It was not as if the supplicant appeared the age or type to cause trouble, and if he could afford a divination, he must be a person of standing. He was in his late thirties, dressed like a minor noble, in an elaborately embroidered tunic and coat, with fur trimmings, well-cut, of good material and new. His servant’s clothes were more subdued. Both men had pale skin, the barest half shade off white. Their high cheekbones, green eyes, and red hair would have been a match for Eawynn’s, if her head were not shaved.
“Is all ready?” The client spoke with a lilting accent.
“Yes, sir. Most Reverend Insightful Sister Oracle will be here soon to perform a divination for you.”
The supplicant nodded and murmured to his servant. Eawynn caught a few words, just enough to know they were talking in Cynnreord. Where did they come from? Surely not Fortaine, or anywhere else on Pinettale. Who now retained Cynnreord for daily use?
Before the Rihtcynn conquered them, the islanders had spoken a language known as Pinettia. Some still did, in isolated mountain villages. Everyone else had adopted Tradetalk, the mongrel common tongue of the empire, which seemed to consist of removing everything from Cynnreord that would strain the abilities of an idiot, blending in the most vulgar elements from the assorted vanquished nations, and then shifting the vowels, so it could be spoken without fully opening one’s mouth.
After the fall of the empire, the conquered lands had gone their own ways, but Tradetalk was still widely understood and used, especially where folk from different nations met. The Island of Pinettale, with its reliance on trade and seafaring, had kept Tradetalk as its own.
Insightful Sister Oracle swept in. In addition to her normal robe, she also wore a cowl, partially obscuring her eyes. Presumably, it was to enhance her mystical air. “Greetings, seeker after knowledge.”
“Holy Sister.”
“Please follow me.”
They left the servant and Redoubtable Sister Door-warden to watch each other outside, or more accurately, for the priestess to watch the servant while he ignored her.
The sense of being entombed was even stronger with the sacrarium door closed. Insightful Sister Oracle waved the client to his chair and pulled out the repository key with a flourish. Once the Shewstone was in place over the unlit oil burner, she also sat and steepled her fingers. She bowed her head so her eyes were lost in shadow. The dramatic effect was marred only by Insightful Sister Oracle’s misguided faith in her own acting ability.
Eawynn adopted her normal pose, standing silent and unmoving against the wall. She was unsure why her presence was required. The part she would play was minimal in the extreme. Perhaps it was hoped a second pair of eyes would deter any thought of that inappropriate male behaviour while the elder priestess was concentrating on the Shewstone.
“I am the voice of the oracle, High Priestess of Anberith. Stranger, you sit in the presence of great wonder and mystery,” Insightful Sister Oracle began. “Might I be allowed to know your name?”
“I am Waldo of Bousack, a merchant.”
Which was the more unexpected, his home or his profession? Bousack was a small town on the north coast. Rihtcynn ancestry was no more common there than anywhere else on Pinettale. Yet both supplicant and servant were red-haired speakers of Cynnreord. From his looks and the way he carried himself, Eawynn would have pegged him as a foreign nobleman. Maybe he had moved to Bousack from the mainland years ago and now considered it his home. But where was he from originally?
If Insightful Sister Oracle shared her surprise, she gave no sign. “You’ve come needing answers for a matter of great importance.”
“Indeed, I have.”
A few seconds of silence.
“Whatever you seek, doubt not the Shewstone will have the answer.”
“This is what I’ve been told.”
More silence.
“You are here on an auspicious date. Today is the Spring Equinox. Did you choose it for a reason?”
“I knew it was today, but the timing is coincidental.”
Eawynn pressed her lips together to control a smile. Maybe this divination would be a little more interesting than the others. Whatever prophetic ability the Shewstone might have, Insightful Sister Oracle’s revelations amounted to prodding the clients to reveal what they were hoping to hear, then feeding it back to them, couched in sufficiently cryptic terms to give some wiggle room, should events not pan out as desired.
This supplicant was giving away no clues. Insightful Sister Oracle let the silence drag on, beyond any hope he might break down and blurt something out, but eventually she accepted defeat and beckoned Eawynn to light the burner. This was Eawynn’s only role in the pantomime, and one which she would rather have been excused from. Perhaps that was why she was there. Did Insightful Sister Oracle also feel the deep disquiet, even distress, when the flame was lit?
As it heated, the patterns in the stone swirled and writhed in a frenzy, seeming alive. It made a sound, high and faint, trilling like a bird. If Eawynn listened, she could persuade herself there were words in the sounds, although this was just a trick of her imagination, she was sure. But the Shewstone did not want to be over the flame. Eawynn could not shake this fancy, no matter how much she derided herself.
The high-pitched shrilling began. Insightful Sister Oracle leaned forward, holding her hands on either side of the stone, just far enough away to run no risk of burnt fingers. “Ask your question, Waldo of Bousack.”
“Thank you. I have to make a decision. An old friend of my father has asked me to join him, backing a new venture, trading with the Verlesie Isles. I’ve no experience of these lands and wish to know whether it would be a wise investment.”
That was it? This time, even Insightful Sister Oracle could not conceal her surprise. Judging by his tone, Waldo himself placed scant importance on the question and had no interest in the answer. Was it just his accent?
The temple charged a staggering amount for consulting the Shewstone, reckoning the premium enhanced the prestige of the divinations. The high price might result in fewer customers, but the net balance was the same. Most supplicants came with matters of life or death, tricky, awkward, insoluble problems. For a straightforward business deal, surely Waldo could find a better source of information. Bousack must have other traders with relevant experience. Why was he not asking them? And he was a merchant, by the tears of the gods. It was his trade. Builders did not consult an oracle for advice on how to lay bricks.
So how was Insightful Sister Oracle going to play this game?
From her pained expression, the elder priestess was asking herself the same thing. Then she closed her eyes and let her head fall forward. She swayed gently from side to side, the portrayal of a very refined trance. When she spoke, her voice was a full octave lower than normal. Her words were in Cynnreord.
“Old ropes holding us but not to go forward. In rocks with waterside salt grow seeds, but big and fat they come over friendly ground.”
Eawynn winced. The priestess’s accent had not improved over the years, and her grasp of the language would have shamed a three-year-old. Of course, the prophesy was intended to be cryptic and not understood by the client, but that was no reason to sound like an idiot.
Insightful Sister Oracle let her hands drop and opened her eyes. She provided her Tradetalk translation. “Ties from the past do not guide us into the future. The seed that sprouts on rocky shores, will flourish on home soil.”
So that was what she meant. Was Waldo equally amused? If so, he hid it well. He bowed his head graciously. “You mean regardless of how this venture goes for my father’s friend, it’s not the one for me. Better profit will come from investing my money in projects I’m familiar with.”
“Yes. I think that’s the conclusion one may draw.”
Always agree with the supplicant, and it was not a hard call. Waldo clearly had no enthusiasm for the deal. Why he had invested so much in getting an answer was anyone’s guess. Maybe he was beholden to his father’
s friend and needed a good excuse to duck out.
Whatever lay behind it, Waldo seemed satisfied. He stood and gave another of his formal nods. “I thank you, and your goddess, for your help.”
This too was unusual. Most supplicants wanted the maximum return from their outlay and would ask as many follow-on questions as they could get away with.
However, Insightful Sister Oracle was not going to detain him if he wanted to go. She extinguished the burner. “Dutiful Sister Custodian and Redoubtable Sister Door-warden will escort you out. The blessing of Anberith be upon you.”
“I pray Anbeorht guides my way. Good day.”
There it was again. Waldo had stressed the original form of the goddess’s name, as if correcting Insightful Sister Oracle.
For the seafaring islanders, Anberith was second in importance only to Toranos, the storm god. As goddess of moon and tides, she had been worshipped on Pinettale for centuries. The tribes had given her a score of names—Berrima, Bathine, Abela, and others. Then the Rihtcynn conquered the island, to add to their burgeoning empire. They equated her with one of their own goddesses and had bestowed yet one more name, Anbeorht. As such, she acquired dominion over fortune telling and childbirth. The Rihtcynn Empire had fallen, but the expanded role for the goddess had stuck, along with the corrupted form of her new name.
Where had Waldo lived before Bousack? However, he rejoined his servant and left without revealing any more information to satisfy Eawynn’s curiosity.
On her return to the Shrine to the Oracle, Eawynn caught a glimpse of a green robe, disappearing into the sacrarium. She assumed it belonged to Insightful Sister Oracle, but when she drew close, she heard voices.
“…are willing to pay that much for the Shewstone, maybe we could increase the donation for consulting the stars.” Enlightening Sister Astrologer was riding her favourite hobbyhorse.
“I don’t think that’s the way for us to go.”
“Can I ask why?”
“You know why. This way, we can give guidance to all, rich and poor. If we increase the donation for your valuable work, poor folk will…”
Not give us any money at all. Insightful Sister Oracle left the words unsaid, but Eawynn had no trouble providing them.
“We could offer the guidance of both the Shewstone and the stars on a sliding scale, related to the supplicants’ resources.”
“No.”
“Why should the prophesy of the Shewstone be placed so highly above the wisdom of the stars?”
“The Shewstone is a unique mystery. Anyone can see the stars.”
“The stars reveal the glory of the gods’ creation. The Shewstone is a…” Eawynn could almost hear the sound of a tongue being bitten.
“Yes?”
In the absence of an answer, cheap charlatan’s trick, would have been Eawynn’s guess.
“We’ll discuss this again.”
“And my answer will not change.”
Enlightening Sister Astrologer stomped from the sacrarium. Seeing Eawynn standing outside, her expression achieved the almost impossible feat of becoming even more irate. It was a shame. If only Enlightening Sister Astrologer knew it, Eawynn agreed with her.
Long ago, the position of astrologer had been foremost in the temple. The Shewstone, and the revenue it produced, had shifted the power balance. It was no secret Enlightening Sister Astrologer dreamed of reverting to the earlier scheme, and Most Reverend Insightful Sister Oracle had not the least intention of letting it happen.
The high priestess was locking the repository when Eawynn entered. She slipped the key inside her robe and smiled, clearly relieved Enlightening Sister Astrologer was not returning for a second bout.
“I think the divination went well.”
“Yes, Beloved Sister.”
“Waldo had a trace of an accent. He might have lived on the mainland at some stage.”
You don’t say. “Probably, Beloved Sister.”
Insightful Sister Oracle flashed a condescending smile. “You’re doing well. Keep it up.” She bustled out.
Eawynn held her tongue until the elder priestess was out of earshot. “I’m so pleased I can sweep the floor to your satisfaction.”
She turned up the wicks, so it was light enough to see while she cleaned. Still, the sacrarium felt heavy and oppressive. She paused before the repository. The Shewstone was back in its cast iron cage. The swirling patterns inside were becoming less frenetic. The whistling had faded. Now it sounded mournful, the lament of a lost and lonely soul, trapped in a stone prison.
Eawynn bit her lip. “You and me both.”
*
A thump on the door woke Matt with a jerk.
“Edmund wants to talk to you.”
Matt groaned and hauled herself up in bed. A band of sunlight squeezed through the shutters. Judging by the angle, the morning was well advanced.
“What about?”
“He didn’t say. He’s in the study.”
“Is he alone?”
“Got a couple of visitors.”
“Anyone you know?”
“Nope.”
Matt swung her feet out of bed, yawning. “Tell him I’ll be along in a few minutes.”
The sheets beside Matt moved and a head appeared. “What is it?”
“I’ve got to go…” Matt struggled to recall a name. “…honey.”
A hand slid up Matt’s thigh, its goal clear. “Can’t you stay with me a little longer?”
“My father wants to see me.”
“Hmmph.” But the hand’s owner had better sense than to argue.
Matt reached for her discarded clothes. The woman in bed raised herself on one elbow to watch. Marie. That was her name, maybe.
“What does he want?”
“I don’t know.”
“Do you want me to wait here for you to get back?”
Matt thought about the offer while tying her shirt. Maybe-Marie was pretty. From memory, Matt could also confirm she was agile, enthusiastic, nicely padded, but not overly bright.
“I don’t know what he’s going to want, or how long I’ll be. Better if you get Pearl to show you out, when you’re ready to leave.”
Maybe-Marie’s mouth puckered in a pout. “You won’t forget to mention me to him, will you?”
That was it. Maybe-Marie wanted a job in a gambling den. Which might work. She might not be up to mastering the more complex card games, nor any fancy dealing, but she was pretty enough to make a certain sort of punter show off by betting high.
“Yeah. I’ll tell him.”
“Will I see you again?”
“Maybe, Marie.” Matt escaped.
Edmund wanted her to meet the visitors, else he would have waited until after they went. But if they were the sort of people who should not be left waiting, his message would have had more urgency. Matt reckoned there was time to wash her face and have a stab at breakfast.
Pearl was in the kitchen, gossiping with the cook, while helping prepare vegetables, and at the same time, no doubt reviewing the stores, planning orders, and setting menus for the next week. Pearl had started out working for Edmund’s grandfather as a whore, but had proved far too good an organiser to stay as one. Her ability to do four things at once had kept the Flyming household running smoothly for decades.
“Morning, Pearl.”
“Morning, Mattie.”
Pearl was the only person in the world, other than Edmund, who could get away with calling her that. Matt scooped a mug of milk from a churn.
“There’s someone in my room—”
“Is she the one with the loud squeal?”
“Umm…yes, probably. Can you see she leaves soonish?”
Pearl shook her head. “I swear, you and Edmund were cut from the same cloth. He’s your Pa, right enough.”
Matt smiled and grabbed a cinnamon bun. She could not remember when she first called Edmund “Pa” as a childish slip of the tongue, but it had pleased him. Whatever his experience with women might h
ave been, no children had resulted, and Edmund was safely past the stage of youthful experimentation. Before long, it became accepted that Matt was his adopted daughter. In truth, Edmund was more her father than the man who sired her ever had been.
Matt swallowed the last of the bun as she knocked on the study door.
“Enter.”
Two strangers were in the room. From their dress and posture, one was the master, the other a servant or henchman. Clearly, they came to strike a deal rather than ask for a job. On the principle of, “the longer the robe, the less the work,” the master did not do much. His clothes were immaculate and expensive, but interestingly, he wore no jewellery, not even a signet ring. Both men had swords on their belts, but from the way they held themselves, neither was a skilled fighter nor a handyman assassin. They certainly did not have the muscle to be rowdy boys.
Both had red hair and white skin, which was rare on Pinettale, except among the bloodsucking nobility. Since lords and ladies would never dirty themselves contacting Edmund directly, they must have come from the mainland. Which posed interesting questions. The clothes were new, bought in Fortaine. Apart from being local in style, they showed no sign of travel, no salt or sweat stains. Either their luggage had been lost overboard, or they did not want to advertise their origin with a distinctive type of dress. But why not?
The once-over took less than a second. “You wanted me?” she asked.
“Yes. Come in.” Edmund was half sitting on a corner of his desk. “Allow me to present my daughter, Matilda. She’ll be the one who undertakes this assignment.” He tilted his head to Matt. “These gentlemen have an interesting proposition. I’ll let them explain.”
The leader treated Matt to his own examination, then cleared his throat. “My name is Waldo of Bousack. I’m in Fortaine because there’s an artefact we desire. Have you heard of the Temple of Anbeorht?”
If he comes from Bousack, I’m a cabbage. Apart from the other clues, he spoke in a staccato rhythm, biting off his words, and his vowels were rounded and stressed. Matt had spent enough time on the docks to place his accent due south on the mainland. But though reading him was easy, it was harder to know how to read his question. Every child in Fortaine would know what he was referring to. Yet he was waiting for her to answer.
The Shewstone Page 4