Part 36 (2/2)

'And if it doesn't?'

'Pray that Yniss forgives whatever sin we've committed, because the way it looks now, we're all going to die, sooner rather than later.'

Jevin leant on the rail. He should be doing something. Every elf should. To his knowledge no one had survived having the plague so far, but then not many were in the final stages yet. Just one survivor could give them some hope. But what could he do? This wasn't a question of tending the sick or supplying the herbologists with raw materials. There was no battle to be won. Not yet. Elf catches plague; elf dies.

Jevin's own family lived deep in the rainforest and he preferred not to think about them. It kept his hopes alive.

'So why have none of the crews gone down yet?' asked Jevin. 'Odd, don't you think? Surely that's a lead?'

'It's a point, I suppose. No stranger catches it. No travelling elf catches it. Yet.'

'Surely it means something?'

'We are still Tual's creatures. Perhaps the curse of being away from the forest also carries a blessing. Perhaps your sin isn't as great as ours.'

Jevin had been looking for something less theological. But this mage, at least, had no answers.

'You see what I'm getting at?'

'There is no biological reason why any particular elf catches the plague,' said Vituul with a shrug. 'It must be something else. I don't believe you, I or any of the crew have greater immunity than the poor souls on sh.o.r.e.'

Jevin was considering his reply when his eye was caught by movement on the dockside. There was activity on the approach roads to the east and the odd shout echoed out across the water. The tone was of surprise, even astonishment, but not fear. People were congregating on the dock. Not a mob. Not the hundreds, even thousands, they'd seen a couple of days ago, but a slowly growing crowd.

It continued to grow over the course of most of the morning. Jevin thought at first that it was city folk gathering for a demonstration, but every time he looked up from his duties there were more of them. Just standing there like they were waiting for a s.h.i.+p to dock. Then Jevin realised what he was looking at. These weren't Ysundeneth elves; the city folk's clothes were so much brighter than the greens and browns he could see.

Around midday he rejoined Vituul, who had barely left the rail all morning. Despite his life taking him from the land of his birth and his G.o.ds, Jevin prided himself on having enough of the Calaian elf in him still to understand his people. But not this. Left and right, the rails of other s.h.i.+ps were crowded with crew and it seemed a quiet had descended across the city and the sea.

'They are who I think they are, aren't they?' he asked.

Vituul nodded. 'TaiGethen,' he said, pointing vaguely, but his voice was edged with excitement. 'Al-Arynaar. And ClawBound. I see the panthers. I see them.'

It was something most elves had never expected to see in the forest, let alone on the dockside at Ysundeneth.

'What are they doing?' Jevin implored anyone who might hear and answer him.

These people never, but never, came out of the rainforest. Never stepped on the worked stone of the streets. They thought them evil. Necessary but evil. A sin Yniss allowed because civilisation had to flourish. To them a city was an alien landscape. An imbalance in the harmony of the forest, its air, magic and denizens. Yet here they were, gathered and waiting, and quite suddenly, the disaster that faced the elves became so much more real.

'What do they want?' This time the question was directed at Vituul alone.

'Whatever it is, it isn't good.'

'We should launch a boat,' said Jevin. 'Ask them.'

But answers came far more quickly than that. Up in the crow's-nest, the lookout shouted and pointed east. Two dots were flying in from the forest, low and erratic. They swept over the docks, stopped momentarily and spiralled into the sky again, before moving out to sea and the s.h.i.+ps moored there.

Jevin followed them, half knowing who it was, seeing them change direction twice before heading straight for the Calaian Sun. One of them dipped very low, called out, rose and then fell into the water a hundred yards from the s.h.i.+p. The other didn't pause but flew over the deck, landed and collapsed in a flurry of limbs. When Jevin reached him, Ilkar had managed to turn onto his back and was gasping in air.

'Ilkar?'

'Jevin,' Ilkar gasped. 'Better . . . better get a boat over the side. Don't think Denser can float for too long.'

The order was given. 'Where have you come from?'

'Shorth Estuary. Flew all night.' He struggled to a sitting position. 'Explanations later.'

He stopped to gasp in more air. His hair was plastered to his skull and his face was drawn and exhausted.

'Xeteskians have desecrated Aryndeneth. They've destroyed the harmony. But we can stop them. Tell all the s.h.i.+ps. They've got to take the elves to Balaia. A stranger is holding part of Yniss's statue. And we've got to get it back before the plague takes us all.'

'And me?'

'You're coming with us. Got some friends to pick up at the Shorth.'

Jevin nodded. Answers were before him and his desire to help was satisfied.

'Bosun!' he called. 'Signal the s.h.i.+ps. I need to see the skippers and it has to be now.' Turning back to Ilkar, he grasped the elf's shoulder. 'Let's get your wet colleague on board safely, then you can both tell me over a goblet of wine just exactly what is going on.'

The trio of Xeteskian vessels was under full sail, moving well across a swell of six to eight feet. The wind was strong and constant beneath thin rolling cloud and the acres of canvas billowed dirty grey.

Captain Yron sat beneath the mainmast of the lead vessel on some netted crates, turning the fragment of the statue's thumb over and over. No one had dared come near him all morning. He must have looked a frightening sight with his hands and face covered in balms and bandages, but it wasn't that which kept them away.

Throughout the night he had prowled the deck, unable to sleep despite his fatigue. Healing spells had been cast on him as he moved and the bandages were only there because Erys had made him stop for long enough. After the eighth or tenth man had congratulated him on the success of the mission he had exploded with vehemence enough to wake the slumbering on all three half-empty s.h.i.+ps. It needed saying. As if any bounty could justify this loss, let alone the pathetic collection of parchments and texts Erys had brought out.

One hundred and fifty men had journeyed into the Calaian rainforest, wreathed in mirror illusions of enormous complexity to obscure their progress from TaiGethen and ClawBound. And until they had reached the forward camp, it had worked. Now only two of those one hundred and fifty were alive to tell the tale and a further forty had perished in the defence of the estuary.

Success? He had failed. Xetesk could go hang. The Circle Seven would greet his return with broad smiles and grasping hands. He had no doubt Erys's a.s.sessment of the importance of the doc.u.ments he had retrieved was accurate.

No. It was Ben-Foran. Ben, who had trusted him so completely and believed in him utterly. And Ben who lay dead because right at the last, he, Yron, had believed they were safe and had failed to take into account how fast a panther could run.

Yron had never had a son, a family. He had never married. He was the cla.s.sic soldier, too engrossed in his career to realise the swift pa.s.sage of years. But in Ben he had seen a way to release the regret and frustration he felt. To take the boy and make him the man Yron knew he could be. To give himself something of which he could be truly proud.

But he had failed. And the boy who could have rivalled the Lysternan, Darrick, as Balaia's most talented soldier . . . all that potential would remain tragically unfulfilled. The only thing that could possibly give meaning to his death was the stolen writings. Otherwise it would all have been a waste. And Yron hated waste.

The netting s.h.i.+fted to his right and he looked across. Erys had sat down next to him. He sat in silence, the only companion Yron would tolerate, the only one who could possibly understand. And he waited for Yron to speak, if he wished. After a time that was exactly what Yron wished.

'It's not over, Erys. Not by a long way.'

'The guilt will pa.s.s,' said Erys.

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