Nish was halfway down too when Merryl called him back. ‘It’s Klarm,’ he said in a dead voice when Nish entered the chamber.
‘What’s the matter?’
‘Lyrinx were seen moving north last night, in large numbers, so Klarm rotored straight down to the ambush site.’ Merryl stopped for a deep breath.
Nish knew what he was going to say. ‘The enemy aren’t there any more.’
‘There were plenty of signs of them in the hibernation cavern,’ said Merryl, ‘but it was empty apart from bones. They’ve gone and he doesn’t know where.’
Bootsteps came back up. It was Yggur, with Flydd. ‘From the way Merryl called you back, Nish, I figured it was important,’ said Yggur. ‘Did I hear you say the enemy have fled, Merryl?’
‘Not fled,’ said Merryl. ‘Marched to war. They’ve outflanked Troist’s army and Klarm reckons they’ll be attacking Borgistry within a week. He’s trying to get a better estimate of their numbers.’
‘So what do we do?’ Nish was so tired that he couldn’t think straight.
‘We’ll have to go to Lybing and put our backs to the wall with everyone else,’ said Flydd. ‘Borgistry can’t be allowed to fall. And that’s my big worry.’
‘Why?’ said Nish.
‘It’s too rich, complacent and soft. Borgistry hasn’t been threatened before. It has a big army but not many of its troops have seen combat, and its generals are fat and complacent. We’re going to have to take over.’
‘How will the governor of Borgistry react when you do?’ Nish wondered. ‘I heard the Council was unpopular there.’
‘The old Council was,’ said Flydd, ‘but we’re held in high regard, and we have Klarm to thank for that. He was like a will-o’-the-wisp, fleeting back and forth across Borgistry in the first month of winter, spreading his propaganda about the old Council and bolstering ours. There’s not a soul in Borgistry who hasn’t heard about Fusshte’s dirty little secrets.’
‘I haven’t heard anything about them,’ said Nish.
‘Do you really want to know?’
‘I don’t suppose I do.’
‘But do you know the single thing that has legitimised our Council?’ said Flydd, smiling grimly.
‘Thapters,’ said Nish. ‘Or farspeakers.’
‘It was that grisly relic Klarm picked up in the swamp.’
‘What relic?’ said Yggur.
‘Remember how Ghorr was blown out of his skin in the airbag explosion, and we found it hanging in a tree? Klarm had Ghorr’s skin tanned and inflated to make a full-sized balloon of the former chief scrutator.’
‘How revolting,’ said Yggur. ‘Is there no depth to which the little man won’t sink?’
‘Klarm knows how to move the common people,’ said Flydd. ‘He carried Ghorr’s blow-up under his arm to every gathering, setting it up beside him like a saggy, disgusting naked puppet. When the people saw what kind of a man Ghorr had been, or rather how little a man he was, they rallied to us because we’d brought the brute down. There’s nothing quite like ridicule.’
‘I’m prepared to admit that I was wrong about Klarm,’ said Yggur, ‘though he wenches and drinks far more than is proper.’
‘If the tales of this war are ever written, which seems increasingly unlikely, there’ll be a Great Tale in Klarm’s exploits and escapades over the past three months. He’s the bravest man I’ve ever met.’
‘That he is,’ said Yggur. ‘But a libertine nonetheless.’
FORTY-SEVEN
Lybing, from the air, was a fairytale city built at the confluence of three rivers. The old, walled town spread across five hills that surrounded the confluence like the points of a squashed star. Water formed the heart and arteries of the city, and its citizens had built no less than nineteen bridges, each beautiful, each different, across the rivers. Nish had counted them as the air-floater flew in.
The city now extended well outside the walls, for Borgistry was packed with refugees from the west, while a couple of leagues upstream, thousands of tents marked the camp of Borgistry’s largest army.
That was all Nish saw of the place, for the thapter was directed to land on the lawn of the White Palace, a rambling, grotesquely ornate building of indeterminate age or, rather, many ages. It spread across a trio of mounds between the upstream arms of the two largest rivers, and was built of white marble.
Nish had just climbed out onto a springy, daisy-starred lawn when he was called into the palace. He had expected to be part of a vast conclave, but Nish found himself in a grand reception room fitted for the deliberations of emperors that was practically empty. Up the far end, by a roaring fire spitting sparks over the screen onto the tiled floor, stood an oval table and eleven chairs, all but one occupied.
‘Artificer Cryl-Nish Hlar,’ called the man in livery at the door.
Someone at the table was talking, and no one looked up as Nish made the long walk, his heels clicking on the tiles. He stood at the end, uncertainly.
‘Sit down!’ snapped Flydd.
Nish took the empty chair at the near point of the oval and looked down the table, which was piled with maps and papers. A farspeaker globe, its base encrusted with gems by a master jeweller of Lybing, sat in pride of place in the centre. He recognised a number of people there, including Flydd and, down at the far end, General Troist, who looked nearly as weary as Nish felt.
Nodding to Troist, Nish scanned the other side of the table. An elderly woman and man, both richly dressed, sat next to Troist. To their left was another general, a vast, choleric man bursting out of his uniform, his chest festooned with rows of shining medals. Beside him was a woman in black who might have been a merchant, then a tall, dark woman with frizzy hair and filed teeth – Overseer Tuniz from the manufactory. What was she doing here?
There were three more, two middle-aged men and a woman whose face Nish couldn’t see as it was concealed by a dark veil. He picked up the papers in front of him.
The elderly woman extended a hand towards Nish. ‘Good day to you, Artificer Cryl-Nish Hlar. I am Nisbeth, Governor of Lybing and all Borgistry. This is my husband, Argent of Borg. Next to him are General Orgestre, Grand Commander of the Army of Greater Borgistry, and Merchant Meylea Thrant. Overseer Tuniz you would know, of course, and General Troist and Scrutator Flydd. Beside Tuniz are Mancers Rodrig and Crissinton Tybe, and lastly, Mira Seliant, who has come from Morgadis.’
Nish dropped the papers, which scattered across the table. As he tried to gather them up the woman in the veil turned her face to him. It was Mira. He felt a flush moving up his cheeks. She looked at him without expression, then turned away.
Nish had an urge to run from the room, as he had fled Morgadis that night nearly a year ago. What must she think of him? What would she say? It was as if all he’d made of himself over the past months was as naught.
‘Cryl-Nish Hlar?’
Nish realised that Nisbeth had spoken to him and he hadn’t answered. ‘I’m sorry. I didn’t catch that.’
‘Your report, Nish!’ snapped Flydd.
‘Ah … ah … yes, my report. I –’
‘Stop babbling, man, and get on with it. The enemy draws nigh.’
‘We brought four thapters,’ said Nish. Tiaan and Malien had the fifth and the other was about to go to Roros, to Governor Zaeff. ‘And four air-floaters –’
He broke off, unsettled by the piercing stare of General Orgestre, who was regarding him as if he were the most lowly of worms. Orgestre’s thin lips were pressed into a pale line that stood out against his red, broken-veined cheeks, and his bloodhound jowls wobbled as he turned his head.
Nish continued through his list of equipment, mostly weapons of war. What must Mira be thinking? Having lost her man and all three sons, she hated war and despised those who waged it.