Dark Heart Part 22

Those others hadn't lost their mothers, though. Well, she amended, remembering the whirlwinds, perhaps some of them have.

'What can't go on?' she answered in her hybrid language. 'The constant drain on our essenza? Weeks without sleep? Or five thousand Racemen scavenging the barren hills of northern Saros?'

Her brother grunted, a sour acknowledgment of their troubles. 'All of them. But I meant the last. Children are hungry, which makes their parents frightened and angry. There have been raids on local villages. Some of the men have organised foraging parties, but I've heard they are little more than thieving squads. Understandable, given their sons and daughters are crying. But an hour ago I heard men talking about killing. Villagers have heard of the Neherian raid, and one group of locals somewhere west of here mistook a foraging party for the vanguard of the Neherian forces. There was a pitched battle. Dozens of men killed, apparently.'

'What is Captain Cohamma doing about this?'

'Cohamma? A chicken with his head cut off. Half the time he asks where Father has gone, the rest he spends lamenting the loss of the governor and his own superiors. He's lost control, Arathe.'

'He never had it. It was his decision to abandon Raceme two nights ago that surrendered the city to the Neherians.'

Her brother shook his head. 'I don't think so. Perhaps he didn't intend it, but his actions saved these five thousand Racemen. Imagine what might have happened had there still been resistance in the city when the Neherian army arrived.'

'I'm more worried about the other battle.'

'There's another battle? Oh, you mean the storm. Arathe, I never got the straight of that. Mustar tried to explain it to me-'

Arathe waved her hands at him. 'Be quiet, be quiet. Mustar knows nothing.'

'I know he likes you,' Anomer grinned.

Teasing her, as he'd always done. She'd missed him the last two years, more than her parents, in truth. He had been her closest friend, two years younger than her but willing to a.s.sist in any scheme she came up with. He stole the eggs she needed to make her biscuits on the wooden floor of their Old Fossan home; they'd both thought the sun-warmed surface would be hot enough to bake the dreadful mixture. Mother had been angry, blaming Arathe, but Anomer admitted his part in the fiasco and shared the subsequent beating. When she had taken up with what he called 'her giggly girls', he hadn't hung around her, like younger brothers often do. He'd found friends of his own, but always he and his sister made time for each other when the friends went home. And when their father became important in the community and her old friends no longer came to play, he looked to cheer her. As now.

'Mustar remembers a girl he liked, one among many,' she signed to him. 'I am no longer that girl. Let him discover that for himself. We have too much else to consider.'

'Yes,' Anomer agreed. Such as how a storm can be sentient, he thought to himself.

Earlier Arathe had explained in detail to her brother her arrival in Raceme. Little enough else to occupy them on their way north as part of the five thousand survivors of the 'Raceme Ma.s.sacre', as some were calling it. She wished her father had been party to her tale, but he'd gone off on an overwrought, dangerous tangent of his own, as always. After a mislaid sword! Continuing to regard his judgment as unquestionable; not bothering to tell them of his plans. Putting himself-and therefore everyone else, as it turned out-in danger.

Her story took a long time to tell. On that day in Fossa when she returned to them, she had last seen Anomer when finding herself unable to escape Fisher House via the kitchen window. She described to him how she could not avoid the Recruiters, ending up grappling with Ataphaxus in the hallway. Her strength was already low, weakened through months of abuse, leaving her especially vulnerable to those who had used her. The Recruiter's forceful attack drove through her feeble defence and paltry magic. He struck her blade away and came at her with a knife he'd picked up from the kitchen. The last image that flashed across her mind as he stepped inside her desperate block was of using that very knife to slice vegetables in preparing a meal years ago, before all this had begun.

He had slammed into her shoulder, spinning her around, then struck her below her shoulder blades; the knife burned as it went in, and the power behind the blow drove her to the ground. The world flashed blue, then black.

She let go of life.

And awoke on fire.

Blue flames flickered everywhere, running along her arms, spouting from her mouth as she screamed. There was no pain, only an incredible heat from the back of her head. She recognised it, though she had never seen it before: a vast infusion of magical power directed at her own body, healing it. She stood, newly healed, and a kitchen knife clattered to the floor, startling her. Then she remembered how it had felt going in.

She had not known magicians had the ability to self-heal even when unconscious. So much I was not taught, she told Anomer. Did I really do the right thing at Andratan when I refused the water magic?

He had said nothing, but she suspected he desired a greater share of the magic himself.

After making sure there were no Recruiters in the house, she had stumbled outside into a cloudy Fossan morning. No, not clouds. Smoke. Her feet turned towards Old Fossa, hoping that someone there would know where her family was. Hoping that, with her a.s.sumed death, the Recruiters had abandoned them and left the village-but deep inside knowing they would not leave this unresolved, and that her family had paid the price for the selfishness she had shown in seeking their help. They must have been taken or killed. Otherwise her body would surely not have been abandoned.

She met Mustar in the crowd down by the burning boats. Strangely, he'd recognised her even before she had begun what she thought would be a long and difficult explanation. In the midst of everything, this had melted her fear-frozen soul. He'd held her as she sobbed, found her a thin blanket and told her what he knew of the previous day's tumultuous events. Noetos a hunted criminal; Opuntia and Anomer taken as surety of his surrender.

Those putting out the fires had been the first to see the approaching sails. Some of the villagers fled, but most remained, mesmerised by the continuation of strange happenings in their village. Not wanting to miss the next event, not really believing the sails bode them ill. So it was that nearly the entire village was rounded up and questioned by the Neherians, and Arathe witnessed the sordid torture and deaths of some she knew-or had once known. Mustar counselled her to keep her ident.i.ty secret, and to use her blanket to hide herself from the prying eyes of those who might remember a Recruiter's servant. He need not have worried. The villagers were too preoccupied with the disaster unfolding before them.

Sautea had been the one to secure their escape. It had been a risky, almost foolhardy plan, conceived in desperation. He signalled one of the Neherian captains and told him they were s.h.i.+pmates of this Noetos they were searching for, a disliked man, and offered to show the captain the man's house and other likely places he might have hidden. It had been the old man's hope they would be accompanied by only one or two Neherians, but a squad of six was dispatched with the captain and the three supposed informants.

Unarmed, Sautea and Mustar tried to ambush the squad in the great room of Fisher House. The Neherians reacted swiftly, apparently ready for any trick, and for a moment Arathe thought she was about to be struck down in her own home for the second time in a matter of hours; but her head had flashed white and she felt herself drawing power from everyone in the room, Neherian and Fossan alike. She had four of them disarmed and writhing on the ground before the Neherians had recovered from their shock. Mustar and Sautea didn't know one end of a sword from the other, but the remaining Neherians ran like cowards.

Sautea led Mustar and Arathe to cover near Tipper Bridge. The three Fossans watched, guilt-ridden and sorrowful, as their fellow villagers were bound and transferred to waiting s.h.i.+ps. Slowly and with many gestures, Arathe told the two men what had been done to her, and what had happened to her family when she sought their help. Mustar vowed to help her stay free and find her family, but Sautea asked them to consider something far more important: warning the Fisher Coast that the Neherian fleet was coming.

They waited with increasing impatience until darkness offered them the cover they needed, then took the smaller and least damaged of Noetos's two boats. It was a decision fraught with risk, but Sautea and Mustar were excellent sailors and kept close to sh.o.r.e. They could not keep pace with the fleet, but they could skip past them when the Neherians hove to in Farsala Sida's shallow harbour.

And, as they did, the storm began stalking them.

It was a small thing to start with, battering them with fresh northerlies as they tacked east and west, trying to hug the coast. At the same time, the far side of the storm gave the Neherian fleet, sailing in deeper waters, easy pa.s.sage northward. Every day the three Fossans tried to gain the next village before the Neherian fleet, and every day they failed. Every night they expended more energy than they could afford to pa.s.s the fleet, only to repeat the misery the next day. And every day the storm kept pace with them.

The storm then began attacking them-or, at least, that was how it seemed. Rain clouds tracked them northward, dumping prodigious amounts of water into their boat. Thin waterspouts would drift into their path, forcing them to seek shelter. They were peppered with hail the size of eggs, and their pale grey days were illuminated only by the lightning that walked across the water as though quartering their location.

No natural storm, then. Its path was too calculated; its position designed to minimise their progress while maximising that of the fleet. On top of this, it sucked at them as though drawing from their essenza. Perhaps it was; perhaps magicians from the Neherian fleet manipulated the weather against the small boat. Why not just crush them? It takes a much greater magic to move the wind than to strike openly at a target, Arathe had been told during her time in Andratan. What sort of magician lacked the presence to attack them directly?

During the long, exhausting voyage they wondered what had happened to the Fossans. Had they been thrown overboard? Unlikely. Transported south to Aneheri to begin a life of slavery? Possible, but if this was replicated at every village along the Fisher Coast there would soon be no s.h.i.+ps left in the fleet. Most likely they were piled in the vessels' holds, suffering the vicissitudes of a stormy sea journey. North or south, they were still prisoners.

But this led to the question the three Fossans debated through the cold nights. Why would the Neherians wish to depopulate the Fisher Coast? Surely even a conqueror needed subjects to work the fields and tend the machines of civilisation? Apparently not, if the fleet's behaviour at Fossa was typical of what was happening along the coast.

And one other thought exercised their minds as they struggled against the storm with failing strength. Why had the Neherians been seeking Noetos?

Well, Arathe had reflected as she finished her tale by describing their final run into Raceme, borne like a leaf on the wind of the now giant storm, at least now I know why. Not that she could tell Sautea and Mustar the full story. The latter would be crushed to learn his famous and respected father had been a Neherian informant.

Who could antic.i.p.ate their parents' pasts? Arathe and Anomer had known their father was different from other fathers in Fossa. He knew much more than other men, and there were hints in his words of lands and experiences far from the sheltered harbour that constrained Fossan lives. The man was shrouded in a twenty-year silence, refusing to answer any direct questions about the details of his own childhood: where he had been born, what conditions had been like growing up, and what had happened to his family. The things any normal family shared; things that became part of family history. But nothing had led them to expect a history as exotic and painful as that which their father had finally, reluctantly, described to them.

How did she feel about this history? Anomer was angry, she knew that. Deeply angry that he, the rightful heir of Roudhos-the rightful heir given that Noetos was the Duke of Roudhos-had been kept ignorant. Part of his ident.i.ty had been stolen: her brother had a right to be angry. What would it have cost the man to have told his family? Was he worried that loose talk would bring the Neherians down upon them? As it turned out, they had been known. The Neherians had come anyway. And the inescapable fact was, had Noetos told his family of his origins and t.i.tle, Opuntia would likely still be alive.

Alive, but frustrated. Arathe was realist enough to recognise that. To have been a d.u.c.h.ess by claim but not by right; that would have been too much to bear.

'It's not really his fault,' she signed, meaning her father, and provoking a growl from Anomer. She raised her eyebrows. If he knew how much like our father he sounds when he does that, he'd tear out his tongue.

'Not his fault?' Anomer did not try to read her mind-they allowed each other too much respect for that-but he stared at her as though trying to intuit her thoughts. 'Had he remained true to the cause, we might well now be living in luxury in Aneheri.'

'Brother, there is so much wrong with those words I don't know where to begin.'

He grimaced and his shoulders dropped. 'I know. It was our grandfather who turned his back on the rump of Roudhos. He might well have made a moral decision, though it's hard to see how staying loyal to the Neherian cause could have cost more lives. And had Father stayed in Aneheri he would never have met Mother. Better for them undoubtedly, but not for us.'

'But you're not happy about it.'

'Are you?'

'No. I'm confused. I didn't see Mother die. It feels as though we left her in Fossa, and if we returned, she would be there waiting for us.'

'I saw her die. I helped bury her. She died as a result of our father's flaws: impatience, selfishness and an unwillingness to share his burdens with others. He never thinks to trust anyone. He is always alone in a sea of people.'

'Perhaps if we had seen what he saw, we might feel the same.'

'Dear sister, I saw our mother run through by a Recruiter's blade because our father would not surrender. How can you think I suffer less than he does?'

'Would you carve up a room full of defenceless people to have your revenge?'

'Not even to save Fisher Coast would I do what our father did,' Anomer said. 'I would have found some other way.'

'So. How do we live with this man?'

'Live with my father? As much as I love him dearly, there's no living with him.'

'You're right,' she signed, her hands drooping with fatigue. More sleep, I need more sleep. 'There is no way this can end well, is there?'

'No,' Anomer said. 'None at all.'

'Want to talk to you,' said a voice, a woman's voice, as someone shook Arathe's shoulder. 'Wake, please. I need to talk.'

'Leave her alone.' Anomer came to her rescue. 'She needs to sleep.'

'I need more than sleep,' Arathe said, using more voice and fewer gestures than normal. 'But sleep is a necessary beginning.'

'Sorry,' the woman said awkwardly, as though the word was even less familiar than others in the language she struggled to use. One of the southerners, one of Duon's companions. Lenares. 'Sorry. But we must talk.'

'Very well,' Arathe signed to Anomer, who translated for the persistent woman. 'I'll hear your words.'

'You...' the woman searched for the word, 'you crossed, met, the hole in the world.'

'I don't understand,' Arathe signed to her brother.

Neither do I, he responded.

'Don't use the mind language,' Arathe said. 'We've used the power enough recently to bring that storm down on our heads.'

'Do you mean the storm that afflicted Raceme? With the whirlwinds?' Anomer asked the southerner. 'Is that what you mean by the hole in the world?'

'The storm was the hole,' she said. 'The hands of...' Again she struggled for the correct term. 'Power. G.o.d. G.o.ds.'

'I'm not sure whether she means that any storm is a "hole" or that this particular storm is the hand of a G.o.d,' Arathe signed to her brother. 'Interesting, though, that she sees the storm as important enough to talk about. She obviously doesn't think it is natural.'

Is it just me, or does she seem a little...simple?

'She speaks our language after a fas.h.i.+on. Do you speak hers? Who is the simple one?'

'That's not fair,' Anomer said out loud. No, I mean she seems...differently focused. Look at her. She hasn't relaxed for a moment. No small talk. I've never seen eyes so intense-not even yours, big sister.

'We need to hear your story, Lenares,' Arathe said, in her combination of speaking and signing.

To her astonishment, the southern woman signed back. 'Yes. I will tell you my story.'

'She's picked up your language so soon?' Anomer said. 'How is that possible?'

'I am special,' Lenares said. 'I am special,' she signed, shocking them both.

'You are,' the siblings said together.

First she gave them her story, a rambling affair lasting hours. The big black man called Torve joined her an hour or so into her telling, his eyes hooded, saying nothing other than to offer them food. The girl told an outlandish tale of another land, far, far to the south, of a race of men-races of men-the brother and sister had never heard about. The story took two parts: the thread of movement, telling who went where and did what; and the underlying revelations as to her own personality and her special gift. Both threads captured Arathe's imagination.

'You see things as numbers?' Anomer asked, also clearly entranced. 'What numbers am I?'

'I am watching you, and your sister, since we came here. You glow like sleepy fire. You are both made up of many numbers, but four hundred and ninety-six is your central number. This a special number because-'

'Because it is perfect,' Anomer finished dreamily. 'Because it is the sum of its divisors. One plus two plus four plus eight plus sixteen plus thirty-one plus sixty-two plus one hundred and twenty-four plus two hundred and forty-eight. All beautiful numbers.'

'Yes! Yes!' The girl leapt to her feet and jumped up and down excitedly, her language lapsing in the moment. 'How know you this? You are cosmographer?'

'When he was a child he sat on the floor and wrote out lists of numbers on parchment,' Arathe signed. 'He never wanted to go outside and play.'

Anomer laughed. 'I still love numbers, but my father made it clear I was not to waste my life on them. He said the world had enough scribes.'

'Not enough cosmographers though! I am the only one left.'

The girl tapped her chest. Which, Arathe noticed, was well proportioned. In fact, the girl was quite a beauty, despite her obvious travel stains and some curious burn scars on her cheeks. Anomer's cheeks turned faintly red: he had noticed too.

You blush prettily, my brother.

He ignored her, and cleared his throat. 'So we have a perfect number. What does this mean?'

'All parts of you are in perfect proportion,' Lenares said.

Anomer's blush deepened, and Arathe barked a strangled laugh. The girl realised she had said something inadvertent and tsked in impatience.

'Of you, the real you. Inside you. Your thinking, your strength, heart, all nine parts in balance.' She frowned, and leaned closer to him. Disconcertingly close, invading his personal s.p.a.ce as though she had every right to be there. 'Or they were; but not now. The boy here is thinking and not glowing. Thinking bad-bitter?-thoughts. Such thoughts will damage his heart.'

'You can see this how?'

'I cannot tell you how. There are not the words even in my tongue-speak. But you,' she swung around to address Arathe alone, 'have another number in your head, and it does not belong there. Like Duon. The same number. It is a palindrome, one hundred and ninety-one. The number of the worm. You and Duon both have worms in your heads.'

They tried to get Lenares to expand on this revelation, but had little success. The girl seemed piqued at this, unreasonably angry, and Arathe wondered again at her brother's initial a.s.sessment of her as simple. Perhaps. But Arathe knew enough from the link between Duon and herself to realise the strange southern girl had uncanny knowledge, and she wished to explore it further. But the girl's reluctance baulked her. Perhaps when Duon returned.

Eventually they managed to get Lenares back to her story, and she described a vast army gathered by a cruel emperor for the purposes of a northern conquest. The cosmographers were part of this army, and the girl digressed again to explain their role in Elamaq society. After several tangential remarks, she told them how Captain Duon led the army north into an ambush and destruction, from which only four people escaped. These four wandered and were eventually s.n.a.t.c.hed up by a hole in the world, then deposited in Raceme just as the whirlwinds ceased.

Hands of the G.o.ds. Holes in the world. Storms...

Arathe wondered.

She wondered about a storm that seemed to behave as if it had intelligence, or was guided by someone powerful. That herded herself, Mustar and Sautea, confining them to the coast and driving them into Raceme. That reached down to inflict whirlwinds on Raceme, targeting herself and anyone mind-speaking her.

She wondered about a hole in the world that herded a great southern army into an ambush. That drove the handful of survivors north into a place called Nomansland, then reached down a G.o.dlike hand and plucked them into its open throat.

She wondered. She wondered why, if she was as clever as her tutors had claimed, it had taken her so long to begin putting things together.

You and Duon have worms in your heads.