The Destiny of the Dead (The Song of the Tears Book 3) (37 page)

‘Hoy!’ cried Flangers. ‘You and you, over there. And you
three, put your shoulders against the javelard, and your backs into it.’ He
directed everyone like a conductor until the weight was balanced and the
air-sled had steadied, as much as Chissmoul could manage it.

‘Take her up, Pilot,’ said Flydd. ‘Nish, what the blazes are
you doing up there? Come down.’

Nish slid down off the javelard, watching the running
soldiers, who were within firing range.

‘Down, everyone,’ said Flangers, and they ducked.

A flight of crossbow bolts thudded into the uprights of the
javelard.

‘We’ve done what we came to do,’ said Nish. ‘Let’s get going
before Chissmoul collapses.’

‘After our lap of honour,’ said Flydd. ‘You can manage
that
, can’t you, Pilot?’

Chissmoul nodded, too exhausted to speak.

‘You’re out of your mind, Flydd!’ said Nish.

‘This is the icing on the cake of your credibility,
Deliverer
,’ said Flydd. ‘Pilot, take
your craft all the way around the edge of the square. Militia, brace yourselves
against the javelard and when it slips, ease it back into position.’

‘That’s not going to be easy to do,’ said Nish as they
climbed, ‘the way it’s sliding around.’

‘Then bang some wedges under it!’ snapped Flydd. ‘Do I have
to think of everything.’

Nish wedged the javelard as best he could.

‘Make it quick, then. If they bring up another javelard,
we’re carrion.’ He searched the rooftops and alleyways in case the enemy was
already doing so, but outside the lighted square it was too dark to tell.

Chissmoul lifted the shaking, quaking air-sled to a height
of fifty spans, where there was little danger from a crossbow strike, and
coaxed the faltering craft around the square. Despite the wedges, the javelard
moved on the metal deck with every change of direction.

‘Put your backs to it,’ said Flangers, tapping the wedges in
again.

A dozen times Nish thought the javelard was going to slide
all the way and scrape them off the deck, but each time the combined efforts of
the militiamen and women held it – just. They could not do it much
longer, though; everyone was close to collapse.

The square was thronged with people now, thousands of them
staring silently at the absurd sight of the air-sled wobbling through the sky
bearing a javelard that seemed bigger than it was.

‘The governor and the seneschal won’t explain away this
defeat so easily,’ Flydd crowed.

‘We haven’t got away yet,’ Nish said sourly, though inside
he was exultant. Flydd was a bloody annoying old bastard, but he’d got more out
of them than Nish could ever have imagined, and if they could succeed …

‘Half the city is witnessing their humiliation, and within
days the furthest reaches of the empire will know about it. Just one more
thing, Chissmoul, if you can manage it, and then we go. Fly over the mansion,
if you please.’

Smoke and flame were gushing from the windows of the ground
floor, but as yet the upper floors were unscathed. Over the highest point of
the mansion Flydd shouted, above the roar of the flames, ‘Now to dump the
rubbish. Ready, Chissmoul?’

‘Ready,’ she said dully.

‘Everyone on the right, come around to the left and hang
onto the safety ropes. Flangers, cut the safety ropes on the right, knock the
wedges out from under the javelard and join us. Pilot, you’ll have to balance
the weight –’

‘Don’t tell me how to do my job!’ she snarled.

The air-sled quivered as more weight came on the left, and
canted that way. Chissmoul levelled it, though it took an effort. Her cheeks,
in the fading light from the tar-splattered sides, were streaked with sooty
sweat.

Nish’s eyes were still roving around the square, and now he
caught tell-tale movements in the distance. ‘Hurry up. They’re bringing a
javelard down the street to the north … and I think I can see others further
back.’

Flydd looked at Chissmoul questioningly. She nodded. ‘I’m
ready.’

‘Militiamen,’ said Flydd, ‘heave the javelard towards the
side. The instant it starts to slide, grab your safety ropes and hang on
tight.’

They heaved, and Nish did too, until he thought his heart
was going to burst, but the javelard would not budge. ‘It must be caught on
something.’

Surely the enemy javelard would be in a position to fire by
now. Feeling a target centred on his back, he grabbed the fallen pennant pole,
jammed it under the side and levered. The javelard lifted slightly, cleared a
ragged edge of the hole he’d cut in the floor, and began to move.

‘It’s away!’ said Flydd. ‘Hang on tight.’

The javelard kept sliding, faster and faster, and went over
the edge. The air-sled tilted so sharply that Nish did not think Chissmoul
could save it, but yet again she managed to bring it upright. The enemy
javelard must have fired, for a metal spear shrieked off the tilted stern, but
Nish did not have the energy to look around.

The javelard plummeted onto the middle of the mansion roof,
smashing the slates and snapping the timbers, and battered its way down through
floor after floor until the crashing ceased and it came to rest, out of sight.

Flydd peered through the shattered hole. ‘There’s no sign of
fire here yet, but it can’t take long. Let’s go – no, wait.’ He studied
the hole again and a mischievous light sparked in his dark eyes. ‘I can see the
pantries. One final insult. Nish, you’ll want to be in on this.’

‘No, I won’t,’ said Nish. ‘All I want is to lie down and
sleep for a month.’

‘You’ll sleep a lot better after we come back in triumph.
Flangers, tie a rope harness around Nish, and another around me. Fasten a net
on the end of a third rope, then lower us down.’

‘You’ve got to be joking,’ said Nish. ‘We’ve done enough,
Flydd. Why risk it all for nothing?’

‘This is going to be beautiful,’ chortled Flydd. ‘The
seneschal’s humiliation will be complete – he’ll never recover from it.’

‘It’s insane; I’m not going down there. The roof could fall
in at any moment.’ Besides, a dozen javelards could be aimed at them by now.

‘Of course you are. Come on.’

Flydd could not be quelled; he seemed intoxicated by the
drama and the danger, and shortly they were lowered over the side into the roof
hole. As they went down, Nish looked up at the air-sled, which was shuddering
worse than before, sure that this was the stupidest of the many stupid things
he had done. ‘Where are we going, anyway?’

‘To the seneschal’s private pantries.’

‘Pantries?’ Nish was too tired to think straight.

‘We’re going to rob him of the delicacies he keeps for the
God-Emperor, in the unlikely event that
he
would deign to visit such a backwater as Taranta.’

‘I like a good feed as well as the next man,’ said Nish
sourly, ‘but I don’t see why we’re risking our lives for it.’

‘Because this is the final, glorious insult, the one that
will have the whole of Santhenar talking about us,’ said Flydd, ‘and, reckless
though it may be, I can’t resist.’

‘But the mansion is on fire. There isn’t time.’

Flydd looked down again. ‘There’s no sign of fire near the
pantries.’

‘I’ve seen whole cities burn, and so have you. There can be
no trace of fire one minute, and the next the place is an inferno.’

Flydd did not bother to reply.

‘Keep low,’ Nish yelled up. ‘Watch out for javelards.’

Flangers, who had a crossbow in hand, waved him away.

The first pantry had been demolished by the javelard, but
the next was unscathed. Nish was looking along the shelves when Flydd jabbed
him in the ribs and gestured down. The hole, which continued through into a
dark cellar full of stacked barrels, had a powerful aroma of freshly spilled
wine.

They went down. Flydd conjured light from the tips of his
fingers and scampered – there was no other word for it – along to a
barred and locked compound at the end of the cellar, which was marked with the
sign of the God-Emperor. Pulling a small, stubby rod from his pocket, he
pressed its end to the lock, which exploded in a spray of metal cinders, and
wrenched the door open.

‘Heave that barrel over your shoulder,’ he said, pointing at
the third one from the end.

Nish did so. Flydd lifted a large flagon from a shelf and
turned away. ‘That’ll do. Pity the rest has to burn.’

They put several flagons and barrels in the man-sized net
and scrambled up to the pantries, which were thick with smoke now. Nish could
hear the roar of fire, and a series of crashes, followed by a louder roaring.
‘The front of the mansion must be coming down, Flydd. It’ll drive the fire
towards us.’

‘Grab anything that takes your fancy, and make it snappy.’

Nish tossed cheeses, hams, sausages, smoked fish and other
delicacies into the net at random; Flydd came running down the shelves with an
armload. His pockets were bulging, and each time he moved, they chimed.

‘What have you got in your pockets?’ said Nish.

‘The seneschal’s finest goblets.’

‘Now I know you’ve lost your wits.’

‘You can’t drink fine wine out of a metal cup.’

‘After the past week, I’d drink it from my military boots.’

There was another, louder crash, and burning air blasted in
under the outer pantry door. ‘Time to go,’ said Flydd.

Nish wasn’t about to argue. After making sure his harness
was secure, he tugged three times on his rope, the agreed signal, and it was
pulled up in a series of jerks. Below them, the door fell with a crash and fire
coiled up,
whoomph
, reaching almost
to their toes before it died away.
Whoomph
,
whoomph
; this time he had to beat out
smouldering threads on the ragged ends of his pants.

‘It’s coming higher each time, as though it’s fed by a
bellows.’

‘And every collapse feeds it.’

The ropes were pulled up more quickly, but not before the
third
whoomph
sent flames up to
Nish’s waist, and he felt his nasal hairs singeing. The next blast would come
up past them and set fire to the rope, if not themselves.

Suddenly he was jerked up as though a giant had taken hold
of the line, and out through the broken timbers. The fire roared and flames
leapt up through the hole, higher than the roof, as they were dragged over the
side onto the air-sled along with their precious cargo. Clech’s stretcher had
been brought to the ropes and it was his mighty strength that had saved them.

‘One good turn must be repaid by another,’ he said. ‘And a
drop of the wine in that barrel, if you can spare it.’

‘Is that all, Flydd?’ said Nish. ‘Can we go now, or have you
got an even more reckless finale in mind?’

‘Only to take a bow to our audience,’ said Flydd, smiling.
‘And give them a present.’

‘The javelard –’ Nish began.

‘I brought down the operator,’ said Flangers, waving the
crossbow. ‘And the other javelards aren’t quite in position yet.’

‘To the centre of the square,’ said Flydd, taking some of
the wines and delicacies out of the net and stacking them on the deck.

Chissmoul took them there, and everyone lined up along the
side of the air-sled and bowed to the throngs gathered at the east, the south,
the north and the western sides of the square.

‘The Deliverer sends compliments to the good people of
Taranta,’ boomed Flydd, ‘and begs you to celebrate his victory with the finest
food and drink the seneschal has to offer, from the private stores kept for the
God-Emperor.’ The net was carefully lowered to the centre of the square, and
its ropes cut. ‘And now the Deliverer takes his leave, for he must now seize
control of the empire, and fight Stilkeen.’

At the last bow, the gathering gave them a ragged cheer and
surged towards the net.

Flydd said, ‘We’re done,’ and Chissmoul turned away, out
over the silent city, heading east.

‘You old bastard,’ said Nish, and shook his hand. ‘I would
never have thought of that, much less attempted it, yet you’ve pulled it off.’

‘And the rest is up to you,
Deliverer
.’

 
TWENTY-SIX

On the journey to Roros they planned to keep to uninhabited
places, camping in uplands or on hilltops where there was not so much as a
cottage in sight, though Flydd was not afraid of the people of this land. Even
the most desperate troublemakers would have kept well clear of the scarred and
battle-hardened militia.

‘It’s best if we disappear for a while,’ he said to Nish the
following night, when they were sitting around the camp fire after everyone
else had gone to their bedrolls. ‘We’ve created a sensation, and if nothing
more is seen of us for a while, the rumours will spread more strongly than if we
popped into every town. Let the authorities worry about what we’re going to do
next, and the people wonder, and our strength and cunning will grow with each
telling.’

‘Sounds good to me,’ said Nish limply, for he was so worn
out that he’d had trouble sleeping, day or night.

‘Besides, we’ve been pushed beyond endurance since Jal-Nish
attacked Mistmurk Mountain six weeks ago, and we deserve a holiday. And now,
old friend, the payoff.’

Flydd levered the bung out of one of his flagons, sniffed
deeply, then poured a healthy red-gold measure of liqueur into a pair of the
etched glass goblets he’d lifted from the pantry. Handing one to Nish, he said,
‘Now tell me this doesn’t taste better than it would from a mouldy wineskin.’

Nish twirled his goblet, admiring the way the light twinkled
off the delicately etched surfaces, as fine as silver filigree. ‘There’s no
comparison, but I still wouldn’t risk burning to death for the privilege.’

He took a tentative sniff and the bouquet rushed up his
nose, burning deliciously, enchantingly. He sipped and it was even better.
Tears formed in his eyes; it reminded him of older, happier times and he felt
an urge to reminisce.