“How do you know what is true?” asked Cheydar.
Dagon showed annoyance again, quickly repressed it. “Simple research. Consider the entire mythology that’s arisen about the Proctors. To some they are saviours, and their enforcing of law will bring about Utopia. To others they are demons and this is perhaps closest. They enforced the Wilder laws. If someone used a cart to haul wood out of the Wilder a Proctor would turn up and smash the cart. They simply prevented the law being broken. But it was the population stricture that inspired terror of the Proctors. The population here is set. at two billion and must never go above that number. When it did, about two centuries ago, the Proctors turned killer. For every child born at that two billion limit a human was killed. It was completely random. It might have been a baby that died or an octogenarian on his death bed.”
“I do not believe this,” said Suen, but her voice was not firm. She turned to Cheydar. “I want to go into the Wilder. I want to read what is written on a death post.”
Cheydar was watching Dagon thinking, simply a killer? He nodded, feeling his stomach clench. To actually go to the edge of a Forbidden Zone… He turned to Suen and saw something else there in her expression: a kind of set stubbornness, a determination to carry something through. He had seen that look before and it brought to him a feeling of hopeless dread. She nodded once as if by his look he had guessed her intention and she was confirming it. She reached into her pack and took out a leather-bound book. She held it up.
“In the morning we head for the Forbidden Zone beyond North Forest, by the coast,” she said. Cheydar knew the book. It was one of Tarrin’s.
“We will be caught and killed before we get there,” he said. “Any route will take us through the Cariphe’s lands. If we go South we can take the road to Elmarch and the Forbidden Zone there nearly touches on the road.”
“We go to North Forest, by the coast.”
There would be no arguing with her. She turned to Dagon, who had taken out one of his swords and was running a stone up and down the blade.
“Will you be with us?”
“Of course,” he said. He looked around at them. “Sleep now, I will watch.” Cheydar returned the look.
“Wake me in two hours,” he said.
Dagon took out a pocket watch, checked it, then nodded and moved off into the darkness. The sky was lightening, but the sun had yet to break over the horizon. Like a corroded coin the sulphurous moon Linx traversed the sky, one edge gilded by the approaching sun. Steeleye was a misty orb all but lost behind thin cirrus. There was frost on the boulders, layers of mist out in the scrub.
“Father will be very annoyed,” said Eric.
“Ah, but he will be well rested,” said Dagon. He stood next to a boulder, an air gun cradled before him. Eric did not recognise the design. He walked up and stood beside this warrior.
“Your weapon,” he said.
Dagon flipped the gun around, handed it across.
Eric said, “Valved gas cylinder… how many shots?”
“Five. The darts are in that revolving barrel and are automatically presented.”
“I’ve never seen its like before.”
“They’re made in Elmarch and are standard issue to the army there. They’re the reason the Cariphe keeps to his borders.”
“I’d like to go there. So would David. They say it is always sunny and the King’s navy is always looking for volunteers.” Eric handed the weapon back.
“They’re normally volunteered with a club on the back of the head. Try the Border Legion, you’ll have better luck there.”
Dagon turned and started walking back to the camp. Eric followed.
“That’s where you’re from then?”
“Yes.”
Eric glanced back. He’s from Elmarch, he thought, staring at the ground. Something… He shook his head and halted. Yes. Where Dagon had stood there were two prints in the frosted ground ivy. No prints other than those Eric had just made coming out here and the both of them were now making as they walked back. There had to be a reasonable explanation. No man could stand as still as a statue all night, or fly, or just appear out of thin air.
“I would say that if we skulked all the way to North Forest we’d more likely be caught than if we just travelled there openly. Head into Giltown, rent a carriage and take it right to the edge of the Wilder. Much less chance of getting caught,” said Cheydar. He felt that if they must make this insane journey it would be best to do it quickly.
“I leave that decision in your hands. You are the soldier,” said Suen. Cheydar grimaced. Subterfuge was hardly soldier’s work. He turned to Dagon. “What do you think?”
“I think you’re right,” answered the warrior. “The priesthood is geared that way: they’ll be looking for people who look guilty, who are trying to hide, they’ll always be looking for that kind. Best to go boldly, pretend to Lord Right, even priestliness.” The last word came out with a touch of contempt.
“You don’t have much liking of priests do you,” said Suen.
“I just don’t like the ignorance of faith,” he shot back at her. The coach house at Giltown was a sprawling affair with many attached stables and low buildings for the coaches and, because it was on the main trade route from Elmarch, the carts of traders. Even from a distance the bellowing of the titanotheres could be heard, and in the fields all around grew tree ferns; fodder for the great beasts.
Beyond the coach house the rest of the town consisted of red brick houses with many storeys leaning precariously over a street leading down to a dock crowded with low black barges. It was on these that goods were brought up from the richer southern country and traded for metal ores mined around Ompotec.
“The priesthood keeps to the agreement,” said Cheydar as he walked at Dagon’s side to the reception building of the coach house. “There is never mining in the Wilder, nothing like that.”
“There has never been the need,” replied Dagon. “The established mines supply all the demand there is.” He looked at Cheydar. “If they did mine in the Wilder that would bring the Proctors back and believe me, that’s the last thing the priesthood wants. They have no wish to appear in any way powerless.” The main building of the coachhouse was ringed with a low veranda on which priest soldiers lolled and inspected passers by. Dagon and Cheydar ignored them as they mounted the steps and went in through the main door. Within, a fat bald official sat at a desk sorting through sheaves of paper. He glanced at them over half-moon glasses and continued with his work until Dagon, as agreed, walked up and addressed him.
“The Lady Vemeer requires a coach to take her North,” he said, and dropped a bag of metal money on the table. Cheydar contained his surprise; that hadn’t been in the game plan. The official delicately pulled at the strings of the bag and opened it. His eyes widened at what he saw inside and with a glance to the door he quickly slid it across his desk and dropped it in his lap.
“We are in a hurry, a Metrarch awaits her presence.”
“The gold phaeton would be best. I will take you to it.” He slid the money into a pocket, picked up some forms from a stack beside him and led the way to the door. Once outside he turned away from the priest soldiers and led the way around the side of the building. The soldiers inspected the trio with expected suspicion, but did nothing.
“Will you be requiring a driver?”
“No.”
“Ah.”
They shortly came to a man who sat on the edge of a water trough while watching some girls work at cleaning out the huge stables. The man looked bored. He held a short whip in one hand and was methodically slapping it against his leg. To one side, in a compound with fences five feet tall and made of tree trunks, a male titanothere ate from a huge basket fixed to the stable wall. The grey hide behind its head was goad-scarred and there were calluses on its sloping back and sagging belly, from the cart straps. A couple of the fist-shaped horns on its head had been broken off, probably in mating fights, and its small piggy eyes regarded the world with seeming indifference. It flicked warble flies away from its huge rump with an inadequate tail, twitched its mussel-shell ears. When it leaned its many tons against the fence the tree trunks bowed and looked as if they might break.