Path of Revenge (41 page)

As he drew closer to the expedition he became aware of commotion in the camp. At two or three places along the strung-out line he could see movement, surprising in the debilitating early
afternoon heat. A blurred shape detached from the caravan and came rapidly towards him, moving with unnatural speed.

If he had been unnerved before, he was terrified now. A lifetime of serving the Emperor had taught him much about the power and cruelty of men but nothing about the supernatural. He peered at the shape, trying to penetrate the desert haze. An animal, a large animal, no, an
enormous
animal, broke to the left of him, bounding on powerful legs, a spear hanging from its flank, something in its mouth.

Torve made no effort to conceal himself, but the creature didn’t see him, passing some distance to his left, slowing as it went.
What is it?
The animal disappeared into a shallow basin. Cautiously, Torve followed, flattening himself to the ground at the edge of the slight depression.

The monstrous shape, some sort of demonic cat—
a lion?
—pawed at a ragged shape on the ground.
Oh no.
The shape scrabbled weakly with one arm, dragging itself a few feet away from the cat’s claws. It made a thin wailing sound as it struggled. The golden eyes watched with interest, playing with its prey, letting it believe it could escape; then a heavy paw came down on the blood-smeared body. The breath huffed out of it.

The animal padded forward until it stood directly over the body, its face a golden mask. Emperor of the desert. The cat lowered its face and, with a jerk, snapped its victim’s neck. Then it settled down to feed.

THE EXPEDITION ARRIVED at the centre of the stone plain three frantic days later. Captain Duon had ordered extreme haste, careless of the welfare of the animals, bearers and soldiers, forcing the caravan to travel even in the heat of the day. No more lions had been seen, but few disagreed with the order. A rumour suggesting people had gone missing spread throughout the camp, increasing the general level of anxiety. No one was spared the extra work their haste entailed. Torve was allowed no more than four hours’ sleep a night, though scarcely more put upon than the minor members of various Alliances, who were pressed into bearing palanquins, drawing water from the wells, serving meals and even latrine duty.

The caravan suffered dreadfully from this forced march. The fatherwards trail was not used regularly—no desert trail saw regular traffic—and broke up under the wheels, hoofs and feet of the expedition. Stone chips bruised feet and ankles, crippled horses and camels and shook wagons until there wasn’t one in the caravan that did not require repair. Dust found its way into every crack and crevice, affecting everything mechanical and causing discomfort to anything organic.
The camp followers, poorly equipped and plodding along at the rear of the caravan, suffered most.

A broad watercourse marked the centre of the stone plain. Incised from sonback to sonwards deep into the regolith, the valley was perhaps a mile wide, and Torve could see abundant evidence that during the rare floods water filled the valley from side to side, many feet deep. The caravan made its sinuous way down into the valley, which at least offered shelter from the hot fatherwards desert wind. There Captain Duon’s glorious expedition shuddered to a halt, allowed the dust to settle and drew a collective breath.

Along with a few of the more articulate Omerans, Torve was employed by Captain Duon to notify Alliance leaders of a conference to be held in the late morning. No invitation had been issued to the cosmographers, but one of the Elboran soldiers suggested Torve advise them of Duon’s intent. So it was that the Omeran encountered Lenares for the first time since the expedition had left Talamaq.

‘Hello,’ she said, her wan face peeking shyly out from her repaired palanquin. ‘I heard you were part of this expedition. It is good to see you.’

‘And you, ma dama cosmographer,’ he replied, suddenly finding it difficult to breathe. ‘I was sorry to hear about what happened to your…to Mahudia. I’m sure the Emperor, were he here, would add his condolences to mine.’

Her face fell. ‘I am sorry too,’ she said in a small voice. ‘The soldiers said you found her body.’ A single tear leaked from her right eye.

Torve nodded. He had avoided a potentially dangerous moment by telling the soldiers he had pursued the lion from the camp. Eyebrows were raised but, as he had hoped, they were not interested in the doings of an Omeran—unless those doings cast him in a bad light.

Lenares leaned forward. Torve held his breath, hoping she wouldn’t ask her next question.

She asked it. ‘Was she…did she suffer, my Mahudia?’

This was a woman to whom it was useless to offer lies, no matter how well intentioned. ‘She suffered, ma dama Lenares. But she was brave. Even at the end she had not given up hope of escape.’

The girl smiled tightly, her hollow eyes glittering. ‘Did they catch the lion? The soldiers didn’t say.’

‘Oh yes, they caught it. Surrounded it with spear-wielding soldiers and filled it with holes. I mean no insult when I say it was a shame, ma dama Mahudia’s death notwithstanding.’ Torve had learned a great deal about lions from camp gossip in the last three days, though he had no way of knowing what was true. Lions were predators, though, everyone agreed on that. One might just as well kill a cat for catching a mouse. ‘It was only doing what lions do.’

‘No, it wasn’t,’ Lenares said in her characteristically abrupt manner. ‘It was sent, along with two others.’

This woman raised so many questions. ‘Sent? How can a lion be sent? And what do you mean by saying there were two others?’

‘Nehane said I was not to talk about it. He says that if I contradict Captain Duon for no good cause I will bring shame and hardship upon the cosmographers. But I don’t see how the truth can bring shame.’

‘The truth can bring shame if people don’t want to believe it,’ Torve said carefully. Talking with Lenares was like negotiating one’s way through quicksand.

‘No!’ she countered angrily. ‘Shame is something you feel. I refuse to feel shame for telling the truth.’

He nodded, acknowledging the point. ‘And what truth do the cosmographers want you to withhold?’

‘The hole in the world struck at us three days ago. Whoever is making the hole sent three things to
target three people. I think the other two things were also lions, because so many people claim to have seen one.’

‘Everyone claims to have seen the lion because they all want to be part of the excitement,’ Torve said.

‘The people I spoke to told the truth,’ said Lenares with her disarming intensity. Her words made people not only acknowledge her, Torve reflected, but also forced them to choose whether to believe her. Almost like the few remaining priests of the three gods. As though she herself were a god.
Was a god just someone who made outrageous, unprovable claims?
The Emperor would enjoy debating that thought—but, of course, he was not here.

‘Then I believe you.’ He was rewarded with a smile.

‘I warned Captain Duon that the hole was approaching,’ she said, the smile changing to a grimace. ‘But it does no good to warn people unless I can predict what form the attack will take and who it is directed at.’

‘Who was this attack aimed at?’ Torve asked.

‘Me,’ she answered, without any modesty. The word sounded outrageous. ‘And two others. I don’t know who, and I can’t even guess until the numbers become clearer.’

‘So the lion—I’m sorry, lions—were sent. By whom?’

Lenares looked at him. Such a direct stare. She licked her lips and answered, ‘I don’t know. But I know
what
the hole is. I need to speak to Captain Duon; we are all in danger.’

‘Then I will take you to him,’ Torve responded. ‘He has called a meeting.’

‘To talk about the hole?’ she asked eagerly.

‘Well, I don’t know. But you should be there, I think. We will have to hurry; he may have already started by now.’

‘Are any of the other cosmographers coming? Does Nehane know?’

‘I do not think so. Should he?’

A long pause. ‘No.’

He offered her his hand, but she ignored it and clambered out of the palanquin unaided. Someone still looked after her, Torve noted with relief, as she wore a clean, serviceable dress and was as tidy as anyone could be after three hard days’ travel. Her beautiful hair had been tied back with ribbons, creating an unfortunate child-like effect. He wished he could untie the ribbons and let her hair loose.

He cleared his throat. ‘We need to go quickly,’ he said, and took her elbow.

‘Don’t touch—’ she began, then smiled hesitantly at him. ‘You can touch me. But only my hand.’

He took her hand and tried to will his soul into his newly roughened palm and fingers. Could she sense his…his regard for her?

‘Your skin is prickly,’ she said, but did not let go, allowing him to guide her through the camp.

Confusion overwhelmed Torve. Lenares was a girl child, a woman, a mystic, a half-wit, a genius, a goddess. Simple, complex, naïve, vulnerable, all-knowing. He had no right to touch her; the Emperor would send him to the surgeon should he find out.
A half-wit and an animal,
he would say. What could come of this but condemnation? In fact, any Alliance member who saw them together would likely take offence. He dropped her hand, and she made a small noise he thought sounded like disappointment, but could equally have been relief.

From elation to despair in a moment. Torve could not remember feeling so bewildered.

The meeting had indeed begun by the time Lenares and her guide neared Captain Duon’s tent. A large
awning sheltered the thirty or so invitees, all Alliance members, who sat or squatted on cushions according to preference. There was no place for her.

She directed an angry glare at the Emperor’s Omeran. ‘You lied to me,’ she said under her breath.

‘No, I did not,’ he replied. ‘You would have detected a lie. I merely said you should be at the meeting. Not a lie; of course you should be.’

Her eyes widened. ‘That is so,’ she admitted. ‘You are clever.’

He gave her a little shrug that could have meant anything, but she had the measure of his numbers now. Her comment had pleased him. Silly, when the Omeran was really only an animal, but she felt warmed inside by his pleasure.

She stood at the corner of the tent, behind and to the left of the captain, in the shadows. Torve prudently hid himself around the corner, where he could hear but not be seen. If they saw him, he had told her, they would give him work to do.

Captain Duon was speaking. She dismissed Torve from her mind.

‘I wonder how long these lions have been trailing the expedition,’ he said in a precise voice, every consonant clearly enunciated. ‘We have found bodies near the camp on two of the last three mornings.’

‘Bodies? Whose? How were they killed?’ By his head covering, Lenares could tell the speaker belonged to the Pasmaran Alliance, possibly a senior member.

‘Who they were is not presently known. No one has been reported missing. It has been suggested they came from the camp followers, which seems more likely if the one I saw is anything to go by. As for how they died, each body was covered in cuts and puncture wounds. Very messy.’ He shuddered.

‘Lions, then.’

Captain Duon wiped his hand across his long fringe of hair, a characteristic gesture. ‘No sign of feeding, though, not like the unfortunate cosmographer woman. Why would—’

A blue-robed Elboran lord interjected. ‘We won’t outrun them. We would be better, my lord, to make camp and hunt them down. Then we can move on at a proper pace.’

‘It is another week to Marasmos,’ Captain Duon snapped at him, perhaps angry at having been interrupted. ‘If we stop to hunt lions we may provide some entertainment for your young men, but their—most likely futile—efforts will be watched by increasingly hungry soldiers. We have a bare week’s supplies remaining in the wagons.’

‘Are you sure the supply ship will arrive in time?’ asked an older man wearing the green sleeve-stripe of the Grandaran Alliance. ‘I always thought that was the weak point of this venture. Never had much faith in ships.’

‘I’m sure it will,’ Duon said, clearly searching for patience.

‘The animals are on short rations already,’ one of the minor lords grumbled.

‘Not the horses, I hope,’ said another, obviously alarmed. ‘We won’t win any battles without the chariots.’

‘If we do not make Marasmos in a timely manner, the horses may
be
our rations,’ Duon replied flatly.

‘What does lion meat taste like?’ a minor Syrenian lord asked the fellow next to him, in a voice louder than he’d doubtless intended.

‘Not as appetising as human meat, so have a care,’ Duon said, but spoiled the effect by sniffing delicately as though the thought of eating any kind of meat disturbed him. ‘We are here to select a route to Marasmos, not to argue about lions. If I am to be forced
to hold a meeting when the choice of route is obvious, I do not want it complicated by irrelevancies.’

‘Three dead bodies—five, if you count the cosmographer woman and her lover—can hardly be considered an irrelevancy.’ The Elboran lord leaned back, satisfied his words had scored a hit.

‘That “cosmographer woman” was the daughter of your stay-at-home leader,’ said the senior Pasmaran. ‘Show some respect.’

‘Why? She was just a woman. Hudan’s a cold-hearted prick, he won’t care. Probably busy making more as we speak.’

‘How many people are on this expedition?’ Captain Duon’s face had darkened; he seemed about to lose his temper. ‘Officially?’

‘You would know better than I,’ the Elboran replied warily. ‘Ma sor Captain.’

‘You must have some idea. A large number of them are yours, after all.’

‘Four thousand or so. There must be twenty thousand soldiers here. What of it?’ The Elboran dropped any pretence of civility.

‘And another ten thousand camp followers,’ Duon said. ‘Cooks, strappers, armourers, blacksmiths, musicians, whores, moneylenders—and a lion or two, perhaps.’ His witticism raised a polite laugh. ‘Thirty thousand in total. Of those, we lose at least twenty people every day. Fifty people yesterday. Fights, fevers, fluxes, the three banes of every expedition. Accidents too. Did Aromant here tell you,’ he pointed at one of the Pasmarans, ‘that his second cook tipped yesterday’s stew over himself and scalded himself to death?’