Flydd bowed his head. ‘I hear your wisdom, Yggur, and you may be right, in the long run.’ He looked around the group, breathing heavily. ‘But truly, for our present survival, I can see no other way.’ He raised his right hand.
Yggur thrust back his seat and walked out without a word.
‘Then let it be done,’ said Orgestre with savage glee.
SIXTY-SEVEN
Yggur did not leave them, though he travelled with Troist’s army after that as they marched for Ashmode, and refused to have anything to do with Flydd. Klarm and Flydd tried to persuade him otherwise but he wouldn’t relent.
‘I can see the disaster coming and I’m not going to add to it,’ he said when Flydd called on him one final time. ‘I can’t imagine how I thought the fungus would be the answer.’
‘Then what would you do differently?’ Flydd said furiously.
‘I don’t know, but genocide is not the solution.’
‘If you can’t suggest an alternative, better to keep your thoughts to yourself.’
‘Don’t use scrutator logic on me, Flydd. The only reason the war ever came to this stage is that the Council slew all those who spoke against it.’
‘What are you talking about?’ said Flydd, deadly cold now.
‘You’re not the only one to have dug through the rubble of Nennifer, Scrutator. I went looking for the origins of this most pointless of all wars. Back in the early days, the forerunners of the Council executed all those who warned about going to war against the lyrinx. Their warnings of unending war have come true to the letter. The Council wanted war before ever the enemy did, and silenced everyone who spoke against it.’
Flydd considered that, then said, ‘If you’re so opposed to Orgestre’s solution, what are you doing here?’
‘There may yet be a chance to save you from your folly.’
Kattiloe’s thapter returned from Tiksi ten days after it had left, confirming that the lyrinx had indeed abandoned the fields of war and were streaming west. Everyone knew it by then, however, for the bulk of the fliers had already reached Ashmode and were searching everywhere for Gilhaelith, as was everyone else.
An increasingly stressed and irritable Flydd had spent two and a half weeks looking for the geomancer, who hadn’t gone to Ashmode at all. Gilhaelith wasn’t that much of a fool. He’d headed that way after seizing the relics, but once out of sight he’d set down by the City of the Bargemen and ordered Flangers and the other soldiers out. He’d recruited new guards and servants and flown away, in darkness, to an inconspicuous ravine forty leagues away along the southern rim of the Dry Sea from Ashmode.
There he’d hidden in the Golden Terraces, an ancient village honeycombed into a layer of yellow chalk between two sets of the Grey Cliffs above the empty sea. The Golden Terraces had been abandoned when the Sea of Perion dried up two thousand years ago, and since then had only been inhabited by bats. Gilhaelith planned to hide there until the lyrinx had assembled their armies at Ashmode, and would have succeeded but for an unfortunate accident.
A metal panel at the back of his thapter, torn loose by the lyrinx that had leapt onto the racks, fell off as the thapter flew high over one of the impoverished villages not far from the Golden Terraces. It landed in a pigsty, killing the village chief’s prized porker, and the chief was so incensed he insisted that his outrage be communicated to Flydd himself.
It took a week for the messenger to find someone with a farspeaker, and another day to convince him to send the message, but Irisis, who received it, understood its significance at once. After that it was a relatively simple matter to trace Gilhaelith’s possible destinations along the rim of the Dry Sea and search them one by one. If he had gone much further west he would have had to cross into Aachim lands, which were so tightly patrolled that not even a bat could have entered unnoticed.
Somehow Orgestre got wind of the discovery and insisted on coming, whereupon Yggur, whom Irisis hadn’t seen for a week, decided that he had to be there as well. Flydd didn’t say anything but Irisis could feel the tension between the three of them all the way.
Three weeks after Gilhaelith escaped with the relics, Flydd’s thapter dropped without warning over the upper cliffs and settled onto the highest of the Golden Terraces, which was covered in powdery dust of yellow chalk.
By the time everyone got out, Gilhaelith’s guards had their crossbows trained on them. ‘Put your weapons on the ground, then your hands in the air,’ the captain said.
Irisis laid her sword on the ground and raised her hands, scanning the guards for a short, stocky, achingly familiar figure. She didn’t see Nish anywhere.
A guard collected the weapons, everyone was ordered to remove their coats, and their bodies were patted down carefully. The guard took a number of exotic items from Flydd’s pockets.
‘You may come in now,’ the captain said.
They followed, except for Flydd, who had sat down and was taking his boot off.
‘What’s the matter with you?’ the captain said.
‘Gravel in my boot. I won’t be a minute.’
They went inside, Flydd put his boot on and followed.
‘Surr?’ began Irisis, desperate to discover what had happened to Nish.
‘Not now!’ he hissed. They were led down dusty halls excavated deep into the chalk, and into a chamber lit by lamps that were just lighted wicks floating in bowls of oil. ‘What game are you playing, Gilhaelith?’ Flydd said as Gilhaelith turned away from his geomantic globe and came to meet them. If he was shocked at being discovered, he didn’t show it.
‘My own,’ he replied with an almost uncanny serenity, ‘and it will do you no good to threaten me. I’m beyond all threats now.’
Flydd considered that for a moment, head to one side. ‘Why so?’
‘As you should know by now, I’m dying. I plan to make amends with what time I have left, and you can neither bribe nor threaten me.’
Flydd regarded him sceptically. ‘You can begin by handing over the relics.’
Gilhaelith smiled thinly. ‘I’ve made sure that your Art won’t avail you here. Anyway, I’ve won your war for you, without a life being lost, so I don’t see what you’re complaining about.’
‘We’re outnumbered three to one by a superior enemy, who are closing in on Ashmode even now. Where’s the victory?’
‘They’ll do anything – even agree to peace – to get the relics back. I’ve already demonstrated that.’
‘Ah, but can you hold onto them long enough to strike your bargain?’ said Flydd. ‘And once it’s struck, what then? They’ll have us at their mercy, and mercy isn’t a quality associated with lyrinx.’
‘Nor with the scrutators,’ said Gilhaelith pointedly. ‘I intend to have the lyrinx swear, on their sacred relics, to cease hostilities and not attack humanity, unless humanity strikes the first blow. Then you can negotiate for peace and I’m sure they’ll agree, since they’ve lost everything else.’
Flydd laughed aloud. ‘The damage you suffered must have been to your wits. There are few humans I’d entrust the world to on the security of an oath. As for lyrinx, none at all.’
‘I’ve found lyrinx honour to be superior to the human kind,’ said Gilhaelith. ‘These relics are sacred to them.’
‘Surr?’ said Irisis.
Flydd trod on her toe. ‘Then you’d better tell us why, Gilhaelith.’
‘I intend to. Come this way.’ Gilhaelith led them upstairs and along a corridor that was ankle-deep in the yellow chalk dust. He eased open a borer-riddled door into a small room cleaned of dust. On the floor were three long crates. He levered the top off the first.