The Sunset Warrior - 01 (12 page)

Soon after, the Bladesmen came with the litter and bore Marcsh away.

‘They have all miscalculated.’

‘How do you know?’

He sighed. ‘I do not. It’s a feeling.’

‘Based on something, surely. All the Saardin could not miss—’

He made a fist. ‘But they have, I know it! All they see are their own bits of power—’

‘It is personal with them.’

Nirren ceased his pacing long enough to stare at Ronin as he sat on the bed, stripping off his soaked shirt. ‘Why, yes, it could be put that way.’ He cocked his head quizzically. ‘You have been to see him then.’

Ronin threw the shirt over a stool. ‘Yes.’

Nirren stood in front of him, frowning. ‘But not to go back.’

Ronin laughed humourlessly. ‘No, not at all.’

‘Were you not even tempted?’

Ronin looked up. ‘Well, he did try.’

‘Really.’

‘No need to worry about it.’

Nirren relaxed somewhat. He looked down at the bruise down Ronin’s side. ‘I have sent for her,’ he said.

Ronin touched the bandage over the wound at his shoulder. There was still some pain. ‘That was hardly necessary.’

He flicked a hand. ‘Nevertheless it has been done.’

‘Where is Stahlig?’

‘Ah, attending to Marcsh, I believe,’ he said with a thin smile. ‘Why did you go then?’

‘To see the Salamander?’

‘Yes.’

‘Advice.’

‘From him?’ Nirren laughed. ‘He is a Saardin. Why should he tell you the truth?’

‘There are ties,’ Ronin said.

‘Yes, and even after—’

‘I expect so.’ Very quickly.

Nirren shook his head. ‘What did he tell you then?’

Ronin sat back on the pillows, resting. ‘That Borros is indeed mad.’

‘Did he? And how would he know that?’

Ronin took a pillow, wiped the sweat from his body. ‘He showed me a kind of proof.’ It left dark streaks on the fabric.

‘What, exactly?’ asked Nirren, his eyes watchful.

‘What if I told you that Borros is not mad?’

‘Are you?’

‘I do not know.’

‘What of the Salamander’s proof?’

‘I talked to Borros myself.’

‘You will not tell me.’

‘I
am
telling you.’

‘Not about what he showed you.’

Ronin threw the pillow from him. ‘How do you know he showed me anything?’

‘Words would not have been sufficient.’

Ronin nodded. ‘Yes.’ He went across the room and opened the wardrobe. ‘But I am not sure it
is
proof.’ He brought out a shirt with loose silk sleeves and no collar. ‘What do you think is Up there, above the Freehold?’

‘What?’ Nirren shrugged. ‘Nothing. Nothing worth talking about at least, unless you are partial to the idea of a kilometre of solid ice and snow. Why?’

He put on the shirt. ‘Because Borros believes that there is a civilization Up there, living in a land without ice or snow.’

Nirren stared at him. ‘This is what he told you?’

‘Yes.’

‘Did you ask him what he was working on?’

‘It did not happen like that. I got what I could. But I am fairly certain of one thing. Freidal does not know much more than we do, otherwise Borros would not have been talking to anyone. Besides, at one point the Magic Man told me that he had not revealed anything of significance.’

Nirren shook his head. ‘I can make sense of none of this. Surely nothing lives on the surface—the planet is too cold to sustain life.’

‘So it would seem.’

‘And where does that leave us?’

‘It leaves
you
nowhere.’

‘Ah, Ronin—’

‘I want no part of any Saardin.’

‘But you will try to see Borros again.’

‘Yes.’ He lifted a hand for a moment. ‘But because
I
wish to do it.’ He sat on the pillows again. ‘What about your assignment?’

The Chondrin frowned. ‘It is a puzzle seemingly without a solution. Perhaps I am closer to my goal, perhaps not. Still, I cannot shake the feeling that—’

Ronin looked up. ‘What?’

‘That there is more to it than any of us know.’ He ran his hand through his hair distractedly. ‘Sometimes—sometimes I could almost believe that there is a third force secretly at work—almost waiting for the other Saardins to make the first move.’

‘But there are only Saardins. Nothing beyond.’

‘Of course. That is what makes it so puzzling.’

‘And you have no facts.’

Nirren sighed. ‘If I did, I would be with Estrille now.’

‘Have you told him?’

‘Some.’

‘And?’

‘He will not act without facts.’ He turned. ‘K’reen will be here at any moment.’

‘What of your Rodent?’

‘What?’ Nirren momentarily looked startled. ‘Oh—that is where I am off to now. Perhaps I am closer to finding him.’ He shrugged. ‘He is buried quite deep, that is the only fact of which I am certain at the moment. Do not be alarmed if you cannot locate me for a while—wait for me to contact you.’ And he was gone.

Ronin lay back on the pillows and waited for K’reen to come.

They came for him after Class, during first Spell, when there were less people about. He went with them without resistance because he was pragmatic enough to know that it had to come sooner or later, that they were just waiting for a valid excuse, because they hated him.

They marched swiftly through the Corridor and perhaps they were surprised that he came so willingly. Into a deserted Stairwell and Upshaft. To the Hall of Combat.

Empty shadows and dusty silence. Grey air hanging in sheets on the dim light, bars of dark and light. The presence of ancestors unseen and forgotten, talking of bygone millennia, the descent into earth, a legacy of—what?

‘Draw it,’ grated the voice. ‘All my plans done in by you.’

Korlik faced him while the others looked on. Perhaps Korlik wanted an audience. More likely they wanted to be here when it happened. He did not think about that.

‘I wanted to go Upshaft with him more than anything else. Because of you—’ It was as good as anything else.

Silence.

‘Draw it,’ Korlik said again, grinding his teeth. ‘Come on.’ He waved his sword. ‘Well, what are you waiting for? Afraid?’ He advanced. ‘All right, I’ll show you what to do with this.’ He waved it again as he came on. ‘I am going to turn you around and shove this up you!’

Ronin unsheathed his sword and, for the next quarter Spell, turned aside all Korlik’s attacks, standing his ground, refusing to counterattack.

Korlik bellowed in frustration and threw his sword to the stone floor. Perhaps it was a signal, because they all fell upon him then and he went down. Someone tried to step on his neck and he grasped the ankle, twisted it violently until he heard the snap. They pummelled his stomach and tried to turn him over. He lifted his legs, straining against the tangle and the pressure, protecting his groin, and knew that he had to regain his feet now or they would have him pinned with his chest to the cold stone. They could not get a firm grip on his legs, and he did it, all the way up, gasping for air.

He found that Korlik and the others did not matter. He heard a low groan from somewhere near him. Korlik bent and retrieved his sword and, crouched, body shiny, advanced in an arc.

Ronin moved laterally but Korlik kept his sword point and body between Ronin and his weapon, shining dully on the stone, so that there were no more options—it had to be done. And the daydreaming was gone all at once.

He rushed straight at Korlik, saw the wide blade raised, its size magnified, come whistling down, and knew that it would be all right because it was a vertical blow. He got in, past the point as it came arcing blurrily down, slammed his fist into the side of Korlik’s head. And by the time Korlik had regained his balance and turned, he had the sword. He crossed a bar of light and it shone like silver.

But he was overconfident, buoyed by the success of the tactic, and he misjudged Korlik’s recovery time and so was unprepared for the rush. He got his blade up but not enough, and the angle was all wrong, so that Korlik’s sword cut through his like fabric. Korlik laughed when he saw the stumpy blade sheared through obliquely.

In truth he obviously did not get a good look at it in the dimness or he would certainly have been more cautious. As it was, he moved in, heedless of the shorn weapon still gripped tightly in Ronin’s hand, and was thus surprised to feel it enter his chest.

Ronin had lunged, pushing the truncated blade in to the hilt, the force smashing Korlik against the wall, where he now stood, dark blood running all across him. Still he tried to get at Ronin, lurching up, pushing against the wall with his palm, then jerkily swinging his sword one last time, all co-ordination gone, before he toppled face down on the stone.

They left him there, standing over the corpse in the stillness, not daring to look into his dark and unreadable eyes.

And now he opened his eyes to find K’reen bent over him, face filled with worry. ‘I have heard about it,’ she said. ‘It is all over the Sector.’ She looked at him, pushing aside his shirt. ‘At least you were not hurt, and the wound has not reopened.’ She sat beside him. ‘What will happen now?’

He shrugged. ‘It is not so serious.’

‘But banished from Combat—?’

He sat up. ‘If what Nirren is concerned about happens, it will not matter.’

‘I do not—’

‘The Saardins.’

‘Oh. Yes. What does he say? I so rarely see him now except at Senna.’

‘The two factions appear to be very close to a confrontation—but this is nothing you do not already know.’

‘He is with Estrille then.’

‘No. He has been given a special assignment.’

She went across the room to the mirror of beaten brass, hanging on the wall at head height, just over the cabinet. ‘It is near to Sehna,’ she said.

Robin thought: Not enough time to see if Stahlig is through treating Marcsh.

She began to put up her hair, glancing at him from time to time in the mirror. ‘What is it that makes you so sad?’ she said abruptly.

He sat on the edge of the pillows. ‘Why do you ask me such questions?’

‘Because—’ Her eyes stole away from his in the mirror and she touched a hand to her face. ‘Because I love you.’

He caught the glint of the tears rolling slowly from the corners of her eyes. ‘What are you doing?’

She turned away and squeezed her eyes shut. ‘Nothing.’ Water trembled, glistening along her lashes.

He went across to her and spun her around so that her hair, still unbound on one side, floated in a dark arc, momentarily obscuring her cheek.

‘Why are you crying?’ he asked with some anger.

With her free hand she wiped under her eyes, and he saw within them a brief hint of—fear? He could not be sure.

‘I hate that. Why are you crying?’

Anger flared and the thing within her eyes was gone. ‘You mean I am not allowed to cry?’ He turned away from her. ‘What is it with you?’ Her eyes were magnified by the water. ‘Does it upset you when I show any emotion?
You
cannot, is that it? Because I accept that.
I
do. Can you understand that? Why must you act like this? I cannot under—Don’t you ever feel anything? How is it when we go to bed? Is it just—biological?’ She turned back to the mirror, put her head in her arms, leaning on the cabinet.

He went into the other room and began to change his clothes. After a time, K’reen raised her head and stared into the mirror. She wet her fingers with her tongue, wiped away the tear-streaks. Then she finished putting up her hair.

They had to walk farther down the Corridor than was usual because the Stairwell closest to his quarters was newly blocked by a slide of rotting concrete and brittle crusty orange metal. The next one was clear and they began their descent to Sehna, Ronin holding before them the flaming torch. The stairs were cracked and pitted and appeared to be little used. Once or twice they had to jump stumps of stairs that had crumbled or had been sheared away by some force.

They did not talk and perhaps that is why they heard the sound. It was very soft and came from somewhere in front of them. Ronin stopped immediately and held K’reen still with his free hand. Slowly he extended the torch in front of them. The stairs stretched downward to the landing where they doubled back on themselves. They were deserted.

There was silence. Dust motes danced in the flickering heat of the torch, writhing as they were consumed by the fire to which they were drawn.

They moved slowly downward and it came again. A low moan, a half-whimper of pain.

They were at the landing. Around the turning, the Stairwell stretched darkly away. She started to say something but he cut her off. He strained his ears, thinking now not about the sound below them but—He heard it again and he was sure. At first he thought that the soft scrabbling noise he had detected at the threshold of hearing was the movement of the small animals that lived in the walls, which everyone heard in the soft silences. But the sound had come again, closer, and he knew it for the patient pad of boots, how many he could not tell, on the stairs above them.

He grabbed K’reen’s hand and they fled down into darkness.

Abruptly, the whimpering seemed nearer. Ronin thrust the torch before them and saw that the entire inner wall of the Stairwell had collapsed and, for many Levels, a dark pit yawned vertiginously.

They pressed themselves against the secure outside wall, and saw a figure below them. Dishevelled and filthy, long hair falling lankly down its back, dressed in rags without colour, it huddled pitifully in a corner away from the pit.

He stepped closer, could now discern a wan face covered with muck and sweat. Haunted, frightened eyes stared back at him, the shivering flame from his torch reflecting in the enormous pupils. The figure shrank from him.

He bent slowly, touched it gently. ‘Who are you?’ And then, ‘We will not harm you.’

He heard the bootsteps on the stairs, nearer, and he stood, turning towards them, ears straining again to gather more information. K’reen had crouched down, close to the figure, trying to talk to it. And he heard her choked gasp.

‘Ronin!’

He turned back, lofted the torch, saw that the figure’s right arm was a stump, torn and clotted with dried blood and newly forming skin, so it was not as recent as he had at first thought. Shadows danced madly around them, the central pillar of the flame.