In the Earth Abides the Flame (18 page)

Pass me the salt, please, the Haufuth asked politely. He didn't understand where the table had come from, nor why fire spewed from the vases where flowers might have been expected to sit, but he was not going to object when the most perfect roast pig he had ever seen sat steaming on the table - so pure, so tender that it almost seemed to glow - and he occupied one of the two places set. This wasn't the first time he had dreamed about food, far from it; it was, however, by far the most vivid he had experienced recently.

'Certainly,' replied the voice. Curiously, the Haufuth could not see his host, but the salt appeared before him nonetheless. He busied himself with the pig, and for a while his host remained politely quiet.

This is marvellous, the Haufuth commented eventually. We do not get such good meat in Firanes.

'No, you don't,' the voice agreed with him. 'I'm pleased to see that you are doing it justice.'

The Haufuth nodded, wiping the juices from his chin.

'A word with you about the Company,' the voice said. 'You were the one I chose to lead it.

Yet I've had to delay things here while I waited for you to arrive. What happened?'

What happened? 1 ran out of courage, that's what happened. 1 wasn't necessary, 1 was so tired, and 1 couldn't see why 1 should risk my life when I was practically irrelevant. He took another bite of pork.

'So you want courage? Why haven't you asked before?'

I didn't know 1 was allowed to. We were told you abandoned us after that fuss about the Vale.

'Yet here I am, abandoning you to this pig,' retorted the voice. 'Well, I'm here, and this pork is proof I can supply the desires of your heart.'

What about the courage? I really could do with some of that.

'Look more closely at what you are eating,' the voice said quietly.

Funny, the Haufuth thought, I never noticed that before. There was a flame set within the meat. That's what is causing it to glow: I'm eating fire. The dream-food stiffened his bones, as though a steel rod had been set in his backbone.

He laughed. I hope I don't suffer indigestion.

'Why are you so angry?' the voice asked. 'What fills you with such rage?'

An exultation ran through Farr's veins. The basement, the whole tenement no doubt, had burned down, that much was clear. He had not had time to protect himself, let alone anyone else. So death was painless, after all. Soon he would be reunited with Wira, with his father and his mother. But in the meantime he had the chance to ask the questions that drove him.

You ask me why 1 am angry? You who watched Storr die? You who stood by while my mother wasted away in hopeless agony? You who sacri' ficed my brother for the good of the Company, then allowed our mission to fail? You ask me what fills me with rage? Come near and 1 will teach you justice!

Farr found his quarterstaff in his right hand. He hefted it, feeling its reassuring weight. The fire around him condensed into a human figure, which advanced slowly on him. Yes! Farr's heart sang. This is my crown! Whether I win or lose, 1 will have fought the battle 1 have longed to fight!

'Not so,' said the figure of flame. 'I am not the one you long to fight. Nevertheless, come and teach me justice.'

Farr flipped his staff from hand to hand, as though it were a small twig. Never before had he felt such power as that which raced through his veins; never before had he been able to marshal all his powers of concentration to such a degree. He was ready.

With no warning he flicked the staff out at his opponent's head. The figure did not flinch. The quarterstaff met the fire with a loud report, then turned to ashes in his hand.

Oh, 1 forgot, Farr said mockingly. You don't fight fair. Given the way you run things, I shouldn't have expected anything different.

Weaponless, he sprang at the figure. Again the fiery shape did not flinch. Farr expected to be consumed like his staff as he grasped the white-hot arms; instead, he found them substantial, and he was able to hold them without pain.

So you're real after all, and not just a convenient fantasy of my imagination. Not that I could have imagined anything so evil, Farr taunted as he wrestled with the flame.

Crack! A hand seemingly came from nowhere and rattled against his head, leaving his ear stinging.

Not much of a reply, Farr crowed. Now, give ear to my complaint. He aimed a fist at the flickering yellow head, and the blow just missed its target. You're supposed to be good; that's laughable. But I'll give you the benefit of the doubt for a moment. Wholly good, they say. He ducked under a swinging arm. Not only that, you are all'powerful. Then how do you explain the presence of evil in the world - other than my assertion that you cause it? He threw out a left which caught the figure in the midriff. If you're good, why don't you stop it? Unless, of course, you can't. Farr laughed as he landed another blow, sending the figure reeling.

A well-aimed blow,' the fiery figure replied, breathing heavily, 'but not a fatal one.' Farr followed up his strike, only to be met with a stiff forearm. 'Let's assume that I am wholly good; let's also assume that such a concept might just be beyond your understanding, and that such goodness might appear cruel to one who is merely sentimental.' Farr dived at the figure's legs, trying to catch it off guard; he came up with nothing but air. Good is good, he growled. I know good when I see it.

'Maybe so, maybe so. If I am good, evil must be something other than myself. Things other than myself exist: therefore it is at least possible that they are the source of the evil'

Farr glanced at the face of his adversary in surprise, a serious mistake. He never saw the blow that caught him under the chin, sending him spinning.

'I am the author of all life: but in order to have life, these things I have authored must have certain freedom in their choices, constrained only by circumstance. Evil is spawned in the matrix of choices made that I would not make.'

What's this about freedom of choice? Did my mother have freedom to be well and healthy as she lay dying through the spring and summer? Why did creation not weep? Why did the clouds not fall down dead to the ground? He scrambled to his feet and grabbed the figure around the neck.

'The difference between you and a cloud is that you can choose not to be blown by my breeze.

But your power is not infinite; you cannot create your own breeze.' The flaming figure wriggled out of Farr's grip.

My mother did not choose death, ;yet it happened. If we are all destined to die, we have no real choices. Strike and counter-strike. Both men rested for a moment, blowing hard.

'Listen. By creating things other than myself, I have limited my power to that which will allow them freedom to choose. It's either that or become the thing you fear - a thing helpless before the wind. But what would you? I have chosen to give you the gift of death, and you have chosen not to understand it. Your mother understood it and welcomed it, even in the most desperate hours.'

Welcomed it? Liar! She cried out for mercy and you did nothing! He caught his opponent a glancing blow on the shoulder.

'I did nothing but sit with her the whole time, sharing her pain. Do you think I abandoned you all, just because you chose to keep out of my breeze?' The figure drew its arm back, as though preparing to throw all its weight behind a punch. 'Choose now to be honest with yourself. The reason the deaths of your parents and your brother have made you angry is because they have left you behind. You are angry at being abandoned. Well, I have not abandoned you. I will never leave your side, even if you ask me to. Does that make you angry?'

Farr saw the blow coming, but could do nothing to avoid it. At the very last moment he twisted his body enough that the force of it connected with his right elbow, and the joint dislocated with a sickening crunch. He fell to the floor, writhing with the pain.

'You are a mighty warrior,' the voice said. 'You have served me well, but as a leaf before the wind. Would you not rather be my servant by choice?'

What have you got in mind?

'Wait and see. But it is not all over yet, not by a long way.'

Farr nodded, the nearest he could come to surrender.

'Good enough. Now, take your anger and place it in the fire.'

Won't I be less of a warrior without it?

'Not at all. Anger will rob you of your greatest victories,' the voice advised. 'Into the fire with it.' The flames drew close around the warrior.

Very well. He took his anger and threw it into the fire; then laughed great gouts of flame as he realised that he had thrown himself in bodily.

Leith's dream changed: for a few moments it was as though he hung suspended above the room, seeing somehow through the stone walls. The conflagration reached a tumultuous climax, interconnected columns of flame burning with a brightness beyond belief. Then, as abruptly as it had begun, the fire diminished, leaving for a moment one central column burning with an unmatched clarity, before winking out with a final pulsing crackle. He awoke with a shudder. There, on the stone floor some distance from the hearth, lay the charred remains of a log that had fallen from the fire, a lone flame lingering upon it. As he watched, the little tongue of fire shrank; then, like the last breath of a dying man, it grew for a moment before disappearing, accompanied by a curling wisp of smoke.

A SOLITARY TEAR OF REGRET slid from Foilzie's eye as she slipped the big, heavy key her husband had given her into the lock and turned it. I never thought it would come to this, she mused, running her hand across the splintered, heavy wooden door of the tenement. Well, this house was a gift. It is time to let it go.

She slipped the key into her pocket, then crossed the narrow street and joined the northerners waiting for her in the morning gloom. This might be the most dangerous part of this dangerous day: as the sun rose and people emerged from their houses, anyone seeking a desperate gang of murderers would find many willing helpers. A 'desperate gang of murderers'! So had said the informant, an acquaintance of one of the Instruian Guard, that that was how the northerners were being described by the guards sent to apprehend them.

Well, they know where to find us, thanks to the fishmonger - or, leastwise, they did. Let's see them find us now.

She had prepared a bolthole for the northerners yesterday, but had been unsure whether they might use it. The talk in the basement had been all discouragement and defeat, and Foilzie had been unable to make them appreciate the danger they were in. No, that was not right, they did appreciate it; they just didn't seem to care. The decision of the Council and the scene of death at The Pinion appeared to have emptied them of the strength to continue. They have been at this for months, she reminded herself. There's only so much a body can take without refreshment.

And then last night. Something had happened after she'd left them in the basement, she was sure, having shared breakfast with them this morning and listened to their talk. The results were clear to see: listless and apathetic yesterday, uncaring about their fate; energetic and full of plans today, receptive to her offer of help. Some decision, perhaps, or maybe one of them had offered some thought or speech of hope. They'll need it where I'm taking them, she reflected. Still, they - and 1 — have no choice.

Lennan shifted his weight carefully, perched uncomfortably on a pile of bricks. From his vantage point on a tenement roof he could see both sides of the street. He watched Foilzie lock the door of her tenement, then scurry across the morning-lit cobbles to the Company.

She's not like Ma Clothier, he thought bitterly. Not gentle like Ma. And this woman is still alive. 1 saw Ma fall. 1 saw them hack at her while she begged them for mercy. Those two didn't see it. They were too busy saving themselves. His thin lips set in a white line.

• The news had flashed around Instruere the previous day. Prisoners had risen up and taken The Pinion, slaying many of the hated guards, initial rumours said, and many citizens rejoiced to hear it. Later, more authoritative word spread, saying The Pinion had been stormed by enemies of the city, who killed both guard and prisoner mercilessly and without discrimination. Some said that this latter rumour had been spread by the city officials, but their voices were smothered by the insistence of others who claimed to have been there.

Such a rumour, calculated to stir the patriotic passion of the city-dweller, took hold quickly among the dawn traders in the crowded tenements. Escaigne, they said. The rebels were making their final move.

Lennan heard both rumours. He knew the truth.

He eased himself forward a few more inches, as far as he dared. The bricks shifted underneath him. Away to his right, at the edge of sight, the northerners flitted down the narrowest of alleyways. A delicious thrill ran through his body as another, larger group came into view from the left, the direction of the Inna Gate, at least twenty of the Instruian Guard, fully armoured, led by a vast figure in a flame-red robe. Then, marching along a shadowed street, came another division. To the right, a third. There, a fourth. At least eighty armed warriors arrayed to vanquish the Company, arriving a few minutes too late. Lennan eased himself away from the edge, went to the other side of the roof, and tracked the group's progress across the western quarter of the city. Whatever bolthole they found, Lennan would see it, and ensure it became their grave.

Hands signalling frantically in all directions, the long-suffering chief servant of the Arkhos of Nemohaim walked worriedly behind his master. He had never seen the man in so foul a temper. Nothing he said could ease his mood. He'd heard rumours, whispered silently among the Arkhos's household, that the Arkhos had returned robeless, his gross body shamefully exposed, humiliated beyond his ability to bear it. His precious personal guard, gifted to him by his Bhrudwan allies, were gone; the servant confirmed that report in the most unpleasant of ways, having been part of the detail that had disposed of the dog-harried corpses. He knew his master. The Arkhos would not rest until he exacted extravagant revenge, abandoning all other responsibilities in the process. Should anyone thwart him, they would die. If any unfortunate got in his way, they would not have the time to wish they had not. Any mistake, by friend or foe, would be punished. His own life was in danger, dependent entirely on his performance, owing nothing to sentiment.