by Tad Williams
“Please, do not trouble anyone.”
Boez came around the edge of the desk, polishing his spectacle-glasses on his surplice before setting them back on his thin nose. He had a slight squint, and the habit of bobbing his head forward as if for a closer look, which made it seem as though he wasn’t quite sure who was on the other end of the conversation. “Well, then,” he said. “We will get straight to the matter at hand, my lord. Will you walk with me?” The priest had the air of someone who had recently been told a dozen or more important things and was trying to keep them all in his head but failing, and was feeling dreadful about it. In that way, at least, he reminded Tiamak a bit of his old friend Father Strangyeard. Tiamak did not know Boez well, but for that alone he rather liked him.
“I have not had a chance to congratulate you on your . . . elevation, Bishop, if that is the proper term,” he said. “Blame my heathen upbringing if I have it wrong.”
Boez waved his hand dismissively. “Ordination, we say. It was Archbishop Gervis’s doing, to tell the truth. He could not bear the thought of his place being taken by a mere priest. I certainly don’t think the king cared. In any event, thus I became a bishop.” He stopped, as if he had lost track of what he was doing, then took his spectacles off his nose and polished them again. “Where . . . ? Ah, yes. Will you walk with me in the Archbishop’s Garden? Well, Gervis is an escritor now, if we are to worry about titles and such. Will you join me in the Escritor’s Garden, Lord Tiamak?”
The day was gray and cold, but the rain had held off. Tiamak wrapped his cloak tighter and tried to match his limping steps to the bishop’s rather brisk ones, without luck. Boez at last noticed and slowed down, bubbling with apologies.
“It is nothing,” Tiamak said. “An old injury. More troubling when the weather turns cold, that is all.” He looked around at the thick hedges, at the trees waving in the wind. “What troubles you, Your Excellency?”
Boez stopped dead in the middle of the path. “I shall never grow used to being anyone’s ‘Excellency.’” he said.
Tiamak laughed. “It has been many years and I still haven’t grown used to my own title either. Never fear. Titles and honors do not change us. Only believing that they are truly deserved will do so—and then generally for the worse.”
The bishop smiled, but it was a small, worried expression. “I am glad you came, my lord. I do not dare speak to anyone else except perhaps the king himself, but he is so beset with problems these days . . .” He cleared his throat. “You see, I am taking a risk even talking to you, I suppose, but of all those who might . . . well, of those who could . . .” He gave his spectacles yet another furious polishing. “Forgive me. I have muddled things already.”
“Start from the beginning,” Tiamak suggested.
“Yes. Of course. I have, as you can imagine, been much engaged in the last months with trying to make sense of Archbishop—pft, I have done it again!—with Escritor Gervis’s books of accounts. It is not so much that he and the priests under him did not keep adequate records. In fact, they kept everything, not just the records of income and expenditure, but countless small messages about this and that in explanation of various things. And their organization was . . . eccentric. Gervis left the work to a succession of counting-priests, and to be perfectly honest, they did not always seem to talk to each other, let alone create an order they all might share. So my work has been slow. And somewhat frustrating.”
“I can see how that would be.”
Boez nodded. The wind had freshened, and it ruffled the short hair on his head. “I should have worn a hat,” he said, then contemplated that omission until Tiamak could not stand to wait any longer.
“The records of the Almonry?”
“Yes. Of course. As I have worked, it has become more and more clear to me that there are certain . . . discrepancies. Allowing for the eccentricity of some of the record keeping, I did not speak of it at first, but now I can no longer deny what I have found. And everyone I could speak to—even you, my lord, if you will forgive me for saying so—fall within the circle of those who . . . well, you understand . . .”
“I understand very little, Bishop. What have you found?”
Boez seemed to steel himself, like a man about to jump from a high place to an uncertain landing. “Money, my lord. Money gone and not accounted for.”
Tiamak resisted the impulse to make a sour face. It was almost impossible for money not to be misdirected, and even in the heart of the High Ward there were greedy people who would try to take advantage, but it was not really the cause for such upset. He was beginning to wish he had remained with his beloved books. “I am sorry to hear it, Bishop Boez. How much money, and do you know where it has gone?”
“My latest count is a discrepancy adding up to some two thousand gold Thrones. Give or take a few dozen.”
A moment before Tiamak had been irritated. Now he felt as if he had been struck by lightning. “Two thousand! But that is a monstrous sum! They Who Watch and Shape, how could such a great amount disappear?”
“It did not all go at once,” said Boez. “That would have been very difficult to hide. And as I said, I am still trying to make sense of the records. But there has been a steady diminishment at orderly intervals for some time, from many, many sources—twenty gold pieces paid here, fifty there. I only noticed at all because there seemed too many round sums.” Boez took his eyeglasses off once more, but this time only held them for a few moments, then fitted them back on his nose, their brief excursion over. “In any case, you can imagine it is difficult to learn the truth of every purchase or grant, especially over a matter of some years. Thousands of records. But now that I have seen the pattern it is hard to miss. Would you like me to explain the pattern, and how the disbursements were falsified?” He sounded almost hopeful.
“No, thank you, Bishop. Later. Though it sounds fascinating.” Tiamak stopped walking and peered around the deserted garden to make sure they were not being overheard. “Tell me the truth. Do you think it could have been Gervis?”
Boez looked pained. “By our merciful God, I hope not! But I cannot say, Lord Tiamak. To be completely truthful, it could be you, though I doubt it so strongly that I have trusted you and no one else with this news.”
“Why are you so certain it was not me?” Tiamak asked, darkly amused even in the midst of his shock at the theft. “I am a pagan, a foreigner—more or less a savage—who has been given unprecedented powers by the king and queen. Most would think me a likely candidate, if not the most likely.”
Boez frowned, but it was one of concentration. “I know little about any of the things you mentioned, but to begin with, you are known for living very frugally. It is a bit of a scandal in some circles, to be truthful. You dress like a monk, you and your wife live in a single set of chambers here in the Hayholt when your title guarantees you land and healthy income, but neither of you have ever shown any interest in those things.”
“Money—particularly large sums such as these—need not be used solely for adornment and land,” Tiamak reminded him. “They can buy other things. Influence. Power.”
“I know. And if I have guessed wrongly, then I suppose you will have to kill me in some heathenish Wrannaman way for stumbling upon your secret.” Boez gave him an almost defiant squint. “But I had to trust someone.”
“Why not trust the king? He is the only one above suspicion. There is no reason the Throne should steal from itself.”
The defiance of a moment before suddenly turned to something like embarrassment, and the new bishop did not answer immediately. “Because, in all truth, my lord, I do not trust the king, either. No!” he said as Tiamak began an angry reply, “I do not mean that as you think I do. I mean that King Simon is so . . . consumed with current problems—and also sometimes quick to temper because of it, poor man—that I do not trust him to stay quiet about this. Someone who has been so careful will not
be so easily tricked into revealing himself. Also, everyone knows the king is swift to choler, but just as swift to return to forgiveness. This is not a situation that suits either impulse. Someone has been stealing from the High Throne for several years—immense sums. None of those with the freedom of the exchequer have been grandiose in their spending, so it must be for something else, to keep and to hide, or to use some for some purpose we cannot yet understand. My lord, I think we must learn who did this and why before we reveal that we know anything about it at all.”
Tiamak found himself admiring Boez all over again. “I cannot fault your reasoning, although I think the king must be told at some near time.”
“Yes, agreed. But first . . . well, to be honest, I do not know what should be done first.”
“More study, that is certain. But that is my answer to everything, as the king and others will happily tell you.” Tiamak was not very amused by his own joke, but Boez attempted to smile. “Who else has access to the High Throne’s power of disbursement?”
Boez began walking again, forgetting Tiamak’s limp, but Tiamak gritted his teeth and hurried along beside him. “Well, I do, for one. And Count Eolair, as Lord Steward, and Lord Pasevalles as Lord Chancellor. And of course Escritor Gervis.”
“So have more of these thefts happened since Gervis and Eolair have been gone from the castle?”
“Sadly, no. That would make it easier to narrow down who might be responsible. But I have not named all who might have done it, or even half. The king and queen themselves, of course, although neither you nor I would imagine them guilty.” He pondered. “Duke Osric as Lord Constable handled a great deal of money, though it would have been harder to hide his hand if it had strayed. I think he would have needed an associate within either the Chancelry or the Almonry. And of course, anyone like Sir Zakiel who oversees the pay for the Erkynguard and other expenses on Osric’s behalf. Lord Jeremias in his role as Lord Chamberlain also has a budget, and access to many places and things. Then there are the masters of Horse, the Lord Marine, and the Keeper of the Privy Seal.” After more thought, Boez went on to name half a dozen more who might possibly be able to drain gold from the royal coffers. “And there could also be someone more lowly-placed in the Chancelry or Almonry who does not have the right to disburse moneys but has access to the records, and might have done this for themselves or for almost anyone outside the castle. In fact, if he had a confederate on the inside, the true perpetrator would not even have to be in Erkynland.”
Tiamak clutched at Boez’s elbow. “Slow down, please. I am out of breath.”
“Oh! Forgive me, Lord Tiamak. I have trouble thinking of one thing while I am thinking of another. Your pardon, please. Here, let us sit on this bench.”
“So any of more than a dozen might be doing this,” Tiamak said when he had taken the weight off his aching leg. “Do you know whether any of them have recently spent a large amount of money?” He frowned, considering. “We should also find out if any of them are known to gamble. Osric does, a little, but I have never heard of him playing for stakes so high that he would need such sums to pay his debts.”
“Nor I. And none of them have spent money in any obvious way. None are quite as frugal in their lives as you, my lord, but Pasevalles’s estate is run by a castellain and he has not visited it in a year and a half, nor have any alterations been made or any new land purchased. Gervis—well, it is perhaps a little hard to believe of someone who enjoys his escritorial finery so much, but our former archbishop was not known for profligacy either. I have looked into these things already and found no obvious spending to suggest guilt.”
“Which is alarming,” Tiamak said, rubbing his calf through his robe. “Because if whoever is robbing the treasury does not use the money for their own private pleasures, what are they using it for?”
“That is my concern also, my lord, and that is why I asked you to come to me. It is not a burden I want to carry alone, not any longer.”
But it is another burden I must carry now, Tiamak thought. Another fear. Another secret.
He watched as the wind swept the last few yellow leaves from a skeletal hazel tree and whirled them through the air before discarding them on the stones of the path.
Guide me now, if you ever did, he prayed to his gods. Help me to find sand beneath my feet, for I trust none of the ways I see before me.
* * *
The throne hall of the Hayholt was packed with courtiers, all in their most expensive finery.
Rowson the Inevitable was there, of course, looking every inch the wealthy dullard that he was, with a fashionable new floppy hat that looked like a chair cushion, and a gold medallion the size of a warming pan dangling on his chest. Duchess Nelda, fretful because of her husband Osric’s dangerous mission to the grasslands, had managed to swallow her grief long enough to appear in an elaborate dress covered in pearls and a crescent headdress that looked disturbingly like cow’s horns.
Simon wondered whether they were all merely curious to see Countess Yissola of Perdruin, or had crowded in because they had enjoyed so few chances in the last grim months for ordinary court life. Escritor Gervis, the bishops Putnam and the newly elevated Boez, the lords Tostig, Duglan, and Evoric—nearly all of the court’s other leading lights were present. Even Pasevalles, who usually favored somber clothing, no matter how well made, wore a coat of rich sea-green. All seemed determined to remind the southern visitors that Erchester might not be the largest or the richest city in the world, but because the High Throne was there, it was the most important.
Jeremias plucked at the sleeve of Simon’s new boldcoat, trying to get it to hang just right. The king put up with it as long as he could before finally reaching over with his free hand and gently but firmly pushing Jeremias’s fingers away.
“These sleeves are ridiculous, and no amount of fidgeting with them will change that,” he told the Lord Chamberlain.
“The boldcoat is what everyone wears in Perdruin,” Jeremias said in a disapproving tone.
“Did you not tell me only weeks ago that everyone in Perdruin was wearing some sort of mock fish-scales? You had all those little pieces of metal sewed on my doublets. I looked like a bag of cintis-pieces.”
“That was more than a year past, Majesty.” Jeremias started to reach out toward Simon’s sleeve again, then thought better of it. “Almost two years! Fashions change.”
“Well, I don’t.”
Tiamak appeared on Simon’s other side, along with Lady Thelía. Simon was glad to see they both wore sensible gowns without unnecessary frippery. “Good afternoon, Majesty. Is all well?”
Simon decided not to mention his irritation about the boldcoat. “Well enough, I suppose. But I could wish—”
He did not finish, because a noise arose outside the throne hall and three solemn knocks sounded. Simon lifted his hand and the guards opened the great doors.
Sir Zakiel came first with an escort of Erkynguards, looking so handsome and martial in their green livery that even Simon felt a swelling of pride. They were followed by a swirl of Perdruinese courtiers, perhaps a dozen in all, many dressed in parti-colored boldcoats of mixed blues and greens and yellows. For a moment it was impossible to tell who was who, but as they made their way through the doorway the guards withdrew to either side and the mass of well-dressed folk fell into a kind of order, leaving one figure standing in the middle of the doorway.
“Her Excellency Yissola, Countess of Perdruin,” cried the herald.
“Is that her?” Simon said in a whisper louder than he had intended. “Merciful Rhiap, Jeremias, why didn’t you tell me she was so young? How can that be?”
If he doubted her identity, the way that Yissola looked up to meet his eye convinced him: she seemed no more daunted by the High King than at meeting a beggar in the road. She wore a dress of black slashed with scarlet; the hood of her mantle, which she now threw back on her should
ers, was of fur dyed to match the black of her dress. Already the courtiers were whispering around him at the boldness of her costume.
She could not have much more than thirty years, Simon thought in wonder, looking at the long, shapely line of her neck and her firm jaw. Yissola did not wear a hat or even the newly fashionable headstall. Instead, her golden brown hair was bound in a simple braid down her back and constrained only by a thin silver circlet around her head. Her nose was strong and her face was slender and oval-shaped. Her large eyes reminded him for a moment of Aditu’s.
“Majesty,” said Jeremias anxiously. “She is waiting. Everyone is waiting.”
He remembered himself and extended a hand. “Countess. We greet you.”
She came toward him then, tall and regal. When she reached the foot of the daïs she executed a graceful courtesy, then lifted her hand. Simon walked down to take it, and lifted it to his lips.
“My lady, you are very welcome here.”
“I thank you, Your Majesty, for your kind greeting,” said the countess. “I bring you the greetings of your Perdruinese subjects.” Her words had no discernible trace of an accent, but Simon was not surprised by that—the Perdruinese were famous for how well they spoke the languages of their more powerful neighbors.
Taken aback by her youth and grace, Simon had forgotten almost everything he was supposed to say. “I trust your voyage was good?” was all he could summon.
“Middling, but that is no fault of the captain or the crew,” she said. “I did not know you had so many kilpa in the north these days. Did you know, three of them actually came on board my ship at night as we neared Wentmouth? The crew fought them off, so all was well, but I thought we only had to worry about such things in southern waters.”
Simon frowned. “I do not like to hear that. It appears they are spreading.” He had again forgotten what he was supposed to say. “Well, we can thank God that you and your people were not harmed.”