Abhorsen (14 page)

“What?” asked Lirael, looking down at the dejected Dog. For a moment she couldn’t think of anything to say. Then she felt a little voice inside her ask, “What would an Abhorsen do?” and she knew that she must be what she was supposed to be. Undaunted, even though she felt exactly the opposite.

“What are you taking about? It’s not your fault.”

Her voice trembled for a second, but she disguised it with a cough before continuing.

“Besides, the . . . the Destroyer is still bound. We’ll just have to stop those hemispheres joining or whatever it is Hedge plans to do with them.”

“We should rescue Nick,” said Sam. He swallowed audibly, then added, “Though there’s an awful lot of Dead down there.”

“That’s it!” exclaimed Lirael. “That’s what we can do to start with, anyway. Nick will know exactly where they plan to take the hemispheres.”

“She plans like your mother, too,” said Mogget. “What are we supposed to do? Walk down there and ask Hedge to hand over the boy?”

“Mogget—” Sam started to say, and the Dog growled, but Lirael spoke over them. A plan of sorts had come to mind, and she wanted to get it out before it started to sound hopeless even to her.

“Don’t be silly, Mogget. We’ll rest for a while; then I’ll put on the Charter-skin I made on the boat and fly down as an owl. The Dog can fly down too, and between both of us, we’ll find Nick and sneak him away. You and Sam can follow us down, and we’ll rendezvous near running water—that stream over there. By then we’ll have daylight and running water, and we can find out what’s happening from Nick. What do you think?”

“That is only the fourth-most stupid plan I have ever heard from an Abhorsen,” replied Mogget. “I like the part about sleeping for a while, though you neglected to mention dinner.”

“I’m not sure you should be the one to fly down,” said Sam uncomfortably. “I’m sure I could get the hang of the owl shape, and I might be better able to convince Nick to come with us. And how can the Dog fly?”

“There won’t be any convincing required,” growled the Dog. “Your friend Nick must be largely a creature of the Destroyer. He will have to be compelled—and we must be wary of him and any powers he may have been granted. As to flying, I just make myself smaller and grow some wings.”

“Oh,” said Sam. “Of course. Grow some wings.”

“We’ll have to watch out for Hedge, too,” added Lirael, who was belatedly wondering if perhaps there wasn’t a better plan after all. “But it will have to be me who uses the Charter-skin. I made it to my size—it wouldn’t fit you. I hope it isn’t too crumpled in my pack.”

“It’ll take me at least two hours to get down to that creek—since I can’t fly,” said Sam, looking down the ridge. “Perhaps we should all go on later tonight; then you can fly from there. That way I’ll be closer and ready immediately if there’s any trouble. And you could lend me your bow, so I can spell some arrows while I’m waiting.”

“Good idea,” said Lirael. “We should go on. But the bow won’t be much use if it keeps raining—and I don’t think we can risk any more weather magic to stop it. That will give us away for sure.”

“It’ll stop before dawn,” said the Dog with great authority.

“Humph,” replied Mogget. “Anyone could have told them that. It’s stopping now, for that matter.”

Sam and Lirael looked up through the canopy of the trees, and sure enough, though the storm to the northwest was constant, the clouds above and to the east were parting to show the fading red wash of the sun and the first star of the night. It was Uallus, the red star that showed the way north. Lirael was heartened to see it, though she knew it was only a shepherd’s tale that said Uallus granted luck if it was the first star in the sky.

“Good,” said Lirael. “I hate flying in the rain. Wet feathers are a pain.”

Sam didn’t answer. It was getting dark, but the lightning around the pit made it possible to make out some things down in the valley in a sort of stop-start way. There was a square-shaped blob that could easily be a tent. Presumably Nick’s tent, for there were no others visible.

“Hang on, Nick,” whispered Sam. “We’ll save you.”

First Interlude

TOUCHSTONE’S HAND CLASPED
Sabriel’s shoulder as they lay under the car. Neither of them could hear after the explosion, and they were dazed from the shock. Many of their guards were dead around them, and their eyes could not process the dreadful human wreckage that surrounded them. In any case, they were intent on their would-be assassins. They could see their feet approaching, and their laughter sounded muffled and distant, like noisy neighbors on the other side of a wall.

Touchstone and Sabriel crawled forward, their pistols in their hands. The two guards who had also made it under the car crawled forward, too. One was Veran, Sabriel saw, still clutching her pistol despite the blood that ran down her hands. The other survivor was the oldest of all the guards, Barlest, his grizzled hair stained and no longer white. He had a machine rifle and was readying it to fire.

The assassins saw the movement, but it was too late. The four survivors fired almost at the same time, and the laughter was drowned in an assault of sudden gunfire. Empty brass cartridges rattled on the underside of the car, and acrid smoke billowed out between the wheels.

“To the boat!” shouted Barlest to Sabriel, gesturing behind him. She couldn’t hear him properly at first, till he had shouted it three times: “Boat! Boat! Boat!”

Touchstone heard it, too. He looked at Sabriel, and she saw the fear in his eyes. But it was fear for her, she knew, not for himself. She gestured back towards the lane that ran between the houses behind them. That would take them to Larnery Square and the Warden Steps. They had boats there, and more guards disguised as river traders. Damed had carefully prepared several escape routes, but this was the closest. As in everything, he had thought only of the safety of his King and Queen.

“Go!” shouted Barlest. He had changed the drum on his automatic rifle, and he began firing short bursts to the right and left, forcing any of their attackers who had made it back to cover to keep their heads down.

Touchstone gripped Barlest’s shoulder for a brief, final moment, then wriggled around and moved across to the other side of the car. Sabriel crawled next to him, and they briefly touched hands. Veran, next to her, took a deep breath and hurled herself out, leaping to her feet and running the second she was clear of the car. She got to the lane, crouched behind a fire hydrant, and covered Sabriel and Touchstone as they followed. But for the moment there were no shots apart from the disciplined bursts from Barlest, still under the car.

“Come on!” roared Touchstone, turning at the entrance to the lane. But Barlest did not come, and Veran grabbed Touchstone and Sabriel and pushed them down the lane, shouting, “Go! Go!”

They heard Barlest shout a battle cry behind them, heard his footsteps as he charged out from under the car on the opposite side. There was one long shuddering burst of automatic fire and several louder, single shots. Then there was silence, save for the clattering of their own boots on the cobbles, the pant of their labored breaths, and the beating of their hearts.

Larnery Square was empty. The central garden, usually the habitat of nannies and babies, was completely devoid of life. The explosion had probably happened only a few minutes ago, but that was enough. There had been plenty of trouble in Corvere since the rise of Corolini and his Our Country thugs, and the ordinary citizens had learned when to retreat quickly from the streets.

Touchstone, Sabriel, and Veran ran grimly through the square and clattered down the Warden Steps on the far side. A drunken bargeman saw them, three gun-wielding figures splattered in blood and worse, and was not so drunk that he got in the way. He cowered to one side, hunching himself into as small a ball as possible.

The Sethem River flowed dirtily past the short quay at the end of the steps. A man dressed in the oilskin thigh boots and assorted rags of a tide dredger stood there, his hands inside a barrel that he’d presumably just salvaged from the muddy river flats. As he heard the clatter on the stairs, his hands came out holding a sawed-off shotgun, the hammers cocked.

“Querel! A rescue!” shouted Veran.

The man carefully decocked the shotgun, pulled a whistle out from under his many-patched shirt and blew it several times. There was an answering whistle, and several more Royal Guards leapt up from a boat that was out of sight beneath the quay, the river being at low tide. All the guards were armed and expecting trouble, but from their expressions none expected what they saw.

“An ambush,” exclaimed Touchstone quickly as they approached. “We must be away at once.”

Before he could say any more, many hands grabbed him and Sabriel and practically threw them onto the deck of the waiting boat, Veran jumping on after them. The craft, a converted river tramp, was six or seven feet below the quay, but there were more hands to catch them. Even as they were hustled into the heavily sandbagged cabin, the engine was going from a slow idle to a heavy throb and the boat was shuddering into motion.

Sabriel and Touchstone looked at each other, reassuring themselves that they were still alive and relatively unhurt, though they were both bleeding from small shrapnel cuts.

“That is it,” said Touchstone quietly, setting his pistol down on the deck. “I am done with Ancelstierre.”

“Yes,” said Sabriel. “Or it is done with us. We will not find any help here now.”

Touchstone sighed and, taking up a cloth, wiped the blood from Sabriel’s face. She did the same for him; then they stood and briefly embraced. Both were shaking, and they did not try to disguise it.

“We had best see to Veran’s wounds,” said Sabriel as they let go of each other. “And plot a course to take us home.”

“Home!” confirmed Touchstone, but even that word wasn’t said without both of them feeling an unspoken fear. Close as they had come to death today, they feared their children would face even greater dangers, and as both of them knew so well, there were far worse fates than simple death.

PART
TWO

Chapter Nine

A Dream of Owls and Flying Dogs

NICK WAS DREAMING
the dream again, of the Lightning Farm, and the hemispheres coming together. Then the dream suddenly changed, and he seemed to be lying on a bed of furs in a tent. There was the slow beat of rain on the canvas above his head, and the sound of thunder, and the whole tent was lit by the constant flicker of lightning.

Nick sat up and saw an owl perched on his traveling chest, looking at him with huge, golden eyes. And there was a dog sitting next to his bed. A black and tan dog not much bigger than a terrier, with huge feathery wings growing out of its shoulders.

At least it’s a different dream, part of him thought. He had to be almost awake, and this was one of those dream fragments that precede total wakefulness, where reality and fantasy mix. It was his tent, he knew, but an owl and a winged dog!

I wonder what that means, Nick thought, blinking his dream eyes.

Lirael and the Disreputable Dog watched him look at them, his eyes sleepy but still full of a fevered brightness. His hand clutched at his chest, fingers curled as if to scratch at his heart. He blinked twice, then shut his eyes and lay back on the furs.

“He really is sick,” whispered Lirael. “He looks terrible. And there’s something else about him . . . I can’t tell properly in this shape. A wrongness.”

“There is something of the Destroyer in him,” growled the Dog softly. “A sliver of one of the silver hemispheres, most like, infused with a fragment of its power. It is eating away at him, body and spirit. He is being used as the Destroyer’s avatar. A mouthpiece. We must not awaken this force inside him.”

“How do we get him out without doing that?” asked Lirael. “He doesn’t even look strong enough to leave his bed, let alone walk.”

“I can walk,” protested Nick, opening his eyes and sitting up again again. Since this was his dream, surely he could participate in the conversation between the winged dog and the talking owl. “Who is the Destroyer, and what’s this about eating away at me? I just have a bad influenza or something.

“Makes me hallucinate,” he added. “And have vivid dreams. A winged dog! Hah!”

“He thinks he’s dreaming,” said the Dog. “That’s good. The Destroyer will not rise in him unless it feels threatened or there is Charter Magic close. Be careful not to touch him with your Charter-skin, Mistress!”

“Can’t have an owl sit on my head,” giggled Nick dreamily. “Or a dog, neither.”

“I bet he can’t get up and get dressed,” Lirael said archly.

“I can so,” replied Nick, immediately swiveling his legs across and sliding out of bed. “I can do anything in a dream. Anything at all.”

Staggering a little, he took off his pajamas, unconscious of any need for modesty in front of his dream creatures, and stood there, stark naked. He looked very thin, Lirael thought, and was surprised to feel a pang of concern. You could see his ribs—and everything else for that matter. “See?” he said. “Up and dressed.”

“You need some more clothes,” suggested Lirael. “It might rain again.”

“I’ve got an umbrella,” declared Nick. Then his face clouded. “No—it broke. I’ll get my coat.”

Humming to himself, he crossed to the chest and reached for the lid. Lirael, surprised, flew away just in time and went to perch on the vacated bed.

“The Owl and the Pussycat went . . .” sang Nick as he pulled out underwear, trousers, and a long coat and put them on, bypassing a shirt. “Except I’ve got it wrong in my dream . . . because you’re not a pussycat. You’re . . . a . . .

“A winged dog,” he finished, reaching out to touch the Disreputable Dog on the nose. The solidity of that touch seemed to surprise him, and the fever flush deepened on his face.

“Am I dreaming?” he said suddenly, slapping himself in the face. “I’m not, am I? I’m . . . only . . . going . . . mad.”