Ian Irvine: Rebellion

“Didn’t do a very good job,” she sniffed. “Benn, get Rix’s sword. And… and bring his hand.”

“His hand?” Benn said in a squeaky voice. “But — it’s all bloody… and dead…”

“I’m not leaving it for the crows to peck. Fetch the cup, too.”

Benn handed the ancient, wire-handled sword to Rix, who sheathed it left-handed. The roof door stood open. Glynnie helped him through it and onto the steep stair that wound down his tower. Rix swayed, threw out his right arm to steady himself and his bloody stump cracked against the wall.

“Aaarrgh!” he bellowed.

“Sorry, Lord,” whispered Glynnie. “I’ll be more careful.”

“Stop apologising. It’s not your damn fault.” Rix pulled away from her. “I’ve got to stand on my own feet. It’s only a hand. Plenty of people have survived worse.”

“Yes, Lord.”

But few men had lost more than Rix. He’d been heir to the biggest fortune in the land, and now he had nothing. His family had been one of the noblest — on the surface, anyway. For a few moments, House Ricinus had even been a member of the First Circle, the founding families of Hightspall. Then the chancellor had torn it all down.

Rix’s parents had been hung from the front gates of the palace, then ritually disembowelled for high treason and murder, and everything they owned had been confiscated. Now, not even the most debased beggar or street girl was lower than the sole surviving member of House Ricinus.

He had also been physically perfect — tall, handsome, immensely strong, yet dexterous and fleet — and accomplished. Not just a brilliant swordsman, but a masterful artist — the best of the new generation, the chancellor had said in happier times. Now Rix was maimed, tainted, useless. And soon to die, which was only right for a man so dishonourable that he had betrayed his own mother. As soon as Glynnie and Benn got away, he planned to take the only way out left to him — hurl himself at the enemy, sword in hand, and end it all.

He reached the bottom of the tower stair, ignored Glynnie’s silent offer of help and lurched into his ruined studio. When Tobry had smashed the great heatstone in Rix’s chambers the other day, and it burst asunder, it had brought down several of the palace walls. There were cracks in the walls, part of the ceiling had fallen and the scattered paints, brushes and canvases were coated in grey dust. He crunched across chunks of plaster, stolidly looking ahead.

“Where we going, Lord?” Glynnie repeated.

“How the hell would I know?”

Not far away, sledgehammers thudded against stone and axes rang on timber. The Cythonians were breaking in and they would come straight here.

“We’re trapped,” said Glynnie, her jaw trembling. She stretched an arm around Benn and hugged him to her. “They’re going to kill us, Lord.”

“Go out the window — ”

Rix looked down. From here the drop was nearly thirty feet. If they weren’t killed outright, they’d break their legs, and in a city at war that meant the same thing. He cursed, for it left him with no choice. Glynnie and Benn were his people, all he had left, and as their former lord he had a duty to protect them. A duty that outweighed his longing for oblivion. He would devote his strength to getting them out of Caulderon, and to safety. And then…

He headed down the steps into his once-magnificent, six-sided salon, now filled with rubble, dust and smashed, charred furniture. The crashing was louder here. The enemy would soon break through. The only hope of escape, and that a feeble one, was to go underground.

“Get warm clothing for yourself and Benn,” he said to Glynnie. “And your money. Hurry!”

“Got no money,” said Glynnie, trembling with every hammer and axe blow. “We got nothing, Lord.”

“Tobry — ” Rix choked. How was he going to do without him? “Tobry brought in spare clothes for Tali. She’s nearly your size. Take them.”

Glynnie stood there, trembling. “Where, Lord?”

“In the closet in my bedchamber. Run.”

He still had coin, at least. Rix filled a canvas money belt with gold and other small, precious items, and buckled it on one-handed. He packed spare clothing into an oilskin bag to keep it dry, and put it, plus various other useful items, into a pack.

The crashing grew louder, closer. Glynnie filled another two oilskin bags, packed two small packs and dressed herself and Benn in such warm clothes as would fit. She strapped on a knife the length of her forearm and collected the dusty food in the salon.

“They’re nearly through,” she said, white-faced. “Where are we going, Lord?”

Benn still held Rix’s severed hand in his own small, freckled hand. His wide grey eyes were fixed on Rix’s crusted stump, which was still ebbing blood. Benn caught Rix’s gaze, flushed and looked away.

Rix gestured to a broad crack, low down in the wall at the back of the salon. The edges resembled bubbly melted cheese, the plaster and stonework etched away and stained in mottled greens and yellows.

He hacked away the foamy muck to reveal fresh stone, though when he flicked the clinging stuff off the knife the blade was so corroded that it snapped. He tossed it into the rubble. Benn ran back and fetched him another knife, which Rix sheathed.

“Go through,” said Rix. “Don’t touch the edges.”

“What is that stuff?” said Benn.

“Alkoyl. Mad Wil squirted it around the crack to stop us following him.”

“What’s alkoyl?”

“An alchymical fluid, the most dangerous in the world. Dissolves anything. Even stone, even metal — even the flesh of a ten-year-old boy.” Rix took Benn’s free hand and helped him through.

“We’ll need a lantern,” said Glynnie.

“No, they’d track us by its smell,” said Rix.

He handed the boy a glowstone disc, though its light was so feeble it barely illuminated his arm. Tobry, an accomplished magian, could have coaxed more light from it, but… Rix avoided the rest of the thought.

“We’ll need more light than that,” said Glynnie.

She bundled some pieces of wood together from a broken chair, tied them together with strips of fabric, tied on more fabric at one end and shoved it in her pack.

They went through, holding their breath. The crack snaked ever down, shortly intersecting a network of other cracks that appeared to have freshly opened — and might close again just as suddenly.

“If they shut, they’ll squeeze the juice out of us like a turnip,” whispered Glynnie.

Rix stopped, frowning. “Can you smell alkoyl?”

“No,” she said softly, “but I can smell stink-damp.”

“That’s bad.”

Stink-damp smelled like rotten eggs. The deadly vapour seeped up from deep underground and collected in caverns, from where it was piped to the street lamps of Caulderon and the great houses such as Palace Ricinus. Stink-damp was heavier than air, however. It settled in sumps, basements and other low places, and sometimes exploded.

“ I can smell alkoyl,” said Benn.

“Good man,” said Rix. “Can you follow it?”

“I think so.”

Benn sniffed the air and moved down the crack.

“Why are we following alkoyl?” said Glynnie.

“Wil was carrying a tube of it,” said Rix. “He also stole Lyf’s iron book, and if anyone can find a safe way out of here, Wil the Sump can, the little weasel.”

“Isn’t he dangerous?”

“Not as dangerous as I am.”

The boast was hollow. Down here, Rix’s size put him at a disadvantage, whereas Wil could hide in any crevice and reach out to a naked throat with those powerful strangler’s hands.

They squeezed down cracks so narrow that Rix could not take a full breath, under a tilted slab of stone that quivered at the touch, then through an oval stonework pipe coated with feathery mould. Dust tickled the back of his throat; he suppressed a sneeze.