Spira Mirabilis (11 page)

‘Ugh!’

The only thing that broke was the skin on her knuckle. Fulk had sealed the lid too securely. Every moment took them further out as the current’s tendrils caught them and started pulling them already. She heard the gull land on the lid. It paced about this strange floating fish, pecking its wooden belly.

‘Yah!’

The coffin’s lid flew off, sending the gull flapping skywards, squawking its outrage.

She gasped to see how far away Akka already was and reached for the paddle. It was still dark, but the band of watery orange light beyond the city heralded the morning. The dead were discharged frequently enough into the
Lordemare
not to be a novelty, but if anyone happened to be watching from Akka’s battlements, their attention could be drawn to the coffin suddenly bearing north. She prayed that every eye still turned inwards.

By the time she escaped the current, she was shattered. The
first spark of dawn gave her the spirit to finish the job – that, and the knowledge that she’d just become very visible.

When she felt the coffin bottom catching, she climbed out awkwardly, carrying Iscanno. She fell, but managed to hold him clear of the shallow water as she picked herself up and waded to dry sand. She threw herself down, breathing hard, looking around: the last time she been in this situation, scavengers had attacked. Even so, she couldn’t move. She watched the empty coffin being carried out to sea again and wondered where it would wash up. Etruria? She might have done better to have gone to sleep, allow herself to perish quietly and be buried in the soil of her motherland, instead of prolonging the inevitable in this hellhole – but no. She wrenched herself out of her mawkish fantasy. Iscanno depended on her to be strong.
Up, you spoiled brat
. She could hear the Reverend Mother’s croak and pulled herself to her feet.
As long as you can breathe, you can fight
.

The forsaken shore on which she had washed up was north of Akka’s Harbour; any traders who failed to make it to the city’s gates before curfew camped here. There were a few isolated dying campfires and as she came closer she could hear the sighs and moans of waking camels. She doubted she’d be able to steal one without being discovered – the Sown lived in fear of tribal banditry – but even so, she was looking about for a likely target when she saw the silhouette of a man riding towards her.

‘Ho there!’

There was nowhere to flee, so Sofia prepared to fight, all the while praying she would not need to. She was still dressed as a Lazar and this close to Akka the queen’s men were not molested without consequence.

The stranger pulled his white horse short. ‘Why is your hand on your weapon, Mistress? Do you not recognise me?’

It took her a moment, then, ‘… Abdel? What are you doing here?’

‘The Grand Master entrusted me to wait for you here and’ – the Moorish slave hopped down – ‘to present you with this clumsy creature. Dressed as you are, a horse will be less conspicuous than a camel.’ He patted a bundle tied to the saddle. ‘There is a change of clothing here – a simple shift and veil – and bread and water. I would have taken more, but it would have been conspicuous. All the Sown are suspects until you are found.’

Sofia nearly cried with gratitude, but instead she hugged him hard and kissed him. ‘Tell Fulk I can never repay his kindness.’

‘Repay him by taking yourself far away,’ Abdel said sadly. ‘An evil time is come to Akka.’

The sky of bleached cobalt was tyrannised by the patient white sun that reflected, dazzling, off the sand crystals. She rode with Iscanno tied to her chest, as she’d seen the Ebionite women in Akka do, and covered by the white cloak, until she stopped to rest by a cluster of tall speckled rocks. Iscanno was happy to be unbound while she changed into the Ebionite clothes and buried the uniform. She covered the disturbed sand with stones, though she knew it wouldn’t fool any decent tracker. She kept the axe. She watered the mare first, then herself, taking care to ration her own sips from the waterskin.

As she fed Iscanno, Sofia looked about to see what effect the monsoon had had – but she could see nothing.

The Sands had swallowed every drop of the torrential downpour. Disappointed, she lay down in the shade – and was thrilled to discover a small lizard hiding under the rocks. Down its back were stripes of vivid yellow, the colour of the crocuses of the Rasenneisi contato. So life was possible here.

She feared to sleep too long, and after a few hours of uneasy dozing she set off again. She rode until dark, when a lonely tamarisk bush served as kindling for a fire too small to warm her but large enough to scare away potential scavengers. The night was bitterly cold, and she hugged Iscanno close as she prayed for the sun to hurry back and thaw out her bones.

A few hours later, she was cursing its heat.

The Kerak Malregard sat on the summit of a hill whose hard-edged lines proclaimed it obviously manmade. The kerak
dominated the eastern border of Esdraelon Plain, overseeing the Akkan border. Though the Guiscards made bold claim to rule beyond the dry bowl of Galilee, this was the true limit of Akkan power. Further east were the badlands, where no merchant caravan willingly ventured.

Kerak Malregard was the keystone of a ring of garrisons surrounding the city. The keraks might be architecturally unimaginative, but they served their purpose. If the Lazars were to patrol Akka’s hinterland effectively, they needed well-provisioned redoubts at the end of each day’s march where they could rest and regroup, or to retreat to if met by a superior force. The outermost garrison ring had been abandoned for years: some of the keraks had been buried by the Sands and others had been claimed by whichever tribe was locally dominant. But the inner rings remained in active use; they were sufficiently well maintained and equipped to cool the ardour of any ambitious nasi. The tribes were more likely to try to sneak around the forts than attack them, but then they had to contend with the increasing probability of being outflanked, and the closer to Akka they got, the greater the danger.

Besides a garrison of queen’s men, Sofia knew the Malregard had deep, full cisterns. She might go there now, beg sanctuary, and drink her fill of cool water – and that too was death, and so she rode on and prayed that no one was looking her way.

In another hour the valley was flooded with a windless heat that shimmered like oil on water. She’d been moving gradually downhill, and now there were small signs of the downpour – the song of invisible birds and the constant merry chirp of crickets. Her mare grew stupid, often stumbling, and Iscanno was uncomfortable under the scarf, but she dared not expose him to the sun. The suspicion that a more experienced traveller would have found water by now was galling, but she sucked on a pebble and ignored it.

The further east she travelled, the less certain she was of the wisdom of her course. She was reconsidering her limited options when they came to a patch of black stumps that once must have been a copse of trees. Ahead lay a patch of grass, lush, green and perfectly round, and her horse broke into a trot. With difficulty, she held the panting animal back.

The grass was no apparition, but she peered closely and soon discerned a slightly darker tone to the surrounding sand, as though the rains had not fully soaked through. It made a great circle, forty braccia across. None of the tree stumps were within its circumference. She knew a camel would be savvier about the snares of the Sands than her poor mare; absent an animal’s instincts, she must trust her gut. Something was off. She led the protesting horse around, only to be faced with another grass patch, and yet another, up ahead. There were dozens now, and it was increasingly hard leading her dehydrated beast around each of these temptations. She was concentrating so hard on the circles that by the time she noticed a red flower in their path, it was too late: the mare had thrust her head forward and gobbled it.

‘
Avanti
!’ she cried, and dug her heels in, forcing the mare into a gallop. Behind her she heard the explosion and felt the sand scatter as the Jinni burst from its trap. She pulled her veil tighter around her face and leaned forward, urging the mare on, though she had no idea if the Jinni
could
be outrun. The miniature storm swept by and Sofia felt herself lifted from the saddle. Still she kept hold of the reins and then – a miracle! – she felt the storm’s hold weaken and she sank back onto the mare’s back. Perhaps this type of Jinn was restricted to a certain radius?

But she had no time to rejoice before the panicked horse tripped over one of the tree stumps and tumbled to the ground. Sofia landed on her back, protecting Iscanno, and she pressed his face to her body, covering him with her arms and keeping her
own eyes shut till the screaming wind had died away and the rain of sand particles subsided.

Warily, she shook off the shallow layer of sand covering her legs. Iscanno emerged smiling from the folds of the scarf and she kissed him with relief. A few braccia ahead, the now thoroughly disorientated horse was back on its legs, shaking her head, flicking the sand from ears and tail. She looked about foolishly, then neighed contentedly at finding herself right beside one of the lush grass patches. Sofia looked down: they too were sitting on discoloured sand. She leaped up and ran for the tree stump the horse had tripped over.

The horse was at last able to satisfy her hunger – but no sooner had she bent her head to nibble the inviting grass than the green centre capsized.

Sofia already had her axe out. She would not look back, though she heard the mare whinny despairingly as dark sand churning like mud dragged her down. Feeling the sands flowing round her feet, Sofia leaped. The axe sank into the dead wood and she kept tight hold of the handle even as the sand sucked at her feet.

A final scream made her turn at last, but the horse was gone. In its place a great pit had opened and from its bowels a dozen pale green tendrils were whirling around wildly like blind maggots. A blast of hot air poured out: the stench of musty vegetation and putrid meat. Sofia pulled herself up until she could grab the stump, balancing on her side so as not to crush Iscanno. She gasped, still trying to catch her breath, when one of the tendrils brushed by her heel. Before she could pull her foot away it had wrapped itself round her ankle and started tugging. She held on tight, but the dead stump was being yanked from the sand. Now only one thick root remained – and other tendrils were writhing up the slope towards her, either to help their brother, or to steal his feast. Either way, she and Iscanno were in touble …

She untied the sling and rolled Iscanno out of the dark circle, then yanked her axe free and struck the tentacle hard. It felt like chopping through an old carrot. Immediately the writhing worm shrivelled away, bleeding colourless sap. Sofia scrambled out of the circle and picked up Iscanno, while the tendrils, moving more slowly now, meticulously searched the slope before sinking back disappointed into the centre.

Then – slowly, as though a great set of lungs were inflating underneath – the sand level rose again.

*

Grand Master Fulk and Seneschal Basilius knelt in front of the empty throne while the queen circled them menacingly, swinging her royal baton.

‘I used to think Lazars’ minds rotted slower than your bodies. Now I’m certain it’s the opposite: there is certainly no other explanation for how you can have let a heavily pregnant girl
escape
!’

‘She and the mercenary must have been planning this for months,’ said Fulk calmly.

‘I only decided to give her to Concord days ago …’

Before Fulk could point out that her attitude to rivals was no secret, Basilius interjected, ‘She’s alone – that’s the key thing. Without a man’s protection she’ll not last long in the Sands.’

The queen gave him a withering look. ‘She is more than a woman: she is a
queen
and therefore not to be underestimated. She couldn’t have done this without the connivance of the Sown. I’ll wager she plans to take sanctuary with the lizard-eaters.’

‘She has nothing. Why would the—?’

‘For bounty, you fool! The nesi’im are credulous, like all great braggarts. Who knows what she’ll promise? Who knows how she could inflame them?’

‘Mother, you’re being paranoid—’

She swung the baton and Fulk only narrowly avoided the blow.
‘And
you
are being over-familiar, Grand Master!’ She threw herself down on the throne and waved dismissal. ‘You’re also wasting time with these feeble excuses. Get a search party together –
now!
’

Fulk’s anger at this public rebuke showed only in the abrupt manner he strode out. The queen rubbed her eyes in frustration. Presently she looked up to find Basilius, kneeling still. ‘Have your ears finally fallen off?’ she shouted. ‘I said “
Dismissed
”!’

‘Be patient with this old soldier.’ Basilius began to rise. ‘I’m not as spry as I was.’

Suddenly curious, the queen climbed down from her throne and tenderly took his gloved hand to assist him. ‘I sometimes forget how long you’ve served me, Basilius, and how loyally.’

‘It is I who must beg pardon.’

The old bastard wants something
. The queen flicked her head to dismiss her attendant slaves. ‘My dear fellow, for what?’

‘You spoke of loyalty – that loyalty has stayed my tongue till now, but I am at last compelled to speak. You see the labour with which I rise from my knees?’

Her maternal smile vanished. ‘Pain is a Lazar’s lot.’

‘That it is,’ he agreed. ‘Did you see the Grand Master struggle?’

‘Fulk’s a young man,’ she said impatiently.

‘That he is. Did you hear his voice?’

‘… I attended to what he said, not how.’

‘His rasp’s gone.’

‘What of it?’ she said, now very aware of the seneschal’s painful croak.

‘Our condition does not ebb and flow, Majesty. It has but one trajectory: downwards.’

‘I see that you are ambitious as well as loyal, Seneschal. Happily for you, I esteem both qualities. Tell me now – with less tiresome circumvention if you please – what exactly you are implying.’