Paul Kearney - The Mark of Ran

She demurred, mumbling, but he dragged her out of the room as a man might support a drunken comrade. She was not heavy, and he swung her up into his arms, some part of him relishing even at that moment the taut feel of her flesh under his hands. She stank of the men who had been abusing her, and of the drug by the bedside. For a moment she struggled in his grasp, trying to make him set her down. Then she gave up, and put her white arms about his neck, hiding her face in the hollow of his shoulder like a child afraid of the night. With that, something of his earlier detachment and calm returned. His heart slowed, and he seemed to see more clearly in the guttering dark beyond the candlelight. He walked along the passageway as sure-footed as a prowling cat, bent under and stepped over the warning wires as though performing part of some slow-stepped dance, and then picked up speed.

The warehouse was tall, echoing, and it stank with the debris of decades. Rol picked his way like a dancer, some adrenaline still singing through his blood. But after a while the reaction began to set in. Away from the voices, in a corner of the evil-smelling blackness, he went to one knee and set Rowen’s weight atop the other to rest his injured arm, his heartbeat a rushing susurration in his throat. She raised her head, her mouth tickling his ear.

“Put me down. I can walk.”

He let her slip out of his arms with an odd reluctance.

“Do you know a way out?” Her eyes seemed to shine faintly in the dark as she regarded him. Her speech was slow but clear, as though it was an effort for her to make each word distinct.

“Yes. A window. Not far now.”

Kneeling, she swayed and leaned against him. Then she turned and vomited. He felt warm liquid spatter his boots. She wiped her mouth on the shoulder of the short-sleeved shirt he had put on her. Only three or four buttons held it closed over her breasts-the rest had been ripped away. She spat, then straightened, and began tying her long hair back from her face.

“Let us go, then.”

He rose to his feet. She climbed up him as though he were a ladder, still unsteady. He put an arm about her waist and drew her along, sometimes taking all her weight when her knees buckled. She said no word, but put her left arm about his shoulders and her right hand on his where it gripped her hip.

Somehow he remembered the way he had come, and they staggered back through the blank darkness, the rats scurrying out from under their feet. Finally he saw starlight through the windows near the eaves, and sensed the greater height over his head. They were back in the rubbish-mounded space where he had made his entry.

A clamor. Shouting in the night, echoing behind them. Rowen looked at him. They nodded to each other without a sound, and began scrabbling up toward the grimy windows, Rol thrusting her ahead of him with his good hand. In his growing panic he could not see or remember which one he had come through. Rowen pounded at the stiff frame of the nearest with the ball of her fist, and there was the bright smash of breaking glass. He heard her curse under her breath, and then he was staring at the pale length of her legs as she went through the broken window headfirst. He followed her, the teeth of the broken pane ripping the belly of his tunic, tearing at his breeches. Then he was through, and fell down several feet to land on his shoulder and side. He lay winded for a second, until she gripped his collar and pulled him to his feet. They half ran, half tumbled down the midden of junk that was piled up against the high wall of the warehouse, and at last Rowen’s bare feet were slapping on cobbles. It was raining, and the night air seemed clean and sweet and cold in their lungs. Rol turned inland, to where Ascari rose out of the bay in lamplit disorder, but Rowen took his hand. “No, not that way. They’ll go there first. Come.”

She was bleeding from glass-cuts across her belly and thighs, but she pulled Rol after her with some of her old strength until they stood at the edge of the wharf and were looking down at the black water. Without hesitation Rowen jumped in. He saw the white flash of foam as she went under, and stared half in disbelief. It was a few seconds before he could bring himself to dive in his turn.

The water was bitter, icy, and foul, its swells awash with the detritus of the port. Rol broke the surface and looked around.

“In here.”

She was under the wharf, in among the enormous supporting timber piles. He swam to her, teeth chattering, and scrabbled through the slime and barnacles until he had ahold of the wood beneath. Rowen’s face was livid, her eyes black holes. He could feel her shuddering against him in the water but as he tried to speak she slapped a palm over his mouth.

They raised their heads as one. There were boots clumping on the wood of the wharf above them, terse voices. Then the boots broke into staccato thumping as their wearers took off at a run, scattering.

Rowen eased Rol’s newly acquired knife out of his belt.

A silent shadow was climbing down among the pilings. It was noiseless, sure-footed as an ape. Rowen’s fist cocked back with the knife blade between her fingers. Her shivers stilled. She braced one foot against the timber pile they floated alongside.

The shadow drew closer. Rowen’s arm snapped forward in a white blur. There was a solid, meaty chunk, and without a sound the shadow tumbled into the water headfirst. The splash seemed very loud in the night, and Rol and Rowen tensed against each other, waiting for some cry of inquiry. But nothing came, no sound, no curious comrade-shadow. Rowen began shuddering again.

“Can you climb up?” Rol whispered.

She shook her head. “Must swim farther along. Too close here.”

They struck out together. Rol kicked off his boots. He felt as though he were swimming through soup. His entire body was shaking with cold and delayed reaction to the violence of the night. His left arm was a throbbing, swollen lump of meat. Looking up, he saw that the sky was lightening out to sea. Dawn was approaching. He had no idea what the coming day held for him, but he more than half wished he had never followed Psellos and Quare out of the door, and had merely done as he was told. He was no longer possessed of the calm certainty that had enabled him to kill three men in cold blood. And Rowen seemed untroubled by gratitude for her rescue.

They came to the base of Ascari’s mole. There were stone steps here, leading down into the sea, and all about them rows of fishing smacks were moored. The pair paddled exhaustedly to the base of the steps and hauled themselves onto the chill stone, where they lay gasping like landed fish. The light was growing moment by moment, and there were people abroad on the waterfront.

“Run along the wharves and find a horse-cab,” Rowen said. “We must get back to the Tower.”

Rol stared at her. “Why? Why go back to him?”

She shot him a glare of pure irritation. Then her eyes dropped to his bloody arm. A strange look flitted across her face-a kind of bafflement. “Where else is there to go?”

Six

“Up, fisheye; the Master wants to see you, and he’s not a patient fellow.”

Rol opened his eyes to see Ratzo leaning over him grinning hideously, but with an odd respect.

“The kitchen boys have a wager on you’ll be carrion by nightfall. Care to enter the pool?”

He sat up on his mattress of rags with a groan. All yesterday he had been expecting this, and through the night he had stared blankly at the kitchen firelight awaiting the summons, cursing himself for not having the courage to walk away from Psellos, from Rowen, from whatever family history this place contained. On his return, a day and a night ago, Gibble had stitched up his forearm and given him fresh clothes, but aside from that had asked no questions. He had seemed a little in awe of Rol, if truth be told. It was all over the servants’ quarters; the kitchen scullion had disobeyed the Master’s explicit orders, and had somehow become involved with the mistress of the Tower.