The Fade kj-2 Page 8

  'Voids, Nereith! I've thought about nothing but the plan since Farakza.'

  'No,' he says. 'You've thought about saving your son. You've thought about the end but not how you're going to get there. You're papering over the cracks with blind hope, and that – forgive me for saying – is beneath you. You're not being rational.'

  I pull myself up, out of the rain. Sodden, I stalk to one end of the carriage, slick my hair back from my face, furious. Trying to think of a comeback that will beat him. Thing is, there isn't one. He's got me pegged.

  'This is all I've got,' I say at last. 'This is what got me out of Farakza. This is what kept me running when I might have given up. It's what got me through the Shadow Death.' I slump against the side of the carriage, knees drawn up to my chest. 'He's my son, and I'm his mother. Of course I'm not being rational.'

  Nereith is silent for a time. Then: 'Do you think he'll thank you?'

  'I don't know. I know he doesn't want to be there. I know if he's back in Veya he could be near Reitha again.'

  'You do realise he could be dead already?'

  'Yes,' I say through gritted teeth. 'I do realise that. And until I find out for sure, I won't stop looking.'

  Nereith considers me a while. 'Would you really defy your master to get your son back? You, a Bondswoman?'

  He doesn't need a reply. It's in my eyes. Nereith just watches me, weighing me with his gaze. I get the sense that I've just been evaluated.

  'My offer still stands,' he says. 'When all else fails, come to me. Silverfish can help you.'

  'For a price.'

  'Naturally.'

  It's tempting. But I really don't want to get tangled with Silverfish. Not until there are no options left. Abyss knows where that would lead.

  'I'll keep it in mind.'

  Away from the village, the dark gathers in. Distant clusters of phosphor trees draw the wildlife like oases in a desert; luminescent lichens float in pools, entangling and consuming the fish that are drawn to them. Predators hide in the undergrowth, waving glowing stalks above their mouths, enticing curious victims. In a world of eternal dark, the best way to attract prey is to offer light.

  We're following a river which churns and spatters alongside the tracks, beneath the slow sparkle of glowfly swarms. Bats flit this way and that, snatching the insects from the air. Dark, heavy shapes lurk in the water, bright eyes peeping out.

  'I have a question for you,' I say, out of nowhere. 'Belek Aspa. Ever heard that name?'

  No hesitation from the Khaadu. 'He's a Gurta Minister. Right up there with the High Elder himself. Smart politician, by all accounts. Why?'

  'Just had the name rattling around my head. Couldn't think who he was.'

  'Right,' says Nereith, suspicious. But he doesn't pursue it any further.

  A Gurta Minister? That was the name the Magister used during my last interrogation in Farakza. Asking me if I'd ever heard it mentioned by Ledo.

  I don't like what that implies.

  10

  Caralla lies on the edge of an immense lake inside a cavern so large that its dimensions can barely be guessed at. Still, it's easy enough to find. I just follow the explosions.

  It's been several turns since I left the surface. Time is meaningless when you have no sun and no kind of timepiece, and it's only by my body rhythms of sleep and wakefulness that I can gauge it. That, and the fact I started my period the day before I left Feyn, and it's all but over now.

  A fleeting memory makes me smile. I'd had to beg some towels off the SunChild women, translating through Feyn. He was more embarrassed than I was. I'm pretty earthy about that kind of stuff. Just biology; nothing to be ashamed of. I've seen too many people's insides to be shy about my own.

  It took me a while to orient myself underground, but I'm not too bad at stone-reading and I have the innate sense of navigation that all but an unlucky few of Eskarans possess. Chthonomancers say it's all about sensing lines of magnetic force, a method we've evolved in lieu of any other way of determining direction underground. They have it down to an art. For people like me it's just gut feeling. Stone-reading is all about knowing how to understand the flow of the rock, the accumulation of different minerals and so on, to predict where caverns and tunnels have formed. Basic survival techniques.

  Eventually I found a landmark I recognised: a crystal mountain growing out of a small lake. I was near the front lines, in the middle of the Borderlands: almost exactly where I wanted to be. A Chandelier was hanging beneath the water, flashing restlessly while long-limbed glass spiders stalked the periphery of the cavern. I wished I had time to stay and watch the show – trying to decipher the Chandeliers' language of light was addictive and hypnotic – but I had to move on.

  By the time Caralla comes into sight I'm on full alert. I find a spot on the edge of a promontory, high above the lake and concealed by ragged mineral outcrops. There I hide, and watch.

  Below me, across the gently phosphorescent expanse of the lake, I can see Caralla. It's an enormous cliff-fortress that has been a defensive linchpin of the Eskaran Army ever since I can remember. The fortifications crown the cliffs and spread all the way down the overhanging face to where a harbour hides behind protective seawalls. Shard-cannon emplacements bristle everywhere, powered by chthonomantically charged battery-packs. Hundreds of lights speckle the black rock, and the fortress is topped by two shinehouses like horns, spreading their cool radiance across the cavern and far out over the water.

  There are ships on the lake. A dozen of them. Slim, black, their sails furled as they run under the power of the Elders on board. Every so often, one of them hurls a volanite ball from one of its cannons: chthonomantically-charged rock, pulsing with energy, which detonates on impact. Caralla has been scarred by the bombardment, but its core still holds strong.

  Further along the lakeshore, I can see the rapid flashes of smaller shard-cannon emplacements. Over there, amid the sharp rocks and narrow, fungus-choked defiles, the foot soldiers have engaged.

  Is he in there? Is my son among them?

  No. I can't think that way. I need to move, to distract myself. My side of the lake seems relatively quiet, so I start to head around to the fortress, skirting the cliff-top.

  As I get closer, there are signs of what has passed here. Gurta and Eskaran bodies, many stripped of their armour and weapons, lie dead and rotting. Abandoned and burned-out gun emplacements, blast-patterns from bombs. The battle here is long over, and the Gurta were driven back. Whatever assault they are making now, it's happening on the other shore.

  I'm creeping through that dank, blasted world when I hear a steadily growing sound, like the dull bellow of flame, getting louder, building. I look up in time to see a blinding mass of light gathering out of nowhere in the heights of Caralla. An enormous prism, surrounded by huge mirrors, becoming bright as the suns as it's energised by a dozen chthonomancers at once.

  I'm dumbstruck. They've got a pulse-lance.

  A bolt of energy screams forth from the prism, with a sound that splits my head. It punches through the dim air and connects squarely with one of the Gurta ships, annihilating it in a rain of splinters and spray. Then silence falls, the light fades, and all is as it was, except for the flaming wreckage floating on the surface of the suddenly choppy waters.

  For a moment I just gape. I've never seen a pulse-lance in action before. It's pretty impressive. But devastating as it is, it will be hours before the chthonomancers are rested enough to charge that thing again. The Gurta have taken a blow, but they'll keep coming. Time is short.

  Further along, I identify myself to the Eskaran forces that are holding a line along the cliffs. I'm touched by the reception I receive. They break into spontaneous cheers as word spreads of who I am. I had no idea I was so popular.

  'We heard you were dead, in that fucking disaster at Korok,' one of them grins. Korok: the town which took my husband's life.

  'What happened? After they ambushed us, I mean?'

  'It was a slau
ghter,' says another soldier, through gritted teeth. He spits and wipes his forehead. 'They knew every move we were making. It should have been an easy take, but they knew everything. Someone sold us out.'

  A chill trickles into my blood. I look at the first soldier, a dirty-faced blond man. 'Is that true?'

  'It's a rumour,' he says, with a pointed glance at his companion.

  'What about the others?' someone asks. 'What about Rynn and Jutti and Vamsa? Did they make it?'

  And somehow I'm steel when I say it. 'Rynn is dead.' I see the disappointment on their faces. He was a real hero to them. 'Jutti and Vamsa… I don't know.' They were Cadre, famous fighters both. Jutti with his acrobatic, flamboyant style, Vamsa with her poison whips and equally poisonous tongue. I didn't know them well.

  Someone punches the questioner in the ribs, reminding him that he's talking to the dead man's widow.

  'Where have you been?' another man asks.

  'Away,' I reply, suddenly out of patience. 'Can someone take me to whoever's in charge?'

  'Warmaster Vask,' says the blond soldier. 'Come with me.'

  We head through the troops, eventually reaching a road that leads to the crest of the fortress. There is little traffic, and the sounds of combat are distant. We walk until an empty delivery cart passes us, heading our way; then we hop aboard and let the driver take us.

  'What's happening here?' I ask.

  'Just a lull,' he says. 'They want this place badly. We've heard there are Gurtan reinforcements on the way. Lots of them. They're just keeping us on our toes until then.'

  'What about us? Anyone coming?'

  'We don't know. There's talk of a big push, to break the Gurta lines once and for all, put them on the run. Nobody knows where or when.'

  'You believe it?'

  'There's always rumours,' he says, hands clasped between his knees. 'Good for morale. But this time… I don't know… seems more real than usual. The Warmasters are up to something.'

  I nod absently, watching the road disappear behind us. 'Do you know a young officer by the name of Massima Leithka Jai?'

  It takes him a moment to work it out. 'Your son?'

  'He was stationed here, last I heard.'

  He makes an apologetic face. 'I'm sorry. There's so many here.'

  'Doesn't matter. Vask will know.'

  'They say… they say you can find out anything,' he murmurs. I look back at him. 'Can you find out the truth?'

  'You mean, can I find out if there's a traitor?'

  He nods, unsure if he's been too presumptuous.

  'I'll find out,' I say. 'Don't worry about that.'

  Relief spreads across his face, and after that we travel in silence. 'Warmaster Vask!'

  I fall into step alongside him as he hurries through the stone corridors of Caralla, messengers and underlings flitting around him, delivering news and taking orders.

  'Who are you?' he asks, not looking at me. He's a slender man, gaunt and with black hair slicked to his skull. Hard-eyed and sharp-featured.

  'Massima Leithka Orna, Cadre to Plutarch Nathka Carac-'

  'Caracassa Ledo, yes,' he interrupts. 'I don't need your service history. Come to help?' He makes a sharp turn down a corridor and his entourage follow smoothly.

  'I'm afraid not, Warmaster; I'm on Caracassa business.' Which is a semi-truth, since I'm trying to take Jai away from the front lines and that's Caracassa business, in a way.

  'Shame. We could use you.'

  'Warmaster, I need to find an officer who I believe was stationed here.'

  'Who?'

  'Massima Leithka Jai.'

  'Your son?'

  'That's right.'

  He signs something thrust into his hand, barely looking at it, without breaking stride. I have no idea where we're going, but I get the impression that he has to keep moving because the moment he stops he'll be swamped.

  'I can't help,' he says.

  'Finding him is vital to Caracassa affairs,' I lie.

  He's not taken in. 'Vital how?'

  'I can't tell you.'

  'Of course you can't.'

  'Warmaster!' I snap at him, and my tone brings him to a halt. His entourage freeze, knowing I've overstepped my bounds. He turns on me with a cold gaze, then takes me by the arm and propels me through a door. 'In here.'

  The room is somebody's office: a thin, elderly man and two clerks. Vask orders them out and they scurry, leaving us alone, shutting the door behind them. I open my mouth to speak but a volanite impact shakes the room and robs me of the words.

  'Listen, Orna, I really can't,' he says, and his tone is not angry as I would have expected, but confiding. 'Army administration is in disarray. Communication has always been bad, but since they announced the upcoming offensive-'

  'So it's true?'

  'It's true. It'll be huge. They call it Operation Deadfall. I trust you know better than to let that information leave this room?'

  'Of course.'

  He sighs, sits down on the desk. Tired, harassed. 'The Plutarchs of the Turnward Claw Alliance – Ledo among them, I might add – have started classifying all kinds of records. They're keeping troop movements under wraps while they reorganise, to minimise security leaks. They're also doing it to mask the casualty rates.'

  I don't like the sound of that.

  'One way or another, a lot of people are going to die,' he says. 'If we do this and we fail, they can't let anyone know the scale of our losses.'

  I curse softly. That's how the aristocracy work, alright. I know Vask is being straight with me and I appreciate his trust, but my boy is out there somewhere.

  'I need to find him,' I say. Desperation is edging into my tone. 'Is there anything you can do? You're a Warmaster.'

  'I can only petition a Plutarch to provide the information. Someone like your master. With all the bureaucracy involved, it'd be quicker if you did it yourself. I assume you can?'

  'Yes,' I say bitterly. 'Yes, he'll see me.'

  'I wish I could help, Orna. I hold the Cadre in highest regard. You have no idea what you do for the men. They fight twice as hard when you're fighting with them.'

  I manage a smile at that.

  'He could be anywhere along the Borderlands,' Vask says. He's seen that I'm still thinking about alternatives. 'We've had troops swapping in and out of here all season. I'm telling you, you won't find him by looking. Go back to your master.'

  He's right, and I know it. Abyss, it's too cruel. To get here and then to leave empty-handed, when every turn wasted is the one that might get him killed.

  Sharp claws of panic scramble my guts. I feel so helpless it makes me sick. Isn't there any way I can stop this? Isn't there anything I can do now? If Operation Deadfall goes ahead, and the rumours about Korok are true, my son will be sent into the jaws of a massacre. Never mind the thousands of others who will suffer; I only care about one of them.

  If the rumours about Korok are true. If there's a traitor. Those are questions I need answers to, and fast.

  Suddenly, I'm against the clock. And though it seems absurd to be heading away from the frontline instead of searching for Jai, I know that Vask is talking sense. The quickest way I can get to Jai is to go home and see Ledo. Only he can help me.

  'The men are talking about a traitor,' I say, a tinge of desperation in my voice. 'That we were betrayed at Korok. Aren't you worried about Operation Deadfall being compromised?'

  'There are always traitors, Orna,' he replies. 'And there are always rumours. Maybe we were betrayed, maybe we were just outsmarted. But that's for the aristos to deal with. Until I hear otherwise, Operation Deadfall goes ahead.'

  He makes for the door, reaches for it, stops. Then he turns back, a faintly puzzled look on his face.

  'There was a Khaadu, came asking for your son only a few turns back.'

  'Nereith?'

  'That's him. I sent him on his way. Khaadu might be allies, but I don't trust them that far.'

  Wise of him, I suppose, since Nereith actu
ally works for Silverfish. 'Is he still here?'

  'Could well be. Ask around. He's hard to miss.'

  And with that he leaves, returning to the waiting gaggle of attendants, and I'm left alone with my hopes turning to ashes in my heart.

  11

  At first I spend much of my time in bed, but as my strength returns I'm up and about more and more. During the days we're confined to the carriages. Then the SunChildren sleep or talk or play music. They practise whittling, weaving, fletching and archery; they hold mock-battles, cheered on by their peers. They don't seem to fear the light as long as the hide flaps are secured shut over the windows, so I don't either.

  The occupants of the carriage are very curious about me and about the world below, and I spend a great deal of time answering questions back and forth through Feyn, who acts as our translator. It's clear that Feyn is some sort of hero to them now. Not only can he speak the language of the underworld with apparent fluency, but he has gone into the depths and come back alive. He's allowed to speak of what he saw and learned but not what he did: that would be boastful. A person should only be judged on their interactions with the judge, not on past glories or disgraces. Strange custom, but it's kind of sensible in its way, and if it's the strangest thing I encounter during my time on the surface I'll be very surprised. So I fill in the story, with Feyn translating.

  I learn their names and forget them instantly. My attempts at copying their language meet with politely mystified smiles. I can't nail the click that they make to punctuate their words, and they can't understand me without it. Languages have never been my strong point. Even when enslaved to the Gurta, surrounded by their language every moment of every turn, I was a slow learner and I suffered for it.

  When night falls, the SunChildren are set free. The men slip out of their soft robes and into their sunsuits, scatter from the carriages and head to the stables in the last carriage of the chain. From there they emerge on whip-lean, chitin-armoured steeds called scha'rak. These animals are long-limbed and apparently eyeless, but they run at frightening speeds and have no difficulty in navigation. The men disperse ahead of the caravan, searching for good spots to stop. The women emerge and stretch their legs while the children play alongside the enormous, grinding rollers that support their homes. The gethra move no faster than walking pace, but I note that nobody strays too far from the caravan, and several men on scha'rak stay behind as outriders, watching for danger.