Taste of Lightning (26 page)

Perrin said, ‘I don't know Broken Fire. I don't think Rengan's Army has it.'

‘No. It was sold to Baltimar by the weapon-makers in Mithates.' Beeman's face was grim. ‘They've been working on it for decades, and they don't have it right yet. I worked on Broken Fire myself, as a student. That's why Bettenwey asked for my advice; he wouldn't have told me about the plot otherwise.'

Perrin looked at him curiously. ‘You're from the Westlands? Not Cragonlands?'

‘Skir doesn't know. It's one of the things I wanted to tell him.'

Tansy said, ‘Are you a chanter?'

Beeman barked a laugh. ‘No! Anything but. When I was a student in Mithates, I helped develop the weapons that have torn this land apart. Now, I suppose, I want to do what I can to mend it.'

‘But how can you stop Bettenwey?' said Perrin.

Beeman put two fingers in the corners of his eyes and rubbed them; his eyes seemed to hurt him. ‘I know where the Broken Fire is stored. It's so dangerous they can't keep it in Gleve. It's in an abandoned temple up in the hills.'

‘So go and chuck a torch on it,' said Tansy.

‘If I did that, I'd be blown to smithereens. I may be flattering myself, but I'd like to believe I'm more useful alive than dead. But I do think I could disable it – carefully.'

Tansy and Perrin looked at him with the same question in their faces. Beeman gave his grim smile. ‘I plan to. Tonight. Will you come with me?'

‘What, now?'

‘It must be tonight. Because of what I told Bettenwey.'

‘Which is?'

‘The leaders have decided to hold the talks early. Probably they suspect some trouble from the resistance. Wanion is already here in Gleve, and the others will arrive tomorrow.'

‘Lady Wanion's here?' Tansy went white, and her hand flew to her throat in the automatic gesture. Her voice hardened. ‘Reckon they should blow that evil witch sky-high.'

‘If it were just a matter of killing Wanion, I agree,' said Beeman. ‘A clean death is probably better than she deserves, after all she's done. But there are many other lives at stake. And if Bettenwey is determined to try his plan, it must be tomorrow. That means he will have to retrieve the Broken Fire tonight.'

‘Unless we get there first,' said Perrin slowly.

‘Yes,' said Beeman. ‘The only way to neutralise the explosive is to cut it into small pieces. That will take time, and care. I might manage alone, but it would be easier with help. Will you come?'

‘I'd rather not,' said Perrin frankly. ‘But I can see that I'm going to.'

‘You ain't leaving me behind,' said Tansy.

Beeman said, ‘Will you stay with Skir? I don't like to leave him here alone. If something happened to Perrin and me . . .'

He let the end of the sentence hang in mid-air. Without looking at Perrin, Tansy said in a low voice, ‘Reckon I'd rather come with you two.' She added defensively, ‘I got very steady hands.'

Perrin let out a long breath. ‘Pleased as I am to hear that you'd rather risk your neck with me than stay safely here with Skir, could I point out that this whole discussion is meaningless, since we can't get out of the Temple?'

‘Yes we can.' Beeman produced a ring of strange, skinny metal objects from his pocket. ‘Skeleton keys. They can open almost any lock, including the doors of the Temple.'

Perrin grinned. ‘Oh. Tansy, what are you doing?'

‘Saddling up Penthesi.'

The big horse tossed his head and pawed the ground, impatient to be out of the stables after being confined for so long. Beeman sorted through his keys. ‘Let's go, before the priests finish their meeting. There will be a fierce argument, but Bettenwey will win. Pack the rest of that food in my rucksack; we may need it.'

Tansy was flushed, her eyes bright as she put the bridle on Penthesi. Perrin looked grim; he touched her sleeve. ‘Tansy,' he said in a low voice. ‘If we go now, we won't come back here. Beeman might, but we can't.'

‘Good.' Tansy was busy with the bridle. ‘I'll be gladder to get out of this place than I was to leave Arvestel – oh.' She swung round to face him, stricken. ‘Skir. He'll think we ran out on him.'

‘If Beeman tells him the whole story, I'm sure he'll understand,' said Perrin, feeling anything but sure.

‘But not even to say goodbye . . .' Tansy bit her knuckle.

Beeman said quietly, ‘I will see Skir again, whatever happens. I can give him a message.'

Tansy managed a smile. ‘I suppose.' She turned away to fasten Penthesi's girths.

‘You don't have any chalk, do you, Beeman?' said Perrin.

Beeman raised his eyebrows. From his pocket he produced string, coins, a folding knife, nutshells, a dirty handkerchief – and a blunt nub of chalk. ‘Always useful, a piece of chalk.'

Perrin scratched some Signs on the wall of Penthesi's stall. ‘Someone will let him know.'

Beeman looked quizzically at Perrin. ‘You know the Tenth Power? You can read and write?'

‘My mother taught me.' Perrin tossed back the chalk. ‘I'm a chanter of the beasts, too.'

‘Indeed? A man of many talents.' Beeman read what Perrin had written. ‘See you on the other side?'

‘It's what soldiers always say.'

Tansy put her hands on her hips. ‘It ain't what
I'd
say.'

‘And what would you say?'

‘I don't know.' She thrust her chin up. ‘Just give him my love.'

Perrin quickly scratched a few more Signs. ‘Come on.' Beeman had found the key that fitted the padlock on the high double gates between the stable-yard and the laneway outside. ‘Hurry.'

Tansy doused the lantern. Night had fallen; two almost-f moons were rising. Perrin swung up onto Penthesi, and hauled Tansy up in front of him. Beeman pulled his hood over his head and shoved the heavy gate open for the horse and his riders.

The gate swung shut with a muffled bang; there was no one to hear it.

Tansy guided Penthesi down the narrow streets. The city lights spread out below: yellow pinpoints that echoed the cold silver of the stars above. The streets were still busy; the spicy, greasy smell from the food-stalls made her mouth water. Men lingered, gossiping, on the corners; goat-carts clattered past from the market, laden with unsold goods. A tired child tugged its mother's hand and begged to be carried.

Beeman hurried on, and Tansy urged Penthesi forward. The streets grew more empty, and the horse's hoofs clopped loudly on the cobbles. His ears pricked left and right, and every so often Tansy had to rein him back from an eager trot.

‘This way,' said Beeman. ‘The east road out of Gleve.'

Soon they were on the flats, threading their way through narrow lanes. More and more doorways were barred for the night; the people who hurried by were alone, hooded, darting from shadow to shadow.

After a time the buildings spread out, lower and wider than in the city's cramped heart. The yellow glow of lamplight was replaced by the silver sheen of the moons. The cobbled street gave way to an unpaved track, and clouds of dust spurted beneath Penthesi's hoofs.

Ahead, a clot of shadow broke off and approached them.

Beeman murmured, ‘Let me do the talking.'

‘You there, halt!' A Baltimaran accent, with long, drawn-out vowels. A lantern swung from a soldier's hand.

Tansy halted Penthesi. The stallion whinnied and she quieted him with a pat. Beeman stood, his eyes watchful, Penthesi's bridle in his hand.

‘You're out late.'

‘We were visiting family in Gleve. Lost track of the time. We're heading home now.'

‘Where's home?'

Beeman pointed with his chin. ‘Velatran.'

‘Fair way to go. Wouldn't your family put you up for the night?'

‘Not three of us, and the horse.'

‘Fine horse. Want to sell?'

‘Not tonight. Come to Velatran tomorrow and ask me again.'

‘Warm night for a cloak and hood. Not hiding anything, are you?'

Without a word, Beeman held his cloak aside. The soldier's voice, which had been bored, suddenly became hard and alert. ‘A dagger? Don't you know the law? It's forbidden for natives to carry arms. Hand it over, quick smart.' The soldier clicked his fingers and Beeman unbuckled the sheath. The dagger glinted, and the white luckpiece winked in the lamplight. The soldier stepped back abruptly.

‘Go on then,' he barked. ‘Get out of my sight.'

Hardly daring to breathe, Tansy urged Penthesi forward out of the pool of lamplight. The soldier yelled at their backs, ‘I'll be round tomorrow to collect that horse.'

Beeman murmured, ‘The price for letting us go. Even Wanion's agents don't escape that easily. No, Tansy, don't make a sound. Just walk on. At the next crossroads, we take the left turn to Tarvan.'

CHAPTER 15

The White Pavilion

SKIR sat on the end of his bed, hurling a small rubber ball at the wall with such force it bruised his hand. He imagined the wall was Bettenwey's head, and he counted three hundred and seventy-two strikes before the ball rolled under the bed.

The light had faded. He'd have to light a lamp if he wanted to keep playing, but it seemed childish suddenly and he let his hands dangle, feeling anger surge inside him.

A prisoner again. He'd been a prisoner all his life, pushed around by other people. Before Bettenwey, it was Beeman, or the King of Baltimar. Even when he escaped from Arvestel it was Tansy who'd bossed him into it . . .

Tansy wouldn't sit here sulking. She'd find a way out. She'd do something to stop Bettenwey.

But Tansy was brave. She could ride and fight.

Well, he'd made it all the way from Arvestel, hadn't he? He could ride and fight, too. He was just as tough as Tansy and Perrin, and just as smart. If Tansy could do it, so could he.

The square of pale sky in his window was higher than his head, and covered with an ironwork grille. Skir stood on his bed and peered at it closely. He fetched a knife from his supper tray, and dug away at one of the metal pegs until he'd doubled the size of its hole. It was definitely coming loose.

As he worked, it grew darker outside. A deep blue seeped into the white sky. The first stars had appeared by the time he yanked out the first peg, and by the time he freed the second, the moons were up. As he wrenched out the third peg, he heard someone call ‘Goodnight!' in the laneway below. He paused until their footsteps faded and the lane was silent. His fingertips hurt from jiggling the metal pegs. Then he tugged at the grille. With a loud clang, it came free; it was unexpectedly heavy, and he almost dropped it.

Skir listened, heart pounding, but the whole wing was quiet. That was odd. There were usually muted noises at this time as the priests retired for the night.

The window gaped naked in the wall. What would Tansy do now? A rope. Skir knotted together his sheets and tied them securely to the bed frame. Then he hauled off the mattress and tipped the bedstead against the wall. He was stronger than he used to be.

Balancing on the bedstead, he stuck his head out the window. The laneway was deserted. His room was on the second storey. Skir fed the sheets out the window and manoeuvred himself out backwards. There was a horrible moment when he thought he was stuck. Then he kicked himself free, slithered down the rope and fell, bruising his backside on the cobbles. The sheets hung white against the dark stone, pointing to his window. Skir scrambled to his feet, and ran.

Tansy glanced back and saw the patrol's lantern-light fade into the shadows below the silver gleam of the two moons. The lights of Gleve were hidden by a fold of the hills; the silent mountains reared black against the sky and blotted out the stars. Tansy shivered.

Perrin's arms tightened around her as they rode. ‘Wanion can't see us, Tansy.'

‘But she's so close . . . Maybe we oughta let her get blown up.'

‘That's not the way to fight her,' said Beeman.

‘What is, then?'

‘She thinks she's a sorceress. Perhaps only true magic will defeat her.'

‘You mean chantment?'

Beeman was silent for a moment, as if gauging how far to trust them. ‘How much do you know of the revolution in the Westlands?'

‘I know there's a Rising,' said Perrin. ‘But not more than that.'

Beeman smiled ruefully in the moonlight. ‘The Chanters' Rising began twenty years ago. It's not finished yet; it may not be over in our lifetime. There are many more chanters in the Westlands than here, which is why Wanion has got away with her false magic for so long. But even in the Westlands, chanters have been persecuted and forced to hide their gifts. They were taught to be ashamed. The Rising teaches them to be proud, to use their magic for the healing of all Tremaris.'

Perrin said, ‘The Witch-Singer of the Westlands –'

Beeman turned his head sharply. ‘The Singer of All Songs leads the Rising, yes, but she's no witch, not like Wanion. What have you heard?'

‘Before my family left Nadalin, I remember –'

‘What, Perrin?'

‘My mother and father were afraid for me,' said Perrin slowly. ‘My mother said she'd give anything to make sure I didn't – I didn't fall into the Witch-Singer's hands.' He'd forgotten that, until he spoke of it. Beeman's words had drawn up the memory like a fish hooked from deep water.

Tansy shifted uneasily. ‘The Westlands ain't nothing to do with us. We got enough fighting of our own to worry about.'

‘The Rising affects the whole of Tremaris. Chantment does not belong only in the Westlands.'

‘I don't know,' said Perrin. ‘All the time I lived in Rengan, I never met another chanter. Even when I was a child in Nadalin, there was only one old woman who said she was a windworker – but she said she used to be beautiful, too!'