The Copper Promise Page 29

  ‘I’ll tell you what I know, old man. I know there are pieces missing because I have seen them. Two gauntlets and a helm. Once you had those, sure, then it would be impressive, but now?’ He waved a hand dismissively. ‘This is hardly worth the Order’s time.’

  But a change had come over the family when he mentioned the missing pieces. The three ugly brothers were suddenly alert, and Mother’s eyes were wild. Graffer seized hold of her arm and she grabbed him back.

  ‘You know where they are?’

  ‘Of course I do.’ Well, most of them, he thought. Fane’s helm was wherever he was, and the same for Roki, if he lived still. Enri’s gauntlet was with Dreyda, who had taken it to study the runes.

  ‘Tell us,’ said the bald brother.

  ‘Why would I do that?’ Sebastian smiled. He could smell burned flesh.

  ‘We will lend you the armour.’ Mother Maundsley skittered forward, her long arms reaching out to him. ‘Just tell us where you saw the others and you can take it for your army.’

  Sebastian laughed.

  ‘You honestly think I will fall for that, do you? Just give you the information and then perhaps meekly lie down so you can stick me with your rusted blades? Then you will have the armour, the whereabouts of its missing pieces, and the money the Order have given me to trade. No, I think I shall go back to the Ynnsmouth knights and return with a small force to take this from you instead.’

  ‘The knights are too honourable to steal from common folk,’ said Graffer. ‘They will do no such thing.’

  ‘I am not a Ynnsmouth knight,’ said Sebastian. That, he felt, should have been enough warning for them, but the bald man drew his blade and brandished it.

  ‘Then we’ll cut it from you,’ he sneered. His brothers followed suit, and after an anxious glance at his boys, Graffer drew his dirty knife too.

  Sebastian smiled and nodded. He drew his own sword, taking care to do it slowly so that they could see how sharp it was, how brilliantly it shone in the light from the broken roof. His head was a bright agony, but the scent of scorched flesh no longer made him feel ill.

  ‘Finally.’

  52

  There were others in the walls, it turned out. Afterwards, Sebastian walked amongst the bodies and counted perhaps ten more, although it was difficult to keep the numbers in his head. The flagstones were slick with blood.

  ‘Bezcavar will be happy enough with this tribute, I think,’ he muttered. The blood did seem to be flowing towards the roots of the thorn tree, although that may have been a trick of the light. He reached up to pluck one of the strange orange fruits from the tree, and a small voice spoke up behind him.

  ‘You don’t wanna eat those.’

  It was Ip. In all the excitement Sebastian had completely forgotten about her. There was some blood on her arms and face, but it wasn’t hers. She was watching him closely, her head tilted slightly to one side as if he were some particularly fascinating insect that had landed on her food.

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Poison,’ she said. She stepped carefully over the bodies of her family. ‘They feed them to the people they catch sometimes. It makes them twitch all over and foam at the mouth.’

  Sebastian drew his hand away from the tree and rubbed his beard instead.

  ‘This –’ he gestured at the bodies on the floor – ‘this wasn’t a good thing for you to see.’

  The girl shrugged.

  ‘I’ve seen lots of things.’

  ‘Were they your family?’

  Ip knelt down and pulled a beaded necklace over the head of Mother Maundsley and slung it around her own neck. For a long moment she didn’t say anything, and Sebastian couldn’t see her face.

  ‘There was a place with lots of cold white stone,’ she said eventually. ‘It had pools of cool water and there were these big birds that walked about everywhere, with long feathers on their backs. They were all different colours. That’s the first thing I remember.’

  Sebastian nodded. That sounded like Onwai to him, a distant country to the east. His father had often talked about how marble had been shipped from there in the past. Either way, it did not sound like anywhere in Relios or Creos, both being lands of red stone and orange clay.

  Ip was watching him shrewdly. She seemed to guess what he was thinking.

  ‘They were keeping me to give to the tree,’ she said, nodding at the bloody roots. ‘I don’t know when, but they didn’t ever hurt me much, like they were saving me up.’ She shrugged. ‘So when they gave me to Bezcavar it would be special, I suppose.’

  ‘You knew all this? And you didn’t run away?’

  ‘I’m not stupid. When they started looking at me funny I’d have gone.’

  Sebastian could well believe that. There was an intelligence to the girl that he hadn’t seen in a child so young before.

  He turned back to the armour. ‘What do you know about this?’

  Ip walked past him and clambered up onto the roots. She touched her fingers to the fine mail coat.

  ‘It’s a puzzle, like you said. You need all the pieces. It was stupid of you to tell them you knew where the others are.’ She shot him a pitying look over her shoulder. ‘They were going to kill you anyway, though, so I guess it doesn’t matter.’

  ‘Good to know.’ Sebastian grimaced. No doubt Sir John had guessed as much too, but he was only gambling the life of one disgraced ex-knight. ‘What happens when it’s complete?’

  Ip shrugged.

  ‘I dunno.’ She stopped to turn and look directly at him. ‘Why didn’t you kill me too?’

  Sebastian’s first thought was to lie to the girl, tell her he had no intention of killing children, but somehow he knew that wouldn’t be enough. When he’d drawn his blade against the Maundsley family a feverish heat had descended on him, and he hadn’t stopped until they were all bleeding on the floor.

  ‘I didn’t see you,’ he said. He felt tired and ill. ‘In truth, I barely remember any of it. I just had to kill everyone. I didn’t think about who they were.’

  The girl raised her eyebrows. Sebastian had the unpleasant feeling she understood very well what he was trying to say.

  ‘Are you going to kill me now?’

  ‘No, of course not.’ His tone was terser than he wanted. ‘What else do you know about the armour?’

  ‘I know that a mage made it a long time ago. He was friends with the demon, but it drove him mad in the end.’

  ‘And where did this family get it from?’

  ‘How would I know? They’ve had it as long as they’ve had me.’

  Sebastian sighed. They could split the armour amongst the Order, and hopefully it would give the men enough courage to face the dragon; at this stage, any advantage was worth taking. The armour was fixed to the tree with pins nailed directly into the wood, and it looked very heavy. Getting it back to the Order by himself was going to be difficult.

  Again, the girl seemed to know what he was thinking. ‘They have a mule,’ she said. ‘There’s a stable round the back.’

  He looked down at the girl with red feet.

  ‘Would you like to come with me?’

  53

  Frith shifted his footing and felt his heart skip a beat as a gust of wind pushed him momentarily closer to the edge. Muttering curses, he dipped the end of the brush into the ink once more, and flattened the fabric against the stone. There was a small bundle of strips of cloth next to him. Every now and then Jolnir would poke the bundle with a stick, and nod merrily.

  ‘Tell me about these gods,’ said Frith. He wanted to take his mind off the deadly drop just in front of him, and as bored as he was of listening to Jolnir’s booming, pompous voice, it was a good distraction.

  They were perched halfway up the northernmost statue, in a tiny alcove created by the folds of the mage’s robe. The island was enclosed in mists once more, although a gusting wind meant that every now and then Frith could see the rocks below through ragged gaps in the cloud, and the occasional glimpse of a
slate-grey sea. Other than that, the only thing of interest in sight was a nest of lizard-like creatures clinging to another ledge, just opposite where they crouched. They were like the lizards in the pools, but bat-like wings sprouted from their bony backs and they slunk around on the sheer rock like they’d been born there. Frith supposed they probably had. Their nests were made from a mixture of sand, seashells and seaweed, and they clung like limpets to the stone.

  ‘What do you wish to hear?’

  Jolnir, much to Frith’s vague annoyance, had experienced no difficulty with the uncomfortable climb up the statue. There was a rough stairway of sorts, carved directly into the stone, although in places it had degenerated into little more than a series of handholds. Frith had not enjoyed it at all.

  ‘Were they truly gods, for a start?’ He slid the brush across the strip of fabric as Jolnir had taught him, but immediately he saw that he’d done it wrong. That curve was slightly too thick, this line at the wrong angle. He grunted in frustration and pulled a fresh strip from within his sleeve.

  ‘You believe they were not?’

  ‘Gods should be all-powerful, all-knowing, and yet these ones allowed themselves to be trapped in the Citadel. And once they were in there they couldn’t get back out again. I will agree that they must have been very strange, and otherworldly –’ he paused, thinking of the dragon pushing its head up through the rubble of the Citadel – ‘and certainly formidable, but gods?’

  Jolnir made a clucking noise within his mask. Even up here, he insisted on wearing it, and in all his days on the island Frith had yet to see him take it off.

  ‘You must remember that the gods had shared their knowledge with the mages. A foolish thing to do, in retrospect. The spells on the Citadel were very powerful indeed.’ He sniffed, and used the end of his stick to push the scraps of used fabric off the ledge. The wind caught them and they spiralled away into the mist. Frith swallowed hard and returned his eyes to his work. ‘But that is not exactly what happened, anyway. There were five old gods, Lord Frith, did you know that?’

  Frith shrugged. This time he almost had the shape of the word right, he could feel it, but a splatter of ink caused the final part to run.

  ‘Five gods,’ continued Jolnir. ‘There was Y’gia, a goddess of life and growth, a green creature.’ Jolnir’s headdress waggled back and forth. ‘Fickle. And there was Y’Ruen, a force of destruction, but I believe you are familiar with her, yes?’

  Frith ignored him.

  ‘And there were two more, the Twins, they called them, Res’ni and Res’na, but they were boring, and then there was O’rin, a god of lies and tricks and mischief.’ Jolnir’s voice took on a sudden cheery note. Someone has a favourite, thought Frith. ‘He was the most human of the gods, the one who spent the most time walking in the markets and talking to people. He liked the stories they made up – such imaginations they had – and the extraordinary lengths they would go to deceive each other. He was the most human, and it was both his strength and his weakness. When the war broke out between the gods and the mages, O’rin spent much of his time observing from the sidelines, only interfering when it was interesting to him to do so. When he heard of the Citadel, built to contain all the mages’ greatest treasures, he was tempted, oh you can be certain of that. But he was also suspicious. So much time amongst the humans had made him cynical and crafty, and he waited and watched while the other four raced to the Citadel to claim the treasures, and was not all that surprised when the mages sprung their trap.’

  ‘What?’ Frith paused, the brush poised above the fabric. ‘You’re saying he didn’t go in?’

  ‘That is what I am saying.’

  ‘But everyone says that all the old gods were trapped inside the Citadel. That it was the end for all of them.’

  ‘That was what O’rin wanted everyone to believe. He was the god of lies, remember? And it’s not like the mages were going to open their trap to check they had everyone inside, was it, my boy?’

  ‘What happened to this O’rin, then? Where is he now?’

  A cold wind blew across the statue. Frith pulled his bearskin cloak closer around his shoulders, while the birds perched above them chattered irritably.

  ‘With the gods gone, the Edeian and Edenier began to fade from the world, and so did O’rin. He hid himself away, not wanting a direct confrontation with the mages. He disappeared.’

  Frith sat back on his haunches. His legs were aching from crouching in such an uncomfortable position, and he felt damp all over.

  ‘How could you possibly know all this? All the histories say the mages trapped all of the gods, never that one got away …’

  ‘There you go, I think you’ve got it!’ Jolnir scuffled forward and laid one skinny finger on the strip of fabric. ‘The form is finally correct! You are not blind and stupid after all.’

  Frith looked down. The word was there, and yes, it did look like the examples in Jolnir’s dusty old books.

  ‘What now?’

  ‘You know what. Get on with it, lad!’

  Frith picked up the bandage and carefully tied it around his right hand, the inky side facing out. It was awkward with one hand, but he was getting better at it.

  ‘Why do this up here, anyway?’ he said. ‘This could have been demonstrated somewhere more comfortable, or at least at ground level.’

  Jolnir hit him with his stick.

  ‘You must learn to write the words wherever you are! Do you imagine you will always get to write them in the comfort of your study, Lord Frith? Besides,’ Jolnir nodded at the nest of white lizards opposite, ‘I hate those vile creatures.’

  Frith got to his feet, mindful of the drop inches from his boots. He held his right hand out in front of him, the palm turned towards the lizards’ nests.

  ‘Feel the Edenier within you,’ said Jolnir. ‘Coax it into being, and then remember the word. See it in your mind, remember the exact shape of it. Let the word and the Edenier connect, let them come together.’

  Frith took a deep breath, and tried to concentrate only on the word, and the mage’s power. It was lying dormant at the moment – he could feel it in his gut, a quiet, restless energy – but the presence of the words seemed to rouse the magic, so that very soon he could feel a tingling in his arms, the strange sense of light building within his chest. He pictured the shape of the word in his mind as clearly as he could, and his fingers began to glow a shimmering orange.

  ‘That’s it, that’s it …’

  There was a sensation of warmth on the palm of his hand, as if he were holding it to a candle, and a globe of fiery light shot from the centre of it, flew across the gap and exploded amongst the nests. Buttery yellow flames crawled over the rock and two of the winged lizards fell smoking into the mist.

  ‘Yes!’ cried Jolnir. The black birds above him fluttered in consternation. ‘Again!’

  Fire, thought Frith, the word is for Fire, and another fireball shot from his fingers to explode against the nests. There was a faint roar and hiss, but little other noise save for the outraged cries of the lizards. A number of young, pale blue and shiny, crawled rapidly from the beleaguered nest only for the fire to turn their limbs black. He sent three more fireballs just to be sure he’d got them all, and then sent a couple out into the mist, watching with fascination as the eerie orange light made the mist shimmer like sunrise.

  ‘Don’t go mad, boy.’ Jolnir poked him in the back of his leg with his stick. ‘It is potent, the word for fire.’

  There was a stinging sensation in his palm, and when he looked down he saw that the bandage where the word had been was now a smear of dark ash.

  ‘It’s gone,’ he said.

  ‘Well, of course. The power is destructive, you see, always destructive. But it is versatile. Next I shall teach you the word for Ever, and you will be able to combine the two and create a continuous stream of fire. Ever-Fire.’

  Frith looked at the smoking ruin that had once been a thriving nest. As he watched, the last winged liz
ard struggled out of the remains and dropped to its death, its wings now a pair of scorched sticks. He could smell burned seaweed on the air.

  ‘I will learn them all.’

  54

  The wind escorted Wydrin down the wooden steps to the area her mother had always referred to as the ‘belows’. To one side was a long cramped cabin filled with the sour stink of lots of people sleeping and working in close proximity to each other, and to the other was a slightly wider room filled with sacks and boxes. Gallo was standing in the doorway to the bunks, a pack of cards clutched in one grey hand. Beyond him she could see a number of grotty hammocks and a few scruffy sailors. There was an upended box in front of them with a bottle of rum on it and a number of tin cups. The men were all desperately ignoring Gallo.

  ‘A quick game of rummy, gents?’ he said again. All of the old Gallo cheer and confidence was in his voice, but it did little to hide the poor state of his skin or the vague scent of putrescence wafting off him. The belows were never especially fragrant areas, and Gallo was adding to the problem.

  ‘We don’t play with devils,’ said one of the men in the bunks, glancing from Gallo to Wydrin and back again. He had a pair of dice in one greasy hand. ‘Playing dice with the devil, won’t catch me doing that. That’s like something in one of those songs, isn’t it?’

  Wydrin took hold of Gallo’s arm and dragged him out of the doorway. The flesh under his shirt sleeve was cold and hard.

  ‘You’re supposed to be staying with the cargo.’

  ‘I can’t sit in there for the entire voyage! There’s barely room to sit, and no one to talk to.’ Even so, Gallo let Wydrin lead him into the hold. Having established that none of the boxes and sacks contained anything flammable she’d put a small oil lamp in there, along with an old wooden chair. It was pretty cramped, and it smelled of old fish, but she wasn’t feeling especially concerned about his comfort.