Monument

by Ian Graham

  ‘I have drunk it before,’ said Ballas, recalling the wine he had stolen from Father Brethrien, many weeks ago. ‘I recognise the flavour. It can be drunk only as part of a church service. By doing this—’ he took a swallow ‘—I am committing blasphemy. More than that, it’s sinful to drink wine at all. The Four preached against it.’

  ‘You are mistaken. It was not the Four who prohibited wine but the Church. And that is what makes Rendeage unusual. He is a churchman in title—but not spirit. He follows the Four. Not the Pilgrim Church.’

  ‘He said as much,’ said Ballas. ‘But I don’t know whether to believe him.’

  ‘If the wine isn’t proof enough,’ said Crask, ‘remember that he brought you safe through the Wardens.’

  ‘You reckon we can trust him?’

  ‘Elsefar does,’ said Crask, ‘and I doubt the cripple enters lightly into such arrangements.’ He nodded, a touch curtly, as if talk of the quill-master left a bad taste in his mouth. ‘Once the Wardens started hunting him, he sought refuge with Rendeage. And he asked the priest to help us.’ He drew a breath. ‘Rendeage is a strange man. But perhaps that is because he is truly holy. And such holiness is a rarity.’

  A thunder of footfalls came from overhead.

  ‘The worship hall lies directly above,’ Crask explained. ‘Twenty feet up there—’ he pointed to the ceiling ‘—are a hundred people—ordinary people, loyal to the Church—who would tear each of us apart.’ He grew quiet. Father Rentleage’s voice sounded. The floorboards muffled the words, But the steady, drawn-out rhythms of sermon oratory were clear.

  ‘I am weary,’ said Ballas, ‘I’m going to sleep.’

  The hint was clear—yet Crask lingered, suddenly uneasy.

  ‘What?’ asked Ballas.

  ‘I wish to offer you thanks.’ Ballas frowned.

  ‘You saved my life. But more than that, you saved my daughter’s. I … the debt I owe is so great, it cannot be repaid.

  I am grateful.’

  The big man gazed levelly at Crask. ‘I saved your daughter because she, and you, are useful to me.’

  Crask watched him uncertainly. The eel-catcher’s gaze seemed to probe the big man. As if seeking some clue that Ballas was lying. As if hunting a sliver of honour.

  The eel-catcher’s shoulders sagged. Turning, he left the chamber. Ballas slept. When he woke, he found that the knife wound had bled slightly—yet the stitches had held firm. Grunting, he got to his feet. A little wine remained in the flagon. He drank it, then went into the next chamber.

  Crask, Heresh and Elsefar were present. So was Rendeage.

  ‘The sleeper awakes,’ the priest remarked. ‘I trust you slept comfortably? It is said that in crypts man finds his deepest repose. The dead exert a calming influence. Their stillness is contagious.’

  ‘What hour is it?’ asked Ballas.

  ‘The evening has deepened,’ replied the priest. ‘We are but hours from midnight. Soon I will be abed. I called merely to see if you require anything.’

  Ballas raised the flagon. ‘Wine. That’s all.’

  Nodding, Rendeage left the room, going up a flight of steps.

  ‘If every priest was as free with his alcohol,’ said Crask, watching him go, ‘Druine would bristle with the pious—and the drunk.’

  ‘Prepare yourself,’ said Ballas, turning to Heresh. The red-haired woman was sitting cross-legged on the floor. A brazier was burning and in the warmth she had stripped down to breeches and shirt. ‘We’re going to the Archive Hall.’

  As Heresh stood, Lugen Crask did the same.

  Ballas shook his head.

  ‘What?’ queried the eel-catcher.

  ‘We’re going alone, your daughter and me.’

  Crask blinked. His expression was unreadable. Ballas knew exactly what he was thinking. He was recalling Ballas’s words, days earlier, praising the vigour with which Heresh had fought—her courage, her decisiveness: two virtues that Crask knew he lacked.

  ‘She will be in danger,’ he said eventually. ‘I cannot be parted from her.’

  ‘Father,’ said Heresh, casually taking her cape from a wall-hook, ‘Ballas knows more of such matters than you and I. If he says it shall be just him and me, then so be it. I am certain his reasons are sound.’ She turned to Ballas, expectantly. For a moment, Ballas wondered if she recognised the true reason—if she saw in her father that which he saw in himself.

  ‘If there are two of us,’ said Ballas, ‘we can move with greater stealth. And she’s lighter-footed than you, Crask. She has the benefits of youth.’

  Sweat glistened on Crask’s forehead. ‘It does not please me,’ he said. ‘It doesn’t please me at all—’

  ‘Don’t argue,’ said Ballas.

  ‘Swear you will look after her.’

  Saying nothing, Ballas returned to the other chamber. As he pulled on his tunic, covering the bloodstained bandages around his gut, Father Rendeage returned with a wine flagon.

  ‘You are leaving,’ he observed.

  ‘We shall be back.’

  ‘It is not my business,’ began Rendeage, ‘but where are you going?’

  ‘I can’t remain here for ever. There are things I’ve got to do, if I’m going to leave Granthaven with my skin whole.’

  ‘That much is obvious. I never expected your tenancy here to be eternal … But I ask again: where are you going? The streets are dangerous. There are Wardens on every thorough-fare and corner. They are as plentiful as maggots on rotten pork.’

  ‘You liken the Church’s lawkeepers to maggots?’ asked Ballas, surprised.

  ‘Forgive me. I have insulted maggots. They batten upon the dead; but they do not kill.’ The priest adjusted his robes. ‘Yesterday, many innocents perished. Sweeping through the city, the Wardens lost control. Fires were started, those men who obstructed the Wardens—accidentally, without ill purpose— were cut down. It was as if every Warden had been driven mad by the pleasures of the hunt.’

  ‘I’d expect that from the Under-Wardens,’ said Ballas, sweeping up his cape. ‘But the proper Wardens? They are well trained …’

  ‘They are but men.’ Rendeage shrugged, sadly. ‘And men of a rough nature. Their inclinations, in life, are not upwards but downwards. When the Under-Wardens began misbehaving, the Wardens quickly followed. It was a chaotic time. And for the crimes, no one will be punished. Neither Warden nor Under-Warden.’

  Ballas took the wine flagon from the priest. Uncorking it, he took a long swallow.

  ‘The Pilgrim Church hungers for you,’ said Rendeage carefully. ‘Why?’

  ‘That is my business.’

  ‘If you fear it will appal me so greatly that I shall hand you over to the Wardens,’ murmured Rendeage, ‘you are mistaken. I have granted you sanctuary—and I have done so unconditionally.’

  Ballas ignored him.

  ‘Your crime—is it tied up, somehow, with Belthirran?’ persisted Rendeage.

  Ballas looked up sharply.

  ‘Do not be alarmed,’ replied the priest. ‘Elsefar told me of your intent. And I admit that it makes sense.’

  ‘You know of Belthirran?’

  The priest shook his head. ‘No more than any other man. Just rumours, hints—you know there is no proof that Belthirran exists?’

  ‘Yet you say I’m being sensible in seeking it …’

  ‘You cannot remain in Druine,’ said Rendeage. ‘Nor can you flee to the Distant East: every port and harbour is being watched. So what remains for you but Belthirran? You are acting logically. I cannot argue with that.’ Pressing his hands together, he touched his fingertips to his lips. ‘Once more: why are the Church pursuing you?’

  ‘Because of my crime,’ said Ballas, annoyed by the priest’s questions. ‘I’ve sinned, they want to punish me—it’s obvious.’

  ‘You have not sinned.’ Slowly, Rendeage shook his head. ‘Or rather, if you have sinned, it is of no odds—the Church aren’t after you because of that.’

  ‘What are yo
u talking about?’

  ‘A Decree of Annihilation has been declared. The purpose of such an act,’ said Rendeage, almost whispering, ‘is not to punish a wrongdoer—it is to prevent more harm. The Decree says you must be killed. By whatever measures, you must be ripped out of existence, so that you will not be able to trouble Druine—at some future time. If the Masters wished to punish you, they would insist on your capture. Then you would be handed over to them, so that they might exact retributive suffering. They would not leave it to the common folk.’

  Rendeage squinted.

  The Decree demands annihilation—not apprehension,’ he continued. That distinction is crucial. They see you as harmful, Ballas. You are a threat; you must be obliterated. That is why the Decree was issued. For some reason, they fear you.’ For a long time, Ballas was silent. He hadn’t thought much about the Decree. The different implications of death and of capture hadn’t occurred to him. Yet he remained puzzled.

  ‘I am no threat to the Church,’ he said, frowning. ‘I care nothing for it! Yet … yet perhaps …’

  ‘Yes?’

  Ballas stared flatly at Rendeage. ‘My crime was a dark one. I attacked a Blessed Master. I reckon I might’ve killed him.’

  Rendeage did not seem shocked—only interested. Tilting his head forward, he said, ‘There have been rumours. A Master named Muirthan has not been seen for some time. Normally, he would preside over the great ceremonies: of all the Masters, he is the finest orator. Yet at the Earth Blessing, at Soriterath Cathedral, he was not present. Nor did he attend the Winter Prayers.’

  ‘The Masters tried to put me on the Penance Oak,’ continued Ballas. To escape, I had to kill—so kill I did. I saw a man perish on the Oak. It is a vile death, the worst I’ve ever seen. Maybe the Masters reckoned it angered me … turned me into a rebel. Maybe they expect me to start an uprising. Like Cal’Briden did.’

  ‘It is possible,’ said Rendeage. ‘But the Masters are not, I think, so nervous. They do not think that they can be brought down. They consider true rebellion to be unlikely. Which it is, of course.’

  ‘But I know other things … about the Oak.’

  ‘Speak on.’

  Ballas briefly recounted the events of the night he was almost nailed to the Oak. He spoke of the Lectivin, of the magick it used—and of his cell-mate Gerack’s suffering.

  Rendeage closed his eyes, slowly. He seemed genuinely pained. When he opened them they were moist.

  Ballas frowned, puzzled.

  ‘It is nothing,’ said Rendeage, waving a hand. He swallowed, and when he spoke his voice was strained. ‘True: you do know things … things that might threaten the Church. After all, we have spent six hundred years vilifying Lectivins … saying they were evil incarnate. Yet if it were shown that the Church employed one … And magic: how fiercely it is forbidden! Forbidden to all, it seems, but the Masters.’ He lifted a knuckle to his lips. ‘Such things would turn many against the Masters. So it would seem they have good cause to silence you. Except …’

  Ballas tilted his head questioningly.

  ‘… They know you’d never be believed. Say what you have seen, and you would be declared mad and locked up. Only your fellow lunatics would believe you.’ He exhaled. There must be something more. Why were you arrested in the first place? Why did the Masters wish to place you on the Oak?’

  ‘I killed a Servant of the Church,’ said Ballas—and, briefly, felt again his knife sinking into Carrande Black’s stomach. ‘He tried to murder me.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘I had a trinket he wanted … an iron disc, set with precious stones.’ For the first time in a while, Ballas thought of the disc. He saw the rubies, the gemstone, the drifting sparks. And he saw—inexplicably—a flash of blue-silver light. It shot dazzlingly across his vision. He had no idea what it was. Where it had come from. It was a memory, he supposed. Yet it surprised him, in a way that memories seldom did. Grunting, he rubbed his eyes.

  Heresh appeared. She was dressed now in a woollen jumper and black cape.

  As Ballas moved to the door, Rendeage said, ‘I will think upon this matter, while you are away.’ Ballas and Heresh climbed the crypt steps, emerging through a door into the worship hall. They left the cathedral, stepping cautiously out on to the streets.

  A few Wardens strolled past. Ballas drew Heresh back into the doorway. He watched the men disappear along the street. Further off, a second patrol stood on a street corner, chatting.

  ‘Father Rendeage says that more Wardens arrive every day,’ said Heresh. ‘Despite their failed search—or because of it—their numbers are being increased.’

  ‘That’s good news,’ murmured Ballas, his voice heavy.

  Heresh looked at him, puzzled; moonlight was reflected in her eyes.

  ‘There’ll be fewer Wardens out there.’ Pointing, Ballas indicated the land far beyond the city gates. ‘So when we leave, we may be left alone for a while.’

  ‘For a pragmatist,’ commented Heresh, ‘you’re capable of great self-delusion.’ She looked intently at the big man. ‘We won’t have a second’s peace. Not until we are dead.’

  Ballas glanced along the alley. ‘Come on,’ he said, stepping out.

  They moved through the darkened streets. A cold moon shone overhead: a curved splinter of ice-white light. They kept close to the fronts of buildings where shadows pooled. They kept their footsteps as near-silent as they could on the frosted thoroughfare mud. Their progress was slow. It was as Rendeage had claimed: the city teemed with Wardens, and Ballas became aware that they might be concealed off the streets as well. Crossbow-armed Wardens might be perched upon rooftops—would be perched there, if they had any sense. Others might be watching from windows. Or alleyways. In the narrow streets over which buildings loomed, Ballas felt dangerously exposed.

  He looked at Heresh.

  Her hood was pulled up. In the moonlight, her face was pale, her eyes anxious. Yet she kept pace with Ballas. One hand hovered near a dagger, hidden under her cape. She was ready to fight. Perhaps such a prospect did not please her. But she understood that blood was the price of survival. It wasn’t something she’d learned slowly, over time. But something she had realised, in a heartbeat, in the marshes, when the Warden Jasper Grethinne had planned to murder them.

  You are truly not your father’s daughter, thought Ballas. Once, Crask must have possessed a little daring, or recklessness—such qualities would have been needed when he was smuggling forbidden texts. Yet they no longer existed. Perhaps, when the Wardens had caught him and had threatened him with execution, they had been driven out of him. Sensing the closeness of his own death, a man often discovered what he truly was. Crask had found that he lacked bravery. And he had accepted it. Instead of perishing, he had struck a deal with the Church.

  What would you have done, in your father’s shoes? wondered Ballas, glancing at Heresh. Would you have acted as he did? Or would you have gone to your grave?

  Briefly, Ballas wondered what he himself would have done. It was one thing to fight when there was no hope of survival. But when there was hope of a escape, of a reprieve … Such hope, however slim, could burn away a man’s loyalty to his fellows. Friendships, promises—they swirled up in smoke.

  ‘We are here. It’s as Elsefar described,’ said Heresh.

  They halted. The Archive Hall was a large, dark-bricked building. Unlit arched windows overlooked the street. A short flight of steps led to an oaken door. Ballas grasped the ring-handle.

  ‘Locked,’ he grunted, twisting.

  ‘Should we break it down?’

  ‘Hold this,’ Ballas said, handing Heresh a small lantern in which the shutters were closed, allowing no light to escape.

  He took a lock-pick from his pocket—the same carved splinter he’d used to break into Egren Callen’s home. Kneeling, he worked at the lock. Moments passed. Then a weight dropped inside the lock.

  The door opened.

  ‘You were a thief, hm? That was your trade, was
n’t it?’ Heresh looked intently at Ballas.

  ‘Among other things,’ grunted the big man.

  They stepped inside. As Ballas closed the door, a slithering rattle sounded—then a dull snap. The lock was a sophisticated model. When the door had shut, the lock had reset itself.

  Ballas stepped forward. His boot soles rasped on a wooden floor. Rustling echoes swirled into the dark space. They indicated a deep, hollow vastness. The scent of parchments— musty, grave-deathly—hung in the air.

  ‘Open the lantern.’ He spoke softly. Yet his voice sounded sonorous.

  The lantern shutter slid aside. A tiny flame flickered, giving, out a haze of pale light, and the Hall became dimly visible. Though still shadowed, three floors could be seen, each linked to the other by a single staircase. On every floor there was nothing except shelves, crammed with texts. There were leather-bound books, the gilt letters of their spines glinting in the lamplight; scrolls, neatly heaped; and folded parchments, tucked tightly against one another.

  Heresh sighed. ‘Elsefar did not mention that the place was so big. We don’t have a hope of finding the map. I don’t even know where to start looking.’

  Sniffing the air, Ballas raised a finger to his lips. He detected a thin but dense odour, drifting from the dark. He sniffed again. The smell persisted.

  ‘What are you doing?’ whispered Heresh.

  ‘There’s someone here. Someone who knows we’re here too and who doesn’t want to be found.’ He looked at her. ‘I can smell smoke from a candle that’s just been snuffed out.’

  They walked briskly, following the smell. They reached a closed wooden door. Kneeling, Ballas sniffed the door-bottom, where it failed to meet the floor properly. The extinguished-candle odour was strong. Rising, he drew his knife. Then he pushed open the door.

  The lantern-light illuminated a small, bare-walled room. Upon a table stood a flameless candle, dark smoke rising from its wick. A pallet-bed rested against the far wall. A young man was kneeling on it. He wore a woollen jerkin over a long white nightshirt. His face was thin and tapered crookedly, as if an unseen hand were pushing his jaw slightly to one side. His brown eyes flared in terror at the sudden light. Scrambling backwards, he cowered in a corner, seemingly trying to squeeze himself into the bricks themselves. In his right hand he held a book. In his left, a long knife—a type used for cutting parchment.