The Starfall Knight (36 page)

“I’d be stir-crazy after a few hours.”

“I’d not choose it either.  But some do.”

The tunnel connected to a larger passage with a pair of tracks running next to a wall.  The rumble of carts echoed from deeper within the mines and Devan knew they were on the right path.  The tracks led to the main shaft where miners traversed the switchback tunnel, heading out to new shifts or returning from deeper within the complex.  Carts trundled past, full of broken andonite with dirt still clinging onto the shards – orphan formations that would likely end up in jewellery or coins.

Devan found another maintenance tunnel.  The main shaft led to the cavern community and while he was eager to know if the Sirinese had bothered to descend beneath the city, it would be safer for Devan and Vantanis to stay away.

The passage strayed from the main shaft, heading for the depths beneath the city itself.  After an hour’s hike, the walls of the tunnel became smooth and the andonite veins had been exposed, earth and rock removed as if peeling back the skin of the mineral.

“I did not know that such work was possible,” Vantanis said.  He paused to examine a dagger-like formation of andonite that hugged the bedrock.  A terepid skittered away.

“It’s tedious more than dangerous,” Devan said.  “Not many accidents in recent times.”

“Still, it’s intricate work.  Easier for someone attuned to andonite.”

“Would there be many Rhialites amongst us?”

Vantanis shrugged and rejoined Devan, trailing a finger along the mineral.  “It’s hard to say.  Perhaps in the past there were natural historians who may have been able to predict when the moons came into alignment nine months ahead of time.”

“I’m sure Professor Amara would know.”  Devan continued on.

With the tunnel following the largest of the andonite veins, the path twisted around and Devan lost almost all sense of direction.  A short march brought them to the first of the metal pipes laid against the exposed andonite.  A steady pinging echoed through the tunnel.

“What is this?” Vantanis asked.

“It is the heating system for air and water,” Devan replied.

“Fascinating.  I always wondered how the Council residences had hot water pump so quickly.”

“I can’t imagine the city without it during freezing weather.”

“I can,” Vantanis said.

Devan nodded, remembering the squalor of the Sirinis settlement.  The small aerock had clearly been overpopulated while also being devoid of anyone with a sense of civic duty.  Or, Devan suspected, it had been a deliberate tactic by Tarius.

“Has Sirinis always been as I saw it?”

“Yes,” Vantanis said.  “Sometimes even more crowded – but faction wars take care of that problem from time to time, as well as casualties in raids.  Then, prisoners are brought back and it starts all over again.”

“Why didn’t you ever take Alessa away from that?” Devan asked.

“I was their pilot,” Vantanis said.  “For the longest time, I was never allowed anywhere near the crossings, let alone take part in the raids.  Later on, I’ll admit that I did feel some loyalty to Tarius.  Say what you like, but he was efficient.  And Alessa was safer under his rule than her and I against the unknown.”

“You found Centara.”

“We did.”

As Devan expected, the tunnel emerged into one of the Central Chambers where the pipes were drawn together into two major conduits – one for heated water and one for hot air.  A panel of levers controlled the flow while a separate mechanism ran the thin cables that pulled on the andonite hammers throughout the tunnels below.

“This is it,” Devan said.  He gestured to the conduits, each as thick as his trunk.  “Can you find a way to open the pipe for air?”

“Aye.”  Vantanis trotted to the panel and examined the layout of the system.

Devan drew his sword and followed a wrist-thick metal pipe attached to an equally large andonite vein.  A terepid scuttled along the mineral, legs tapping and tinkling with every movement.  Devan hefted his blade and smashed the andonite.

Sparks of blue and amber left trails of white across his vision.  The andonite cracked and azure gas rose.

Devan held his breath as he swing his sword again, severing an arms-length worth of andonite from the bedrock.  The pipe bent under the dead weight and Devan sheared away the metal gavels.  The andonite thumped to the ground.

Nausea rose as Devan gulped a lungful of air and andonite gas.  He sheathed his weapon and dragged the length of andonite back to the central cavern, gas still spewing from the severed ends.

“Quickly!” Vantanis called out.  He leaped forward and picked up the other end.  He held a mallet in the other hand.  “Before we are overcome by the gas.”

Devan and Vantanis lugged the mineral to the open pipe which led to the surface.  The andonite slid into the pipe and Vantanis clambered on top.

“Move back, Devan.  This may get messy.”  Vantanis arced the hammer over his head and shattered the andonite.

Alessa tapped Benton on the elbow.  “Wait.”

Ahead, more than ten Sirinese thrashers wandered the area around the city gates.  Judging from their vine-like tattoos, they were Tarians.  Alessa recognised Ramalo and a few others.  All wore swords and maces from their belts but still eschewed armour for bare skin above their waists.

“What is it?”

“I will be recognised,” Alessa said.

Marshal Romaine had taken Rika through the gates a few minutes before, leaving Benton with Terson.  “There’s a wagon of maize heading in.  We’ll tag along.”  Benton turned to Terson.  “We’ll need a distraction.”

“Yes, captain.”

The ranger stalked off, disppearing into the crowd.  Benton nodded at Alessa.  “Come on.”

They joined the train of farmers entering the city with their produce.  The Sirinese guards rummaged through each cart, tossing around fruits and vegetables with nonchalance.  A cabbage farmer’s wife was escorted away and Alessa felt sick at her own brief elation as she realised that there were now fewer thrashers on guard.

“Not the time or place,” Benton murmured.  Alessa realised that she had put a hand on the hilt of her shortsword.  She nodded and relaxed.

The wagon of maize ears trundled up to the gates.  As the closest Tarian peered at Alessa, a shout rose from a nearby tavern.  Glass smashed and mugs clattered.  The brawl burst out of the tavern doors and spilled onto the street, a mix of Centarans and Sirinese howling and flailing at one another.

The thrashers waved on the wagons and joined their brethren in the fray.  Benton pulled Alessa aside as they passed into the city proper.

“What about Terson?”

“Won’t be the first fight he’s been in,” Benton said.  He stopped next to an empty stable, scanning the gate’s plaza.  Centaran citizens scurried on their own business, heads down.  A pair of Sirinese guards ambled past, laughing at a ribald joke.  “If you continue along this avenue, it will intersect with Market Street.  Follow it until you hit the market square.  The bell-tower is in the north-east.  Don’t follow those farmers – they’re likely taking their produce to Tarius and his men.”

“Understood.  What about you?” Alessa asked.  “How will you get to the upper tier?”

“Some of the buildings extend between tiers.  And there are paths and hidden stairwells.  Don’t worry about me.”  Benton looked into Alessa’s eyes.  “If what your father says is true, we are cousins.”

“I am from Sirinis,” Alessa said.  “But it was never my home.  Lies were necessitated for survival.”

“It’s not that, Alessa, it’s vengeance.”  Benton jerked his chin at the gatehouse where the screams of the woman emanated through the stone walls.  “Sometimes we must remain true to purpose.  Don’t interfere with the thrashers and the cabbage-wife.”

Alessa nodded, forcing her gaze to remain on Benton.  “I’ll head to the market square.”

“Good.”

Benton disappeared around the side of the stable, staying off the main thoroughfare.  Alessa turned away from the gatehouse and filled her head with the tenets of battle as summarised by Ilara the Black.

As Alessa wound her way through the Centarans traversing the central avenue, her thoughts kept repeating – she was not Centaran, she was not Centaran.  If she were not Centaran, then it was not her fellow woman being brutalised in the gatehouse.  Yet, if Alessa were not Centaran, then why did she need to follow Benton’s orders?

Shit on this, Alessa thought.

She turned on her heel and pushed her way back to the city gate plaza.  The gatehouse loomed in the afternoon sun and Alessa drew her sword.

Her kick split open the door frame and Alessa’s eyes adjusted to the gloom.  A small table sat in the middle of the room, a deck of cards and half-full mugs resting on top.  A weapons rack rested against the opposite wall, next to a spiral staircase that led to the battlements.  Against the other wall lay a triple-level bunk.  A thrasher with close-cropped hair lay on top of the woman as another thrasher with a full beard and a pot belly looked on.

“Who the fuck are you?”

Alessa leaped forward as Pot Belly reached for a sword on the rack.  Her blade flashed in the dim light as she struck the thrasher’s ribs.  Blood spurted out as Pot Belly screamed.  The other rapist jumped off the cot, the creak of timber betraying his presence.  Alessa spun around just as Short-Hair tackled her, toppling the small table.

The man’s breath stunk of ale and rotten teeth but his weight kept Alessa’s sword-arm pinned.  With her other arm, she tore out her dagger from its sheath and sank it into the rapist’s side and his arm and shoulder and neck, again and again.  Blood warmed her hand and spilled over her leather jerkin.

Alessa pushed the dead body off her.  Pot Belly had dragged himself across the room, leaving a trail of blood behind him.  Alessa stepped on the back of his legs and he wailed.  “Please, don’t kill me.”

“Look at me.”

The thrasher quivered but rolled onto his back.

“Do you know who I am?”

“You’re... you’re the Servius,” Pot Belly said.  “You used to be.”

“Yes,” Alessa said.  “I used to be.”  She slid her sword into Pot Belly’s chest, past his sternum and scraping his ribs.  The blade pierced his heart and lungs.  Blood flowed out of his mouth and he lay still.

Alessa cleaned her weapons and sheathed them.  The cabbage-wife remained on the cot, bruises covering her face, her body.  Alessa brought her clothes and a cloak.

“What about the others?”

“Who?” Alessa asked.

“All of the others that the Sirinese took.”  The woman stared into the distance, her hands clutching her simple dress and underclothes.

“I can’t save them all.”

“You saved me.”

“Yes, but I saw you taken.”  As soon as the words left her mouth, Alessa realised how stupid she must have sounded.  “I’m sorry, I –”

“It’s all right.”  The cabbage-wife blinked.  “You should go.”

“You’re coming with me.”

The woman nodded and slipped her dress over her head.  Alessa took her hand and led her out of the gatehouse.

“You!  Stop!”

From the other side of the gates, Ramalo pointed at them.  Alessa pulled the woman and said, “Run!”

They sprinted across the plaza, towards the Avenue of Tiers and the press of people clogging the road.  Shouts rose behind them but in only a few steps, Alessa and the cabbage-wife were swallowed by rows of hawkers and Centarans looking for cheap meals.

“Go on ahead,” Alessa said.  “But stay out of the buildings.”

“Thank you.”  The woman continued onwards, a line of cattle obscuring her departure.

Alessa ducked into a crowd of masons drinking ale next to a tavern with an open front.  A fiddle played from inside the building and the tang of sweat filled Alessa’s nostrils.  She wove between another group of masonry novices and took shelter just inside the shadows of the tavern.

A clatter of a boots approached and Alessa pulled the hood of her cloak over her hair.  She tucked a blonde lock behind her ear and watched as the Sirinese thrashers bulled their way along the road.  Ramalo led the group as each thrasher cast his gaze high and low.

“They’re long gone, Ramalo.”  The thrasher had been one of the gate guards drawn into Terson’s distraction.

“Shut up and find them!” Ramalo said.  “If Leonus hears of this, he’ll do worse than what Osvus got.”

“Him and Tonun was just having fun with that woman.”

“They was just having fun?”  Ramalo slapped the thrasher.  “You idiot!  If we piss off the Centarans, they stop bringing food into the city.  What will you eat then?”

“Oh.”

Ramalo grunted.  “Keep moving!  They can’t have gotten far.”

The Sirinese continued, shoving Centarans out of their way.  Alessa peered around the tavern patrons until the thrashers disappeared from sight.  Leonus taking leadership of the thrashers made sense; if not him, then Grunos but Tarius was unlikely to ever see the brute as anything more than muscle.

Alessa realised that the tavern patrons were staring at her.  Her left arm and flank were encrusted with blood.  She met the eyes of a young novice and said, “Don’t worry.  It’s Sirinese.”

“Are you a ranger?”

“No.  But when the bells toll, don’t be caught inside.”  Alessa trotted across the road, pulling her cloak around her.  She ducked into an alleyway and found a rainwater barrel.  She washed her hands and the worst of the blood from her armour.  Satisfied that she would draw no more undue attention, Alessa continued towards the market square.

Devan called out, “How many more?”

“Three more pipes.”  Vantanis’ answer echoed through the tunnel as Devan smashed another shard of andonite from the walls.

They had filled the heated air pipes of the Northern central cavern and progressed to the Eastern chamber that fed the middle and upper tiers.  Six pipes carried hot air while another six pumped hot water to the surface, each of them as thick as Devan’s waist.

He coughed and spluttered as a fresh wave of andonite gas spewed from the broken veins.  Devan hauled the lump of mineral back to the chamber, pausing a moment to dry retch in a corner before continuing to the pipe systems.