The Mark of Ran (9 page)

“Put me down. I can walk.”

He let her slip out of his arms with an odd reluctance.

“Do you know a way out?” Her eyes seemed to shine faintly in the dark as she regarded him. Her speech was slow but clear, as though it was an effort for her to make each word distinct.

“Yes. A window. Not far now.”

Kneeling, she swayed and leaned against him. Then she turned and vomited. He felt warm liquid spatter his boots. She wiped her mouth on the shoulder of the short-sleeved shirt he had put on her. Only three or four buttons held it closed over her breasts—the rest had been ripped away. She spat, then straightened, and began tying her long hair back from her face.

“Let us go, then.”

He rose to his feet. She climbed up him as though he were a ladder, still unsteady. He put an arm about her waist and drew her along, sometimes taking all her weight when her knees buckled. She said no word, but put her left arm about his shoulders and her right hand on his where it gripped her hip.

Somehow he remembered the way he had come, and they staggered back through the blank darkness, the rats scurrying out from under their feet. Finally he saw starlight through the windows near the eaves, and sensed the greater height over his head. They were back in the rubbish-mounded space where he had made his entry.

A clamor. Shouting in the night, echoing behind them. Rowen looked at him. They nodded to each other without a sound, and began scrabbling up toward the grimy windows, Rol thrusting her ahead of him with his good hand. In his growing panic he could not see or remember which one he had come through. Rowen pounded at the stiff frame of the nearest with the ball of her fist, and there was the bright smash of breaking glass. He heard her curse under her breath, and then he was staring at the pale length of her legs as she went through the broken window headfirst. He followed her, the teeth of the broken pane ripping the belly of his tunic, tearing at his breeches. Then he was through, and fell down several feet to land on his shoulder and side. He lay winded for a second, until she gripped his collar and pulled him to his feet. They half ran, half tumbled down the midden of junk that was piled up against the high wall of the warehouse, and at last Rowen’s bare feet were slapping on cobbles. It was raining, and the night air seemed clean and sweet and cold in their lungs. Rol turned inland, to where Ascari rose out of the bay in lamplit disorder, but Rowen took his hand. “No, not that way. They’ll go there first. Come.”

She was bleeding from glass-cuts across her belly and thighs, but she pulled Rol after her with some of her old strength until they stood at the edge of the wharf and were looking down at the black water. Without hesitation Rowen jumped in. He saw the white flash of foam as she went under, and stared half in disbelief. It was a few seconds before he could bring himself to dive in his turn.

The water was bitter, icy, and foul, its swells awash with the detritus of the port. Rol broke the surface and looked around.

“In here.”

She was under the wharf, in among the enormous supporting timber piles. He swam to her, teeth chattering, and scrabbled through the slime and barnacles until he had ahold of the wood beneath. Rowen’s face was livid, her eyes black holes. He could feel her shuddering against him in the water but as he tried to speak she slapped a palm over his mouth.

They raised their heads as one. There were boots clumping on the wood of the wharf above them, terse voices. Then the boots broke into staccato thumping as their wearers took off at a run, scattering.

Rowen eased Rol’s newly acquired knife out of his belt.

A silent shadow was climbing down among the pilings. It was noiseless, sure-footed as an ape. Rowen’s fist cocked back with the knife blade between her fingers. Her shivers stilled. She braced one foot against the timber pile they floated alongside.

The shadow drew closer. Rowen’s arm snapped forward in a white blur. There was a solid, meaty
chunk,
and without a sound the shadow tumbled into the water headfirst. The splash seemed very loud in the night, and Rol and Rowen tensed against each other, waiting for some cry of inquiry. But nothing came, no sound, no curious comrade-shadow. Rowen began shuddering again.

“Can you climb up?” Rol whispered.

She shook her head. “Must swim farther along. Too close here.”

They struck out together. Rol kicked off his boots. He felt as though he were swimming through soup. His entire body was shaking with cold and delayed reaction to the violence of the night. His left arm was a throbbing, swollen lump of meat. Looking up, he saw that the sky was lightening out to sea. Dawn was approaching. He had no idea what the coming day held for him, but he more than half wished he had never followed Psellos and Quare out of the door, and had merely done as he was told. He was no longer possessed of the calm certainty that had enabled him to kill three men in cold blood. And Rowen seemed untroubled by gratitude for her rescue.

They came to the base of Ascari’s mole. There were stone steps here, leading down into the sea, and all about them rows of fishing smacks were moored. The pair paddled exhaustedly to the base of the steps and hauled themselves onto the chill stone, where they lay gasping like landed fish. The light was growing moment by moment, and there were people abroad on the waterfront.

“Run along the wharves and find a horse-cab,” Rowen said. “We must get back to the Tower.”

Rol stared at her. “Why? Why go back to him?”

She shot him a glare of pure irritation. Then her eyes dropped to his bloody arm. A strange look flitted across her face—a kind of bafflement. “Where else is there to go?”

Six

WORTHY OF HIS HIRE

“
UP, FISHEYE; THE MASTER WANTS TO SEE YOU, AND HE
’
S
not a patient fellow.”

Rol opened his eyes to see Ratzo leaning over him grinning hideously, but with an odd respect.

“The kitchen boys have a wager on you’ll be carrion by nightfall. Care to enter the pool?”

He sat up on his mattress of rags with a groan. All yesterday he had been expecting this, and through the night he had stared blankly at the kitchen firelight awaiting the summons, cursing himself for not having the courage to walk away from Psellos, from Rowen, from whatever family history this place contained. On his return, a day and a night ago, Gibble had stitched up his forearm and given him fresh clothes, but aside from that had asked no questions. He had seemed a little in awe of Rol, if truth be told. It was all over the servants’ quarters; the kitchen scullion had disobeyed the Master’s explicit orders, and had somehow become involved with the mistress of the Tower.

As he left, the kitchen staff turned their eyes from Rol as though he were the bearer of a contagious disease. Only Gibble spoke.

“Don’t provoke him. Be meek and mild, and hold your tongue, for pity’s sake.”

“Has Rowen—”

“No, lad. Not a word.” The portly cook set a hand on Rol’s shoulder. “It’s not in her nature. You must look out for yourself alone.”

Quare was waiting for him at the foot of the main stairwell. He was smiling. “My young beauty. The Master awaits you. I will take you up to him.” But he made no move. Instead he leaned forward and said: “Rowen is to fulfill the remainder of her contract with the King of Thieves within the week. How do you think his minions will receive her? Are they the type to bear grudges?” And he vented a curiously girlish giggle. Rol said nothing. The manservant shrugged slightly and led the way up the austere circular staircase, which led to the upper levels.

“Leave us, Quare,” Psellos said, and Rol heard the door easing shut behind him. He was in a chamber he had never seen before, though his errands routinely carried him through almost every cranny of Psellos’s Tower. One straight wall, the other a vast semicircle which had set along it the grandest series of glass windows Rol had ever seen. They were big enough for a man to step through and faced not downhill, toward Ascari, but away from the sea, so that Rol’s vision was filled by the sun-dappled bulk of the Ellidon Hills. A slim silhouette stood before them.

And other things. Set between each pair of windows was a small table of disturbing workmanship. The legs of these seemed twisted as though by some wasting disease, and set atop them were glass demi-johns. In each a murky shape shimmered and floated.

“Rowen told me all,” Psellos said. He strode over to yet another table and poured himself some wine from a crystal decanter whose neck had been chiseled into the mouth of a leering fox. “I am surprised at you, young Cortishane, surprised and I must admit somewhat impressed. I knew you had murder in you, else I would not have wasted my time—but three of the Thief-King’s Feathermen in one fell swoop, as it were? Now, that speaks to me of a certain style.”

Back at the semicircular wall of windows, he sipped wine with one hand and the other he set upon one of the mysterious glass jars. At once a greenish light began to glow within its depths, revealing the contents. The head of a bearded man. The eyes within the head blinked and the mouth moved.

“Freidius of Auxierre, my old friend, look upon my latest apprentice and tell me what you see.”

The voice that issued from the jar set Rol’s hair on end. It was a tortured gargle. “Psellos, set me free, end this monstrous half-life, I beg of you—”

“Now, now, do as I say or I shall bring back our friend the rat.”

The disembodied face twisted. “He is a child of the Blood, I can see it in his eyes.”

“So can every other fool on the street. Use that brain of yours or I shall bruise it some more. This was your field when you were a man.”

The thing in the jar shut its glazed eyes, and all at once Rol felt a peculiar sensation in his head, as though a cockroach were crawling beneath his scalp. He backed a step, but at a glare from Psellos stood fast.

“He is—he is more pure-blooded than I thought. Where did you get him, Psellos? What has Grayven said? Have you sent him a sample?”

“Yes. But I wanted a second opinion. His powders and tubes are not always as accurate as I would like.”

“He is of Orr, no doubt about it, but if I did not know better I would say he has the makeup of an Ancient.”

“Impossible.”

“I know, but—is there any taint in him?”

“I examined him myself. There is none.”

“To have so much of the Blood, and yet be perfect, whole. I have not felt his like before save once—and so young! Where on earth did you find him?”

“He found me,” Psellos said, and he grinned, exposing the silver canines.

“If there is no flaw in him—I do not know how a bloodline could have stayed so pure—do you realize that—”

“Enough,” Psellos said, and the green light in the jar went out. The face slumped into the immobility of dead flesh. There was a silence in the splendidly lit room.

“What manner of man are you?” Rol asked, staring in disgust at the thing in the jar.

“Eh? Oh, strictly speaking I am not much of a man at all—but I am more of a human than you, my impertinent young friend.” Psellos’s manner was jaunty, but his eyes were humorless as a hangman’s.

“You are a sorcerer.”

“No, I am much more than that.” Psellos raised his glass again, and finding it empty he repaired to the decanter. The neck of the crystal clinked twice against his goblet, and with a shock Rol realized that the Master’s hands were shaking.

“Take a seat, youngster. It is time we had a talk. Man to man, or as close as you and I can come to that.”

They sat thirty feet apart, the bright mountain view behind Psellos rendering his face inscrutable with shadow.

“You are not human; I told you that once before. The blood that runs within your veins, that which your heart pumps about your carcass, belongs to a race older than humanity.” Psellos steepled his fingers together, resting his elbows on the stuffed arms of his chair. “What do you know of the history of the world?” And before Rol could answer, he laughed. “Forgive me. I should perhaps be a little more specific. Did Ardisan ever speak to you of the Weren?”

“My grandfather told me of the Elder Race, which existed in the time of the Old World, before the New was made. He said they were Man before his Fall—some thought of them as angels.”

“Your grandfather was repeating only the superstitions of ignorant men. I suppose he had his reasons. In any case, he misled you. The Old World and the New coexist. They occupy the same space upon this earth, the Umer that we know. But they belong to different eras, and they rarely touch upon each other.”

“I don’t understand.”

“There is a world beyond that which we see and touch in everyday discourse. It is not given to every creature to access it, but some can exist in both at once. You, Rol, are a creature of the Older World, as am I—and Rowen.” Psellos paused, and seemed about to elaborate, but then changed tack altogether. “How did you kill those three Feathermen?”

“I don’t know—it was very fast. I had them before they could move.”

“The minions of the King of Thieves are chosen for their swiftness, for their instincts, their reflexes. Admittedly, they were busy at the time, but you bested three of them in one single combat. If it were luck, then it was like none I have ever seen before. Tell me, can you see in the dark?”