Ian Irvine - Geomancer

It was hot; the bin backed onto the kitchen ranges. Sweat trickled down her back.

‘Not yet!’ a man’s voice said sharply. ‘Mathys, do the laundry. Hysso, check the pantries and cupboards. I’ll go through the kitchen. Lock every door as you come out. Matron, put someone in every corridor. As soon as she moves, we’ll find her. Mathys?’

‘I’m working!’ said a petulant young woman’s voice.

The room search was a series of long silences punctuated by rattles and bangs. Tiaan wondered if the servant had gone or was waiting silently for her to emerge from some hiding place.

After one long interval there came a thud and the laundry pressed down on her. Mathys must have climbed into the bin. Was she pulling all the washing out? If she did, there was no chance of avoiding discovery. Tiaan would have to knock her out. She would do anything short of murder to get away.

The weight eased. Tiaan was not game to move – even under all these clothes the servant girl must feel it. It became brighter, as if she was inspecting the bin with a lantern. A sudden, heart-stopping panic. What if she dropped it? The filmy nightwear would catch fire instantly.

Tiaan felt her moving away, walking up the other end of the bin. The movements went on for ages, then a little thump as she jumped back out.

‘Mathys!’ came Matron’s angry shout.

‘In the laundry, Matron.’

‘Haven’t you finished yet? Lazy slut of a girl!’ A slap, a cry broken off. ‘Did you check the laundry bin?’

‘Yes,’ said the girl sullenly.

‘You took all the washing out?’

‘Yes,’ Mathys lied. ‘I was just putting it back in.’

‘Leave it – there’s still a hundred rooms to search. Come on, and lock that door behind you!’

The door slammed. The lock clicked. Tiaan waited in case it was a ruse. After five minutes, when there had been no further sound, she judged it safe to come out. Emerging as slowly as a butterfly from a cocoon, she found the room empty. Creeping to the back door, she attacked the lock. It proved more difficult than the other. The mechanism must not have been oiled in ages. She forced too hard and the prong of her fork broke off.

Easing it out with the other, Tiaan tried again. It was tense work; if she broke this prong she’d be finished. However, after some minutes, the lock clicked. She eased open the door, letting in a blast of frigid air. She had to have warm clothes, and food if she could possibly find any. She was cut off from both by the locked door. Was she game to pick it and go back in?

A distant angry shout convinced her not to try. She would have to go hungry. Tiaan hacked a woollen blanket in two, folded it over half a dozen times and bound it around her feet with strips torn from a sheet. She put on eight nightgowns, one over the top of another, hoping that enough layers would compensate for their individual flimsiness.

Tiaan hunted for another blanket but could not find one. She made do with three sheets wrapped around her, tying them at the waist with another strip of linen. A flint striker, on the shelf above the coppers, caught her eye. She tied it into her sash. It could well save her life. She took a handful of tinder too. Tiaan pulled the door closed and, mindful of her previous failure, bent to lock it.

That proved even harder, but finally the door clicked. She scurried away, gravel crunching underfoot. It was freezing outside – puddles from the earlier rain had iced over. Layers of filmy cloud hid the setting moon. It must be around four in the morning.

Daylight was around seven-thirty so she did not have long to get out of Tiksi. She crept up the side of the building, walking on the paved edges of the gardens, and out the carriage entrance. The front door was open, the doorman standing in the light talking to Matron. A carriage waited nearby. The horse’s breath steamed, as did a pile of manure behind it. Slinking into the shadows, Tiaan made her way up the street.

There was no one about – even the rare drifters who spent summer nights sleeping in doorways and under bridges would be in shelter on a night like this. Tiaan headed toward the western gate, avoiding the smoggy haloes surrounding occasional street lamps.

Not long after, a closed carriage clopped past. It looked like the one she’d seen outside the front door. Pressed back under a leafless bush, Tiaan doubted that she had been seen. The driver, swathed in greatcoat and fur hat, stared fixedly ahead, no doubt desperately wanting to get home.

It was strange being out alone at this hour. Everything had a misty, unreal air. Fog crept up the street, assuming shapes reminiscent of dream or nightmare. Shadows waxed and waned as the moon drifted in and out of hurrying clouds. The staid buildings of Tiksi joined together to form fairy castles or hellish dungeons.

Tiaan was not frightened. There was little crime in Tiksi, since everyone above the age of six worked at least twelve hours a day. The mist and shadows were her friends.

Approaching an intersection, she heard the clump of hobnailed boots. She ducked under a hedge, holding her breath as a watchman paced by. He walked like a man who had been on the beat too long, looking neither left nor right.

A sudden gust lifted her robes, replacing the layer of warmth with freezing air. Her exposed arms were aching. Tiaan hurried on. She had to get on the mountain road well before dawn. As soon as it was light, the carriers would move out with their daily loads. No doubt there’d be a reward for her and it would be difficult to escape a hunt up there. There were few paths and, at this time of year, little chance of survival off them. Dressed like this, no chance.

She made it to the western gate unnoticed. A sudden flurry of sleet caught her out in the open. It wetted only the outer layer of her clothing, and her hair, but ice water began to penetrate her blanket boots.

The gate, when she reached it, posed a greater challenge. The guard was pacing up and down. She could see no way to get past him.

Tiaan waited near a small well, across the way from the open guardhouse. Though a brazier glowed inside, it must have been freezing in there. No doubt that was why the guard was marching so vigorously. It gave her an idea.

The pattern of his movements did not vary. He walked fifty paces up the road inside the wall, striding furiously, turned, paced back, looked across to the gate and continued for another fifty paces. Each time, his back was turned for less than a minute, not enough to climb the gate.

Tiaan needed a diversion. Taking the bucket off its hook, she hid it in the shadows across the street. As soon as the watchman turned away she scampered to the guardhouse, her blanketed feet making no sound on the cobbles. Inside was no more than a cupboard, a row of hooks on which hung two oilskin coats, and a pair of boots below them. She spilled hot coals from the brazier into the pocket of one oilskin. It began to smoke. She knocked the other coat down, tipped the brazier onto it and was about to dash out when she heard the guard tramping back. Thud-click, thud-click as a metal heel-piece struck the cobbles.

It had taken too long. Tiaan crouched down, praying that he did not see the smoke rising from the oilskin, or come in to warm himself. If he did she was undone.

The footsteps stopped opposite the gate. Tiaan prepared to defend herself, hopeless as that was. She held her breath. Silence.

The footsteps resumed, thud-clicking away. Tiaan blew on the spilled coals; the oilskin burst into flame. She dashed out, hid across the road in the shadows, then made a noise vaguely like a cat screaming.