The Dreaming Void (84 page)

“I think I see them,” Boyd said.

Two youngish men were walking up the steps into the shop while a third stood outside. Through Boyd's eyes, Edeard and the rest of the squad watched them swagger into the shop.

Isoix straightened up behind the counter. “I told you before,” he said. “I don't have that kind of money.”

“Yes, you do,” the first man said. His gaze kept darting nervously to Boyd, who was standing at the other end of the counter from Isoix.

Wrong,
Edeard knew. Why would a gang member be worried about a shop assistant?

“Boyd, he knows what you are,” Edeard sent in the most direct longtalk he could manage, praying the gang members would not pick it out of the general background of Makkathran's telepathic babble.

“Huh?” Boyd grunted.

The gang member glanced at him again, then turned back to Isoix. “Give me twenty pounds or we'll torch this place,” he said loudly.

“No,” Edeard said. The hairs on his neck were standing proud.

“No, no, no.”
Wrong!

“You,” Boyd said. He pulled his apron aside to reveal a constable's badge pinned on his waistcoat. The two gang members turned to face him.

“I am a city constable, and I am placing you under arrest for threatening behavior with intent to extort.”

“How do you like that, you bastards?” a gloating Isoix shouted.

“Everyone, close in,” Edeard ordered. He pushed through the narrow door onto the balcony. The gang member left on the street glanced up and smiled.

“Oh, shit,” Edeard growled.

“It's him,” the gang member declared in powerful longtalk. Then he started running.

Inside the bakery, the first gang member pulled out a small knife. He flung it at Boyd, who swayed backward. His third hand just managed to push the blade aside. Isoix snatched a much larger knife and threw it at the gang members as they fled through the doorway. It whirled out into the street, narrowly missing a woman who was walking by. She screamed.

Edeard vaulted over the balcony rail and dropped to the street below. He landed badly, rolling as his ankle gave way. His shoulder smacked into one of the steps leading up to the clothing shop's door. He yelled at the bright pulse of pain, tears squeezing out of his eyes.

His farsight caught Boyd leaping over the bakery counter. Kanseen was sprinting up Macoun Street, her cloak abandoned on the ground by the stalls. Macsen and Dinlay were moving out of their shop, confident and eager. Their shields combined as they stood in the middle of the street, blocking the way. All three gang members were racing toward them.

“Let them go,” Edeard ordered.

Macsen's face registered bewilderment that came close to anger. “What?”

Edeard had regained his feet and started to totter down the street. “Leave them.”

“You can't be serious.” The three gang members were barely twenty yards from Macsen and Dinlay.

“It's a setup. They knew we were here.”

“Crap,” Dinlay sent. “I can scan them completely; they've got a couple of small blades between them. That's all.”

“There'll be more, somewhere, waiting for us. Please, just let them go, I'll track them with the ge-eagle.”

Macsen hesitated. He took a step toward the side of the street.

“No!” Dinlay hissed fiercely. He opened his arms wide as the three gang members charged toward them.

“Dinlay, stop it,” Edeard yelled. He was running now, ignoring the pain in his ankle. Kanseen was not far behind, charging like a warhorse, her teeth gritting in determination. Boyd came skidding down the steps from the bakery and took off after them.

“Stop,” Dinlay proclaimed loudly, holding out a hand as if that alone would bring the whole city to a halt. “You are under arrest.”

“Oh, crap,” Macsen growled under his breath, and instinctively started to move back toward Dinlay.

They came together as the three gang members ran into them. Fists were swung, legs kicked out, third hands scrabbled and pushed. Macsen went down with one of the gang members sprawling on top of him, and his head cracked against the pavement. Dinlay was shoved hard against the wall of a hat shop, flailing wildly to regain his balance. Then the gang member on top of Macsen scrabbled to his feet and fled with his companions. Dinlay started to chase after them.

“Come back!” Edeard howled in frustration. He reached Macsen, who was struggling to get upright, hand clamped on the back of his head. A trickle of blood was running down his fingers.

“What do we do?” Macsen demanded, wincing from the pain.

Edeard's farsight could follow Dinlay easily enough as he ran toward the northern end of Macoun Street. The three gang members were ten yards ahead of him. “Save him,” he growled, furious with Dinlay. He sent a single clear thought to his ge-eagle, who immediately took flight.

Kanseen was slowing as she approached Edeard and Macsen, her face red. Boyd was charging behind her. “Come on,” Edeard said, and took off again. Kanseen flashed a look of exasperation and hurried along.

“You okay?” Boyd shouted as he ran past Macsen.

“Yeah.” Macsen took a breath and started running.

The ge-eagle streaked along Macoun Street, swiftly overtaking Edeard and Kanseen. It shot forward, rising high above the roofs, looking down to see Dinlay racing on, his glasses askew. The three gang members almost had reached the end of the street, which came out just below Birmingham Pool, where a silver-blue bridge connected Jeavons with the lower point of Golden Park. As always, Birmingham Pool was thick with gondolas. A half dozen moorings lined the edge beside the junction with the Outer Circle Canal, all hosting several waiting gondolas. The ge-eagle dipped down to the moorings as Edeard tried to work out which of the glossy black craft belonged to the gang. If this was a trap, they would have their escape well planned.

Just before it happened, the ge-eagle was aware of two other birds, close and closing. It pivoted on a wing, looking up in time to see its attacker plummeting toward it: another ge-eagle, bigger, with talons clad in sharpened iron spikes. The impact punched it savagely. Gold and emerald feathers burst out of the collision point. Spikes sank into its front shoulder, slicing through skin and muscle, severing veins. Then the bigger ge-eagle twisted to try to snap the central wing bone. Edeard's ge-eagle fought back, writhing to clamp its jaws on its attacker's rear wing. The two of them tumbled, falling fast. Then the second attacker hit, iron-blade talons ripping into flesh. Edeard and his ge-eagle screamed as one as its wing broke. Edeard saw talons rake toward his face and ducked. His ge-eagle's mind abruptly vanished from perception; all that was left was a falling mass. The other two ge-eagles hurtled away over Birmingham Pool. Edeard was sure he heard the splash as his bird's body hit the water.

“What happened?” Kanseen cried.

“Dear Lady, they
are
waiting for us.” Edeard pulled his perception down to find Dinlay emerging from the end of Macoun Street. “Stop! Dinlay, for the Lady's sake, I'm begging you.” He pushed his tired legs harder, sprinting for the end of the street—thirty yards.

“I see them,” Dinlay replied gleefully. He gifted the squad, who saw the three gang members clustered above one of the moorings. They grinned barbarously. For the first time, there was a pulse of uncertainty in Dinlay's mind. He slowed to a halt ten yards away, on the edge of the pool. Still the gang members did nothing but wait. “Stay there,” Dinlay told them, taking big gulps of air after his helter-skelter dash and waving a finger like an ancient schoolmaster dealing with a naughty class. They laughed at him.

Edeard burst out of Macoun Street. Directly to his left was the Outer Circle Canal, with the silver-blue bridge ahead, arching over the side of the pool directly into Golden Park. On his right, the buildings ended to provide a curving alameda around the side of Birmingham Pool. Neat stacks of crates were piled up above the various moorings, with shopkeepers and ge-monkeys sorting out their goods with the gondoliers. Tall weeping hasfol trees formed a long line between the edge of the pool and the alameda's crescent facade, their blue-and-yellow tiger-stripe leaves starting to crisp with the end of summer. A lot of pedestrians were strolling around.

“Dinlay,” Edeard shouted as he ran as fast as he could toward his isolated squadmate.

Dinlay glanced around, a hand adjusting his glasses.

Arminel stepped out from behind one of the hasfol trees, fifteen yards from Dinlay. He had a revolver in his right hand. Edeard watched helplessly as Dinlay finally realized the danger and began to turn. Arminel brought the pistol up.

“No!”
Edeard bellowed at his adversary. “It's me you want.”

Dinlay opened his mouth to cry out in horror.

Arminel fired. He was smiling as he pulled the trigger.

Dinlay's shield was not strong enough to ward off a pistol shot. Arminel's aim was excellent. The bullet struck Dinlay in the hip, just below his drosilk waistcoat. Half the pedestrians around Birmingham Pool yelped at the blast of pain flooding out from Dinlay. Then the vile heat of the bullet's penetration faded rapidly. Dinlay looked down disbelievingly at the blood pumping out of the wound. He collapsed.

Edeard was with him in seconds, falling to his knees, skidding into his limp friend. Dinlay's eyes were wide; he was panting in short gulps, one hand clasped over the bullet hole, skin covered in blood. “I'm sorry,” he whimpered.

A mass of screaming had broken out along the alameda. People were racing for cover. Families hugged each other, cowering from the gunman.

Right in the center of all the commotion Edeard heard the revolver's mechanism snick. He widened his shield to encompass Dinlay. The bullet smacked into his side, shunting them over the rough ground, but his shield held. He snapped his head around to snarl at a disconcerted Arminel. “Not so fucking easy, is it?” he yelled defiantly. Arminel fired again. Edeard groaned in effort as the bullet hit his neck. The shield held—
just.
Then someone else fired a shot.

Bastards. I knew this was an ambush.

Amazingly, his shield held. If anything, it was easier to maintain now. His heart was pounding hard. Anger had washed every other sensation away, making it simple to concentrate on the shield, to see his mind's power, to channel it correctly.

Two more revolver shots thudded into his shield as he lay there, arms hugging Dinlay protectively. They shunted the pair of them a few inches over the ground, but that was all.

“Die, you little shit,” Arminel shouted.

Edeard felt the man's third hand shove against him. He was not nearly powerful enough to get through Edeard's shielding. Edeard laughed. Then another third hand was pushing, a third. The three gang members they had chased joined in. Edeard gasped as he and Dinlay started to slither over the ground.

“Edeard,” Kanseen cried.

“Stay back,” he commanded.

The gang members gave a final push. Edeard and Dinlay were propelled over the edge of the pool and dropped three yards into the water. The impact broke Edeard's grip on Dinlay. He thrashed about just under the surface, trying to catch his friend again. Water occluded his farsight, making it difficult to perceive. He just made out Dinlay's wretched thoughts drifting down below him, close to extinction. His own clothes were saturated, weighing him down. It was relatively easy to swim downward, following Dinlay's slow descent to the bottom of the pool.

“Edeard.” Dinlay's thoughts were weakening.

It was dark and cold. Edeard could make out a shadowy mass, or maybe he was perceiving it. He pushed himself farther down, kicking with boots as heavy as lead. His lungs were burning, making every stroke painful. He would have called the city to help, but he knew it could do nothing. Water was pushing into his nostrils, scaring him.

His hand snagged something. Through the gloom he could see faint dots of light. Dinlay's polished tunic buttons! His fingers groped frantically, and he got a grip on some fabric.

Now all I've got to do is get to the surface.

When he tilted his head up, he could see the silver-mirror surface. It seemed a long way above him. His lungs did not hurt quite so much anymore. His vision was surrounded by red speckling, pulsing in time with his heart. When he kicked his legs, they barely moved. His boots were pulling him down.

Oh, Lady, help.

Something knocked into his shoulder. His farsight perceived it as a slim black line.

“Edeard,” the combined longtalk of Kanseen, Macsen, and Boyd shouted at him. “Edeard, grab the pole.” They were a long way off.

The end of the punt thumped into his shoulder again. Edeard seized it. Abruptly he was moving upward. It was a huge effort not to let go of Dinlay. Then the water was growing brighter.

He broke the surface with an almighty gasp of air. Someone jumped in beside him and held on to Dinlay. They were right beside a mooring platform. Hands clutched at his uniform, and he was hauled onto the planks, coughing and sputtering.

Kanseen's anxious face loomed large over him. “Oh, Lady. Edeard, are you okay?”

He nodded, which set off another bout of coughing. Hands slapped hard on his back as he rolled over onto his side and vomited up a thin disgusting liquid.

Macsen and a couple of gondoliers were dragging Dinlay onto the platform, blood still pumping out of his hip wound. Boyd was in the water, his face pale.

“Dinlay,” Edeard called weakly.

“We've longshouted for a doctor,” Kanseen assured him. “You just lie back.”

Edeard didn't. He watched Macsen start giving Dinlay the kiss of life. This was the third time his life had been struck by the force of anarchy and destruction: first the ambush in the forest on the way back from Witham, then the death of Ashwell. Now this. And that was too many.

“No,” he spit.
Not again. I will not allow this to happen. People cannot live like this.