The Crow (46 page)

Hem paused, and studied Ire.
I need your help, Ire,
he said.
I need you to tell Hared what I'm doing, and then to stay close to the camp, so I can get messages to you. I'll work out how – there'll be a way. It will have to be mindtouching.

On my own? You want me to stay on my own?
Ire flapped his wings in sudden alarm.

I'll be on my own, too. But I have to find Zelika, and get her out.

You're mad.

Maybe. But I have to. I can't leave her here.
Hem looked at Ire; the crow had turned his head so he could fix Hem with one unblinking yellow eye. He could feel Ire's anxiety.
I'm sorry, Ire. I want to go back more than anything, but I have to do this first. Help me.

Ire turned his back on Hem, and preened his feathers.

Please, Ire.

The crow looked up, and then moved close. Hem stroked Ire's crisp, cool feathers, regretting the loss of his whiteness: the motley dye was practical, but it marred Ire's usual smooth beauty.

I'll help,
Ire said.
I understand that you do not want to leave your friend. And I do not want to leave you.

Sudden tears pricked Hem's eyes.
Thank you,
he said. He picked Ire up, put him on his lap and gently scratched his neck.

I'm going to go in tomorrow. I've worked out how to get in, but after that I'll have to see what happens. Stay as close as you can, so I can reach you if I need to.

Ire was silent for some time, his eyes half-closed with pleasure as Hem tickled his neck.

What if they make you dead?
he asked at last.

Then you go back to Hared,
said Hem.
But they won't make me dead.

He returned to his disguising spell. He had been correct: it wasn't so hard to manage a partial change. He made himself gaunt and starveling. He would look like a Suderain version of himself; it would last five days. With any luck he would not have to renew it. The magery left him utterly drained.

Ire examined him sharply.
You are not Hem anymore,
he said at last.
Who are you?

With a dropping of his heart, Hem realized that although he had thought of everything else, he hadn't given himself a new name.
I'm Bared,
he said, after a pause.
I am a simple boy from a village, and I can't speak too good. My village burned down, and I ran away and lived in the plains by myself. I'm hungry.

Ire made the throaty sound that meant he was laughing.

Hem examined his strangely dark hands as he ate his midday meal. He was very afraid of what he had decided to do, but at the same time, he knew his decision was irrevocable.

After he finished eating he carefully went through his pack, putting aside most of its contents. He drank the remaining medhyl and put the flask on the ground. His mail and battered leather armor went with it, and the remains of his food, which he wrapped carefully against damp. He debated for some time whether to take his shortsword; he was fond of it and it weighed well in his hand, but its hilt was plated with gold and enameled with Turbanskian blue. It was too grand a weapon for a ragged boy fleeing war. In the end, he put it aside. He unpinned the sun-shaped brooch, the token that showed he was a Turbanskian Bard, and put it with his sword. Lastly, with a wrench, he took the Pellinor medallion from around his neck. He tipped it out of its cloth bag, and stroked it with his fingers before he put it with the rest. It was still his most precious possession, and he did not like to leave it. He kept a spare jerkin, and his water bag. His pack was now very empty.

He dug a shallow hole and put all his possessions inside it. He stamped down the red soil and covered it with brush and a glimveil, wondering as he did so whether he would ever return to dig them up. Ire watched his preparations curiously, without saying anything.

Then Hem took a deep breath. Strangely, despite his fear, he felt very calm and sure.

Right,
he said.
I'm going now. Tell Hared what I'm doing, and then come back as soon as you can.

It's a long way,
the crow complained.
And I just flew there yesterday and there are nasty things in the air.

I know. But you are a King's messenger, Ire, the bravest of birds. You can do it.

Ire puffed up his chest feathers. His vanity, thought Hem with sudden fondness, was always reliable.

Go well, Ire,
he said.
I will try to touch you when I can, but do not panic if it takes a while.

The crow brushed Hem's face with his beak, and launched himself into the air. Hem watched until he couldn't see him anymore.

He waited until sunset, but before it was completely dark. Then he shielded himself, locking fast his inner self. He was Bared now, not Hem. He straightened his shoulders, and walked slowly down the hill, toward the camp.

After days of shadowmazing and creeping from tree to tree, he felt horribly visible. As he drew closer, he saw with a shudder that dogsoldiers were keeping watch from the high wooden platforms that rose above the fences. For a moment panic clutched him, and he almost turned and ran. He thought of Zelika, and forced himself to continue, his pulse fluttering in his throat.

He walked with a stumbling gait, like someone tired and half-starved. His hair was matted from days of traveling rough, and he stank of old sweat. He had rubbed his clothes in the dust to make them more ragged and filthy. His sandals were scuffed and worn, and although they were well-made, of good leather, he had not discarded them, reckoning they looked poor enough to pass muster; he had no desire to go barefoot. As he approached the camp, he triple-checked his shielding. He did not have to counterfeit his nervousness.

Even with his Bard senses hidden, he felt the shock of vigilances silently triggering alarms in the darkening air. He braced himself and shambled steadily on, expecting any moment to feel an arrow in his breast. Nothing stirred.

When he reached the gate he stopped, momentarily baffled. He had expected to be challenged by now. He examined it closely, wondering what to do. Its planks were lashed together with rough iron bands, and the wood was so recently hewn it was still raw. It was broad enough to permit a dozen people to walk through, but fitted inside it was a smaller, iron-bound door. Hem tried banging his fists on the door, feeling foolish, but the solid wood absorbed the sound. He stood back and recklessly waved at the nearest dogsoldier. It didn't move or respond in any way.

In the end, he sat down on the churned dirt of the road, leaning his back on the gate, and simply waited. He couldn't think of anything else to do, aside from walking away. It was now almost full night. Why didn't someone come and get him? A faint hunting howl echoed in the distance and he looked fearfully out into the night: he didn't know what beasts roamed out there, nor how close they might come to the stockade. It occurred to him that the walls were intended to keep things out, as well as in. Without any magery to protect him, he would rather be inside.

He had almost given up hope of being noticed and was weighing his alternatives when the small door in the gate rattled and opened. He scrambled up nervously. Inside stood a tall woman dressed in a robe of rough, undyed wool, who dragged him inside and bolted the door behind her. She was not a Hull, as he had half expected.

"What are you doing outside?" she hissed. "It's the Blind House for you, at least. Which block are you?"

Hem stared at her in incomprehension. "I'm – I'm hungry," he stammered. "I've walked a long long way, and there's beasties out there, and I ran – "

The woman halted and examined his face; her lips pursed. "You're not one of the curs," she said sharply. "Who are you? Where are you from?"

Hem was standing with his mouth open, trying to look as imbecilic and frightened as possible. The woman slapped him across the face, and he stumbled and almost fell. "Answer me!" she snapped. "Don't waste my time."

Hem clutched his stinging cheek, beginning to whimper. "My name is Bared," he said. "I'm hungry. I got lost."

"Hmmm." The woman paused, looking at him sideways with her eyes screwed almost shut. "Well, then, Bared. You must come to our welcoming chamber, and we will see. Follow me."

"Eat?" asked Hem pathetically.

"Yes, yes, you'll be given something to eat. Now shut up."

Hem followed her, surreptitiously looking around him as they went. On either side of him were rows of low windowless buildings, arranged around a huge square of beaten earth. The woman led him across the square to one of the few places with lighted windows. They entered a small, mean room off a hallway. It was, at least, warm. Along one wall was a bench, but otherwise it was empty and featureless. The woman pointed.

"Wait here," she said peremptorily, and disappeared through a door into another room.

Hem sat down heavily on the bench, grateful to be out of the cold. Now came the part that had made him most apprehensive: there was sure to be some kind of examination. And, his heart hammering, he wondered if they might connect his appearance with Zelika's, if they might suspect that he was a spy. He wasn't sure how well his disguise would hold up under close scrutiny. How deeply could he shield himself? Would he be scried? Scrying was his only real fear: not even Bards could protect themselves against that cruel examination.

He had thought long on this question and he knew he was gambling his luck. He was hoping that to scry him would be too much trouble. Bards were very reluctant to use scrying, in part because it was a deep intrusion into another's mind, but also because it was an extremely difficult and exhausting process. Hem was sure it would be the same for Hulls who were, after all, a kind of Bard; perhaps it would be worse for them, because they scried without assent, and would have to battle past the other's resistance. Surely Hulls were subject to mortal tiredness, even if they did not die in the usual way? Would a hungry, exhausted child be worth scrying? He gnawed his fingernails viciously, fighting to keep his anxiety under control.

He was Bared. He was lost and frightened and exhausted. His family was dead.

Hem emptied his mind of everything except the desire for something to eat. His mouth fell slack and he began to drool slightly.

The woman was gone a long time.

Hem heard returning footsteps. Even before they entered the room, he knew that the woman was accompanied by a Hull. He fought his instinctive horror. Bared would not be able to sense a Hull. What would Bared think? Bared would wonder immediately if he was about to be given supper. Hem looked up, a starveling hope stamped on his face, and when he saw their hands were empty, he stared down again in dull disappointment.

"Stand up when a master enters the room!" barked the woman.

Hem stood up with dull obedience. Where was his dinner?

"Tell the master your name and your story."

Hem licked his lips nervously. "My name is Bared," he said, and stopped, flicking nervous glances at the two figures before him.

"And how came you here?"

"I-I don't know."

The woman lifted her hand to slap him again, and he cringed away and started babbling.

"My people are gone, my da, my ma – a terrible thing, fire and dead people, blood, all the screams... I run away. I been running and running. I couldn't find anyone. There are bad things in the dark and I'm lost and I'm so hungry..."

Cramps of nausea were ripping his stomach; they were very like the pangs of tearing hunger he had often felt when he was a young child. For the first time he glanced at the Hull, and momentarily his sickness doubled and a cold sweat broke on his skin. He shifted his gaze so it was indirect, trying to see in his peripheral vision what form the Hull was assuming; his Bard eyes could see through the glimmerspell that cloaked the living horror of its face. Red-lit eyes glared from an undead skull, hairless parchment skin drawn tightly over bone. He dared not betray his visceral revulsion; to do so was tantamount to admitting that he was a Bard. He doubted that the Hull would come before a terrified child without a glamour to hide itself.

To his relief, Hem finally caught a glimpse of the Hull's glimmerspelled form out of the corner of his eye. What he saw made him catch his breath with shock, as he focused his upper mind fiercely on his cramps. The Hull seemed a beautiful woman, dressed in a long, red robe, her dark hair falling freely down her back. She was tall and full-breasted, with a warm and gentle face.

"You will be given food when you answer some questions," said the first woman in a softer voice. "Now, tell the nice lady where you are from."

He looked up, steeling himself not to flinch at the Hull's masklike countenance, and smiled ingratiatingly through his tears. The woman Bared could see was kind, she would help him, she would feed him...

"I was at Inil-Han-Atar," said Hem. He remembered the carnage at that village and let the sobs well up again inside him. "It's all gone – no one left, no food left. I ate beetles..." He sniffed and wiped his nose with the back of his hand.

"And what is your name?" The Hull spoke for the first time. Hem knew that Bared would hear a mild tone, rather than the hollow, sexless voice he otherwise heard, and he let himself imagine it. He leaned forward eagerly, like a beaten dog craving a kind word.

"Bared, miss." He sniffed again. "My name is Bared."

"And what did you do in Inil-Han-Atar, Bared?"

"Miss, I helped with the goats. Tanshun said I was no good, but I was good with them, I looked after them, and now they're all dead..." His face creased and he started again to blubber, hoping against hope that neither of the beings in front of him was familiar with Inil-Han-Atar.

A chill shivered down his spine as he felt the Hull's mind probing his. It felt disgusting, as if slimy tentacles were caressing him intimately with a loathly gentleness. Hem was prepared for this: it was not scrying, but the mindtouching by which Bards sometimes communicated and which would reveal his conscious feelings. He had no idea if Bared would be aware of a Hull examining him this way, but he expected that he would sense something. Fortunately, Hem's nausea was so bad now it dominated everything; and he did not have to fake most of what Bared would be feeling. He was truly lost and frightened and alone.