by Jaine Fenn
And now she just nodded. She’d been more subdued than usual these last couple of weeks, like she took the caliarch’s death personally. Sorne’s response to Numak’s passing had been rather different: he could barely hide his growing anticipation.
“So then,” he said, “this dodgy man. Is he coming back?”
“Nope.” Before he could take issue with her terse reply she followed up hurriedly, “He asked where he’d find you. I told him you spend a lot of time at Ramek’s yard.”
“So he’s gone there?”
“Guess so. I gave him directions.”
“Wait, he didn’t know where Ramek’s is?” Most of Sorne’s current business came through, and was often negotiated at, the yard.
“Didn’t seem to. Looked like he might be one of your people, actually.” She put a slight twist of disdain on your.
“Mine as in?”
“Shenese.”
“Don’t wait up for me.”
He left without waiting for a response. She’d expect nothing less. And if she thought he was off to get drunk with one of his countrymen then good, because there was nothing suspicious in that.
He recognised the courier as soon as he entered the yard. But he played it cool, because he was known here. The visitor wasn’t, so half of Ramek’s clientele were keeping an eye on him with varying degrees of subtlety.
Sorne made a show of looking around, spotting the newcomer, then nodding in what he hoped was a casual you look like one of my people way. The visitor nodded back. Janave had just made corporal when Sorne left Shen; always thin, he looked downright haggard after travelling here with the skykin caravan.
Sorne sauntered over. He had an idiotic urge to grin at the militiaman, the first familiar face he’d seen for two years. He resisted and said, “You look like you’ve come from Shen.”
“I have.”
“Avoid the tea.”
“I will, in future.”
Those nearest were losing interest at the mundane banter. “I can show you the sights if you like.”
“I would like. I hear the streets are quite safe, if a bit narrow.” Janave stood.
“Most of them.” Sorne gestured at the man’s large backpack. “You all right with that?”
“Should be. Though an idea of the best place to stay would be good. The guesthouse the scribe on the gate recommended was pretty pricey.”
As the militiaman shouldered his pack Sorne asked, “Mam Jekrey’s?”
“No, Mam Mercet.”
“Oh, her. Yes, I think she’s put her prices up recently.” Sorne had no idea whether that was true; the conversation was largely for the benefit of the observers. Whether they bought it or not he had no idea; what mattered was that they realised they wouldn’t be hearing anything of interest. But he was glad that Mam Jekrey was no longer getting recommended by the scribes who logged visitors: since his first stay in Mirror he’d grown his hair long and his tan had faded under Zekt’s stormy skies, but Mam Jekrey was one of the few people on Arec who might remember him. And, he now recalled, he’d left without settling the bill. He had no doubt she’d remember that.
Once they were away from the yard he let himself smile. “It’s good to see you.”
“You too sir.”
“I’m going to want the lowdown on everything from palace gossip to the skiv-skiv league before you go.”
“I don’t doubt it, sir.”
“Probably best if you drop the sir.”
“Ah. Of course. How paranoid should we be?”
“Just careful. I’m known at this end of the isle. Which is why we’ll be taking a roundabout route to your guesthouse, and watching each other’s backs.”
“Got you.”
They had been walking side-by-side, but now Sorne slowed a fraction; Janave let him fall back. A quick glance around and behind. No sign of a tail. Stepping back up he said, “I’m guessing you’re not actually short of funds.”
“His Grace provided everything I might need.”
“Good. And you have something for me?”
“I do.”
They crossed a square, Sorne taking point while his fellow solider stopped to watch a group of youths dancing with both skill and enthusiasm to a pair of pipers. A quick nod confirmed all was well. Two more squares and several alleys brought them to Mam Mercet’s. The guesthouse owner was curious about the pair of Shenese men taking a room together, until a five-mark piece distracted her.
Once she’d shown them to the room Sorne’s heart lifted further. It was finally happening. Good job he’d visited Pahnec last week to take a casual daytime stroll past the townhouse. The street door had been repaired but not obviously reinforced, and the shutters were closed. The place was still empty.
When they were alone in the room he asked Janave, “How long can you stay?”
“A few days. I need to be on the next caravan back.”
Sorne nodded; the duke would want to know the delivery had reached its target. “I’ll need you to hold onto the package until I can smuggle it home.”
Janave smiled. “Home?”
“Figure of speech. I’ll check over it now though.”
“Of course, sir.”
He had waited so long for this, though when Janave prised open the lid of the long wooden box it was not obvious what the object was. Fortunately he still had the duke’s diagram amongst his salvaged papers. What was obvious was how much iron had been used in its manufacture: the metal strips and intricate mechanisms nestled in the packed straw alongside the ironwood components could set Sharrey and Tamak up for life.
He looked up at Janave. “This red valley must be quite an operation.”
“Not seen it myself sir; just the end results.”
Sorne nodded. “And it’s the end results that matter.”
CHAPTER 34
The sky is my solace.
Rhia smiled at the remembered phrase. Or tried to: her face no longer appeared capable of even fleeting joy. And up here on her observation platform was the only place she could feel any peace, any hope.
She leaned back on her stool and tipped her head up.
The sky was not entirely clear; wisps of cloud still hid the high heavens, but she could see a couple of constellations, the Twins and the Stepping Horse. And two Strays: the Crone, peeking out from clouds halfway between horizon and zenith and the Maiden, low as always and shining pure, virginal white to the Crone’s faded red. The planet was almost round when observed through her sightglass, the once-slender Maiden’s belly now swollen in a way that implied the Stray was indeed a misbehaving young woman.
Tonight even active observation was too much. Just bathing in the starlight, just being and not speaking – or thinking – was what she needed.
Yet thoughts still came.
That phrase, the sky is my solace: she had taken comfort from it as Father lay dying. He had told her to come up here, to take a rest from his bedside, his voice cracking and weak, and while she looked up that night, the phrase had arrived in her head. Trite and sentimental, of course. But when the rain-fever finally took him, she had found herself repeating her new mantra all the time, while the grief tore into her.
And now the rain-fever had marked another victim. She knew the odds, the “doom of ten”: when the plague returned, one in ten would contract it; it would take up to take ten weeks to run its full course, during which time the sufferer would be up and down, sometimes seeming to recover, sometimes relapsing; ultimately, only one in ten who caught the rain-fever would survive. Had she felt herself capable of praying, she would have prayed that Kerne was one of those lucky ones.
Snatches of this afternoon’s Grand Council meeting kept coming back to her. No doubt Etyan had thought he was doing the right thing, finally facing up to his responsibilities. But why hadn’t he told her what he was planning? Assuming he had planned it, rather than the offer of marriage being a spur-of-themoment decision. Still heartbroken, he’d appeared so against the possibility. Not tha
t it even was a possibility, it now appeared.
The noble Houses held more power than either Church or State but their constant bickering and politicking meant they rarely acted in unity. Yet they had united today, against her House.
Of course Francin had had no luck finding her a husband. Any man coming into the Harlyn household on her terms would have to give up his old affiliations: he would be marrying into her House, rather than her marrying into his. He could use Harlyn resources and influence to help his old House, but how many noblemen would consider that a price worth paying to become, in effect, a male wife? Perhaps she should have tried the minor Houses, as they might view being a consort in a major House as a step up, although the majors would have taken great offence at that. Or perhaps she should have offered a far-greater-than-usual dowry to pay off the groom’s House. But she had not thought to do either of those things. Her mind, which she prided herself on keeping open, had not been able to see the offer as her fellow nobles saw it. She had assumed, in her arrogance, that marriage into House Harlyn was attractive enough by itself. It had been once, to House Callorn at least.
But no longer. Though they would want to keep details of the charges secret, the fact that she was being put on trial by the Church was known amongst the noble Houses: many high clerics, including two of the three cardinals, came from the nobility, and though they were meant to renounce their worldly affiliations once ordained, lines of communication remained open. No one wanted to marry a heretic.
The majors had much to gain by her downfall. The minor Houses had only called for a reduction in status, but if House Harlyn was actually dissolved – as could happen if she and Etyan both died without heirs – then the Houses major would get a third share of its assets between them. A third of the Harlyn wealth was significant, even split fifteen ways. More, in fact, than any one House could expect from giving up one of their own to be a subordinate partner in a marriage. Enough, it seemed, to bring the squabbling Houses major together in what appeared to be a genuine conspiracy.
At least Viscount Manacar, the one judge at her trial she hoped would take her side, was from a minor House, like most noble magistrates. Any conspiracy would be amongst the majors, as only they would benefit from her House’s dissolution. Except, three minor Houses had spoken against her today. They might not be in on the majors’ scheme but they could be reacting to pressure from one or more major House. If she had to guess which, she would say the instigators were House Escar: her grandfather had built up the Harlyn fortune at a cost to them, a slight they still remembered, and they had not come off well from their part in the conspiracy to frame Etyan. It was possible House Manacar could be put under the same pressure, in which case every judge might be against her before her trial even started.
No, she must not think that way. She must not assume the worst, and lose what little hope she had left. But she must plan for it.
Etyan was still nominally head of House Harlyn. But his dramatic and impulsive gesture had publicly undermined his fitness as Count, after the House’s status had already been openly questioned. If she was not around this time next year, she had no doubt that the next Grand Council would dissolve House Harlyn.
Unless…
Perhaps, with the world against her, the solution lay close to home. After all, every sensible, reasonable option had been exhausted.
She needed to speak to her lawyer.
Movement above caught her eye. Focusing on the sky she saw the clouds had cleared. There, again: a streak of silver. A falling star. Rhia’s attention snapped fully back to the sky. Another. And another. Star-falls occurred midway through most dry-years, but rarely at other times, and rarely in such numbers. They were not stars, of course; the stars remained fixed. She had no idea what caused this breathtaking phenomenon, and tonight she did not care. She watched, entranced, lost for a while in the wonder of the skies.
“Is it hopeless?” Rhia found herself wringing her hands where they sat in her lap. She untangled them and laid her palms flat on the dining table.
Sur Lectel, looking over the cup of cooling tisane in front of him, pursed his lips. “Not at all. You have prepared well, although the lack of a working celestial model may be an issue–”
“I’m close, as I said! Sorry, I shouldn’t snap. I should complete the model any day now.”
“So we must hope. Although in some ways, it would be easier should you fail to prove your theory…”
“What do you mean?”
“Forgive me for mentioning this m’lady, but if you are mistaken, or at least are ruled to be mistaken, then I believe you would recant?”
“If I am proved wrong, yes. If I am right, but they refuse to believe me, no. I will not cover up the truth.”
“Ah. The reason I mention this is that I am obliged to point out again that your best chance of getting through this ordeal unscathed would still be to recant, at which point the Church would have no case and you would walk free.”
“And if I did, hypothetically, recant now, would that be an end to it?” Recanting went against all she stood for, but as the trial neared and the proofs continued to elude her, she had to consider it.
“You would go free, yes, though bound under oath never to speak of the matter you were brought to trial for.”
“My theory you mean. I would have to swear to abandon it.”
“Yes. And your papers…”
“They would confiscate all the papers pertaining to the theory.” She had suspected as much.
“Indeed. And they would have the right to examine all your papers.”
She threw her hands up. “Then I have no way out!”
“If recanting at the cost of your work is not acceptable then your only way out is for us to win. Let us assume you do convince the judges – two out of three of them, anyway – of the validity of your theory. At that point the Church would be forced to consider how it can be reconciled with the scriptures, and their teachings.”
“I have been through the scriptures! I found nothing that goes against my theory. What little is said about the sky is ambiguous at best.”
“Which is good. However, as you have observed yourself the scriptures allow for… varying interpretations.”
“Contradictions, you mean. If the Church can preach both that the First is timeless, impartial and eternal and that He created people then punished them and has now withdrawn from the world, then surely they can deal with a new way of explaining commonly observable physical phenomena the scriptures barely mention!”
“They may not see it that way.”
She kept forgetting she was not dealing with rational people. “In which case it is hopeless.”
“Please do not think that. Our first task is to convince the two impartial judges of your theory. Then, I believe that the variations within the scriptures will give us the room we need to make your case, to argue that this model of the heavens may be accurate without challenging the Church. We can do this, m’lady.”
He appeared convinced. Or at least passionate about the case and optimistic about their chances. Which was the best she could hope for. “Thank you.” But she had called him here for two reasons. “I also need to speak to you about another matter. Something rather… delicate.”
Three days to the trial. Sur Lectel had said her enquiry could take “a few days” to research. She must be patient.
She was finding it hard to concentrate, which in turn caused more stress, because a lapse in concentration could lead to a mistake in her workings or worse, damage the celestial model. She all but gave up on work.
But she needed to do something, to take action, or seek diversion. There were still plenty of social events as Between drew to a close, but she would rather jump off her observation platform than attend those. However, while idly looking through her papers she realised there was something positive to be done at the palace. Francin still had some of the writings he had requested from her recently, and they had discussed the more general idea of
him taking copies a while back. Thanks to poor Kerne’s diligence, copies of much of her recent work already existed. Normally the second enquirer in a shadowland would hold the other enquirer’s papers in trust in an emergency like the one she was facing, and she might yet have to send Theorist of Shen some of the less contentious contents of her ironwood chest. But her traitorous colleague would not see any more of her original theories, even if it meant disobeying the Church’s letter.
She considered going to the palace herself but there were too many people she wanted to avoid. Markave was the obvious choice to send in her place.
Her steward was, understandably enough, spending as much time as possible at his son’s bedside. The boy was livelier than his father when Rhia entered the room, sitting up and stroking Pathi, who had taken up residence on his bed. Markave, half collapsed in the chair next to him, was dozing; his conscience would not let him neglect his household duties even in the current crisis and he looked exhausted. But he straightened when she murmured his name, and agreed at once to the errand. His eager obedience set off an unsettling and complex warmth in Rhia’s chest, which she chose to ignore. Even so, she found herself disproportionately relieved when he returned from the errand promptly, reporting that he had handed her note to the duke in person.
The duke’s reply came back the same evening: