Chapter Seven

 

Talsy stopped in confusion when a dull rumbling started in the distance, then crouched as the ground trembled. Beggars and pickpockets scuttled for shelter, and within moments the street was deserted. She had experienced earth tremors before, but none as violent as this. The shanties swayed as the shivering increased, and one down the street collapsed in a cloud of dust and a scream from within. Crows flew up in alarm, cawing, dogs cowered and whimpered, braver ones barked in warning and defiance. The huts rattled as the shaking grew worse, a deep-throated rumble filling the air with malignant power. A woman clutching a wailing infant ran screaming from a hovel as it caved in behind her.

The trembling stopped and the rumble faded, rolling away across the hills. Talsy jumped aside as a loose horse galloped past to vanish into the slums. The city sat under a pall of dust, black smoke streaking the brown haze as fires broke out. Jabbering people ran around, put out fires and searched for loved ones. Talsy hurried up the street in the direction whence the horse had appeared, for the beast must have come from a more affluent area.

Soon, she left the maze of hovels behind and entered the garbage-filled market place, where pandemonium reigned. People ran about, shouted and extinguished fires where braziers and cooking stalls had spilt their smouldering contents. Muttering merchants gathered up fallen produce and mourned broken pottery. Many stalls were barrows with awnings, and these had faired quite well, but some older stalls, built from rotting timbers or loose stones, had collapsed.

Livestock had broken out of flimsy cages or pens and ran about in bleating, honking or bawling herds, their yelling, angry owners in pursuit. House owners inspected the damage to their property and cursed, counting the cost with scowls. In the confusion, she snatched up some fallen fruit and vegetables, ducking into a side street to eat them. While she was occupied with this pleasant task, a lathered horse galloped into the marketplace, and its exhausted rider slid from its back, almost into the arms of a group of guardsmen. His hoarse cries filled the already tense air with further anxiety and dread.

"The Black Riders are coming!"

Talsy craned around the edge of the building beside which she crouched, straining to hear the more subdued conversation with the guardsmen. Snatches of it reached her.

"...Two days away... Thousands... Heading straight here..."

Cold dread chilled her, robbing her of her hunger. People ran about in greater confusion, demanded more information, passed the news to the uninformed, and asked what to do and where to go. Talsy stuffed the pilfered food into her jacket, her anxiety redoubling. She had to find Chanter before the Black Riders arrived, and now she had less than two days to do it.

 

Jashon sawed through the Mujar's breast bone and reached in to cut out his beating heart. The doctor held it up, still throbbing, for his peers to inspect.

"Same as ours," one commented. The audience had become bored. So far, the differences they had found in Mujar anatomy were negligible.

Another doctor leant forward to gaze into the Mujar's chest. "It seems that Mujar are very similar to us, Jashon. So far all we've seen is a slight improvement on our own design, but basically identical."

Jashon studied the beating heart. "Indeed. Strange, don't you think? You'd think that a creature with such alien powers would be anatomically different, yet Mujar are the same as us."

"Then perhaps the theory that they're the blighted offspring of wild mountain women is true."

Jashon shook his head. "I've never believed that theory. Those girls couldn't live long enough to raise a child, and if that was true, they'd be able to breed with us."

"Not necessarily," an aged professor pointed out. "Mules are sterile."

Jashon dropped the Mujar's heart on the floor, scowling at it as it ceased to beat. "I refuse to believe that we're related to these useless yellow scum."

 

Chanter stared at the ceiling. The pain of his chest being pulled open had dragged him from the peace of oblivion. Everything had become dim and distant, the doctors' voices a faraway mumbling. His blood had stopped coursing, and his heart's ever-present beat was absent, leaving pain as the only sensation. Dolana held him helpless in its freezing grip, but mercifully numbed the pain. A nearby animal mind sparked some interest deep within him, and he sensed the movement of a rat behind a wall not far away. Concentrating, he used a little Earthpower, just enough to mind-lock briefly with the animal, relaxing as it turned and scuttled away.

The Lowmen tugged and pushed at his insides, sent waves of burning pain through him and forced him to retreat deeper into himself to escape it. Closing his eyes, he called on sleep to claim him, and it washed away the pain with gentle waves of darkness.

 

Jashon walked back to his house with Tranton, deep in thought. The Mujar's disappointing examination had made several of his peers mutter about the money they had wasted, and he sensed that he had lost status in their eyes, even if it was not his fault. They had probably expected a refund, he thought bitterly. He hardly noticed the fearful people who scurried along the street, or the loose animals and their pursuers, although some brushed past him rudely in their haste. When he did take note, he blamed it on the earthquake earlier. The damage from the tremor filled the street with broken glass and plaster, which crunched beneath the pedestrians' feet as they hurried on their way.

At his door, he bade Tranton goodnight and entered his modest dwelling, cursing when he stepped on broken glass inside. He closed the door and glanced around at the bare shelves and smashed ornaments on the floor. It had cost him a significant amount to furnish his house with good quality fittings and velvet curtains, expensive rugs and satin-covered chairs. He was particularly proud of his china collection, and surveyed the damage in the lounge with a frown. Years of painstaking decoration had been ruined in a few minutes of rumbling. His plump wife rushed out of the kitchen and grabbed his arm, her face drawn with fear, tear streaks ruining her buxom beauty. Her brown hair straggled from its bun and dirt streaked her lacy blue gown. Jashon patted her hand, not listening to her hysterical gabble.

"It was just an earthquake," he soothed. "Nothing to worry about."

She shook him. "I'm not worried about the earthquake! We must flee! The Black Riders are coming!"

Jashon stared at her. "The Black Riders?"

"Yes! Hashon Jahar! Two days away, coming here!"

"No, there must be some mistake, Hashon Jahar have never attacked a big city like Horran." Jashon gripped her shoulders. "It's a mistake!"

She shook her head. "A rider brought the news. We must flee!"

"Where to?" Jashon demanded. "They'll catch up with us out in the open if we do." Dread washed through him. His life as a respected doctor in a big city was threatened, and his numb brain struggled to accept it.

She wailed, "We'll be killed! The Hashon Jahar leave no survivors. They slaughter all in their path!"

"Yes. We must fight! We have an army, the city has walls. We must defend it, not run away."

"Most of the soldiers have already fled with their families! All that remain are old men and young boys. Everyone is leaving, the bridges are choked!"

Jashon sank into a chair, his legs weak. His wife flapped her hands and wailed, trying to get him to respond to her hysterical demands. He stared into space, and she ran back to her packing. His world had fallen apart, destroyed by the mere rumour of approaching marauders. Now he understood the hysteria in the streets and the dull-eyed panic of the population as they ran about amid the detritus. He would have to leave behind all he had worked for and give up a comfortable life for a slight chance of survival in the woods.

Even if they reached another town, it would take years to regain what he lost today. He rose and went into the lavishly decorated cream and white bedroom to help her pack, filled with despair. The heavy purses that swung from his belt hampered him as he bent to pack his clothes into a leather bag. Jashon straightened with a grunt of realisation. Mujar had the power to do anything.

Excited, he ignored his wife's angry exclamation and abandoned her to hurry to the front door. Even as he reached it, it burst open and Tranton rushed in, almost colliding with him.

"You've heard?" Tranton gasped.

Jashon nodded.

"I've come to ask to ride with you in your wagon. I have no beasts."

"We don't have to flee. We have the answer in the college."

"What?" Tranton looked confused.

"The Mujar. He can protect the city."

"But he won't!"

"We must make him."

Tranton shook his head. "You'd be wasting your time. He won't do it."

"We've never had a Mujar so much at our mercy before. He'll do it to escape the pain."

"He won't. Forget it, pack your belongings, we must leave at once."

Jashon thrust his friend aside. "I'm going to try. It's our only hope. If we flee, we'll be hunted down like rats."

Grabbing his coat, Jashon marched into the busy street. Tranton hesitated, his expression despairing, then trotted after him, his dirty grey robes flapping around his skinny legs.

 

Talsy rested beside a run-down house's peeling wall, tucked away out of the stream of fleeing people, carts and horses that had buffeted her since the alarm had been raised. The wild-eyed masses streamed eastwards through the city to choke the bridges across the river, and she wondered how many would be pushed off and swept away to die in the muddy torrent. She had no idea how she was going to find Chanter, she only knew that she must. Her first stop had been the town jail, where they might have held him before they took him to the Pit. Now she struggled towards the soldiers' barracks.

A crier took up his stance not far away and pulled out a rolled up parchment. Unrolling it, he shouted in ringing tones, "Hear ye! Hear ye! A proclamation from His Grace, the Governor of Horran! The city gates are being closed! No more citizens will be allowed to flee! All able-bodied men are charged to report to the armoury, where they will be given weapons. The city of Horran will fight the Black Riders! We will not run! The penalty for treason is death! This is the order of Cusak, Governor of Horran!"

The panic-stricken bustle slowed as people absorbed this astounding news and checked their mad rush for the bridges and a way out of the city. A great wail of despair and denial went up, and a crowd descended on the crier and beat him senseless. Talsy left her shelter and hurried towards the city gates, stopping along the way to ask a soldier where the barracks were. The harassed man gestured and marched away on some urgent errand. When she found it in a broad cobbled square close to the city centre, the soldiers who usually inhabited it were absent, but the grey stone building's cells held only frightened pickpockets and street thugs who could not be accommodated in the jail.

When she emerged, dusk sucked the light from the sky as the sinking sun drew its veil of luminescence with it, and night crawled in its wake. Talsy's feet and legs ached from a day of walking and running, dodging and climbing steps. She pulled a carrot from her jacket and munched it, settling into a sheltered corner where the barrack's roof overhung. The building's location meant that she had a good view of several broad streets that met at the square. The cries of distant mobs echoed through the city as men armed with torches and swords patrolled the streets to capture looters and deliver summary execution to those they caught trying to climb over the outer walls.

Other groups of citizens marched through the square in protest of the governor's order, clashing with loyalists in brief, bloody, torch lit battles. Surging crowds roared and dying men screamed. Feet pounded on the cobblestones as cowards tried to flee, the shouting pursuit of righteous citizens following them. Chaos reigned in the city this night, and Talsy huddled in her corner, buffered against the night chill by her jacket, unnoticed and alone. Her wounded arm ached. The cut had turned a nasty yellow, and she kept it bound with a rag. It needed to be washed with clean spring water, but none flowed in the dirty city. Cradling the throbbing limb, she closed her eyes and let sleep wash over her in a welcome tide, cutting off the shouts and screams of the beleaguered city.

 

A rough slap on his battered face woke Chanter, and stabs of pain shot from his broken jaw. He opened his eyes to find a ring of hostile faces looming over him. Numerous lanterns lighted the scene, and the gimlet-eyed throng. A strenuous argument was being shouted in the background, and the man who had slapped Chanter turned his head to call, "He's awake!"

Chanter's torturer pushed through the ring to kneel beside the Mujar and thrust his hatchet face close. "Do you want healing, Mujar?"

Chanter gazed at him, unable to speak with a slashed throat. The Lowman gripped the Mujar's shoulders and shook him, sending fresh waves of pain through him. "Answer me! I'm offering you healing, comforts."

"He can't speak with a cut throat, Jashon," one of the spectators pointed out.

Jashon dropped Chanter with a growl and demanded a cup of water. A youngster ran off, returning after a minute to place one in his hand. Jashon trickled a little liquid onto the Mujar's throat and chin. Chanter stiffened as the pain flared, unable to do more than quiver in response to his agony. His broken jaw and slashed throat healed, and he drew in a shuddering breath, blessed air wheezing through his dry, blood-clotted windpipe. The Power of Shissar flowed into his chest, but dwindled to nothing before it could do any more good.

Jashon glared him. "Now, answer me. Do you want healing, comforts?"

Chanter coughed. "Yes."

"There's an army of Black Riders approaching the city. Defend us, and we'll heal you and give you comforts for the rest of your life."

"No."

Jashon looked shocked. "You want to suffer? To go to the Pit?"

"No."

"Then defend the city, and we'll spare you."

"No."

A voice spoke from the back of the crowd. "Told you he wouldn't do it."

Jashon glanced around in annoyance. "I haven't finished yet, Tranton." He turned back to Chanter. "I can make you suffer more, Mujar scum. I can make you wish you could die."

Chanter met the Lowman's small brown eyes with calm hatred. Jashon brought his fist down on the Mujar's mutilated belly, and agony swept through Chanter, dulling his senses again. Rough hands battered his face, pulling him back from the brink of oblivion.

"Come on, you dirty yellow bastard!" Jashon snarled. "You'll not escape me. I have two whole days to torture you, so make it easy on yourself. Defend the city, and you'll receive healing and comforts."

"No Wish." Blood bubbled in Chanter's throat, and he swallowed.

"You're wasting your time," said Tranton, who had worked his way to the front of the throng. "We should fetch our weapons from the armoury now that we can no longer escape."

Jashon's scowl deepened. "We'd never have made it to the gates before they were closed, anyway. Go and get your weapon if you wish, I'm going to make this bastard co-operate. Just tell me what 'no wish' means."

Tranton smiled. "He means that he doesn't owe you anything. You haven't done anything for him, so he has no gratitude, and therefore he won't grant you a wish."

"I'm not asking for a bloody wish! I'll make him beg for mercy first, then, when he agrees to help, he'll get his damned healing."

"It won't work."

"He doesn't know what suffering is yet."

"Oh, I think he may have a fair idea."

For the next two hours, Jashon strived to prove what suffering was to the Mujar. He drove spikes into Chanter's flesh, then pulled out his finger and toenails. The Mujar watched his tormentor with hate-filled eyes, and the crowd dwindled as its members lost interest and went to collect their weapons. Another two hours passed while Jashon twisted the Mujar's broken limbs, pinched his flesh in iron instruments and cut off fingers, toes, ears and skin. Tranton, one of the few who remained, shook his head in constant assertion of his original verdict.

By the time the lanterns spluttered from lack of oil, Jashon wiped sweat from his forehead, his thin face twisted with frustration and anger. Rising, he went to the door with jerky strides and paused there to glare at Chanter.

"Tomorrow I'll carry on, Mujar. You will agree in the end."

Tranton grunted, and Chanter turned his head away, closed his eyes and called down sleep's sweet dark curtain as the Lowmen left.

 

Talsy woke, cold and stiff, as the faint streaks of dawn lightened the sky. Shivering, she pulled her jacket closer, her arm throbbing. A pair of little red eyes in the darkness caught her attention, and she stared at them with a twinge of fear. From their size and spacing, they were rat's eyes, and she wondered why such a timid creature would stare at her so boldly. As she groped for a rock to hurl at the animal, it darted towards her. Talsy recoiled, trying to pull her legs out of its way and scramble to her feet. Tiny claws scratched her ankle, and a vision slammed her back against the wall like a red hot-spike through her brain.

A dingy, drab room with black beams and a grey wooden ceiling filled her mind. A crowd of men, dressed in robes of various shades of dirt, from almost white to nearly brown, stared down at her. They had leering, hard-eyed faces, and she sensed excruciating pain and helpless imprisonment mingled with the metallic smell of blood, all dulled by cold.

Talsy slumped as the vision faded, her heart pounding. For a moment, she had shared Chanter's mind, sensed his pain and seen his surroundings. The rat had brought her a plea for help. He was badly injured, held captive by the pitiless men who tortured him. She frowned, recalling the image. Almost all the men wore belts of woven blue cord, the badge of a doctor. Rising, she set off down the deserted street in search of a doctor, or the place where doctors congregated, somewhere they would hold a Mujar.

 

The next day, Jashon kept his promise to torture the Mujar, devised new methods and tried any that his peers suggested. He laid gold on the Mujar's skin and rubbed salt into his massive wounds, followed by every imaginable poison and finally acid. The unman groaned and sometimes cried out, and Jashon slapped him awake whenever he seemed liable to slide away into oblivion. Through it all, his reply remained the same, and by the afternoon Jashon was at his wit's end. Tranton perched on a table and mocked his friend.

"I told you, you're wasting your time."

"Shut up!" Jashon snarled, angered by Tranton's superior smile. "I haven't given up yet."

"Well, you should." Tranton sighed and stroked his dirty beard. "You can't make a Mujar do anything he doesn't wish to do."

A commotion at the door heralded the entrance of a tall man followed by a gaggle of grey-robed advisors and four guards in bright red and gold livery. The newcomer's purple cloak swept the floor with a gold-trimmed edge, and his grey silk shirt peeped from a waistcoat with a white fur lining. Well-tailored black trousers and dark brown boots completed his ensemble. Iron-grey hair receded from his high temples, his steel-grey eyes glinted and his hooked nose hung over a thin-lipped mouth.

"Governor." Jashon bowed, straightening his robes. Tranton tried to groom his straggly beard while the others tidied themselves as best they could. The governor frowned at the mangled Mujar.

"I've heard what you're trying to do here, Doctor Durb, and commend you for your efforts. I take it you are still unsuccessful?"

Jashon bowed. "Yes, Your Grace, but I haven't given up yet."

"What haven't you tried?"

Jashon hesitated. "We'll think of more things to try, Your Grace."

Cusak nodded. "It looks like you've been doing a good job."

Jashon preened, and Tranton shook his head.

The governor leant over the Mujar. "What would you say if I offered you half the wealth in the city's coffers, Mujar? You would be the wealthiest man in the city, able to buy anything you wished; food, wine, women, a house, anything at all. Never ending comforts, the respect and gratitude of all the Truemen in this city, exemption from the Pit and protection from any harm?"

The Mujar shook his head. "No."

Cusak scowled. "You will never be offered such an opportunity again. Prove that Mujar are good for something."

"No."

Cusak straightened. "You're a fool, as we have always known. Useless Mujar scum." He turned away, and Jashon hurried after him as he strode to the door.

"I won't stop trying, Your Grace."

Cusak nodded. "I think you're wasting your time, doctor."

"May I ask when the Black Riders will be here?"

"Tomorrow."

The crowd of advisors swallowed the governor up, and he left without a backward glance. Jashon turned back to his victim, fear compounding his frustration.

"Get chains and pulleys, we're going to tear this bastard apart," he snarled.

 

Talsy's tired feet dragged along the hard street, which had worn her soft shoes almost through. Twice, she had been forced to run from street thugs, and she scanned the road ahead for danger. Her swollen, throbbing arm drained her energy and made her queasy, and all she wanted was to lie down and rest. The people she had asked for directions had chased her off, probably thinking her a beggar looking for free care, of which there was none. At the end of the street was a square with a fountain that had several stone drinking basins around it.

Talsy leant against a basin and sipped the water that ran into it from the copper spigot. It tasted brackish and dead, with none of the sweet wild taste of a forest stream. Gingerly she unwrapped her arm, revealing a broad red area with a yellow line in the middle of it. Red streaks ran from it up to her shoulder. She washed it, then splashed her face and scrubbed some of the grime off her exposed parts.

Becoming aware of a presence behind her, she turned to find a kindly eyed woman there. The matron smiled, then glanced at the septic cut on Talsy's arm.

"You should get that seen to, young miss."

"I don't know where to go."

The woman pointed down the street. "Just around the next corner there's a medical college. Someone there will help you. Have you money?"

Talsy nodded, astonished to be shown kindness in this city where no one seemed to care. The woman smiled again and cupped her hands to drink from the spigot. Talsy thanked her and headed down the street, wrapping her arm again. Around the next corner was a grey building with black beams protruding from its walls and a painting of a grey-bearded man in a white robe and blue belt hanging outside the open door. She trotted into a white corridor with grubby marks on the walls and opened the closest door to peer into a room full of desks and chairs. As she turned away, a young man emerged from a door further down the passage and approached her.

"Can I help you?" he enquired.

"Yes, I'm looking for a Mujar. I know he's here. Where is he?"

The man looked amazed. "How would you know that?"

"I just do," she said. "Where is he?"

"Now, just a minute. You can't barge in here and demand to see the prisoner."

Talsy pulled a sharp slither of wood from her jacket pocket, a weapon she had acquired in the gutter for protection. She pressed it to his gut and glared at him. "Take me to him, now!"

Evidently her wild eyes, grim mouth and obvious desperation daunted the youth, who raised his hands and turned away. Talsy gripped his robe to prevent him from running and held her makeshift weapon next to his kidneys. He headed down the corridor and opened a door near the end, descended a flight of steps and opened another door. They entered a room that many lanterns lighted, where tables stood in rows, covered with strange paraphernalia and shiny instruments. Cages held rats and rabbits, and a group of men occupied the far corner, some leaning or sitting on the tables.

Talsy shoved the youth forward, and he approached the group. A few of its members glanced around, one an elderly reprobate with a disgusting yellow beard.

"Where is he?" she demanded.

Her hostage pointed at the group. "On the floor."

Releasing him, she pushed through the doctors to stare at what lay on the floor. At first she was not sure what it was, for its resemblance to a man was minimal. A pool of brown blood surrounded a twisted creature stretched between chains. Coils of gut lay snarled beside it, and the wet gleam of exposed organs poked from torn skin and bloody cavities. Her heart hammered with horror, and she longed for this to be some cruel joke. As if sensing her presence, he turned his head and opened his eyes.

"Chanter!" Talsy whispered hoarsely. Pain shot through her heart and her bile rose, then the room spun and went black.

 

Two doctors caught the girl and lowered her to the ground. Jashon turned and raised a brow at the student who had brought her in.

"She seemed to know him, sir," he said. "Demanded that I bring her here and threatened me with a sharp stick."

Jashon smiled. "A sharp stick, eh? How courageous our students are these days. Tie her up." Turning back to his victim, he sighed. "If you were Trueman I'd have the answer to my dilemma, for then you might feel something for this girl and co-operate for her sake, if not your own. But you're Mujar scum, unfeeling, uncaring, and no doubt would not lift a finger to help her."

The Mujar glared at him.

"I thought not. So, let's continue."

 

Chanter's soft groans dragged Talsy back to consciousness. She raised her head, and found her hands bound behind her back and her feet tied. The doctors stood around their victim, who was mercifully out of sight. The sounds of his agony cut through her, and she shouted, "Stop it! Stop it! Leave him alone!"

A hatchet-faced man with hard brown eyes straightened and turned to her. Talsy hated him on sight.

"Ah, you're awake." He sniggered. "Our little bandit. I believe you know this yellow scum. Maybe we have you to thank for bringing him into the city. From a clan, are you?"

"No," she denied. "I am his clan."

"A one-woman clan." The doctor glanced around and laughed. "You must be quite a woman, little girl."

Talsy realised that she must be careful of what she said and leashed her emotions. At least Chanter had stopped groaning.

"Let him go," she ordered.

"Or what?"

She had no answer for that, and asked, "Why are you torturing him?"

The doctor shook his head in a condescending manner and leant on a table. "Well, to begin with we merely wished to dissect him, but having done that, we decided to make him protect the city from the Black Riders."

"He won't do it."

The man with the revolting yellow beard giggled. "Seems everyone knows that except Jashon."

Jashon snarled, "Shut up, Tranton. He can't take much more of this."

"He can," Talsy retorted. "Obviously you don't understand Mujar, do you?"

Jashon thumped the table. "Why is everyone such a damned expert on Mujar?"

"I've lived with him. I know how he thinks, and he'll never be forced into doing something."

Jashon glared at her. "And I suppose you know how to make him do it?"

She shrugged. "Not exactly. Untie me and I'll tell you."

At Jashon's nod, a doctor untied her. She stood up, nursing her wounded arm, and forced a smile. "Now you can pay me ten silver coins."

Jashon laughed, but Tranton eyed her in a calculating manner. He pulled a purse off Jashon's belt and held it out of reach when Jashon turned to him.

"The governor offered that bastard half the city's silver to protect us," Tranton said. "If you find a way to do it, he'll doubtless reward you."

Jashon shot her a scowl. "What if it's a trick? She looks like a beggar to me."

Tranton shook his head. "She knows his name."

He tossed the bag to Talsy, who weighed it and checked the gleam of silver inside, then gave a curt nod.

"Now release him."

Jashon said, "Don't be ridiculous! I told you it was a trick!"

Tranton's eyes narrowed as he studied Talsy. "Why?"

"If you know Mujar," she replied, "you know they can't be made to do anything they don't wish to. But if you heal him and set him free, he'll be grateful. When Mujar are grateful, they usually grant a Wish."

Jashon muttered, "You make him sound like a damned god."

Tranton nodded. "She's right. But he may not."

"That's a risk you'll have to take." She shrugged. "Torturing him is a waste of time. You'll still be doing it when the Black Riders come, and then they'll slice you up." Several doctors paled, and she continued, "He'll survive, but you'll all be dead and your city ashes. You've got one chance, and I advise you to take it. You're lucky Mujar don't hate Truemen."

"After what we did to him, I doubt he'll help us if we set him free, girl," Tranton said. "He's more likely to turn into a bird and fly away."

"He'll help those who help him, but he won't offer help to get it. Until he owes you gratitude, you have no wish."

"That's what he kept saying," Jashon said. "Stupid bastard. No wish! No bloody wish."

Talsy glared at him. "What had you done to deserve it?"

"Why the hell should I have to do anything when he's at my mercy!"

"You can't blackmail a Mujar."

Tranton nodded, and Jashon turned away. "Filthy Mujar trash."

Angry words boiled onto Talsy's tongue, but she bit them back. She had to appear calm and unconcerned. Tranton pushed Jashon aside and ordered the doctors to remove the chains and bring buckets of water. Talsy turned away, unable to stomach the sight of Chanter's horrific injuries. Some students hurried out, while others removed the Mujar's chains.

They fiddled with him, probably stuffing his insides back into the gaping wounds, she thought bitterly. The youths returned and poured water over Chanter, and she turned at his first soft cry. He convulsed, his back arched, his hands curled in an agonised attitude, his face twisted and eyes screwed shut, lips pulled back from bloody teeth. The manifestation of Shissar filled the room with illusory mist and the rushing sound of a waterfall mingled with the crashing of breakers on a beach.

Jashon watched, stony-faced. "Seems we should have done this before. It causes him more pain than torture."

Talsy promised herself that Jashon would pay for the pain he had inflicted on Chanter. She longed to run to the Mujar's side and hold him tight to help him through his ordeal. Her willpower held out until the third dousing, when she could no longer bear his agony. She knelt beside him and wiped the dirt from his pain-racked features with the edge of her shirt, amazed by the miracle of his healing.

His gaping wounds sealed together without a scar, pulled into place as if by invisible hands. His twisted limbs straightened and returned to their normal appearance as his bones knitted, and his bruises vanished. His fingers and toes grew back more slowly. The raw ends sealed and new fingers sprouted, complete with nails. The strangeness of his healing made some of the Truemen pale and turn away.

No Trueman, even if a Mujar healed them, could regrow lost parts. Those whom the sight did not unsettle leant closer to watch the phenomenon, muttering about 'image twisting' and 'world patterning'. Talsy ignored them, a lump blocking in her throat as Chanter's heart began to beat again, a pulse throbbing at his throat. He continued to lie cold and still, however, his eyes glazed. Remembering the Dolana, she pulled him as far as she could onto her lap, surprised by his lightness. He warmed, and she held him while he convulsed.

Chanter's contortions calmed and his features relaxed. He opened his eyes to look up at her. Another bucket of water splashed over them, and he only shivered. Talsy held up a hand to stem the next bucket, and the student stepped back, putting it on a table.

 

Chanter raised his hands and flexed them, examining his new fingers. The skin was still thin and tender, the nails pink and soft, but hardening. Shissar flowed through him softly now, a faint tingle deep within him. The air swelled as he called upon the Powers, and he rejoiced at their return to his command, filling the room with rushing wind and the faint sound of beating wings.

The doctors glanced at each other, and Jashon scowled. Sitting up, Chanter leant on a hand and bowed his head, his wet hair hiding his face. He knew that everyone held their breath except Talsy, who smiled and wiped the hair from his brow. Raising his head, he looked up at the doctors, his gaze flitting from face to face, meeting hard, unrepentant stares. Raising a hand, he held it out, palm up.

"No harm."

Jashon demanded, "What does he mean by that?"

Tranton shot his friend an impatient glance. "He won't harm us."

"We already know that!"

Chanter turned to Talsy with a faint smile. "Gratitude."

"Hey, wait a minute!" Jashon started forward, but Tranton held him back.

"It doesn't matter who he gives the gratitude to," Tranton said. "She's in as much danger as the rest of us."

Talsy gazed into Chanter's eyes, smiled and completed the ritual. "Wish."

He nodded. "Wish."

"Please will you protect the city from the Hashon Jahar?"

Jashon muttered, "Begging from a damned Mujar!"

Chanter cocked his head, and his smile broadened as he studied the girl. His eyes flicked to the doctors, then back to her. "Big Wish."

Jashon started forward again. "Big bloody favour we did you, you damned yellow monkey!"

Tranton pulled him back, the other doctors aiding him.

 

Talsy nodded, her eyes stinging at his gentle nature. A Trueman would have railed at his mistreatment and cursed his erstwhile tormentors for torturing him. A Trueman would also have made good his escape now, she reflected, or used the Powers to punish those who had harmed him and left the rest at the mercy of the Hashon Jahar. Then again, a Trueman would have given in to their demands in order to escape the pain.

She whispered, "Big Wish."

Chanter's eyes slid away, hidden by thick lashes. "Three days."

"You bastard!" Jashon roared, clawing his way towards the Mujar. "You'll protect the city until it's damned well safe!"

Talsy shot Jashon a hard glance before turning back to the Mujar. "For three days you'll protect the city, then you'll be free."

"Yes."

Jashon made inarticulate noises while his peers held him back. Chanter's eyes fell on the angry red wound on her arm, and he frowned. "You're hurt."

She shrugged. "It's just a scratch."

The Mujar rose to his feet, and several doctors stepped back. Tranton watched him with narrowed eyes. Talsy scrambled up and stood beside Chanter, who glanced around at the hostile men, then turned to the table. He dipped his hand into the bucket of water, took hold of her arm and raised it to trickle water onto it. The air filled with mist again, the light twisted in strange underwater visions, and the soft sound of running water mixed with the distant thunder of ocean waves. The manifestation of Shissar vanished, and Talsy looked at her arm, where only a narrow white scar remained.

Jashon started forward again. "Why the hell did he do that? You didn't wish for it!" He glared at her.

Chanter turned his head to gaze at the red-faced doctor with expressionless eyes. "Clan bond."

"Clan..." Jashon spluttered into silence.

Tranton tugged on his arm. "Why don't we go and tell the governor of your great success. I'm sure he'll be delighted."

Jashon allowed Tranton to lead him away, and Talsy looked up at Chanter again. "Thank you."

He smiled. "You kept your promise."

"As did you."

"It was your Wish."

A slither of fear chilled her gut. "Is it fulfilled now?"

Chanter gazed at her, looking puzzled, as if she was a strange creature he did not understand, but something prompted him to try a little longer.

"No. You suffered harm and fled to save yourself. I was merely a distraction. I tried to protect you, and failed. The Wish is not yet fulfilled."

She sighed with relief. "I'm sorry... about what you went through."

He picked up his jacket from the table beside him and shrugged it on. "It's over now. Already the memory dims."

"Do Mujar have such a short memory?"

Chanter bent to pull on his boots, which he had found under the table. "When it comes to unpleasant things, yes."

Talsy took his hand and headed for the door. "Let's leave this awful place."

Several doctors stepped into their path, and one said, "The Mujar can't leave. He'll escape."

Chanter hung back, frowning at them. Clearly he would not allow anyone except Talsy near him now, and she did not blame him. She glared at them.

"He's granted the Wish and he'll fulfil it. Unlike you, he has honour. You think that standing in his way will stop him if he really wants to leave? Get out of the way!"

They parted, and she led Chanter into the street. The doctors followed, and the Mujar eyed them warily. The men served as a barrier between Chanter and the populace, which turned out to be just as well. Soon, pedestrians recognised a Mujar and shouted insults, waving their fists. Some tried to get at Chanter, but the doctors fended off the crowd until guardsmen arrived, drawn by the commotion. Chanter scanned the skyline while Talsy clung to his hand, afraid that he would turn into a bird to escape the threat. He pointed at a roofed wooden platform atop tall a grey stone tower.

"We'll go there."

The doctors explained the situation to the guardsmen, clearly concerned about the Mujar's safety. At their request, the troops formed a cordon around Chanter and Talsy to protect them from the angry mob. A few people threw rotten fruit and dung while the rest shouted insults. Chanter headed for the tower, the soldiers and doctors who surrounded him shooting him hateful looks. Talsy ducked the missiles, and the doctors shielded them from most of it, their robes becoming splattered with dung. They shouted in protest, but the guardsmen could do little to stem the filthy barrage. The gate guard at the base of the tower let them in, and the guardsmen stayed outside to keep the mob at bay.

Talsy followed Chanter up a spiral stairway, her legs aching by the time they reached the top. The tower afforded a panoramic view of the city and the land beyond the walls.

A lookout scowled at them. "What are you doing here?" His eyes narrowed when he spotted Chanter, and he reached for his sword.

Talsy said, "Stop, or you die."

He hesitated, shooting her an angry, puzzled look.

"He's here to protect the city from the Hashon Jahar," she explained, "and people still want to hurt him. He needs to stay up here for his protection, or do you want the Black Riders to destroy this city?"

The mob's shouts confirmed her statement, and he released his sword hilt. "Filthy Mujar."

She glared at him. "Go down and tell the soldiers to send for reinforcements and bring us food and wine."

The scowling lookout opened his mouth as if to protest her high-handed orders, then apparently thought better of it and headed for the staircase, shooting a last glare at Chanter. The Mujar wandered to the edge of the platform and gazed out across the land, his face deadpan.

She went to stand beside him. "Is it three days from now, or from when the Hashon Jahar arrive?"

"Three days of protection is exactly that. Waiting doesn't count."

"How will you do it?"

Chanter smiled. "Wait and see."