Terminal World (21 page)

‘Or we can walk on, because this isn’t our problem.’

‘I think it’s just become our problem.’

‘Like that Skullboy, the one who nearly bit your hand off back there?’

‘This is different. I was wrong then, but I’m right now.’

The woman kept staring. She had said nothing yet. Perhaps she was incapable of speech, but Quillon had the feeling she was observing them, witnessing their exchange without a shred of doubt in her mind as to how events were going to run. She would speak only when it suited her, and perhaps not at all.

‘Cutter, listen to me. There’s a lot of superstitious horseshit surrounding tectomancers. Like how they can part waves, walk on water and heal the sick. But if only one-tenth of it’s true, this is not something to be messed with lightly.’

‘So it’s superstitious horseshit, apart from the bit that happens to be true?’

‘Don’t mock me, Cutter. I’ve seen enough weird shit out here to know that you don’t get to pick and choose what you believe in.’ Meroka paused and looked to her right. A figure came stumbling out of the screen of smoke between two burning wagons, his arms reaching before him, moaning softly. It was a Skullboy, his helmet gone and his eyes gouged out, leaving only blood-clotted sockets. Snot and drool spilled from his nose and mouth. Meroka aimed the volley-gun and fired a single shot, blowing the Skullboy’s right leg away below the knee. ‘Maybe they can alter zones,’ she went on as the figure crashed to the ground, ‘maybe they can’t. Way I figure it is, it don’t really matter what they can and can’t do. It’s what people believe, what they project onto them. Just because of what people think they are, tectomancers are a magnet for all kinds of trouble we’d be better off avoiding. And that’s before we deal with the powers they do have.’

She jerked the gun at something else in the smoke, squinted at whatever figment she had seen, then eased the barrel back towards the cage.

‘From what little I know of the matter,’ Quillon said, over the whimpering and groaning of the fallen Skullboy, ‘it’s not going to make much difference to the power of a tectomancer whether they’re in a cage or not.’

‘Meaning what?’

‘Meaning that woman is no more dangerous to us freed than she is caged. Meaning we should have the courage of our convictions. We’re not going to walk away from here and leave a woman and child to burn to death.’

‘There are at least two other options.’ Meroka hefted the volley-gun. ‘This is one of them. I’m sure you can find another in that box of yours, you look hard enough.’

‘Kill them?’

‘Way I see it, we’d be doing them a favour.’

Quillon thrust the medical bag in Meroka’s direction, not bothering to wait until she had her hand on it, the bag dropping to the ground as soon as he let go. ‘I’m going to release them. If you have a problem with that, shoot me now and be done with it.’

‘Can’t say it isn’t tempting.’ Meroka watched him with slitted, venomous eyes, as if she really was only a twitch away from killing him. ‘What you planning on using to bust that cage open, anyway? Sarcasm and fingernails?’

Quillon picked his spot and climbed into the wagon as far from the burning end as possible, avoiding the worst of the flames, but still singeing the palms of his hands against the fabric. He coughed and righted himself, placing a steadying hand against the side of the cage. The metal was itself beginning to warm.

‘I am what she says,’ the woman said, her voice commanding and calm, as if it would have been remiss of her not to confirm Meroka’s fears. ‘I am a witch. I have the gift of tectomancy.’

There was a hinged latch securing the door of the cage, which would have presented no difficulties were the latch not also padlocked. Meroka, Quillon realised, must already have seen the lock.

‘Can you pick a lock?’ he called down. ‘Honest answer, Meroka.’ She grimaced, as if the answer itself caused her anguish. ‘Not in the time you’ve got.’

‘You should heed her warnings,’ the woman said. ‘There is a power in me beyond your understanding. Let me out, and everything changes.’

‘You may believe that,’ Quillon said.

‘And you don’t?’ the woman asked, her voice almost masculine in its deepness, her searing calm beginning to unsettle him.

‘If you are a tectomancer, your being caged shouldn’t make any difference to your abilities.’

‘Then you know something of our ways.’

‘Enough to know that if I
was
a tectomancer, I’m not sure I’d be in such a hurry to convince people of that fact.’ He took Meroka’s pistol from his pocket, forcing his bandaged fingers around the grip and into the trigger guard, not trusting his left to aim accurately enough. ‘Stand back, please - I’m going to try to shoot away this lock.’

The woman stood her ground for a moment, and then she stepped a couple of paces back - but it was more as if the child had made the decision for her, tugging on her mother’s dress. In the strong outline of the girl’s face he thought he could see something of the mother, the same prominent chin and broad cheekbones, although the girl did not look anywhere near as starved. He nodded and aimed the barrel at the lock, holding it only a few fingers’ widths away. Was that too close, or not close enough? He had no idea. Nor had he any idea whether shooting away the padlock was even remotely feasible. He raised his free hand to shield his eyes and squeezed the trigger. When nothing happened he realised that the safety catch must still be set. He released it and aimed the pistol again.

The gun discharged and in the same instant - as near as he could judge - there was the ricocheting sound of bullet on metal. He stared down, hoping to see a shattered padlock, but instead he’d done little more than gouge the casing. He squeezed the trigger again but the gun didn’t fire.

‘Stand aside,’ Meroka said.

He hadn’t been aware of her climbing onto the wagon, but there she was, the volley-gun at the ready.

‘For what it’s worth,’ she said, directing the barrel cluster at the padlock, ‘I still think it’s a bad idea.’

‘She’s no witch,’ Quillon said. ‘Delusional, maybe. But not a witch.’ The volley-gun went off. The padlock did not so much break as cease to exist, along with a good portion of the latch. Meroka flung the rusty, blackened remains aside. The cage door creaked open.

She aimed the volley-gun at the woman and child. ‘That’s our good deed for the day. Now get out of here.’

The woman advanced, drawing the child with her. ‘You fear me,’ she said, directing the statement at Meroka.

‘Yeah. Kind of. But seeing as I’m the one with the big bastard gun with lots of barrels, I wouldn’t push the point.’

Meroka hopped back onto the ground, still aiming the weapon at the cage and its former prisoners. The woman had reached the door now. She was standing on the threshold, almost as if she was uncertain whether she really wanted to leave. Her feet were bare and dirty, as were the girl’s.

The girl looked up with apprehensive eyes. ‘They’re here,’ she said.

‘What’s that sound?’ Quillon asked.

It was a droning noise he had not been aware of until that moment. It was coming from above, or within, the bellying canopy of fire-lit clouds.

‘Skullboys,’ Meroka said.

‘They’re in the air now?’

‘They have some blimps. Don’t usually operate this close to Spearpoint, but I guess everything’s changed now. We really don’t want to be hanging around here much longer.’

‘The storm came,’ the mother said, looking into Quillon’s eyes now.

‘Yes.’ His mouth was suddenly quite dry, more than could be explained by the heat of the fires. ‘It was a bad one. A major tectomorphic shift. The people who took you prisoner fell ill because of it. Do you feel unwell yourself?’

‘Do I seem ill to you?’

‘I’m a doctor. I have drugs - medicines - that can help you and your ... I presume she’s your daughter?’

‘We have no need of your medicine.’ She spoke clearly enough, but Spearpointish was evidently not her native language.

‘Your zone tolerance must be unusually strong,’ Quillon said.

‘Your city wisdom means nothing to me. I am strong because of what I am.’

‘Yes. A witch. Well, we’ll let that pass for now. All I’m saying is, if there’s anything you need ...’ He paused awkwardly, conscious of Meroka chewing on something impatiently, waiting for the least excuse to fire the remaining barrels of the volley-gun.

‘Need to be on our way, Cutter.’

‘You have done what had to be done,’ the woman said. She stepped down from the wagon, then lifted her daughter down after her, the muscles in her arms turning firm as steel cables as she took the girl’s weight. ‘You showed courage. You have our gratitude. Now put us from your thoughts.’

‘We can’t just leave you, not with everything that’s been happening.’

‘We can give it a shot,’ Meroka said.

‘Your friend spoke the truth,’ the woman said, eyeing Meroka with haughty derision. ‘I bring ill-fortune. That is why we travel alone. That is why you will never see us again.’

‘Ignore Meroka. You say you feel no ill-effects of the storm, but there could still be hidden dangers working their way to the surface. No one alive has lived through a storm like this, and please don’t tell me you’re any different. At the very least let me examine your daughter.’

‘We haven’t got time for this,’ Meroka said.

‘Then we’ll move. The four of us can travel together.’

‘No,’ the woman said. ‘We travel alone. But your friend is right. You must leave now.’

She had turned her head away from him, allowing him a better look at the pattern on the back of her skull. The skin was reddened where it formed the bauble-tipped star.

‘Let me see that,’ Quillon said. Something in his tone of voice must have worked, because the woman did not pull away as he reached up and touched the back of her head, gently tracing the border of the pattern.

‘You know the sign of a tectomancer,’ the woman said.

‘Yes,’ he said, for the sake of argument. ‘But this isn’t it. It’s ... I don’t know. Some kind of badly done tattoo, or a superficial burn or chemical injury. Probably a tattoo. I can see puncture scars where she’s been pricked with a needle, to get the ink into her skin. It’s not due to pigmentation.’

‘What are you saying?’ Meroka asked.

‘I’m saying this is faked,’ he said. ‘Someone’s made this woman look like a witch. Someone shaved her hair and made this mark on her skin, so she looks like a tectomancer.’

‘You know nothing,’ the woman said. ‘The mark of a tectomancer waxes and wanes with the seasons.’

Quillon took hold of the woman’s wrist. It was like holding a hawser, something taut and dangerous when under tension. ‘Someone did this to you,’ he said urgently. ‘Maybe it was the Skullboys, trying to make you into something you weren’t, so they could sell you on to the next bunch of superstitious fools they chanced upon. But it isn’t real. No matter what you’ve been told, no matter what you’ve been made to believe, you
aren’t
a witch. You’re a woman, a mother. A woman with unusual zone tolerance, yes. But no witch. And we don’t fear you, do we, Meroka? We only want to help.’

‘If she isn’t one, why is she working so damned hard to make us think she is?’ Meroka said.

‘I don’t know,’ Quillon said, letting go of the woman’s wrist.

‘Maybe she’s just bugfuck.’

‘How sane do you think you’d be if you’d been captured by Skullboys, branded to look like a witch, locked in a cage, all the while knowing that you were probably going to be burned alive? Throw in a few psychoactive drugs, some suggestion, and I think that could easily push someone over the edge.’

‘You say so, Cutter. Me, I think we’d be doing well if we all said goodbye now and went our separate ways.’

‘Your friend is wise,’ the woman said, nodding gravely. ‘You should do as she says.’

‘If I did as she said, you’d still be in that cage.’

‘Can’t argue with that,’ Meroka said darkly, looking around anxiously.

‘At least let me examine the girl,’ Quillon said again. ‘But not here. If we walk a while and find somewhere to stop, I can perform some simple tests.’

‘In the dark?’ Meroka asked.

‘Then we wait until daylight.’ He turned back to the woman. ‘Neither of you have shoes. Can you walk? I’m afraid we lost our horses last night.’

He sensed the woman reviewing the possibilities open to her, her mind swarming with calculations. As deluded as she might be - and he had not quite made up his mind about that - there was an undeniable intelligence about her, an electric emanation that made his skin prickle. Her eyes were shockingly alert and sharp, her focus disarmingly penetrating.

He wondered if she saw him for what he truly was.

‘We will walk with you,’ she said. ‘You may make your examination, if it pleases you. Then we will leave.’

‘My name is Quillon. I’m a doctor from the city. Meroka is ...’ He paused, searching for the words. ‘My guide. She knows her way around the Outzone. We were heading along this road, hoping to meet some friends of hers who might be able to help me reach Fortune’s Landing.’

The woman looked at Quillon with dwindling interest. ‘You have travelled from the Godscraper?’

‘Yes.’

‘I hope you said your farewells. Your city is dead.’ Then she paused and added: ‘I am Kalis. My daughter is Nimcha. That’s all you need to know.’

Then she started walking, the girl at her side, picking a path through the rutted verge, away from the burning procession.

‘Charming conversationalist,’ Meroka said, walking alongside Quillon, far enough behind the woman and girl that it was unlikely they would be overheard. ‘Real easy-going manner.’

‘You can talk.’

‘With me it’s neurological.’

‘For all we know it’s neurological with her. Perhaps she just needs time to decide if she can trust us or not.’