Vengeance

CHAPTER 32

Rannilt fetched the pieces of cane. Mimoy snatched them, hugged them to her, and they hurried down the slope. Tali’s back felt like a target all the way to the trees.

After taking shelter behind a comfortingly solid trunk, she looked back. The rim of the valley was clear — no, someone was climbing it. A head appeared, and broad shoulders. The guard scanned the slope, checked along the rim then shouted and raised his Living Blade. Red flowed around the annulus and it howled. He ran back the way he had come.

‘What’s with him?’ said Rannilt, rubbing a trickle of blood from another skinned knee.

‘He’s noticed Mimoy is gone. Keep watch. They’ll soon be after us.’

As they were moving on, the ground quivered. A loud rumble issued from behind them and a small cloud of dust drifted above the rim.

‘What was that?’ whispered Rannilt, pressing against Tali. ‘I’m scared.’

It was an open secret that the enemy had invented many terrible weapons of war. Slaves in the know spoke of burrow-burrs, shriek-arrows, bombasts, fire-flitters and grenadoes. No one knew what they were, though some were rumoured to kill at great distances. Tali assumed the enemy was testing some weapon to attack the escaping slaves from afar, though there was no point telling Rannilt that.

‘I don’t know.’ She held Mimoy with one arm and put the other around the girl’s skinny frame. ‘But I’ll look after you.’

‘She’s useless, and you’re a fool,’ said Mimoy. ‘I’m the only one who can help you.’

Tali ignored her. If the enemy found them, she would have to abandon the old woman and run with Rannilt. The living must take precedence over the dying.

She took a random route through the woodland, taking care to leave no tracks, then hobbled up a shallow stream, her burden growing heavier with every step and her resentment with it. How far did Mimoy expect to be carried? All the way to Caulderon? Selfish old witch!

At once she felt guilty for wanting to get rid of the old woman who, after all, had been struck down trying to help her. Besides, Tali had been brought up to respect her elders, but where did that duty begin and end? Surely not in sacrificing herself?

They climbed three low, knobbly hills, one after another, creeping over their crests where they might be seen against the sky. The Seethings lay beyond the last hill and as they climbed it the knot in Tali’s gut tightened. She fixed the chosen landmarks in her mind and trudged on.

‘I can see all the way back,’ said Rannilt, skipping beside Tali as though she had not a care in the world.

How resilient she was. How quickly she had forgotten her terror of half an hour ago. Tali felt the burden and the threat growing with each step.

Mimoy’s eyes opened a crack and she scowled at Rannilt. ‘Get me a drink.’

Rannilt skipped off towards a rivulet.

‘Why are you so mean to her?’ said Tali.

‘She brings out your weaknesses and distracts you from your purpose.’

‘I don’t see caring for an abused child as a weakness,’ Tali snapped.

‘Survival is the only thing that matters.’

‘Not if I end up a sour old witch like you.’

Mimoy slapped her across the face.

‘Do that again and I’ll abandon you right here,’ Tali said coldly.

‘No, you won’t. You’re too soft, too kind.’ Mimoy spat the word at her.

Rannilt came back with a double handful of water. Mimoy lapped at it then shoved her away.

‘Can you see the enemy?’ said Tali.

‘Can’t see no one,’ said Rannilt.

‘Why are they holding back?’

‘Afraid,’ said Mimoy.

Tali hadn’t thought of that, but they had seen her kill Banj with the torrent of white needles, and doubtless they blamed her for Tinyhead’s gruesome fate too. She was no longer a despised slave; she was an enemy using forbidden magery that was an insult to the lost kings of Cython. An enemy who had to be crushed so bloodily that no Pale would ever contemplate using their gift again. She was also the one, and the matriarchs had her under a death warrant.

They continued over the hill and down. Tali’s robes were sodden with sweat and she was so weary that she had to talk herself into each step. She no longer had the strength to look ahead, nor the courage to look behind.

‘Why is it so hot?’ said Rannilt, wiping her face.

Tali had been wondering that too, since it was late autumn. ‘I suppose it’s because we’re not used to the sun. The temperature is always the same in Cython.’

Suddenly, a hundred feet from the base of the hill, Mimoy dug her nails into Tali’s wrist. ‘Bury me here, before the Brown Vomit.’

Tali set her down. They were in a little dip where mossy ground squelched underfoot. The bottomlands skirting the hill were scattered with scrubby bushes, though they soon died out in the barren, steaming Seethings. The great volcano looked twice as big here, and far more menacing. It was not just erupting steam and ash — great boulders were wheeling through the air and crashing down on the slopes, smashing the rubble to powder. And judging by the rock scattered about, they sometimes fell out in the Seethings …

She shook the fear off. ‘What about my mother’s killers?’ said Tali. Her hot feet sank into the cool, sodden ground.

‘Here, you stupid little fool! Now!’ hissed Mimoy, sounding stronger than before.

‘But … you’re not dead,’ cried Rannilt.

‘Wretched child.’ Mimoy’s trembling hand drew a small knife from beneath her loincloth. ‘Use it. Cut swift and deep.’

‘No!’ cried Rannilt.

Mimoy’s eyes met Tali’s and Mimoy smiled grimly. Surely she didn’t mean …? Of course not; it was another test.

‘Rannilt,’ said Tali, ‘it’s all right. Go to the top of the hill and keep watch.’

She settled Mimoy on the ground, then took the knife and made four deep cuts, carving a rectangle into the moss. After peeling it off, she hacked out sections of the peaty ground and stacked them to one side. Half an hour of heavy labour and she had excavated a wet grave an arm’s length deep.

‘It’s done.’

Mimoy did not open her eyes. ‘Put me in.’

Again the unease. Surely Mimoy did not want to be buried alive? But her voice was strong; she knew what she was asking. Tali made a pillow with a clump of moss, then lowered Mimoy’s withered body into the grave. She lifted her twisted, bloody feet in afterwards, neatly arranged her frail limbs and pulled together her bloodstained ragweed blouse. It must have been painful but Mimoy made no sound, poor old woman. Tali laid the broken cane beside her, close to her right hand, for it was Mimoy’s only possession.

Tali rubbed her eyes. ‘Are you comfortable?’ She touched the old woman’s scarred skull. Had she also been attacked, but had survived?

‘I’d prefer it was drier, and warmer.’ Mimoy’s eyes opened and she looked up at Tali. ‘Are you stupid?’

‘I — er …’ Tali had no idea what she was talking about.

‘I picked you because you showed the ruthlessness required for survival. If you blub into my grave, I’ll pull you in with me.’

‘I’m not blubbing.’ Tali wiped her eyes.

‘Why are you wasting time on a wicked old woman who only ever abused you?’

‘You longed to go home to Hightspall, and I knew how you felt. It’s what I’ve wanted all my life.’

A hand rose from the grave and whacked Tali’s shins with a length of the cane, hard enough to hurt. ‘Imbecile! What about your quest?’

‘I’m lost.’ Remembering those pinpoint-pupilled eyes, Tali shuddered. ‘I saw the enemy not long ago, looking out from Tinyhead’s eyes. Iusia said he can only be beaten with magery but I don’t know where mine is. Help me, please.’

‘You broke my cane.’

‘I’m sorry, but — ’

‘I was going to give it to you, but now the magery is lost.’

‘Your gift was in the cane?’ Tali whispered.

‘I told you that you’d regret it.’

‘But — why didn’t you say?’

‘Why don’t you ever think before you act?’

Yet again, Tali’s temper had let her down, and this time it could be fatal. ‘I don’t understand a thing about my magery. Where does it come from?’

‘Don’t know. It’s unique.’

‘Then how am I to master it?’ Tali cried.

Mimoy gave a pained shrug.

‘But back in Cython you said you’d help me with my gift,’ said Tali.

‘You broke my cane.’

Tali tore at her hair. ‘Please help me.’

‘Had to come home to die,’ said Mimoy, her voice faint now. She was fading.

‘Mimoy, I can’t do this by myself.’

Mimoy’s blue-veined eyelids fluttered.

Tali took the wire-like fingers in her own. ‘Please tell me what to do.’

Mimoy slumped, her head thudding into the wet peat. ‘Only — ’ she croaked.

Tali bent over her. ‘Yes?’

‘Only one person … can show you … how … to master … your … gift.’

She was slipping from the world. Please, give me some answers first. ‘Who?’

‘Your — your enemy.’

‘My enemy? Is this a cruel joke?’

‘No — joke.’ Mimoy’s voice was little more than a sigh.

‘But who is my enemy?’ Then, hastily, for if Mimoy did not say the name now it would be lost forever. ‘And who killed my mother?’

Mimoy’s pupils contracted and expanded, as if she did not know which question to focus on. ‘Poison — ’

‘Just the names,’ Tali said softly. ‘My enemy, and my mother’s killer. That’s all I need from you, Mimoy. Then you can rest.’

‘Poison,’ Mimoy repeated. ‘The worst.’

‘What’s that supposed to mean? She wasn’t poisoned.’

Mimoy reached up to Tali and her throat moved, but the effort was too much for her. Her eyes became fixed.

Tali was adjusting the torn blouse when it came apart at Mimoy’s left shoulder, revealing her slave mark. A very familiar mark, the same as Tali’s own — the mark of House vi Torgrist.

Mimoy must have been Mimula vi Torgrist, Tali’s great-great-great-grandmother. Her only living relative was dead.