Lord of Ashes

FOURTEEN

Whenever she’d been able, Rag had avoided the Rafts like the plague. Calling it a shithole would have been generous to shit. Pinching from Eastgate, and even Dockside, was risky enough, but the Rafts was one place you never wanted to get caught with your hand in someone’s purse. Not that there was much worth pinching there.

As she watched the last of the slum dwellers walking past, it reminded her what a good decision she’d always made in leaving this place well alone.

The Greencoats were herding them out now, and being none too polite about it neither. Men, women and children, all looking like they’d not seen soap and a flannel for far too long, were being beasted like animals into the city. Every now and again some ugly-looking bastard would try and argue, try and make a fuss, but they were soon quieted with the prod of a baton or an angry shove. It didn’t look like the Greencoats were taking any shit, and Rag could hardly blame them. You didn’t fuck about with the residents of the Rafts — not if you knew what was good for you.

As relieved as she was that there’d be no dodgy, robbing bastards waiting for her in the shadows of the Rafts, she knew it would be no easy job getting through now. For some reason the Greencoats were evacuating the whole district — if you could call it that — and she guessed they’d be none too happy with her just strolling on by.

She knew she had to get through, though, weren’t no choice about that now. The rolled-up parchment with the black seal that pressed against her inside pocket was enough of a reminder of that. Bastian wanted his message delivered, and what Bastian wanted he’d bloody well get or someone would pay the price for it. Rag didn’t reckon she fancied paying what he’d charge if she fucked this up.

‘Need to keep our heads down,’ she said to Yarrick. He just nodded his reply, looking on at the scene. He was nervous, fearful, but Rag doubted he could be any more scared than she was. They were delivering that parchment to someone at the other side of the Rafts and she wasn’t looking forward to finding out who.

The pair of them waited as long as they could until the crowd that was moving out of the shanty town thinned down to a trickle. For their part, the Greencoats seemed eager to have this business finished, and it was obvious there was something going down. Rag could only hope she had time to finish her own business before it all kicked off.

‘Let’s go,’ she whispered eventually, when it looked like there was enough of a gap in the bodies to make a move. The dark would give them cover enough to make it past the Greencoats but they’d still have to be careful. She didn’t fancy getting coshed over the head for her trouble. There was enough to worry about as it was.

Yarrick followed close as she struck out from the wall they’d been squatting behind. None of the people being evacuated gave them a second glance. Luckily, none of the Greencoats seemed to take much notice of anyone trying to get back into the Rafts, so concerned were they with ushering people out.

There were a few yards of open ground as Rag padded quietly over the rickety wooden platform that had been built across the river. Further on was a jumble of shacks to hide in if they weren’t quick enough to go unseen. Yarrick stayed with her every step, but he weren’t quite as light on his feet. In the quiet of night, if she’d been on the rob, that might have been a problem, but there was noise enough to cover their tracks from all the complaining and shouting going on.

When they made it behind the first wooden hovel they stopped, breathing deep from the run and the fear. Rag peered round the corner, relieved that no one had seen them. She looked up at Yarrick to see he looked just as nervous as ever. This was work he was unused to, and Rag began to wonder exactly what Friedrik — poor, dead fucker that he was — had employed him for in the first place. He was too nervy for a pincher, too scared for a strongarm, and certainly weren’t quick enough with his wits to be kept round for the laughs. Took all sorts, she supposed.

Patting him on the arm she moved further into the densely packed dwellings. The stink rose up and hit her nostrils — fishy and clammy and shitty all at once. Here and there the wood under her feet would creak and give a little, and more than once she thought she might go right through to the river below. Ignoring the fear rising in her heart with every step, they eventually made it to the midway point of the river.

Voices rose up here and there from within some of the buildings. Folk who’d ignored the Greencoats, no doubt; deciding to fuck authority and stay despite what they’d been told. Part of her admired them for it; she’d never been a fan of the Greencoats, after all. Another part of her thought they were just bloody stupid. There must have been some reason for the evacuation, even if it was just the threat of the Khurtas coming screaming across from the Old City. Either way, that weren’t her concern right now.

As she and Yarrick made their way further on, there was light up ahead. A lantern dangled there off a stanchion and for a moment, while she stared at that light just swinging in the breeze, she got a thought in her head.

Don’t you do it, Rag. You know what tends to happen when you get those thoughts. They’ve got you in as much shit as they’ve got you out, and Bastian ain’t the kind of bloke to fuck about with. When he’s given an order and it’s been disobeyed it never ends well for whoever’s done the disobeying.

Rag padded slowly towards the light until she was stood beneath it. She knew she was exposed here, but just couldn’t get that mischievous thought out of her head. Absently, her hand strayed to the inside pocket of her coat and she pulled out the letter Bastian had given her. She looked at Yarrick, who saw what she was doing. She reckoned he was too scared to care, because he said nothing as she broke the seal and took a look.

Even as she read she knew it was wrong, and when she saw what was writ on that little bit of parchment she mouthed a silent curse. Cursed Friedrik for teaching her those letters. Cursed her curiosity. Cursed herself for getting mixed up in such a shit of a business.

But she’d seen it now, and there weren’t nothing she could do about that. There just weren’t any unknowing something once you knew …

They were going to open one of the gates. In her hand was a message to the Khurtas telling them when and where: the Lych Gate on the following night. Bastian and the rest of the Guild were going to open a gate and let the Khurtas wander right into the city.

Rag stared at those words, reading them through a third time, just to make sure she understood right. There was no mistaking it. Surely this couldn’t be allowed to happen. Surely she couldn’t be the one to deliver a message to the Khurtas that would see gods knew how many innocent folk get slaughtered because of what she’d done.

So what you gonna do, Rag? You gonna lose that there message? You gonna pretend you delivered it and try to con Bastian into thinking the Khurtas are on the way? He’ll cut your throat if he finds out. Hells, he’ll most likely cut your throat just for the laughs, but if he gets a sniff you’ve gone against him he’ll kill you surer than shit, and it won’t be quick.

Rag rolled the letter back up and tucked it in her shirt. ‘Let’s go then,’ she said to Yarrick, before moving back off through the shacks.

The further they went through the Rafts the deader and darker the place got. There was no more chatting in houses, no more torches to light the way, and the wooden platform underfoot got slicker and more rickety with every careful step across the river they made. More than once Yarrick slipped on the greasy planks but to his credit he didn’t cry out and give them away.

Before long they’d almost made it to the other side of the river. There the Rafts petered out, joining the Old City, and Rag slowed up, peering through the dark for any sign of their contact.

‘What now?’ Yarrick asked, breathing hard. Despite the lack of light she could see his head glistening with sweat, even in the cold of the night.

‘How the fucking fuck do I know, what now?’ Rag answered, her own fear coming out as annoyance, not that she felt even a bit guilty for it.

The pair of them stood in the dark, just listening. From the north they could hear the sounds of battle. The night sky was lit up with fire and alive with screaming and shouting. As scared as she was, Rag was not a little relieved she weren’t stuck in the middle of that.

There was sudden movement from the Old City. Though they could hardly see in the black, it was obvious someone was coming. Rag froze, feeling Yarrick do the same as the figure walked close, not making a sound. She peered through the night but couldn’t make out any features. It could have been anyone, maybe someone from the Rafts or the Town, desperate and alone. Maybe they’d come tooled up and on the rob.

As the night was suddenly lit by a mass of burning arrows, Rag saw it weren’t no desperate robber.

The face was painted in a mask of black and white stripes, the eyes were deader than a fish’s, hair all shaved and tied back in a knot. He was naked from the waist up, body lean and painted just like his face, and in the brief flash of light Rag was sure she saw the glint of a blade.

She held her breath as the night darkened again. Yarrick was next to her; she could hear him breathing hard and it was obvious he’d seen the Khurta too. She only hoped he didn’t do or say anything stupid enough to get them killed.

Another flash of light, and this time Rag saw the Khurta had moved. He was standing right in front of her now, same blank expression but this time palm held out like he wanted her to pay some kind of toll.

With a shaking hand, Rag reached in her pocket and took out the rolled-up message. There was no doubt in her mind that handing it over was the wrong thing to do, but she’d be fucked if she was gonna try and double-cross Bastian now — not with this evil-looking bastard standing right next to her.

She pressed the paper into the Khurta’s hand and felt him take it from her. Another shot of fire brightened the night, and in that light Rag saw the Khurta had disappeared, leaving her and Yarrick wheezing and trying not to shit themselves.

‘Can we get the fuck out of here now?’ said Yarrick, not even trying to hide the fact he was almost crying like a baby.

‘Shit right we can,’ Rag replied, turning back towards the city and padding off as fast as her feet and the slick wooden boards would allow.

The pair of them made good time back through the Rafts. Rag didn’t give a damn about stealth now, she just wanted to be away from this place as fast as she could, and Yarrick certainly weren’t complaining neither.

They’d made it to about halfway back when Yarrick grabbed her shoulder.

‘What the fuck’s that?’ he asked, pointing up towards the wall that ran northwards.

Rag squinted through the gloom, seeing something glowing atop the battlements in the distance.

‘Fucked if I kn-’

A bright ball of flame catapulted from behind the wall before she could finish her sentence. It soared towards the Rafts, and was swiftly followed by a second and a third. Rag could only stand and watch in awe as the first ball of flame went over their heads, smashing into the shacks behind them and exploding in an inferno of light and heat.

It reminded her of the mess those ships had made of the southern half of the city, but this time it weren’t the enemy doing the burning.

‘What the fuck?’ shouted Yarrick, as the other two balls of fire smashed into the Rafts behind them, each one closer than the last.

‘Move,’ Rag yelled, not waiting to see if Yarrick had the sense to heed her warning.

Already there was more fire in the sky. Rag could feel the heat at her back — whatever they were using to burn the Rafts it was doing its job, and no mistake. Must have been oil in those burning missiles, and it didn’t take a magister to work out what would happen if they didn’t move sharpish.

She could feel the heat as more fire shot overhead. Sense the explosion rip through the shacks behind and the vibration of it shake the boards beneath her feet.

You need to move that arse of yours, or you’ll end up so much charred bone at the bottom of the Storway.

Another explosion ripped up the ground behind her, knocking her over. Rag’s head hit the hard wooden boards and she floundered for a moment, trying to regain her senses and get the fuck moving.

Something whined in her ears, something high-pitched that set her teeth on edge, and it wasn’t until she stumbled to her feet that she realised it was Yarrick.

He was on fire, just standing there screaming. Rag took a step towards him but thought better of it. Weren’t nothing she could do now anyway. She squinted, wanting to shut her eyes, but she forced herself to look as he dropped to his knees, the fire consuming him, burning hotter than the hells as the oil that had spilled all over him took flame. He tried to say something, maybe begging for her to help him, but she couldn’t quite make it out as he began to choke and writhe. Rag felt sick to her stomach as she watched on helpless.

You can’t stand around staring at this all night or you’ll be bloody next.

Feeling a short sting of guilt Rag dragged her eyes away, setting off at a run before another ball of fire made ashes out of her too.

Up ahead she could see other people running — those too stubborn or frail to leave the Rafts when they’d been told, now doing their best to avoid their fate. She stumbled past an old man, thinking for a moment that she should help him but then quickly reconsidering. Helping him would most likely have meant both of them dying. Besides, this was the Rafts. He weren’t living here because he was nice and kindly. This place had a reputation and there were plenty who’d say anyone burned to death here got what they deserved. Some might even say it was a fate she deserved for all the things she’d done.

Still, Rag wasn’t gonna hang around and accept it.

She could see the edge of the city now. See the gap in the wall. Not far, only a few more yards and she’d be safe.

Keep running.

Don’t look back.

The walkway to her right erupted in flame and Rag was knocked off her feet again. She could smell smouldering clothes and burning oil. The soles of her shoes were scorched, her hair smoking, but she wouldn’t go down that fucking easy. If she had to sprint back into the city a screaming, burning lantern she’d bloody well do it.

With the world on fire, Rag picked herself back up and ran.