‘Perhaps the mage called Stranger will be their guide,’ said Anfen. ‘What did she have to do with this? And where’s Far Gaze? Loup, is either of them close?’
‘You keep asking, I keep telling. Neither’s close,’ Loup said sullenly. He sensed he was being blamed for much of this, ‘unfairly’ no doubt. ‘Ain’t been close since Far Gaze chased our Stranger into the woods. They’re still dancing in there, I’d reckon. When mages that level get in a scrap it can go on a while. They get lost in the games and tricks of it. Powers they use start playing with them, not just the other way around.’
‘One mage alive could give Far Gaze that kind of fight,’ Anfen muttered.
‘That you know of,’ said Loup. ‘But he wouldn’t give that kind of fight. Why play around? He’d kill Far Gaze in a minute tops, dance on his bones. Then on to whoever’s next to kill. You think he’d let a folk mage like Far Gaze roam free?’
‘We know less of the Arch Mage than we think.’ But Anfen knew Loup was probably right. Anfen had seen the Arch Mage up close, one of the only free men to have done so. He had taken personal orders from him, had felt the terrible gaze lingering on him from that half-melted mess of a face, the intensity of its mind weighing and considering him. He hadn’t known much about the Arch Mage but even back then, not knowing half of what he’d soon learn of the castle and its designs, he’d known evil when he saw it. It had been the first seed of doubt: this is the face of those you serve …
‘We’ll see,’ said Loup. ‘If Far Gaze is still alive, we’ll know Stranger’s nothing to do with him, or the castle.’
‘You may be right.’
‘Sometimes I am,’ Loup said bitterly. ‘She’s not him in a dress or disguise. I pondered that chance back at the hilltop when I first felt her close by. I know what he feels like to be near. And he doesn’t leave his rat’s nest to help out sworn enemies like you and me.’
‘So you do believe she helped us?’ said Anfen. Stranger had helped, it seemed … but he badly wanted to speak with Far Gaze and know why he’d attacked her. On the other hand, mages were not renowned for their powers of reason …
Loup said, ‘She tried to help us. Far Gaze saw her starting casting and didn’t trust her enough to let her.’
‘Nor did I,’ said Siel.
‘Oh aye?’ said Loup, now openly angry. ‘I had no clue to that, young miss. I thought you lobbed friendship arrows at her. Old Case, he did right to give you that shove. And you got up wanting his head next, aye? It’s always the mages you all don’t like or trust. I warned you about that Kiown too. You’ll see about him with time, mark me now.’
This nonsense again … ‘Kiown made mistakes,’ said Anfen. ‘But have you forgotten? There were times when he made the difference between life and death for us.’
‘Pff! All show. And it was his own hide he was saving, not yours. You didn’t see what I saw! Even if you don’t think the vision’s real, his mistakes’ve got us in a nice mess, all these patrols on the loose. You all still trust him, but find arrows for a mage.’
‘Loup, hush,’ said Anfen quietly.
The folk magician stormed off, rankled and muttering to himself.
‘We’re wasting sleeping time,’ murmured Sharfy. ‘Talk in the morning.’
Anfen closed his eyes, hoping his mind would stumble on the best course while it rested, as it often did. Yes, he’d had his doubts about Kiown too, had done for some time. What he’d said had been true: Kiown had shown nearly suicidal bravery defending the band, three times in particular standing out. Not always wise, but if a mission was dangerous, he was the first Anfen would choose. A ‘vision’ alone wasn’t going to change that.
Getting to the Council, that was what mattered now. Damn them for taking that charm, he thought, trying not to give in to an inviting surge of despair. Without that charm in my hand, will the Mayors believe my account of its message?
Its impossible message: the Wall at World’s End must be torn down. By all the Spirits, how?
44
They were already days behind their expected arrival in Elvury. Anfen led them south-west at a harder pace than they’d managed before, through shrouds of wood and plain fields. It was nice country, that way, picturesque, good soil and farm land, though the farms there were now the castle’s. They passed them every so often, covered in huge glass-like domes, azure blue shells reflecting the world around them and hiding what went on inside. People of the cities never saw that, only ever (if they were lucky) the corn and maize and bread that were run underground on wagon trains like the one Kiown and Sharfy had robbed.
Sharfy had done a year-long spell on the slave farms, and never even found out what his original crime had been. Right under those impenetrable glassy domes people were being worked to death that very second. Not many escaped.
Sharfy remained silent until the domes passed behind the horizon. Every minute of his time there, the whole year of it, was imprinted on him like a tattoo. His own slave farm had been further east, its food bound for Ankin, the very place Vous’s ascent had begun. But the farms were all much the same.
Like Anfen, Sharfy had been a proud servant of the castle’s army. Like Anfen, he was still proud he’d chosen that honourable path, even if for the wrong lord. It wouldn’t be honourable for long. Already signs showed these things had begun to change as the new generations were told to ignore Valour, that Vous was their Spirit of courage and honour now, that his values were of a superior kind. The battlefield wounded were no longer slain quickly, with respect and regret.
He remembered the endless raking, digging, hauling under that glassy blue dome, eighteen daily hours of it, sticks and whips randomly lashing down around the slaves as they went. He remembered hauling out the dead who’d dropped, starved and exhausted, and searching their pockets for handkerchiefs, forks, anything that could be traded for morsels of food. He remembered soup in the mess hall, funny stories traded in the barracks, untreated sickness, and hunger. Real hunger. The way starvation made a man entirely willing to kill his friend for literally a mouthful of gruel. He remembered bored overseers throwing two random slaves a kitchen knife each, ordering a fight to the death, whooping and yelling as they watched. Sharfy was sometimes picked for this, the ex-army slaves known for a good entertaining scrap. He never lost those duels.
He remembered the day’s work done early and the commanders assigning pointless tasks to fill the time rather than allowing the slaves to rest in their shit-stinking, overstuffed cells. He recalled spotting his chance in the underground while loading a wagon with grain bound for one of the cities. He’d had to be quick. Was he good at hand-to-hand? Two overseers who’d made the mistake of relaxing on the job might have said so, if not for the pieces of nose bone lodged in their brains.
Such were Sharfy’s thoughts as he stayed quiet on the way past the farms. He did not turn to look at them, and hoped never to see them again, but someone would, whether or not it was him, so what was the difference?
45
After days and nights of travel, Anfen had accepted he had the helplessness of a falling body.
He’d led castle armies through these very parts, subduing villages and militias, herding them back into Aligned cities where they’d be unable to leave, nor live so freely. He knew these lands well, had camped and hunted game in these lush green fields and scenic woods. Not far, there were places where, a few shovel-scoops deep, lay clusters of bodies just a few years dead, killed on Anfen’s own orders.