The Master

by Louise Cooper

  He had anticipated a warm welcome in ShuNhadek, but was nonetheless astonished by the level of relief and joy that greeted them. Sympathy for the Margrave was running at fever pitch in the wake of his son’s murder, and his arrival in the company of the High Initiate fuelled the fires almost to the point of adulation. They made as rapid progress as they could through the town without giving offence to the hundreds who had turned out to greet them, but Keridil could only begin to relax when at last the gates of the Margrave’s residence closed behind them and the noise of the crowd fell away into the undisturbed quiet of the formal grounds.

  Gant reined in his horse, trying not to drop an elaborate flower-garland thrust into his hand by a well-wisher, and stared at the gracious house at the far end of its long drive. Turning in his saddle, Keridil could see the sudden acute pain in the Margrave’s eyes and imagined what he must be thinking. For as long as Gant lived, this place would hold bitter memories.

  ‘Come, Margrave,’ he said, speaking gently but firmly. ‘It has to be faced sometime. Best to get it over with.’

  Gant glanced at him, then his lips quirked in an ironical smile. ‘Ghosts take a long time to die, High Initiate,’

  he said, and urged his horse onward.

  ‘I can’t describe how thankful I am that I no longer have to be beholden to the Sisterhood!’ Sashka stretched like a cat and shook out her long auburn hair so that it rippled like water over her shoulders and back. The Sun, arching low through the tall window of Keridil’s room, seemed to set the tresses on fire.

  Despite his bleak mood, Keridil smiled. ‘You should honour the Lady Matriarch, love. Wasn’t that the first lesson you learned as a Novice?’

  She turned from the window and regarded him with narrowed eyes. ‘She’s senile, and you know it. Fusses and tantrums; she’s worse than Lady Kael at West High Land, and I’d have found that hard to believe before today! And as for that appalling woman from the senior Shu Cot - what’s her name?’

  ‘Lady Silve Bradow.’

  ‘Yes, her. Lisping and stammering like a terrified child, and she doesn’t know whether it’s night or day, she’s so inept… ah,’ Sashka shuddered with exquisite emphasis and Keridil laughed, then hastily quelled it.

  Sashka’s irreverence was a tonic, lifting the sense of burden that had sat more and more heavily on him as they approached their journey’s end, and he realised afresh how thankful he was to have her at his side now. Downstairs in the Margrave’s drawing room, as the three rulers exchanged stultified greetings, she had been the perfect foil to his official role; kissing the Matriarch’s imperiously extended hand, bowing in the manner of the Sisters to the High Margrave, accepting their good wishes on her betrothal with a sobriety that matched the occasion. Only now, alone with Keridil, did she allow her true feelings to show, and he envied her ability to be so mercurial. He was still touched - tainted might be a better word - with the stilted dourness that had attended the first brief meeting. Far worse, he knew, was to come, and Sashka’s levity provided a welcome relief.

  He said: ‘Well, we must suffer them all again when we dine tonight.’

  ‘I know. And I’ll be a model consort, Keridil.’ She moved across to the bed where he was unpacking - he had sent away the servants Gant had despatched to help him, wanting to be alone with her for a while - and slipped her arms round his neck, stopping him in his tracks. ‘I hope I shall always be that.’

  ‘You know you will.’ Her lips tasted faintly of the perfume essence she used because she knew it pleased him. ‘And when this is over, you will really be my consort - in name as well as in body and spirit.’

  ‘When it’s over … ‘ she repeated the words slowly, thoughtfully. ‘Poor Keridil. This is a burden, isn’t it, that you’d rather not have to bear? But it won’t be long now; it can’t be long. Once the Conclave has decided - ‘

  He interrupted her, but gently. ‘I don’t want to dwell on that, love; especially not now. The moment’s so close that I’d prefer to forget it until I have to remember.’ The White Barque would come when the Guardians judged the moment to be right; they had their own ways of knowing. And when it appeared out of the southerly mist, a horn would be sounded in ShuNhadek and a rider would gallop pell-mell to the Margravate with the news … he shivered, pushing the thought away. Time enough for that later … there was more than an hour before they would all be summoned to dine and the ordeal of protocol must start all over again.

  He kissed Sashka once more, this time letting his lips linger on hers as his sense of urgency eased a little, and murmured, ‘Do you need time to change your gown for the evening?’

  Her fingers tangled in his hair. ‘No.’

  ‘Good.’ He released her, rose. ‘Then let me lock the door for a little while … ‘

  *****

  Midnight had long passed, and the harbour was deserted and silent as Keridil emerged from a dark, narrow alley on to the jumble of piers and jetties.

  He’d been unable to sleep, despite Sashka’s warm presence at his side - the evening’s formal dinner had only served to increase his awareness of the ordeal that lay ahead, and he had tossed and turned in the unfamiliar bed, racked by thoughts and worries dredged up by his subconscious that held him in a distressing limbo between wakefulness and rest. At last, knowing he couldn’t cope with the feverish, formless torment any longer, he had risen and dressed in his stained travelling clothes before slipping out of the darkened house and walking down to the town. Sea air, he hoped, would clear his brain; and the walk would help to relax his muscles.

  Sashka slept on, and although at first he thought he might wake her and ask her to come with him, Keridil decided against it. He felt an overwhelming need to be alone for a while; and even Sashka’s company would strike a wrong note. Though the incident was small and insignificant, he still recalled the avid hunger - there was no better word - with which she had followed his efforts to track down Tarod and bring him to justice. Her hatred was so strong that Keridil found it hard to believe that her feelings stemmed simply from loyalty to himself and loathing of Chaos. Granted, it was natural that she should feel the taint of her own previous involvement with Tarod; but her reaction had been far stronger than seemed justified; almost as if the old attachments still lingered, though in a twisted form. And though he tried to rationalise, Keridil couldn’t help but feel a twinge of jealous suspicion. It was intuitive, no more; but he couldn’t erase it and it stirred up a terrible cauldron of doubt and guilt and uncertainty. Just for a while he needed to be free of those ghosts and solitude was his only escape.

  His ingrained sense of duty had, nonetheless, constrained him to inform one of the Margrave’s tireless servants that he would be out for a while. That done, and his conscience salved, he had made his way through the quiet streets of ShuNhadek, thankful to encounter no one on the way who might recognise and detain him.

  Now, sitting on one of the great stone capstans to which docking ships were tied, he looked out at the slowly swelling sea where wavelets reflected a pattern of light from the first rising Moon, and tried to find something of the sense of peace that the scene should have imparted to him.

  The fact that he still had doubts about the task ahead troubled Keridil more than any other facet of this whole unhappy affair. As the Castle party travelled South from the Star Peninsula, he had been appalled by some of the scenes he had witnessed in towns and villages along the way - he hadn’t imagined that his decree would light such fires in the minds of the populace, and those fires were now burning out of control. So much hatred and suspicion, simmering under the surface of every community and only waiting for a spark to set it blazing …

  surely the long centuries under the rule of Order should have eradicated such barbarism?

  He was able of course, as High Initiate, to override the judgements of prejudiced or frightened town Elders and bring some semblance of sanity to the witch-hunts, and as they travelled South he had done what he could, where he could. But it wasn’t enough. For
every false accusation, every mockery of a trial in which he had intervened, ten or twenty more were taking place over which he had no jurisdiction. What he had seen had made Keridil all the more determined to complete the task ahead of him, and swiftly - but it had also sowed the seeds of a doubt that nagged at the back of his mind and wouldn’t let him alone.

  He had unleashed, though unwittingly, a wave of fear that had exploded out of all proportion; and he was about to take a further step that could - could, he reminded himself - escalate the terror that held the land in its grip utterly beyond the realms of human imagination. To call the gods themselves back to the world …

  did he run too far, too fast? Fasting, prayer and contemplation had convinced him he was right; but he still couldn’t be sure enough to face the next few days with a clear conscience.

  It would have been so much easier if he hadn’t made the one fatal mistake of underestimating Tarod. One lesson should have been enough - he’d witnessed at first hand the power his adversary could command, and when he and the girl who abetted him had been captured, Keridil should have refused to bow to the demands of tradition and accepted ritual, and executed them both before anyone could argue. Now, in the wake of the turmoil that had spread through the world like a plague, Chaos must be satisfied with the victory it had claimed over its ancient enemy …

  The thought brought a sudden and unexpected resurgence of the anger which had sustained Keridil through his darkest hours of doubt and dilemma. It washed over him like a cold, clean breath of air - anger against Tarod and all he stood for, against the blindness of the girl who, infatuated by the gods alone knew what manner of madness, had pledged herself to the powers of dark and evil; anger, even, against the cloud that Sashka’s past relationship with Tarod had cast over his love for her. If that demon had been apprehended, there would have been no need for this …

  He rose from his makeshift seat and paced moodily along the dock. From a black-mouthed alley came faint sounds of revelry; some diehard carousers in one of the taverns that littered the harbour area, intent on making up for the anticlimax that all felt in the wake of the triumvirate’s arrival. Keridil was tempted to join them; in his present mood, the effects of a night’s drinking would be a blessing after the Margrave’s abstemious table, and only the fear that he might be recognised held him back. Instead, he paused in the shadows near the entrance, listening to the noise. The tavern wasn’t a savoury place; unsteady light spilling through the door and the grimy windows showed a crude sign worn with age and never repainted, and the smells wafting out into the alley weren’t altogether pleasant; but all the same the obvious good humour of its customers made Keridil feel faintly wistful. A sharp, salt-laden gust of wind blew along the alley and he hunched into his coat, turning and pacing moodily back towards the harbour. Far from soothing his mind, this solitary meandering had only served to stir up the uneasy thoughts that he’d been trying to forget. Still, the peace of the night was a relief after the atmosphere in the Margrave’s house … he’d walk for a little longer before turning back.

  As he approached the end of the alley, beyond which the sea gleamed faintly under the strengthening Moon, Keridil started as a shadow moved suddenly out of the deeper darkness ahead. It hesitated, silhouetted against the sluggish tide, and he realised that it was nothing more untoward than a woman crossing the jetty - doubtless one of the whores who haunted the dockside to ply their trade.

  And yet … an instinct made Keridil freeze into the darkness, staring more intently at the indistinct figure.

  Something about the way the woman turned her head stirred memory and with it recognition; and he thought he’d glimpsed pale hair as the Moonlight caught it …

  Telling himself he was imagining things, the coincidence far too great, he nevertheless started towards the jetty, keeping well hidden in the alley’s overhanging shadow. The woman moved abruptly, crossing the rectangle of light and vanishing, but she hadn’t seen him; she was simply walking on. Keridil quickened his pace - the noise from the tavern covered his light footsteps - and, reaching the alley’s mouth, peered cautiously out.

  The woman was a mere fifteen or twenty yards away, and the Moonlight reflecting from the sea like silver on lead showed her small, slight figure in stark relief. She was climbing carefully down a slippery flight of steps that led from the jetty to where several small boats - dinghies, a wherry or two - bumped sullenly at their moorings against the wall, and though she had changed the dress in which he’d last seen her for a rough shirt and trousers, and there were peculiar streaks of auburn in her white-blonde hair, the High Initiate recognised her instantly.

  ‘Cyllan Anassan …’ His lips formed the name silently and with venomous astonishment. It seemed an impossible stroke of fortune that she should be here in ShuNhadek, but he couldn’t deny the evidence of his eyes. And, since the bloody affray in Prospect Town, it was a certainty that wherever Cyllan was, Tarod wouldn’t be far away.

  Keridil bit his lower lip, still watching her. She seemed to be going from one boat to the next, struggling with the wet knots of their painters, and it was obvious she meant to steal a craft for her own use. Well and good … it would take her a while to find what she wanted and free it, and in that time he could summon the help he’d need to capture her. To attempt to take her unaided would be foolish in the extreme; there were too many bolt-holes in and around the harbour, and if she once evaded him she’d be away for good. But if he went for help, there’d be no time for lengthy explanations and questions …

  and as he gazed at the harbour he saw the solution to his problem. A fishing boat, riding at anchor just beyond the flotilla of smaller vessels … and from here he could just make out the name painted on her bows. The Blue Dancer …

  Keridil eased back into the alley, then ran to where light and noise were still spilling from the tavern. He shouldered the door open and looked through the haze of smoke and fumes at the crowded bar. Mostly seagoing men, by the looks of them - which was precisely what he wanted.

  He raised his voice above the throb of noise and shouted, ‘Can anyone tell me where to find the owner of the Blue Dancer?’

  The babble slackened off immediately and the drinkers turned to stare at the stranger with the outland accent who had interrupted their revels. After a few seconds, a swarthy, middle-aged man with a wall eye rose from a corner table.

  ‘I own the Dancer, friend. What of it?’

  Keridil pushed through the crowd towards him, relying on his height and build to prevent any retaliation from the indignant drinkers in his path. ‘Then you’d best get to the harbour,’ he said. ‘There’s some wharf-brat down there trying to steal her!’

  ‘What?’ The swarthy man slammed his tankard down with a resounding crash, and Keridil saw with relief that he wasn’t as drunk as he looked. He swung an arm, pointing to three of his companions in turn. ‘You, you, and you! Come on; don’t just sit gawking!’

  The three scrambled from their places and headed for the door with the wall-eyed sailor at their head, and Keridil followed. The simple stratagem had worked - now, he must just see to it that the four seamen didn’t break their quarry’s neck before he could take charge of her.

  Cyllan’s fingers were raw from the brine-soaked rope as she struggled with the complex knot that secured the dinghy to its mooring ring. It was the fifth craft she’d tried, and the only one whose owner had been foolish enough to leave a set of oars stowed under the plank seats, but the knot was proving far more stubborn than she’d anticipated.

  She wished she’d brought a knife, but wishing was of no use to her now. Somehow, she had to free this painter and get away with the stolen boat before anyone discovered her - or before Tarod woke and found her gone.

  She’d said nothing to him of the plan which had been formulating in her mind all evening, knowing that if he found out he’d prevent her from going. Instead, she had forced herself to stay awake until at last she could be certain he was sleeping, then had changed quietly in
to her old clothes and slipped out of the inn by the servants’

  way.

  He’d be angry with her when he found out what she’d done, but his anger would stem only from concern for her safety - and it wouldn’t last when he learned what she had achieved. Once she succeeded in freeing this irksome knot, she’d take the dinghy out of harbour and then row along the coast to some empty cove well away from ShuNhadek. Then, tomorrow, they could return to it at their leisure and set out for the White Isle with no one the wiser.

  Her fingers slipped suddenly and she swore aloud as the rope grazed her hand. It was coming, slowly but surely … another effort was all it would need -

  The quiet was broken by yelling and the stamp of feet, and Cyllan jumped with shock, almost losing her footing on the slimy steps. Regaining her balance, she peered over the jetty wall in time to see several men come running out of an alley and head straight towards her, and, appalled, she tried to duck down again - but she was too late.

  ‘There!’ A hoarse bellow echoed across the harbour.

  ‘There he is!’ The feet pounded more loudly and Cyllan looked wildly around for a way of escape. Short of jumping into the harbour, there was nothing, unless -

  ‘I’ll break his head!’ one voice bawled above the others, ‘Steal my boat, would he - I’ll flay the flea-bitten cur alive!’

  Silhouettes lurched into view above her, and the men surged towards the steps. Cyllan had less than a second to judge the distance between herself and the nearest boat before, panic-stricken, she jumped. She landed on the nearer gunwale of a dinghy which rocked wildly, almost pitching her into the black water, and, trusting to nothing but luck, leaped to the far gunwale and launched herself across the awful gulf to the next craft.