The Crow (48 page)

The sorceries he furtively sniffed – vigilances at each doorway, sensate wooden walls, tricks of mind control and surveillance – were minor. They were not enough to account for the spellbinding of the snouts. Moreover, no one had tried to do anything to him. He was just one of the many others, ignored: nobody had tried to bewitch him or even tried any kind of mass mindcharm. As he lay on his thin pallet later, turning over his thoughts while the children around him snored and twitched and cried out in their sleep, he puzzled over what bound them. It was not bewitchment, or not the kind of bewitchment he had assumed. They must be using something else.

He tried to mindtouch Ire that night. He waited until the small hours before he dared to begin. First, just to be sure that his magery would not be detectable, he wove another shield; this one, unlike the shield he used to hide his Bardic nature, was an external shield, a bubble around his body. Then he sent out the summoning, the vibration that only Ire could hear, that only Ire would respond to. It was a while before he got any response, long enough to make him anxious that some accident or worse had befallen his friend; but eventually, faint and sleepy, he felt Ire's voice.

You woke me up, you featherless witling,
he grumbled.
You all right?

Yes,
said Hem, grinning despite himself.
As all right as I can be in this foul place. Did you see Hared?

Aye,
answered Ire.
He was very angry. He wants to wring your neck. I have to report back in three days.

Good idea,
said Hem.
Is he going to stay where he is?

He'll move around. It isn't safe. And he has to go back to The Pit to meet Saliman. But he won't go back to Nal-Ak-Burat until he gets you back,
he said.

Hem breathed out in relief: he had feared that Hared, in his wrath, might abandon him.
Good. Have you found the girl?

No.
Saying so hurt; it seemed to drive home the folly of what he was doing, of what he hoped to do.
No, not yet.

You'd better hurry.

I'm trying. A
sudden tired despair washed over Hem. He hated what he was doing. It was worse than he had imagined; it corroded his very soul.
The sooner I get out of here, the happier I'll be.

I miss you. I'm lonely, you braintwister.

Hem was silent. He knew what he was asking of Ire. He was only a crow, however clever, and yet he was relying on him as much as on any Bard.

I'm lonely too,
he said at last, his mindvoice awash with feeling.
I miss you something fierce, Ire. When we get out of this, I'll buy you a special spoon.

Lots of spoons,
said Ire.
And some nice pretty gems. And even then –

Hem sensed a vigilance begin to stir; perhaps the depth of his feeling had unsettled his shielding.

I've got to go, Ire,
he said hurriedly.
Something's waking. I'll come when I can.

He flickered their tenuous connection shut. The darkness suddenly seemed much darker.

He had never felt so alone in his life.

When he vomited up his dohl again the next morning, Hem began to suspect that the sorcery might be in the food. As with all southern cooking, it was spiced; but the spices tasted cruder and were administered with a heavier hand than Hem had been used to. He wondered where the food was stored, and whether he could bypass the vigilances and guards that would undoubtedly protect it. A casual question to Reaver revealed there were gardens behind the huts, dug by the snouts themselves, where much of their food was grown.

"Don't think you can thieve any, Slasher, boy, even when you're hoeing the weeds," said Reaver, looking at him narrowly. For some reason, Reaver seemed to like him, and had appointed himself his guide and protector in the block. "There's been others thought they could, and they got the spike."

"The spike?"

"It's pretty funny," said Reaver. "They take the kid and tie him up and skewer him on a sharpened stick in the middle of the yard. But only partway, see; then they stake him in the middle of the yard. He slides down very slowly, you see. You can hear the yelling a league off; it goes on for hours. It's been a while since we had one of those," he added, with macabre regret. "It's been a bit bloody boring lately."

Hem sniggered, as if he were pushing down a sudden fearfulness; inside he was appalled, as much by Reaver's reaction as by the brutal punishment. But he was careful not to let any of his real responses show. He was getting good at this double life, he thought sardonically. Hem was inside Bared, who was inside Slasher. How well hidden could he be?

If the food was ensorcelled, he could not eat it. And if he could not eat it, he would have to steal food from somewhere else, or face starving to death. Spike or no spike.

He would have to go raiding.

That day Hem began training with the snouts. After weeks of working with Zelika and Hared he was fit and skilled, but he took care to smother his abilities with a certain clumsiness. His hunger was beginning to bite and he did not have to pretend his tiredness.

All the blocks trained separately, under different commanders, some of whom were Hulls. The dogsoldiers remained at a distance; it seemed they were there simply to guard the compound. The Blood Block toiled for punishing hours under a slate-gray sky, marching up and down the huge, bare yard in the center of the camp, learning how to move in formation to shouted orders. After a break at midday, their training shifted to combat skills: they were divided into groups of ten, and then six, and then into pairs. As all of them possessed different weapons, this was challenging; moreover, the snouts took their training very seriously and, unlike the swordcraft lessons in Turbansk, if Hem didn't pay attention, there was a real chance that he might get hurt.

When they were fighting in pairs, he found himself eye to eye with a girl of about twelve. She had the almost painful thinness of all the snouts in Sjug'hakar Im, but this had no effect on her strength or endurance; she carried a spiked mace that seemed far too big for her, but she wielded it without difficulty.

Hem was taken aback by the hail of blows she directed at him and, despite himself, shouted at her as she came for him, her face empty of anything except enmity.

"Are you trying to kill me, you fishbrain?" he hissed, as he backed away, trying to parry her blows. He feared his shortsword might shatter, and a good blow from the mace might well break his arm.

The girl didn't answer and Hem was forced to fight her to defend himself. She swung a massive blow at him and he dodged the weapon and came in under her guard, tripping her with his foot and knocking the mace from her hand. She sprawled forward on the ground, scrambling to get up, and Hem put his foot on her neck and leaned down to her ear.

"Don't bloody try that again," he whispered hoarsely.

The girl rolled her eyes at him, twisting to get away. Hem pressed harder, so her face was pushed painfully against the hard earth. He was shaking with fury.

"I'll make you eat dirt," he said. "You stupid muckhead. You could have killed me."

"Let her up." The voice came cold over his shoulder. Hem shuddered, realizing that he had just made a dreadful mistake. Slowly, thinking fast while his face was turned to the ground, he took his foot from the girl's neck, and turned around.

"She could have killed me!" he shouted, his voice high with outrage.

"Then," said the Hull, staring at him intently, "you would not deserve your place in the Blood Block. Slitter was quite correct. Only death blows are not permitted."

Hem swallowed. He could not read the Hull's expression; its voice was soft, with an edge of menace. "You are new here, yes? Your name?"

"Slasher, your – your – " Hem realized he had no idea how to address the Hull.

"Captain will do," said the Hull, with a flicker of cold amusement. "Slasher. Ah yes, the simpleton." It examined Hem closely, and his guts clenched with panic at the Hull's ironic tone. The last thing he needed to do was draw attention to himself.

The Hull's attention snapped to the girl, who was still on the ground. It gave her a kick and she groaned and stood up, rubbing her neck and directing glances of pure hatred at Hem.

"Continue," said the Hull, and strolled over to another pair of fighters.

It was a hard afternoon; Hem spent his time fending off Slitter's attempts to avenge her humiliation. He let her knock him down when the blow coming his way was not lifethreatening, but rolled away when she tried to stamp on him. By twilight he was exhausted and famished.

Nobody noticed whether or not he ate his dinner; the snouts ate like ravening animals, shoveling as much food into their mouths as they could. Hem curled his nose at the thin stew in his clay bowl; the smell was disgusting. He pretended to spoon it into his mouth with enthusiasm, spilling much of it. While he did so he glanced around the huge mess hall, trying to see whether Zelika was present. It was impossible; there were too many people, and with their shorn hair and identical clothing, they all looked the same.

That night he made a heavy shield and conjured a rough semblance of himself to lie in his pallet breathing softly, to cover his absence. Then he cloaked himself with shadowmazes and glimveils and stole out of the hut, dreading lest the vigilance should sense his concealments. It was not a very sophisticated vigilance; it was designed merely to detect children who sneaked out of the huts, no doubt on errands similar to his own. But a strong magery could still trigger its alarm, and he was very cautious.

The camp was deserted, lit by a dull red glare. A gibbous moon was heaving itself above the horizon, barred by dark clouds. He could hear the cries of unfamiliar night birds and animals in the distance, and wondered briefly how Ire was surviving. On the platforms above the high fence he could see the dark outlines of dogsoldiers, clanking faintly as they moved. Swiftly he made his way to the gardens, alert for any sign of Hulls, giving the Prime Hut a very wide berth. He easily skirted the vigilances that bordered the gardens, and soon found himself among orderly rows of aubergine and pumpkin vines, turnips and sweet potatoes, and rows and rows of beans. The domestic smell of cultivated greenery was incongruous; there was nothing wrong with these plants, even though they grew in wounded soil, and the breath of them was like a balm.

Carefully he pulled a turnip from the ground, brushed off the earth, and ate it. It was hard and its fibers caught in his teeth, but he was so hungry it tasted delicious. Then he moved from plant to plant, taking a bean here, an aubergine there, putting the rinds in his pocket. It was not the best of meals, but it filled his belly. He gathered a few extra supplies for later, plucking vegetables where his thieving would be least noticed. When he had finished, he crept out of the garden and stood, undecided, at the edge of the training ground in the shadow of one of the huts.

After his meal, he felt revived. His semblance would last another hour or so; he ought to use the time to explore the camp. He moved warily from hut to hut, listening, unsure what he was looking for. It was eerily quiet, dark, and deserted; but a feeling of watchfulness made him nervous, and he flitted through shadows, frightened that at any moment he might be detected by some vigilance he had not sensed.

He had made his way to the opposite side of the compound, far from the Blood Block, when a sudden scream made him jump. It sounded like someone in an extremity of terror – desolate and hopeless. There was a pregnant silence, and then followed a chaotic babble of complaints and sobbing and wails. It barely sounded human, but it was torn from human throats.

When his heart stopped pounding, he sharpened his hearing and traced the noise to a hut that stood by itself behind a fence. It was guarded by a strong vigilance, and he dared not go too near. He listened as the terrible noise died down and then, heavy with a sudden deep depression, went back to Blood Block Two. He slipped noiselessly through the door and into his own pallet. He was now so tired all his limbs trembled. He emptied his pockets of the stolen vegetables, hiding them under his pallet with a glimveil, and dropped asleep almost at once.

Hem blinked awake to find the pale sunlight of an early summer morning shining straight into his eyes. He squirmed sleepily aside from it for a moment, jamming his eyelids shut. Sunlight? he thought to himself, jolting suddenly awake, and sat bolt upright.

He was sitting on soft grass underneath an enormous tree that stretched some hundred spans above his head, spreading a dappled shade around him. In front of him, in the east, the sun was just overtopping some densely forested hills, from which lazy mists curled upward and vanished. The sky above him was a clear, pale blue, and the air was fresh and cold, as if it had never been breathed before.

I must be dreaming, Hem thought to himself. But this seemed more real than any dream he had ever had. He stood up, banging his arms against his sides for warmth, and on an impulse touched the tree's broad bole, wondering what kind the tree was: he didn't recognize it. Its trunk was a papery white, and its leaves were small and dark, densely gathered on graceful branches. He felt a sudden thrill as he touched the bark: the tree seemed deeply alive underneath his fingers, and for a dizzying moment he thought he almost heard the music the tree man had breathed into his ear in the city of Nal-AkBurat.

Wondering, Hem walked around the tree's enormous girth and looked west. Plains swept before him, as far as he could see, alive with delicate pink-and-yellow grasses that trembled in the slight breezes. Far in the distance he could see what seemed to be huge herds of animals moving slowly, like dark clouds, across the plains.

Hem shook his head. He had fallen asleep in a dark hut, noisome with the fusty smells of thirty sleeping bodies; it was impossible that he could be in a place like this. He pinched himself so hard he bruised the skin of his arm, but nothing changed. He circled the tree again, and then sat down and breathed deeply, his body light with a feeling of relief.