Текст книги "Abhorsen"

Автор книги: Garth Nix

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chapter six

the silver hemispheres

One hundred and twenty miles to the northwest of Abhorsen’s House, the eastern shores of the Red Lake lay in darkness, even though a new day had dawned. For it was not the dark of night but of storm, the sky heavy with black clouds that stretched for several leagues in all directions. The darkness had already lasted for more than a week. What little sunlight came through the cloud was weak and pale, and the days were lit by a strange twilight that did no favour to any living thing. Only at the epicentre of this immovable cluster of storm clouds was there any other light, and that was sudden, harsh and white from the constant assault of lightning.

Nicholas Sayre had grown used to the twilight, as he had grown used to many other things, and he no longer thought it strange. But his body still rebelled, even when his mind did not. He coughed and held his handkerchief against his nose and mouth. Hedge’s Night Crew were sterling workers, but they did smell awful, as if the flesh were rotting on their bones. Generally he didn’t like to get too close – in case whatever they had was contagious – but he’d had to this time, to check out what was happening.

“You see, Master,” Hedge explained, “we cannot move the two hemispheres any closer together. There is a force that keeps them apart, no matter what methods we employ. Almost as if they are identical poles of a magnet.”

Nick nodded, absorbing this information. As he’d dreamt, there had been two silver hemispheres hidden deep underground, and his excavation had found them. But his sense of triumph at their discovery was soon dispelled by the logistical problems of getting them out. Each hemisphere was seven feet in diameter and the strange metal it was made of was much heavier than it should be, weighing even more than gold.

The hemispheres had been buried some twenty feet apart, separated by a strange barrier made of seven different materials, including bone. Now that they were being raised, it was clear that this barrier had helped negate the repulsive force, for the hemispheres simply could not be brought within fifty feet of each other.

Using rollers, ropes and over two hundred of the Night Crew, one of the hemispheres had been dragged up the spiral ramp and over the lip of the pit. The other lay abandoned a good distance down the ramp. The last time they had tried to drag and push up the lower hemisphere, the repulsive force had been so great it was hurled back down, crushing many of the workers beneath it.

In addition to this strange repulsive force, Nick noted, there were other effects around the hemispheres. They seemed to generate an acrid, hot-metal smell that cut through even the fetid, rotting odour of the Night Crew. The smell made him sick, though it did not seem to affect either Hedge or his peculiar labourers.

Then there was the lightning. Nick flinched as yet another bolt struck down, momentarily blinding him, deafening thunder coming an instant later. The lightning was striking even more frequently than before, and now both hemispheres were exposed, Nick could see a pattern. Each hemisphere was struck eight times in a row, but the ninth bolt would invariably miss, often striking one of the workers.

Not that this seemed to affect them, part of Nick’s mind observed. If they didn’t catch alight or get completely dismembered, they kept on working. But this information didn’t stay in his head, as Nick’s thoughts always came back to his primary goal with an intense focus that banished all extraneous thoughts.

“We will have to move the first hemisphere on,” he said, fighting the shortness of breath that came with the nausea he suffered whenever he went too close to the silver metal. “And we will need an additional barge. The two hemispheres won’t fit on the one we’ve got, not with a fifty-foot separation. I hope the import licence I have will allow two shipments... In any case, we have no choice. There must be no delay.”

“As you say, Master,” replied Hedge, but he kept staring at Nick as if he expected something else.

“I meant to ask if you’d found a crew,” Nick said at last, when the silence became uncomfortable. “For the barges.”

“Yes,” replied Hedge. “They gather at the lakeside. Men like me, Master. Those who served in the Army of Ancelstierre, down in the trenches of the Perimeter. At least till the night drew them from their pickets and listening posts and made them cross the Wall.”

“You mean deserters? Are they trustworthy?” Nick asked sharply. The last thing he wanted was to lose a hemisphere through human stupidity, or to introduce some additional complication for when they crossed back into Ancelstierre. That simply could not be allowed to happen.

“Not deserters, sir, oh, no,” replied Hedge, smiling. “Simply missing in action and too far from home. They are quite trustworthy. I have made certain of that.”

“And the second barge?” Nick asked.

Hedge suddenly looked up, nostrils flaring to sniff the air, and he didn’t answer. Nick looked up too and a heavy drop of rain splashed upon his mouth. He licked his lips, then quickly spat as a strange, numbing sensation spread down his throat.

“This should not be,” Hedge whispered to himself, as the rain came heavier and a wind sprang up around them. “Summoned rain, coming from the northeast. I had best investigate, Master.”

Nick shrugged, uncertain what Hedge was talking about. The rain made him feel peculiar, recalling him to some other sense of himself. Everything around him had assumed a dreamlike quality and for the first time he wondered what on earth he was doing.

Then a strange pain struck him in the chest and he doubled over. Hedge caught him and laid him down on to earth that was rapidly turning into mud.

“What is it, Master?” asked Hedge, but his tone was inquisitive rather than sympathetic.

Nick groaned and clutched at his chest, his legs writhing. He tried to speak, but only spittle came from his lips. His eyes flickered wildly from side to side, then rolled back.

Hedge knelt by him, waiting. Rain continued to fall on Nick’s face, but now it sizzled as it hit, steam wafting off his skin. A few moments later, thick white smoke began to coil out of the young man’s nose and mouth, hissing as it met the rain.

“What is it, Master?” repeated Hedge, his voice suddenly nervous.

Nick’s mouth opened and more smoke puffed out. Then his hand moved, quicker than Hedge could see, fingers clutching at the necromancer’s leg with terrible force. Hedge clenched his teeth, fighting back the pain, and asked again, “Master?”

“Fool!” said the thing that used Nick as its voice. “Now is not the time to seek our enemies. They will find this pit soon enough, but by then we will be gone. You must procure an additional barge at once and load the hemispheres. And get this body out of the rain, for it is already too fragile, and much remains to be done. Too much for my servants to laze and chatter!”

The last words were said with venom and Hedge screamed as the fingers on his leg dug in like a steel-toothed mantrap. Then he was released, to fall back into the mud.

“Hurry,” whispered the voice. “Be swift, Hedge. Be swift.”

Hedge bowed where he was, not trusting himself to speak. He wanted to edge out of reach of the grasping, inhuman power of those hands, but he feared to move.

The rain grew heavier, and the white smoke began to sink back into Nick’s nose and mouth. After a few seconds it disappeared completely and he went totally limp.

Hedge caught his head just before it splashed back into a puddle. Then he lifted him up and carefully arranged him over his shoulders in a fireman’s lift. A normal man’s leg would have been broken by the force exerted through Nick’s hand, but Hedge was no normal man. He lifted Nick easily, merely grimacing at the pain in his leg.

He’d carried Nick halfway back to his tent before the inert body on his shoulders twitched and the young man began to cough.

“Easy, Master,” said Hedge, increasing his pace. “I’ll soon have you out of the rain.”

“What happened?” asked Nick, his voice rasping. His throat felt as if he’d just smoked half a dozen cigars and drunk a bottle of brandy.

“You fainted,” replied Hedge, pushing through the flaps of the tent door. “Are you able to dry yourself and get to bed?”

“Yes, yes, of course,” snapped Nick, but his legs trembled as Hedge put him down and he had to balance himself against a travelling chest. Overhead, the rain beat out a steady rhythm on the canvas, accentuated every few minutes by the dull bass boom of thunder.

“Good,” replied Hedge, handing him a towel. “I must go and give the Night Crew their instructions; then I have to go and...

acquire another barge. It would probably be best if you rested here, sir. I will make sure someone – not one of the afflicted – brings your meals and empties the necessaries and so forth.”

“I’m quite able to look after myself,” replied Nick, though he couldn’t stop shivering as he stripped off his shirt and began to weakly towel his chest and arms. “Including overseeing the Night Crew.”

“That will not be required,” said Hedge. He leant over Nick, and his eyes appeared to grow larger and fill with a flickering red light, as if they were windows to a great furnace somehow burning inside his skull.

“It would be best if you rested here,” he repeated, his breath hot and metallic on Nick’s face. “You do not need to supervise the work.”

“Yes,” agreed Nick dully, the towel frozen in mid motion. “It would be best for me to rest... here.”

“You will await my return,” commanded Hedge. His usual subordinate tone was completely gone and he loomed over Nick like a headmaster about to cane a pupil.

“I will await your return,” Nick repeated.

“Good,” said Hedge. He smiled and turned on his heel, striding back out into the rain. It evaporated instantly into steam as it touched his bare head, wreathing him with a strange white halo. A few steps later, the steam wafted away and the rain simply plastered down his hair.

Back in his tent, Nick suddenly started drying himself again. That done, he put on a pair of badly repaired pyjamas and went to his bed of piled furs. His camp bed from Ancelstierre had broken days before, the springs collapsing into rust and the canvas crumbling with mildew.

Sleep came quickly, but not rest. He dreamed of the two silver hemispheres and his Lightning Farm that was being set up across the Wall. He saw the hemispheres absorbing power from a thousand lightning strikes and, as they drew power, overcoming the force that kept them apart. He saw them finally hurtle together, charged with the strength of ten thousand storms... but then the dream began again from the beginning, so he couldn’t see what happened when the hemispheres met.

Outside, the rain came down in sheets and the lightning struck again and again into and around the pit. Thunder rumbled and shook as the Dead Hands of the Night Crew strained at the ropes, slowly dragging the first silver hemisphere towards the Red Lake and the second hemisphere up and out of the pit.

chapter seven

a last request

It was still raining two days after Lirael and Sam’s all too successful weather working. Despite the oilskin coats thoughtfully packed by the sendings back at the House, they were completely, and seemingly permanently, sodden. Fortunately the spell was finally weakening, particularly the wind-summoning aspect, so the rain had lessened and was no longer driving horizontally into their faces, and they weren’t being assaulted by sticks, leaves and other wind-borne debris.

On the positive side, as Lirael had to remind herself every few hours, the rain had made it absolutely impossible for any Gore Crows to find them. Though that was somehow not as cheering as it should have been.

It also wasn’t cold, which was another positive. They would have frozen to death otherwise, or exhausted themselves into immobility by using Charter Magic to stay alive. Both the wind and the rain were warm, and if there had been even an hour or two without them, Lirael would have thought their weather working a great success. As it was, misery rather tainted any pride in the spell.

They were getting close to the Red Lake now, climbing up through the lush forested foothills of Mount Abed and her sisters. The trees grew close here, forming a canopy overhead, interspersed with many ferns and plants Lirael knew only from books. The leaf litter from all of them was thick on the ground, making a carpet over the mud. Because of the rain, there were thousands of tiny rivulets of water everywhere, cascading among tree roots, down stone and around Lirael’s ankles. When she could see her ankles, because most of the time her legs were buried up to the shins in a mixture of wet leaves and mud.

It was very hard going and Lirael was more tired than she had thought possible. The rests, when they had them, consisted of finding the largest tree with the thickest foliage to keep out the rain, and the highest roots to sit on to keep out of the mud. Lirael had found that she could sleep even in these conditions, though more than once she awoke, after the scant two hours they allowed themselves, to find herself lying in the mud rather than sitting above it.

Of course, once they got back out in the rain, the mud soon washed off. Lirael wasn’t sure which was worse. Mud or rain. Or the middle course: the first ten minutes after moving out of shelter, when the mud was getting washed off and running down her face, hands and legs.

It was at exactly that time after a rest, with her total attention on getting the mud out of her eyes as they climbed up yet another gully, that they found a dying Royal Guard, propped up against the trunk of a sheltering tree. Or rather, the Disreputable Dog found her, sniffing her out as she scrabbled ahead of Lirael and Sam.

The Guardswoman was unconscious, her red and gold surcoat stained black with blood, her mail hauberk ripped and torn in several places. She still held a notched and blunted sword firmly in her right hand, while her left was frozen in a spell-casting gesture she would never complete.

Both Lirael and Sam knew that she was almost gone, her spirit already stepping across the border into Death. Quickly Sam bent down, calling up the most powerful healing spell he knew. But even as the first Charter mark flowered brightly in his mind, she was dead. The faint sheen of life in her eyes disappeared, replaced by a dull, unseeing gaze. Sam let the healing mark go and brushed her eyelids gently shut.

“One of Father’s Guards,” he said heavily. “I don’t know her, though. She was probably from the Guard tower at Roble’s Town or Uppside. I wonder what she was doing...”

Lirael nodded, but she couldn’t tear her gaze away from the corpse. She felt so useless. She kept on being too late, too slow. The Southerling in the river, after the battle with Chlorr. Barra and the merchants. Now this woman. It was so unfair that she should die alone, with only a few minutes between death and rescue. If only they’d been quicker climbing the hill, or if they hadn’t stopped for that last rest...

“She was a few days dying,” said the Disreputable Dog, sniffing around the body. “But she can’t have come far, Mistress. Not with those wounds.”

“We must be close to Hedge and Nick then,” said Sam, straightening up to cast a wary eye around. “It’s so hard to tell under all these trees. We could be near the top of the ridge or still have miles to go.”

“I guess I’d better find out,” said Lirael slowly. She was still looking down at the dead body of the Guard. “What killed her, and where the Enemy are.”

“We must hurry then,” said the Dog, jumping up on her hind legs with sudden excitement. “The river will have taken her some distance.”

“You’re going into Death?” asked Sam. “Is that wise? I mean, Hedge could be nearby – or even waiting in Death!”

“I know,” said Lirael. She had been thinking exactly the same thing. “But I think it’s worth the risk. We need to find out exactly where Nick’s diggings are, and what happened to this Guard. We can’t just keep blindly marching on.”

“I suppose so,” said Sam, biting his lip with unconscious anxiety. “What will I do?”

“Watch over my body while I’m gone, please,” said Lirael.

“But don’t use any Charter Magic unless you have to,” added the Dog. “Someone like Hedge can smell it from miles away.

Even with this rain.”

“I know that,” replied Sam. He betrayed his nervousness by drawing his sword, as his eyes kept moving, checking out every tree and shrub. He even looked up, just in time to receive a trickle of rain that had made it through the thick branches overhead. It ran down his neck and under the oilskin, to make him even less comfortable. But nothing lurked in the branches of the tree, and from what little he could see of the sky, it seemed empty of anything but rain and clouds.

Lirael drew her sword too. She hesitated over which bell to choose for a moment, her hand flat against the bandoleer. She had entered Death only once before, when she had been so nearly defeated and enslaved by Hedge. This time, she told herself, she would be stronger and better prepared. Part of that meant choosing the right bell. Her fingers lightly touched each pouch till the sixth one, which she carefully opened. She took out the bell, holding it inside its mouth so the clapper couldn’t sound. She had chosen Saraneth, the Binder. Strongest of all the bells save Astarael.

“I am coming too, aren’t I?” asked the Dog eagerly, jumping around Lirael’s feet, her tail wagging at high speed.

Lirael nodded her acquiescence and began to reach out for Death. It was easy here, for the Guard’s passing had created a door that would link Life and Death at this spot for many days. A door that could work both ways.

The cold came quickly, banishing the humidity of the warm rain. Lirael shivered but kept forcing herself forward into Death, till the rain and the wind and the scent of wet leaves and Sam’s watching face were all gone, replaced by the chill, grey light of Death.

The river tugged at Lirael’s knees, willing her onwards. For a moment she resisted, reluctant to give up the feel of Life at her back. All she had to do was take one step backwards, reach out to Life and be back in the forest. But she would have learned nothing...

“I am the Abhorsen-in-Waiting,” she whispered, and she felt the river’s tug lessen. Or perhaps she just imagined it. Either way, she felt better. She had a right to be here.

She took her first slow step forward, and then another and another, until she was walking steadily forward, the Disreputable Dog plunging along at her side.

If she was lucky, Lirael thought, the Guard would still be on this side of the First Gate. But nothing was moving anywhere she could see, not even drifting on the surface, caught by the current. In the far distance was the roar of the Gate.

She listened carefully to that – for the roar would stop if the woman went through – and kept walking, careful to feel for potholes or sudden dips. It was much easier going with the current and she relaxed a little, but not so much that she lowered sword or bell.

“She is just ahead, Mistress,” whispered the Dog, her nose twitching only an inch above the surface of the river. “To the left.”

Lirael followed the Dog’s pointing paw and saw that there was a dim shape under the water, drifting with the current towards the First Gate. Instinctively, she stepped forward, thinking to physically grab the Guard. Then she realised her mistake and stopped.

Even the newly Dead could be dangerous, and a friend in Life would not necessarily be so here. It was safer not to touch. Instead she sheathed her sword and, keeping Saraneth stilled with her left hand, transferred her right to grasp the bell’s mahogany handle. Lirael knew she should have flipped it one-handed and begun to ring it at the same time, and she knew she could if she had to, but it seemed sensible to be more cautious. After all, she had never used the bells before. Only the panpipes, and they were a lesser instrument of power.

“Saraneth will be heard by many, and afar,” whispered the Dog. “Why don’t I run up and grab her by the ankle?”

“No.” Lirael frowned. “She’s a Royal Guard, Dead or not, and we have to treat her with respect. I’ll just get her attention. We won’t be waiting around anyway.”

She rang the bell with a simple arcing motion, one of the easiest peals described in The Book of the Dead for Saraneth. At the same time, she exerted her will into the sound of the bell, directing it at the submerged body floating away ahead.

The bell was very loud, eclipsing the faint roar of the First Gate. It echoed everywhere, seeming to grow louder rather than fainter, the deep tone creating ripples on the water in a great ring around Lirael and the Dog, ripples that moved even against the current.

Then the sound wrapped around the spirit of the Guard, and Lirael felt her twist and wriggle against her will like a fresh-hooked fish. Through the echo of the bell she heard a name, and she knew that Saraneth had found it out and was giving it to her. Sometimes it was necessary to use a Charter-spell to discover a name, but this Guard had no defences against any of the bells.

“Mareyn,” said the echo of Saraneth, an echo that sounded only inside Lirael’s head. The Guard’s name was Mareyn.

“Stay, Mareyn,” she said in a commanding tone. “Stand, for I would speak with you.”

Lirael felt resistance from the Guard then, but it was weak. A moment later the cold river frothed and bubbled, and the spirit of Mareyn stood up and turned to face the bell wielder who had bound her.

The Guard was too newly dead for Death to have changed her, so her spirit looked the same as her body out in Life. A tall, strongly built woman, the rents in her armour and the wounds in her body as clear here in the strange light of Death as they had been under the sun.

“Speak, if you are able,” ordered Lirael. Again, being newly Dead, Mareyn could probably talk if she chose. Many who dwelt long in Death lost the power of speech, which could only then be restored by Dyrim, the speaking bell.

“I... am... able,” croaked Mareyn. “What do you want of me, Mistress?”

“I am the Abhorsen-in-Waiting,” declared Lirael, and those words seemed to echo out into Death, drowning the small, still voice inside her that wanted to say, “I am a Daughter of the Clayr.”

“I would ask the manner of your death and what you know of a man called Nicholas and the pit he has dug,” she continued.

“You have bound me with your bell and I must answer,” said Mareyn, her voice devoid of all emotion. “But I would ask a boon, if I may.”

“Ask,” said Lirael, flicking her glance to the Disreputable Dog, who was circling behind Mareyn like a wolf after a sheep. The Dog saw her looking, wagged her tail and started to circle back. She was obviously just playing, though Lirael didn’t understand how she could be so light-hearted here in Death.

“The necromancer of the pit, whose name I dare not speak,” said Mareyn. “He killed my companions, but he laughed and let me crawl away, wounded as I was, with the promise that his servants would find me in Death and bind me to his service. I feel that this is so, and my body also lies unburnt behind me. I do not wish to return, Mistress, or to serve such a one as he. I ask you to send me on, where no power can turn me back.”

“Of course I will,” said Lirael, but Mareyn’s words sent a stab of fear through her. If Hedge had let Mareyn go, he had probably had her followed and knew where her body was. It might be under observation at this moment, and it would be easy enough to set a watch in Death for Mareyn’s spirit when it came. Hedge – or his servants – might be approaching in both Life and Death right now.

Even as she thought that, the Dog’s ears pricked up and she growled. A second later Lirael heard the roar of the First Gate falter and become still.

“Something comes,” warned the Dog, nose snuffling at the river. “Something bad.”

“Quickly then,” Lirael said. She replaced Saraneth and drew Kibeth, transferring the bell to her left hand so she could also unsheath Nehima. “Mareyn, tell me where the pit is in relation to your body.”

“The pit lies in the next valley, over the ridge,” replied Mareyn calmly. “There are many Dead there, under constant cloud and lightning. They have made a road, too, along the valley floor to the lake. The young man Nicholas lives in a patchwork tent to the east of the pit... Something comes for me, Mistress. Please, I beg you to send me on.”

Lirael felt the fear within Mareyn’s spirit, even though her voice had the steady, uninflected tone of the Dead. She heard it and responded instantly, ringing Kibeth above her head in a figure-eight pattern.

“Go, Mareyn,” she said sternly, her words weaving into the toll of the bell. “Walk deep into Death and do not tarry, or let any bar your path. I command thee to walk to the Ninth Gate and go beyond, for you have earned your final rest. Go!”

Mareyn jerked completely around at that last word and began to march, her head high and arms swinging, as she must once have marched in Life on the parade ground at the barracks at Belisaere. Straight as an arrow she marched, off towards the First Gate. Lirael saw her falter for a moment in the distance, as if something had tried to waylay her, but then she marched on, till the roar of the First Gate stilled to mark her passage.

“She’s gone,” remarked the Dog. “But whatever came through is here somewhere. I can smell it.”

“I can feel it too,” whispered Lirael. She swapped bells again, taking up Saraneth. She liked the security of the big bell, and the deep authority of its voice.

“We should go back,” said the Dog, her head slowly moving from side to side as she tried to locate the creature. “I don’t like it when they’re clever.”

“Do you know what it is?” whispered Lirael as they began to trudge back to Life, zigzagging so her back was never truly turned. As on her first trip, it was much harder going against the current, and it seemed colder than ever, too, leaching away at her spirit.

“Some sneaker from beyond the Fifth Gate, I think,” said the Dog. “Small, and long since whittled down from its original– There!”

She barked and dashed through the water. Lirael saw something like a long, spindle-thin rat – with burning coals for eyes – leap aside as the Dog struck. Then it was coming straight at her and she felt its cold and powerful spirit rise against her, out of all proportion to its rat-like form.

She screamed and struck at it with her sword, blue-white sparks streaming everywhere. But it was too quick. The blow glanced off and it snapped at her left wrist, at the hand that held the bell. Its jaws met her armoured sleeve and black-red flames burst out between its needle-like teeth.

Then the Dog fastened her own jaws on the creature’s middle and twisted it off Lirael’s arm, the hound’s bloodcurdling growl adding to the sound of the thing squealing and Lirael’s scream. A moment later all were drowned in the deep sound of Saraneth as Lirael stepped back, flipped the bell, caught the handle and rang it, all in one smooth motion.