Ecko Rising

“Rhan, you cursed bastard, you filthy, faithless sehvrak!” Fury and helplessness. “You owe him your oath, your...”

For a moment, he’d caught a fragment of the nightmare and he froze, staring at it in horror. Valicia, Demisarr’s wife, her shoulders and breasts bared, her hand clawing at his cheek... the hate on her face... No... that was beyond crazed...

Then it was gone, and he was sitting there, hand pressed to drying scabs, to four bloodied weals of loathing.

Valicia? What happened?

Fear was congealing into truth – to be down here, he’d done a lot damned worse than a packet of illegal herbs.

He had to get out...

But he had built this one to be impregnable.

There was a voice outside his cell.

It echoed oddly from the rock, barking instructions in a harsh, merciless snap. It was too far away to hear clearly. Like a ribbon-town beggar, he dragged himself across the floor, placed an ear to a crack between the door planks.

Footsteps – hollow in the tunnel. A long, powerful stride, a billow of fabric, other feet scurrying to keep up.

He pulled back against the far corner of the weed-slick wall and sank into his hands, not needing to feign the despair.

The stern footsteps came close, closer. There was the fumble of a drop-key, the door creaked and the light opened fanlike across the stone. The shadow within it was unmistakeable.

“Rhan.” The word was pure victory, as hard as a fist.

Phylos.

“Merchant Master.” Rhan didn’t bother looking up. His sardonic bass was muted, almost a growl. He was bruised, he’d realised, bones cracked, he could feel them – somewhere, he’d been savagely beaten. “I’ll rip out your lungs and feed them to you.”

The merchant snorted, glowered at whatever had been scuttling behind him, and snapped the door shut. He crouched before Rhan in a crumple of fabric, took Rhan’s chin in a hand decorous with wrought terhnwood-fibre rings.

“How much do you remember,” he said softly, “my Lord Seneschal?”

Screaming. All the way down. Filthy and faithless.

“What did you do to Penya, you bastard?” He looked up, gaze burning from under his brows. He didn’t have enough energy to light a damned candle, but the anger – the anger was helping. He snarled in Phylos’s face, “What did you do?”

Phylos laughed, a boom like an oarsmens’ drum.

“I knew where you’d go – you’re as guileless as a child. And I have her son.” His shoulders gave an amused half shrug. “People are easy to shift, with the right lever.”

Rhan surged into movement, a graceless half lurch.

“I’ll tear off your sk–”

Slam! He was back against the wall, ringed hand hard on his shoulder, Archipelagan strength behind it.

“You’re in no position to be making threats.” The Merchant Master radiated smug savagery: it danced in his voice, flickered across his face. “You’re finished, you bastard, you’ve hobbled this city long enough. Without you, Fhaveon ushers in a new age – an age where our terhnwood will rule everything we are, everything we want and need. I can wipe out the pirates once and for all –”

“By burning the crops?” Pinned by his shoulder, Rhan turned his face into Phylos’s like an angry lover. “You stupid – !”

“I didn’t burn anything, you herb-addled throwback. Believe me or not as you wish – I’m as... curious... about that as you must be.” He grinned like a hunting bweao. “Though I can turn it to my advantage.”

“Oh?” Rhan dared him, taunting. “And how would that be?”

“Love of the Gods!” Phylos spat a laugh straight back, though the pressure of his hand didn’t ease. The rock was cold, and it hurt. “You’ll be facing death for your crimes, Rhan. You may not have a future, but I’m not about to crouch here in the stink and tell you my plans.” Now, he eased the pressure, rested his hand on Rhan’s shoulder, mocking. “You’ll go to your trial, your execution and your grave knowing that you gave this city, her rulers, into my hands. And without you holding me back, I can build Fhaveon to a glory never seen.”

“‘Trial, execution and grave’? You think you can execute me for a packet of illegal herb? Whatever your grand plan may be, Phylos, the Foundersson –”

“The Foundersson is dead, you damned fool.” Phylos inhaled momentarily, as though the next sentence were one to savour. “You killed him.”

What?

The memory was stark, cold and shocking, suddenly ice-water clear.

Screaming. All the way down.

He whispered like a breath of pain, as though he’d been punched in the belly. “Dear Gods...!”

“You’ll be facing trial for the murder of the Lord Foundersson Demisarr Valiembor and the subsequent –” another savour “– rape of his ladywife, Valicia.” Phylos’s expression was sharp, metal cold – as through it hid glee beyond measure. “The Lady has a high heart and much courage – she’ll bring a witness testimony that will end your life.”

Hands. Beating at his chest. The body under him, spasming and furious – biting, fighting, struggling...

The memory made him shudder in shock horror – like a spear had been driven through his body. Samiel! I couldn’t have done this!

As if it was his last, strangled air, he said, “No...”

But he knew it was true. Somehow, in that nightmare, he’d been in the bedchamber of the Foundersson. Had he been begging help, or sanctuary, or for the Lord to show courage against Phylos’s rising power? He had no idea. But he remembered...

The struggling form of the man in his hands. “Rhan, what are you doing? Put me down, I’m not a babe any more!” Shutters shattering as the Lord went through them, the last clutch of his hand on the windowledge. Screaming. The long fall down into the gorge, into the night.

What had he done?

He was shaking, broken, hands quivering like an addict’s. His belly roiled as if he’d throw up. His mind could manage nothing but pointless, empty, looping denial. Nonononono...

I held Demi as a tiny baby. Watched him grow. Swore my life to his defence. Stood with him as he married his wife...

...his wife! The white-flare release of an orgasm stolen.

“Get up, Rhan Elensiel.” Phylos rammed his shoulder again against the rock. Shards of pain shot through his bruised spine. The Merchant glanced back as something blocked the light chinks, moved away. “Get up, and face your own execution. Like a man. If that’s what you are.”

Rhan stared, lost in disbelief. Impossibility raged at him, a towering mockery that clamoured on all sides – how had Fhaveon been this undermined, this quickly? How long had Phylos and the Institute been laying groundwork? And how in the names of the Gods had he not noticed?

Samiel’s teeth – had he been asleep?

But he could answer that himself. No, just bored. Inattentive. Drinking, smoking, entertaining his friends and varied personages of exotic tastes...

Like herbalist Penya Esamy.

He wanted to rail at himself for being such a fool – but that time was past. The initial shock, the horror, was solidifying, now sending after-echoes through his thoughts – without Demisarr, his daughter Selana would lead the