Текст книги "Hammerfall"

Автор книги: C. J. Cherryh

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“Marak Trin Tain.”

The roaring in his ears went on, a torment in itself, making her voice distant. He had succeeded only in kneeling at this tyrant’s feet. There were deaths and deaths in the holy city. Men were impaled on hooks and flung from the walls or hung alive for the vermin of the air. He wondered which death was his, or if the lightning of her fingers would suffice, and burn him to a crisp.

“Are you mad?” the Ila asked. The room spun like the direction of the voices. The pain gathered in his bones and seemed to have found a home there, and in his silence an angry guard brought a length of chain down across his back. “Are you mad?” the Ila asked again, in that soft voice. “Or is this one of your father’s tricks?”

“As mad as they are,” he said. He was dismayed to discover sudden cowardice in himself, that he feared another of those blows, and he despised himself that his mouth found it better to answer. He no longer knew for what he hoped. He told himself that his hope was to get to his feet again, and to try again, but his limbs would not, could not, and his heart had discovered a fear to equal fear of his father. “Mad as all the rest,” he mumbled.

“And your father gave you up.”

He failed to answer. The chain came down across his back.

“Yes,” he said.

“And when did you know you had the madness?”

“Years,” he said. “For years.”

“As a boy?”

It admitted a time of helplessness. It opened the door to his father’s house, his mother’s shame, his father’s disowning him after all these years. He said nothing, and knew the blow of the chain would come. Damn them, he thought, and then discovered the limit of his fear, right at the boundary of stubborn, foolish pride.

The chain crashed across his back.

But the lift of a gloved hand had prevented its full force and forestalled another blow.

“Tain knew?” the Ila asked. “Or is Tain Trin Tain mad, too?”

“No,” he said, and caught a breath. “No to both.”

“How many others are mad in your household?”

“None that I know.” It was the question she had asked the others. They were into the safe litany of the others’ questions, and he could let go his breath and cease to expect the blows. He could gather his strength.

“How did it come?”

“As lights. As voices.” The red-robed au’it wrote each answer, sitting on the steps by the Ila’s feet, her book on her lap and her pen moving busily between ink-cake and page.

“And Tain did not at any time know.”

“No,” he said. “Not until the last. I kept it secret.”

“And what betrayed you?” The Ila moved, a whisper of silk like the creeping of a serpent as she leaned her pale chin on a red-gloved, jeweled fist. “Did you fall in a fit?”

“I did,” he said. Shame heated his face. He had fallen at his father’s feet, in front of all the chiefs. He spared himself confessing that part, that moment, all the shocked faces.

“What did your father do?”

“He asked me the truth, and I stopped lying.” The silence hung there, filled with only that. He wanted to move on. “He had heard your men were gathering up the mad. He sent for them.”

“He was glad to let you go.”

“If glad is true,” he said. His father’s life was blunted, now, turned sharply back on itself: no heir, no wife, and now a diminished reputation, either in laughter or in pity. Was that gladness in Tain Trin Tain? Was Tain in any wise relieved to have signed that armistice with the Ila?

He thought not. But he thought little else. The pain in his body diminished, but the roaring in his ears reached a numbing pitch, and persisted, as if all the voices were bottled up in him, trying to find expression. Death began again to seem friendly. He asked himself how much more before his brain scrambled, before he had to scream. He bit his lip, bit it bloody.

“Do you see lights and hear voices?” the Ila asked.

“Yes.”

“And what do these voices say?”

“Nothing of sense.” Could it beworse? He doubted he could keep his feet if he could gain them.

“And the pictures? The images? The visions?”

He fixed his sight on the Ila’s face, one stable point in a swinging world. It spun, and tilted, and stopped, over and over again. “Buildings,” he said. “Buildings. A tower.”

“This tower? The Beykaskh?”

He shook his head to clear it. She might take that headshake for no, and it was the truth. He focused on her, only on her. Past the whiteness, she had a classic Lakhtanin face, thin and bow-nosed. Her lids were black-rimmed. The iris was dark. The eyes became pits into which sense could fall, and, no, she was not a child: the eyes alone said she was not a child.

A gloved finger raised, forbidding, then curled itself across the lips, convenient resting place. “The son of my enemy. The one who burns my towns, steals from my treasury, robs my caravans, despoils my priests. What shall I make of you?”

The pain had spread out of the joints and migrated to soft places. The noise in his ears roared and made her voice distant.

“Tain has given his son away,” the Ila mocked him, “so Itake him. What shall I make of you, Marak Trin Tain? What shall I name you instead?”

Mockery he would not endure. “General of your armies,” he said, courting their violence. “Captain of your guard.”

She leaned back, lifted a hand, perhaps to forestall her officers. The au’it, who had written it all, ceased writing, poised the pen above the page of her book.

The Ila’s hand described a circle in the air. The au’it shut the book and put down her pen.

“Now without record,” the Ila said, “I ask you… where is this madness?”

“In the east,” he said without thinking, and astonished himself. It was in the east. Everything was in the east. It had no reason to be, but he knew it was, and it disturbed him to the heart.

“You wish to be a captain of my guard,” the Ila said. “I have a one that suffices. But a captain of explorers, perhaps, as there used to be, before there were the tribes. So you are. I name you to ride out for me and find the source of the madness. I name you to go where the mad go when they wander out, and find out why they turn to the east. I name you to return to me and to report whatever you learn. And ifyou return to me and report the truth, I will give you a gift. Youwill rule Kais Tain.”

A stir of utter dismay went through the captains.

He himself did not believe it.

“I have set my seal on Kais Tain,” the Ila said, “and have all persons therein under that seal. Write it!” she said, and the au’it wet her pen and wrote. “They live or they die as you please me, and after you do my will, they live or they die as they please you. What other reward do you wish for your service?”

Was he not to die? He searched all the crevices of that utterance, looking for the reason in what he heard.

Was he not to die? And did the Ila make a barbed joke, and had the au’it written it in the book as if it were the truth, and the law?

The pain made it difficult to think. The roaring made it difficult to hear anything sensible.

“Is that enough?” the Ila asked him, as if she bargained in a market. “Do you agree to my terms?”

He could not think on his knees. He struggled to his feet. Fire shot up and down the bones. Defying it, he straightened his back, and fire ran there, too.

“My mother,” he said. “Now. My sister. I want them safe from Tain.”

The Ila moved a vertical finger against her lips and gazed at him.

“Is there a dispute within Tain’s house?”

“He’s threatened them. Keep them safe. Provide for them. And I’ll get your answer.”

“I don’t bargain.”

“I do.” His effrontery stung the guards. They began to move; they laid hands on him; and desisted, perhaps in fear of lightning.

“I shall provide you all you need,” the Ila said mildly, “and appoint you a captain as you ask, and give you all the resources you ask. And I shall set my seal on your mother and your sister and have them safe. Do you agree?”

It was surely a trap, a trick, a mockery. But the roaring burst like a dam in his ears, and the madmen turned and twitched together, some falling on the floor.

“Leave,” the Ila said, motioning toward the doors. “And take them out!” She pointed at Marak. “ You stay!”

Her guards slowly, with backward glances, gathered the mad, some of them standing, some on the floor, and cleared the room even of themselves. The au’it hesitated, last, but even to her the Ila made a sign, and the au’it gathered her ink and her book and slunk away to a door behind the pillars.

Then the Ila rose from her chair and descended three steps, silk whispering, falling like old blood about her movements.

Then she sat down, like some marketwife, midway on those steps. She was that close, as fragile as temple porcelain. But pain ran through Marak’s joints like knives and reminded him at every breath what those gloved hands could do.

Those hands joined, made a bridge against her lips. Highborn women might whiten their faces with cosmetic to show their lack of exposure to the sun, and come outdoors only by night. Her skin left no mark on the gloves. It was translucent white, alive. The eyes were deep as wells.

“I wish your loyalty in this,” she said. “Will I have it?”

He asked himself what other choice he had, compared to life, and being given power to rescue those two on earth he loved. The opposite was implicit in the Ila’s gift: that all he loved were still under her seal.

“I see no recourse,” he said. “No choice.”

“When I heard you were among the mad I gathered, I knew I had a resource above the others. What coin will truly win you, Marak Trin? A province? A great house?”

She mocked him. And he searched his soul and knew to his distress that in company with her offer, life itself interested him, and her proposition interested him. He had lived with death all the way to the holy city. She gave him tomorrow instead and offered him the lives of his mother and sister into the bargain. All his principles ebbed away, gone like the strength in his limbs.

She had sat down like a marketwife. In deliberate mockery of the fear he felt he sank down and sat like a field hand, cross-legged, at the last in a hard collapse against the stone. All she offered might be a lie, but from a posture like hers he answered and he listened, having been caught and corrupted by this idea of hers. Everything in him longed for answers, longed for reason, for purpose, for some logic to his life.

“What if I do this?” he said. “What do you expect me to find out there?”

“If I knew,” she said, “would I have to send anyone?”

“If I’m that mad, how shall I remember to come back?”

“If you are that mad,” she said, “will you care? And if you are not mad, will you serve my needs? I think not. I think only the mad can find this answer.”

“It may be,” he said.

“You attacked my city.”

“So I did.”

“And failed.”

“And failed,” he said.

“Why?” she asked, as if she had no idea at all. “To take? Or to destroy?”

A wise question, an incisive question. It told her everything of his wishes in a word.

He made a move of his hand, about them, thinking of the machines. “If the machines would work for us,” he said, “I would be very content to sit in this hall.”

“And would you do better than I, sitting here?”

“I would not pour water into the desert,” he said. In this mad give-and-take, the memory of such waste still galled him. “I would build a stone cistern, and put it next to the walls, and let whoever wished settle around it and grow fruit.”

It might be a foolish answer, as the holy city saw it. The Ila listened to him, listened very gravely. “You think we waste it.”

“What else is it, when it pours out under the sun? You feed the vermin. They multiply out there.”

Her lips quirked. It might have been a smile. “You would turn us into a village.”

“It’s not likely,” he said.

“Not likely that you would ever have taken Oburan? No. Far from likely. It was far from likely when you and your father came up onto the Lakht. Surely you knew that.”

He shrugged, having no wish to discuss his father’s plans or their misguided strategy, or the failed aim of his thirty years of life. The world might turn again, and, meanwhile, he was alive, and he had eyes, and he had seen the inside of this place. No, it was not likely that he or his father would have sat in this hall, rulers of all the world, but fortunes shifted. If she willed, his were changing; he was not dead yet. He managed not to meet her eyes, and asked himself why he cared for her respect, or what he suddenly had to fear in this debate.

Did he believe in her proposal? He was not sure, that was the thing. And the voices still cried, screamed, roared, all their words confounded in the depths of his hearing.

“You have never renounced your ambition,” she said.

He shrugged, and did look up, discovered, pinned for the moment to the truth. “No,” he said. “But it’s not likely.”

“The voices have always spoken to you?”

“Does it matter?”

“You are to investigate, Marak Trin. You are my eyes and my ears in this matter. I ask, and you’ve promised me answers. How long have the voices spoken to you?”

“Since about my sixth year. Since then.”

“And the visions?”

“They’ve always been there.”

“Did a stranger come to Kais Tain when you were a baby?”

“I have no way to know,” he said. “Why do you ask?”

“It’s a common part of the story. A mysterious stranger. A visitation. A baby that grows up mad.”

He found that idea sinister beyond belief. No stranger had touched him that he knew, but his mother had never said, one way or the other.

“It wouldn’t be easy to come into our household.”

“Among the lords of Kais Tain? Perhaps not. But very easy, in most peasant houses. Perhaps it’s why mad lords are so rare, and mad farmers are so common. Farmers are generally more hospitable.”

“I’ve no idea.” They sat so easily, so madly companionable. “Who are these strangers? What do they do, and why?”

“I have some ideas. I know, for instance, that the madness that afflicts you is a specific madness, and that all that have it are under thirty years of age. How old are you?”

“Thirty.” He thought of the old man, and doubted what she said. But had it been the same madness? Was there more than one kind?

“Do you hear the voices now?”

“I hear aroaring.” What she asked was an intimate confession, one he had never made except to his father and his mother. “I sometimes hear my name.”

“That seems common,” she said, leaning forward, as if they gossiped together. “What else do you hear?”

He shook his head. “Nothing.”

“Yet you know this thing is in the east.”

“The world tilts that way.”

“Does it?”

“To us it does. It does it morning and evening, regular as you like it. Watch the madmen. Most will fall down.”

She neither laughed nor grew angry. “If I had your ears, if I had your eyes, I could know what I wish to know. If I had your strength, I might walk to the east and know what I wish to know. So I purchase them. I purchase you. Is the price enough?”

“I can’t bargain with you.”

“Ah, but you can. Ask me.”

“I have nothing to ask.”

“If you betray me, I promise you Kais Tain will smoke for days. I promise your mother and your sister will die very unhappily. Does that excite your interest? I thought so. I give you this one year of their safety for free, and all the resources you may need, a regiment of my guard if you wish it. Gold? Gold is sand under my feet. But knowledge? That, you can bring me. Then you and I will talk again. Name what you need to accomplish what I ask.”

He saw she was utterly in earnest. “Keep your regiment,” he said. “Give me my freedom. The safety of my house and its villages for this year. And my father’s life, even if he’s offended your officers.”

“What do you care for him?”

“He’s my father. He’s signed your armistice.”

“Done. What else?”

What else was there? It was the last chance to amend their bargain. “Give me the madmen,” he said. He saw little use for them in the holy city, where they would die, hanged or stoned, the common fate of the mad once discovered. They had walked together, he and the wife of Tarsa, and the potter, and he could not walk away alive and forget their fate. “If you mean all you say, you have no need for them, and I might learn from them.”

A red-gloved hand waved away inconsequences. “Take them. Do as you please with them. A caravan and its hire. Riding beasts. All these things.”

“Weapons.” His were gone. “Tents enough for all of us.”

She laughed like a child, as if, together, she on the steps, he on the ground, they were two children planning a delicious prank. “An au’it to write things down.”

“I can write,” he said in offended pride.

“I write,” she said with a wave of her hand, “but I find it tedious. An au’it, I say.”

“What if the au’it runs mad? Shall I be blamed?”

“You will not be blamed.” The red-gloved hands clasped silken knees. The eyes deep as wells stared at him. “The east is full of strange things. So is the Lakht. Take the regiment.”

“I never needed one. I rode all about these hills and your regiments couldn’t find us. The sand and the stones are no threat to me.”

“The vermin are. Bandits are.”

“Only when you feed them on corpses and fat caravans! The holy city is their source of food. Pour out water, and vermin and bandits alike fight among themselves.” He shrugged. “A regiment will take more time than an ordinary caravan. I know the Lakht. I don’t need them. Give me a good caravan master. Good sound canvas.”

“And the mad.”

“And the mad.”

“Better than a regiment?”

“We’ve learned the desert, have we not? We walked here.”

A long, long moment that dark gaze continued, intimate and close.

“I shall be very disappointed if you fail. Is there anything you might ask of me, any favor for yourself alone.”

“Only what I’ve asked,” he said.

Perhaps it disquieted her to find a man who wanted so little. But there was nothing at all he wanted. There was absolutely nothing she could give, except his freedom, and the lives of his mother and sister and his father.

“I dreamed of the east,” she said in a low voice. “As the mad do. I will have an answer, Marak Tain. I willhave an answer.”

“If I’m alive to come back, I will come back. Let my mother and my sister go where they choose and you’ll have your answer and all my effort. I’ve lied in my life. But I’ve never broken a promise.”

The Ila drew off a glove, finger by finger, as they did in the market, as they did in a court of law. Her hand was long and white, blue-veined marble, and she offered him her fingers to touch, concluding a bargain, flesh to flesh, with no au’it to write it. Her flesh was warm as his own. She smelled of fruit and rain, smelled of wealth and water.

“Your household keeps its word,” she said. “It always has. Its one virtue. Go outside. Bring my captain in.”

He rose with difficulty. The joints of his knees felt assaulted, still aching with the fire she had loosed. A roaring was in his ears, making him dizzy. He was not fit to ride, not today; but he would. If her promise brought him the means to leave this place and walk out under the sky again, he would do that. He made out the voices past the roaring in his ears. East, they cried, east! and he realized he was set free, to do what the voices had wanted all his life. Freedom racketed about his whole being, demanding a test, demanding immediate action.

East. East. East.

He backed away, wobbling. The Ila rose and mounted the steps, and sat down in her chair, composed and still.

But reaching the door he realized it had no latch, and he had no knowledge how to open it. She made a fool of him, consciously, perhaps. He gazed at it in dismay, reminded in such small detail how far the holy city was beyond his expectation.

She opened the door, perhaps. At least it sighed a steamy breath and admitted one of her chief captains, a man scowling, hand on dagger, ready to kill.

“Here are my orders,” the Ila said from her chair high at the end of the room. “Give him the madmen, an au’it, and a master caravanner, and whatever canvas and goods and beasts he requires. Marak Trin Tain is under my seal. When he goes out from this hall, respect him. When he comes back to these doors, admit him. Write it!”

The au’it, Marak saw from the doorway, had slunk back to sit at the Ila’s feet. Quickly she spread out her book, and the au’it wrote whatever seemed good to write.

“I have sent for the wife and daughter of Tain Trin Tain, and spared Tain his fate. Write it!”

What would they cry through the holy city and through the market? Marak Trin is the Ila’s man?

His father would hear it, sooner or later. His father would be appalled, outraged, and, yes, shamed a second time.

But could he refuse to yield up to the Ila’s demand his cast-off wife and daughter, where he had sent his son?

And could his son have done otherwise, when Tain Trin Tain had once bowed to the Ila and signed their armistice?

In that sense it was not his decision. It became the Ila’s. And Tain would have known, when he threw down the damnation against his wife, that he had cleaved the two of them one from the other and thrown conscience after, a casual piece of baggage. He only hoped the Ila’s men reached Kais Tain in time for his mother’s safety.

Love of his father? Loyalty? He no longer knew where to find that in himself. In the Ila’s promise, he had lost one direction and found another. He did not resent the pain of the Ila’s blow: lords struck when offended. It was an element, like heat, like thirst, to be endured. She had met the price, and he wasbought. Had his father done as much, for all his blows through the years?

He walked out with the captain, sure as he did so that here was a man, like his father, who had sooner see him dead. But the captain said not a word against the Ila’s wishes, took him directly to the armory and let him equip himself with good, serviceable weapons: a dagger, a boot-knife, even considering that rarest of weapons, a pistol, difficult to keep in desert dust, and hungry for metal.

“Sand will impair it,” the captain said, plainly not in favor of him having it. “And aim is a matter of training.”

“I have no time for that,” he said, and put aside that piece that, itself, could have hired a regiment.

A bow—there were numerous good ones—might give him both range and rapidity of fire, but nothing to defeat a mobbing among the vermin, and it was a lowland weapon. In the summer heat of the Lakht the laminations outright melted and gave way.

In the end he settled for the machai, a light, thin blade, as much tool as weapon, that he hung from his belt, and a good harness-knife.

The captain looked at him oddly, and honestly tried to press at least a spear on him.

“An encumbrance,” Marak said. It was the same reason he wished none of the Ila’s regiments, which encumbered themselves with all these things and baked in hardened leather besides, in the desert heat. “I want only this. For the rest of us, good boots. We’ll ride. We’ll all ride. But good boots. One never knows.”

“As you wish,” the captain said, but after that the captain seemed worried, as if he had failed somehow in his duty, in sending him out short of equipment with an army of well-shod madmen, of which he was chief. The captain tried to make up for it in other offerings, silver heating-mirrors, a burning-glass, two fine blankets, and a personal, leather-bound kit of salves and medicines, all of which Marak did take.

Then the captain walked him out to the pens, a fair distance, and pulled a riding beast from the reserve pens, a creature of a quality Kais Tain rarely saw.

That, he prized, and found that he and the captain had reached an accommodation of practical cooperation. Under other circumstances they would have been aiming weapons at one another. But now the captain seemed to understand he was not there to steal away goods, but to carry out the Ila’s wishes, economically, and asking no great show about it.

In that understanding they became almost amiable, and the captain chided sergeants who hid back the better harness. They laid out the best. The captain’s name, he learned, was Memnanan. He had spent all his life in the Ila’s service as he had spent his in Tain’s.

They walked companionably through areas of the Beykaskh that Marak knew his father would spend a hundred men’s lives to see. He looked up against the night sky at the high defenses, the strong walls and observed a series of latchless gates that sighed with steam.

They had never even come close to piercing these defenses. Only their raids on caravans had gained notice, and that, likely, for its inconvenience, unless they should have threatened the flow of goods for a full year.

The storerooms they visited and those they passed were immense. All the wealth in the world was here. They passed the kitchens. The vermin of the city ignored morsels of bread cast in a drainway. It lay and rotted. He found that as much a wonder as the steam-driven doors.

“We have sent for a caravan master,” Memnanan said. “We count forty-one who will make the whole journey, including yourself. Getting them outfitted will take hours, at the quickest.”

The captain ordered a midnight supper and shared it with him under an awning near the kitchens, the two of them drinking beer that finally numbed the pain, both getting a small degree drunk, and debating seriously about the merits of the western forges and the balance of their blades. In pride of opinion, they each cast at a target, the back of a strong-room door.

They were within a finger of each other and the center of the target. Another beer and they might have sworn themselves brothers. And in that thought, Marak recoiled from the notion, and sobered, as the captain must surely do.

A sergeant reported that the caravan master had come into the outer courtyard. This arrival turned out to be a one-eyed man with his three sons, who together owned fifty beasts, six slaves, and five tents, with two freedmen as assistants. This caravan master had served the Ila’s particular needs for ten years, so he said, and took her pay and feared her as he feared the summer wind.

“There are not enough beasts to carry us,” Marak said to the man. “If the party numbers over forty, we’re short, and it needs more supply than that.”

“To Pori,” the caravan master said, which might be his understanding of the mission.

“Off the edge of the Lakht. Beyond Pori.” There was no lying to the caravan master, above all else. This was the man on whose judgment and preparation all their lives depended.

“There is nothing beyond Pori,” the caravan master said.

“That’s why we need more beasts and more supply,” Marak said, and appealed to the captain with a glance. “I need more tents, more beshti, first-quality, far more than the weapons.”

The captain snapped his fingers and called over the aide who had brought the caravan master; and the aide went in and called out an au’it, who sat down on a bench in the courtyard and prepared to write on loose sheets. A slave brought a lamp close to her, and set it down on a bare wooden table, while small insects died and sparked in the flame.

“How many beasts?” the captain asked Marak.

“Ask the caravan master,” Marak said. “He knows that, or he knows nothing.”

“Ask wide, but prudently,” the captain said sternly to the master. “This is the Ila’s charge.”

The master, whose name was Obidhen, looked down and counted, a rapid movement of fingers, the desert way, that took the place of the au’it’s scribing. “Sixty-nine beasts,” Obidhen said. “The tents are enough, ten to a tent. More will mean more beasts, more food, more pack beasts, more work, more risk. I have slaves enough, my grown sons, and the two freedmen.”

“The tents are enough,” Marak agreed.

“This is a modest man,” the captain said to Obidhen. “The Ila finds merit in him, the god knows why.”

Obidhen looked at Marak askance, not having been told, perhaps, that his party consisted entirely of madmen.

But after that, the supplies must be gotten and loaded, and the caravan master went out with orders to gather what he needed immediately, on the Ila’s charge, and form his caravan outside the walls by the fountain immediately. Obidhen promised three hours by the clepsydra in the courtyard, having his beasts within the pens to the north of the city, and his gear and his tents, he said, well-ordered and waiting in the warehouses by the northern gate. He could find the rest, with the Ila’s seal on the order, within the allotted time.

“We will need for each man or woman a change of clothing,” Marak said. “Waterskins. Mending for their boots and clothing. And salves and medicines for the lot.”

“Done,” the captain said then, and appointed aides to bring it, and a corporal to rouse out a detail to carry it down past the fountain gate, to be parceled out as Obidhen directed, every man and woman a packet to keep in personal charge… not so much water as might be a calamity to lose, but enough to augment their water-storage by one full day and their food by a week.

“Sergeant Magin will escort you as far as your first camp out from the walls,” the captain said, when the au’it had written down the details for whoever read such records. “I know,” Memnanan said. “You wish no escort. This is not an escort.”

“I take the warning,” Marak said.

Memnanan looked at him as if there was far, far more he wanted to ask, and to say, and to know, before he turned an abjori lowlander and a caravan of good size loose in his jurisdiction.

“You will carry a letter and water-seal,” Memnanan said, “for the lord of Pori.”

It would speed their journey, if they might water to the limit of their capacity before descending the rim. Marak approved. For the rest, he trusted Obidhen knew the wells, and the hazards.

It was approaching dawn by the time he was satisfied about the rest of the baggage, and by the time the Ila’s men reported the mad were delivered to the bottom of the hill. He had thought it might take longer, and saw now that there would be no rest, not even an hour, but that was well enough. His back ached, his ears roared, his joints ached, and his eyes blurred with exhaustion, but the expectation of life and freedom had become bedrock, underlying all actions, the urgency of the departure as overwhelming as the direction, and the Ila’s officers were inclined to take her orders as like the god’s, instantly to be fulfilled. East, his voices said, persistent, though the Ila’s blast had deafened him. East. Now. Haste.