by Tom Lloyd
‘The High Cardinal can’t stop it? What damn use is the man then?’
‘It’s out of his hands, as you well know,’ Dancer said firmly. The Chief Steward’s mood had been foul of late, but Dancer didn’t have the luxury of time to coax him round from whatever bee was in his breeches. ‘We need to find a way to stop it.’
Lesarl nodded. ‘I spoke to Whisper earlier, but she had pressing business and couldn’t wait for you.’
‘Gods, I never expected this when Lord Bahl offered the man sanctuary. He was supposed to be a boon for the tribe! Have you come to a conclusion?’
The question prompted a scowl. Despite everything, Dancer had to keep himself from laughing; Lesarl, the hunched, glowering minister stalking the corridors of Cold Halls reminded Dancer of a play he’d seen some years back, portraying King Deliss Farlan, father of the first white-eye, Kasi Farlan, as a scheming tyrant degenerating into syphilis-induced madness. The actor had somehow managed to capture the essence of Lesarl in his portrayal, much to the amusement of most of the city.
‘A conclusion of sorts,’ Lesarl said eventually. ‘Far from one I like however - it’s a bad sign when even the theory leaves a bitter taste in one’s mouth. How I will persuade Lord Isak I cannot even begin to imagine.’
‘You can’t kill him?’
‘If we could manage that,’ snapped Lesarl, ‘there wouldn’t be a problem in the first place!’
‘But how do we deflect his attention?’
The clatter of something falling echoed down the corridor and Lesarl held up a hand to silence his companion. It was a full minute before he continued, ‘I have received a letter from Duke Lomin. The man is keeping a careful distance from Lord Isak, as you might expect, but he’s a loyal soldier all the same. He gave me advance warning of this. The only way we can deflect this is to offer the fanatics something they would prefer, and sooner or later, for fanatics, that comes down to a sacrifice of some sort.’
‘I don’t follow.’
Lesarl shook his head, lips pursed in anger. ‘Bloated beasts of hatred and petty jealousy; a murderer for a sire and a fool for a shepherd,’ he said, more to himself than Dancer.
The nobleman frowned, recognising the words but taking a moment to place them. When he did, the enormity of Lesarl’s decision took his breath away. The words were a playwright’s; spoken by the last great Litse lord, Yanao Tell, when he was told Deverk Grast had mustered the entire Menin tribe.
‘How?’ Dancer croaked.
‘You must persuade Suzerain Torl to gather his Brethren and make a declaration.’
‘Torl?’ Dancer said. ‘You want the Dark Monks involved?’
‘Hardly.’ Lesarl paced the stone-paved floor. ‘But they are the only way. Tell Torl you are speaking with my authority. I cannot go myself - Lord Isak cannot be seen to be involved. The declaration must come from an independent group.’
Without waiting for a reply Lesarl turned back the way he’d come.
Dancer listened to the sound of his footsteps even after the man had turned the corner. Even when he could no longer hear Lesarl, Dancer found himself unwilling to leave his post. The chill in the air no longer mattered. It had paled in comparison to the emptiness in his stomach.
I’ll just stand here a little longer. Just a few more minutes, and then I’ll go and ask the finest man I know to commit suicide. Just a little while longer.
Isak sat up suddenly, drawing in a deep breath, as if he’d suddenly come up from under water. He looked around, blinking in momentary surprise. It was a rare thing for him to be so absorbed in a book that his senses withdrew from the Land around him.
The palace library was still and silent aside from the lazy crackle of the fire opposite. Isak sat facing the fire - and the door - at the huge partners’ desk that stood in the very centre of the room: a nearly square block of red-tinged wood and gleaming brass fittings. The room was softly lit by a heavy-based lamp sitting in the middle of the desk, and by the brass oil lamps on the ends of the bookshelves which extended from three walls into the room.
Most of the palace must have turned in for the night, Isak guessed, though something must have started him out of his reverie. ‘Probably Tila, slamming doors again,’ he muttered. His eyes drifted longingly towards the massive padded armchairs flanking the fireplace. There was something irresistible about a comfortable chair beside the fire - but he’d be curled up like a cat and asleep before he’d turned a page.
He stretched and was about to return to his book when the door opened. Isak relaxed when he saw Mihn enter.
‘The Chief Steward is looking for you, my Lord,’ Mihn said, his voice indicating that Lesarl was right behind him.
‘And the last place he expected to find me was the library, no doubt,’ Isak said with a smile. His eyes narrowed. ‘What’s that on your neck?’
Mihn’s hand flew to his neck, where a dark mark was visible over his collar. ‘Nothing of importance, my Lord.’
‘I don’t believe you. Very little of what you do is unimportant. ’ He pointed at Mihn’s neck. ‘Show me.’
‘Yes, do show us,’ said Lesarl as he walked through the door.
‘Lesarl, give us a moment, please.’ The Chief Steward’s eyes glittered at the command, but he bowed and retreated without a word. Isak was very protective of his unusual bodyguard; now that Lesarl had accepted Mihn would never be an agent of his, he avoided conflict on the subject.
‘It is just another tattoo,’ Mihn replied once Lesarl had shut the door behind him, a flicker of discomfort in his eyes.
‘Like the ones on your hands?’
‘Exactly, my Lord.’
‘Tattoos of what exactly?’ Isak urged.
‘Leaf patterns, nothing more.’ Mihn walked up to the desk and turned his head to look at the book Isak had been reading.
‘Last Days of Darkness,’ Isak said. ‘Stories from the end of the Age of Darkness.’
‘Your reading tastes have become somewhat morbid of late,’ Mihn noted.
‘You’re the one who started me on that path,’ Isak protested. ‘You told me to accept everything about myself, including my dreams of death! If I am to accept something I must understand it better. I . . .’ Isak hesitated. ‘I’m not entirely sure what I’m looking for, but I need to know what the dreams mean.’
‘Then I suggest you try Cardinal Jesher’s collection of parables, most specifically the one entitled “The Moneylender”. It is the story of a moneylender who dies, but is so obsessed by his trade that his spirit visits his debtors after he is dead, trying to collect what he was owed.’
Isak thought for a moment. ‘Sounds like you’ve just ruined the story for me, but I’ll give it a try, I suppose.’
Mihn smiled. ‘Jesher was a theologian of great note in his time, and his parables are characterised by the depth of his insight. You will find his work instructive on the subject of death - you might also try a Menin play called The Stargas. The Menin style of declamation may amuse you, and the character of the Prophet Dirik is beautifully written, however inaccurate.’
‘I think I’ve heard of that one. Doesn’t he pray for death each morning?’
Mihn’s eyebrows rose. ‘I’m impressed, my Lord. Dirik prayed for death, for then he would be relieved of the burden of prophecy.’
The white-eye grinned. ‘Don’t be impressed; I just remember Tila saying I make her say a prayer for Dirik some mornings. I didn’t understand the reference so I made her explain it.’ He slammed a palm down on the desktop. ‘Damn you! I almost forgot what I’d kept you here for!’
‘The Chief Steward is waiting,’ Mihn reminded him.
Isak gave an exasperated grunt. ‘Fine; you win. But tell me what the tattoos are about. You don’t need to show me, just tell me. I’ll trust what you say.’
Mihn didn’t react immediately. His almond eyes thinned a shade and dropped momentarily to his palms. ‘Very well, my Lord,’ he began slowly. ‘You expressed a concern over my safety, thus I h
ave asked the witch to tattoo my arms with rowan and hazel leaves. Both types of wood are used to protect against a variety of supernatural influences. She used sap from the plants in the ink and placed charms of protection on each leaf. Her magic is not powerful, but I am not a man of power - I believe her subtlety will complement my own skills to keep me as safe as any man could hope to be.’
‘Rowan and hazel, eh? Very well, thank you.’ He looked down at the desk and after a moment flipped the book shut. ‘That’s enough reading for one evening, I think. Go and help Xeliath. She’ll probably be on her way down to the training ground by now, even though there’s bloody snow on the ground. I’ll join you once I’ve finished with Lesarl.’
The Chief Steward’s face bore a permanent frown these days and today was no exception, Isak saw. Tila told him how hard Lesarl was working these days, barely getting three hours of sleep on a good night, and spending large parts of his days riding from one part of the city to another.
Every other day the clerics would think up some new problem - refusing to acknowledge the authority of magistrates, or judges, or the Palace Guard - and only Lesarl’s swift intervention had prevented anything worse than minor bloodshed on Tirah’s streets. To make matters worse, Swordmaster Kerin had died of the injury he’d taken at the Temple of Law and the Ghosts were unwilling to back down from any confrontation. On top of that, he had fifteen lawsuits over the new religious decrees going through the courts, plus the aftermath of Isak’s investiture, where he had brokered and signed more deals among the nobility than in the whole previous two years.
‘You have news?’ Isak asked, indicating they should sit by the fire.
Lesarl sank gratefully into the armchair’s embrace. ‘Unfortunately, I do.’
‘That bad?’
‘My Lord, I do not know how long we can continue in this way,’ Lesarl admitted. ‘We have bands of penitents attempting to restrict what little food that comes into the city, and violent clashes on a daily basis. I’ve needed troops to clear courtrooms and prevent the Morality Tribunals from trying civil and criminal cases . . .’ He sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose, screwing his eyes up tight for a moment. ‘Just today a priestess of Vasle set up her own independent court and she’s passing sentences of drowning, while I have just had confirmation that a warehouse owned by the cult of Death is being used as a makeshift gaol for people who’ve publicly opposed their troops. I could go on—’
‘Anything I can do?’
Lesarl shook his head. ‘I don’t want to give anyone the satisfaction of your personal intervention, and where there’s fighting there’s always the chance someone will try to assassinate you.’ He sighed and reached his hands out towards the fire. ‘If you die we have civil war, if you’re injured we still need to conduct the purge we’ve been trying to avoid for weeks now.’
‘So your news concerns something different?’
‘Yes, my Lord. Your guest in Lomin has apparently become less than satisfied with incursions into the Great Forest. After the fall of Scree he started taking religious matters seriously.’
‘Oh Gods,’ Isak groaned. ‘I think I can guess what’s coming next.’
Lesarl’s face was grim. ‘The cults have invited him to Tirah; they’re looking for a figurehead and my agent in Lomin tells me he is obsessed with the liberation of his people. His physical appetites have apparently waned since the high summer, presumably triggered by the fall of Scree, and instead he is starting to see himself as some sort of mystic, a spiritual leader as much as soldier. I hardly need tell you of all people what a terrible combination that makes.’
‘Can we not stop him coming?’
Lesarl shook his head. ‘I can’t have the offer withdrawn without killing more priests to give Certinse the moderates he needs on the Synod - and we’d need to lose too many. We cannot expect to reason with him any more than we can be confident of killing him on the way. If Sir Kelet and a team of rangers were in place already, I would have chosen that path - even he would not survive a poisoned arrow - but as it is they won’t be able to negotiate the cults’ patrols in time.’
Isak found himself picking at the chair as he thought. ‘So the alternatives are?’
‘Allow him to come here and see massive bloodshed on the streets, or deflect him.’
‘Have they asked him to lead a revolt?’ Isak said in surprise.
‘No, my Lord, but you are white-eyes and these are fraught times. With the two of you in the city, you will fight - I guarantee it. With armies at your sides, the destruction in the city will be extensive.’
‘Your expression tells me I’m not going to like the other choice much either.’
‘No.’ Lesarl was quiet for a moment while he stared into the fire.
Isak felt trepidation flood his body.
‘My Lord,’ Lesarl began hesitantly, ‘this is the only viable course of action I can recommend. I don’t want you to think too long about it because the longer you do so the more terrible it will seem.’
‘Understood, now tell me.’
‘Suzerain Torl is a devoted servant; he will realise the necessity. We need him to persuade the dark monks to go south, drawing every fanatic in their wake. I cannot entirely predict the end result, except to say that where religious fervour is concerned the usual rules of war, diplomacy and common sense do not apply.’
‘You’re talking about a crusade?’ Isak said, feeling the enormity of his words like a millstone on his shoulders.
‘Yes, my Lord. To avoid civil war here in Tirah, the Brethren of the Sacred Teachings must announce a holy war against the Menin - to be joined by the whole spectrum of murderers, madmen and self-serving opportunist bastards in our priesthood when we circulate the rumour that Lord Styrax has consorted with daemons.’ He sighed. ‘And they will ask Lord Chalat, Chosen of the God Tsatach and deposed Lord of the Chetse, to lead them.’
CHAPTER 24
It was cold in the Duchess Chamber of the Ruby Tower. Dropping the antechamber onto Byora’s clerics had opened the room to the winter wind gusting through the large double-doors. The small group of petitioners trooped in under the beady eye of Jato, Steward of the Tower, mindful of the positions they had been assigned. Luerce was almost last, lacking both wealth and a title, but that position gave him time to observe the others. Timing was everything, and Luerce was well-used to gauging a crowd.
He was a slight man, pale and thin-boned as most Litse were, but folk described his face as washed-out rather than porcelain, the more usual description for those of that tribe. It was an easy face to see weakness in, and few doubted it when that was what was displayed. Azaer hadn’t had to show him the value of weakness; he already knew it.
The group on either side of the door included workmen, and a fat man in a drooping velvet hat. While some repaired minor damage to the plaster, others watched as the fat man painted on the newly whitewashed wall, tracing faint lines with sooty water. Luerce couldn’t quite resolve the shapes into anything recognisable, but still it made him want to smile: he was painting shadows where once images of the Gods had been. The destruction of the antechamber had revealed enormous murals of Death and Ushull. The duchess had fallen into a rage at the sight of them and demanded both be whitewashed within the hour.
Now the duchess sat on her throne, with little Ruhen on her left, in the shadow of Sergeant Kayel. As Luerce stared at Ruhen, scarcely able to believe what he saw, the duchess said something to the boy and brought him round to sit beside her. Ruhen, apparently five winters of age and the picture of innocence, smiled up at the duchess as she bent to place a kiss on his brown curls. At the side of the room a grey-haired woman watched, bewildered - the child’s mother, Luerce remembered. She was little more than skin and bone, and she looked broken, lost. He could see nothing more than a glimmer of recognition in her eyes, and it obviously wasn’t enough for her to take exception to the duchess’s motherly attentions to her son.
Then Ruhen looked up and stared straight at
Luerce, and he felt that electric tingle down his spine. As his master fixed his gaze upon him, the sounds of shuffling feet and hurried whispers withered to nothing.
‘Gods below,’ Luerce breathed. The woman ahead of him turned and gave him a puzzled look, but he was so lost in the swirl of shadow in his mind that he hardly noticed.
Careful to keep the thought to himself, he recalled, I was there that day in the square when the duchess took you in, just a matter of months ago, no more, and look how you have grown.
‘Where is Lady Kinna?’ the duchess called, fingers idly stroking Ruhen’s hair as though the boy were a pet.
Steward Jeto cleared his throat. ‘Ah, she sends her apologies, your Grace. She came down with an ailment, an illness of the throat, two days past; she has been unable to leave her bed since.’
‘Have my doctors been sent to attend her?’
‘They have consulted with Lady Kinna’s doctor, a woman from Helrect, so I am told. Your doctor is satisfied that she is receiving good care. They tell me a few days’ rest will see Lady Kinna better than ever.’
Jeto finished his statement with a nervous cough. The fussy little sexagenarian had jet-black hair and a prominent nose, both of which contrived to make him look rather like a crow amongst pigeons. Black hair was rare in Byora, and Jeto lacked the height and thick bones of the Menin. Luerce was a small man himself, but he felt sure he could snap Jeto’s neck like a twig if it became necessary.
‘Very well, let us begin,’ the duchess announced, holding Ruhen close.
Steward Jeto bowed ceremoniously and brought the first petitioner forward, a tall woman of similar age to the duchess - and her rival in wealth, if the jewellery with which she was adorned was anything to go by. Indeed, the duchess greeted the woman almost as a friend as Jeto began to outline the suit. Luerce let the words drone on without listening. He had a task to complete, but he could not risk interrupting a woman as powerful as this one clearly was.
Luerce had been apprenticed to a chandler from an early age, but he had not found the trade to his liking, despite being a good worker and popular with the customers. People were his greatest skill, making friends and connections as much as ferreting out their secrets. The old master had not lasted long after Luerce had married his daughter.