Trinity Rising: Book Two of the Wild Hunt (Wild Hunt Trilogy 2) (54 page)

Resa had come to him in the archive that morning, apparently none the worse for his clumsy attempt at Healing. With pointing and mime she indicated that she intended to go out to feed the poor, undeterred by the attack she had suffered the last time she had done so. She’d asked for his help, although he’d already decided to offer his sword. Alderan was out somewhere on business of his own so there’d been no one to stop him. Besides, after three days inside he needed a chance to get out of that room, to breathe fresh air instead of the dust of dead men’s books.

El Maqqam’s streets were busy, for all that the hour was early, with traders setting out their stalls and shopkeepers opening shutters and sweeping steps. Small boys dodged through the crowd, chasing after each other and the scruffy dogs that haunted the bazaars for scraps.

On doorposts and lintel-stones, Gair saw the image of a many-rayed sun. Some were faded by the weather, but many more were as vivid as if freshly painted.

‘Sister Avis?’ he whispered. ‘The sun signs over the doors – do they mean what I think they mean?’

‘They mean the householder is faithful to Silnor. A Cultist. There are more of them now than ever.’ The bony nun looked disapproving. ‘The city is not what it was.’

Gair watched the hurrying stream of folk part and re-form around the wagon. This close to the southern gate the square thronged with citizens and merchants, produce-laden carts and drovers with livestock brought in from the farms that patterned the river valley. It could have been market day in any city, anywhere in the Empire; only the darker skins and flowing clothes marked it as a desert city – that and the almost complete absence of northern faces.

No one caught his eye or gave him any sign of a threat, but neither did anyone look up from their business. Fear had already taken root. Even the native Maqqami felt its touch. Keep quiet, stay small, don’t attract attention. With the toe of his boot, Gair nudged the
qatan
hidden under the wagon-seat a little closer to hand. Given enough of a spark, fear could ignite like dry grass at summer’s end.

Resa, I hope you know what you’re doing
.

Following Sister Avis’s pointing arm he guided the wagon across the square to a spot where the beggars huddled under the wall, out of the sun’s gaze. As it came to a halt the huddle became individuals, mostly women and ragged children. Hesitant waves became whoops of delight when Resa hopped down from the wagon-bed and the children clustered around her skirts. They, at least, appeared unafraid. Small hands touched her scars, but she smiled and kissed their puzzled faces then went to help Avis uncover the sacks of provisions.

As an untidy queue formed beside the wagon, Gair let his gaze rove over the square, careful not to linger too long in any one place. Most of the scurrying citizens kept their eyes firmly in front of them and paid no heed to the two nuns, but a few made a point of crossing to the other side of the dusty plaza, with hard expressions and harder stares directed back over their shoulders.

If Resa saw them, she gave no sign. Though she wore her cowl up, it was not pulled forward enough to completely cover her face and she smiled as she handed out loaves and fruit. With her free hand she made the sign of blessing and if it was not returned, she neither frowned nor faltered. Food was given freely and equally, regardless.

Maybe it was because she was smiling, but the scars did not appear quite so livid today, though it was hard to be sure from any distance. As if she’d sensed his gaze on her, she looked up. Her smile this time was just for him, and then she inclined her head. He nodded back.

She’d made no mention of what had happened in the chapel. He didn’t know whether she’d realised what he’d done or whether she simply didn’t remember, because when he’d tried to apologise she’d waved it away as if it was of no consequence.

All at once the crowd of women scattered, stumbling and dropping their meagre provisions. Booted feet kicked them out of the way, rough hands shoving their children, too, and the littlest ones began to wail.

Gair turned on the wagon-seat. Five men were pushing their way towards the two nuns, sand-veils hanging loose on their chests. Their clothing was dusty and unremarkable save for their bright-yellow sashes, through which well-worn
qatans
were thrust, but they carried themselves as if clad in the raiment of princes.

Yellow sashes. Sun-yellow. Cultists. Not wearing their allegiance under their shirts, like the ones in Zhiman-dar, but proudly, their thumbs tucked into those same sashes to draw the eye. Even the way they stared around them ensured they were the centre of everyone’s attention.

Gair edged the sword closer still.

The biggest, broadest of the five swaggered to the front of the group, smoothing his luxuriant moustaches with finger and thumb. Resa had knelt to soothe a crying child and Avis positioned herself in front of them, trying to shield them both, but the younger nun was having none of it. She stood at Avis’s side and faced the Cultist, her head up and her hands folded at her waist. The sniffling child peeked around her skirts, his face still wet with tears.

‘Back again?’ the swaggering fellow sneered in common, presumably intended to intimidate the northern-born Avis. He spat on the ground at Resa’s feet. ‘I thought you would have learned your lesson.’

A slow burn of anger began in Gair’s chest. That vainglorious bastard had something to do with the attack on the sisters.

‘We are doing good work here,’ Avis said, but there was a quaver in her voice. ‘There is no harm in our feeding the poor.’

‘We can tend to our own,’ snapped one of the others. ‘We have no need of your corruption.’

The leader picked up a fallen loaf and broke it in two, making an elaborate show of sniffing it. ‘Poisoned?’ he asked, then threw it aside. ‘Or do you just poison our children with your lies?’

He grabbed the child by the shoulder and dragged him away from Resa, ignoring his sobs and outstretched hands. The little boy wriggled out of the man’s grasp and ran back to the nun to cling to her legs. She wrapped her arm protectively around him.

The other Cultists scowled and rested their hands on their sword-hilts. Hoping their attention would remain fixed on the sisters, Gair stooped to grasp his own blade.

Sister Avis shook her head. ‘The word of the Goddess is no lie. Only truth.’

‘False truth!’ the man spat. ‘There is no Goddess!’

Spittle sprayed with the words, right into the nun’s face, and she flinched. The Cultist snatched her wooden Oak from the breast of her habit and snapped the leather thong around her neck with a jerk of his hand.

‘Where is Her power now, eh?’ He dropped the Oak into the dust and stamped on it, smashing it into pieces. Avis blanched but stood firm. ‘She has no power here.’

‘Her power is in the hearts of all good men,’ said the nun. ‘She is in us all, if you only let yourself hear Her.’

‘Lies!’

The Cultist backhanded Avis across the face. She staggered into Resa, blood on her lip.

Gair grabbed the sword and leapt down from the cart. ‘Enough!’

In a half-dozen strides he put himself between the five men and the sisters. ‘These women have no quarrel with you.’

‘The faith of the
ammanai
is not welcome here,’ said the Cultists’ leader. ‘The desert-born are sun-born and answer to no other!’

Resa pushed in front of Gair and the Cultist’s lip curled. He made to speak but she raised her hand to silence him. Pointing up to the sky, then down to the earth, she spread her hands to encompass the whole square around her, then pressed those hands to her heart. Gair understood. All things, all people, were one under the Goddess. It was the simplest, most eloquent statement of faith he had ever heard, though not a word was spoken.

‘Idolatrous witch,’ the Cultist growled. His sword hissed into his hand. ‘You have fallen from the true path, and for that you will die!’

The blade slashed towards the nun. Gair drew his
qatan
and lunged, and the two blades screeched together at waist-height. ‘I said, that’s enough.’

He stepped past Resa and levered the other sword up and away, forcing the Cultist back a pace.

The moustachioed fellow grinned nastily and tossed his
qatan
from hand to hand. ‘So they have found a Knight-protector. Take care that the fate of the last Knights to walk these sands does not also befall you.’

‘I am no Knight,’ Gair said, ‘but I will stand between you and these women until one of us falls.’

A familiar music had begun to stir in his blood. He brought the
qatan
to the salute as if it was his longsword. The searing sun winked along the blade, yet he felt cold as carved stone.

‘The veil may hide your face but your voice betrays you,
ammanai
.’ The Cultist twitched his fingers and the rest of his men drew their swords. ‘Out of the way.’

‘Back on the wagon, Sisters. We’re leaving.’ Gair passed his empty scabbard to Resa.

‘So you can spread your corruption in another part of the city?’ The Cultist scowled. ‘El Maqqam stands in the light of Silnor. You are not welcome here!’

He raised his sword again, his four companions doing likewise.

Gair set his feet in readiness. ‘Quickly, Sisters!’

It was time to dance.

Shouting in Gimraeli, the Cultists closed in. Steel rang on steel as Gair parried the first blows away, whirling on his heel to meet a man closing in from behind. No time for finesse; he simply hacked across the man’s shoulder and down through his collarbone.

Blood sprayed across the skirts of Avis’s habit. ‘Merciful Mother!’ she exclaimed, blessing herself as the man fell sobbing, clutching his ruined shoulder.

Gair paid him no mind as the dance went on. He was already wheeling again, the
qatan
fluid in his hands as it turned away blade after blade and kept the Cultists at bay. With each arc of the sword, scarlet drops pattered onto the dusty cobbles.

In the periphery of his vision he saw the two nuns scrambling onto the wagon-seat, Resa’s frightened face staring at him. Two Cultist closed, forcing him into an inelegant parry. As he turned one blade away, the other sliced him along his left ribs.

Swearing, Gair fell back a step. His side burned. Somewhere in the crowded square a woman gasped and men turned to follow the clash of weapons. He thought he glimpsed a flash of yellow amongst them, then the two Cultists charged. Gair had barely enough time to recognise the blood on one of the blades as his own before pain and fury veiled his mind and all restraint fled.

He didn’t know the meaning of the words he shouted as he swung. He didn’t feel the judder in his wrist when his blade bit bone, nor hear the silky sound of steel parting flesh. Again and again he spun and struck, until no one was left to strike back.

A touch on his arm swung him around, blade ready.

Avis, leaning down from the wagon-seat, pulled her hand away. ‘Come,’ she said, white-faced and glancing anxiously at the onlookers. ‘There’s no more time.’

Gair looked into the staring crowd, at the hostile eyes. Three men lay still at his feet, a fourth in a spreading pool of scarlet a few yards away. The fifth, the one with the moustache, was bleeding from a slash to the fat of his thigh but still on his feet, his hands flexing around the hilt of the bloody sword held steadily at an advance guard. Behind him, the crowd began to seethe.

Avis was right: it was time to go.

He threw the
qatan
into the wagon-bed beside Resa and tried to vault up after it, but pain flared white-hot in his side and he fell awkwardly across the tailboards. Muttering, the crowd advanced. Gritting his teeth, he scrabbled for purchase with his good right hand, then Resa thrust her arms beneath his armpits and hauled him up enough that he could pull himself the rest of the way.

‘Go!’ he shouted. Some of the men pushing through to the front of the crowd were clearly armed. ‘
Go!
’

‘Hyah!’ Avis yelled and snapped the reins across the mules’ rumps. The wagon jolted forwards and rattled across the cobbles away from the square.

Lying amongst the sacks and baskets in the wagon-bed, every jounce brought Gair fresh pain. Resa bent over him and ripped apart the rent in his smock.

‘I’m all right,’ he gasped. ‘I don’t think it’s deep.’ He was lying; it burned like a brand.

She shushed him with a gesture and used a piece of the smock to wipe away the blood. Rummaging amongst the provisions she found a flask of water and upended it over the wound. He bit down on a cry as her fingers probed around it, then she nodded, satisfied. She tapped one of his ribs and with her other hand mimed a blade slashing.

‘Scored the rib?’

Resa nodded again. Not too serious, then. Her hands threaded an imaginary needle – it needed stitching.

The wagon bounced over a rutted cross-street and he swore again.

‘Sorry,’ he panted, when the pain had subsided. ‘It stings a bit.’

Slumped amongst the sacks and baskets, Gair closed his eyes and tried to shut off his awareness of the wound. More stitches. The first set was still in his shoulder. No doubt Alderan would have some choice words to say when he returned to the Daughterhouse.

33

PORTENT