The Crow (58 page)

Hem sat for a long time with his head bowed, sunk in hopelessness. The other snouts ignored him, as they usually did. When he had recovered from the worst of his exhaustion, he pleasurelessly chewed the dried strips of meat, shoving the morralin-laced biscuit under his pallet.

Whatever the risk of escaping, he could not remain in Dagra. To stay here was certain death: in this place, it could only be a matter of time before he was exposed as a spy. He would rather die trying to escape than die a snout. The thought stiffened his resolve, and he began to run over his grim prospects, forcing aside his nausea.

Somehow, tonight, he had to find Zelika and escape Dagra. It was impossible. How could he identify which snout was Zelika, overpower her, and force her to come with him, without any of the other snouts or Hulls noticing what he was doing? And then, most impossible of all, how could he conceal both of them, and escape unseen over the impregnable city walls? He had not known a vigilance could be so powerful; he doubted that he could make a shield that would be strong enough to hide himself, let alone Zelika, from its awareness.

And where was Ire? Miserably, Hem thought that his friend could not have followed him here. The wards on the walls were so strong it was impossible to imagine how even a small and crafty bird could pass them unseen. And even if, by some unimaginable cunning, Ire had gotten over the walls, how could he trace him through the chaos of Dagra? He dared not send out a summoning. He was alone in the middle of this dark city; there was no one to help him. His head hurt, as if an iron band were slowly tightening around his forehead. And he was so tired.

Well, thought Hem, with an attempt at briskness: first things first.

He had found out that Zelika was a Tusk. The initial shock of entering Dagra had driven the thought of Zelika out of his head, and so he had lost track of her whereabouts; but fortunately they had been hurried into their barracks in the order in which they had marched, and the Tusks were in the same room as the Blood Block.

Warily he searched for any sense of Hulls. Even opening this narrow chink in his awareness made him flinch. The tension in Dagra was nigh on unbearable: the very air seemed to tremble. He suddenly remembered the Hulls' conversation the previous day, and Ire's prediction. Imank was here, in Dagra, seeking the overthrow of the Nameless One: and even the Nameless feared his most powerful captain. No wonder the Hulls had been making them run – they were afraid.

Perhaps this was why there were no Hulls close by. He could be luckier than he thought: there just might be a chance. Slightly heartened, he brought his awareness back into the barracks. All the snouts were very tired and the morralin dose they had been given added to their exhaustion; and all of them were yawning, although it was still early. He glanced furtively up and down the long room: maybe two hundred snouts. It shouldn't be too difficult to track down Zelika. He curled up, his eyes shut, and waited for all the snouts to go to sleep.

Then, with even more care than in Sjug'hakar Im, checking constantly to ensure that he was not detected, Hem made a mageshield and began the slow labor of searching through the sleeping minds around him. He caught the glow of Zelika almost at once, surprisingly nearby. She was sleeping against the same wall as he was, fourteen places up. Why, then, had he not seen her? He had been too tired, he supposed, and the light here was so bad.

He snapped his mind shut and, after a short rest, began to make a glimveil. The Speech slipped in his head, the words fraying or vanishing entirely, and the charm failed; stubbornly, with agonizing slowness, he began again. This time it worked. Now he was hidden. He was far too tired to attempt to make a semblance to avoid anyone noticing the empty pallet where he had been. He would just have to risk it.

He crept up the line of sleeping bodies, counting carefully, and when he reached the fourteenth, brushed her mind lightly to check he was not mistaken. She was sleeping with her face in the crook of her arm, her roughly cropped hair a matted tangle of short curls. Hem's throat constricted; he had loved Zelika's long hair. It would grow back... His heart pounding, he bent down and gently turned her over, preparing himself for the tremendous effort of lifting and carrying her. But then he saw.

To stop himself crying out, he bit his lip so hard that it bled. It wasn't Zelika at all.

It was a boy. A nasty, half-healed scar ran down the side of his face, puckering the skin around it and distorting his features. Hem recalled he had seen this boy before on their march through Den Raven, without taking much notice of him. Now he looked closely, Hem saw he had Zelika's stubborn chin, her long eyelashes, her delicate cheekbones.

All this time, he had been following Nisrah, Zelika's brother.

XXIV

I
RC'S
S
TORY

Hem didn't know how long he sat beside Nisrah in that dark room. The full knowledge of his folly burst over him: how he had been misled by his passionate hope, how he had suppressed his own doubts, how he had arrogantly refused to listen to Hared or even Ire. The Hulls could not have scried Zelika, because if they had, they would have known that he was also spying on the camp. They would have been looking for him. But instead, he had been accepted into Sjug'hakar Im without question: no one had entertained the least suspicion that he was not who he claimed to be. He had known that Nisrah was a snout, but it hadn't even occurred to him that the mindglow he felt might be Zelika's brother. He had explained away his own uncertainty, putting it down to his lack of skill, to the shroudings of sorcery. And yet, now, it was so obvious.

He had endured unspeakable suffering, struggling through the perils of the Glandugir Hills and Den Raven and finally imprisoning himself in Dagra. He had endangered himself, Ire, and Hared. He might never see Maerad or Saliman again. And all for no reason.

If there had been any tears in Hem, he would have wept, but he was too numb for tears. He was consumed by a choking bitterness.

He was roused at last by a huge crack of thunder, so loud that he thought that the floor shook under his feet. Hem leaned forward and carefully bound Nisrah's hands behind his back with the leather thongs he had stolen in Sjug'hakar Im, and fashioned them into a lead. Then, grimacing, he picked him up. He didn't make any conscious decision to take Nisrah with him: it seemed to Hem that there was no choice. He couldn't simply abandon him, like the children in the Blind House, to a terrible fate.

The boy didn't stir. He was unexpectedly light, worn by his hard life, and his body felt unnaturally hot. Hem swung him over his shoulder and walked to the door, listening for a moment to be sure that no guard waited outside. The barracks seemed strangely empty. He softly unlatched the door and left the room.

He was in an empty corridor lit by flickering torches, with a wooden staircase at the far end. When Hem reached the stairs there came another long peal of thunder, and he clutched at the wall, feeling the building rocking beneath his feet. Perhaps there would be an earthquake; and a storm of the Dark itself was about to break over his head. In a sudden panicked rush he stumbled down the stairs, the noise of his footsteps blotted out by the thunder. When he reached the entrance hall, he saw to his amazement that it was also unguarded. Where were the Hulls? He didn't stop to speculate. He staggered to the door, and pulled frantically. It was locked.

Throwing caution to the winds, Hem blasted the lock off the door with magery and ran out into the street as if there were Hulls at his very heels. He zigzagged around several corners until he entered a laneway empty of people, and finally halted, leaning against an empty, crumbling doorway, sobbing for breath.

He put Nisrah down and wiped the sweat off his own face. The boy no longer seemed so light: Hem's back burned with strain and his legs were trembling. He couldn't carry him all the way out of Dagra, even if he knew where to go, and he had no confidence that the boy would come with him willingly. He wished uselessly for some medhyl, to give him some extra strength. What was he doing? He might have escaped the barracks, but he was still inside the biggest prison he had ever seen. And he was wholly lost.

He looked up into the sky. The sun was setting, and its low rays shone redly under a ragged hem of cloud, so the thickening air seemed to be stained with blood. The narrow alley where he stood was thrown into deep shadow. Myriad forks of lightning lit the swirling vapors that coursed around the Iron Tower like feverish veins, and gusts of wind fitfully kicked up the rubbish that littered the street. Hem's skin prickled with sorcerous energies but, for the first time since he had entered Dagra, he felt small and insignificant: the sense of watchfulness had vanished, as if the awarenesses that were woven through the fabric of the city were intently focused elsewhere. The rolls of thunder were now almost continuous, and the ground trembled beneath his feet. What was happening here?

He glanced at Nisrah, who was slumped on the filthy doorstep, still sunk in a drugged sleep. The ugly wound on his face had broken open, and a little blood and pus trickled from under his eye. Hem regarded him with no emotion at all: neither pity nor disgust nor fellow feeling. Nisrah was just a burden that he must take with him. He had no thought of leaving him behind; perhaps it was simply that he had to salvage something from the wreck of his hopes.

He looked away, swept suddenly by a terrible loneliness. On a wild impulse, without any hope that he would be answered, he sent out a summoning to Ire. To his amazement, it was answered almost straight away.

Where have you been?
Ire hissed into his mind.
I've been looking and looking...

Hem was thrown by Ire's prompt answer and stammered, both delighted and suddenly fearful for Ire.
I-I couldn't call before,
he said.
Are you in Dagra?

Yes, yes,
Ire said impatiently.
Of course I am. But where are you?

I don't know where I am,
said Hem forlornly.
I'm lost.

There was a pause, and Hem momentarily thought that he had lost contact. But then the crow's voice came back, slightly muffled.
Can you see the Big Tower?
he asked.

Yes.

Bear away from it, with the sun at your sword hand. Wherever you are, you will reach one of those big roads, and they all lead to the walls, and the walls lead to the gate. I'll meet you there, at the gate. Listen for my call.

But
– Hem said, bewildered.

I'll meet you there. It's hard to keep the mindtouch, there is so much bad magic here. I couldn't find you. I thought you were dead...

As Ire spoke, a green lightning split the sky, bringing with it such a stench of sorcery that Hem reeled, his senses stunned.
A big storm comes. Hurry...
Ire's voice grew faint, and then vanished altogether.