Falmeard had promised to tell Geran everything himself once he’d got home a few days after Prescinda. All that had turned up, though, was a message excusing his continued absence. He’d been most apologetic, as Prescinda had seen when Geran showed her the note, blaming difficulties with the steward for keeping him away.
It never became clear whether Prescinda had excelled at subterfuge or Geran had preferred not to notice the guarded nature of her sister’s conversation. Geran had seemed her usual self despite the prospect of not seeing Falmeard for another few weeks. The only odd thing had been her response to something Prescinda had accidentally let slip.
They’d been in the garden hanging out washing when Geran had asked, “Why’s it so important they have Falmeard there?” to which Prescinda had absently answered, “He’s the only one who knows the way,” immediately wishing the clothes pegs in her mouth had completely muffled her voice. Threatening to break Prescinda’s resolve, Geran had given her a strange look but had only said, “Well, stands to reason I suppose.”
Perhaps, Prescinda now thought, perhaps it had been for the best that only Nephril had come to collect her this morning, soon sweeping her away from the farm in his slightly more dented Halcyon. It would have been harder for Geran to have seen Falmeard so fleetingly, as pressed for time as Nephril now clearly seemed to be.
Prescinda had grown more relaxed as Nephril had driven her along the old Cambray road on their way to the Royal College. By the time the place came into view, though, an hour or so later, she felt considerably less guilty about deceiving Geran, although certainly more underhand.
Instead of driving in through the main gate, Nephril had carried on past, turning into the road that ran down the side of the campus. She’d noticed that the sheep tick’s paraphernalia not only still cluttered the terrace in front of the college but now also blocked the gate. However, a little way down the side road they came to a new gateway, through which Nephril turned the Halcyon.
They slipped in amongst a number of other similar carriages on what had once been an ornamental lawn at the rear of the college, and soon made their way around to the main entrance at the front. Even here they had to thread their way through boxes, crates and an assortment of cables and hoses.
Once up the steps and in through the great doors, however, the old, familiar, cold blue light and musty silence of the entrance hall denied the chaos and activity without. Although Nephril marched on ahead, intent on the staircase and his office, Prescinda couldn’t help but dally awhile before the hall’s magnificent murals.
Nephril stopped at the first step and turned an inquisitive eye her way. “Still fascinated I see,” and he smiled. “Seems the old walls are getting new admirers of late.”
“Hmm?” she said without taking her eyes away.
He wandered back. “Falmeard too appears to have developed a similar passion.”
“Falmeard?”
“His interest lay elsewhere, though, from what I could gather.”
This time she did turn, and looked him straight in the eye, a slight cock of her head enough to bring an answer.
Nephril took her by the hand and led her along the hall, nearer the great West Window where he stopped and turned her to face the wall. “Do not spend too long, Prescinda, for the steward’s meeting convenes an hour past noon.”
She looked through the window’s expanse of glass and noted the shadows and nodded.
“I wilt be in mine office,” he said. “But keep in mind that Falmeard and I have things to discuss with thee first,” and then he was off, the wide, deep treads of the staircase quietly creaking beneath his meagre weight.
“What could Falmeard have been looking for?” Prescinda quietly asked herself. “And why?”
The expanse of mural now before her looked no different from that of anywhere else, to her a familiar collection of unique shapes and patterns, all trapped within a complicated and intricate depiction of roots. Clearly a likeness of Leiyatel, a stout tree grew from that rich brown loam, its roots creeping up the walls until they almost touched a cascading canopy of branches and leaves, all spilling down from the very base of the great dome above.
Her gaze had by now begun to drift that way itself, up through the tangled earthy mass of burnt umber and sienna, of ochre roots interring vermillion treasures. Before rising to the canopy, though, a narrow band of greens and blues cut a contrasting frieze around the hall. Way above Prescinda’s head, that frieze stopped her gaze, leaving her suddenly transfixed.
“It can’t be. Why haven’t I seen it before,” then she darted a look to her right, through the great West Window. Her gaze soon returned to the frieze. “It bloody well is.”
She spun about, staring now to where the frieze on the north wall abruptly ended at the window’s glaring ascent. “Nothing,” she marvelled, “just views of swelling vales, of sweeping forests and rising hills,” but Nephril’s voice startled her.
“I am afraid time has marched ahead of thee, Prescinda,” he called from the landing above. “If I may draw thee from thine engrossment?”
“Oh, err, yes, yes, I’ll be right up,” but she couldn’t help turning this time to the eastern wall, to its own fascinating frieze above the high entranceway, and dallying there just a little while longer.
21 Advice Given
Pandemonium had broken out by the time Prescinda reached the top of the flight of steps, the corridor between its landing and Nephril’s office now thronged with the dark shapes of men and the clash of their duelling voices. She heard Nephril protest but could catch no sight of his robes, nor the dull, powdery glimmer of his scalp.
Only when they came into the better light of the hall did she recognise the new livery of the Guild of Watchmen, maybe four or five of them, their tunics holding them stiff, unyielding, determined. Their evident haste soon pushed Prescinda tight against the wall but Falmeard grabbed her and swept her along. His words, though, were lost against the shrill rattle of boots and scabbards, and the gruff no-nonsense growl of officialdom.
“Can’t be ‘elped,” cut through the ruckus as a helmeted head absently turned her way, its eyes lofting in surprise. Prescinda came up hard against the back of a watchman as the tumult shuffled to a halt.
“Who’s this?” the face boomed as its feet snapped to attention. “Don’t ‘ave no woman on m’list.” His hand slapped at another’s breastplate, waving urgency under the subordinate’s nose, into which hand a small piece of paper quickly appeared.
This was taken, peered at and soon hung bleakly before Prescinda’s face. “See?” the voice boomed, but she couldn’t, not in the poor light. “Ain’t no woman’s name here.”
“This is Master Falmeard’s assistant, Mistress Prescinda,” Nephril piped-up, appearing between two watchmen.
“Prescinda?”
“Mistress Prescinda Sodbuster of Blisteraising, Captain.”
“Sodbuster? Blisteraising? Why don’t I know about ‘er, eh?”
“I have not the foggiest idea, Captain, but she be one of our party ... an essential part.”
When the Captain only stared at her, blinking, Falmeard added, “I know Steward Melkin would wish her there. Her absence from your list must be an oversight. Obviously it’s been lost in the paperwork somewhere.”
The Captain swivelled an eye Falmeard’s way, raised an eyebrow, harrumphed and finally allowed, “Maybe so, maybe so. No time to check. Assumption made. Permission granted ... pending, mind, only pending.”
He carefully appraised Prescinda one last time and then barked, “At the double!” before marching them on once more.
In close and uncomfortable order, they turned from the landing and into an oppressively dark corridor that ran the length of the college, regularly but poorly lit by less than grandiose stairwells. They barrelled along, trusting to their blind footfalls until they reached the very end. Here, they stopped before a large double door upon which the Captain rapped.
It opened almost immediately, the
glare of the room beyond momentarily blinding them. Prescinda heard a thin murmuring echo from within, the sound of hushed voices lost to some empty space.
After they’d been ushered in and her eyes had adjusted, she found she had been right. Dropping away steeply, a couple of dozen rows of tiered desks led her gaze down to a group of about six or seven figures seated with their backs to her at the front of a lecture hall. A further group of three sat to one side, a few rows back, whilst Steward Melkin and two others sat at a short table on a raised stage facing them.
The reverberation of their hollow conversations stilled when the steward lifted a hand, those with their backs to the newly arrived now turning to look. Prescinda recognised no one other than the steward, but clearly Nephril was better acquainted for he sighed, “Ah,” as his gaze roamed amongst them.
“Good morning, my good Master of Ceremonies,” Steward Melkin called up, his chair scraping back as he stood. “Do please come in. Both of ... ah, well ... yes, of course, I should have guessed, all three of thee. Do come in and join our little gathering. We have dire need now of your long considered advice.”
The descending weight of his words wasn’t lost on Prescinda, making her feel exposed. Why had the meeting been brought forward? she wondered. She suspected she herself might be some part of the answer, although exactly how she couldn’t fathom.
She knew a whispered enquiry of Nephril would fail, though, would be as a shout in such a silent space. Damn the man, she thought, damn his theft of my preparation.
Nephril led them down the steps between the tiers. At the bottom, he nodded to the assembly but said nothing, only carried on towards the stage. Falmeard and Prescinda on the other hand slipped away and onto a bench a few rows from the front.
“I sense an expectancy,” Nephril announced, staring up at Melkin.
“The noble Guilds,” Melkin began, nodding to those beside him, “feel that enough time has been allowed you, perhaps more than enough.”
From where Prescinda sat, she could see animosity in the faces of the steward’s companions, unflinching in the silence that now held the room. Finally, Melkin asked, “Have you yet decided what prospect lies to our east, Lord Nephril?”
“I have.”
Melkin lifted an eyebrow. “And is it fair or foul?”
“It is mine firm belief, good Steward, that it be...” and he glanced behind at the small group of three, off to one side. “That it be ... good as far as...”
Everyone spoke at once, drowning out his words, bringing Nephril about to face the assembly. “But!” he shouted, surprisingly loudly, quickly stilling the hall. “’Tis but a journey too far.”
Melkin leant forward heavily on the table. “What do you mean too far?”
“Remember Steermaster Sconner,” Nephril levelled back. “Remember his fate.”
“But Sconner sailed further away than this city must be. It can’t be beyond Leiyatel’s embrace, surely? Not if we can still count on your support that is.”
“It be not the distance,” Nephril said, avoiding Melkin’s pointed stare, “but the time.”
“The time?”
“The time spent away, Steward. The time it would take to get there and back, never mind how long a time may be spent there. The whole time likely much longer than Sconner spent abroad.”
The noise of hurried discussions grew again, giving Nephril a chance to join Falmeard and Prescinda. He leaned in close to where they sat, “Trust me,” he said before standing straight and calling for attention.
All eyes turned his way again as silence crept back.
“Listen well for thy course may prove ill if thou dost not choose wisely.” He waited a moment, seeming to ponder, but then said. “The mirage is indeed a city,” to which a murmur arose, Nephril raising a quietening hand, “but a dead city, one long lost to life’s rapacious ways, those very same ways that eventually gave birth to Dica itself.”
“How can you be so certain of this?” one of the Guild masters demanded.
Nephril turned to him but pointed his arm at the group of three. “Thy Nouwelm guests have shown thee why. Ask them what they did see beyond the ridge, beyond the Southern Hills.”
“What did they see then, Nephril?” Melkin asked as he sat down.
“They saw a waterway, a way to the city, but a way long fallen into disuse.”
The room again erupted.
This time Melkin himself called for silence. “Is this also the view of Master Falmeard?” he demanded.
“It is,” Nephril said, firmly, forestalling any reply from the man himself.
The silence remained, although a number of perplexed faces had turned towards Melkin who seemed to smile to himself until his gaze flicked back at Nephril, the smile now a grin.
In a quiet, measured voice, Melkin stated, “A long disused way but a way nonetheless. A way long guarded against discovery ... by any Dican, that is.”
He glanced at the group of three, his grin seeming to grow wider, but then asked Nephril, “Can we still count on Galgaverre in this matter, my esteemed Master of Ceremonies? Can we still rely on Leiyatel’s favouring gaze?”
It was Prescinda who now shot Melkin a perplexed look, but when she turned to Falmeard, she found his face averted. Even Nephril ignored her.
Something began to smoulder within Prescinda, a foul taste brewing in her mouth, but before she could do anything, Nephril answered, “Galgaverre will honour the agreement, Steward. Thou hath mine word upon it still.”
Melkin stood, abruptly. “Good,” he said, curtly, gathering his papers, shuffling and stamping them straight on the table. “Then I’ll thank you, my lord, and trust you will now leave the matter entirely in my own hands.”
At that, he left the stage and climbed the steps, drawing the assembly behind him, their attention no longer on Nephril.
Once the doors to the hall had slammed shut, the air suddenly felt chill, although Prescinda’s rage continued to boil within her chest. Alone at last, each stood stilled for a moment, as before a storm but one soon brought to a head by Prescinda herself.
“What’s all this about Leiyatel’s favour, Nephril? What’s the steward bribed you to do for him, eh? And for all our sakes, why?”
22 On Your Marks
Nephril put Prescinda off with a finger to his lips before ushering them from the lecture hall and back to his office. On the way, they’d heard the clatter of feet down one of the stairwells and the incessant sound of the balloon’s ministrations swill in through an opened door.
Once back in the privacy of his office, Nephril hurriedly told Prescinda, “We are now in a race, mine dear, one I sorely hope we can win. May I suggest thou hold thy questions awhile for a better time, for we have much to do before we leave?”
“Leave?”
“Should I take Prescinda back now?” Falmeard asked, “or can we do it on the way?”
“Back?”
Her eyes widened as she looked from one to the other, her mouth falling slack.
Nephril lifted a bag from beside the cabinet and swung it over his shoulder. “I think we can afford the delay for a detour, and it will give us time enough to explain.”
Prescinda’s rage finally erupted. “I am not some bloody piece of baggage to cart around. And I am not going back.”
Falmeard had by now stood, a heavy leather box in both hands, clearly keen to get it to wherever it was going. “It’ll be too dangerous, Prescinda, far too dangerous. It would be bad enough for Geran to lose me never mind...” but he’d clearly seen the look in her eyes.
He put the box down on the cabinet and reached out to her, but she shrank back. “Please, Prescinda,” he implored, “don’t make it any harder than it is. Where we’re going is far too...”
“You’re going to the city, aren’t you? And without me, you bastards.”
Nephril looked shocked. “Please, Prescinda, please calm thyself. We are only thinking of thee ... and thy sweet sister of course.”
The
window panes rattled when Prescinda shouted, “I am not going back! I’m coming with you. End of.”
“But, Sis, we...”
“Listen, you two. If I don’t go, the steward gets to learn everything I know. Do you hear?”
“You wouldn’t?”
“Try me.”
There was fire in her eyes. “I am not going to be dumped,” she fumed, “so get that into your thick heads. I’m going, and that’s an end to it.”
Nephril slid the bag from his shoulder and sat down, his tired old face now looking up at Falmeard as he told her, “This be what the steward feared, thy Dican resolve and temper, the very thing Falmeard saw as a benefit to our case. But our case, mine dear Prescinda, has now all but run its course.”
“What do you mean run its course, and what case?”
A quick glance through the window hurried Nephril. “We had hoped to argue against the steward’s own party seeking out the city. We ... we have doubts that the Bazarran are the best of folk to meet with what we believe to be there.”
Prescinda frowned. “But I was at the meeting, so why didn’t you just go ahead and pursue your case?”
“Because I saw who the steward had on his side.”
This time it was Falmeard who frowned. “Who did he have, Nephril?”
“The group of three who sat apart were a rather unusual Galgaverran and two decidedly rare men, neither of whom are of Dica.”
“Not of Dica?” Prescinda marvelled. “How’s that possible?”
“Sitting with Phaylan, the Galgaverran, were two of Nouwelm; Breadgrinder - a pleasant enough fellow - and Dialwatcher, a rather disgruntled individual with an unfortunate constitution. Well, unfortunate for us. When I saw them there, I knew then that our ace card had been trumped.”
“I don’t understand, Nephril. What ace card?”
“We have no time to go into detail, Prescinda, suffice to say that until today I believed only Falmeard and I could even think of making such a journey, but now I see I was sadly wrong. We never did have the bargaining position I had naïvely assumed.”
An Artist's Eye (Dica Series Book 5) Page 9