zascai are really attacking
us.
What have we done to make them hate us so much they want us dead? Do they want to harm the Emperor and annihilate the Circle? If Gio gets inside he knows the way to the Throne Room. My mind whirled at what would happen if every Eszai at once found himself suddenly returned to mortality.

In less than a minute the trebuchets were ready to launch again—their crews were obviously Eske’s trained fyrd. Their accuracy improved: only one block fell short, in front of the Yett Gate on the southeast wall. One went wide and bounced along the paddock fence, smashing it into matchwood; the remaining four thudded into the curtain wall. The Castle bled more rubble into its inner moat. I noticed that the wooden bridge to the Dace Gate had been removed.

Now the rebel archers started to send volleys toward the loyal fyrd. Arrows stuck in the shell of shields protecting the infantry. They found their marks in horseflesh spreading disorder and agitation throughout the cavalry.

Hayl Rosinante had had enough. He waved his horsemen forward, and they surged and gathered speed, spreading into a thin line, raising their lances. The archers immediately turned and raced back toward the safety of their own spearmen. From my vantage point I saw they wouldn’t make it. Swift as Insects, Hayl’s men ran them down. Ridged lance points devised to crack shell drove straight through the soft bodies of Awians and humans. Half the riders abandoned their lances in their impaled victims and drew swords, continuing their charge toward the rebel line.

I was…I had never expected to see mortals fighting immortals, and here of all places. In front of the Castle with Eszai leading troops against the Zascai we were sworn to protect! I wheeled around, sick with disgust, and sped toward the Throne Room.

A
s the breeze propelled me sideways, I kicked away from the pinnacle tops and lead sheet roofs coming up under my feet. Another horrible crash sounded from the direction of the Dace Gate.

The Throne Room spire sprang like a frozen fountain three hundred meters into the air. Its shadow swept around an enormous sundial on the Berm Lawns. The spire was built on Pentadrica Palace, which settled to accept it, ninety centimeters into the ground. The pressure caused little splits in the beams, cracks in the plaster. Its base was a harder stone, to stop the spire’s weight crushing the blocks.

The end of the Throne Room was pierced by stained glass windows in primary colors. The rose window crowned it, twenty meters across. One of its multifoil panes was propped open. I could fit through there. I pulled my wings to my body and folded them up as I felt the feathers brush the mullions. The arcuate sill passed below me; I slipped through.

The dim, silent hall was five hundred meters long, its cross-vaulted ceiling thirty meters high. At the far end was the black screen; way below me was the tiled floor with its scarlet carpet. People no taller than a centimeter looked up as I appeared in front of the rose window, my wings stretched in silhouette against its red and blue light.

I flew at the height of the diaphanous gallery adorned with different colors of marble. Above me were smaller lancet windows, the great bays divided by pointed arches below. Every window gave a fragmentary view of another part of the Castle.

My body rose and fell with wing beats. With every beat I passed an arch—with columns like bundles of thin tubes, supporting ribs interlacing the ceiling. I was in perfect rhythm with the arcades’ march down the Throne Room. They met at the vanishing point, where the Emperor sits.

The capstone bosses were larger than life—a double-headed axe, oak leaves, turtles, cascading cornucopias, flowers complex as chrysanthemums. The walls were bright with daylight. The sun shone on the east side and cast the shadow of the pointed windows all the way down the west vault. San watches these shadows tilt, shorten and reappear on the east vault every day. Above him, the ceiling vanishes up into the octagonal spire; behind him shines the sunburst.

The scent of incense thickened. The marksmen on the balcony looked distressed; then the carved ebony screen filled my vision. I swung my legs down, alighted gently on the carpet before it, and trotted through the portal, pulling my wings in and folding them. I knelt fluidly before the dais.

“My lord Emperor, I have returned from Tris and await your command.”

A
crash, scarcely muted by the pierced walls, echoed through the hall. I winced. “What’s happening out there? How can I help?”

San said, “The guards will inform me of the situation outside. Am I right that you can add little news about the rebellion?”

“Lightning is wounded. I left him at Awndyn manor.” I outlined the ambush, the spice ship, and
Stormy Petrel
hidden in a fissure. I paused at every clash or an outburst of shouting, wondering if they were coming nearer. I could only hear the loudest shouts, chaotic and disjointed. I fretted—why didn’t San send me outside to watch them? The rocks were smashing the outside wall and destroying the buildings in the gap. Can they reach as far as the Palace? If Tornado doesn’t keep them out of range Gio will aim for the spire.

The Emperor listened impassively and at length said, “Be calm, Comet. The Archer’s injuries are to be regretted, yes, but he is not the whole Circle. There are other ways to defeat Gio. Tell me about Tris—everything concerning the island.”

“I have Mist’s written account.” I took the scuffed stack of papers from my satchel, climbed the four steps to the rostrum and passed it to San. His pinched, wolfish face watched me keenly. Under his ivory cloak, his sleeves were loose to the elbow. His fine white hair hung down to curl on narrow shoulders.

A breathless guard ran past the screen then prostrated himself on the floor, his sense of etiquette battling with the need for urgency. “My lord,” he panted, “Hayl’s cavalry have been turned back by the rebel pikemen but casualties are light. Tornado says he must break the rebel lines in a melee if he’s to stop the trebuchets.”

San nodded. “Tell Tornado I have full trust in his judgment. However, remind him that there must be no pursuit once he has broken the resistance.”

The guard stumbled to his feet, bowed, and left.

“My lord,” I said. “Perhaps I should go and help the Strongman. We’re heavily outnumbered.”

The Emperor gave a grim smile. “This situation is not unforeseen. Last month Queen Eleonora offered half her fyrd to guard the walls. I declined as the involvement of Awia in any such engagement would increase discord. Instead the Plainslands manors have shown their loyalty, and the weakness of Gio’s support.”

Two more crashes, only a second apart; falling slates then silence. I looked tentatively at San, unable to hide my doubt.

“Comet, remember that the Circle is composed of the unsurpassed. The strongest warrior and finest horseman in the world defend us. These walls were built by a succession of the world’s preeminent architects. Gio Ami may be the
second
-greatest swordsman ever but he cannot be everywhere. His followers have disloyal natures or they would not have joined him, and once the battle turns against them he will be unable to hold them for long.”

“My lord.”

“Now, report on Tris.”

I began to describe everything that had happened on our voyage, in chronological order. I took pleasure in doing my job well. San listened to me talk, and act, as I paced back and forth on the carpet before the dais, in a red patch of light cast by the stained glass windows.

Another crash resounded, and the noise of shattering glass—the telescopes and sundials in the Starglass Quadrangle. The Emperor frowned and sent a guard to check on the damage. The Starglass Quadrangle was full of accurate instruments that set the time for the entire Fourlands. In fact, the Fourlands’ prime meridian runs through it; the north axis that crosses the east axis at zero degrees through the Emperor’s throne.

Another soldier sped in. I stepped aside while he flung himself on his knees in front of the throne and spieled out the latest news seen from his vantage point on the Skein Gate tower. “The Select Fyrds have engaged the rebel center. The cavalry are regrouping on the flanks.”

“Very well, return to your post.”

I thought of the picture of San in
Tris Istorio.
He was acting like a fyrd captain once more. I resumed speaking but was interrupted every fifteen minutes by news of the battle. There were longer waits between the trebuchet impacts now and the shouts were farther away. Tornado and Hayl are driving the rebels back, I thought with relief.

I spoke for so long that we had to break the court session to give me a meal. The four hundred kilometers I had just covered were taking their toll. By the time I finished it was early evening, and the bombardment had ceased some time ago. Nervous servants came in to light the torchères and wind lamps down on chains from the ceiling to fill them. I was exhausted from sleep deprivation and practically flayed by San’s questions.

I stared at the four gemstone columns in the niche behind the throne: blue azurite for Awia, purple porphyry for Morenzia, green jade for the Plainslands, silver-gray hematite for Darkling. For the first time I noticed that although there was equal distance between them, the four columns did not span the apse symmetrically. There was room for another pillar on the far right, just by where some small steps descended to an arched and iron-studded door that led to the Emperor’s private rooms. There was a gap where a column used to be—for the Pentadrica.