Angel of Storms (Millennium's Rule, #2)(110)
“No. Perhaps instead a fear of those stronger than him.”
The Raen.
“And yourself.”
He was nearing the midpoint between worlds. Where to go next? Enough time had passed now that all of the rebel groups should have received the message to leave. He should make his way to the meeting place, where the other generals would be waiting for him.
So he followed the ally’s path, peeling away just before reaching the next world. When he did enter it, he slowed and stretched his senses in the hope of noticing any allies waiting to ambush arrivals. None emerged from the whiteness, and as soon as he had caught his breath he pushed on to the next world.
Into the space between, out into a world, breathe. It had been impossible to know if it was better for the rebels to flee to somewhere close by, to minimise the amount of travelling between worlds, or far away so rebels had a chance of outrunning pursuers. Volk had reasoned that it was unlikely anyone could outrun an ally, who did not have to stop to breathe. Better to devise methods to confuse the trail.
The first ploy was for the groups to split into smaller ones, so the allies had too many trails to follow. The second was to use methods of transport within worlds that did not involve magic to place some distance between arrival and departure locations. The third was to disappear for a while in a crowded location somewhere, preferably where the rebels’ other-worldliness would not attract notice–such as a market or temple.
It was in these places, within the six closest worlds, that instructions would be left leading rebels to their new base. Only the generals would gather in the interim, and a series of clues to their meeting place had been set up by Reke, a volunteer close to dying of an incurable disease. If they discovered she had failed to complete the task, or that the plan was otherwise compromised, the generals had agreed that they would go to the Worweau Market and hope to evade the allies long enough to find each other.
Reke had left five clues to the trail, and by the time Tyen had worked his way to where the final one ought to be he estimated two full days had passed. He’d managed a few fitful hours of sleep and two small meals. One of the straps of his pack had broken on the second day, so he was fighting weariness, hunger and impatience as he approached the building with the red painted domed roof described in the last clue.
To his surprise and dismay it was a bath-house. A familiar surge of panic flashed through him. If he was expected to publicly undress how would he keep Vella concealed? Even if he achieved that, someone might seize an opportunity to go through or steal his belongings–though Beetle would deter all but the most determined thief.
He paused across the road, pretending to inspect the broken pack strap while he searched the minds inside. It took a while to find Volk, Hapre and Frell, their thoughts quiet compared to the many customers having a distractingly pleasant visit. The generals and a small number of assistants had gathered in a small, damp room along with one of the rebel groups. The latter should not be there. Tyen looked closer, hoping to discover why they were, but they were all caught up in listening to one of Volk’s raunchy folk tales. Though frustrating for Tyen, the ploy also kept their minds occupied with something other than rebel matters.
After searching the thoughts of the rest of the customers and the people around the bath-house to be sure no allies were nearby, Tyen slung the pack over one shoulder, walked across the road and entered the building. A code name took him straight to the rebels. He entered a room suddenly charged with emotion.
“You made it!” Hapre exclaimed, hurrying over quickly to embrace him. Volk and Frell exchanged a glance of mutual relief as they rose and followed. Tyen caught a memory swiftly suppressed. Hapre had muttered something earlier about what they’d do if they had to replace Tyen as leader, and they felt guilty for discussing it, and for agreeing with her choice of replacement.
With whom? he wondered.
“Any difficulties?” Volk asked.
“No. Just a…” Tyen began, but as Hapre glanced at Baluka she couldn’t help wondering how differently things would go next, if Baluka had become their new leader. A chill went through him. “Why are they here?”
“Baluka detected an ally pursuing this group,” she said. “He left us and went after him.”
One of the young men, overhearing Baluka’s name, slapped Baluka on the back. “He killed the bastard and saved us. Lucky for him he was stronger.”
The Traveller looked at the floor and shrugged. “I couldn’t just do nothing.”
Tyen nodded, hoping none of them could see his dismay. “It was a risk. A brave move.”
Baluka looked up and met Tyen’s eyes. “No more than what everyone else has done, including yourself.”
No, you did more, Tyen thought. You killed. Not as part of a group, sharing the responsibility, but alone. Entirely by your hands. Tyen’s certainty that he had made the wrong decision letting Resca go was like a heavy weight between his shoulders. He sought some sign that Baluka’s decision had shocked and changed him. All he saw was the man’s pride. He wasn’t sure who he felt more disgust for, the Traveller or himself.
And yet as Tyen continued to regard Baluka, the pride faltered and glimpses of a struggle surfaced. Doubt warred with determination, horror and acceptance rose in turns. Tyen’s mood shifted to sympathy so suddenly he swayed a little, and had to look away.
“Well, then,” he said, dragging his attention back to the present, and future. “We had best discuss where to go next. Is there somewhere we”–he looked at the other generals–“can talk in private?”