It was not the opulence of the space which daunted me. I had little use for wealth myself, and saw no value in the devout tapestries, woven of gilt and verdigris, which behung the walls, the sheened marble of the floor, the lamps burning scented holy oils in their stands of gold and mahogany, the sculpted and pious busts of Mullior’s lords. Rather, I was chagrined by the fact that such luxuriance existed. An effort I could not conceive had gone into the creation of Duke Obal’s ornaments—and the work had not been done by men or women of my kind. Our lives were fixed on survival, and from day to day we had neither leisure nor inclination for embellishment. The palace’s wealth daunted me because it reminded me that I was vastly outnumbered by souls accepted by God and Mother Church, souls who could hope for Heaven—and who could afford to spend their existence on decoration.
Each step I took in such a place increased my peril. I did not belong there. I belonged in servants’ entrances and private passages, small rooms secreted from scrutiny, lofts and stables and mud. The farther I intruded here, the greater grew the certainty that my nature would be discovered. And each bust and weaving seemed to mock the idea that I would ever be free to depart.
Clutching to my breast the faith which Irradia had taught me—the faith that some among humankind understood loyalty and honor as well as they grasped war and anathema—I followed my fusilier toward the Duke.
Chamber succeeded chamber, some high and stately, others smaller and more discreet. Servants tended a few, but most were vacant, and their emptiness troubled me. It suggested that their usual occupants and attendants had been called elsewhere. Therefore I feared that Duke Obal meant to make me known to the entire palace.
Instinctively I yearned to cower and skulk forward as though I had come to haunt a battlefield. The strain of walking erect tested me sorely. Only the wisdom of my kind restrained me from creeping—the given knowledge that the more I showed my fear the more I would empower my enemies to act on their own.
Before me loomed a set of doors as high as those which guarded the portico, but at once less massive and more ornate. There the fusilier led me. Anxiously bidding me to wait, he tapped his knuckles on the wood, then stepped back to compose himself.
At once, the doors were jerked partly aside, and a man slipped between them to confront us, closing them swiftly behind him so that we might not see inward or enter.
He wore the rich braid and tooled leather of Duke Obal’s livery, although his costume was more elaborate than those I knew by sight. A pectoral cross hung by a chain of heavy gold from his neck, and a short satin cloak of midnight purple with the Rose of Obal picked out in crimson thread draped one shoulder. In his hand he held a slender staff surmounted by Mullior’s Eagle in silver and gems. This rod proclaimed him the Duke’s majordomo.
He did not look at me. Indeed, he seemed determined to avoid sight of me. Vexed by trepidation, he snapped waspishly at the fusilier, “Who is this?”
Too loudly, the fusilier replied, “By your grace, this is Duke Obal’s handservant Scriven.” Sweat stood on his brow, although the night was cool. “His presence has been commanded.”
At last the majordomo flicked a frightened glance at me, then swore in a whisper. “I know that, fool. You would have done the Duke and all Mullior a service if you had failed to find him, no matter how strenuously his presence was commanded.”
The fusilier retreated a step from the majordomo’s anger. “I’m sorry,” he murmured uncertainly. “We didn’t know—”
The majordomo swore again. “Return to your duties. Say nothing.” Flapping his hand, he dismissed my escort. Then he demanded of me, “You are Scriven? You and no other?” Again his eyes evaded my face.
Alarm closed my throat. Unable to speak, I nodded awkwardly. His manner foretold that I was doomed as well as damned.
Staring past my shoulder, he breathed, “On my soul, and for the sake of this House, I pray that the horrors rumored of you are false.”
Before I could attempt a reply, he returned to the doors. “Enter,” he commanded as he drew them aside. “The Duke awaits you.”
I could not believe that I would have been greeted in this fashion, hostile though it was, if the Duke openly meant to harm me. He could have easily had me brought before him in irons, disavowing me without subterfuge. Yet any direct rejection would have called into question the acceptance which had preceded it. Therefore, my terror suggested, I would be asked to betray myself. If I did so, I would spare Duke Obal the censure of Mother Church and his own lords for his former acquiescence in my designs.
Even then I might have changed my mind and fled. I was strong enough. I could have run like the wind—overpowered most ordinary opposition—broken from the palace and dashed into the dark streets and alleys of Mullior, outdistancing immediate pursuit. And if I set my scruples aside so that I remained strong, I might prolong my life for days. On the brink of the fate Duke Obal had prepared for me, I nearly turned aside.
But I did not. I had sworn my vows to myself and to God, and to Irradia’s memory, and they held me.
Duke Obal opposed the High Cardinal. In the Cardinal’s person, he opposed the worldly might of Mother Church. And he did not do so because that course was convenient for him, or expedient, or free of peril. Already he had been excommunicated. Worse would befall him if Mullior fell. Therefore I would trust him, and remain true to the service I had chosen to give him.
Hunching within my robes, I stepped between the doors and joined the majordomo in the hall beyond.
Although my eyes had grown accustomed to the profuse illumination within the palace, I was not prepared for the brilliance of the Duke’s ceremonial chamber. Intricate chandeliers depended thickly from the ceiling. Candelabra without number lined the walls. And they were enhanced at intervals by braziers and glittering lamps. In two high hearths blazing logs cast back the evening’s chill. From end to end, light searched the space, seeking fears and effacing concealment. By preference and necessity, I was a creature of the night, inclined to coverts and darkness—dismayed by so much flame-shine. I quailed at the majordomo’s side, despite my resolve to show no fright.
That the hall was crowded with people only augmented my alarm.
Here apparently were gathered all the highborn and significant citizens of Mullior. Among the Duke’s servants and fusiliers, I saw folk that I knew—lords and ladies, captains and commanders, priests and officials, merchants and moneylenders—and at least twoscore men and women that I did not. Some wore the garb of their duties and rank. Others displayed their finery, their wealth, or their charms, as those who courted suzerains were inclined to do at any provocation, claiming their stature by right of ostentation or appearance.
As palpable to me as the vitality of blood, their tension gave flesh to my apprehensions.
It was a singular assembly—and not a disinterested one. All Mullior stood excommunicate. Highborn and low, lords and streetsweepers, ladies and whores—all Mullior’s inhabitants faced anathema from the High Cardinal’s indignation and ruin for their immortal souls. Here were gathered, however, those whose riches and power—as well as salvation—were either threatened or enhanced by the siege of Mother Church. According to their factions and loyalties, to the sources of their wealth and standing, these men and women had tangible, worldly reasons to support resistance, or to encourage surrender. They might speak of evil and redemption—some of them sincerely—but they had other concerns as well.
As did I. I did not think ill of them for their personal considerations. I had no right—and no soul to give my judgments worth. But I also did not trust them. None of their concerns were mine.
They would not hesitate to sacrifice me.
After a moment I caught sight of Duke Obal, some distance from me. He stood in a cluster of his supporters and adherents, among them Lord Ermine, heir to the Duchy, Lord Vill, who commanded the Duke’s forces in the field when the Duk
e himself was absent, Lord Rawn, Master of Mullior’s Purse, and several captains noteworthy for their daring in battle. Another observer might not have remarked the particular company surrounding the Duke, but I was struck by it.
They were all men whom I had restored, in the name of my vow.
The rest of the assembly appeared less deliberately composed—grouped more by family or rank than by faction—although the Bishop of Mullior, His Reverence Heraldic, kept the company of his priests and confessors close about him. Yet the general flow and eddy of social intercourse preserved a discreet space around those who stood with the Duke. I judged that these folk were discomfited by the occasion, chary of seeming uncritically allied to the House of Obal. Perhaps under the troubled gaze of the Bishop they did not wish to appear impious by too obviously supporting a man accused of sacrilege and threatened with anathema.
A low murmur of taut conversation and uneasy riposte filled the hall, softened by the rugs which overlay much of the marble floor. The majordomo had ushered me inward quietly. At first we attracted no notice. But clearly my escort had been given instructions which defied his preferences. With his head turned from me and his shoulders clenched in distaste, he struck his staff against the floor. By some trick of the light, Mullior’s Eagle appeared to flap its wings, barking for attention. Almost instantly, every voice in the hall was stilled, and every eye swung toward us, some with interest, others in trepidation.
The impulse to cower multiplied within me. If I had not fed so recently, I would not have been strong enough to refuse it.
Clearing his throat, the majordomo declaimed unsteadily, “My lords and ladies, here is Duke Obal’s faithful handservant Scriven.” The decreed litany of my peril had already grown ominously familiar. “By the Duke’s express wish, he presents himself to attend upon his lord.”
The growl of opprobrium which at once greeted this announcement shriveled my heart in my chest. I heard “carrion-crow” muttered and “blood-beast” moaned. Priests and devout ladies crossed themselves or clutched their beads, their lips busy with prayer. Fusiliers gripped their guns or their falchions. Lords closed their hands on their sabers. Every man and woman near me drew back, looking to each other for protection.
Somehow my nature had become known—or suspected—despite all my caution. I was now a threat to the Duke. He had called me here to resolve the matter.
All that remained was to discover what form my doom would take.
I told myself that I was merely suspected, not known. Otherwise some righteous soul would have struck me where I stood, compelled by his devotion to Mother Church. But that was cold comfort, and tenuous. I could not long endure the scrutiny of so much light.
From the cluster amid which he stood, Duke Obal turned his head. Blinded by the illumination, I could not descry his features, or his expression. When he spoke, his tone was neutral, rigidly controlled.
“Ah, Scriven.” He did not seem to raise his voice. Yet nature had made him potent, despite his years. And he was no longer the wracked invalid to whom I had first offered my service. Both disease and injury had been lifted from him. His voice carried easily. “You are welcome here. My thanks for your promptness.
“Approach me.” He beckoned firmly. “You are needed.”
His self-command was evident. Still his words did not suggest that he meant me ill.
Before I could comply, however, Bishop Heraldic intervened. A hush fell over the hall as he stepped forward.
He was a fleshy individual, disinclined to asceticism. That may have explained his acquiescence to the moral ambiguity of serving Mother Church without supporting the High Cardinal’s siege. Any serious effort to denounce the Duke would have cost him considerable comfort. Nevertheless he made an imposing presence, resplendent in his vestments and miter, the gold of their stitching, and of his heavy pectoral cross, agleam with reflected lampshine. His protuberant eyes glowered, and his pendulous jowls quivered, giving the indignant authority of his office corporeal form. It seemed that his conscience had reached its limits.
Disdaining to glance at me, he confronted Duke Obal across an interval of rugs and marble.
“No, my lord,” he proclaimed, sententious with virtue. “I must protest. By my cloth, and in the name of Mother Church, I forbid this sacrilege. Fiends and demons give no service to Heaven, whatever they pretend. A life is a small price to pay for the sanctity of an immortal soul.”
The Duke raised his chin. “So you have said, my lord Bishop.” Although he owed deference to Mother Church and all Her representatives, he permitted himself an acerbic reply. “I have heard you. I have understood you. But I am the Duke of Mullior, and within these walls my will rules. I will address your concerns—later.
“Approach me, Scriven,” he repeated. Again he beckoned, but with more force. “I am impatient of delay. There is much at issue between us.”
Murmuring, “Yes, my lord,” I left the majordomo’s side and ventured into the expanse of the hall.
Whispers of renewed execration followed me as I moved—a miasma of revulsion and alarm. Ladies and their lords retreated to avoid my proximity. Half the assembly glared at me as though I had arrived in an eruption of brimstone and flame. The rest watched His Reverence Heraldic, hoping—or perhaps fearing—that he would call upon their righteousness to join him in protest or revolt.
For his part, the Bishop withdrew to await events. What he hoped to gain, I did not know. I could not conceive how Duke Obal meant to resolve the dilemma of my presence in Mullior.
Approaching the Duke, I crossed luxurious rugs over a floor of burnished marble, but they had no value to me. I would have preferred to walk in mud.
My lord wore the full regalia of his station—the ornamental hauberk chased with silver, the sash gathered in a rosette at his waist, the tooled greaves and boots, the saber on his hip, and beneath it all a blouse and hose of blackest silk. Rings studded his fingers. The gems of a circlet glittered in his hair. Clearly he intended a commanding display, so that he would be difficult to contradict.
In that he succeeded, for his demeanor and visage conveyed as much authority as his attire. An iron beard shot with gray sculpted the line of his jaw, and the sun-hued planes of his face might have been cast in bronze. When I had first offered him my service, he had been a mere husk of himself, drained by consumption and time, as well as by half a dozen wounds. And even then, he had sustained the High Cardinal’s siege and held the loyalty of Mullior by the unbroken force of his will. Now, however, he was whole and well, and his spirit shone with renewed vitality. He appeared as merciless as his blade.
Only the gentle intelligence of his gaze—the troubled, accessible color of his eyes—revealed the man who was loved more than feared in his Duchy, the man who could defy the edicts of Cardinal Straylish and still trust the hearts of his people. The man whose easy justice and open concern had taught me that not all rulers and powers were cast in the High Cardinal’s mold.
As I neared him, his companions stepped apart, making way for me, and I received a new surprise, a blow so sudden and unexpected that it nearly halted the labor of my heart. For the first time I glimpsed the nature of Duke Obal’s purpose. With his lords and captains, and his son, he had placed himself to conceal a cot on which lay a man of middle years, plainly dying.
I did not recognize him. And he was not identified by attire, for he wore only a cloth wrapped about his loins. Yet I saw his death beyond mistake in the waxen hue of his flesh, the sheen of sweat strained from the pores of his brow, the flecks of blood on his ashy lips. It was my nature to feed on life, and I knew its passing with an intimacy which other men reserved for their lovers, or for God. His soul would achieve its culmination before dawn, and then he would know only bliss or torment forevermore.
And Duke Obal meant— He wished—
The brightness of the hall seemed to gather about me, multiplying on the pale f
lesh of the dying man, so that my vision blurred, and my mind with it. Here before scores of witnesses rife with censorious piety, Duke Obal intended—
Hardly conscious of what I did, I stumbled in my alarm, and would have fallen if Lord Ermine had not caught my arm.
“Calm your fear, Scriven,” he breathed in my ear. Born late, he little resembled his father. His features did not yet bear the stamp of his character. He had the Duke’s eyes, however, and had recovered his life at my hand. “This is necessary. You have not been abandoned.”
His reassurance was kindly meant. I did not believe him—I was wise enough to fear dukes and lords when they spoke of what was “necessary”—but I drew courage from his words and his grasp, and regained my legs.
Beckoning yet again, the Duke urged me to the side of the cot.
I had expected denunciations and curses—at the worst, I had expected a doomed battle to preserve my life—but in my gravest terrors I had never dreamed that I would be asked to betray my nature before all the powerful of Mullior. The prospect appalled me. But it also shamed me. Mother Church taught that my kind had no souls, and could never win release from anguish. Now I was asked to demonstrate the lack. I would not have been more distressed if Duke Obal had commanded me to rape a child in the hall.
The Duke’s Commander joined Lord Ermine beside me. He, too, whispered for no ears but mine. “Come, Scriven. We cannot endure delay. Mullior is a powder keg this night, and every moment the fuse burns shorter.”
I turned toward him in my weakness. “My lord Vill,” I murmured, “I have not deserved this from you.”
Impatiently Lord Rawn, the Master of Mullior’s Purse, snapped his fingers. “What you deserve,” he hissed softly, “is not at issue. Duke Obal’s rule is. He will stand or fall here, and your hesitancy weakens the ground under him. Step forward, or recant your service, as you wish—but do it now.”
Reave the Just and Other Tales Page 20