Harp of Winds

19 Return to Nexis

Eliseth looked up from the scroll she was studying as the Archmage burst into her chambers without knocking. For an instant, Miathan saw the dark line of a frown between her brows, but she hid her irritation quickly beneath a mask of sociability. Pushing the scroll down the side of her chair, she stood to greet him, and gestured to her maid, who had been sewing in the corner, to pour wine.

“What has happened?” the Weather-Mage asked. “I gather, from your precipitate entrance, that it must be something of importance.”

“Vannor has been captured.” Miathan swung around sharply at the brittle crash of splintering crystal. The little maidservant was standing by the cabinet, wide-eyed with horror, the knuckles of one clenched fist held to her mouth, looking down at the twinkling shards that strewed the floor. Crimson wine was splashed on her skirts and pooled like blood around her feet.

“You clumsy little wretch!” Eliseth grabbed the unfortunate girl by the shoulder and slapped her sharply, twice. “That was one of a matched set! Hurry up and pour some more—and get this mess cleaned up. You’ll be beaten for this!”

“And you’ll enjoy it.” Miathan smiled cruelly, as Eliseth returned to him. “How very kind of her to give you an excuse.”

The Weather-Mage shrugged. “Who needs an excuse? Which is just as well, for she doesn’t provide me with many. To give the brat her due, she’s the best maid I’ve ever had.”

“No matter.” Miathan shrugged aside such unimportant considerations. “Eliseth, I have just made the most useful discovery...” He went on to tell her of his confrontation with the captured merchant—and his excitement, when he found out the extent of the magical energy that could be transmuted from a Mortal’s pain and fear.

Eliseth cursed disgustedly. “What? So you mean that all those human sacrifices were unnecessary? We could have saved ourselves the trouble of procuring new victims by keeping a handful of prisoners alive and torturing them?”

“To a certain extent,” the Archmage replied judiciously. “For magic requiring a massive Boost of power, however, like possession from a distance, I should think that a sacrifice would still be required. Nonetheless, this discovery presents some interesting possibilities. Some experiments will be in order, I believe—and what better subject than Vannor himself?” His voice sank to a purr. “The man is tough-minded and physically strong. If we take good care of him, I should think he’ll last a good long time ...”

The Weather-Mage nodded avidly. “Where have you put him?”

“I had Aurian’s old chambers cleaned up for him.” Miathan smiled at her astonished expression. “We shall want him close at hand, and we must take good care of him—for as long as he lasts. Besides, the only other place we could have put him is the archives beneath the library, and it would be easier for him to escape from there—or even be rescued. No, I have him this time—and he will not escape again!”

Vannor opened his eyes and, for an instant, wondered where he was. Then his guts clenched with terror as he remembered his capture, and subsequent confrontation with the Archmage. The aftermath of Miathan’s assault was still with him: he felt weak as a newborn colt, and his body throbbed with an all-encompassing ache. But his discomforts were lost in surprise as he took note of his surroundings.

The merchant had been expecting a dungeon. Instead, he found himself in a soft bed that stood in a pleasant chamber with green and gold hangings on the walls, and a fire burning brightly in the grate. The furnishings were delicately wrought, their lines flowing and simple, all their richness in the deep glow of dark polished wood, Vannor shivered. What was the Archmage up to? Frankly, he would have preferred the dungeon, “At least that way, I’d know how things stood,” he muttered to himself.

A cup stood on the night table by his bed. An experimental sip proved that it contained taillin, still warm, and laced with spirits. Vannor could feel its heat all the way down to his stomach. His body craved the warm liquid. Before he had time to worry about whether the cup might contain anything worse, he had drained it to the dregs. The liquid seemed to put new life into him. Cursing, the merchant dragged his stiff, aching limbs, still marked in places from the ropes that had bound him, out of bed. Blessing the huge fire that blazed in the bedroom grate, he staggered across to the doorway that led into the next room.

A fire burned brightly in the living chamber, too. Everything was neat, clean, and welcoming—just as he remembered it from long ago. The old familiar surroundings brought back the past so sharply that Vannor lurched against the doorframe, undone. A groan wrenched its way from the very core of his being. He remembered dining with Aurian on several occasions, in this very chamber that had once been her own. Aurian—and Forral. And where was Aurian now? Vannor wondered. How was she faring? It must be about time for the poor lass to be bearing her child . . . And where was Zanna? Despite his best efforts, she was still wandering at large somewhere in the sink of vice and iniquity that the city had become. By the gods, if he ever got his hands on that wretched girl, he’d—His view of the room became suspiciously blurred. Vannor rubbed his eyes vigorously, and told himself he was suffering the aftereffects of Moathan’s attack.

Moving like a sleepwalker, the merchant checked the chambers thoroughly. The door was locked, of course, and he could get nowhere near the windows for Miathan’s spells. When he tried to touch the crystal panes, there was a flash of light, and his hand was engulfed in burning pain that shot up his arm. It felt for an instant as though he had thrust his hand into the fire. The fires in both rooms were guarded by a similar spell. Vannor found by painful experimentation that he could throw logs into the flames from a short distance away, but could approach no closer than the hearth itself. That ruled out using fire as some kind of weapon, then—and there was nothing else in the chamber that could be used at all. Even the bedcovers, with which he’d thought to hang himself as a last desperate alternative, simply slipped out of any knot he tried to make.

Swearing luridly and rubbing his stinging fingers, the merchant sank into a chair by the fire, buried his face in his hands, and cursed himself for a fool. Fear for Zanna must have blurred his thinking when he had set out to find her. His plan had seemed so simple at the outset! Return to Nexis, disguise himself, and make surreptitious contact with some of his old and trusted connections among the merchants. It should have been simple enough to trace one lost girl What he had failed to take into account was that one, at least, of his old acquaintances was no longer to be trusted.

Vannor cursed. Which one of those bastards had betrayed him? The city had changed so much in his absence—another thing he had failed to take into account. New opportunities had arisen under Miathan’s rule, new chances to prosper and become rich—if you weren’t too particular about the methods used. The rich and the poor were growing farther and farther apart in Nexis, and the merchant had been sickened to his very soul by the poverty, sickness, and squalor he had witnessed. Others, it semeed, had less tender consciences. Miathan’s immoral, self-serving ruthlessness was spreading like an evil canker through Vannor’s city, and the merchant was helpless to stop it. Stop it? Why, he couldn’t even save himself! Though he had never been a man to give up hope, Vannor could see no possible way out of this predicament.

All activity ceased as the Archmage strode into the kitchen. Janok, berating some hapless minion, broke off short in the midst of his tirade, his face betraying both astonishment and fear. What was Miathan doing here? He never lowered himself to enter the kitchen!

“Yes, sir? How can I help you?” Janok bowed low, almost groveling. The head cook had never forgotten that dreadful day so long ago, when he had carelessly allowed the drudge Anvar to escape and fall into Aurian’s hands—and how Miathan had punished him for his mistake.

“Janok,” the Archmage barked, “I need a servant for a delicate and special task. Is there anyone among this disreputable crew of layabouts and slatterns who is reliable, trustworthy—and discreet?”

“I can do it, sir,” a small voice piped up from the shadows. Janok scowled. By all the gods, were it not for the fact that she had the Lady Eliseth’s protection, he would teach that upstart little snippet a lesson she would never forget! The Archmage was frowning down at the tangle haired young girl. “Are you not the Lady Eliseth’s servant?”

“Yes, sir.” The maid bobbed another curtsy. “But I can make up the extra time, and I’ve ever so ef-efficient, the Lady said.” Beneath her tangle of hair, she frowned. “At least, I think that was the word she used.”

In spite of himself, Miathan found that he was smiling. What a droll little creature she was. Perhaps she would be just the thing to amuse Vannor, and soften his mood. “Well,” he said, “if you are sure you can do this without inconvenience to your mistress ...”

“Oh, I can, sir, I promise you. I’ll work ever so hard.”

Janok ground his teeth. Pushy little brat! Always toadying to the Magefolk and putting herself forward!

“Very well,” said Miathan. “I must say, it makes a refreshing change to see such enthusiasm. Janok, prepare a tray with food and wine—the best you have. You, girl, will bring it upstairs to me as soon as possible.”

When the Archmage had gone, Janok turned on the maid. “Why, you little—”

“You touch me, an’ I’ll tell the Lady Eliseth,” the girl shrilled, scrambling deftly out of his way. Janok cursed her, but he was defeated for the moment. He was terrified of the Lady Eliseth, as were all the servants. But one day this little bitch would slip up, and when she did . . . Thinking dark thoughts of revenge, Janok went to prepare the tray.

Vannor, exhausted, frustrated, and in pain, had fallen asleep at last in the chair by the fire. But he had scarcely closed his eyes, it seemed, when he was awakened by the sound of the door being opened, and the rattle of crockery. Miathan entered, followed by a small, slight figure staggering beneath the weight of a laden tray. The merchant sprang to his feet, his first thought one of relief that the Archmage was unaccompanied by guards. Though where Miathan was concerned, that meant very little! “What do you want of me now?” he growled.

The Archmage shrugged. “I merely came to bring you some food.” He smiled mirthlessly. “We must take care of you, my dear Vannor. It would be tragic to lose you too soon.”

Turning to the maidservant, Miathan gestured for her to put the tray down on the table. She lurked behind him, head down and face averted. Then Vannor caught a clearer glimpse of her. Though a ragged fringe of hair obscured most of the maid’s face, there was something so familiar . . . The merchant gasped. Quickly, he swung away from the Archmage to hide his shock. The maid banged the tray down onto the table, almost spilling its contents, and with a scared glance at the Archmage, darted from the room like a startled hare.

“If you’ve only come to threaten me, Miathan, I’m not interested,” Vannor snarled, to cover her retreat.

“Very well. The next time I come, you must be prepared for more than threats.” Stiffly, Miathan stalked from the chamber, locking the door behind him.

When he was gone, Vannor shot across the room to the tray, lifting the dishes with trembling fingers. Sure enough—under a plate he found a folded note, curling and damp from the heat of the food. Carefully, the merchant peeled it open, stifling his impatience. The ink was beginning to spread in fuzzy lines, but the hasty scrawl was still legible.

Beneath the signature, blurred and dotted with tears, was a hastily added scrawl: “I love you.”

A weight of worry suddenly lifted from Vannor’s shoulders. Quickly, he read the note again, then threw it in the fire.

“Well, of all the sheer nerve! Of all the bloody insane, ridiculous, dangerous notions . . .” he muttered. Then his face broke into a grudging smile. Zanna! The little minx was spying in the Academy, right under the very noses of the Magefolk!

Vannor shook his head, half aghast, half admiring.

“She’s my daughter, all right!” he admitted to himself. “Bless her and blast her for her courage!” With that, Vannor bent to his meal with a better heart than he would ever have thought possible.

The lean, fleet Nightrunner vessel, with its sails of shadowy gray, slipped into Norberth Port long after dusk and tied up to a derelict, unused jetty on the south side of the harbor. This year’s evil weather had all but put an end to trade, and the town seemed quiet and subdued, with few windows showing lights. There was no sign of activity on the handful of ships moored on the north side of the harbor, and the docks were silent and deserted. Remana, standing in the prow of the smuggler ship, snuggled more deeply into her heavy cloak, and shivered. Already it was getting on for autumn again, and this year they had never seen a summer!

Remana thought wistfully about Fional’s description of the Valley, where this eldritch winter held no sway. From along the deck, she heard muffled rattles and scrapes, and the creaking of rope as the ship’s boat was lowered in the darkness with a dispatch that betokened long practice. A figure materialized at her side out of the gloom, and Remana, expecting Yanis, was surprised to near the voice of Tarnal, the devoted young Nightrunner who had taught Zanna to ride.

“Are you ready to go, ma’am?” Tarnal whispered.

Remana nodded, feeling a twinge of excitement—then remembered that Tarnal could barely see her in the gloom. “I’m ready,” she whispered. “Where’s Yanis?”

“Waiting in the boat—he’s still not happy about you going]” Tarnal replied. “Had it not been for Gevan whining about taking a woman to do a man’s work, you’d have problems. But you know how Gevan gets under our leader’s skin!” He chuckled. “Yanis will take you now, just to spite him!”

“It’s not up to Yanis—or that idiot Gevan!” Remana retorted in astringent tones. She scrambled down into the rowboat, profoundly grateful she’d thought of wearing britches instead of skirts—though her clothing had provided Gevan with another bone of-contention. She sighed, annoyed because everyone thought that Yanis had included her just to irritate his irascible mate. Ever since her dearest Leynard had been drowned they had all wanted to wrap her in wool like a babe in arms!.

“Come on, Mam!.” Yanis hissed. “What kept you?” His words did nothing to improve Remana’s mood, but she took a deep breath and bit back the acid comment that sprang to her lips. Only by her actions would she finally prove her worth to the men as a Nightrunner.

With Gevan and Yanis at the oars, Tarnal keeping a lookout in the bows, and Remana, at her own insistence, steering, the ship’s boat skirted the docks under cover of the shadowed wharves, heading toward the springing span of the great white bridge that marked the river’s mouth.

Before long, the scattered lamps of Norberth had faded behind them. Curls of mist were rising from the dark water, shrouding the surface of the river with glimmering silk. Peering ahead into the gloom, Remana caught the tip of her tongue between her teeth and concentrated on her steering. If she ran aground or hit a rock, she would never hear the last of it from those wretched smugglers—especially Gevan!

Judging from the labored breathing of the two men, it was hard work rowing upstream against the current. It also took longer than Remana had expected. When at last she heard the roar of water rushing over the weir, she was greatly relieved. Briefed by Yanis on what to expect, she steered the boat into a calm bankside pool beyond the swirl of the turbulent waters, and the two men scrambled to steady the craft while she disembarked. With muffled grunts and curses, they hauled it out and carried it up the sloping bank and around the weir, returning it to the water in a place beyond the pull of the ferocious current.

Remana lost all track of time as Yanis and Tarnal propelled the boat with rhythmic strokes along the river’s upper reaches toward Nexis. Despite the warm gloves that one of the old Nightrunner grandmothers had knitter for her, her hand that grasped the tiller was freezing—almost as cold, in fact, as her feet and her face. She was very glad when the first straggling buildings of Nexis came looming through the mist. Suddenly Remana jerked bolt upright, peering at the torchlit scene that swung into view around a bend in the river. The boat gave a sudden yaw as her hand tightened unconsciously on the tiller. “What in the name of the Gods is that?” she yelped.

Yanis spat out an oath and grabbed for the oar that had been wrenched from his hand by the boat’s abrupt jerk. From his scowl, Remama knew he had been about to deliver a blistering comment on her steering, but, luckily for him, had thought better of it. Tarnal, however, had looked over his shoulder, and his startled cry drew the Nightrunner leader’s attention away from his mother.

“Yanis—look! They’ve rebuilt the old wall”

In Remana’s lifetime, the city of Nexis had long since burst the constraining bounds of its ancient walls. Their crumbling remains still existed to the north and east of the city, where the steep, uneven landscape had discouraged further construction, but generations of merchants had taken to building their homes on the terraced slopes on the south side of the river, and the burgeoning city had also extended westward, where the land sloped less steeply as the river widened and the valley opened out. But while Remana had been away from the city, someone had been repairing and extending the original fortifications with massive blocks of rough-mortared stone, to about the height of three men.

A new bridge spanned the river, a continuation of the new wall that climbed the south side of the valley in a series of stepped lengths, to loop around the mansions of the merchants. Blocking the arch of the bridge was a huge barred gate that slid down into sockets on either side. Above it, on the bridge, was a sturdy building that presumably housed some lifting mechanism, to permit approved river craft to pass.

“How could they have built it so fast?” Yanis gasped. Quickly, he paddled the little boat beneath the sheltering trees of the northern bank, out of sight of any guards who might be stationed on the bridge.

“The Magefolk have done this,” Tarnal asserted. “It would take magic to get those blocks into place!” He frowned.

“But why did they do it? Surely, with the powers at Miathan’s command, he can’t be afraid of being attacked?”

Remana shook her head. “Perhaps this wall was built, not to keep people out of Nexis—but to keep them in.”

Whatever the reason for its construction, the new wall presented them with a problem. Remana frowned, utterly at a loss. “How can we get in to see Jarvas now?”

“We Nightrunners can get in and out of Nexis unseen,” Yanis assured her with the wicked grin that reminded her so much of his father. He moored the boat in its hiding place, and lifted something from a bundle of sacking in the bottom. To Remana’s puzzlement, it was the shielded lantern that the smugglers used for signaling. Yanis led Remana and Tarnal along the bank toward the new bridge that formed a barrier across the river. Near the bridge, he scrambled down the steep bank, the others following with difficulty, clinging to tussocks of grass to keep their balance on the rough and muddy ground, and glad of the dappled tree-shadow that shielded them from view.

Though she had been hearing the sound of trickling water for some time, Remana only realized where Yanis was heading when an appalling stench almost sent her reeling. “Oh, no!” She scrambled forward to grab the smuggler’s shoulder. “Yanis, you can’t be serious! You’re taking us through the sewers?”

Yanis chuckled. “Why not?” he said. “Think of it as following Dad’s footsteps.” Still chuckling, he led the way toward the dark, round hole in the bank that was the western sewer outfall for the city of Nexis.

“Pox rot it! Why didn’t I listen to you, Benziorn!” Jarvas groaned. “If I’d sent these folk away sooner, they would have been safe by now!” Peering through a chink in the stout wall of his stockade, he could see the glint of torchlight on swords and spears, where Pendral’s troops had surrounded his refuge. Already, the captain had delivered their ultimatum. If Tilda, Jarvas, and the wounded stranger were not delivered into their hands before the torch in his hand burned down, his archers would set fire to the buildings within the stockade.

“You tried—remember?” Benziorn replied. “Even knowing the risks, they wouldn’t leave. They didn’t believe anything could happen, they’re so used to thinking of this stockade as a place of safety . . .” He shrugged. “What more could you have done? It was their own choice to stay and take their chances!” The physician shook his head. “Jarvas, you’ve fortified this place too well! Is there no other way out?”

“Only the bloody river!” Jarvas replied. “And that’s too deep and fast for most of this lot to manage!” Cursing bitterly, he slammed his fist into his palm, “Benziorn—I’ll have to give myself up! There’s no other choice!”

“Wait,” The physician gripped his arm. “Don’t rush into this! Pendral is in the pay of the Magefolk, and we know the Archmage is behind these disappearances of folk from all over the city. There’s no guarantee that giving yourself up will save your folk. Besides, it’s not just you they want—what about the others? By all the Gods, there must be something we can do!”

Within the warehouse, folk were huddled together in terrified knots, Apart from the bawling of the youngest babes, who seemed preternaturally aware of the tension in the air, there was utter silence. When Jarvas entered the chamber, all eyes turned hopefully toward him, expecting “answers, Expecting him to save them.

Emmie came running up, the white dog a shadow at her heels. “Jarvas,” she said urgently, “you and Tilda and the stranger, and Benziorn, to take care of him, must get out of here. It’s you they want. Maybe, with you gone, they’ll leave the others alone.”

The big man frowned. “I don’t like it—” he began.

Benziorn interrupted him. “Jarvas, she’s right. It’s the only way. The problem is ... How do we get out?”

“Through the sewers, of course.”

All three of them turned at the sound of the strange voice. Jarvas gasped. “By all that’s holy—it’s Leynard’s lass! Where the blazes did you spring from?”

The woman scraped a straggle of hair out of her face with a muddy hand and gestured toward her companion. “This is my son Yanis, now the leader of the Nightrunners. I heard what you were saying. We’ll get you out the same way we came in, and we’ve a ship moored at Norberth to take you to safety.”

She spoke in a brisk, matter-of-fact way that reminded Jarvas of Emmie, and he respected her shrewd summing up of the situation.

“I’ll find Tilda and the boy . . .” Emmie vanished into the depths of the warehouse, the white dog following.

“We’ve a wounded man to take’ Jarvas told Yanis. “Can you help me with him?”

When she saw the face of the stranger, Remana went white. “Hargorn! What happened to him? Will he be all right?”

At that moment, there came the thunder of heavy blows on the gate. Flaming arrows arched whistling overhead like a shower of shooting stars, some falling, still burning, to the ground within the stockade, some thudding into the wooden half-timbering of the buildings, or lodging between the roof tiles to set the beams smoldering beneath. The warehouse began to fill with smoke. A wooden feed shed in the stockade caught alight, and people were running, screaming. As the guards had planned, it was only a matter of time before someone panicked enough to open the gate.

Emmie blundered, choking, through thickening smoke, trusting the dog to guide her. With danger threatening, the animal would return to its litter—and where the pups were, Grince, and hopefully Tilda, would also be. It was her only chance of finding them now. Forcing her way forward blindly, with stinging, streaming eyes, Emmie was buffeted and knocked by crowds of panic-stricken people struggling to reach the door. Without the white dog’s large and steadying presence at her side, and the clutch of her hand on the thick ruff of its neck, she would have been knocked off her feet in no time. The panic was contagious. As she thrust her way to the rear of the warehouse, Emmie felt throttling tendrils of fear curling tight around her hammering heart, and constricting her throat.

“Emmie? Is that you?” Tilda seemed to erupt from the floor at Emmie’s feet, her wild-eyed face almost distorted beyond recognition by her fear, “Is Grince with you?”

“I thought he was with you!” Emmie struggled to loosen the hysterical woman’s grip on her arm,

“No—I sent him to find you! Then all the noise started, and the fires—”

Emmie swore with such crude savagery that Tilda gaped at her in shock. “Tilda—which way did he go?”

“Don’t know I lost sight of him—” Her words were cut short by a blood-freezing howl from the dog, Emmie’s heart turned over. Near the scattered embers of die fire, the white dog stood, whining pitifully, over a mangled mass of blood and fur, The trampled remains of its litter.

“I couldn’t stop them!” Tilda gabbled. A whole crowd came running through here—there was nothing I could do—”

“You stupid bitch” Emmie slapped her so hard that Tilda staggered. “Can’t you do anything right?”

Hating herself for taking her own anguish out on the streetwalker, Emmie stooped and put her arms around the neck of the whimpering dog, who was nosing in pathetic confusion at the limp little bodies. “Come on,” she said softly.

“There’s no point now.” The sight of the animal’s distress tore at her. Dashing tears from her eyes, she pulled the dog away, and after a moment’s hesitation it tore itself from its dead litter, and followed her trustingly.

“Let’s go.” Emmie grabbed Tilda’s arm, pulling the woman along in her wake. “We’ve got to find Grince.”

They found the boy with Jarvas, near the doors of the warehouse. “Quick!” the big man said. “The others have gone on ahead. Stay close to me!” Even as they followed him across the yard, the gates flew open, and the guards surged through in a swelling, relentless wave. Over the sound of screams, Emmie heard Jarvas cursing. He stopped, half turned as if to go back . . .

Running forward, Emmie tugged at his arm. “Jarvas, don’t! There’s nothing you can do for them now!”

Benziorn and Remana were waiting for them in the doorway of the cavernous building that had once been a fuelling mill. “Hurry,” Remana urged them. “Yanis and Gevan have taken Hargorn ahead.”

Then to Emmie’s dismay, Grince noticed that his beloved dogs were missing, “My puppies!” the boy howled. “We can’t leave them!” Tearing his hand from Tilda’s grasp, he ran off across the yard and vanished into the crowd.

“Grince!” Tilda shrieked, and set off after him before anyone could stop her. She was recognized immediately. Emmie watched, transfixed with horror, as two soldiers pounced on her, and hauled her, struggling and screaming, away. Tilda managed to free one hand and gouged at the eyes of one of the guards—and the other plunged his sword into her belly.

Emmie covered her eyes, and cried aloud in anguish. Remana’s strong and comforting arm went round her shoulders.

“Grieve later,” the Nightrunner woman murmured. “Right now, it could cost you your life.” She was right. Emmie nodded, and straightened her spine, though her throat ached with unshed tears.

Jarvas had started forward, his face a rigid mask of pain as the guards fanned out through the milling, terrified throng, laying about them with fist, boot, and spear-butt, caring nothing, for the pain they were inflicting on old and young, man and woman alike as they sought the fleeing fugitives. Emmie saw Benziorn’s mouth tighten as he blocked the big man’s path. “Not you, Jarvas,” he cried. “You’re a marked man! I’ll find the boy, and show others the way out!”

“Come back!” Remana yelled. She caught hold of Emmie as the woman was about to follow. “No! Have you all gone crazy? You’re his helper! Hargorn needs you!”

Somehow, Emmie and Remana hauled and cajoled the stunned Jarvas into the mill, and were almost knocked off their feet by the din from the fluttering chickens and terrified pigs and goats that were housed within. The flames from the yard filled the dim building with a dancing, infernal light.

In the lee of the great stone dye vats, Remana stooped down to the floor. “Here it is!” She tugged at Jarvas’s arm.

“Feel for the ladder. Got it? Now get down there—quick!”

Looking over the older woman’s shoulder, Emmie saw the square, dark opening of the floor drain, with an iron grating propped up beside it. At Remana’s urging, Jarvas scrambled down, and Emmie, with a quick prayer, that the drop was not too far, pushed the reluctant dog down after him before feeling for the crumbling, rusted rungs of the ladder herself. The descent was mercifully short, and as she reached the bottom, Emmie saw a glimmer of light. Yanis stood with the blond young Nightrunner on the walkway at the side of the drain, carrying a shielded lantern that cast skull-like shadows on his-pallid face, As Remana descended, he thrust the lamp into Emmie’s hand and seized his mother by the shoulders.

“Where the blazes have you been?” he shouted hoarsely. “Gods, I thought you’d been taken!”

“Don’t be an idiot!” Remana retorted crisply, then hugged him hard. “I’m sorry, Yanis, Really, son, I’m all right. Did they take Hargorn to the outlet?”

Yanis nodded. “Gevan’s guiding them to the boat,” He looked hard at his mother, his jaw tightening, “I’m counting on you to take care of them, Mam. Once we get them to the river, Tarnal and I are coming back into the city through the sewers to look for Zanna and Vannor.”

Remana’s reply shocked Emmie. Gods, this Nightrunner woman could swear just like a man! For an instant, she thought that Remana was about to argue, but instead the woman stopped short in mid-curse and nodded. “I understand, Yanis. You lads take care of yourselves, and bring poor Zanna back safely.” Her mouth tightened ominously. “I want words with that girl!”

Yanis grinned. “If there’s anything left when Vannor and I have finished with her!” He turned to Emmie with a quick, flashing smile. “Come on, lass, let’s get out of here.”

Emmie was surprised at his smile, and wondered that it should be there, after all he had seen that night. For herself and Jarvas, there was no reason to smile—not now, and for a long time to come. As she followed the others into the dark and reeking sewers, with her white dog close at her heels, Emmie wept for the ones she had left behind in Nexis. Grince pelted back into the warehouse through the darkness and smoke, ducking and darting and worming his way through the melee of battling figures who took little heed of one stray child. Not for the first time in his young life, Grince thanked the gods that he was small and fast on his feet. Only his ability to slip between the larger adult bodies saved him from being trampled underfoot.

Inside the warehouse, flames were coming through the ceiling and clawing with greedy fingers at the walls. The air was thick and stifling, and the heat was a solid, scorching wall. But at least the place was almost empty, now that folk had fled the fire. Choking, Grince groped his way to Emmie’s little nest of blankets—and reeled back in horror from the carnage that met his eyes.

“No!” Sobbing, he beat the ground with his fists, and screamed out curses. His beloved puppies, all trampled to a mangled heap of fur! The heat was growing—it was becoming harder to breathe. An ominous roaring came from above. Grince glanced up through streaming eyes, and saw the flames beginning to consume the support beams of the roof. Panic seized him. He scrambled up, to run . . . And saw a corner of the blanket move.

Grince grabbed, and ran. Ran for his life, as the beams began to sag . . . Ran gasping, breathless and blind, depending on pure instinct to guide him through the smoke to the door. Sparks and flaming bits of rubble landed in his hair and scorched his scalp, but he barely noticed . . .

With a triumphant roar of flame, the ceiling of the warehouse fell in upon itself. The boy erupted from the doorway not a second too soon, a cloud of smoke billowing out behind him and flames scorching his heels. He fell gasping to the ground, rolling instinctively to protect his precious furry burden, and with the last of his strength, crawled away from the heat, one hand cradling the precious pup, alive or dead, to his breast.

Grince sat up, coughing convulsively, and wiped his streaming eyes. The warehouses were a blazing inferno; the courtyard was empty of people. Of the living, at any rate. Retching, the boy turned away from the dark and twisted lumps, most with their features still recognizable, that had been the folk who lived in Jarvas’s sanctuary. Determinedly, he turned his attention to the scrap of fur that was still cradled in his arms. It was the white pup, his favorite. Grince’s heart leapt—but he knew better than to rejoice too soon. The tiny creature huddled in his arms, shivering, weak, and wretched. It needed food, and warmth, and care . . . The boy looked wildly around him. Where was Emmie? She would know what to do. Where was everyone?

Grince put the puppy inside the scorched rags of his shirt, too concerned for the little creature to heed his own discomfort. Squaring his shoulders determinedly, he set off across the trampled, bloody courtyard to find Emmie. That she might well be one of the scattered corpses that littered the yard was a fact that he was not prepared to accept. He did, however, find his mother.

Tilda lay in the mud, her guts split open like a butchered pig, her empty eyes staring in stark horror at the smoky sky. Grince stood there, reeling, too shocked yet for tears, unable to take his eyes from the ghastly sight. After a time, the puppy squirmed restlessly against his skin, its tiny scrabbling claws bringing his mind back to reality. This—this horror was not reality. This was not his mother! It couldn’t be. She must be somewhere else, lost in the city . . . He would find her, he knew, and in the meantime, his puppy must be cared for.

Grince turned his back on the grim carnage of Jarvas’s stockade, and moved slowly, like a sleepwalker, through the gates. Little more than a shadow himself, the young boy vanished without trace into the shadowy slums of Nexis.