Chimaera

A week after Ghorr’s attack on Fiz Gorgo, on a windy, miserable autumn morning with sleet spitting at them from the west, all was ready. They assembled in the yard, waiting for Xervish Flydd.

They stood there for more than an hour, stamping their feet in a vain attempt to keep them warm, and blowing into their gloves. Finally even Yggur, who had been a model of patience ever since Flydd’s injury had been revealed, was driven to say, ‘Where the devil is the fellow?’

Shortly Flydd appeared, supporting himself on the shoulders of Evee and Fyn-Mah, and walking in a wretched grimacing shuffle. His skin was completely bloodless and with each halting step every muscle in his face shivered as he tried to prevent himself from crying out in agony.

Nish couldn’t bear to see the scrutator, who had once seemed to carry the whole of Santhenar on his scrawny shoulders, reduced to such emotional penury. ‘Surr!’ he cried, and ran across the yard to offer his arm.

As he approached, the scrutator wrenched back some control over himself and with a supreme effort shook off the pain, or at least drew it into himself. He stood up straight as Nish, realising belatedly what a blunder he’d made, stumbled to a halt in front of him. But he and Flydd had been through much together; they’d been comrades in the desperate times after the fall of Snizort, and surely Flydd would understand. Nish tried to make the best of it.

‘Surr,’ he said quietly. ‘May I assist you into the thapter?’

Flydd looked right through him. ‘Did I ask for help, Artificer?’ he ground out. Shaking off Evee’s arm, and then Fyn-Mah’s, he lurched unaided across the black paving stones in an appalling travesty of a careless stride. Every movement of every muscle showed the pain he was enduring, though his face was like stone.

Fyn-Mah cried, ‘Xervish –’ but broke off and put her hands over her face.

Evee let out an almost inaudible cry and ran after him, but he slashed at her with one hand and she fell back, biting her knuckles. She directed a furious glance at Nish. ‘Are you the biggest fool that ever was?’

Nish was begi

After a brief hesitation Evee ran after him. The others followed, except for Fyn-Mah. Normally so cool and reserved, she was grinding her knuckles into her eyes. She turned away and walked back inside Fiz Gorgo, closing the door like a silent accusation.

‘That went well,’ observed Irisis as Nish came up to the side of the thapter.

Nish wanted to weep. ‘I was trying to help him.’

She relented and put her arm around his shoulders. ‘You know what a proud man he is, Nish. And you saw what Ghorr did to him. How do you think Flydd must feel, knowing that his friends are talking about his deepest torment and shame?’

‘If it were me, I’d want the support of my friends.’

‘Not if you’d been a scrutator. It’s a solitary profession and you have to hide your feelings. And especially your weaknesses.’

He said no more. They took their places in the thapter. Pilot Inouye stood at the controller of her dirigible, cast off the ballast and the little craft rose gently in the air. Yggur hadn’t wanted anyone inside in case something went wrong, but Inouye was happier that way and it eased the cramped conditions a trifle.

Nish stood with Irisis and Malien in the upper compartment of the thapter, looking out as they lifted off into the scudding cloud. Yggur was on the shooter’s platform at the rear, legs spread, cloak flapping behind him, appearing to relish the icy wind in his face.

Nish didn’t relish anything about the coming journey, though at least the war had gone quiet and there shouldn’t be too many disasters before the spring. The lyrinx didn’t fight in winter unless they had to.

He had enough to worry about. Evee had said that Flydd had been repaired, whatever that meant, though clearly he was far from recovered, and must be more hindrance than help on such a dangerous mission.

Nish had also begun to fret about Gilhaelith, the only outsider who knew of the pla

‘I overheard the healers talking about Flydd last night,’ Irisis said an hour or two later.

They were now sitting on the top of the thapter with their legs dangling down into the upper compartment. Irisis was swinging her long legs, quite at home there. Nish held on grimly, afraid that a sudden lurch could send them over the side. The thapter was dipping in and out of layers of cloud like wet, clinging fluff, and it was unusually bumpy.

‘Oh?’ Nish said sharply. He let go with one hand to wipe the cold condensation off his brow, then slapped his hand down again as the machine jolted in an updraught.

‘They don’t know what to make of him. He won’t talk. He won’t even look at them. They’re … they’re afraid for his sanity.’

‘Marvellous!’ said Nish. ‘And Flydd didn’t tell Yggur the details of the attack. It’s all in his head … Or was.’

‘He had hours of discussions with Malien and Yggur just before Ghorr attacked Fiz Gorgo,’ Irisis said.

‘But they only went through generalities, never the plan in detail. They agreed not to until we were on the way, just to be safe.’

‘Well, I just thought you should know.’

‘I’m glad you told me,’ said Nish. ‘It drives all the other worries right out of my head.’

TWENTY

‘So what’s Ne

It was late on their third day of travel and the thapter had just settled, as it must each night, onto the most isolated and desolate peak they could find. Only Malien could pilot the craft and she was still so weak that each day’s flying required long hours of recuperation.

She had taken all possible precautions to avoid being seen, flying in cloud wherever possible, and keeping clear of towns and densely inhabited areas, though there was always a chance that someone had spotted them. And if they had been seen, the Council’s unparalleled network of spies and informers would soon hear of it. Even now a skeet or a courier air-floater could be racing towards Ne

‘You can’t imagine it,’ Irisis replied, climbing down the side of the thapter onto moss-covered rock. The night’s camp was halfway up an isolated ridge in the middle of the Ramparts of Tacnah, a series of rearing slopes of tilted greywacke, layered against the western edge of the Great Mountains like a leaning stack of cards. The high parts of the Ramparts caught moist breezes from the west and were, consequently, wet and cloud-covered for most of the year. A fine place for hiding, though dank, mosquito-ridden and inhospitable. ‘Ne

Flangers and the other soldiers were already fa