"Who are you trying to fool? You're not happy. You're the most miserable soul in Gil. You might as well be married."
I cooled my cheek on the cold stones that framed the window and shook his hand off my shoulder.
"Go away," I said.
He walked to the door, where he paused. I didn't look at him. Then, softly, he said the thing I had been thinking, waiting for and most dreading to hear. "Tigrallef—Calla's dead."
"I know that," I said bitterly. "I killed her."
"Not by intention. But if you're still trying to punish yourself, Miishel's as good a place as Gil. Probably better." Then he was gone.
I stayed in the tower for a long, long time, watching the Miishel ship flaunting itself at anchor. When I came downstairs, Angel and Shree were debating some subtleties in a new work on Plavipern ethics, and the subject of my marriage was not raised.
To my relief, the Princess Rinn was not on board the ship from Miishel. The display of Gillish splendour turned out to be for her cousin, the Frath Major, who had come to Gil to negotiate hard cash terms. I waited for another official summons from Arko and the Primate, but they seemed to be bartering for me sight unseen. This hardly surprised me. It was in the Primate's interest, also in his character, to keep me invisible for as long as he decently could.
I waited. All evening I waited and continued obsessively to argue Plavipern ethics with Angel and Shree. Shree claimed to grow tired of the debate and went out early in the evening. Angel was prepared to carry on unstoppably until sun-up, or possibly the sun-up after that, and so we carried on. I doubt if Plavipern ethics have ever been more thoroughly dissected, even in Plav.
And all the while, one part of my brain was busily writing scripts for the benefit of the Miisheli Frath Major. The alliance was not yet final; if the Frath didn't like me, I reasoned, Miishel could well withdraw, even at this stage, and then I'd have a fighting chance of saving the archives.
Maybe I could make him not like me. An offhanded reference to unspeakable diseases; a mournful mention of tainted blood. Or I could play on my reputation for oddness. I could feign feeblemindedness. Or froth at the mouth. Or bark like a dog. Or pick my nose. Or play with my privates. Or all of the above. What, I asked myself, would be likely to impress him the least?
"Angel, you've missed the whole point of the tortoise metaphor," I said testily. "The shell is not the reason for the soft parts—it's the complement. Likewise with the Will Simple and the Will Immanent, the shell and soft parts of the Will Absolute."
At the same time, I was thinking: I could show up naked and daubed with woad, like one of those religious fanatics from Calloon. Or turn up in a harlot's nightgown and flirt with the Frath Major. (But he might like that.) "You see my point?" I added.
Behind the beard, Angel was grinning. I realized there was a hole in my argument as big as a wain-wheel, and there was no chance that Angel would miss it. Tongue-bound though he usually was, he was a carnivore in debate. He drew a long breath. I knew what he was going to say, and also that I had no valid counter-argument. He opened his mouth. There was a knock at the door.
I jumped to my feet. "Sorry, Angel, we'll have to leave it at that," I said quickly. But halfway to the door, I realized that my hands were shaking and my knees were unsteady.
It could not be Shree behind the door, since he wouldn't bother knocking. The pupils were playing fingersticks in the reading room. My mother was in Malvi for the summer. The water had been delivered. I'd forgotten (again) to send the laundry out. As for casual visitors, few ever bothered with the archives if they could help it. Was this the dreaded summons? Was I about to be called for inspection? Informed of my fate? Sent off to the tailors to be measured for my nuptial robes?
At that moment, something in me revolted. I squared my shoulders. Forget the games, I told myself. Forget the playacting. Miishel might own me for the rest of my life, but at this moment I was still my own man. And, short of being dragged down to the council chamber unconscious and in chains, I would not leave the archives that night, not even if it meant reopening the debate with Angel, which I was losing. Trembling again, but this time with determination, I flung open the door.
There was nobody there.
I stared stupidly into the darkness of the antechamber. The lamp that usually burned on the staircase had gone out—but I remembered sending one of the pupils to fill it just after supper. Among the shadowy hulks of broken chairs and crates, there was a faint whisper of sound, like rough cloth brushing along a dusty surface. Not a shull, I knew by long experience what shulls sounded like. "Who's there?" I called.
Angel stirred behind me. "There's something at your feet."
I looked down. A small brown sack, apparently empty. The twine that had been used to tie it had dropped in a coil beside the mouth. Another stirring in the darkness beyond, and I looked up, aware of the fine target I made, outlined against the lamplight. A rustle, at my feet this time; when I looked down again, the twine had moved.
I froze. It was not twine. The death-diamond pattern was visible down the length of the tiny body. I could see the head now, too, a jewelled arrow-point no larger than the nail of my little finger, twisting back and forth, questing towards my sandalled foot. Minutely forked, fine as a filament of silk, the tongue flickered out to kiss the leather sole. Not a twitch, I told myself, not so much as a muscle. I held my breath, pleaded with my eyelids not to blink. Sparks began to shoot across the insides of my eyes. Golden sparks. Go away. The snake hesitated and then slid over my foot, over the crossed straps of the sandal, into the room behind. Almost at my heels, there was a thud.
"You can move now," said Angel.
I didn't for some seconds; then, a quivering lump of raw nerves, I turned. Behind me on the floor was the Ethics of Plav, a weighty work in both senses, given its heavy wooden covers bound in iron. There was no sign of the snake until Angel squatted down and lifted the book. "Parth-asp," he said conversationally.
"Bless you, Angel." I tottered to the nearest chair, weak with gratitude that the Plaviset didn't write on scrolls. I could taste the overcooked fish we'd had for supper. Suddenly I remembered. I leaped up, grabbed a lamp, vaulted over the spot where Angel was scraping the snake off the floor and skidded to a halt in the open doorway. The antechamber was silent. The light played over broken tables, upturned chairs, splintered crates, giving them strangely architectural shapes in the shadows, like a ruined city by moonlight. Nobody was there. I prodded at the bag with my sandal, and then picked it up. A paper crackled within. Thoughtfully, I closed the door.
Angel dangled the little corpse in front of my eyes. "Shall I put it with the natural history specimens?"
"Don't bother. Just throw it away. Please."
He disappeared into the kitchen. While he was gone, I withdrew a folded paper from the bag and spread it open on the table. The message was in black ink, in Gillish, in a sprawling, inexpert hand: IF YOU LIVE TO READ THIS, STICK TO YOUR BOOKS. I stared at it for a few moments, then refolded it and tucked it into the top of my britches.
Angel returned, minus the snake. He sat down at the table and leaned forward eagerly. The killer light was back in his eyes. "Now as to your interpretation of the Will Absolute—" he began.
I sat down, stood up again, walked a few paces back and forth. Angel broke off and watched me. The floor seemed to be shifting treacherously under my feet, the solid walls thinning to a shell that a breath could crack wide open. The archives, my sanctuary for six years, could not protect me any longer.
"The Will Absolute—?" Angel prompted hopefully.
I stared at him. Oddly enough, I wanted nothing more at that moment than to sit down and be demolished by Angel on a point of pure logic. Who could tell? It might be for the last time. I sat down.
"All right, Angel," I said. "What about the Will Absolute?"
* * *
6
DREAMING AGAIN. THE green slab of ocean hung above me, the towers trembled on their foundations, the
chorus of the damned echoed around the Pleasure. Calla said: really, Tig, must we go through this every night? I gaped at her—she'd never stayed for the finale before—and when I lifted my hand to touch her, the chains shattered like glass, my arm broke free and grew golden, like mist, like a pillar of shining smoke, as high as the sky; and I found I could push back the ocean, halt the winds in mid-fury, bounce the flaming balls of lightning off the palm of my great fiery hand, and Calla said: now you know. I said: now I know what? Either the silence swallowed her reply, or she had already vanished. Wondering where on earth she had got to now, I swung my legs off the Pleasure . . .
. . . and on to the cold, hard flagstones of my sleeping cubicle. Feet first, I started to wake up. Sunlight was streaming through the window at an acute mid-morning angle. I slumped on the pallet and rubbed my eyes.
"There's a message for you," said Shree.
Too bleary to be startled, I opened one eye while continuing to massage the other. Shree was squatting, fully dressed, by the cubicle door. It took a moment or two for his words to penetrate.
"I said, there's a message for you."
"I heard you."
He had another of those damned scrolls on his lap. I splashed my face from the jug beside the pallet, letting the icy water disperse the last trailing shreds of the dream, and then held out my hand. Shree tossed the scroll over. Green ribbon only, no gold this time; this love-note was from the Primate. I yawned, admired the green ribbon, assayed the paper as I unrolled it, swept a critical eye over the calligraphy.
"I've always suspected the Primate of weak scholarship," I said. "Two dubious case-endings here, and one spelling mistake. Who taught this man to write?"
"What does it say?"
"Say? If I read it correctly, it says I'm banned from the archives. I'll be moved to new quarters this morning."
"What? When did you say?"
"This morning." I yawned again, elaborately. "Don't look so shocked. It had to come some time."
"I know that. But so soon!"
"Why not? A quick, clean break—I'd rather be chopped in half than sawn in half, and this is similar in principle." I stretched and stood up, looking around the familiar cell, knowing that I'd never sleep there again, telling myself that it didn't matter, knowing that I was lying to myself.
"I don't like it," said Shree.
"You don't? I thought you approved of the Primate marrying me off."
"Not exactly approved—I just said it was bound to happen some time. But there's something very much stranger than your marriage going on, Tig. Angel told me about the snake—"
"Yes, our little visitor." I reached down to the floor and fumbled in my discarded britches for the note. STICK TO YOUR BOOKS. "This came with it. Good advice, if only I could follow it."
He read it with a grave face and tossed it back. "Outside the archives you'll be even more exposed."
"It makes no difference. Anyway, I have no choice. I'm surprised that the Primate's little helpers aren't already here."
"They are here, the vultures." Shree looked up, suddenly fierce. "They're waiting for you in the reading room. But never mind them, I have to talk to you."
"Of course. Talk as long as you like. Talk all day." I lay back on the pallet and grinned. It hurt my mouth muscles.
At that moment, heavy boots clumped along the passageway towards my cubicle. Shree shifted until he was sitting with his back braced against the door. "I heard something last night."
There was a firm tapping on my door.
"You'll have to tell me quickly."
He took a deep breath. "The Fiery Hand no longer exists."
"Is that all?" I asked, surprised at his portentous tone. "I didn't give it long anyway. That priest had no idea how to stage a service—"
"They were all murdered."
I looked at him sharply, the grin fading. The tapping became louder and more insistent. I called out vaguely and beckoned for Shree to continue.
"The bodies weren't discovered until yesterday, battered to death, the whole lot of them, priests and all. There were many dark whispers around the old quarter last night—the general feeling is that the high priest raised a demon he couldn't control."
"Not a chance," I said grimly. "That one couldn't have raised chickens. They were killed because of me."
"Probably. I imagine that the friends of whoever attacked us wanted to leave no witnesses—even though they failed to get you."
I lay back and stared at the ceiling. "So. More deaths on my conscience."
Shree snorted. "Stop it, Tig. You didn't bludgeon those people to death, somebody else did. You weren't even the instrument this time."
"I was the cause."
"That doesn't mean—"
"If I hadn't gone to the Fiery Hand that night, those people would still be alive."
"Oh, go ahead then," said Shree. "Flog yourself if it makes you feel better. The point is, somebody is playing a very deadly game—deadly enough to massacre fourteen or fifteen innocent bystanders simply to discourage them from gossiping."
I pondered. "Tata? Grisot? They can't be happy about the alliance. They may have chosen this somewhat direct method to scuttle the negotiations."
"The only swords I saw were triple-curved, like they make in Miishel."
"Miishel!" At that, I had to laugh. "But the Miishelu already own me! They can poison me at leisure after the wedding, if they feel like it. Why would they go to such trouble to kill me beforetimes?" I bellowed with laughter, which created a momentary silence on the far side of the door. Then the tapping became pounding. Shree leaned his shoulder against the door to hold it shut.
"Before you start picking at the bedcovers," he said acidly, "there's one more thing."
I rolled myself off the pallet, drew my night-tunic over my head and picked my britches and yesterday's wrinkled tunic off the floor. "Better hurry."
Shree took a deep breath. "Have you been feeling normal lately?"
"No more so than usual."
He didn't smile. "Nothing strange?"
"Under the circumstances, nothing to mention."
"No visions, no strange feelings—?"
"No."
(But then a flash of memory: sparks across my eyelids, the silent command, the snake gliding over my sandal-strap . . .)
"Well, perhaps," I said.
(The Primate choking at the end of the golden tunnel . . .)
"Maybe one or two coincidences," I added thoughtfully. "Why do you ask?"
I think he almost told me then, not that it would have made a grain's-weight of difference in the end. But as he opened his mouth, the door crashed open and the impact shoved him halfway across the cell. He recovered instantly and snapped around in a classic Sherkin fighting crouch, his hand already at the knife tucked into his waistband—so I clamped my hand on his arm and yanked him towards me.
"If you carve up that nice trooper," I whispered into his ear, "I won't take you with me to Miishel."
Shree subsided. The trooper, a smooth-cheeked young officer, showed no awareness of the fact that I'd just saved his perfect skin. He greeted me with all the correct gestures, far too courteously for a man who had just broken my door down. He had yet another of those damned beribboned message scrolls in his hand. No wonder there was a paper shortage in Gil. "Lord Tigrallef, the Priest-King commands you—"
"Save your breath, I'm coming."
"So am I," said Shree.
The officer coughed gently. Three armed troopers appeared at the door. Others were audible behind them.
"I think not, Shree," I said. I paused to shoot a meaningful look at him: behave yourself; we'll continue this later. A final glance around the cell, and then I was on my way down the corridor, the officer ahead of me, two troopers on each side of me, four more behind. Thus, even before we left the archives, I was a prisoner.
Angel did not glance up as we trooped past his open door. He was reabsorbed in the Ethics of Plav, probably working out a few more un
answerable arguments to devastate me with. I knew he'd never get the chance.
In the reading room, I kept my eyes straight ahead. The books were all around me and if I dared to look at them, the soap-bubble standing in for my head would certainly burst. The pupils were whispering in a corner, waiting for a lesson I'd never teach. On my worktable, beside the appalling Lucian scroll, was the critical review I'd never finish. Books were piled high beside it—books I would never read.
This is just like death, I thought.
And so, for the last time, without ceremony or farewell, wearing a rictus that tried to pass itself off as a brave smile, I walked through the reading room and out of the archives door. All I remember thinking, as they marched me down the stairs, was how badly the walls needed a new coat of plaster.
I expected to be taken to the audience hall for inspection, but my escorts swept me right past it. They led me deeper into the Temple Palace, past the antechambers of the Priest-King and the other Scions of Oballef, past the court hall and the vestibule of the sanctuary, to a quarter where the ceilings were low and the plaster on the walls covered living rock. The gloom, both mine and the castle's, deepened as we went. This quarter was windowless, buried in the mountain, theoretically receiving daylight via a cunning maze of lightwells and horizontal shafts fitted with bronze reflectors at every angle, which the Sherank, it must be said, had kept scrupulously clean and polished. Arko's regime had other priorities and no slave labour. Therefore, although it was a bright spring morning in Gil, our way was lit by lanterns set at intervals along the passage floors. For every lantern, there was at least one guard.
"The Most Revered One is taking no chances," I commented. "Not counting the dungeons, this must be the closest thing to a prison in the Gilgard. Is this to protect me, or keep me from running away?"
"Is there any chance you'll try it, my lord Scion?"
"Really, trooper. Why would I want to run away? I should be on my knees," I went on bitterly, "thanking my dear brother and the Revered Primate for finding me such a lovely bride."
Gil Trilogy 2: Scion's Lady Page 4