Ian Irvine - Alchymist

A windstorm had come up in the night, with spitting rain and wild gusts that would have made it difficult for the lyrinx to stay aloft. Nish hoped it would abate during the day; it would mean hard sailing for the small vessels and there was little shelter in the narrow waterway.

A messenger came running in. 'Go!' he said, and that was all.

Nish felt a vibration in his head, nearly two thousand clankers drawing on the field at once. The vaguely dizzy, sick feeling faded though it did not pass completely. He supposed it had something to do with touching the tears, all those days ago, and it reminded Nish of his father. For all that the man had become a monster, Nish grieved for his loss. Still, it was for the best. Jal-Nish's suffering was over now.

All day he spent at the waterfront with his lists and schedules, making sure the squads were loaded onto the right vessels. Not until a good half of them had embarked, around two in the afternoon, did any word come from the scrutator. It was the same messenger, and he said the same word again, 'Go!'

Eighty captains opened their sealed orders, their vessels weighed anchor and sailed into the gale, which had intensified during the day. It was blowing directly from the north. Had it been southerly they could not have gone at all, for there was no room for tacking in the narrow sea.

The remaining vessels continued loading all night in driving rain, and an hour after dawn the work was complete. The gangplanks were drawn up. Flydd should have been here hours ago but there was no sign of him.

Nish stood at the rail, hood angled to keep out the worst of the rain, though inevitably much found a way in. Water trickled down his neck. Where was Flydd?

Two hours after dawn the messenger appeared, gave the message a third time, 'Go!' and climbed aboard the neighbouring ship. Nish signalled to the remaining vessels, all save his own. One by one they weighed anchor, pulled themselves out through the breakwater, heeled over in the wind and disappeared south.

Nish watched them go, uneasy. The sea was covered with whitecaps and the air full of blown spume; the gale looked like turning into a full-blown storm. He'd travelled by ship on several occasions and had been seasick each time, but never had he sailed in conditions like this. Next to suffocation in a lightless pit, drowning was the death he feared most.

Fingering his black sword in its sheath, he wondered what to do. Should he try to find out what had happened to the scrutator? He paced another hour; two; three. Flydd did not come. Nish was tempted to go looking for him, though Flydd had given strict orders to remain here. Surely Flydd had gone to see the master, and perhaps the master had not been pleased about the loss of all that coin.

Succumbing to a mad impulse, Nish said to the captain, 'Don't go without me. There's double the gold in it for you,' and raced down the gangplank.

It was a good fifteen minutes' run to the master's mansion and his knee and ankle were troubling him long before he got there. The great brass doors were closed and the door warden would hardly open them for a junior officer in an army that had been eating its head off at the master's expense. On the other hand, the fellow on morning duty now might not have seen him before, so if he could pull it off…Nish was not sure he dared. How could one man beat the master of a city and all his guards? But he had cast his lot with the scrutator; he could not fail now.

Drawing his sword, Nish rapped three times on the door with the silver hilt. Wrapping the cloak around his uniform, he pulled his hood over his face. The door was opened a crack.

'Perquisitor Mun-Mun Hlar to see the master, without delay!' he snapped, taking the name of his oldest brother.

The master is still in his bed,' said the door warden. 'Come back in the afternoon.'

Nish caught him by his frilly shirt-front and jerked him forwards. 'I'm Perquistor Hlar,' he snarled. 'I've come all the way from the Council of Scrutators with an urgent message for the master. I demand admittance, at once.' He put the blade of his sword against the lackey's neck.

The man collapsed like a punctured bladder. 'At once,' he said, bobbing and puffing. 'Follow me, Perquisitor, surr.'

Nish accompanied him up the steps, prodding the door warden every so often to remind him that perquisitors were ruthless fellows. For everyone's sake, he must not falter now. Flydd had a plan but Nish did not know what it was. If this lout got in the way, too bad for him.

Outside the master's doors, inlaid with rosewood and gilt, the door warden hesitated, then raised his hand to knock.

Nish whacked him over the buttocks with the flat of the sword. 'Just open it. I'll announce myself.'

Giving him a terrified glance, the door warden lifted the latch and went in. Nish followed, treading on his heels. Easing the door shut with his foot, he bolted it. He could not risk anyone coming to investigate.

Raising his fist, he struck the door warden on the back of the head in the way he'd been taught in his defence training, long ago. The man crumpled to the floor. Nish went around a couple of corners into a bedchamber the size of a small mansion, with tables, chairs and divans enough to furnish a house. At the further end, by a crackling fire, stood an eight-post bed the size of a clanker.

The master was sitting up in bed, facing the other way, reading a set of dispatches. A red wallet lay on the covers. Even from halfway down the room Nish recognised it as a Council of Scrutators message wallet. Flydd's secret had been exposed.

Scampering to the wall, he fleeted along until he was behind the head of the bed and drew his sword. Nish took a deep breath, slid around the bedpost and put his sword to the master's throat. 'Where is the scrutator?' he hissed.

The master looked up calmly. 'I'm not going to tell you, Cryl-Nish Hlar. Your father is dead and you are an outcast condemned by the scrutators. Put down your sword.'

Nish had expected the master to be a blustering coward who would do anything to save his own neck. For a second, the defiance threw him. Well, damn him; the fate of the world might rest on Nish getting the scrutator out alive. The master was a villain; let him take his chances.

He flicked the sword at the master's face. The man threw up his arms and Nish slashed the tip of the sword across his wrist, severing an artery. Blood spurted right across the bed. The master gasped then caught the wrist in his other hand and pressed hard with his thumb. The flow dropped to a trickle, and stopped.

The violence sickened Nish but there was no alternative. He pressed his blade to the man's throat. 'You may survive that, but not the jugular. Well?'

The master was a quick thinker and a pragmatic man. He's downstairs, in my cells. I have the keys here.' With his elbow he indicated a hook on the wall. 'I'll take you.' 'At once,' said Nish, snatching the keys. 'And remember, I'm a condemned criminal with nothing to lose. I don't care if you live or die. Nor, I suspect, do the scrutators, since your profits come at the expense of theirs.'

They went down the master's personal staircase and along to the cells, a row of small rooms with solid wooden doors. 'Take the keys,' said Nish. 'Open the door.'

'My wrist …' grimaced the master.

'If you're quick you won't bleed to death.' Nish put his sword to the man's throat again.

The master let go his wrist and grabbed the ring of keys. Blood spurted, though not as far as before. He forced a key into the lock, tried to turn it but let go and grabbed hold of his wrist. Blood dripped from his fingers.

Nish turned the key one way. Nothing happened. He turned it the other and the lock clicked. He kicked the door open, still covering the master with his sword, though the man was now crouched on the floor, trying to stem the flow. His thumb kept slipping on his red wrist.