Fallen by Tim Lebbon Page A

now Nomi had a big task for them. She told the woman that she was leaving on a journey, and that her home should be maintained in its current state—aired frequently, plants tended, floors cleaned, shields and other metalwork polished. She gave the woman a series of promise tokens which she could exchange for pieces each month, and the old lady smiled and nodded her assent.
    Her home and belongings taken care of, Nomi left to tell her friends. Some of them she visited at their homes, and over a glass of root wine she told them that she was leaving on a special voyage about which she could reveal nothing. None of them mentioned the Guild. Several other friends she met in the First Heart Wine Rooms. By mid-afternoon they were already merry from several bottles, yet Nomi found herself growing curiously distant. Almost as if we're already halfway there.
    Afterward, she walked down to the river and stood on its shores, staring across at the distant opposite bank and thinking of the Guild buildings huddled there. That made her feel good. Nobody was telling her what to do. This was her and Ramus, and though sometimes he enraged her, confused her and intimidated her with his vast knowledge, she was glad they were doing this together.
    She spent that last night in her rooms, and they no longer felt like home.
     
    RAMUS HAD SLEPT well, and no nightmares welcomed in the dawn. He hoped that was a good sign. He'd spent the previous evening packing and preparing his voyaging paraphernalia, so when he woke an hour before sunrise, he only had to dress and leave. He locked the door and pocketed the key.
    He had a very real sense that he would not be returning. No nightmares last night, true, but he could still feel the weight of the sickness in his head. Recently, whole days would pass when he forgot that he was ill, and then the brain disease would cut in with a shadow on the sun, a vision behind his eyelids or pure pain, and he would be dragged back to reality with a blink. Chasing myself, he thought. Chasing my own mortality.
    He bought breakfast from an early street vendor and ate while he was walking. His bags were heavy, containing several books, his clothing and weapons and a roll of maps, including the new one he had made yesterday. But he felt fit and ready, and he enjoyed breaking a sweat as he climbed the hill and headed south.
    Dawn painted the horizon to the east, but shadows still ruled the streets, though most were shrinking back to wait out the day. Once or twice he heard a whisper as he passed, and he looked down at his feet, not wishing to attract attention. At one point, passing through a narrow path between high buildings, several shapes darted across the alley before him. He paused, then drew a knife and carried on. Not people, he thought. He heard no footsteps, no breathing. Wraiths.
    By all the gods true and false, let me live to the end of this voyage, he thought.
    He marched up the steep hill south of Long Marrakash, and when he stood on its summit he turned back and looked down at the city. It was coming to life now, the sun having broken the horizon and sent random shadows to ground. The streets became busier, noise rose to defeat the relative silence of night and in the distance he could see the river glimmering through veils of mist.
    He turned his back on the city with no regrets.
     
    PANCET’S STABLES WERE nestled at the foot of the hill leading out of Long Marrakash. The lower hillside was taken up with paddocks and grazing fields, while the stables themselves were a series of eight long, parallel timber buildings running north to south. The horses spent much of their days out in the fields, and most night they were brought into the stables for safety. There were things on the plains to the south that would eat them given a chance, and thieves worked the city's outskirts.
    Beside the stables were several buildings made from logs, reeds and mud, and smoke rose cheerfully from a couple of chimneys. From the