Читать книгу Quicksilver Rising - Stan Nicholls - Страница 9

‘Eithne?’ Serrah whispered.

Her dead daughter’s grin widened.

Serrah had never been the fainting type. Now she felt ready to drop. ‘Eithne?’ she repeated.

‘Yes. Don’t be afraid.’

‘But … how? You’re –’

‘I’m more alive than I’ve ever been, Mother.’ The sunken sockets, the pallor, the drawn features had all gone. She was as she had been, before her descent and the final days. Her eyes sparkled. ‘I’ve come back to you.’

Serrah was aware that her arm was still being held. She felt the girl’s fingers pressing into her flesh. How could this be a spectre, a deceiving glamour? ‘Is it truly you?’ she asked.

‘It’s me, Mummy.’

Serrah wanted to believe so badly. She moved to embrace her daughter.

‘No,’ Eithne said, letting go of Serrah and stepping back. ‘It’d be painful at the moment, I’m too … delicate. I’ve only just …’ The smile was unwavering. ‘I’m feeling tender. Like you.’

Serrah remained with her arms outstretched, stunned at not being able to hold her child. For a moment, her grip on sanity seemed just as elusive. ‘I don’t understand any of this,’ she said.

‘All you have to understand is that I’m here. They brought me back.’

‘Who? How?’

‘The sorcerers of the imperial court, no less. You’ve no idea the kind of magic they command. Wonderful magic.’

‘You said you were in pain.’

‘Just some discomfort. It’ll pass. The coming back … it was like waking up, that’s all.’

Serrah had never heard of such a thing. ‘But they can’t –’

‘They can. They did.’

‘Why?’

‘For you. Us.’

‘Why would the highest-ranking concern themselves with us?’

‘Because of this situation you’ve got yourself into. They’re showing you a way out.’

‘I must be blind not to see it.’

‘Then look on me as a kind of reward.’

‘For what?’

‘For something you haven’t done yet.’

Serrah was sure she knew what that was, but asked anyway. ‘What do they expect from me?’

‘You have to do as they say, Mother. You have to confess.’

‘Eithne,’ Serrah replied, still feeling strange at mouthing the name after so long, ‘I have nothing to confess to. I didn’t do anything wrong.’

‘Does that matter?’

‘Yes.’

‘But does it matter if it means I can be reunited with you, that I can live out the life I lost?’

‘There wouldn’t be a life together if I confessed. I’d be locked away, or worse.’

‘They promised me they’d be merciful.’

‘You believe them?’

‘The fact that I’m here proves they’re serious about their side of the bargain.’

‘And if I don’t confess?’

Eithne’s expression grew troubled. ‘That would be bad for me.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘The spell they used to raise me is temporary. Unless they cast another that makes my state permanent, and soon …’

‘How soon?’

‘Hours.’

To have her back only to lose her again. Serrah felt her eyes filling. ‘That’s what they’re offering in exchange for my confession?’

‘Yes. They’ll let me live again.’

‘Doing it this way, it’s … beyond cruel.’

‘No, Mother! It’s a miracle. Don’t you see? They told me that at worst you’ll spend a short time in prison or a reeducation camp. Then we can be together again.’

A small part of Serrah’s mind marvelled at how she had so readily accepted talking with the dead. Her dead. If this wasn’t madness it would pass for it. ‘Eithne, I –’

‘I forgive you.’

‘Forgive me?’

‘For when I was … ill. When you weren’t there for me.’

It was all the more wounding for being stated so matter-of-factly. Guilt knifed Serrah in the ribs. Her eyes were welling again. ‘I’m … I’m so sorry. I did my best. I tried so very hard to –’

Eithne raised a hand to still her. ‘I said I forgive you. But I don’t think I could again. Not if you don’t do this. Sign that confession, Mother.’

Serrah was taken aback by the severe tone in her daughter’s voice. It seemed out of character. Even in those terrible final weeks Eithne had been secretive rather than manipulative. Could her personality have been altered in some way? By the experience of death and rebirth? By some design on the Council’s part? ‘I need to gather myself, Eithne. I have to think about what you’re saying.’

‘What’s there to think about? My time’s running out, Mummy. You always did seesaw.’

‘That’s not true.’

‘Just do it. Or do you want me to face death again?’

Something had been nagging Serrah, just beyond thought. It surfaced. ‘If resurrection really is possible,’ she said, ‘why haven’t they used it on Phosian? I mean, they couldn’t have, could they? Otherwise I wouldn’t be here.’

‘I don’t know anything about that,’ Eithne replied after a pause. She sounded defensive. ‘I think it might have something to do with the way a person died,’ she added as an afterthought.

‘A lethal wound, too much ramp; what’s the difference? Dead’s dead, isn’t it?’

‘I’m no expert on magic. I don’t care how they did it.’

Serrah played her hunch. ‘What do you think Rohan would have to say about this?’

‘What?’

‘Rohan. He’d have something to say, wouldn’t he?’

Eithne was obviously perplexed but trying to hide it. ‘I don’t –’

‘You do remember Rohan?’

‘Of course! But what’s he got to do with this?’

Serrah’s heart was sinking. But she would see it through. ‘I think his opinion’s important, don’t you? Humour me.’

Her daughter sighed. ‘I suppose … I suppose I’d expect him to say you were behaving foolishly by being so stubborn, and that you should do what’s best for both of us.’

‘And I’d expect you to say, “Don’t be half-witted, Mother; real dogs can’t talk. And Rohan’s a she, not a he.”’ She glared at whatever was calling itself her child.

‘You’re confused.’

‘I don’t think so.’

‘You’re doubting me just because I couldn’t remember the name of a dog?’

‘An animal you were inseparable from all your childhood. Or rather, Eithne was. I don’t know what you are, but you’re not my daughter.’

‘That’s ridiculous. The beating’s affected you. You’re not seeing things straight.’

‘You mean I’m not supposed to.’

‘Look at me; I’m your daughter. How can you disown me, Mother?’

‘Don’t call me that. All I see is a fraud.’

‘Sign the confession. Save us both.’

Serrah had ceased to believe in the illusion. ‘I deny you,’ she hissed.

The girl saw her expression. She began edging away. Serrah noticed that the door was slightly ajar.

They moved at the same time. Despite her aches, Serrah was faster. She caught the pretender by her arms. They struggled. Serrah loosed a hand, drew it back and delivered a hard slap across the girl’s face. A tingling sensation suffused her hand, like transient pins and needles.

‘You stupid bitch!’ the impostor wailed. Her voice was changing, dropping to a lower pitch.

Transfixed by what was happening, Serrah let go of her.

It was as though a seething swarm of golden bees covered the girl’s face. Then the myriad glimmering shards dispersed, flying out in all directions and dissolving.

A partial glamour, designed to enfold its host’s face, and in this instance imitate a dead child. Advanced magic, worth a small fortune.

When the dazzle cleared, Serrah was facing a stranger. A plain woman, not a girl, and quite different to her daughter. Only her build matched. She looked frightened.

Serrah lunged at her. She met a blow to the abdomen. It knocked the wind out of her and rekindled the fire of her earlier thrashing. Gasping, she went to her knees.

The woman was through the door in a flash, slamming it behind her. Serrah scrambled to it and started hammering with her fists. She raged and cursed until her hands were bloody and her voice gave out.

At some point her passion spent itself. She had sunk to the floor, and remained there. The door was bloodstained from her pounding.

Now she hugged her knees to her chest and gently rocked. And due to her masters’ deceit, grieved again. Physical brutality she might withstand. She didn’t think she could take much more of their artifice.

For some while she had been staring at the top of the door frame. The cross-beam projected like a narrow shelf. If her smock was torn into strips and wound together, the makeshift rope could be looped over it. Then she just had to tie a noose, haul herself up, wriggle her head in and let go. There wasn’t enough of a drop to snap her neck. It would be a slow choking. But even that seemed preferable to her present state.

Her trance was broken by noises outside the cell. They were coming for her again.

Serrah was halfway to standing when the door flew open. It framed one of the men who had beaten and threatened her. His expression was unreadable. Serrah backed away, meeting the bed.

The man took two faltering steps in her direction. He stopped, swayed, then fell head-first. A dagger jutted between his shoulder-blades.

There were other people outside. Serrah blinked at them, bewildered, as they spilled in. Their faces appeared blank at first. She thought it must be more glamours to cheat her, then saw they wore fabric masks, quite crudely made.

‘Who are you?’ she challenged.

‘Friends,’ one of them responded crisply. ‘Come on! We’ve no time!’

The thought that this might be her unit flashed through her mind. She soon realised it wasn’t. ‘Where are we –’

‘Out of here.’

He took her arm. She winced as they bundled her into the corridor.

There were four of them. One went ahead, one took the rear; the other two stuck by her. They began moving down a long, low-ceilinged passageway. It was badly lit and the men at front and back activated soft illumination glamours.

She asked again, ‘Who are you?’

‘We’ve a way to go before we’re out of here,’ her escort told her, ignoring the question, ‘and likely to meet opposition. Stay with us, keep moving.’

‘Give me a blade,’ she said.

‘You’re in no state.’

‘If I have to defend myself I’ll need it. You want me out of here, don’t you?’

After a brief hesitation he passed her a long-bladed knife. Its cold, firm gravitas reassured her.

‘Use it only if necessary,’ he cautioned. ‘We’re here to do the fighting.’

She shook loose their steadying hands and walked unaided. They said nothing but stayed close to her. Hobbling from her pains, Serrah had to work hard to keep pace.

They came to two bodies sprawled in their path; one a warder, the other wearing a paladin’s red tunic. That meant real trouble. If it was possible to be in more.

Stepping over the corpses, they warily approached a corner. Once round it they were in another passage, much like the first but shorter. Three more masked rescuers lurked at the end of it. Serrah’s group hurried to them, and she ached with the effort.

They were guarding the foot of a winding staircase. There was a quick, whispered consultation. Then together they started to ascend, weapons ready, with Serrah in the middle of the pack.

Five or six turns brought them to another level. This proved to be an axis of corridors, each following a point of the compass. All looked empty. The party continued climbing.

The level above saw the end of the stairs and a single passageway. It wasn’t much more than a tunnel. With whispers and signals the one who seemed to be their leader explained that the next stairwell was at its far end. By drawing a finger across his throat he indicated that it was a particularly dangerous stretch. As they began walking, she saw why. Other corridors branched out from theirs, but at oblique angles, meaning the mouths of several were blind to them until they drew parallel. They crept past two such without ambush.

As the stairs came into sight they found another body, lying in a scarlet puddle. He was one of theirs, no doubt left as a lookout. His mask had been pulled up to his hairline and his body bore numerous wounds.

They all glanced around nervously. Serrah gripped the knife tighter, her senses heightened. Twenty or thirty paces ahead were two more side passages, one to their left, one to their right, almost facing each other. There was a flurry of handsignalling among Serrah’s party. Then they quietly spread out and began a slow advance. A pair of her unknown companions shadowed her, not touching but close enough to.

About halfway there, the pathfinder motioned a halt. He knelt and picked up a small piece of stone. This he pitched ahead of him. It landed mid-corridor, clattering.

The echo died. Nothing happened.

They decided on the simplest stratagem: a rush en masse for the stairs. The company readied themselves. Serrah’s escorts looked ready to drag her if necessary. Their fingertips brushed her arms, within grabbing distance.

The leader gave his sign and they started to run.

A dozen swift paces on, disaster struck.

Armed men poured from the tunnel mouths. Warders and militia mostly, with a smattering of paladins. Serrah reckoned their number at above a dozen. At least half as many again as her side.

The rescuers’ dash became an unplanned charge. They had no choice. The two groups’ leading edges met. There were cries and clashes of steel.

Serrah allowed herself to be steered through the initial chaos. As the mob distilled into a series of separate fights, she shook free. Her escorts stayed close but their attention turned to the advancing melee. Whoever her mysterious allies were, they fought like maniacs.

The tide rolled in and Serrah found herself at the centre of the brawl. For a long moment, incredibly, it engaged everyone but her. She seemed to exist in a bubble, with duels raging on every side. Her abused body throbbed. She was sucked dry and disoriented. But all she felt was fury. Blistering resentment and hatred of her persecutors smothered any other thought.

She needed to kill something.

The battle had drawn her bodyguards away. As she moved, she heard one of them calling out to her. She ignored him and plunged into the scrum.

A blade scythed the air above her ducking head. Another cleared her ribs by a hairsbreadth. The twisting and dodging was excruciating. It didn’t matter.

She picked a target. A stocky militiaman, fencing with a rescuer and getting the better of it. Serrah had no taste for honour or subtlety. She buried her knife in his back. As he went down she took his sword. Her victim’s opponent turned away and piled into another foe.

One of the masked rescuers collapsed in front of her, his chest ribboned. She leapt over his corpse and into the path of a warder with a rapier in play. Deflecting a blow with the knife, she thrust her sword into his belly. Nearby, one of his comrades lost his footing on the dank flagstones and fell heavily. A masked rescuer impaled him, delivering his broadsword two-handed to the heart. Bathed in the catharsis of violence, Serrah looked for more trouble.

It found her. Moving with liquid agility, a paladin laid siege. He was a head taller than Serrah and powerfully built. Like her, he wielded sword and knife. Their legendary fighting skills and savagery made paladins opponents to be avoided at the best of times. But in the worst of times, and impelled by bloodlust, caution had no hold on Serrah.

Their swords collided. The strength behind the paladin’s blow sent a spasm through Serrah’s knotted arm muscles. She took a swipe at his face with the knife, forcing him back a pace. Swift as thought he retaliated, sending a downward slash that could have split her to the waist. She replied with a combination of jabs and swipes that briefly staved him off.

They joined again in a flurry of scathing passes and grating blades. It seemed his defence was impenetrable. Then with will and luck guiding her hand, Serrah battered through. He tried to block a side-swipe. Her momentum was too great and snapped his sword in two. The paladin brought up his knife. She evaded it and planted steel deep in his guts.

He slumped to his knees, mouth agape, eyes wide. Serrah drew back her sword and sliced into the side of his neck. Blood sprayed, the paladin toppled.

Breathing hard, she backed off and looked around. The frenzy was decreasing. Her allies had downed the last of the enemy and bodies littered the corridor. Two of them were rescuers. Several others had light injuries. Some of them were staring at her, but nobody said anything.

Healing salves were quickly pressed to wounds. One or two of the group broke small phials under their noses and inhaled restorative vapours. Then the signal went out to move on. This time, nobody offered to help her.

The depleted band reached the stairs and began to climb again. They ascended four more levels without incident, save for disturbing the odd rat. But they could hear sounds of pursuit from below and hurried their flight. The effort vexed Serrah’s body. It felt like she had lava coursing through her veins.

Finally they arrived at a wide, high passageway marking ground level. The entrance was here, its robust doors standing open. A handful of masked men guarded it. Corpses of militia and paladins had been dragged to one side of the corridor. The guards eyed Serrah, but no questions were asked about their missing comrades.

‘How does it look?’ the leader of Serrah’s group wanted to know.

‘Our luck won’t hold much longer,’ one of the guards replied. ‘We have to move now.’

The leader nodded and steered Serrah to the door. It was night outside and a fine rain was falling. He pointed to the massive wall opposite. Three thick ropes hung down it. ‘Could you climb that?’ he said.

‘Yes.’

He held out a hand. ‘Your weapons.’

Serrah tightened her hold on the blades and shook her head.

‘How will you climb?’

Reluctantly, she gave him the sword and knife, and suddenly felt naked. He passed them back to his crew.

‘Who are you?’ she asked yet again.

‘Now isn’t the time. We’ll explain when we’re away from here.’ He indicated one of his men. ‘He’ll go with you. The rest of us will be right behind. Just keep moving. Don’t stop for anything.’ He took her silence as assent and mustered the others.

‘Go!’ he barked.

Serrah and her attendant raced through the doors. The chill night air jolted her and she took an involuntary gulp. Rain lashed her face. Underfoot, the ground was spongy. She could hear the others thundering along behind.

Somebody shouted. She turned her head. A large party of armed men, including many paladins, was rushing at them from the corner of the building. They were yelling too.

‘Keep moving!’ the leader bellowed.

Serrah slammed into the wall and grasped a dangling rope. Her escort did the same. They began pulling themselves up, feet slipping for want of purchase on the wet walls.

An ear-shattering explosion rang out. There were flashes of light, brilliant as lightning. She looked down. Somebody was letting off magical munitions.

They detonated in great round clouds of green and red and gold, then spewed their deceptions. Grotesque beasts erupted, and dozens of chimera duplicates of the rescuers, designed to confuse.

‘Look away!’ her companion cried.

She understood and averted her eyes. A tremendously intense light bathed them, illuminating the wall brighter than full daylight before it flickered and died. An optical glamour. A light burst that blinded. She wondered which side had used it. Screams and other sounds of combat drifted up to them. They continued climbing.

The edifice seemed eternal. About two-thirds of the way up, Serrah’s arms grew numb and her strength faltered. Her companion, keeping pace, urged her on. Something sliced the air and stilled his tongue. An arrow quivered in his back. Serrah reached out to him. He fell. A downward glance showed her his fate.

Mixed with phantasms and dazzlements, men were fighting in the grounds below. A couple of her rescuers had made it to the ropes and were hauling themselves up. She kept going, fearful of an arrow meant for her.

At length she arrived at a broad ledge topping the wall, fighting for breath as she dragged herself onto it. She crawled to the far side and looked down. Three more ropes hung on the outside of the wall, tied to a segment of crenellation on the ledge. In a side street directly below, a hay wagon had been parked, full of stuffed sacks. Two masked men looked up at her and gestured furiously.

A whoomp and crackle sounded to her rear. In the palace grounds a geyser of purplish smog billowed high. As she watched, it took on the form of a gigantic red dragon, tall as a temple tower, its green eyes ablaze, spiked tail lashing. A glamour, though the fire it breathed was real enough. She saw men engulfed in flame. But the ones on the ropes were still coming, despite arrows clacking all around.

Serrah crossed the ledge and began lowering herself to the street. All she could think about was getting away, and of her revulsion at being so completely at the mercy of others. In that moment she vowed it would never happen again. When she had scrambled about halfway down, she let go of the rope and dropped.

She landed heavily but unharmed on the pile of sacks. One of the waiting men moved to take her arm. She dodged him and jumped from the wagon. Then she ran. They shouted after her.

Serrah discounted her pains and ran faster still. Perhaps they tried following, she never knew. Soon she was in a maze of bustling lanes.

Barefoot, smock tattered and bloodstained, wet hair plastered to her forehead, she limped into streets where nobody stared.