The Infernal Lands (The Aionach Saga Book 1) (47 page)

“More coming, Nuck,” said the tall
eh-calai
who had
met them when they arrived.

Artolo strode forward and crouched at the mouth of the
passage, looking toward the light. They heard the sound of chains scraping over
rock, and Lizneth could see the line of captives making their way down the
slope, struggling to find their footing as the rock became increasingly buried
in muddy sand.
Zhigdain is heartless
, she thought.
We shouldn’t have
left them like that
. That was easy to say now; she was cool and relatively
safe, and she could see and scent.
The Aionach wouldn’t be such a cruel
place if zhehn did more to help one another
.

“It’s the send-offs from last night,” Artolo said,
astonished. “Somehow they’ve come back. Jeigan, be on your guard. This could be
one of the slavers’ tricks.”

“It isn’t,” Lizneth said. Zhigdain glared at her, but she spoke
up anyway. “We bumped into them on our way here and—”

“I didn’t trust them,” Zhigdain burst in. “We slew their
masters, and I worried for the safety of our
lezhehn
. So I let them
live, but I didn’t unchain them.”

Artolo stood and studied Zhigdain for a moment. He nodded in
understanding. “You’ve got better sense than I pinned you for, big-ears. This
lot are not to be trusted.”

Artolo sent a few
eh-calaihn
up the slope to guide the
captives to the bottom. When they caught sight of Artolo the Nuck waiting for them,
they seemed to grow nervous.

“You’ve seen a fortunate turn of events,” Artolo told the new
arrivals. “Don’t let it be your last.”

Artolo and his hangers-on led them through the village. The
captives spent the entire trip giving Zhigdain scornful looks, until they
arrived at one of the more modest huts close to the shore, where a spotted old
eh-calai
knocked the hinge pins from their shackles with a hammer and an iron punch.
Artolo dismissed the bulk of his entourage when the deed was done.

“If he can take them off, why are you still wearing yours?”
Lizneth asked, calling attention to the manacles around Artolo’s ankles.

“I want to remember where I’ve been,” he said, casting a
pensive look at his feet. “I think one’s past has a great deal to do with who he’ll
become.”

Lizneth considered this. His sincerity was plain, but she
didn’t see the value in remembering the unfortunate circumstances of her life.
“Have it your way,” she said, rubbing her wrists as if to wipe away the memory
of the iron’s cold grasp. “I’d rather forget. I wouldn’t wear those stupid
things a second longer than I had to.”

“Most people would say the same,” Artolo said.

Lizneth wrinkled her snout. “What’s
people
?”

“Sorry—
zhehn
. I’ve gotten so used to speaking the Aion-speech,
I mix up my words sometimes. Most
zhehn
would say the same. It’s hard to
forget about things that have caused us pain, but it gets easier with practice.
I’m just sentimental about pain, I guess.”

“I’m not,” Lizneth said, examining the end of her tail. It
would be a long time before it healed, but she was fortunate not to have suffered
any permanent losses to its length. The spotted old blacksmith went back to
hammering some implement he’d left in his coals while he was removing their
shackles. She watched the sparks fly and bounce into the sand, remembering
home.

“I think that makes you pretty normal,” Artolo said.

“I’d give anything for my life to go back to normal,” Lizneth
said. She hung her head, thinking of her brothers and sisters, of little Raial
and poor brave Deequol and her aging parents. She wondered how they’d bring in
the harvest without her, and whether Sniverlik would drive them out—or worse.

“I won’t pretend living in Gris-Mirahz is easy or
comfortable,” Artolo said, sitting beside her. “It could be much worse,
though.”

“I’m sure it’s nice being in charge of a whole
vilck
,
but… don’t you ever wish you had your old life back?”

Artolo laughed. “In charge? I’m not in charge. I’m sorry if I
gave you that impression. I just understand people.
Ehi kibrech
zhehn
.
They bring me out to speak to newcomers. I’m the only one in the
vilck
who’s fluent in the Aion-speech, Ikzhethii, and Calgoàric. I speak a little
Bireyish and Maoux, too.”

Lizneth was impressed. “You learned all those different
ethiihn
in your old life?”

“Most of them,” he said. “I’ve always been a student of
tongues. I grew up learning a little of everything. It’s interesting; anywhere you
find
ikzhehn
in the Aionach, Ikzhethii is spoken more fluently among the
poor. You’ll find the opposite to be true among the humans—sorry, the
calaihn
.
Calgoàric is a hallowed language, learned and practiced most by the warriors
and the masters. So their revered and wealthy know more of the old tongue than
their poor do. The Aion-speech is where everyone meets. Where trade happens.
Although not everyone speaks it well.”

“I speak bits and pieces of Ikzhethii because of my parents,”
Lizneth admitted. “Their Aion-speech is good, but they taught us all to speak
some of the old tongue too.”

“You come from a big family,” Artolo said, half-asking.

“Bigger than average,” Lizneth said. “My poor old Mama has
borne five litters for Papa. Many of my brood-brothers and sisters didn’t
survive past infancy. Others were conscripted as younglings to be raised as
soldiers in Sniverlik’s horde. I’m the only one of my litter still at home.
Although I guess I’m… not at home anymore.”

“Sniverlik,” Artolo said, scratching his chin. “This is a
name I’ve heard before. Can’t remember where.”

“Everyone knows him where I’m from. It doesn’t surprise me
that his name has spread.”

“So he conscripts nestlings for soldiers,” Artolo said. “How
many of your brothers and sisters has he taken?”

“Eight. Some are dead, some are servants instead of soldiers.
Others are too young still. I’ve heard he raises others’ nestlings alongside
his own if he thinks they have promise. Mama and Papa weep every time the
Marauders come. They won’t do it in front of us, but I can hear them in the
night. We try to yield a good crop every year. If it’s good enough, they don’t
come, sometimes. When I left, twenty of my brothers and sisters were still at
home. Life is hard with so many mouths to feed… but we always have fun.”

“I’m sorry,” Artolo said, his face somber. “I hope you’ll
learn to like it here. We have a good time, when we can.” He gave her another
one of his warm smiles.

“I don’t want to stay here. I can’t. The harvest will come
soon.”

“I won’t force you to stay,” said the black-furred buck.
“However, I will warn you that there’s no other place that’s safe for our kind
for horizons in every direction.”

“I’ll take the next ship I can get passage on. I’ll find one
bound for Bolck-Azock.”

“Bolck-Azock doesn’t have much need for man-things, so there
aren’t many ships going that way,” Artolo said. “Slavers are the only ones who
sail there with any regularity. From here, most ships make stops along the
coast before they make their way around to Bolck-Azock. It’d be months before
you made it home aboard any ship but your own.”

“I’ll buy one, then.”

Artolo laughed aloud, then stifled himself when he saw the
hurt look on her face. “What do you have to trade for a ship?”

Lizneth shriveled inside. Her whole chest wanted to cave in
on itself as the despair set in anew. She felt as trapped here in Gris-Mirahz
as she had on Curznack’s galley. She owned nothing but the dagger and the
clothes on her back, which were long past soiled and falling apart. Even her
cloak was gone, the one kind Nathak had traded her for a fistful of mulligraws
and a favor. She hoped he hadn’t intended to redeem that favor; she didn’t
think she’d ever see Bolck-Azock again. It was hard to imagine how she would
ever secure passage over the Omnekh now.

“This dagger is all I have,” she managed to say, half-drawing
it from its scabbard.

“A knife won’t buy you a—” he began, and stopped short when
he saw the green shimmer on the blade. “Where did you get that?”

“It was the Captain’s. Zhigdain gave it to me when he slew
him.”

“Do you know what that is, on the blade?”

Lizneth huffed through her nose. “Too well. Fane and I nearly
died from it.”

“Then you must know that it’s nothing to toy with.”

“Of course I do,” Lizneth said.

“But clearly you don’t know its worth.”

“Its worth?” Zhigdain said, overhearing. He and the others
were suddenly standing behind them, stretching and rubbing the places where the
irons had been.

“Any poison so potent is worth plenty, given the right
buyer,” Artolo said.

“And we’re likely to find the right buyer here,” Fane said.

“What better place than a town of criminals and thieves,”
Artolo said, giving Zhigdain a needling smirk.

“Then there’s no doubting we must sell this dagger,” Zhigdain
said.

“It’s Lizneth’s decision,” Fane said, calling her by name for
the first time she could remember. “The dagger belongs to her. It’s hers to do
with as she pleases.” He put a hand on her back and leaned in. “Don’t be
bullied,” he whispered. Standing again, he looked to the others. “We’d better
find ourselves some food and a place to rest. The day has been a long one.”

“Jeigan will see that you find both,” Artolo said, waving a
finger at the tall vermilion-headed
eh-calai
, who nodded.

“I’m going to stay here for now. I’ll find you later,”
Lizneth said.

Zhigdain opened his mouth to object, but stopped himself. He was
grumbling under his breath as he left with Fane and the two
ledozhehn
.

“So, this Fane fellow. You and he are…” Artolo said, when the
others were safely out of earshot.

“Oh, no,” Lizneth said, blushing. “We’re not.” A thrill ran
through her. Something about Artolo’s simple aplomb made her feel at ease for
the first time since she’d left Tanley.

The barest impression of a smile passed over Artolo’s face before
he spoke again. “About that dagger,” he said. “I’ll take you to see the
Poisoner.”

“The Poisoner. Is this someone I should
want
to meet?”

“Seems to me an item like this is worth knowing how to use,”
Artolo said. “The Poisoner is our chemist, and a noted practitioner of all
things pseudo-scientific.”

Lizneth touched her thumb to the dagger’s hilt. “Are you
taking me there now?”

“Only if you want to go. I’m sure you’re just as hungry and
tired as your friends are.”

“I’ve had a little to eat, and plenty to drink. Rest can wait.
I’ll go with you.”

“Good,” Artolo said, eyes sparkling in the light of the
blacksmith’s embers.

They both stood, thanking the
eh-calai
before leaving.
He gave them a cursory nod and returned to his hammering.

Artolo led her down the shoreline. Lizneth let the waves roll
over her feet and tail as they walked. She didn’t let herself cry out when the
icy water ran between her toes and stung the wounds on her tail like cold fire.
The light was dying in the passage above the village, and the distant pulse of
daylight from Sai Calgoar’s port had waned to a dull glimmer.

They walked on in silence for a long while. Every now and
again, Lizneth would cast Artolo a glance, half just to look at him and half to
make sure he was still there. His eyes would always find hers, as if he’d
been waiting for the chance.

“That’s the Poisoner’s place, up ahead,” Artolo finally said,
pointing. He turned to her, but as soon as their eyes met, he broke off and
looked at his feet. “I hope you don’t mind me saying so,” he said, looking up
again, “but… I like being with you.”

CHAPTER 42

Squall

Halfway down the jailhouse hallway, the Sons of Decylum
turned into a side corridor and passed through a series of heavy metal doors.
Raith had gouged out the locking mechanisms on his way in, leaving heaps of
slag on the floor and gigantic holes where the handles had been. Rostand
Beige and the others were doing the best they could to support Jiren and Derrow
as they ran. Jiren was still on the verge of falling under, but Raith knew the
energy he had transferred to the young councilor would keep him awake.

A staircase descended to the basement, then shot them along a
hallway flanked by half a dozen utility and storage rooms. Rostand had pointed
out a service entrance on the prison floor plan they’d found. The service door
was in the room at the end of the hallway. It was still intact and locked shut,
slivers of daylight perforating its edges. But this wasn’t the way Raith was
taking them.

Instead, he crossed the room and yanked a thick metal grate
off the floor, then leaned it against the wall. “Frasier wanted to know how I
got in here past the soldiers. Here’s his answer.”

Propped up against the wall beside the grate was half a mop
handle wrapped in a slick wet piece of cloth. Raith lit his makeshift torch
with his fingertips and held it over the gaping hole, where a concrete tube
plunged about two stories further below ground. A series of iron rungs looped
out from the wall like giant staples.

“Shit, we’re going through the sewer?” said Derrow.

“That sounds about right,” Jiren said, and smiled.

“Not sewers. Flood tunnels,” Raith corrected him.

“Isn’t that the same thing?”

“Hardly. Do I smell like I’ve been walking in a river of
night soil?”

Derrow was starting to drowse, swaying like a drunk as he
spoke. “You don’t smell like a flower, that’s for sure. But let’s be honest
here, how long has it been since any of us have had baths?”

“My last was on the day we left Decylum,” Jiren said, leaning
against Rostand for support.

“Three days before
that
,” Derrow said with a smirk. He
sniffed an armpit and let out a garish sigh.

“Enough,” Raith said. “Down the ladder with you. If we follow
the tunnel, the Commissar’s map should get us to the outskirts.”

Raith descended last, handing off his torch and pulling the
grate into place over his head to hide the evidence of their passing. The rungs
were cold beneath his grip, a reprieve to the stinging in his hands. Being
below ground again was a comfort, and he was willing to bet his companions felt
the same.

Where the ladder ended, a circular brick tunnel ran at a
slant from one interminable pit of blackness to another. The base of the tunnel
was caked in sludge that stank of rot and decay. A trickle of brown runoff
sluiced over the sediment.

“I came from that way before,” Raith said, indicating the
higher passage. “To leave the city, we’ll want to continue down the lower way.”

Raith made his way to the front of the line, lamenting the
number of bodies he was putting between himself and the most pleasant breeze
he’d felt in weeks. The wind sailing down the tunnel made his hands go stiff,
but it reminded him what it felt like not to sweat. “Careful of the stream.
It’s rainwater. Straddle it as you walk, or it’ll soften your shoes after a
while.”

He led them down the sloping tunnel and onward for what must
have been miles. The men who could stand on two legs took turns making crutches
of themselves to help Jiren and Derrow along, but they found it hard to avoid
the muck that way. Jiren especially was struggling to keep pace, so as soon as
Raith felt safe enough, he let them stop for a brief rest.

It wasn’t long after they started forward again that they
began to feel the heat rising. Raith’s torch faded as hints of daylight touched
the walls. Soon the tunnel ended at a junction, where the sludge beneath their
feet waterfalled into a deep rectangular chasm. White noise climbed the flat
concrete walls from a bottom that was further down than the torchlight would
reach. A narrow ledge ran around the sides of the walls. Five other pipes poked
in around the other sides, spilling drainage of their own into the chasm.

“Now which way do we go?” Derrow asked.

Raith halted them and took stock of his bedraggled crew. He
was exhausted, and he couldn’t remember the last time he’d eaten, though he
knew it’d been the better part of a week since. Even so, he stood as tall and
straight as he could manage, willing himself to push aside his cravings and his
fatigue for the benefit of those who followed him.

I dare not let them see me give in to despair. Those who
look to me now must see strength, and nothing else, until this tribulation has
passed. Now is not the time to crumble
. “This drain basin isn’t on the map,
but I think we’re almost there,” he said. “We should be able to take the tunnel
straight ahead and get to the surface. That raises a concern, of course. Finding
the surface is secondary to deciding what we’re going to do when we get there.
We can’t hope to survive the desert like this, without water, supplies, or
mounts.”

When Raith had found the others in the prison lobby, he’d
noticed the two nomads right away. One was a broad, apple-shaped man who
carried his extra girth in the chest and shoulders. Tribal brandings covered
his neck and peeked out below the sleeves of the Scarred fatigues he was
wearing. He had a gentle, sloping nose, and a long tail of black hair. The rest
of his scalp was shaven almost to the skin. The second man was like a miniature
version of the first; shoulder-heavy, but on a smaller scale.

It’s time to see what these men are about
, Raith
reasoned.
If anyone is capable of finding us the provisions we need for the
journey home, it’s them
. “You two, there. If you wouldn’t mind coming up
here for a minute, I’d like to speak with you.”

The two nomads shuffled to the front, where the larger one extended
Raith a hand. “Sigrede Balbaressi, but you may call me only Sig.”

Raith took it. The grip was firm, the stubby fingers almost
as thick as his own.

“And who’s this?”

“This is Tallis Estalviam. You would call him Tally.”

Raith shook Tally’s hand. Tally didn’t speak. He was at least
three inches shorter than Sig, which made him a foot shorter than Raith. The
left half of Tally’s head was shaven, while the right half was a nest of coils
that bounced like black springs when he moved.

“And where do you hail from? Do you live here in Belmond?”

Both nomads burst into laughter.

Sig finished with a series of heaving wet coughs. He hacked
and spat something pasty into the stream, then watched with proud interest as
it tumbled over the edge. “Do not say such funny things. Belmond is
tolech
dom lathcui
. Sig is from the greatest and most majestic city that ever was.
Sai Calgoar.” Sig’s voice resonated as if issuing forth from some cavernous
space within him.

“I am Raithur Entradi. Call me Raith. I’m pleased to meet
you, if you mean well toward me and my people.”

Sig was confused. “Mean well?”

“If you don’t mean to harm us.”

“I would not harm one of
yarun merouil
. Never.”

“They who hide,” Derrow said.

Raith turned to him, surprised. “Do you speak the language?”

“I don’t know much. I’ve picked up a handful of words and
phrases here and there, mostly the ones they use for naming. They call us
yarun
merouil
—they who hide—or
duairn calgoar merouil
, the people of the
hidden sands. You know how people call each other ‘dway’ sometimes? That comes
from the Calgoàric word
dueieh
, for ‘man.’ So
duairn
is one of
the plural forms of the word. It means ‘people.’”

Raith stopped him. “Okay, I don’t need a language lesson. You
can translate; that’s enough for me.”

Sig was nodding. “Listen to him, he is right.” He pointed at
Raith. “
Lin merouil
.” He thumbed at his own chest. “
Ain calgoar
suothain
.”

“He of the sand eternal,” said Derrow. “That’s what he just
called himself. The nomads have a penchant for bragging, so naturally they have
lots of different names for themselves.”

Sig frowned. “You would brag too if your blood was purest in
the Aionach.” He removed his Scarred fatigues and tossed them into the drain
basin with a scowl, as if he couldn’t bear to wear them any longer. Tally
followed suit. Underneath, they wore sleeveless tunics and loose leggings made
of a thin, gauzy cotton.

Clothing like that would’ve made the journey through the
desert a little more pleasant
, Raith thought, plucking at his own sticky synthtex
shirt. “How was it that you came to be detained in that jailhouse?”

Sig shrugged. “It happens, you know? The Scratches want to
know what it feels to be a man. So they make study of me.” A grin spread over
his face.

Raith was amused. “I don’t doubt it.”

“We had not let a caravan through to North Belmond all this
long year. We had every caravan marked and watched. But this time, one week
ago, or two maybe, the Scratches waited for us. We were in the city near Bucket
Row, selling goods, trading slaves. Someone must have told the Scratches we
were close. The next minute I knew, they circled us. We could run nowhere.”

“You came too close to their territory,” Raith said. “You got
too bold.”

“Not too bold. Too big of threat.”

Rostand Beige was curious. “The Scarred are afraid of you?”

Sig puffed out his chest. “Of course they are afraid. Why
would they not be afraid?”

“They have guns. I don’t see why they would consider a few
tribesmen capable of any great harm.”

Derrow was shaking his head, giving Rostand a warning look.
But it was too late.

Sig’s expression darkened, his offenses ringing like alarm
bells. “Capable of harm? Capable of harm!”

“Forgive him,” Raith said. “He didn’t mean to offend.”

Sig spat into the stream again. “Gah,
titraei ain nuir,
ias ticrais abin erulum
.”

“What did he say?”

Derrow shrugged. Tally doubled over laughing.

Sig’s eyes were wild. “Give me a blade and set me on the back
of a
cuarseile
. Then you will see how capable of harm I can be. Have you
never been ridden down by the
calgoarethi
? Of course not, since you are
alive to talk about it. You will never know fear until that day comes for you.
Saiulum
ain calgoar. Calgoar oar singurienne
.”

“I am of the sand, and the sand runs in my veins,” Derrow
said, his voice echoing Sig’s.

Tally’s laughter died down.

Raith braced himself when a vicious smile crept over Sig’s
face. He considered the sheer drop behind him, unsure whether he and Sig were
about to come to blows. He may have been the larger of the two, but Sig was
better-placed if it came to that.

“Everybody loves when the
calgoarethi
are in the steel
city, unless they like paying full price for trades,” Sig said. He looked at
Rostand. “But the Scratches are afraid. Yes,
dueieh
, they are afraid. I
never thought somebody would betray us to them. I will skin the man alive if I
ever find him. I dare them to try us when we know they are coming. It would
have been a different fight, I promise you that.”

“It would’ve been different for us, too,” said Rostand, his
words dripping with bitterness. “The Scarred think they own Belmond and
everyone in it. They’d rather shoot you in the dark than face you in the
daylight. Their treachery is what got us into this mess.”

“
Yarun liel, buor bi cha buor, rao yarurec guemien
,”
Sig said.

Whatever it meant, it came out as a sort of recitation. Tally
set to laughing again, and Raith looked to Derrow.

“Some old saying?” Derrow said, returning a blank stare.

Sig smiled. “An old saying, yes. It says, ‘If it does not
need to be cleaned, it is not a mess.’ This is no mess you are in. Sig knows
these tunnels. He will get you out. You do not worry. I am good with sword, but
you should see me with broom. Messes run away screaming. So does my woman.”

Rostand smiled. “She sounds like a smart woman.”

“She hides her broom from me. She says I should stick to
swords.
I have two hands
, I tell her.
I can sweep
. But she is
right. It would not be good to take a woman’s broom. Then she might like to
take my sword, and I would have angry woman with sword. Not good.”

“I wouldn’t know anything about that,” Rostand said.

“You are young,
dueieh
. Give life time to happen.
Swords and brooms are not so different, in the end. Only one of the two is a
weapon, but both are for cleaning up messes.”

“You said you know these tunnels,” Raith reminded him,
conscious of the time they’d spent standing there. “Can you bring us somewhere
we can find food and supplies?”

“That I can. Good thing Sig and Tally came along, or you
would be in more trouble than a naked cripple in a rainstorm. Let me have a
look at your map, there.” Sig snatched the map from Raith’s hand, neither
asking nor waiting for him to volunteer it. He tilted his head, rotating the
map until it was upside down. He glanced up at each of the adjoining tunnels
across the drain basin. He sniffed the air, then motioned for the others to
clear out and give him some room. Dropping to all fours, he leaned against the
tunnel wall and put an ear to the brick. Someone’s shoe scuffed the ground. He
hissed for quiet. Fixed in place, he listened to the tunnel for what seemed
like a long time.

Judging himself a patient man, Raith folded his arms and
waited.

“That way,” Sig said, pointing toward one of the side
tunnels—not the tunnel straight across, which Raith had indicated earlier.
He stood and brushed the dirt from his knees, his baggy white leggings
shedding a layer of brown dust.