? ? ?
From the high quality of its tack and comfortable saddle she divined the horse had been captured from a fallen Dragoon officer. It was a dappled-grey stallion several hands taller at the shoulder than her cart-horse and considerably faster. Nevertheless it took her two days to find the main Selvurin camp. She started at the scene of their most recent attack, a raid on a supply caravan that left all the drovers headless and their wagons burnt or empty. She followed the tracks for several miles until they disappeared into dense woodland some ten miles west of the Corvus Road. The clansmen were evidently skilled in concealing their tracks, which made finding them a tortuous business.
Lizanne rode west at a steady pace, stopping at regular intervals to inject Green which allowed her enhanced hearing to catch the distant sound of voices through the trees. She found a number of smaller encampments but steered clear of them, pushing on until the whisper of voices revealed by the Green grew to a steady murmur. As Lizanne drew closer her nose proved more useful than her ears thanks to the rising scent of dung, both horse and human. When it grew into a stench she dismounted and climbed the tallest tree she could find, thin tendrils of rising smoke soon revealing the whereabouts of the clansmen’s den.
Lizanne checked her timepiece and settled herself as comfortably as she could into the tree’s branches, watching the camp below. In total she estimated this clan to number close to three thousand individuals. They had concealed themselves in a broad clearing deep in the forest. Conical shelters of animal hide clustered around camp-fires as riders came and went. She could also see women at work about the camp and, running between the shelters, a large number of children at play. The Selvurin, it seemed, took their families with them when they went to war. In a circle in the centre of the camp were a number of wooden stakes arranged into a circle, each topped with a round object. Lizanne didn’t need to enhance her vision to know what those objects were.
Savages, she thought, as she watched the infants play among the impaled heads. Savages with children.
At the allotted hour she injected a short burst of Blue and slipped into the trance. I see you’ve been busy, she observed to Hyran, taking note of his refashioned mindscape. The swirling carnal mélange had been replaced with what appeared to be the interior of a shop. A tall bank of small drawers rose behind the gleaming oak counter and the words Robian and Sons Fine Spices were painted in mirrored Eutherian on the window. From what she could see of the exterior the shop was situated in the main commercial district of the capital and the street outside busy with people, though they were indistinct, ghostlike wisps.
My grandfather’s shop, Hyran explained, one of the many drawers opening and the face of an old man rising from the powdery contents. It was a kindly face, but also very sad. He took me in when Ma and Pa were killed. Did his best by me but the Cadre always watching the place didn’t do much for custom. When he died the bailiffs took it all.
I’m sorry, she said. It seems a . . . pleasant place.
Smell’s what I remember most. All those different spices mixed together. Haven’t managed to make it yet.
Memory requires context to be truly vivid. Think about the first time you came here, that’s when your mind formed the dominant impression of this place.
The shop shimmered around her as Hyran concentrated, the drawers opening to form more powdery images; the kindly old man, this time sinking to his haunches to offer a sweet to a skinny boy. The shimmer stopped and the images faded, leaving behind an aroma that brought a tingle to the nostrils whilst also conveying a sense of comfort.
Yes, Hyran thought. That’s it. Thank you, miss.
My pleasure. She summoned a memory of her own: the Selvurin camp and a mental sketch of its location in relation to the army, along with the position of the outlying smaller camps. Tell the general he’ll need to move quickly.
I will. He asked that you remain in place, to guide the rockets. The Tinkerer should have his devices in a firing position by nightfall.
The rockets . . . She stilled her whirlwinds as they took on a ragged, distressed appearance. Very well, she told Hyran.
Are you alright, miss? he asked, meaning his perceptive powers in the trance had improved more than she liked.
Quite alright, thank you. Please assure the general of my willing co-operation.
She blinked in the sunlight as the trance faded, her vision soon clearing to reveal the Selvurin camp. The children were still playing amongst the small forest of impaled heads, laughing as children do.
“Oh bother!” she grunted and began to climb her way down from the tree.
? ? ?
She reined in on the edge of the clearing and waited. Selvurin pickets were not long in detecting her presence, the nearest coming on at full gallop with his sabre drawn only seconds after she appeared. Lizanne let the clansman get within ten feet before blasting him from the saddle with a surge of Black. He connected with the ground in an untidy tumble, Lizanne hearing the crack of at least one broken bone before he came to a halt. His five comrades, who moments before had also been charging towards her at full pelt, dragged their mounts to a swift halt. After exchanging a few shouts of puzzled alarm they began to draw rifles of antique appearance from the leather sheaths on their saddles.
“Don’t!” Lizanne shouted in her perfect Selvurin. “Unless you wish a coward’s death!”
The sound of their own language, spoken by a Blood-blessed no less, sufficed to give them pause. Her study of the northern empire had been limited mostly to linguistics but she did possess a rudimentary knowledge of clan customs and traditions, one of which included a lingering attachment to superstitious notions regarding the Blessing.
“If this rabble has a leader!” she went on. “Bring him forth or let him be forever known as Piss-britches!” She wasn’t entirely sure she had phrased this insult correctly. However, it seemed to carry sufficient gravity for her would-be assailants to respond with the expected glowers, though they made no further move to attack her. One of them growled something to another, who turned his mount around and galloped towards the camp. Lizanne turned her back on the remaining clansmen and waited. She knew them to be an intensely status-conscious people and one so exalted as her did not acknowledge an inferior unless necessity required it.