* * *
He thought of himself as Ragman now. A knotted bundle of used up bits and pieces whose original cut had long since been lost. Walking the seeming endless plains of ash and fields of broken rock that was the Imperial Warren the man stopped suddenly, examined the tattered remains of his once fine clothes and nodded, satisfied. Yes, inside and out; so it should be. Allowing himself to fall forward he twisted the move into a series of cartwheels and spinning high kicks. Tatterdemalion, he named himself as he ran through his impromptu pattern. Harlequin. Clown. He froze, crouched, arms outstretched. No – he must not lose hold of the one thread that could lead him back. Though they were coming far less often now; perhaps they'd learned their lesson.
Movement above in the unchanging lead sky drove him to cover behind a large boulder. Dark shapes moving across the sky, far off, ponderously huge. So, not just wild reports and stories from sources of… questionable … veracity. Telling himself they were too distant and that he was no doubt too insignificant, he stood and set off at a jog, following.
The ground steadily broke into shallow gullies and high buttes surrounded by erosional slopes and gravel fans. Skittering down one such slope he stopped just short of a jutting spine of basalt. His Warren-sensitivity told him someone was near, hiding, watchful. After catching his breath he called, ‘You can come out.’
A figure detatched itself from the shadows of one jagged black spire. It climbed down, lithe and quick. Ragman caught his breath – one of them yet not. Different by her style. Much more colourful, individual. Similar, yet not regimented in her moves. She stopped before him, a safe distance off. Dark eyes regarded him through a slit between veil and headscarf. ‘And you are?’ she asked.
‘Impressed.’
A glance toward the spires. ‘They are that. Like a peek?’
‘Very much so.’
‘After you.’
He gave a courtier's bow and climbed the spine to a gap between spires. Beyond, across a plain of twisting gullies and dunes five titanic geometric shapes hovered. Beneath them the winds blew constantly, billowing outwards in dust clouds that reached high overhead. What were they up to? Could anyone guess? He climbed back down.
The woman joined him. ‘An invasion, you think?’
‘Or the landlords come to fumigate.’
The dark eyes widened. ‘What do you mean?’
‘I mean that one must abandon one's self-centred blinders. Not everything relates back to us.’
The woman stepped away, eased into a ready stance. ‘Who are you?’
‘A lost fragment of bureaucratic oversight.’
More questions obviously occurred to the woman but she clamped down on them. ‘Well, as intriguing as all this is …’
‘You must report it.’
She nodded. He bowed his agreement, but instead of straightening he rolled forward, sweeping. The woman cartwheeled aside. They stood, facing one another, he astonished, she calculating in her narrowed glance. He did not bother to hide his delight. ‘Wonderfully done! It has been a long time since I've seen his style.’
The woman – girl, he corrected himself – gave an elegant bow. ‘You recognize it! My father taught me. And you not ought to have revealed your familiarity …
‘It will not matter … shortly.’
She bowed again. ‘Apologies. Must be off.’ Shadows threaded up from the dirt to spin about her like a whirlwind. His surprise lasted only an instant; he thrust out both arms and lances of darkness struck the girl throwing her backwards. She lay gasping for air, her ribs shattered, lungs punctured.
He crossed to stand over her.
Still conscious she stared up, her gaze accusing. ‘Kurald Galain!’ she gasped.
He knelt on his haunches next to her. ‘I am sorry.’
‘You! But we thought you … you were no …’
‘Yes. I know. I am so very sorry. More sorry because I would not have sent someone like you. For, as you see, I've come myself.’ He rested a hand on her shoulder. Unconscious. Still, her heart beat. There was yet a chance …
He gestured and a pool of utter darkness emerged from beneath the girl like liquid night. She sank into it, disappearing as if into a well of ink. A small enough gesture … but he felt that he owed her at least that. A pity that it is always the best who are sent.
He should've anticipated that.