The Face of Chaos Part 8

'B-b-boat,' he said. His breath came raw and hoa.r.s.e. 'Sh-she says - this p place. 0 g-g-G.o.ds, c-come on.'

'The river's up,' Mradhon hissed, the limp weight sagging against his shoulder, the feel of chase behind. 'The river's up to the bridge bottom, hear? No boat can handle that current.'

'Sh-she says. C-come.'

Mor-am lurched off, dragging one foot. Moria stood where she was, plastered to the wall. Wrong, a small faint voice was saying inside Mradhon Vis, a p.r.i.c.kling of his nerves where Moria's twin was concerned. And another voice said she. The river. Ischade.

'Come on,' he said, deciding, and Haught shouldered up his side as they headed after Mor-am.

Moria cursed as they pa.s.sed and came too, jogging along with them in the dark, under the dripping eaves. She took the lead again, serving as their eyes in this winding gut of a street.

Now there were sounds, many of them.

'Behind us,' Haught gasped; and where they were Mradhon could not have sworn, but it sounded like behind. He threw all he had into running, pulled a st.i.tch in his side as Haught stumbled and recovered, and now Moria was gone again, in the turning of the streets.

They staggered the last alley and on to the downslope to the river, splashing through the outpourings of Downwind's streets, past a low wall and down again.

'This way,' Moria said, materializing again out of the brushy dark, in the sound of the river, which lay like a black gulf downslope. Mradhon went, steadied his footing for Haught's sake. There was the reek of blood from their unconscious burden, and now the taste of it was in Mradhon's mouth, coppery; his lungs ached; he was blind except that Moria was at his nght telling him come on, come on, down to the river, to the flooded dark, the curling waters that could s.n.a.t.c.h any misstep and make it fatal. He flung his head up, sweat running in his eyes, sucked air, staggered on the uneven stony sh.o.r.e and nearly went to his knees on the rain-slick rock.

There was a boat. He saw Mor-am struggling with it, and Moria running to it, a black sh.e.l.l amid the brush, not distinguishable as a boat if he had not known what it was. There was a muddy slide: boats were launched here, from Downwind, in sane weather, when the river was tamer. But this one hit the water and rode calm, stayed close as if there were no currents tearing at it, as if it and the river obeyed two madly different laws.

'G-get him in,' Mor-am said, and coming to the edge, Mradhon took the limp weight all to his side, going into water to the knee to reach the boat, staggering as he flung the body down. The boat hardly rocked. He gripped the side of it, stood there, uselessly, to steady it. Haught crouched on the muddy sh.o.r.e, head down, breathing in great gulps.

'Sh-she said w-wait,' Mor-am said.

Mradhon stood, still leaning on the side, his feet going numb and the sweat pouring down his face into his eyes. Go out in this against orders - no. He saw Moria collapsed, head and arms between her knees, in the clearing of the sky that afforded them some starlight; saw Mor-am's hooded shape standing further up, holding to the rope. When he glanced across the river, he could see Sanctuary's lights, few at this hour, could see the bridge, sane and reasonable crossing.

And from the man they had carried all this way, there was no sound, no movement - dead, Mradhon thought. They had just carried a corpse away from Moruth; and everyone was robbed.

Stones rattled, high among the brush. Heads lifted, all round; and she was there, coming down, gliding down the rocks like a fall of living dark, making only occasional sound. 'So,' she said, reaching them. She put out a hand and brushed Mor-am. 'You've redeemed yourself.'

He said nothing, but limped down to the water's edge, and Haught and Moria were on their feet.

'Get in,' said Ischade. 'It will take us all.'

Mradhon climbed aboard, stepping over the corpse, which moved, which moaned, and his nerves p.r.i.c.kled at that unexpected life. Greater mercy, he thought, with this stirring between his feet, to use the sword: he had seen deaths such as this Stepson faced when the wounds went bad, the gaping socket of the missing eye thus close to the brain - it would be bad, he thought, while the boat rocked with the others getting in. He reached over the side, dipped up water with his hand, pa.s.sed it over the Stepson's lips, felt movement in response.

Ischade's robe brushed him as she took her place. She knelt there all too close for any comfort; she bent her head, bowed over, her hands on the wounded face.

There was suddenly outcry, a struggling of limbs beneath them ... 'For the G.o.ds'

sake!' Mradhon exclaimed, his gorge rising; he thrust at Ischade, shoved her back, froze at the lifting of her face, the direction of that basilisk stare at him.

'Pain is life,' she said.

And the boat began to move, slowly, like a dream, the while the wind swirled about them and the river roared beneath. His companions - they were hazy shapes in the night about Ischade. The wounded man stirred and moaned, threatening instability in the boat should his thrashing become severe. Mradhon reached down and held him, gently. The witch touched him too, and the struggles took harder and harder restraint. The moans were pitiful.

'He will live,' she said. 'Stilcho. I am calling you. Come back.'

The Stepson cried out, once, sharply, back arching, but the river took the sound.

It was a boat, running on the flood. Erato saw it, his first thought that some riverfisher's skiff had come untied in the White Foal's violence.

But the boat came skimming, running slowly like a cloud before the wind across the current, in a straight line no boat could achieve in any river. Erato stirred in his concealment, hair rising at his nape. He scrambled higher amongst the brush, disturbed one of his men.

'Pa.s.s the word,' he said. 'Something's coming.'

'Where?'

'River.'

That got a stare, a silence in the dark.

'Get the rest,' Erato hissed, shoving at the man. 'They're going to come ash.o.r.e.

Hear me? Tell them pa.s.s it on. The back of the house: that's where they'll come.'

The man went. Erato slipped along the bank at the same level, towards the brambles, which served as effective barrier. The house they watched - they did not venture liberties with it, did not try the low iron gate, the hedges. Try reason, he thought. He was in command. It was on him to try reason with the witch; and it had to be the witch out there: there was nothing in all sanity that ought to be doing what that boat did. He moved quietly, gathered up men here and there while the boat came on.

The bow grated on to rock and kept grating, pushing itself ash.o.r.e, and the Stepson moaned anew, leaning against the gunwales of the boat.

'Bring him,' Ischade said, and Mradhon looked up as the witch stepped ash.o.r.e, on the landing which rose in steps up to the brambles. He flung an arm about the Stepson, accepted Haught's help as he stood up, as now the Stepson fought to get his own feet under him, more than dead weight. The boat rocked as Mor-am went past and stepped out, close to Ischade. They went next, stepping over the bow to solid if water-washed stone footing, and Moria came up by Haught's side, while Ischade stood gazing into the dark beside them.

Men were there, armed and armoured. A half a dozen visible. Stepsons.

The foremost came out a few steps. 'You surprise us,' that one said. 'You did it.'

'Yes,' Ischade said. 'Now go away. Be wise.'

'Our man -'

'Not yours,' she said.

'There's more of them,' Mradhon muttered to her; there was the light of torches up on the height of the bank, just the merest wink of red through the brush.

'Give him over, woman.' He was holding the Stepson still, and the man was standing much on his own between himself and Haught, standing, having no strength, perhaps, to speak for himself. Or no will to do so - as there seemed a curious lack of initiative on the part of the Stepsons who faced them in the dark.

'Go away,' Ischade said, and walked past, walked up to the iron gate that closed the bramble hedge at the back of her house. She turned there and looked back at them, lifted her hand.

Come. Mradhon felt it, a shiver in his nerves. The man they were carrying took a step on his own, faltering, and they went on carrying him, up the steps, to the gate Ischade held open for them, into a garden overgrown with weeds and brush.

The back door of the house swung open abruptly, gaping dark; and they went towards this, up the backdoor steps - heard hasty footfalls behind them, Moria's swift pace, Mor-am's dragging foot. The iron gate creaked shut.

'Get him in,' Ischade hissed at their backs; and there was not, at the moment, any choice.

Light flickered, the beginnings of fire in the fireplace, candles beginning to light all at once. Mradhon looked about in panic, at too many windows, a house too open to defend. The Stepson dragged at him. He sought a place and with Haught's help bestowed the man on the orange silk-strewn bed, the gruesomeness of it all niggling at his mind - that and the windows. He looked about, saw Moria close to the shelf-cluttered wall, by the window - saw the gleam of fire through the shutter-slats.

'Come out!' a thin voice cried, 'or burn inside.'

'The hedges,' Haught said, and Ischade's face was set and cold. She lifted her hand, waved it as at inconsequence. The lights all brightened, all about the room, white as day.

'The hedges,' said Mor-am. 'They'll burn.'

'They're close.' Moria had sneaked a look, got back to the safe solidity of the wall. 'They're moving up.'

Ischade ignored them all. She brought a bowl, dipped a rag, laid a wet cloth on the Stepson's ravaged face, so, so tenderly. Straightened his hair. 'Stilcho,'

she addressed the man. 'Lie easy now. They'll not come inside.'

'They won't need to,' Mradhon said between his teeth. 'Woman, they don't care if he fries along with us. If you've got a trick, use it. Now.'

'This is your warning,' the voice came from outside the walls. 'Come out or burn!'

Ischade straightened.

Beyond the window slats a fire arced, flared. Kept flaring, sun-bright. There were screams, a rush of wind. Mradhon whirled, saw the blaze of light at every window and Ischade standing black and still in the midst of them, her eyes - He averted his, gazed at Haught's pale face. And the screams went on outside.

Fire roared like a furnace about the house, went from white to red to white again outside, and the screams died.

There was silence then. The fire-glow vanished. Even the light of the candles, the fire in the fireplace sank lower. He turned towards Ischade, saw her let go a breath. Her face - he had never seen it angry; and saw it now.

But she walked to a table, quietly poured wine, a rich, rich red. She turned up other cups, two, four, the sixth. She filled only the one. 'Make yourselves at home,' she said. 'Food, if you wish it. Drink. It will be safe for you. I say that it is.'

None of them moved. Not one. Ischade drained her cup and drew a quiet breath.

'There is night left,' she said. 'An hour or more to dawn. Sit down. Sit down where you choose.'

And she set the cup aside. She took off her cloak, draped it over a chair, bent and pulled off one boot and the other, then rose to stand barefoot on the litter that carpeted this place; she drew off her rings and cast them on the table, looked up again, for still no one had moved.

'Please yourselves,' she said, and her eyes masked in insouciance something very dark.

Mradhon edged back.

'I would not,' she said, 'try the door. Not now.'

She walked out to the middle of the silk-strewn floor. 'Stilcho,' she said; and a man who had been near dead moved, tried to sit.

'Don't,' Moria said, a strangled, small voice - not love of Stepsons, it was sure; Mradhon felt the same, a knot of sickness in his throat.

Ischade held out her hands. The Stepson rose, swayed, walked to her. She took his hands, drew him to sit, with her, on the floor; he knelt, carefully.

'No,' Haught said, quietly, a small, lost voice. 'No. Don't.'

But Ischade had no glance for him. She began to speak, whispering, as if she shared secrets with the man. His lips began to move, mouthing words she spoke.

Mradhon seized Haught's arm, for Haught stood closest, drew him back, and Haught got back against the wall. Moria came close. Mor-am sought their corner, the furthest that there was.

'What's she doing?' Mradhon asked, tried to ask, but the room drank up sound and nothing at all came out.

She dreamed, deeply dreamed. The man who touched her -Stilcho. He had been deep within that territory of dreams, as deep as it was possible to go and still come back. He wanted it now: his mind wanted to go fleeting away down those dark corridors and bright - Sjekso, she chanted, over and over: that was the easiest to call of all her many ghosts. Sjekso. She had his attention now. Sjekso. This is Stilcho. Follow him. Come up to me.

The young rowdy was there, just verging the light. He attempted his old nonchalance, but he was shivering in the cold of a remembered alleyway, in the violence of her wrath.

She named other names and called them; she sent them deep, deep into the depths, remembering them - all her men, most ruffians, a few gentle, a few obsessed with hate. One had been a robber, dumped his victims in the harbour after carving up their faces. One had been a h.e.l.l Hound: Rynner was his name; he used to play games with prost.i.tutes - his commander never knew. They were hate, raw hate: there were some souls that responded best to them. There was a boy, come with tears on his face; one of Moruth's beggars; one ofKadakithis's court, silver tongued, with honey hair and the blackest, vilest heart. Up and up they came, swirled near, a veritable cloud.

She spoke, through Stilcho's lips, words in a language Stilcho would not have known, that few living did. "Til dawn, 'til dawn, 'til dawn -'

The dream stretched wide, pa.s.sed beyond her control in a moment of panic. She tried to call them back, but that would have been dangerous.

'Til dawn, she had said.

There were so many pressing at the gates, so very many - Sanctuary, the whisper went. Sanctuary's open - and some went in simple longing for home, for wives, husbands, children; some in anger, many, many in anger - the town inspired that, in those it trapped.

A wealthy widow turned in bed from the slave she kept and stared into a dead husband's reproachful eyes: a yell rang out through marble halls, high on the hill.

A judge waked, feeling something cold, and stared round at all the ghosts who had cause to remember him. He did not scream; he joined them, for his heart failed him on the spot.

In the Maze there was the sound of children's voices, running frenzied through the streets - 0 Mama, Papa! Here I am! One such wandered alone, among the merchants' fine houses, and rapped on a door. I'm home - o Mama, let me in!

A thief stirred in his sleep, rubbed his eyes and rubbed them twice. 'Cudget,'

he said, knowing that he was dreaming, and yet he felt the cold drifting from the old man. 'Cudget?' The old man swore at him just as he used to do, and Hanse Shadowsp.a.w.n sat up in bed, petrified as his old mentor gazed on him, sitting on his foot.

Outside, the streets rustled with the gathering of the dead. One hammered at a door with thin rattling result; Where's my money? it wailed. One-Thumb, where's my money?

The booths at the Vulgar Unicorn grew crowded, buzzed with whispers, and the few diehard patrons went fleeing out the door.

Brother, a ghost said to the fat man in an uptown bed, and to the woman beside him - is he worth it, Thea?

Screams rose, long ones, echoing above the streets, a thin clamouring that the wind took and carried through the air.

A Beysib woman felt the stirring of the snake that shared her bed, opened dark strange eyes and stared in wonder at the pale night-gowned figure that stood within the room: Usurper, it said. Get out of my bed. Get out of my house. You have no right.

No one had ever told her that. She blinked, confused, hearing the screams, as if the town were being sacked.

Across the river Moruth hurried along, hastening in the night for a newer, more secure place, in the madness of the hour, in streets insane with screams.

He stopped, seeing the way closed off. They were hawkmasks. four of them, who began to come towards him; he turned, and there were Stepsons, armed with swords.

In the guardroom a h.e.l.l Hound wakened, bleary-eyed from drink, looked up with the interest of one who hears the step of a friend returning, a singular pattern, so familiar and loved among a thousand others; and then with a sinking of the heart remembered it impossible. But Zaibar looked all the same, and stood up, overturning the chair with a crash.

Raskuli was standing there, unmarred, his head firmly on his shoulders. I can't stay long, he said.

And higher in the palace, Kadakithis screamed and yelled for guards, waking to find strangers in his room, a horde of ghosts. some with ropes about their necks; and soldiers all dusty in tattered armour; and his grandfather, who did not belong in Sanctuary, wearing a shadow-crown.

Shame, his grandfather said.