Steph Swainston - No Present Like Time

Mist said, “I only know we must make haste to reach San.” She made a small hearth, unrolled her blanket and shared out some Trisian pan forte and a flask of red wine. “I think Gio wants to cause us as much pain as possible before we inevitably catch him. I can tell he must have little hope because his methods are so desperate…” She fell into a reverie and did not speak again. We heard people passing by at the road’s nearest approach. I felt satisfied that I could lie hidden and observe them, and they wouldn’t know I was listening.

Lightning took out one of his books. He was writing his three-hundredth romantic novel, which would probably be much the same as the other two hundred and ninety-nine, but maybe this time with a nautical theme. Their popularity was a constant source of wonder to me. He usually pays me to translate his unimaginative but ardent scribblings, but he always has my translations checked. Lightning looked wistful, a powerful emotion he had practiced over centuries, which he now fell into easily. He had adopted it when it was fashionable, although it didn’t suit him. “Swallow is never here when I love her,” he said. “I wish I could speak to her. In times of trouble, she finds an inner strength. Maybe it’s because she lives in pain and is hardened to it.” He sighed, and went back to writing, with the practicality of a lover who has sought the same character in different women over fifteen hundred years.

For the past hour I had thought of nothing but scolopendium. My mouth watered for it and my joints ached. I couldn’t hold out much longer before my need began to show. It’s just a weakness of my body, I thought; it isn’t really me. I opened a knotwork painted tobacco tin containing my stash and a syringe. I acted casually to protect me from the others; underneath I bubbled with excitement and blame. “Don’t mind if I hook up?”

“Oh, go ahead.” Mist shook her head in disgust, though I could tell she was taking notes.

“Thanks. You don’t know how much I…”

“I’m beginning to guess,” said Wrenn.

“So one day it’ll kill me. Want some?”

“Certainly not!” he said contemptuously. He walked to the edge of the clearing and stood with his back to us to have a piss. Then he returned and lay down on his coat with his rapier to hand. He watched me covertly, pretending to be asleep.

I hunched over and mantled wings around a candle stub. I licked my needle more or less clean, ran it through the flame and filled it from a skylark vial. I tied a tourniquet around my upper arm, and made the injection. I flushed the syringe out with my own blood and pulled the spike from my arm. Then I keeled over, into the leaves. An aching nausea filled my empty stomach and dispersed as my rush came on. Gradually and gratefully I gave up on thinking about anything at all.

The tops of the oak trees were pushed by a wind that didn’t touch us below. Each gust churned the topmost boughs in the distance, then shook the branches above us as it passed.

A crunch sounded somewhere deep in the forest. Lightning glanced up from his book and stood up silently. He bent his longbow against his boot and strung it. He kicked the fire out, then hauled me to my feet by the scruff of my neck and simultaneously gave Wrenn a hefty kick on the bum. The Swordsman woke with a start and Lightning raised a finger to his lips. “Footsteps,” he whispered.

“Insects?” Wrenn’s eyes widened.

Lightning shook his head. After the first few trees the ground was obscure. I listened. The footfalls extended deep into the woods from our left to right. As they came closer, we could tell they were made by men. There were at least five directly ahead of us, but the noise seemed to stretch out far on both sides.

“How many?” Ata mouthed.

Lightning held up his free hand with the fingers extended, clenched his fist, then opened the fingers again.

Wrenn sprang to his feet, crossed his arms over his waist and drew his rapier and dagger at the same time. Mist pawed uneasily for the 1851 Wrought sword that she carried buckled to her pack.

The footsteps resolved; the people making them walked about two meters apart. I peered into the gnarly gloom but I couldn’t glimpse anybody. We should be able to see them by now. I smelled hot oil. The crunching continued; they were almost on us. They stopped. There was silence.

Wrenn went into guard.

A yellow glare turned our camp bright as day. Black jumped to colors, disorienting us. They had been carrying covered lanterns and with one accord they raised their shutters.

I was less blinded than the others. I turned as a man jumped from the forest behind us. Dagger in hand, he ran past Lightning and cut the bowstring with a neat slice. Lightning’s powerful longbow sprang back straight.

It gave a dry crack. Splits opened along the bow’s limbs from the tips to the grip. It snapped its eighty-kilo draw weight back into his arm. Lightning jerked away so the string didn’t gash his face. The shivered wood creaked. He dropped it and the arrow, and grabbed his left arm. “Damn you, Gio Ami! Traitor and sneak!” He drew his sword with an efficient gesture but his wrenched arm seemed awkward.

The horses neighed and reared, frightened. They pulled out their tether pegs and scattered.

I can’t take off. The branches are too dense for me to push up between them. I’d be scratched to bits and never break through into the clear air. Fuck it, there isn’t even enough room between the trees for me to open my wings, let alone run with them spread.

Gio sauntered toward Wrenn, gazing fixedly at him.

“Revenge isn’t worth it,” I said quietly.

“Comet, aren’t you fast?” Gio sneered. “Is fame worth it? I walked through Wrenn’s party and no one spoke to me. When I entered the hall, the Eszai all fell quiet and turned their backs. You didn’t even notice me!”

He pointed his rapier at Wrenn. Gio still wore the blue frock coat, open to his naked chest. His dusty trousers were the same, tucked into scuffed boots with stirrup guards. He had probably been riding between manors, raising his rabble, for weeks. His fair hair was dirty; strands escaped his ponytail and hung around his face. His lip raised in loathing, hatred contorted his features; it burned in his eyes as he stared at Lightning. I thought: This is not the Gio I once knew. I must be careful until I know what he’s become. I said, “What do you really want?”

“I want to fight the novice. ”

Wrenn’s whole body language was a swagger. He spun his poniard like a drumstick. “I’m Serein. I get to live till god comes back. What’s it like to be older, Gio?”

Gio kept his rapier leveled at Wrenn. He motioned with his dagger and the twenty or so men behind him placed their lamps on the ground and advanced.

Lightning stepped across in front of Mist. His gallantry annoyed Gio so much that he turned from Wrenn and made a thrust low under Lightning’s sword. Lightning evaded it expertly. Gio’s rapier was blacked with boot polish; the point was difficult to see. He stabbed in again. Up went his other hand to ward off an overhead blow from Wrenn.

“Oh, shit,” said Mist. She slid her Wrought sword from its scabbard.

“Keep a clear head!” I shouted to her. “They’re nothing but Insects-defend yourself!”

My old gangland fury seeped through my high. If these guys are attacking me it’s their funeral! A man squared up to me, tall and very broad. Everything was dark and indistinct but I glimpsed the purple ribbon of Ghallain Fencing School wound around his swept hilt. Bugger. There’s no way I can stand against one of Gio’s fencing instructors. The man smiled, his teeth incandescent white in his shadowed face. He watched me like a cat with a mouse many times its size. He strutted and said, “Comet?”