The Plains of Kallanash (56 page)

Hurst listened, nodding, and assured them that every message would be conveyed to Tanist, although he wasn’t convinced that stepping cautiously was in his plans.

Eventually, Gantor became restless. “We must go, and soon, Hurst. All these people who’ve seen you will talk, and we must be away before word gets to the Slaves and they bring their guards to arrest us.”

“I’d like to see them try,” Hurst said at once.

“But I would not,” Gantor said sharply, “and those words have got you into trouble before. Let’s go.”

Hurst got up, but Roonast jumped up quicker. “Take me with you!” he said, his eyes shining. “I can talk to these people at the tower, and bring word back to Klemmast. I can tell people the truth of it.”

“No,” said Klemmast quietly. “You have no idea what you’re proposing, what risk you’d be incurring. You have your whole life before you, Roonast, don’t throw it away on a whim. But I’ve been pondering these matters for years. I’ll come with you, Hurst. Jallinast, Roonast, you will tell everyone that I have joined the rebellion.”

“You realise you might not be able to return,” Gantor said. “Possibly not ever.”

“I understand the consequences.” He reached for his sword, but then laid it aside. “I won’t need this. If I’d known, I’d have brought my battle sword with me.”

“I’ll come, too,” Jallinast said quickly. “We should stay together, brother. We’ve never been apart, not ever.” His voice cracked, his eyes shining too brightly.

Klemmast pulled him into a fierce embrace, then held him at arm’s length. “One of us must stay, to keep the Karning running.If things go badly
—” He took a deep breath. “I should like to know that you’re still safe, looking after the rest of the family. And perhaps we’ll be together again sooner than you think.”

Jallinast nodded wordlessly, blinking away tears. Roonast stood solemnly at his shoulder, eyes wide.

Klemmast straightened his back, and turned to Hurst. “Well, brother, let’s go.”

Hurst stood aside. “Lead on.”

With a quick nod to Jallinast, and a pat on the shoulder for Roonast, Klemmast pushed through the crowd clustered around the changing room, and set off down the avenue to the exit. It was now quite late in the afternoon, and most of the Skirmishers and spectators were heading the same way. They merged into the flow, and Hurst felt optimistic that they would be able to leave without notice.

Klemmast set a fast pace, but it was not fast enough. As they reached the end of the avenue they saw that the large gates were being pushed shut and only the narrow side gates remained open, the crowds slowing to a crawl to pass through. Beyond, on the street stood a cluster of Voices wearing the black sashes of Justices, and with them a group of Ring guards, their batons out. Hurst stopped dead. Even above the noise of the crowd he could hear them.

“Hurst Arrakas! We are looking for Hurst Arrakas! A reward for anyone who points him out!”

“They don’t know you,” Klemmast murmured. “That’s hopeful.”

“Let me go first,” Gantor said.

“No, they might recognise your Karning insignia on your gear,” Klemmast said. “Stay behind me. Just keep moving.”

They shuffled slowly forward, the crowd pressing around them on all sides, Skirmishers and ordinary Ring folk alike. There were mutterings as unprotected spectators were crushed against fully mailed Skirmishers, or stumbled over belt-hung swords. Hurst was squashed between Gantor and a well-rounded man almost a head taller than he was, who looked down at him and grinned conspiratorially.

“This is cosy,” the man said. “It’s a pity we aren’t further forward, wouldn’t you say, Most High?” And he nodded towards a group of young women just a few paces ahead of them, who were giving little squeals of alarm at the crush.

Hurst’s stomach lurched at the use of his title. He had been a famous tournament competitor in his day, and many of these spectators would have seen him, and might recognise his face, even now. And if not, they might recognise his gear – the insignia on his tunic, and the Karning jewels on the hilt of his sword, strapped to his back and undoubtedly visible above his head. He cursed his stupidity for not thinking of it before. But he forced himself to smile and acknowledge the joke, hoping for the best.

By the time they got to the gateway, the crowd around them was restless. Everyone was tired, some of the Skirmishers were injured and the delay was keeping them from a well-earned bath and their first goblet of wine. The Voices were still calling out Hurst’s name and scanning faces, but most people hustled past them as quickly as they could. Even so, Hurst was aware of one or two faces turned towards him speculatively. He kept his head down and shuffled forward.

At last they were out of the gate, and passing in front of the Voices.

“Hurst Arrakas! Anyone seen Hurst Arrakas? Is he here? Anyone? Reward for information.”

A thin man just in front of Gantor stopped suddenly, and turned directly towards Hurst, blocking his path. Hurst almost knocked him over, but he was forced to halt. The man turned to the Voices, and Hurst saw his mouth open as if to speak. He froze. There was no escape. He couldn’t run, couldn’t draw his sword, the crowd was too dense. He was finished. His only fleeting thought was Mia – he would never see her again. But at least he had found her, had had the joy of her in his arms again, had heard her say that she loved him. And in that brief instant, no more than a second, he was content. He bowed his head, awaiting his fate.

Two things happened at once. A sudden surge from behind jostled them all forward, so that the thin man was pushed aside. Hurst thought he fell, but he couldn’t be sure. And then a voice boomed in his ear
– the tall man.

“Hurst Arrakas is dead!” he bellowed over the heads of the crowd. “I saw the poster myself not a week ago! Hurst Arrakas is dead!”

From behind came shouts and jostling. The crowd surged around them, and in the confusion Gantor grabbed Hurst’s arm and dragged him forward. Within moments they were past the danger and away down the street. Hurst half turned, and caught the eye of the big man. Clear as glass, he winked before turning away.

They walked in silence, Gantor leading now. Around them the crowd thinned as groups turned aside on one street or another. Before long they were alone. Hurst looked around, but the surroundings were unfamiliar.

“Where are we?” Hurst said. “Are we lost?”

“No, just taking a detour,” Gantor said. “I want to make sure we’re not being followed, then we’ll loop back to the Records Hall.”

“Does he know what he’s doing?” Klemmast asked Hurst.

“Oh yes. He grew up here, remember. Are you limping?”

“A little, it’s nothing. That bastard Trinadal Afforneesh is still learning new tricks.”

“Trinadal? You’re lucky you’re still walking, then.”

Klemmast laughed, and agreed.

Eventually Gantor was satisfied no one was tailing them, and they returned to the main street. It was still quite busy, and the lamplighters were out half blocking the footways. In the bustle they passed unnoticed and reached the Records Hall without incident, only to find the great doors firmly closed. Several guards were stationed outside.

“Now what?” Hurst said.

“Keep walking,” Gantor said in an undertone. “Don’t attract any attention.”

They strode past, and Gantor led them round the next corner and down the side of the building, and then round yet another corner into a quiet street. Then he ducked through an archway into a small courtyard lined with metal carts.

“Poo, stinky!” said Klemmast. “The pigswill, I presume.”

“Something like that,” Gantor said. “Right, two choices. We can either walk right round the lake to the scholars’ hall and hope we can find someone to show us the tunnel access there, or we can break in here.”

“The scholars’ hall? That’s miles away. Let’s try breaking in,” Hurst said.

“Definitely the right answer. Just along here is the back door.”

“That looks fairly solid,” Klemmast said.

“Yes, but round the corner is a window, and it’s possible to get in that way.”

“It’s possible?” Hurst said. “You’ve done it, then?”

“Not me personally, but some of my friends did, once. Mind you, they brought tools with them. We’ll have to break the glass.”

Hurst eyed the tiny square of glass above his head. “Small, were they, your friends? You’ll never get in there, you know. Even Trimon would find it a squeeze.”

“It only needs one of us to get through the window,” Gantor said edgily, as if explaining to a dense child. “You’re the smallest, you can do it. Then you open the door from the inside, see?”

Hurst shrugged, resigned. It was better than walking half the night to reach the scholars’ hall. He unstrapped as much of his gear as he could to minimise his size, and then looked at Gantor, up at the window, and back at Gantor. Gantor sighed loudly, and knelt down to allow Hurst to stand on his back.

“Why don’t we get one of those carts?” Klemmast said. “Tip one on its side, much easier to get up, I’d have thought.”

“Because they’re full of acid, that’s why,” Gantor said, turning his head to look up at him. “They destroy unwanted papers with acid. You really don’t want to spread that everywhere. Come on, get a move on, by the Gods, we need to get back into those tunnels.”

Hurst hopped onto his back, and with a few quick thrusts of a mailed glove, smashed the glass. The noise echoed around the high walls enclosing the courtyard, and the tinkling of falling glass went on for ever.

Eventually he was satisfied that the worst shards were gone, and draping his coat over the sill, pushed himself into the window. He was not as agile as Trimon, and it took a lot of wriggling and heaving, and some pushing from Klemmast before he was free and clattered head first into a pile of buckets. He scrambled free and round to the door, and had it open before the buckets had stopped rolling. Within moments they were all inside.

“Shit, that was loud!” Gantor hissed. “Let’s get further inside, in case anyone heard any of that. It’s hard to imagine such a din could possibly go unnoticed,” he added, half to himself.

They were in what appeared to be a small scullery. A door led to a narrow passage, with more functional rooms on either side, and then at last into a wider corridor, very much like the ones on the lowest level. It was lit at infrequent intervals by dim night lamps burning small yellow candles.

“Right, this way,” Gantor began, but Hurst stopped him.

“Got to get my gear back on. Don’t know what we might meet.”

“You’re bleeding,” Klemmast said, pointing at his stomach, but Hurst shook his head.

“No time,” he muttered. It was surprising how much his fingers fumbled the straps and buckles in his hurry. He was sure it took
twice as long as usual, and all the time Gantor paced back and forth as if he couldn’t bear to be still.

“Right. Let’s go.”

Gantor led them with surprising confidence down one corridor, into another, then to a staircase. As they descended, it grew dark.

“Hmm, those nice helpful candles have been put out for the night,” Hurst said, as they stopped half way down.

“Good,” said Gantor. “It means there’s no one down here. Don’t move.”

He ran back up the stairs, and they heard breaking glass and then a bobbing light appeared, casting an unearthly glow on Gantor’s face. As he passed another glass case, he smashed that too, and lit a second candle.

“Don’t let it go out,” he said, pushing one into Hurst’s hand. Then he was off again.

Hurst had no idea how Gantor found the right corridor and door. He only went wrong once, but he corrected himself after a few paces. Otherwise, he was totally sure of himself. Hurst would have wandered for hours.

But at last they reached the small room, and pulled the mechanism to open the door. Hurst had never been so glad to see the strange glow of the tunnel walls. They blew out the candles, dropping them on the floor, and passed through the opening into the tunnel.

Hurst turned round and almost jumped out of his skin. No more than ten feet away were two Trannatta, with matching heads of brown curls surrounding faces etched with horror. It was too much. Hurst drew his sword and uttered a barbarian war-cry, which the tunnel amplified as if he had his head in a bucket. The two screeched in terror and turned and fled down the tunnel.

“Cowards!” he shrieked. “Stay and fight! I’ll chop you into pieces, you evil bastards!”

But they were gone, and he had no inclination to chase after them. As he sheathed his sword, he found Gantor and Klemmast doubled over with laughter.

“What? What’s so funny?”

“You!” said Klemmast. “I wonder why they ran? You made them such a tempting offer, too. Gods, you’re fierce, Hurst. No wonder the barbarians made you a leader.”

“He frightens me too when he gets his Walst face on,” Gantor said.

“Dammit,” he said, clashing his gloves together in frustration, “if only I’d seen them sooner. By the Nine, I’m ready for a decent battle.”

“We may yet have the chance,” Gantor said, patting him on the shoulder in sympathy. “But let’s get on back. I’m ready for some wine.”