Peter Newman - The Deathless

‘There’s no one here but us, captain,’ said Rochant, the epitome of calm.

‘That’s a lie,’ replied Dil, ‘but then you’ve always been good at lying, haven’t you?’

If the sudden change of tone surprised Rochant, again he gave no sign. ‘Ah. I see anger in your eyes and can only assume I am responsible. Whatever the problem is, let us solve it peaceably. You have always been reasonable, even as a boy. Negotiation is the only path, surely you can see that?’

Dil snarled and sprang across the gap.

Still weak from the ritual rebirth, Rochant was unable to defend himself and Dil clapped something over his mouth, hissing, ‘I don’t want to hear your voice ever again. But I want you to know that I was the one that ended your line. Me!’

Pari could see her lover struggling to breathe. Dil intended to kill him, wanted to, but something was holding him back. Perhaps he just wanted to make Rochant suffer first but that didn’t fit. The man seemed impatient, even desperate, to get revenge. Whatever the reason, she would not stand idly by as her lover was murdered. She edged into position, removing her remaining earring. The pin was too short to be very effective but if she could get it into one of his eyes, she might have a chance.

But, before she could make her move, another figure appeared at the door.

‘We’ve searched the castle. There’s no sign of the baby or the mother.’

‘Then search further,’ snapped Dil, releasing the pressure from Rochant’s face, ‘and keep searching until you find them.’

Without a word, the silhouette vanished as quickly as it came.

From nearby, startling Pari, the woman spoke, ‘What now?’ She’d been so absorbed in what was happening to Rochant, she hadn’t realized how close she’d come to being discovered.

‘Have you found the Tanzanite?’ Dil demanded.

‘You’d know if I had.’

Dil swore under his breath, then covered Rochant’s mouth again, and Pari tensed, the urge to protect her lover battling a strong instinct that she should wait, though it tore at her to stand by.

Dil maintained the pressure until Rochant stopped struggling and flopped on the slab, unconscious.

‘You, grab one end,’ he called out to the man, then to the woman, ‘you the other. We take him with us.’

‘They won’t like this,’ muttered the woman.

‘Piss on them! We can’t kill him yet and we can’t leave him here. Now do what I say.’

Pari stayed silent as the two assassins carried Rochant from the room, Dil following behind. Several times he checked over his shoulder, but each time, she ducked out of sight. She was just about to give chase when the door swung shut behind them, sealing her inside.

In the dark again, Pari fumbled her way forward until her palms pressed against stone, then the door they’d left through. She tried the handle but the door was locked. Frantically, she made her way round the outside of the chamber to the first door, the one the Bringers had used, but this too was locked. She let her forehead rest against the stone, trying not to panic as she thought about what to do next. About Rochant. About Chandni and the baby.

To be of any use she had to escape, and there was only one other way out of the Rebirthing Chamber.

Pari hugged herself tight, feeling the many complaints of her tired, aching body.

Come on! she urged herself and felt her way to the third exit. It was set into the floor directly beneath the slab of stone that Rochant had recently lain on; seven hinged triangles that could be released independently or all at once. This allowed the Bringers to jettison abominations, slab and all, without needing to untie them, and ensured they would fall fast and hard. She felt the edge of one of the triangles, marvelling at the intricate designs under her fingertips that would never be seen or appreciated by anyone save the Bringers, and pushed down. Unlike the other doors, this opened easily, and a cool breeze washed across her face. Pari climbed inside, settling her legs over the edge of the chute.

The other end would eject her from a hole at the base of the floating castle. If she failed to hold on, a long drop would follow to the chasm waiting below, and then another, into the bowels of the earth and beyond.

In order to avoid thinking about what could go wrong, she thought of Rochant, and she thought of Dil, of what she would do to the traitor when she caught up with him. And she thought of the mystery demanding to be solved.

And then she jumped.

Chandni blinked, at least she thought it was only a blink, but when her eyes opened she was sat in a chair, Satyendra in her lap, and a thick wad of fabric strapped around her hand and several bands wrapped painfully tight around her wrist. Underneath the padding her hand felt hot, far too hot.

On the floor at her feet the assassin was sprawled out flat, dead, her expression frozen halfway between smug and surprised.

‘Nasty little fingers,’ said the cook, looking at the body with disdain. ‘Dirty nails. In all my years I’ve never seen one of good Lord Rochant’s soldiers with dirty nails. You can’t trust one that can’t clean themselves.’

‘Thank you, Roh. I won’t forget this, but how did you—’

The cook waved off her questions and hooked a bag over Chandni’s shoulder, plucking her own cloak from a peg. It was warm from the stove and full of pouches, many of which felt full. ‘Eat from the left pockets but not the right, Honoured Mother, never the right.’

She tried to take this in as a wave of nausea hit her. ‘I don’t … I don’t feel myself, there was poison …’

‘Aye. I’ve drawn and treated it best I can. Have to wait and see now. Stick a pin in the wound when the suns are at their peak. If you don’t feel the pin, lose the hand. Then stick a pin in your wrist, your forearm, until it hurts. Keep what hurts, Honoured Mother, lose the rest.’

Chandni nodded, too shocked to speak as the cook unbarred the outer door and pulled it open. Air, cold and fresh, rushed in, and she closed the cloak around Satyendra to protect him.

The cook helped her to her feet and propelled her towards the door. ‘Do you have somewhere to go?’

‘I do, a—’

The cook raised a finger, mirroring Chandni’s earlier gesture with almost mocking perfection. ‘Less you say, Honoured Mother, less I can say.’

‘There are more enemies in the castle. They’ll be angry that you helped me.’

‘They won’t suspect a daft old woman,’ replied the cook with a wink, pushing Chandni outside.

‘But what are you going to do about the body?’

The cook tapped the side of her nose and smiled to reveal a full set of yellowing teeth. ‘Don’t worry, Honoured Mother,’ she said as she closed the door, ‘they won’t even find the bones.’

Chandni stumbled away from the castle. She was so tired she felt it should be dark outside, but all three suns were just visible on the horizon, the two greater ones, red and gold, Vexation and Fortune’s Eye, only half visible, while the smaller third, Wrath’s Tear, arced above.

Underneath her cloak, a small hand tugged at Chandni’s nightdress and she realized she’d stopped moving. She’d lost focus, lost time, staring at the suns like a simpleton.

This will not do!

She staggered on, feeling the vibrations beneath her feet. For the great chunk of rock that the castle sat on was shot through with veins of crystal, and these crystals chimed and sang, rising and falling like the tides.

Though Rochant’s castle floated it was not static above the chasm, it bobbed slowly up and down. Because of its size these movements were rarely noticed, like being on board a vast ship, but if one looked outside, they would see the horizon gradually moving.