The Palace (Bell Mountain Series #6)

by Lee Duigon

  “My countrymen,” he said, “we’ve all seen the horrors of this war. We all desire peace.

  “It’s true I’m not ordained. But many of you will be chosen to help me and advise me. Someday, when the New Temple is firmly established in men’s hearts, you may choose a new First Prester more to your liking: maybe someone who is among us today. But in the meantime King Thunder has chosen me to be your servant, in his name, because he sees me as a bridge between you and himself. I am ready to be that bridge.

  “I came here to make peace and to crown your king and to begin the work of the New Temple. I have no other purpose. Choose, then—the old Temple, which lies in ruins, or the new, which opens up the whole world to the clergy of Obann and waits only for you to come to her and preach the Scriptures.”

  Prester Jod and Preceptor Constan sat together, their faces set like stone. “They know they’ve lost,” thought Merffin. “They know they can’t stand in the way of our only hope for peace.”

  They did stand in the way, and two or three dozen other voters with them. But Merffin and Aggo had done their work well; and at the end of the day, when the moderator put the gold chain around Goryk Gillow’s neck, Obann had a new First Prester.

  CHAPTER 32

  Concerning the Crown

  Wytt was in the stables when Goryk Gillow’s horses were brought in and given stalls. That meant the Boy and Whiteface were somewhere nearby. He’d been in the palace before and knew how vast it was. Finding the two he sought would not be easy. A human being might think such a search would take forever, but time was not something that loomed large in any Omah’s mind. Wytt would just keep sniffing up and down hallways at night until he picked up the scent.

  But there was another presence in that mountain of hewn stone and polished wood: not an odor, not a glimpse of anything, not even the faintest whisper of noise. It clung to the two horses that had drawn Goryk’s coach and made the other horses in the stables shy away from them. Wytt could not give it a name, but he knew what it was.

  It was that something that the men from Silvertown had transported in their carriage in the covered box. Its presence was everywhere in the palace, unperceived by the countless human beings who trod the corridors, worked in the kitchens, occupied the rooms. They went about their business oblivious to the presence among them that meant death—thinly diffused, but still felt by the mice that quietly inhabited the building. Their scent was tinged with fear, and they fled when Wytt approached them. Had he made his way up to the hundred rooftops of the palace, or to any of the unused attics, he would have noticed that the pigeons had stopped roosting there.

  But he did notice, when he returned to the stables before dawn, that the spiders in the stables were spinning misshapen webs and failing to wrap up the flies that blundered into them. The orbs they spun were crooked, incomplete. The spiders couldn’t have told him why they were behaving so erratically. But Wytt didn’t need to be told. He knew.

  Although Merffin Mord had offered them luxurious accommodations in the palace, Gurun elected to stay at Prester Jod’s townhouse.

  “The king should be in his palace,” Mord complained, “and the queen as well.” Gurun thought he seemed fidgety and in a great hurry to get out of Jod’s house.

  “We are comfortable here,” she answered, “and we are used to it. We will stay here until after the coronation.”

  “Suit yourself!” he said, forgetting to add, “my lady.”

  “That man hates you almost as much as he hates me,” Fnaa said, when Merffin had scurried back to the palace. “If you’d touched him, I’ll bet he’d have jumped out of his boots.”

  “I think he is a man with many worries on his mind,” Gurun said. “I think he is afraid you might do something foolish at the coronation and ruin the ceremony.”

  “I wouldn’t be surprised if I did,” said Fnaa.

  The next day Goryk Gillow was elected First Prester. Jod came home from the conclave out of spirits.

  “They must have planned this down to the last vote,” he said. “Few of the presters who have any integrity are in the city now. And so we have a traitor to our country as First Prester.”

  “I remember that man,” Gurun said. “I recognized him when he met us at the palace. He came before the gate one day to demand that King Ryons journey to the East to meet the Thunder King. We made that journey in the winter, but an avalanche buried the Thunder King before we reached the mountains.”

  “It is said that that was not the Thunder King, but only one of his servants,” Jod said.

  “And I have heard it said there is no Thunder King,” said Gurun, remembering the tidings Gallgoid brought down from the Golden Pass.

  “Well, there is one now,” Jod said, “and our new First Prester is his creature.”

  Fnaa spoke up: “I won’t let him put the crown on my head.”

  Jod stared at him, open-mouthed. “But, Your Majesty, you must!” he said. “You’re the only hope for Obann—the king chosen for us by God Himself.”

  Fnaa looked like he was about to say something that he shouldn’t say, so Gurun spoke first.

  “You may leave the king to me, sir,” she said. And when she was alone with Fnaa again, “What were you about to say to Prester Jod? He doesn’t know you’re only holding King Ryons’ place for him. Don’t make his life more difficult than it is already.”

  “He’s a good man, and I don’t like us fooling him,” Fnaa said. “If that new First Prester is really from the Thunder King, maybe I’ll order Uduqu to lop of his head with the giant’s sword.”

  “And Uduqu would enjoy doing it, too!” said Gurun. “Then the fat would be in the fire, wouldn’t it?”

  “It’d save King Ryons a lot of trouble, though,” said Fnaa.

  No sign of Jack or Martis, no sign of Wytt—but they had to be in the palace, Ellayne thought, because Goryk Gillow had arrived in Obann and had just been made First Prester. “Just as Martis predicted,” said her father. “I’d be happy for the chance to tell him so.”

  “When Wytt finds them,” Ellayne said, “he’ll tell them that we’re here and help them find us. I just wish there was something more that we could do!”

  “We can’t do anything,” Roshay said, “not without putting Goryk on his guard. We must trust Martis to come to us.”

  “We’re running out of time, Father.”

  In three more days would be the coronation—the day that summer, by the calendar, turned irrevocably toward fall: the traditional day of coronation, as recorded in the Scriptures.

  Except for the wide space left open for the coronation itself, the field was full of tents. From all over Obann came former oligarchs and rich men, traders, and ordinary people and their families. Day and night enticing aromas floated out from the cooking tents.

  No one seemed to be wondering at the absence of King Ryons’ army, the Heathen men who were Heathen no more. Their absence, Ellayne feared, would give away Fnaa’s game. “Maybe the bad men already know he’s not the king,” she thought. “Maybe they’ll expose him at the coronation. Who knows what they might do?”

  But not even her father knew of the substitution of Fnaa for Ryons, and Ellayne wasn’t free to tell him.

  “There’s a disaster just waiting to happen here,” she thought. “Jack and Martis, where are you? I need you!”

  Jack had not been allowed out of his room in the palace since he’d first been ushered into it, and there was always one of the Dahai at the door to see that no one but Martis came in without Goryk’s permission.

  “The coronation’s in three days,” Martis told him, “and I’d like to have us safely out of here before then. But I haven’t found a safe way out yet.”

  “I don’t suppose we could just walk out the way we came in,” Jack said.

  “Not without several hundred people seeing us,” Martis said. “I’ve made friends with our Dahai guards. A few coins from me will send them off to seek amusement in the city. They don’t like having to be her
e all the time. I can take you out of this room whenever I please. But where to go from there, I still don’t know.”

  Jack wasn’t used to Martis not knowing what to do. More than any other aspect of the situation, that made him uneasy.

  “What about that man Gallgoid?” he asked. “Won’t he help us?”

  “I have no idea where Gallgoid is or what he’s doing.”

  Before Martis could say any more, someone pounded heavily on their door and flung it open—one of the Dahai bodyguards.

  “You come quickly, Jayce,” he said. “Chief wants to see you right away.”

  “What about?”

  The Dahai only shrugged. Martis squeezed Jack’s shoulder. “I’ll be back,” he said. “Don’t worry.”

  The Dahai locked the door on Jack and escorted Martis to Goryk Gillow’s room before returning to stand guard over Jack. Two of the other Dahai were stationed in the hall to head off passersby, while the third watched Goryk’s door. He let Martis into the room.

  Goryk and Zo sat in comfortable stuffed chairs while Merffin Mord paced the floor and ran his fingers uncontrollably through his hair. He seemed quite close to panic.

  “Ah, Jayce,” said Goryk. “Sit down. We may need your advice.”

  “What’s the matter?” Martis said. “Has something gone wrong?”

  “Wrong?” cried Merffin. “I’d put it a lot more forcefully than that, my friend!”

  “Tell Jayce,” Goryk said.

  Merffin stopped pacing. His face shone with sweat. “I’ll tell you what’s wrong,” he said. “The crown! The crown with which we’ll crown our king on Summer’s End—it’s missing. Someone’s stolen it!”

  He ground his teeth, but Martis almost grinned. “Gallgoid!” he thought, and could not help admiring the fellow.

  CHAPTER 33

  Jack’s Climb

  Jack was a long time alone. He wondered what Goryk Gillow wanted with Martis. Could there be any danger? He didn’t see how that was possible: he and Martis were the only ones who knew who Martis really was. Unless someone in the palace had recognized Martis, he thought, and spoken to Goryk about it. Jack couldn’t help worrying. “If I don’t get out of this room pretty soon,” he thought, “I’ll go stir-crazy.”

  He was still fretting, just sitting on his bed with nothing in the world to do, when he heard a scratching and a tapping at the window. Martis had fastened the shutters earlier to keep out moths. Now it sounded like something a lot bigger than a moth was trying to get in. Jack got up to see what it was.

  A bird would have flown away the moment he unlatched the shutters. This intruder gave a soft squeal that for a moment froze Jack in his tracks. “Could it be? But how? How?” In his eagerness he made a mess of opening the shutters and got a splinter in his hand. He didn’t care.

  There stood Wytt on the windowsill, brandishing his stick. Jack almost cried out with delight, just in time remembering the guard at his door. The Omah jumped into his arms.

  “Wytt!” he whispered. “What are you doing here? I must be dreaming!”

  “No noise—bad men will hear,” Wytt answered. He rubbed his head against Jack’s cheek, a gesture of affection usually reserved for Ellayne. “You come with me now—not stay here.”

  “I’d love to. But how?”

  Wytt pointed to the open window. “Climb. It’s easy. Climb up to next hole.”

  Jack leaned out the window and looked up. This section of the palace featured alternating courses of stone, some of it intricately carved for decoration. The full moon bathed it in a silvery light. But actually to climb it, like a lizard or a fly? Jack shook his head.

  “I can’t do it. I’ll fall.”

  Wytt snorted. “Mouse-heart! Suckling! Only climb a little way. Easy!”

  “Easy for you,” Jack muttered. It’d hardly be like climbing a nice tree full of handy branches. Still, it really was only a little way. “I’ll try,” he said.

  “Follow me.” Wytt scampered up the wall like a squirrel and in a moment stood on the windowsill directly above Jack’s. It couldn’t be more than six feet higher up.

  Jack took off his shoes and tied them to his belt, stuffed his socks inside them. He climbed out to stand on the windowsill. “Whatever you do,” he warned himself, “don’t look down.” Certainly he’d made more difficult climbs than this, just for fun—but none at such a distance from the ground. If he fell from this height, he’d splatter like an egg.

  “Come on!” Wytt chattered at him.

  “I’m coming; I’m coming!” he grumbled. “Shut up!” He took a deep breath, stretched out a leg to find a toehold, felt along a ridge of carving for a finger-hold, and slowly, gently, pulled himself sideways. Then the next hand, the next foot: and then he was off the windowsill and clinging to the wall, flat up against the stone.

  A grown man couldn’t have done it, but Jack did. His hands and feet were small enough to find purchase on the carvings. Hardly daring to breathe, he pulled with his arms, pushed with his legs; and after what seemed an exceedingly long and dangerous few minutes, his hands were gripping the other windowsill. It’d be a shame to fall now! Pushing, pulling, he got his forearms onto the sill, reached inside the window, then got his chest onto the sill, up with one leg, then the other—and finally tumbled into an empty room.

  “Good Boy,” Wytt said. He clambered back down to Jack’s window and tugged the shutters back into place. Jack was still panting on the floor when he returned.

  “What about Martis?” Jack asked.

  Wytt didn’t know how to shrug. “Find Whiteface later,” he answered, “when he sleeps. You wait here for him. No man has been in this room for long time.”

  “Wytt, Martis won’t be able to climb up here. He’s too big.” Jack was finding it hard to stop his hands from trembling and catch his breath.

  “Wait,” said Wytt.

  Getting Merffin calm enough to sit down took several minutes. They lost much more time discussing who might have taken the crown and where it might be hidden.

  “This is idle,” Mardar Zo said at last. “Can you not make another crown?”

  “In two days?” Merffin cried. “There are great and costly jewels in that crown that can’t be replaced.”

  “No one will know if you use colored glass,” Goryk said. “It seems the real jewels were more of a temptation than one of your artisans could resist.”

  “It wasn’t one of them—it couldn’t have been,” Merffin said. “But a crown of colored glass? We paid a great deal of money for those jewels, and I want them back! A lot of that money was my own!”

  “This shrewd man has become a miserly fool,” Martis thought. But he didn’t speak.

  “I would imagine the king, or eventually his substitute, would only wear the crown on ceremonial occasions,” Goryk said. “As long as no one is given the opportunity to examine it too closely, why not use a facsimile? Surely your craftsmen can make one in two days.”

  “Do you have any idea what all those jewels are worth?” cried Merffin.

  “But the jewels are not what matters,” Goryk said, making a visible effort to keep his temper. “The crown doesn’t matter. It, like the coronation itself, is only for show. What we want is for the Oligarchy to be ruling Obann once again—a council of oligarchs headed by you, my lord.” Merffin had no right to be called “lord,” but maybe someday he would own the title, Martis thought. “In the end, we won’t need king nor crown.”

  “And in the meantime we can keep on searching for it,” Martis said, “and maybe find it.”

  “Well said, Jayce,” Goryk said. “Someone knows where it is. Find that someone, and we’ll find the crown. But just in case we don’t, we’ll need a facsimile. There’s no way around it.”

  Merffin fumed and sputtered, but his argument had nowhere left to go. In the end he got up to go and order the swift production of an imitation crown.

  “Devil take him and his jewels,” Goryk said after Merffin left. “That is a man who doesn’t
know what’s important!”

  “I would rather deal with a fool like that than with a wise man,” Zo said.

  By and by, Martis got up to return to his room for sleep. “We’ll all need sharp wits from here on in,” he said. “Good night, my lord First Prester.”

  “Good night, Jayce.”

  The Dahai guard unlocked Martis’ door to let him back into the room. It took Martis a moment to realize Jack wasn’t there. But that was impossible. He looked under both beds, and anywhere else the boy might be hiding, but Jack was gone.

  This was alarming. He almost called the guard. Maybe Jack had escaped—although how he could have done so was inconceivable. Maybe Goryk had ordered someone to take Jack away while they were all palavering about the missing crown. But why would Goryk do that?