by A Van Wyck
“What was that?”
“What do you think it was? It was a rivvet, of course.”
“The one with the black ringed neck or the one with the red crest, do you think?”
“Would you two shut up?”
The crackle of the underbrush gave evidence of their stumbling back to the barges.
“Get off my heel!”
“Hey, stop that!”
“Didn’t sound like the one with the red crest to me…”
Idiots.
My thanks, rivvet, he thought in relief, plucking Inrito’s kerchieffrom his sash to blot the mucus from his hands and face. It proved unequal to the task. He flicked the ruined, bedraggled ball of cloth away into the dark.
He couldn’t risk going back to the barges tonight. Whether Limella sniffed him out or whether her brother found him first, he was screwed. He smiled bitterly at his own joke.
Sighing, he straightened, looking for a bigger, more comfortable branch and trying not to imagine some exotic, tree dwelling monster devouring him in his sleep. He had enough problems stalking him without adding imaginary ones.
The next morning found him stumbling, stiff and sore eyed through the fog and back onto the barge, his clothes damp with dew and his mood sour. The barges were already awake. Either the liquor hadn’t been as strong as it had smelled or these people had cast-iron livers. Busy figures ghosted silently along the creaking wooden vessels in the predawn light, undoing mooring ties and preparing to shove off. He caught sight of Limella, who turned to scowl at him. Well, one eye was scowling at him anyway. He changed direction, pretending not to see her.
Great.
That scowl would be all her dimwit brother needed to prove his roguish complicity. She turned in a huff, disappearing into the fog. Feeling more eyes on him, he looked around. Yes, there was her brother, thick arms crossed and head lowered like a pack mule with a mind to bite. The man’s lips were pressed into a white line, eyes a hot promise. The steam curling off bared muscles looked like manifested fury.
Groaning, he slouched over to a nearby crate and threw himself down on his back. Hiding his gummy eyes behind an arm, he waited for the weak morning sun to thaw him.
Footsteps clumped his way, ringing hollowly on the wooden boards. He was too cold and tired to care. The shadow that fell over him hid him from the fitful light of the new day. When no spitting women or braying men started assaulting him, he unwillingly dragged his arm away. Bemused but too tired to express it, he squinted up into Inrito’s gloating face. He scowled. The man wore gleeful condescension like it had been tailored to fit his thin face. The sermon couldn’t be far off.
“I think,” he muttered, replacing his arm, “I would have preferred the spitting or the braying.”
He couldn’t see the confused frown marring Inrito’s superior expression.
They were underway well before his clothes dried out. Exhaustion pulled him down into a fitful doze. But he jerked awake for every passing footfall, expecting an oar to the head. They reached Sutlam just after noon, the barges drawing up two at a time to unload their cargo and transforming the wide dock into a frenzy of motion and shouting. He stood beside Inrito, trying not to yawn, as the man formally thanked the floating village’s headman. Or tried to. It was a busy day for the bargemen and their wind-burned chief stood, listening expressionlessly to Inrito’s prattling only long enough for the skinny fool to hand over the rest of their transport fee. The idiot’s mouth opened and closed soundlessly, staring in affronted astonishment at the chief’s hurrying back.
“So, where to?” he asked when the two of them had disembarked. It was a moot question. The utilitarian trader town had only the one, muddy main road. He stretched his stride to stay abreast of the uppity acolyte, who seemed determined to take the lead. He’d be damned if he’d follow behind like some obedient servant.
After another hundred paces or so of fruitless effort, the panting man finally slowed. Whatever Inrito had done at the temple to fill his days, it had most certainly not involved any kind of physical labor. The idiot was red faced and huffing pathetically.
“So where did you say we were going?” he tried again.
The man’s cheek twitched.
“I hand you over to the Temple here and then my job is done. I can go back to my work,” the man nodded with obvious satisfaction.
Inrito seemed so taken with that notion he couldn’t help some goading.
“Does that mean I’ll be devoid of your pleasant company after today?”
The man ground to a sudden halt, wheeling stiffly to confront him. Anger turned the sanctimonious idiot’s already pasty face blotchy.
He maintained his innocent surprise, staring at the finger vibrating under his nose.
“You–!” the man tried, voice no more than a strangled squeak. “I–! Insolent–! Ghaa…!” the voice shot through two scales and into illegibility. Breathing heavily, eyes popping, face purpling, the man glared at him.
“I know,” he sighed, patting the acolyte companionably on the shoulder, “I’m going to miss you, too.”
He’d never actually seen someone’s eyes go from normal to bloodshot before. Well, not without someone strangling them, anyway. The sound that escaped the initiate sounded strangled enough. Beyond words and rigid as a board, Inrito spun to stalk off with quick steps.
“Guess you’ll just have to go back to annoying unarmed people,” he muttered, staring at the man’s exposed back.
Inrito had cooled down only slightly by the time they arrived. He’d misjudged the size of the town. It hosted a larger temple than the one they’d come from. The same could not be said of the head priest. A round little man with rosy cheeks, a button nose and crinkly eyes.
Inrito launched, unprompted, into a full report. It mainly centered on his shortcomings. These included insolence, blasphemy and ‘a shocking disregard for the authority of the Temple and her servants’. The know-it-all even included some helpful suggestions on how this sorry state might be remedied. Caning was mentioned several times.
He stood listening with a wry smile, looking out the window of the head priest’s small office. Anyone who laid a hand on him wouldn’t be getting it back.
The head priest, who’d stood smiling politely throughout the tirade, thanked the slightly wild eyed Inrito for his service. For such a diminutive man, the head priest’s voice was surprisingly deep and sounded out of place. The man bid Inrito farewell and a pleasant return journey. The dismissal was clear. Inrito swept stiffly from the office, fairly radiating fury.
If the scarecrow had any sense, he’d head straight to the mooring platform and book passage back up the river. Or maybe swim. Otherwise a body might be tempted to go looking for him in the middle of night. Not to actually hurt him, of course.
A flash of inspiration showed him a night darkened room, a terrified Inrito pinned beneath him as he shaved the disapproving fool’s disagreeable eyebrows.
A cleared throat brought him from his reverie. Shrewd eyes said the head priest had not missed his malicious smile. What was the man’s name again? Rustbucket? Plunket? He hadn’t really been listening.
They stood appraising each other for a long moment.
“Come,” the man said eventually, his remarkable voice lending the invitation some warmth.
He lowered himself into the indicated chair, facing the enormous desk. The priest hoisted himself into the seat behind it. It made no discernable difference to the man’s height. Taking up the letter of introduction that had accompanied Inrito, the priest broke the seal with a thumb, reading as it unrolled.
He’d borrowed it from Inrito on their river journey – it had been the work of a moment to reseal it without marring the waxen crest – but since he didn’t read Heli, he still didn’t know what it said and the head priest’s face gave no clues.
It was a quick read.
Done, the small priest put the scroll to one side and reached instead for a small bell. Its twinkling peals seemed str
angely out of place in the heavily furnished office. The door opened a moment later to admit the shaven crowned head of a young man, also some kind of acolyte.
“Yes, Etrigan?”
“Where is Neever right now, Joss?”
The young man’s brow crinkled in thought, though the answer was immediate.
“Should be at choir practice this time of day, Etrigan.”
“Have him fetched please.”
“Yes, Etrigan.”
The young man ducked out again. The two of them returned to their silent study of each other.
Etrigan? Had he heard that before? Probably a title, he decided. Joss hadn’t looked like he was on a first name basis with the leader of his gang.
He returned the priest’s kindly gaze with narrowed eyes.
“Did you enjoy your trip?” the man enquired after a bit.
“Sure,” he lied, deadpan. Hadn’t the man been listening? “It was great.”
The little smile hitched higher on the round man’s face.
“Excellent,” the priest enthused.
That could be taken two ways, especially if the man had picked up on his sarcasm. His eyes narrowed further.
More silence.
“I don’t suppose,” he began, “that you’ll be telling me exactly what’s going on and what I’m doing here?”
The priest’s friendly smile remained, crow’s feet bunching around his eyes.
“I didn’t think so,” he muttered when no answer was forthcoming. They sat in more silence. Finally, a low-voiced call came from outside the door.
“Etrigan?”
“Come in, Neever.”
He twisted in his chair as the door opened. He was expecting another wet rag, like this Joss, or maybe an annoying ass like Inrito. The man who entered was, therefore, a complete surprise.
He rose casually to his feet, hoping it would be mistaken for courtesy.
His unease had nothing to do with this Neever’s looks. Physically the newcomer was every bit as unassuming as the round priest behind the desk. Unstyled, mouse-brown hair, grey speckled sideburns and overlarge ears framed an unmemorable face.
But the man didn’t move like a priest.
“Ah,” the head priest greeted, “Neever. Please meet our guest, Master… I’m sorry,” the man apologized to him, “I don’t know what to call you.”
“Olu,” he spoke the first name that came to mind.
“Master Olu,” Neever greeted, closing to within a step to offer a hand.
He shook it warily. The hand was hard and rough as a scouring stone, the grip gentle as a closing moonbud.
Oh, yes, he thought, forcing a smile. Definitely dangerous.
The man’s bland features showed nothing but polite attention.
“Master Olu,” the head priest continued, the introductions done, “Neever here will be accompanying you on the rest of your journey.”
If this was the first Neever was hearing of it, he took it well in stride.
“I’m sure the two of you will get along swimmingly,” the round priest grinned as if at a private joke. He suspected some reference to Inrito’s narrowly avoided dunking.
The soles of his feet itched, warning him to make a run for it.
“Swimmingly,” he agreed not taking his eyes off Neever. This man had just been fetched from choir practice? Now there was a choir he wouldn’t want to meet on a moonless night.
He wasn’t even going to bother to ask where this man was supposed to be accompanying him to. For starters, he was sure he wouldn’t get an answer anyway. And for seconds, he was planning on leaving the man in his dust immediately.
“You can leave at first light,” the head priest continued from behind the desk. “I’m sure you could use a chance to freshen up. I find a proper meal and a good night’s sleep does wonders.”
Smiling, the head priest rang the small bell again. Joss put his head in the door.
“Yes, Etrigan?”
“Joss, kindly show Master Olu to some accommodations for the night and see that you get him anything he needs.”
Nodding politely to both men, he backed towards the door and out of the office, keeping a wary eye on Neever until the closed door stood between them. Turning, he fell into step beside the nonplussed Joss. Anything he needed? He put his arm companionably around Joss’s shoulders.
“Say,” he began, “you wouldn’t know where my friend, the man I arrived with, is staying tonight, would you? I’d like to say goodbye.”
Father Plunket, Etrigan of the Sutlam Temple, watched the door close behind Neever. The talented monk’s instructions had been best delivered outside of hearing range of their guest.Dangerous times when those of the faith were forced to sneak around in secret. He got up from his padded chair, crossing to the small hearth. Though it was too early and much too hot, he kindled a fire. Joss had already lain a cold stack and he only had to touch a burning taper to it to see the dry wood slowly stir to life.
He was lost in thought.
He trusted Neever implicitly but this young man who’d given his name as Olu (obviously an alias) was too sharp by half. The youth had recognized Neever as more than a monk the moment their eyes had met. Of course, if the young man hadn’t been clever, he never would have been considered at all. He sighed heavily. To think the Holy Temple would be reduced to this… He shook his head.
He stood for a while, watching the fire grow and remembering better times. Simpler times, when being one of the faithful meant no more than devotion to the scriptures and helping others. Or maybe it had always been this way and he’d just been too young and naïve to see it. Either way, those days were long gone.
The fire was burning nicely now, its heat fanning the temperature in the already hot office toward stifling. Moving back toward his desk, he retrieved the scroll that had accompanied Olu, brushing his thumb over the wax seal. It was obvious it had been tampered with. But not enough to erase the crosshatch on the ribbing around the edge. If you didn’t know to look for it, you’d dismiss it as an imperfection in the seal’s casting. If you didn’t know to read a little deeper, the contents of the letter would seem innocuous enough. But he did know and, in between the harmless words of introduction, he’d picked out the message:
Send to Father.
He tossed the scroll into the flames and stood watching until every little bit of it had turned to feathery ash. Taking up the poker beside the hearth, he dismantled the little pyre so it would burn out, raking the ashes over the still smoldering logs.
Moving back to his desk, he fished a small key from around his neck. Only the bottom drawer on the right side had a lock. Unlocking it, he pulled the drawer out only a short way, ignoring the contents – they were meant as distraction, and rammed it back with more force than required. The release of a catch was muted by the thick wood. He pulled out the drawer above the one he’d just manhandled, removing it completely and setting it down atop the desk. Reaching into the cavity, he felt around until his fingers found the shallow opening against that hadn’t been there a moment before. He wedged his fingertips in and pulled. The hidden compartment detached and dropped onto his waiting arm. He drew it out. The shallow box was lined with thick velvet to keep the objects inside from rattling. He took out a wax candle and a seal with a crosshatch on its ribbing. He needed to write a letter for Neever to carry. Just to make sure.
He sat down, pulling a piece of vellum towards him.
Puffing slightly, he made his way up the last round of spiraling steps, careful to place his feet just so in the treacherous, pre-dawn gloom. He’d just come from an enlightening breakfast with the initiate, Inrito. Odious little man. With a temperament not improved by the tragic loss of his eyebrows. Though the man refused to speak of it, the quiet venom with which the exploits of Master Olu were recounted left little doubt as to the culprit. Indeed, the floodgates of Inrito’s indignity had been thrown wide, with very little coaxing on his part. He now knew as much about the etrigan’s departed guest as
Inrito did.
Olu. Now there was a mystery. A man with a checkered past if ever he’d seen one. Desert-born. Dangerous – and if there was any doubt of that, it had been dispelled the moment Etrigan Plunket had sent for Neever. What could the Etrigan possibly want with such an obviously disreputable young man?
As per the Etrigan’s instructions, he’d arranged a substantial traveling stipend and provisions for the pair. And then, unbeknownst to anyone, he’d spent the night in the chill Temple belfry and so had witnessed the two travelers start down the western track more than a bell before dawn. It was certainly a puzzle.
The door to the mews was never locked and he did not bother knocking as he entered. The musty scent of down and guano assaulted his nostrils. All around the rustle of feathers and the sleepy chirr of pigeons echoed in the weak light.
“Joss?” came the quavering inquiry.
“Morning, Oli,” he called a greeting to the unseen mews master, “I brought you up some fresh bread.” And he extricated the wrapped loaf from his wide sleeve.
Olidus came shuffling around the corner of one of the cages. Hunched in his tattered monk’s robes, he looked like a storm-worried bird himself. Sure-fingered hands, in fingerless gloves, reached for the proffered parcel. Enormous eyes, magnified to ridiculous proportions by thick lenses, blinked in the dim light.
“Ah,” the old man rasped, “mighty kind of you, son, mighty kind. Stay for a cup of tea? I just put the kettle on.”
“Sure,” Joss smiled.
The huge eyes smiled in turn and the old man hobbled off to the little work station, Joss following.
“Come to send another letter to your friend?” Olidus asked over a shoulder.
“Yes, I’m very excited,” he admitted. “I think I’m finally going to win a game for once.”
“Gheh heh,” the tattered mews master rasped, “all this playing sidestep with someone leagues away, could you not have found a board and player a bitty closer to home, eh?”