The Skein of Lament (42 page)

‘You do not think Xejen can do this, do you?’ she said quietly. It was a statement.

‘Hmm?’ he murmured drowsily.

‘You do not think he is capable of running this revolt and winning.’

He sighed irritably, his eyes still closed. ‘I doubt it.’

‘So why—’

‘Are you going to keep asking questions all night?’

‘Until I get some answers, yes,’ she smiled.

He groaned and rolled over a little so that they were face to face. She gave him a little kiss on the lips.

‘Every man’s nightmare,’ he said. ‘A woman who won’t shut up after she’s been seen to.’

‘I am merely interested in my chances of surviving the situation
you
put me in,’ she said. ‘Why are you here at all?’

He picked up a handful of her unbound hair that had fallen between them and rubbed it idly with his calloused fingertips.

‘I come from the Newlands,’ he said tangentially. ‘There was a lot of conflict there when I was young. Land disputes, merchant wars. I was a boy, poor and hardworking and full and anger. Being a soldier was the best I could hope for, so I joined the Mark’s militia, a tiny little village army. It turned out I was good at it. I got recruited into the army of a minor noble, we won a few battles . . . Gods, I’m even boring myself now.’

Mishani laughed. ‘Do go on.’

‘Let me skip all that. So many years –
many
years – later, I ended up a general in Blood Amacha’s army, on the other side of the continent. I was something of a mercenary by then, not blood-bound to any master since my original Barak had managed to get himself killed and his family wiped out. I was there at the battle outside Axekami five years ago.’

Mishani stiffened fractionally.

‘Don’t worry,’ he chuckled. ‘I hardly blame you for what your father did. Especially after what Xejen told me about you and he.’ His mirth faded, and he became serious. ‘A lot of men I’d known died in that battle. I was lucky to get out alive.’ He was silent for a moment, and when he continued his tone was resigned. ‘But that’s the way of it as a soldier. Friends die. Battles are won and lost. I do the best for myself and my men, but in the end, I’m just one part in thousands. A muscle. It’s the brain that directs us all. It’s those higher up who take the responsibility for a massacre like that. Sonmaga was a fool, and your father was treacherous. And many people were killed for both of them.’

Mishani was not sure what to say to that. She was suddenly terribly conscious of how strong he was. He could snap her bones like twigs if he just tightened the arm that he had around her shoulders.

‘After that, I said I was done with soldiering,’ he went on. ‘But soldiering wasn’t done with me, I suppose. Thirty years and more I’ve spent fighting other men’s wars, sitting round fires with people and not knowing whether they’ll be alive in the morning, living in tents and marching all over Saramyr. It may not sound like much, but it’s hard to give up. There’s a feeling between fighting men, a bond like you can’t imagine that doesn’t exist anywhere else. I tried to settle, but it’s too late for me; I’m a soldier in the blood now.’

Mishani relaxed a little now that he had strayed off the more dangerous subject of her family’s crimes. She began to idly trace lines on his arms as she listened.

‘So I drifted. Couldn’t find a purpose. I’d never needed one till then. I was drinking in a cathouse when I heard about the Ais Maraxa. Don’t know why, but it caught my interest. So I started to investigate a little, and soon they heard about it and they found me.’

‘You had something to believe in,’ Mishani supplied for him.

His face scrunched as if in distaste. ‘Let’s just say it was a cause I thought was worthy. I’m a follower, Mistress Mishani, not a leader. I might command men, but I don’t start wars, I don’t change the world. That’s not for people like me; that’s for people like Xejen. He might not know a thing about war, but he’s a leader. The Ais Maraxa would die for him.’

‘Would you?’

‘I’d die for Lucia,’ he said. ‘Seems much more sensible than any of the other causes I’ve been willing to die for in the past. Which were mostly to do with money.’

Neither of them spoke for a time. Bakkara was drowsing again when he felt Mishani’s face crease into a smile.

‘I know you’re going to say something,’ he said warningly. ‘So have it over with.’

‘You never answered my question.’

‘Which one?’

‘Why did you help take Zila if you thought that you couldn’t hold it?’

‘Xejen thought we could. He believes. That’s enough.’ He considered for a moment. ‘Maybe the tide will turn yet.’

‘So you don’t take any of the responsibility? Even thought you think it’s foolishness, you’re following him.’

‘I’ve followed greater fools,’ he muttered. ‘And responsibility is a matter for philosophers and politicians. I’m a soldier. Hard as it may be to imagine, I do what I do with no clearer motive than because I do it.’

‘Or maybe you do not see your own motive.’

‘Woman, if you don’t shut up right now then I will be forced to do something to you to shut you up.’

‘Oh?’ Mishani said innocently. ‘And what might that be?’

Bakkara showed her, and after that she let him sleep; but she was awake, and thinking.

She could not leave Zila: Xejen would not let her. And she certainly had no intention of remaining trapped in here for the next year. Instead, she had concocted a plan to invite Barak Zahn into the town in order to sound him out about Lucia, to make the negotiations she had wanted to make in Lalyara. To try and recruit him to the Libera Dramach with the news that they had his daughter. In Zila, she would bargain from a position of advantage, and Zahn would have to listen to her. But again, Xejen was the problem; he would stop her as soon as he knew what she was up to.

Xejen was an obstacle that had to be removed. Bakkara was not only the better leader, and the person most able to keep Zila in order and safe from their enemies, but he was also more malleable. Therefore, she would slowly work on both Bakkara and Xejen, undermining the one with the other to bring Bakkara – and hence herself – out on top. Once Bakkara had the primacy, she could manipulate him into her way of thinking, but Xejen was too intransigent, too rigid in his zeal.

This was her aim, then. She only needed time . . .

It was dark where Mos was.

The air stank of blood. Monstrous shapes loomed half-seen to either side and overhead. A quiet clanking came from above, the tapping of chains as they stirred in the heat. The only light was a sullen red glow from the embers of the firepit.

Into that light came a dead face, a corpse-mask of emaciated flesh in a ghastly yawn, hooded and shadowed. Mos looked at it across the fire-pit. His own features were haggard and drawn, his eyes swollen with weeping, his features slack.

Above them, Weave-lord Kakre’s kites of skin gazed down emptily from the blackness.

‘He is gone, then?’ Kakre croaked.

‘He is gone,’ Mos replied.

‘You have sent men to search for him?’

‘He will not get far.’

‘That remains to be seen.’

Mos looked down into the embers, as if there might be some solace there.

‘What possessed me, Kakre?’

The Weave-lord did not reply. He knew well what had possessed Mos; but even he had not expected the Empress to commit suicide. It would have been enough for her to be beaten so that Laranya’s father could learn of it and be incited to gather the armies of the desert in outrage. This was a better result than he could have hoped. And having Mos kidnap Reki in order to minimise the damage was just perfect; all it would take was a small leak of information, arranged by Kakre, and Tchom Rin’s response would be assured.

Kakre had gone to Mos after the beating and found him weeping and pathetic, pleading for help – as if Kakre was someone he could confess to, who might offer succour. It had been made to look like coincidence, but very little that Kakre did was without forethought. While he was with the Emperor he could not Weave, for Weaving required all his concentration and Mos would know.

He had not been able to witness Laranya’s last moments; but he had been provided with a perfect alibi that exonerated him from any suspicion of a hand in the Empress’s death. Even Mos – poor, poor Mos – had never even thought of the possibility that the dreams that sent him mad had been coming from Kakre. Kakre had been too sly; he had cut away that line of reasoning from Mos’s mind, so that it never got to flower.

‘Barak Goren tu Tanatsua will hear of his daughter’s death long before Reki reaches him,’ Kakre rasped at last. ‘And he will know the circumstances. Laranya was not discreet about her condition.’ He stirred, his hood throwing his face into shadow. ‘Her hair was cut, Mos. You know what that means.’

‘Perhaps if we have Reki, his father may pause and listen to reason.’ Mos’s words were empty of feeling. He did not really care either way. He was merely going through the motions of being Emperor, because he had nothing else left now.

‘Nevertheless,’ Kakre said, ‘preparations must be made. With your marriage to Laranya, the desert Baraks were pacified for a long time; but now that link is severed, they will react badly. They have ever been the troublesome ones. Too autonomous for their own good, within their trackless realm of sand.’

Mos gazed blankly at Kakre for a time, sweat creeping from his brow in the heat of the skinning-chamber.

‘If they come to Axekami, they will encourage the other discontented Baraks,’ Kakre told him. ‘Imagine a desert army marching through Tchamaska and up the East Way, intent on demanding satisfaction for Laranya’s death. Imagine how powerless that will make you seem.’

Mos could not really picture it.

‘You should send men to Maxachta,’ the Weave-lord advised. ‘Many men. If you must meet them, meet them in the mountains at the Juwacha Pass. Contain them there. Prevent them from coming into the west.’

‘I need all my men here,’ Mos replied, but there was no strength in his voice.

‘For what? For Blood Kerestyn? They have made only noises and taken no action. It will take them years to become strong enough to challenge you. Axekami is unassailable by any force in Saramyr at the moment; unless the desert Baraks join with those in the west, that is.’

Mos thought on that for a little while.

‘I will send men,’ he said, as Kakre had known he would. Mos had not been listening to his advisers, and Kakre had carefully underestimated the size of the forces that were being ranged against the Emperor in the wake of the gathering starvation. The signal would be sent tonight to Barak Avun tu Koli, advising him to begin the muster of the armies. The Imperial forces were dividing, and many thousands would be marching far from Axekami to meet the potential desert threat, leaving the capital weaker for their absence.

The game begins
, Kakre thought, and behind his mask his ruined face twisted into a smile.

Kaiku slid recklessly down the shale slope, her boots pluming dust in the sharp white moonlight. Tsata had already reached the bottom and was levelling his rifle back up it, to where the undulating rim was framed against Aurus’s huge, blotched face. At any instant, he expected to see the silhouette of their pursuer blocking out the light, for it to come raging down after Kaiku.

The ghaureg roared, a sound that was a cross between a bear and a wolf cry. It was closing on them fast.

Kaiku fled headlong past him as he covered the point where he guessed the Aberrant monster would emerge. The land around her was virtually devoid of vegetation, just a broken tangle of rocks and hard, stony soil. She made for a spot where the land slipped lower and a ridge rose up on the left. Maybe cover could be found there. Or maybe the ghaureg would just use it to jump down on top of them.

Then Tsata was with her, taking the lead. They ran at a crouch down the decline, the ledge screening them from view. The ghaureg bellowed again, terrifyingly close. Over the thump of her heart and the scuff of their footsteps she heard the creature loping nearer, its heavy tread reminding her of the sheer mass that their pursuer possessed. If they got within reach of those arms, those rending hands, they would be ripped to pieces.

The apparent disappearance of its prey gave the Aberrant pause. Tsata and Kaiku took advantage of that to put distance between them and it. The decline became shallow and fractured, depositing them into a wide, flat-bottomed trench scattered with rocks. On the far side, a natural wall rose to higher ground, pale and grim in the combined light of Aurus and Iridima, whose orbits had lately begun to glide closer, threatening the prospect of a moonstorm if the third sister joined them in the nights to come.

Kaiku struck out for a cluster of rocks. They were too exposed here. If they could get out of its sight for long enough, she was sure it would give up the chase. Though the ghauregs were brutal and dangerous, they were not the most intelligent of the predator species that the Weavers had collected.

But Shintu was not on her side that night. They had almost gained the shadow of the rocks when the Aberrant appeared on the ridge. Kaiku caught a frightened glance of its shape, its head low between its hunched shoulders as it surveyed the trench. Then it saw them, its eyes meeting Kaiku’s and sending a shiver down her back. With a howl, it leaped from the ridge down to the floor of the trench, a clear twenty feet; Kaiku felt the impact of its landing through the soles of her boots.

Ghauregs. They were the largest of the Aberrants that Kaiku and Tsata had yet encountered in the Fault, and by far the most vicious. But they were also the most disturbingly akin to humans, and that struck Kaiku worst of all. When she had first heard their roars and seen their shaggy outlines in the night, she had found them unsettlingly familiar; it was only days later when she realised that she had hidden from those very creatures in the Lakmar Mountains on Fo, huddling and shivering in the snow during her lone trek to trace her father’s footsteps back to the Weaver monastery. Then, they had been ghostly, half-seen things, glimpsed against white horizons; now they were brought into relief, and she found that they were worse than she had imagined.