Alchymist (41 page)

On
the other side of the patch of forest he emerged into an open area of short
grass and grey rock, covered with an array of pinnacles roughly the size of
termite mounds. Gleaming whitely in the moonlight, it looked like a field of
standing stones, but why had they been assembled here, of all places? He
scanned the sky; not a cloud. The night was absolutely still. Curious, Nish
gathered the cloak about him and, keeping his head low, slid like a shadow
across the grass.

Reaching
the first pinnacle, he ducked behind it. It wasn't a standing stone at all, but
a long vertical blade of limestone formed by the elements. Its top has been
etched by rain into a series of steeples with fluted, razor-sharp edges. Nish
wandered along the shadowed side, feeling the smooth rock with his fingers.

He
had just passed around the edge when he heard the faint but distinctive creak
of a crossbow being wound back. As Nish threw himself into the shadows, a bolt
smashed right through the blade of stone above his head. He scampered the other
way, using all the cover he could, then ran for his life. The guard must be
jumpy, to fire without knowing what he was shooting at. The glamour still
covered Nish but his shadow had given him away.

There
was shouting behind him, and answers to left and right, but Nish did not call
out his name. It occurred to him, rather belatedly, that he should not have
left the camp. He would get a severe dressing down from Flydd and Troist if he
revealed himself, to say nothing of the risk of being shot by an over-anxious
sentry. Better to wait until the guards had settled down, then sneak back in.
On second thought, Troist's well-drilled guards would stay alert all watch. He
decided to circle around and approach the camp from the other side.

He
concentrated on moving with absolute stealth and, as he progressed, silence
settled around him. He was past the last line of guards. Beyond the pinnacle
field he encountered another patch of forest, after which Nish found himself
crossing a rugged expanse of grey limestone etched into mounds and sinkholes,
grey ridges only a few spans high and canyons little deeper. Shortly that
developed into another pinnacle field, much more extensive than the first.

He'd
gone further than he'd planned. Beyond, Nish knew from Troist's map, a steep
escarpment ramped down to the broad oval box-valley of Gumby Marth, where
Jal-Nish's army was camped. On the far side, white peaks rose up equally steep
and sharp while the upper end of the valley was defended by a sheer limestone
cliff.

He
tried to work out his position. Gumby Marth narrowed to a rocky neck halfway
down, there falling sharply away before broadening out in the direction of
Gnulp Landing. The lyrinx could not come through the neck without being seen.

They
might fly in, but lyrinx in the air were vulnerable to archers and
spear-throwers, unless they came at night, and Jal-Nish would be sure to have
his watch-fires burning.

On
the other hand, if they held the neck of Gumby Marth they could bottle up
Jal-Nish's army and starve them out. Why had his father brought his army into
such a perilous battleground? Surely he was planning a trap of his own. He must
have some secret weapon or strategy, but what could it be?

The
precipice could be no more than ten minutes away. So near, and if Nish went to
the edge he would see the camp fires and, in this moonlight, even the tents and
clankers, far below. And, Nish rationalised, if Troist did catch him sneaking
into camp, having information about Jal-Nish's forces might get him out of
trouble. I'll do it, he thought. I'll just slip across to the edge, have a
quick look and go back.

The
moon told him that it was after nine o'clock. He could be back in his hammock
by ten. Edging through the rows of pinnacles, he found himself in a narrow
defile where the light did not penetrate. It was so dark that it was eerie. As
he felt his way along, imagining what might be lurking in those thousands of
narrow walkways, his heart began to pound. Nish's outstretched hand touched an
edge so sharp that it slid through the skin. He drew back, muffling a yelp. As
he licked his fingers, the hairs on the back of his neck came erect.

Nish
looked around. It felt as if someone was watching him, though that did not make
sense. The passage between the pinnacles was barely wide enough for his
shoulders. He crept back, hands outstretched like a sleepwalker, but
encountered only rock. If someone had been following him, they were gone. He
could not be seen from above — nothing heavier than a sparrow could have
perched on those razor-topped edges.

Shrugging
the unease away, he kept going and eventually found a way through the maze to
the other side. Only as he emerged onto an expanse of white rock, almost
glowing in the bright moonlight, did the feeling of being watched dissipate.

Making
it to the edge unscathed, he looked down on the oval of Gumby Marth, hundreds
of spans below. Countless watch-fires blazed on this side, up to his right,
marking out the rectangular pattern of the army camp. The shapes of the tents
were clearly visible, as well as the camouflaged outlines of the clankers. Nish
was looking along the length of the cliff when his eye caught a dark,
fluttering shape, halfway down.

A
lyrinx, spying on Jal-Nish's army! Did that mean the attack was imminent? Now
what was he supposed to do? Nish's initial impulse was to go back though, if
the enemy were about to attack, the warning would come too late. Troist's army
was still a day's march away.

He
leaned out as far as he dared, caught another brief glimpse of that moving
form, then lost it. It seemed too big to be a man, and the wrong shape. It had
to be the enemy, and his duty was horribly clear — he must climb down the
cliff, if he could without killing himself, and take the warning to his father.

At
that thought, Nish's heart began to pound like a threshing machine. Was there
any other way? Even if he screamed out a warning at the top of his voice, it
would not carry as far as the camp. No; he had to go down.

The
escarpment consisted of a series of cliffs broken by rock outcrops only
marginally less steep. After some searching along the edge, he discovered what
appeared to be a goat track heading down, though in the moonlight he would be
easily spotted against the pale rock.

Taking
off the black cloak, he tied it around his waist and set off, hanging on with
hands, feet and knees. It was a long, difficult climb, dangerous, too, for the
moonlight played Kicks. Once he was about to step on what seemed solid rock,
only to realise that there was nothing underneath his foot but empty air.

After
a good interval of heart-in-the-mouth scrambling, Nish was creeping down a
precipitous defile, anxiously watching a small cloud that had covered the moon,
and hoping he could get to the bottom before it shone out again. As he reached
the base of a knob of white rock shaped like a brain impaled on a stick, a
guard stepped out in front of him and levelled his spear. The man was huge: as
high and wide as a door, with a cape that stretched out behind him in the updraught.

Nish
was not armed. Not intending to leave the camp, he'd left his weapon in the
clanker. The soldier jerked his spear and Nish thought it was going right
through his belly.

'I'm
not a spy!' he gasped.

'Hands
in the air!'

Nish
complied and the moon shone full on his face. There was a long pause, then an
astonished cry: 'Well, blow me if it isn't Cryl-Nish Hlar, and hardly changed!
What the blazes are you doing here?'

The
soldier's face was in shadow. Nish had no idea who he was, though the nasal tones
were vaguely familiar, and the man had an Einunar accent.

'Should
I know you?' he said hesitantly.

'You
certainly should.' The soldier emitted a booming bellow of a laugh. 'We used to
play together when we were little, Cry-Nish.'

The
soldier came out of the shadow. He had a big square head, dark curly hair and a
grin that crinkled one corner of his mouth. Nish stared at him. Memory stirred.
'Xabbier? Xabbier Frou?'

'At
your service.' He put out a hand the size of a lobster.

Nish
clasped it in both of his, remembering Xabbier fondly: a big, rough but kindly
boy, always breaking things and being punished for it, which he'd shrugged off
with that endearing grin. He'd more than once rescued Nish from schoolyard
bullies who'd picked on him because of his father's reputation. 'How did you
get here? I haven't seen you since I was . . , nine or ten, I suppose. It's
good to see you, Xabbier.'

'And
you Cryl-Nish. I worked with my father for a while, lawyering, and hated every
moment of it. One day I walked out and joined the army. It's a bloody life, but
better than being a poxy notary. I ended up in a unit that your father took to
the manufactory near Tiksi, and after that I came west on one of the
air-floaters.’

And
now you're a guard for my father.' Try as he might to repress it, there was the
faintest hint of scorn, that Xabbier should have ended up a common soldier.

Xabbier
was not easily slighted. He gave Nish a cheerful clap on the back that almost
drove shards of backbone into his lungs. 'I'm a lieutenant now, and will be
made captain if we survive the coming battle.' He frowned at that thought, then
grinned. 'Which of course we must. I like to take my turn at sentry duty.
Prefer the air out here to the fug in the command tents.'

Not
to mention the company of my father, Nish thought.

Xabbier
scanned the slope, up and down. Nish stood beside him, thinking about his
childhood. They had been friends until Xabbier's mother had died in childbirth
and his father moved to another town.

Seeing
nothing, the soldier turned back to Nish. 'What are you doing here, Cryl-Nish,
creeping about like a spy? You're not a spy, are you?' Xabbier gave Nish a
troubled look. 'I know what your father did to you, and there's not a man in
this army agrees with him. I won't speak a word against him, out of respect for
you, but my men obey him out of sheer terror.' He shook his head.

'I
was at the top of the cliff, looking over, and I saw a moving shadow halfway
down. I thought it was the enemy, spying on the army ..." It occurred to
Nish that a man as large as Xabbier, with a cape blowing out behind him like a wing,
might easily have been mistaken for a lyrinx in this light.

'Where?'
said Xabbier. 'And when was that?'

That
way.' Nish pointed to the right. 'Nearly an hour ago.'

Xabbier
relaxed. 'It was probably me, but I'll take a look, just in case. He fingered a
coiled horn hanging from his belt, but let it be.

They
did not find anything. 'It must have been me you saw,' said Xabbier. He glanced
at Nish. 'I was glad to hear you'd escaped with the scrutator. He's a good man,
but. . . But Nish, why are you here?'

Nish
chose his words carefully. Though Troist's army had come to aid this one, he
did not have leave to reveal that secret. 'I can see what you're thinking,
Xabbier. I'm held to be a traitor and now I've been found spying . . .' Though
Xabbier's manner was friendly, Nish knew the soldier would not shirk his duty,
if it came to it. 'Ever since my father took command, I've been afraid he was
leading the army into a trap. I had to find out.' Though that was the truth as
far as it went, to Nish's ears it sounded unconvincing.

Two
meaty hands took him by the shoulders, and Xabbier turned Nish so that the moon
lit his face again. 'I'm troubled, Cryl-Nish. I should turn you in — my life is
forfeit if I don't. Yet I still feel I know you, and I don't believe you'd lie
to me. And the people's scrutator, Xervish Flydd, is said to hold you in high
regard. Even the slaves on the hauling teams spoke about it. In our army, no
man is held in greater respect than Xervish Flydd.'

'Even
though he's an outlaw and a non-citizen, cast down from the Council of
Scrutators and condemned?'

'Even
so,' said Xabbier. 'Should Scrutator Flydd appear at our head tomorrow, every
man in this army would follow him. And you're his man, Cryl-Nish, so I'll risk
my life on you and let you go. Don't let me down.'

'Thank
you, Xabbier/ Nish said. 'If I can do anything for you—'

'You
can tell me your story, one day. And when the war's over, I'll tell it to my
children. I've often heard tales about you, these past six months, and wondered
how you were getting on. I was heartbroken when we left all those years ago.
After my mother died, losing my best friend was more~than I could bear.'

'I'm
sorry,' said Nish. He'd made new friends quickly, as children did at that age.
'It's funny how things turn out, Xabbier. I've done even-thing possible to keep
out of the army. I was sure I'd be sent to the front-lines and be eaten in the
first hour. Yet in the last six months I've lived a more dangerous life than
most soldiers would.1

'You'd
better go, Cryl-Nish.'

Just
then the shrubbery rustled a few spans away and another sentry appeared. 'It's
been a long watch, Xabbier. I'll be glad — who the blazes is this?'

Xabbier
swore under his breath and his grip tightened on Nish's arm. Nish cursed too.
There was no way Xabbier could let him go now.