In the shade of a nearby tree stood four open carriages, their glossy black cabs resting on dragon-bone springs. Four men, evidently their drivers, played dice on a stone bench nearby. As soon as they saw Briana, one of them abandoned his game and hurried over.
‘Guild Palace, ma’am?’ He opened the door, unfolded a set of steps from the undercarriage and then waited until the two women had taken their seats. Then he grabbed the horses’ reins and took his own position in the front of the carriage.
Tackle clinking, they set off at a leisurely clop, down the shady side of the ridge. Here Port Awl’s houses overlooked the farmland to the north and the shining mountain peaks. The streets were cooler and rang with the sound of blacksmiths and gunsmiths at work. Ianthe peered through doorways to see coal-blackened muscles and forges and anvils, racks of carbine rifles and hand-cannons.
Late morning found the carriage clattering across a stone bridge over the River Irya, which Briana explained was merely an ancient word for water. Farmsteads dotted the landscape on either side of the waters. Sparrows darted among hedgerows of rosehip and stowberries. Sheep and cattle grazed in green pastures, raising their heads to watch the travellers pass.
‘What breed are those?’ Ianthe asked, pointing to a herd of black cows.
Briana snorted. ‘How should I know? I’m not a farmer.’
Ianthe asked nothing more about her surroundings, but she continued to drink it all in: the fields of barley and whittle-grass, the furrowed black earth bursting with every type of produce, the quince, plum and apple orchards, the clumps of gnarled old oak and elm. In one field men and women in wide-brimmed straw hats loaded golden hayricks onto a cart. Fishermen sat on the banks of the Irya. Bees buzzed across meadow-flowers. This land was a hundred times richer than Evensraum. She wanted to get out of the carriage and take off her boots and splash through the rushing river, but that would not have been seemly.
They stopped to water the horses at a roadside tavern. Ianthe stretched her legs in the field behind the stables, returning to the carriage to find that Briana had bought a basket of bread, cheese, apples and a bottle of honey-coloured wine. They ate their lunch and drank wine from clay cups by the side of the road with the sun on their faces and the sound of birdsong in the surrounding hedgerows.
‘Do you have other girls from Evensraum?’ she asked the witch.
‘We had a girl from Whiterock Bay,’ Briana replied. ‘A frightful peasant. That would have been back in thirty-nine.’
‘Is she a Guild psychic now?’
‘Didn’t complete the training.’
‘Why not?’
Briana shook her head. ‘I don’t recall.’
‘So where is she now?’
Briana stuffed the remains of their lunch into the basket. ‘Why do you ask so many pointless questions?’ she said. ‘Come on, I want to get there before dark. There are wolves in those hills, you know.’
‘We had wolves in—’
‘In Evensraum, yes. Really, Ianthe, you have to stop wittering on about that muddy little island.’
Ianthe hung her head. ‘I’m sorry.’
Briana laid a hand on her shoulder. ‘It’s not your fault, dear. As the Haurstaf like to say: It takes time for the dirt to fall from one’s boots.’ She smiled. ‘I only have to look back four or five generations to find parts of my family that came from relatively humble stock.’
‘They were farmers, too?’
‘Tax collectors.’
Late in the afternoon the road began to climb into the Irillian foothills. It wound its way up through forests of thousand-year-old oaks, their great boughs forming cathedral-like spaces in the green gloom and their roots smothered by leafy hummocks. Mossy stones marked the trail, and here and there shafts of light picked out the tumbledown remains of cottages set back from the trail. Birds whistled and insects buzzed, and once Ianthe thought she heard the rustle of a larger animal moving through the undergrowth. A deer perhaps? She noticed that the carriage driver had a pistol on his lap, but the horses seemed calm enough, so she didn’t mention it.
Shortly afterwards, they encountered their first checkpoint. Two soldiers in blue uniforms manned a barrier beside the road. A section of forest had been cut back, leaving a wide perimeter around a central concrete bunker. Spirals of razor-wire encircled the encampment. Smoke rose from one corner where six more men sat around an open fire. Each of them carried a carbine rifle slung over his shoulder. One of the two barrier guards raised a hand to stop the carriage but then waved them on when he spotted Briana.
‘All quiet, Captain?’ the witch asked.
‘Nothing but birdsong, ma’am,’ the man replied.
The military presence became more frequent after that. In places, acres of woodland had been burned to stubble to accommodate larger camps where hundreds of soldiers milled around gun emplacements and paced perimeters and trained in muddy meadows between the concrete buildings. Razor-wire enveloped everything. Great cannon batteries pointed at the skies. The sound of small-arms fire became more frequent.
Ianthe flinched as yet more gunfire crackled nearby. ‘Are they training?’ she asked.
‘News of our arrival precedes us,’ Briana said. ‘Most of these units have telepaths attached.’
‘They’re Guild soldiers?’
‘The finest war machine in the empire.’
‘I thought the emperor’s Samarol were the finest?’
Briana just snorted. ‘I once saw one brought down by an unarmed man,’ she said. ‘How good can they be?’
At last, with the long light of evening sloping through the trees, they passed through a final checkpoint in the gates of a massive stone wall, where soldiers winched up an iron grate to allow the carriage to pass. Ahead of them lay the Guild Palace of Awl. The Irillian mountains framed tiers of dark, pyrite-veined towers that soared skywards, their windows ablaze in the last rays of sun. Flags of white and gold hung from a score of poles set into the barbican, while pots of meadow-flowers adorned the promenade before the walls. On all sides, paths and steps led off into the cool shade of the forest behind. Ianthe spied a gazebo down beside a brook, where a group of eight girls in white robes sat listening to an older woman. Other Haurstaf strolled among the trees, enjoying an evening that seemed infused with the aura of summer itself.
Four carts waited on the flagged promenade before the main palace gate, while their drivers reclined on a grassy bank nearby. Ianthe’s own carriage drew up beside the others, whereupon their driver opened the door and folded down the steps.
‘What do you think?’ Briana asked.
Ianthe smiled, thankful that her lenses hid her tears.
The palace interior was cool and quiet, with grand halls and cascades of dark marble stairs and airy corridors leading in every direction. Guild psychics passed by, their white robes whispering on the mirror-black floors. Briana led Ianthe along a corridor in one wing and pushed open a set of double doors.
They had reached an enormous library, where hundreds of girls sat at desks, reading books. The faintly musty scent of paper and old leather bindings lingered in the air. Heads turned to face Ianthe. A murmur passed through the room. Someone giggled.
‘Sister Ulla,’ Briana said.
An old woman came over, her arms full of books. She was no larger than a child and wore her hair in a grey knuckle behind her head. Her face had the texture of a rotten log, and her restless little eyes looked like they had burrowed in there to escape predators. She glared at Ianthe with open hostility, then opened her mouth to speak.
Briana held up a hand. ‘This is Ianthe,’ she said. ‘I want her tested for the usual, then put
in with the current class.’
Sister Ulla said nothing.
‘I am aware of that,’ Briana said, ‘but—’
The old woman remained silent.
‘Probably an affectation,’ Briana said. ‘You know what these—’
Sister Ulla continued to stare at the other woman in silence.
Briana wrung her hands in frustration. ‘Obviously that depends on what you find,’ she remarked. ‘I want a full progress report on this one.’ She glanced at Ianthe, before returning her attention to the old woman. A long moment of silence passed between them.
Sister Ulla then turned to Ianthe. She frowned and said, ‘Ignorant peasant. Don’t you have any inclination of what I just said to you?’
‘I’m sorry, ma’am,’ Ianthe replied.
A ripple of laughter spread among the girls seated nearby.
‘You will address me as Sister Ulla,’ the old woman said.
Ianthe swallowed.
‘I do not approve of those lenses,’ Sister Ulla said, ‘regardless of any excuse Sister Marks might make for you. However, we will tolerate them if you show a spark of promise.’ She set her books down on a desk, then grabbed Ianthe’s chin and leaned close, peering into her eyes as though looking for something. Finally she sighed. ‘You have the mind of a pebble,’ she said. ‘I don’t expect you’ll do well here at all. Few girls of your breeding ever do. But if—’ She stopped abruptly and wheeled to face a group of girls nearby. ‘Silence,’ she said. ‘Regina, Constance.’
A hush fell across the room. Two girls seated some distance apart stood up.
‘This is a library,’ Sister Ulla said. ‘It is no place for thoughts like that. What do you have to say for yourselves? Constance?’
The nearest girl raised her chin defiantly. A tiny blonde imp of a thing, she nevertheless managed to maintain a demeanour of arrogance that Ianthe had seen in so many Losotan settlers. Her blue eyes burned with indignation. The other girl was just as fair, but long of face and hardly pretty. She looked across at the smaller girl for reassurance.
‘I was merely stating an opinion,’ Constance said.
‘Your opinions aren’t worth stating,’ Sister Ulla said, ‘I suggest you both go and get yourselves cleaned up.’
Both girls looked suddenly fearful. And then a strange thing happened. As Ianthe watched, the smaller girl – Constance – clutched her nose. Blood trickled down between her fingers and spattered her desk. Across the room, the larger girl gave a soft cry and clasped her hands to her own face. Her nose was bleeding too.
‘Go,’ Sister Ulla cried, jabbing a finger at the door. ‘To the nurse’s office, before I sterilize the pair of you to spare the world your offspring.’
The two girls grabbed up their books and hurried away.
Briana smiled at Ianthe. ‘There are various grades of psychic,’ she said. ‘At one end of the spectrum are the sensitives like myself, specializing in communication. Sister Ulla represents the other end of the spectrum. She will test you, and hopefully teach you, in psychic warfare.’
Sister Ulla took Ianthe to a storeroom, where she bundled robes, towels, sheets and blankets into her arms, before showing her to a dormitory on a lower floor at the back of the palace. The windows overlooked a gloomy forest. A small folding bed had been set up at the far end of the room between the two ranks of proper beds.
‘You’ve caused me considerable inconvenience,’ the old woman said. ‘The term is halfway finished already, and I refuse to go over previous material for your benefit.’ She watched as Ianthe made her temporary bed. ‘Not that it matters much. I don’t expect you’ll pass even the most basic of tests.’
‘What sort of tests?’ Ianthe asked.
Sister Ulla grunted. ‘Any psychic worth her salt wouldn’t have to be told. Now stop fussing with that sheet and get yourself washed and dressed. Robes and underwear go in that chest. Supper is at nine.’ She left the room, slamming the door behind her.
A door in the rear wall of the dorm led to a large bathroom, with rows of buckets and ladles set out on the chipped tile floor. Ianthe washed and then put on the Haurstaf robe. The shapeless cloth felt rough and heavy on her shoulders. She returned to the dorm and dumped her old clothes in the chest at the foot of her bed. Darkness was gathering among the trees outside the window. She hunted about for a gem lantern but didn’t find one. Was it nine o’clock yet? Ianthe couldn’t see any clocks, so she sat on the bed and waited.
Nobody came for her.
After a while she let her mind wander out into the void. The perceptions of the palace occupants glimmered like hundreds of lanterns suspended in darkness. By combining their disparate visions Ianthe was able to build up an impression of a truly vast building, extending as far underground as it did into the sky. There were thousands of people around her – from the highest tower to the lowest subterranean chambers. Guild members reclined in warmly lit lounges or sat reading in velvet-draped bedrooms, or looked out upon the dusk from high balconies. Cooks toiled in steaming kitchens. Servants brushed cobwebs from nooks and pantry corners. Ianthe allowed herself to float among the Haurstaf like a ghost, occasionally slipping into an unsuspecting mind to view one chamber or another with increased clarity. She saw black marble fireplaces and piles of blood-red cushions, silverware like white fire and jewelled dressers and long hallways hung with gilt-framed paintings – such a gathering of treasure as she had never seen. Snippets of conversation drifted through the aether:
‘. . . not a gilder between them. How do you think Jonah felt about that?’
‘I can’t imagine.’
She heard laughter and music and the clink of glasses and cutlery. And here she came upon a great hall awash with light and chatter, where hundreds of girls sat at long tables under flickering candelabra, feasting from platters of chicken, partridge, pastries and trenchers of steaming stew. A separate table at the top of the chamber accommodated a group of older psychics, all chatting and drinking wine from crystal glasses while servants cleared away the crockery. Among them Ianthe recognized Sister Marks and Sister Ulla, and she realized she was supposed to be there, in that hall, too.
Ianthe snapped back into the empty dormitory. She was late and hungry and . . . whatever would the others say? She got to her feet and bolted for the door.
Silence descended on the dining hall as Ianthe closed the door behind her. A hundred girls turned to face her, some of whom she recognized from the library. Their smiles were beautiful and cruel. They began to whisper among themselves as Ianthe walked between the feasting tables. She couldn’t see any spaces on the benches so she kept going until she reached the head table. Twelve women in long white robes looked down at her, with Sister Marks and Sister Ulla in the centre. Ianthe found little sympathy in any of their eyes. Sister Ulla positively glared, while Briana Marks wore a smile of faint amusement.
Sister Ulla said, ‘So you finally decided to turn up?’
A chorus of giggles swept through the room.
Ianthe felt her face redden. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said.
‘She wouldn’t have heard the summons,’ Briana remarked.
‘No doubt,’ Sister Ulla said. ‘Which is why I told her to be here at nine.’
Ianthe lowered her head.
A long moment of silence followed, in which Ianthe suspected the twelve psychics were conversing. For all she knew, the whole room could be talking about her.
Finally, Sister Ulla pointed to one of the tables at the edge of the room, ‘Take a seat over there at the end,’ she said, ‘and fill your plate with whatever t
he other girls haven’t eaten. And don’t dilly dally. You’ll make the others late for bed.’
Ianthe retreated to the corner, where she found a space beside a fat girl with auburn hair.
‘And take those ghastly Unmer eyeglasses off,’ Sister Ulla added. ‘I won’t have them at the table.’
Ianthe hesitated.
‘You’ll remove them now, or go straight to bed without supper.’
Still Ianthe didn’t move. And then she got up and ran from the room, desperate to leave before anyone saw her tears.
The other girls burst into the dorm in a squall of breathless chatter, but Ianthe kept her head under the blanket and her mind firmly inside her own head. She heard whispering, followed by silence. And then someone said, ‘I don’t think she can read minds at all.’
‘Must we vocalize everything for her benefit?’
‘I don’t even sense a glimmer of talent.’
‘Why go to the trouble? It’s so tedious.’
‘Did you see her dress when she came in?’
‘I was too busy looking at her spectacles.’
They laughed.
Ianthe closed her eyes and tried to concentrate on her own breathing. After a while she heard the creak of bedsprings, and then the dorm became deathly quiet. But the silence never really felt like silence at all. She couldn’t know what taunts passed between the other girls, but she imagined the worst. Like a shuttered gem lantern, the light continued to burn even if you couldn’t see it. The lack of sound was worse than anything.
Gravedigger 01 - Sea Of Ghosts Page 34