The Ships of Air (The Fall of Ile-Rein) (45 page)

Face mashed into the foul-smelling wood of the wagon bed, pinned by Cimarus’s weight, Ilias worked to get air and listened for the others. He was relieved to hear more thumps and an annoyed snarl from Cletia. The footboard banged shut and he bucked and managed to heave a groaning Cimarus off him. It was dark; the Gardier outside had pulled the cloth cover down over the back and he could hear them tying it off. “Gil?” he whispered urgently.

“Here,” came from the other side of the wagon bed. His eyes adjusting, he could see Giliead struggle to turn over and heave himself into a sitting position. “Ilias, I—”

“Shut up.” Wincing, Ilias rolled over and wiggled until he could sit up. “Did you see that other Gardier, the one that talked to me?”

“Yes, I didn’t hear what he said.”

“He spoke Rienish. He knew the—” He gasped as Cimarus kneed him in the side in his efforts to get upright. “—the word on the ring Tremaine gave me.”

“What does that mean?” Cletia demanded from the corner. “What word?”

A dull roar shuddered through the wagon and Cimarus flinched violently, banging into Ilias, and he heard Cletia yelp. Then the wagon jolted into motion, throwing him into the side wall. Ilias had to lean there, the pain in his ribs making him want to curl into a ball, before he could shove himself upright again. “Gil?”

“I don’t know,” Giliead answered, raising his voice just enough that Ilias could hear him over the wagon’s rumble. He knew Giliead was thinking it through as he had. “But it doesn’t seem possible.”

“What word?” Cletia asked again, sounding desperate.

“Her family name,” Ilias told her impatiently. He leaned back against the wall though the rattling of it made his teeth ache. His head and shoulder throbbed and his ribs ached with every breath. It would be nothing to what would happen later, now that the Gardier knew they could use him to make Giliead do what they wanted. “You shouldn’t have done it,” he said bitterly. They would both be better off dead.

Light was coming in through chinks in the canvas canopy and Ilias’s eyes had adjusted now. He could see Giliead working his way back to the footboard to try to see out though the flaps. “While we’re alive, there’s a chance,” Giliead said, stubborn as stone.

Ilias shook his head, biting back an answer that wouldn’t do either of them any good. He could see the outline of a Gardier against one flap, holding on to the outside of the wagon.
We could slam into him, knock him off, and—Jump off chained hand and foot?
Not exactly an improvement in their situation.

The foul smell of the wagon’s innards began to fill the hot dark space and sent Cletia into a coughing fit. “A chance of what?” Cimarus asked, his voice thick.

Ilias looked at Giliead and didn’t answer.

C
oncealing his agitation behind a bland façade, Adram watched the prisoners being loaded into the truck. Damn Disar for returning before he could speak further to the man with the ring. In fact, damn Disar altogether. His eyes narrowed and a slight smile played about his lips.
I think it’s time.
Strolling over to the Command officer, Adram told Disar, “I’ll follow along behind in case you need assistance.”

Disar turned a withering expression on him. Adram could tell from his eyes that the man wasn’t under the control of the crystal at the moment. He knew that the crystal’s control was limited to short lengths of time; finding the stolen avatar even through the shielding of its case and using it to get a sense of the feelings of the native sorcerer must have drained its resources. “I don’t need your assistance.”

“Nevertheless.” Adram allowed himself a thin smile.
No, what you need is a few good blows to the head with the appropriate blunt instrument.
Oh yes, it was time.

The Service men had hauled the last native, the one with sorcerous ability, to the truck. Ignoring Adram, Disar watched him intently. A big man with a wild mane of braided brown hair, the native threw one last dark look at Disar before he was shoved into the back of the truck. The look promised painful death, and Adram was struck again by the intelligence and intensity in that anger. When the natives had approached the trap, Adram had only to step on a dry twig to alert the man in the lead to the danger; if Disar hadn’t been so quick with his spells, they would have escaped altogether. “What do they call themselves?” he asked, forgetting to sound diffident. The soft colors of their clothing had been faded under a brighter sun than had ever shone over this land, and the copper and leather armbands and earrings and other barbaric jewelry added to the savage aspect.

“I have no idea.” Disar eyed him, suspicious and perhaps a trifle disconcerted. But his gaze hardened to contempt and he said, “Too bad there were no Rienish among them. I could watch you betray your own people.”

Adram’s brow lifted ironically. “You still have that opportunity. We both know the only reason there were no Rienish here is that they are capable of disguising themselves and mixing with the people of the Maton.”

Disar’s eyes narrowed. Obviously he had known it, and he had hoped Adram would say nothing so he could accuse him of traitorous intent. “And they will be easily found.”

Adram glanced at the truck as if the thought was only just occurring to him. “If you expect to capture them soon, why don’t you hold this group here and send them all to Maton-Command on the same airship?”

Disar snorted dismissively. “I have my orders.” He turned away, walking back to his own vehicle.

“So you do,” Adram said softly. It was fortunate he had come prepared. He sent his patrol back to their barracks in the other truck and told his own driver to follow Disar.

F
inding their way back through the trees in the deepening twilight, Tremaine kept tripping on roots. Fortunately, Calit was just as clumsy as she was, and she didn’t feel embarrassed by her lack of woodcraft.
I should have brought a torch,
she grumbled to herself. But Besta hadn’t had one and she hadn’t wanted to risk bringing a Rienish-manufactured one. It was dangerous enough bringing the gun, and she really shouldn’t have risked it. Verisimilitude was everything, Nicholas had told her.

She was fairly sure she had worked out a way to get into the city. It was going to involve some kind of distraction, stealing a truck, and waylaying a Gardier who resembled Basimi or one of the others enough that he could use his papers. The gate guards checked papers only cursorily; it was obvious they weren’t expecting enemies to attempt to sneak into or out of the Maton. But getting the boat itself…She had the terrible feeling that was where everything was going to fall apart. Still ruminating over the details, Tremaine flinched when Calit grabbed her arm. “Look,” he whispered.

She peered ahead. They were near the edge of the woods, at least she thought they were. They had to cross an open area before going back up the hill and into the deeper forest, where the others should be waiting. But there were dark shapes out there and moving figures….
Gardier.
She heardIlias yell, “Don’t do it” in Syrnaic and her heart froze.

She stood in silence, waiting for the shots, until the trucks moved away. Calit shifted uneasily beside her and she realized she had been squeezing his shoulder, probably hard enough to bruise. She let him go.

She took his hand and they followed the slow-moving vehicles, staying under the cover of the trees. The three trucks reached the road that ran along the edge of the woods, taking a turn and starting across the airfield.

The trucks were slow but she couldn’t follow on foot. Besides, there was no cover on the open airfield and the Gardier would spot her immediately.
Need a truck, need a truck,
Tremaine thought frantically. Most of the stupid things were on the road on the far side of the airfield, heading into the city. Then she saw one moving toward them, following the road that bordered the woods. She grabbed Calit’s hand and pounded up the hill, cutting through the forest back toward the road.

“What are we going to do?” he demanded, breathing hard.

“Exactly what I say,” she snarled.

They reached the edge of the woods some distance ahead of the truck as it climbed the hill with the speed of a little old lady, its makeshift engine straining. Tremaine stopped on the edge of the road and told Calit, “Give me your jacket and go collapse in the middle of the road. I’ll be there in a minute.”

He stared at her, aghast, and she said impatiently, “The truck won’t run over you, I won’t let it.” Then she realized what it was and gritted her teeth in annoyance. “I’ll give you the jacket back. Hell, I’ll buy you a new one in Capidara.”

Reassured, he pulled the threadbare garment off and handed it to her, then hurried to fling himself down in the road. She pulled her revolver out of the awkward holster in the back of her pants and chambered a round, then wrapped Calit’s jacket around her arm to hide it. She knew she couldn’t risk trying and failing to overpower the drivers.

The truck trundled into view as it reached the top of the hill and Tremaine prayed silently,
Let there be just one driver. Most of the damn things only have one, let this be one of those.
The fading daylight caught it and she saw only one man in the square cab.
Yes.

With a shriek she ran into the road, flinging herself down at Calit’s side. He started to sit up and she shoved him down again with a hissed, “Play dead, dammit.” He flopped back, obediently squeezing his eyes shut. They were in full view of the airfield but the nearest hangar was a few miles away, and no one seemed to be outside it. The gathering dusk would also help conceal them.

Kneeling at his side, rocking and whimpering, the gun in her lap concealed by the jacket, she heard the truck chug nearer and wondered what she would do if it didn’t stop. Jump up onto the nonexistent running board, maybe? But surely it would stop.

It trundled to a halt about ten paces away, and she heard the driver’s footsteps grate on the gravel as he climbed out. “What’s wrong with the boy?” he called to her.

She looked up at him. He was a young man in Gardier military uniform, fresh-faced and appallingly naive. “I don’t know,” she choked out, gesturing with her free hand.

The man obligingly leaned over Calit. Tremaine lifted the gun and shot him point-blank in the back of the head. His body spasmed as he fell, landing on the boy. She rolled the slack weight off before Calit could yell and the boy jumped to his feet, breathing hard and staring, wide-eyed.

Tremaine holstered the gun and shoved to her feet, taking a quick look around. No one was in sight. She grabbed the dead man’s arm and hauled him toward the side of the road, wincing at his weight. The horrible head wound was leaving a deep red trail, but there was nothing she could do about it. Soon the night would conceal it and if they were lucky, no one would find him until morning. Calit leapt to help her and they got the man to the lip of the ditch and rolled him in. She took his gun and patted him down for more ammunition, then scrambled back up onto the road, heading for the truck.

It didn’t have a starter handle in front of the engine and she climbed up to look into the cab, praying it wouldn’t be too complicated for her to understand. The seat was just a hard wooden bench, though the driver had a couple of thin pillows to make it more comfortable. She shoved them aside as she slid in; the wood was still warm from the dead man’s body heat. The steering wheel was metal and larger than it should have been, and the starter handle seemed to be next to it on the primitive dashboard.
Gears, gears,
she thought, pushing and pulling various clunky levers.
That must be the brake.

As she yanked on the starter and the motor rumbled to life, Calit climbed in on the other side. The boy settled on the bench, watching her worriedly. Tremaine was a little surprised. She had deliberately ignored him, figuring he would take the opportunity to run away. “Ready?” she asked him, fumbling for the gearshift.

He nodded gravely and gripped the dashboard.

Tremaine slammed the truck into gear and they were off.

T
he wagon rumbled on. Ilias kept shifting, trying to find a position that didn’t hurt. Huddled in the corner, Cletia had been sick from the motion and the stench. Cimarus didn’t look much better when Ilias caught glimpses of him in the intermittent light. He was pushed back against the front wall of the wagon bed, bracing himself with his chained feet to stay sitting upright. Giliead was near the footboard, trying to see where they were being taken.

The daylight had died away and the only illumination coming through the chinks in the canopy was from the large wizard lights they passed under occasionally. From that Ilias knew they were moving across the flying whales’ field, not down into the city.

The light grew measurably brighter and the bed swayed and tilted as the wagon climbed a slope. “We’re heading up to one of the flying whale sheds,” Giliead reported quietly. “They’re going to take us away somewhere.”

Ilias nodded, though Giliead wasn’t looking at him. They wouldn’t question prisoners out here; they must be taking them to some other city, somewhere inland. He said suddenly, “I’m not angry at you.”

“I know,” Giliead replied quietly. He glanced at Ilias, the stark light from an opening in the flap catching him in profile.

The wagon shook as it rolled from the road onto some harder surface and the sound changed; Ilias could tell they were inside now. The wagon came to a stop, the dull roar of the thing that made it move sputtering into silence. Ilias heard several sets of footsteps on stone, men calling to each other in the Gardier tongue. His injured ribs protesting, Ilias managed to sit up on his knees, bracing himself. When the Gardier lifted the flaps he didn’t want it to look as if he was huddling in terror. “What do we do?” Cimarus whispered.