Path of Revenge (4 page)

He stopped, sour-stomached and out of breath, and realised he had been shouting. The cliff-girls had drawn back into the shadows beyond the bonfire, back towards Lamplight Lane where the fiddlers played their shanties. Mustar looked at his master, stony-faced.

‘My father spoke highly of you,’ the youth said, his voice stretched as though he was reluctant to let go of
the words. ‘He said you were a man of courage. But he never told me you were blind.’

‘Blind? I see more clearly than anyone in this circle of death!’ Noetos shouted, waving his arms around and spilling ale everywhere. ‘Would that it were I for sale in the Recruiters’ meat market on the morrow rather than my own son! Then perhaps I could go somewhere that has some meaning!’

Without warning a strong arm took his hand and forced it up his back. ‘Then go home, Noetos, and find your meaning there,’ said Sautea. ‘I know you could break my grip, friend, but don’t try, for your own sake.’

Noetos decided not to resist, and was propelled gently up the beach towards Lamplight Lane. There, under a brightly burning lamp, stood half a dozen robed and cowled figures. The Recruiters. Not at the Hegeoman’s house after all. That set Noetos laughing, a sour laugh that burned in his gut.

The hoods of the Recruiters turned away from the sight; all but one, which followed the progress of the cursing drunk until he vanished into the shrouded distance.

The tension in the cliff-house was unbearable the following morning, the absence of healing words far more hurtful than the sharp words spoken the previous night; and it was with considerable relief that the family of Noetos the fisherman made their way along The Circle to Short Run, then down Shadow Street to Nadoce Square on Lamplight Lane. There the candidates for selection presented themselves to the Recruiters, and a large crowd gathered to watch.

Noetos and Opuntia sat on the benches provided for relatives of the candidates. The fisherman couldn’t help noticing that his wife sat as far from him as she could without occasioning comment. She had been waiting up for him when he returned the previous
night, an unpleasant surprise as he had expected her to remain late at the Hegeoman’s house. No doubt the party had broken up when the Recruiters had left for the beach. She’d said nothing, even after he had vomited on the clean white tiles of their kitchen.
If I’d taken out a knife and gutted myself, she still would have said nothing,
Noetos reflected bitterly.
I
am
blind. How could I not have seen what was going on?

Six Recruiters had come to Fossa this time. All six were robed in grey with deep cowls that covered their heads, making it difficult to discern much about them apart from their sex. Five men, one woman. Usually only four came on their biennial sweep through the Fisher Coast, though as Noetos watched he saw that four of the six were true Recruiters, responsible for testing the candidates. The other two were servants.

It was said that the Recruiters were failed aspirants to the rank of
Maghdi Dasht.
These
Maghdi Dasht,
an ancient term meaning ‘Heart of the Desert’, were the most powerful of the Undying Man’s servants, skilled in magic and warcraft, and reported directly to him. The Recruiters, hardly less powerful, also answered only to Andratan. This meant they were above the laws of any country they passed through. Truly a law unto themselves.

A young lad from Escren Street fenced with one of the figures, both using training swords. The lad’s movements were small, tight, as though he was not prepared to risk being hit—or, more likely, simply too scared to move freely. He’d never be selected.

The Recruiters sought soldiers, minstrels, scholars and leaders. They favoured candidates who were outstanding in one skill over those merely competent in all four, but inadequacy in any of the four skills would disqualify an aspirant. The Recruiters did not have to choose a candidate from any particular village, though they did, apparently, have a quota to fill from the Fisher
Coast. The chosen ones were taken to Andratan, where Bhrudwo’s best tutors would teach them magical arts designed to enhance their natural talents, whatever was necessary for a lifetime’s service to the Undying Man. The rewards were immense. Power, wealth, meaning, everything a dead-end place like Fossa lacked. A hundred gold coins were paid immediately to the family of the one chosen, and another hundred to the village Hegeoman or City Factor. With such an incentive the Hegeoman traditionally paid for a beachfront celebration the night before the Testing, and actively encouraged the youth of the village to present themselves as candidates. Not that their parents needed persuading. A hundred gold coins was sufficient for a family to live on for years; enough to bribe the Hegeoman into opening the cliff-house to Noetos the fisherman, with enough remaining to purchase the
Arathé.
‘Something for you, something for me,’ Opuntia had said, ever practical.
But she never realised that I hate being a fisherman.
Both the house and the boat were parting gifts from the daughter to her mother, and everyone but Opuntia knew it.

The Escren Street lad finally decided to strike out with his blade, throwing himself towards the cowled Recruiter with a lack of balance that would have seen him killed in a battle or duel. The hooded shape drifted half a pace back, then twisted sideways and dealt the ill-prepared youth a nasty blow on the shins and another between the shoulders before he could react. Noetos raised his eyebrows. The cloth-draped arm had been blindingly quick. The lad’s eyes watered and he dropped his sword.

One of the two servants, clearly a scribe, made a strike across a piece of parchment. The other servant gazed at the dwindling line of candidates, not shifting her gaze even when hailed by one of the Recruiters.

The scribe called out, ‘Anomer tal Noetos!’
Opuntia stiffened beside him, and their son walked slowly, elegantly, out into the cobbled square. The first test. Noetos gripped the bench.

A Recruiter tossed a practice sword to Anomer, who caught it by the hilt. Noetos nodded. He’d taught the boy the importance of confidence at the beginning of swordplay. Knowledge not expected of a fisherman, certainly, but Noetos had told his family he’d learned his bladecraft in border skirmishes as a young man. Not so far from the truth. ‘Make the first move,’ he had instructed Anomer. ‘Take the game to your opponent. Don’t sit back. You’ll not be able to move when the time comes otherwise.’

Anomer made the first move: a clumsy thrust that he somehow turned into a feint. It drew the cloaked figure in close, only to find that the tall, thin boy had leapt to the left and now drove in with a much crisper thrust. The Recruiter leaned back and dealt with the blow, though with difficulty, deflecting it along the length of his own blade.

‘Good move,’ Noetos muttered. The little rascal had cooked that one up on his own.

The Recruiter took the initiative, grasping his sword in both hands and launching a furious series of strokes. Anomer barely countered them. Noetos could not tell whether the cloaked man held himself in reserve.

A series of strokes later—as quick as Anomer could deliver, quick enough to make the Recruiter work—his son was ordered to put up his sword.

‘Very good balance,’ came a composed, high-pitched northern accent from within the cowl. ‘You show promise. Is the sword your best skill, youngster?’

‘No, lord.’ Anomer’s voice was clear and undaunted. No sign of exertion. ‘I believe it the least of my skills.’

‘And your best?’ The voice was piqued with interest.

‘Intelligence, lord.’

‘Is that so? Ataphaxus!’ the cowled figure snapped. Another of the Recruiters sprang forward, a question already on his lips.

‘Tell me, youth, why will the Neherians always dominate the Fisher Coast?’

Noetos drew a startled breath, and the gathered crowd murmured uneasily. What sort of question was that?

As if in answer, Ataphaxus the Recruiter turned to the benches. ‘It is not enough to know the things that are. True intelligence seeks to understand the reasons
why
these things are.’ The undercurrent of whispering grew louder among the benches. What were his words if not designed to provoke?

Anomer shrugged his shoulders. ‘If I was truly wise I would not try to answer this question in such a public place, here in front of my friends and family. However, I can offer you this thought, my lord. It is a matter of population. The Neherians are a numerous people, and they have a wide view of the world from their favoured harbours. We Fossans are few, and see no further than our own sheltered bay. The Neherians dominate the Fisher Coast because they look beyond it. We are contained by our harbour because we see all we need within it.’

‘And with this in mind, which Fisher country supplies the most recruits for Andratan?’

‘Palestra, my lord,’ Anomer answered promptly. ‘Neherius would, all other things being equal, but their lords do not allow the very best of their youth to be examined by the Recruiters. Thus they extend their advantage over their neighbours because they see humans as more valuable than the gold they are exchanged for.’

Dangerous!
Noetos gripped the bench until his knuckles whitened. Anomer had succeeded in offending everyone present. He offended Fossa and all
the other fishing villages by saying they were not as clever as the Neherians, who owed their advantage to the strategy of avoiding the Recruiters. He offended the Recruiters by claiming they were being duped by Neherius.
Could this be true? And, if so, how could Anomer possibly know it?

His son was left standing in the middle of the square, sword still in his hand, while all four Recruiters huddled together. Before Noetos could do more than worry, they turned to face the boy.

‘You, Anomer tal Noetos, have finished here. You will return to your home with your family and await our pleasure. In the meantime, we call Siela tar Follia.’

Within moments the bewildered boy and his parents found themselves outside Nadoce Square and on Lamplight Lane, walking home along an empty street.

‘What are they going to do to us?’ Opuntia moaned. ‘What are they going to do?’

Noetos ignored her and placed an arm around his son. He had no answer for the question his wife posed, and wondered how long they would have to wait.

A cool afternoon sea breeze had dragged in pale clouds by the time a sharp rap echoed in the living room of the Fisher house. Four quick raps, then even before Noetos could rouse himself from his couch, four more. Rushed, insistent, not like the self-assured deliberateness the Recruiters had shown this morning. He hurried to the door.

Behind him Opuntia drew her arms tight around Anomer, whose grim face hadn’t changed for hours, no matter what foolish things his mother had said. They would be slain on the spot, she’d exclaimed, or taken out to Nadoce Square and publicly executed as an example to all who dared criticise Bhrudwan policy. Later she had rallied and spent an hour trying to convince herself that they would be commended for
their son’s brave words, and he would be appointed as the Hegeoman’s adviser. Both scenarios were nonsense, Noetos thought, but he was not prepared to admit how closely some of her thoughts mirrored his own.

The fisherman took a settling breath and pulled open the door just as the cloaked and cowled figure made to rap on it again. The figure jerked back, then rushed past in a rustle of cloth. Before Noetos knew it he found himself seated on his couch beside his wife and son, with the Recruiter standing before him, sword out, tip resting on the tiles.

Only one? Where were the others? Could they fight this one off if he went to strike at them? Why had he not thought to fetch his sword down from its place in the roof?

The figure standing there was not a Recruiter. It was the female servant. Her wide-hipped, full-breasted shape had been obscured by her grey robe.

‘What do you want with us?’ Noetos asked, struggling to keep the fear out of his voice. ‘What have we done to offend your masters?’

Still the figure said nothing. Then, in a smooth gesture that Noetos jerked away from, she let the sword fall to the floor and swept her cowl back, revealing a swollen face, deep, ravaged eyes and a shockingly bald head. Opuntia gave a cry of fright, then held her tongue.

‘I repeat: what do you want with us?’ the fisherman asked again. Something was not right here, his soldier’s sense told him, and an air of deadly danger settled on the room.

The servant opened her mouth and made a sound like a baby crying. Some sort of foreign language? No, not a language. The woman made the noise again, waving her arms in what was undoubtedly frustration, tears leaking out of her eyes. What was going on here?

‘Ahhh…waay! Ahh…WAAAY!’ said the woman, then opened her mouth and pointed to it.

‘She has no tongue,’ said Anomer, horrified. ‘She can’t talk.’

‘What are you trying to say to us?’ Noetos stood, as though there was something he could do to help her. The woman shook with something like rage, waved her arms again and pointed to them, then to herself.

‘I don’t know what she’s saying,’ the fisherman said, pity in his voice. ‘Perhaps we should go and get the Recruiters.’

‘Nnnn! Nnnnnn!’ the servant cried, shaking her head vigorously. She swept a desperate glance around the room, then cried in triumph and strode over to the plinth holding the bust of Arathé. Before any of them could stop her she took the plinth in one hand, held it up, pointed to herself and then to the carving.

‘Ahhway!’ she said.

Opuntia jerked to her feet, screamed as though taken by a sword, then fell to the floor.

The truth eluded Noetos a moment longer. He turned from his unconscious wife to look again at…at…

His daughter.

No, no, not his daughter, not his sweet Arathé. Not her, please Alkuon, not her. But he looked at the bust on the plinth and looked again at the raddled servant of the Recruiters, and the dreadful truth hooked him.

Oh, no. God of the sea, please, no.

Everything blurred. His feet didn’t seem to move, but somehow he found himself holding his daughter, crying into her robe, then pulling his weeping wife to her feet, and none of it was true, but here stood his daughter, sobbing, face buried in his shoulder, Anomer still as death on the couch…
Oh, Arathé, what have they done to you?