Ian Irvine - Rebellion

Rix stared up the dark drain, then down at the murky water. Benn might have been captured by the enemy, though if so, why hadn’t they touched his bag? Holding the glowstone high, he ran up the tunnel to the first bend. There was no trace of the boy. He stumbled on, to the point where the broken bodies were jammed into the wall. There was mud on the floor here but it showed only their three sets of tracks, heading down.

He rubbed his numb fingers, clawed at his scalp. What else could he do? If Benn had been taken by the enemy, they would be on watch for a rescue attempt. If Rix tried, he would be killed or taken and Glynnie would drown, all alone, never knowing what had happened to either of them.

How long could she last in the water? Slender little thing that she was, half an hour might finish her. An hour certainly would. If she climbed out onto the mooring pile, the icy wind on her wet skin would kill her more quickly.

And if he did not come back? Glynnie might manage to swim to shore, though it was a hundred yards away from the pile and she had never swum more than twenty. She would be captured and probably killed for having been a servant of Palace Ricinus.

Rix groaned, turned, turned again. He could do no more for the boy. His duty was to the living now, and if he spent any more time looking for Benn, Glynnie would die. He headed back to the water. How was he going to tell her that her brother was lost, almost certainly dead?

This swim down the drainpipe was interminable, yet not long enough. A thousand miles would not have sufficed to find the words to confess his failure. If he could not protect these two innocents, what was he good for? Nothing.

He struggled on, exhausted in body and mind, and every injury he’d suffered in the past few days, every bruise he’d taken after throwing himself down five levels of the corkscrew stair to the murder cellar two days ago, throbbed to remind him of the pain he was about to cause Glynnie.

Rix reached the end of the drainpipe so breathless that he had no energy to swim further. All he could do was float to the surface and bob there, gasping so hard that surely the troops patrolling the shore must hear him.

It was after four in the afternoon. The short winter day was fading, mist rising to drift in wisps above the water. The breeze had picked up and was icy on his cheek and shoulder. It drove more debris ahead of it, the final fruits of the tidal wave that had engulfed the lower areas of Hightspall a few days ago.

A large, solid front door, intricately carved and inlaid with freshwater pearl shell, but splintered along one side where the water had torn it from its hinges. An empty pottery flagon, green and white, slowly turning as it drifted. The body of a stocky, balding man, his fish-white skull gleaming like glowstone through strands of sparse black hair. His belly was swollen and his eye sockets empty, picked clean.

The cold was seeping into Rix now, making his bones ache. And none worse than his regrown wrist bones, where the pain was a clawing beast trying to take the dead hand off forever.

He had to ignore it. He had a duty to Glynnie. Rix swam around the body, keeping well clear, picked up the flagon and set it on the door to use as a float, then swam towards the pile where he had left Glynnie, pushing the door before him.

There was no sign of her. Had he lost her too? Was fate determined to strip every good thing from him, grinding him down with failure after failure until he had nothing left?

He checked the shore, keeping low in the water. The mist was thickening, the guards appearing and disappearing behind it, but they were ever-watchful and if he made a mistake they would have him.

He steered the door around the mooring pile, scanned its sides and could not see Glynnie. She was not on top, either. Then a small head bobbed out of the water and she was staring at him with those huge green eyes. Her teeth were chattering.

Her gaze narrowed, raked the lake all around Rix. Her eyes went dark and she sagged in the water. “Where’s Benn?”

“I’m sorry,” said Rix, wishing he was a thousand miles away; wishing he had died with his family; anything to escape the desperate ache in her eyes. “I looked everywhere. That’s why I’ve been so long. I–I had to make sure.”

Her voice rose. “What do you mean, make sure ?”

“I’m sorry,” Rix repeated. “Benn’s gone. I don’t — ”

“No!” she whispered, let go of the rope, and sank.

Rix lunged, caught her by the tangled hair streaming up above her head and drew her to the surface. The moment her chin was above water, she opened her mouth wide, as if to scream. He thrust the heel of his dead hand across her lips, indicating the guards on the shore with a jerk of his head.

“If you scream, we’re dead!”

Again Glynnie closed her eyes and sank. Again he lifted her up. Again she went to scream. This time he pulled her to him until her face was pressed against his chest, then put both arms around her, holding her tightly. She heaved against him, thrashing her legs, kicking with her feet. He squeezed the air out of her, and kept doing so each time she took a breath, until she gave in and sagged against him.

The pain in his wrist eased, then came shrieking back. It was getting worse. Something was badly wrong with his right hand. Of course there was — it was dead, and still attached. Rix frog-kicked to the door, which had drifted a few yards away, fought the pain and put her hands on the edge.

“All — all right now?” he said.

It was a stupid thing to say. For a few seconds he thought she was going to punch his teeth down his throat, but she restrained herself. She dashed the water off her face, then looked up at him.

“What happened? Is Benn… he wasn’t…?”

He had to conceal his pain from her. They couldn’t both crack up. “The glowstone was there, and so was his pack, but he was gone.”

“If you mean killed — if you mean… eaten — ”

“There was no evidence he was attacked at all…”

“He didn’t come down the drainpipe after us?”

“I think he must have. I’m sorry, Glynnie…” The useless words failed on his lips.

She pulled herself up on the door, crouched there.

“What are you doing?” hissed Rix. “Get down! The guards will see you.”

Glynnie slowly stood up, rocking the door and knocking the flagon off. She swayed, threw her arms out, then turned in a circle, surveying the grey water. As she turned another circle, the light in her eyes slowly went out. The wind fluttered her wet hair. Her teeth chattered and she slipped back into the water.

“Maybe…” She blanched. “What if a shifter…?”

“There was no sign of a struggle. No — ”

“ Blood! If there was no blood, why don’t you say it?”

“All right — there was no blood. No shifter stink, either.”

“He wouldn’t have gone into the water. He must have been captured. We’ve got to rescue him.”

“I don’t think he’s been captured. His pack hadn’t been touched. I went back up the tunnel to those bodies and the only tracks I saw were ours.”

“But it’s possible he’s been captured,” she said desperately.

The pain in his wrist came back, worse than before, jagged spears along the bones. After a long pause, Rix said, “Yes. It’s possible.”

“Then we have to rescue him.”

“How, Glynnie?”

“I don’t know!” she wailed.

“Shh! Sound carries across water.” He checked on the guards. They were still patrolling, watchful as ever.

“ It’s my fault . I should have let you take him first.”

“If I had, you’d have been captured and he’d now be begging me to rescue you.”