by Tim Stead
“Must we?” Jon asked.
“I am sorry if it bores you, sir,” Calaine said. “I will try to be more entertaining.”
“You mistake me,” Jon replied. “I would like…”
Calaine attacked without warning. Her style was quite different from Kane’s. She was more cautious and more subtle, and he was taken a little by surprise, but still managed to avoid her blade quite easily.
She attacked four or five times, but had little more success than Kane.
One or two in the crowd called out advice to Calaine, and the sound of her name seemed to stay Jon’s blade for a moment, and the pause was enough to let her blade through. He recovered quickly, but the tip of her blade passed through the shoulder of his jacket, ripping it.
“A touch, I think,” she said.
“You are Calaine?”
“Yes.”
“You are Calaine Tarnell, Do-Regana of Samara?”
“I am.”
“You put your life at risk unwisely.”
“You think so? You are the one with a ripped jacket.”
“You have no idea who I am. I could be an assassin.”
“Your concern is touching, but again, you are the one with the ripped jacket.”
“Well, a lesson, then,” Jon said.
Ella heard the exchange, and she remembered, in that moment, who Corban had been talking about. It was said that he fought like no other, that he dressed like a prince, and spoke with an accent from the West. He had been telling her about the Lord Serhan, Seneschal of White Rock and all its domains, someone with Gerique’s ear, and probably the most powerful man in the world.
Jon attacked, and now it was Calaine’s turn to be surprised. He stepped outside her blade, catching her dagger on his own, and pushing the blade of her sword high so that it was trapped with his own between them, pointing upwards with her wrist pinned low as he moved very close to her. He dropped onto one knee, bringing his elbow down with force on her wrist.
Ella could hear her gasp with the pain of the blow, and Calaine’s sword fell onto the dirt. Jon rose, driving a knee behind hers and pushing with his sword. Calaine was lifted bodily from the ground, spun once and crashed face down into the ground. He put the tip of his sword between her shoulder blades.
“A touch, I think,” he said.
The courtyard was silent, stunned by the brutality of what they had just seen, and how quickly it had been done. Ella was one of the few to notice that he had barely used his sword in the attack. She wanted to go to Calaine, to see that she was unhurt, but Jon sheathed his blade with an angry motion, thumping it into place, and walked towards her.
“Books,” he said. “I came here to look at books.”
She didn’t want to have to deal with this. She could hear muttering in the crowd around the square, and it didn’t seem friendly. She wanted to go to Calaine, to be caring and sympathetic, but the situation did not allow for it.
“Follow me, please.” She walked quickly back into the house and up the stairs to the area where the family lived, taking Jon to the heart of the house. She instinctively felt that nobody would follow them up here, that it was safe.
“Please sit,” she said.
Jon sat, looking around him with interest.
“You live very well here, mistress Saine.”
“It is my father’s house,” she said, feeling defensive. She offered him the book and he took it, flicked through the pages and looked at the front pages in detail. It took about a minute.
“The Laws of the King,” he said. “I have not seen this before.”
So he could read the old language. There was almost no doubt in Ella’s mind now as to his identity.
“It is you, isn’t it?” she asked.
“What do you mean?” He turned and looked at her, his eyes steady for once, not roaming the room.
“The Lord Serhan…”
He put his hand quickly but gently to her mouth.
“Do not say that name here. You could bring danger on all your household. If they believe that Serhan is here Ocean’s Gate will stop at nothing to capture or kill him.”
“But you are.” Now she was completely certain.
“You are wise beyond your years, Ella Saine, but trust me that you must not share your wisdom. It will only bring you trouble, especially in this. Hundreds are dead because the wrong words were spoken at the wrong time, fields are red with blood, widows and orphans… It was a mistake to come here.”
His mask was gone. There was pain, and anger and even doubt written on his face plain to see. He was flushed, and his fist clenched, his eyes looked deep into hers, as though he could see quite inside her.
“I will do as you ask,” she said quickly. “I will tell nobody.”
“Thank you.” He recovered himself quickly, standing by the window for a minute, looking out at the city. His hands relaxed. It was the strangest sensation, but she was certain that he did not fear for himself – he seemed more afraid of making a mistake, of doing the wrong thing. He turned and smiled at her.
“Forgive me, Ella Saine. My coming here has put you all in danger. It seems I am a poor hand at deception. When I leave I will not return until it is safe to do so.”
“When Borbonil has gone?”
“It may be then, yes.” But he had something else in mind. Ella wondered what it was. “Now, back to business. Do you have other books?”
“My father has many, but they are shut up in his library, and we must wait for him to return.”
“How long?”
“About half an hour.”
“Then we will wait. At least I have something to read.”
He sat by the window and began to page methodically through the book. If he was reading it, then he was reading more quickly than anyone she had ever seen. He seemed quite completely focussed on the turning pages.
“Mistress Saine.”
It was Saul, with two of his militiamen. He stood awkwardly just inside the door.
“What is it, Saul?”
“It is the Do-Regana, mistress. Her wrist is broken, and she demands that your guest face the King’s justice.”
Serhan snapped shut the book he was reading.
“Ah, a riddle,” he said. “The word Justice and the King in the same phrase.”
“Saul,” Ella said. “He is a guest in my house. I invited him here. I will not permit this.”
Saul looked embarrassed, and shifted from foot to foot. He could not meet her eyes.
“Mistress, you are not of age, and Calaine is. She insists. She is angry, mistress.”
“Then we will wait for my father to return, Saul. Your duty is to the house of Saine, not Tarnell.”
Saul looked uncertain.
“Of course,” Serhan said, standing, “you may try to arrest me by force. How many of your militiamen is the Do-Regana willing to spend to get her way?”
Saul licked his lips. Ella could see his problem. He had seen Jon the book dealer fighting Kane, seen him defeat Calaine with one unorthodox move. His men were poorer with a blade that either of those two.
“I have no desire to see my men die,” he said. “We will wait for the master to return.”
“You may remain here to guard him, Saul. It will not be long,” Ella said.
Serhan shook his head and went back to reading, apparently unconcerned. Saul and his two men shuffled their feet and looked out of place. Fortunately for all of them it was only a few minutes until Tarlyn Saine and Corban returned from their business in the old town. Ella heard voices in the courtyard below, and a minute later her father appeared at the doorway.
He walked directly across the room to Ella.
“Tell me what had passed, Ella,” he said.
“I do not know all of it, Father. I met this man in the Shining Wake. He was seeking information about books, so I entered into a contract with him. He provided information to me that I desired, and in return I agreed to introduce you and give him access to your libr
ary if you would permit it. When we came to the house I sought you, but learned that you were gone. When I returned to the courtyard this man and Kane were fencing, or duelling. I do not know how that began. After a while Calaine took Kane’s place, and he broke her wrist during the bout.”
Serhan had listened to this carefully.
“An accurate account, Trader Saine,” he said. “But lacks an important detail. I did not agree to fence with Kane. He drew his blade and bid me defend myself.”
“And Calaine?”
“She did not ask if I wished to fight, but attacked me. I am prepared to allow that it was an honest mistake on her part in thinking it an exercise. I merely exercised my right to defend myself. As a guest here I did not wish to kill either of them.”
“You did not wish to Kill Kane?” Tarlyn was incredulous.
“It is true, sir,” Saul said. “He could have killed either of them.”
“You are a great warrior, then?” Saine studied the man, but Ella could see that Serhan was unreadable again, calm and controlled.
“At present,” he said, “I am a book trader.”
“This is all troubling,” Tarlyn said. “It rests on the start of the fight with Kane. Were there any witnesses?”
“If I may speak, sir?”
They all turned to see that Crise had appeared behind them.
“Of course, Crise. You saw something?” Tarlyn asked.
“It was exactly as the book trader said, sir. Kane drew his sword almost the moment that the mistress left to seek you.”
Ella looked at Crise, but he, too, was unreadable. She had never noticed this before. Was that possible? She had found Crise in this room only a few minutes after she had left them. There was no way that the courtyard could be viewed from here. He would have to have been several rooms away to get a good view of the fight. On the other hand, why would Crise lie for a stranger?
“If that is the case, then any fault lies with Kane,” Tarlyn Saine announced. “I will speak to Kane, but he declined to discuss the matter when I arrived.” He turned to Serhan. “Do you know why he would attack you?”
“He believes that I serve the Faer Karan, and it is true that I do, but theirs is not the only cause that I serve. I make no secret of it.”
“It is possible. I will see what he has to say.”
Tarlyn went back down to the courtyard, the militiamen followed, and Ella was left alone with Serhan. His demeanour changed at once.
“As soon as they have cleared this up I will leave,” he said.
“I understand, but Calaine would have liked to have spoken with you.”
“That may be so, but do not tell her. She will be angry with you, but you must keep the secret.”
“I know, but that will pass. She may be more angry when she learns what I have kept from her.”
“Perhaps.”
“She admires you greatly.”
“Well, you may tell her if you hear that I am dead.”
“Why do you say such a thing?” Ella was a little alarmed.
“I work with great powers. I am useful to the Faer Karan, but they have no love for me, and I think that my usefulness may be coming to an end. Anything is possible.”
“What will you do?”
“It is not your concern, mistress. I am not without options, so do not worry on my account. You must do what you do here. Study. Try to guide Calaine. If I return then things will be very different.”
“You sound like my father.”
“I hope that he is both wiser and more honest than I, but now I hear the others returning.”
That was the end of it. Kane still refused to speak of how the fight started. He would not deny or admit that he had drawn his sword first. Serhan, as Jon the book trader, was free to go, and went almost immediately, taking a courteous leave of Ella, but barely nodding to the others. She watched him cross the courtyard and go through the gate, not even sparing a glance for Kane who sat alone to one side.
Calaine was angry with Ella for defending Jon, for taking his side, and for several weeks she would not speak with her, but the anger passed with time as Ella knew that it would, although their friendship was never again what it might have been.
42 The End
Time passed. The sun rose and set at regular intervals and at White Rock Serhan waited. The near disaster in Samara had left him chastened. He had over reacted to Calaine and had regretted the injury that he had caused her almost from the moment that it was done. Nothing had gone well, and he had gained very little. His only probable ally in Samara was a young girl, and he was sure that he had alienated the King, and the King himself was a problem. Talking to people on the streets of Samara he had formed the impression that the would-be monarch was not greatly loved by his people. Many despised him, and thought him brutal and petty. There was a history of repression and violence going back generations.
Calaine had seemed different, at least in what she had written. He had not had time to form a balanced opinion of her in person; overconfident perhaps, overly keen to draw a sword and boastful. From the letter he had expected her to be more like Ella. Perhaps the younger girl had taken a hand in the writing of it.
Delf had still not come, so he continued to brood and wait. Rin did not speak to him any more, and he felt alone. It was hard to imagine now that he had felt invaded and outraged when her voice had first appeared in his mind. He had come to rely on her wise council, and to value her restraint. Still, it was supposed to be part of him now. She had always been him, really; a remnant that had yet to blend with his own untempered mind.
On days when he felt particularly restive he would retreat to Corderan’s secret room, draw the black-bladed sword that he had named Soul Eater, and allow its eagerness for battle to course through him. He would close his eyes and imagine a time when the tension was gone, when the Faer Karan were gone; a time when he could rest, be himself, live simply. But when he opened his eyes and saw the dimly lit room, filled with secrets, and the midnight blade whose mere presence sucked light from the air, he knew that his time for peace and love had passed.
On one such day Delf arrived.
He returned to his study and found a note in Darius’s hand tented on his empty desk. Just seeing its white shape there in the innocent sunlight was enough. He felt a lurch in his stomach, and realised that one way or another his time as seneschal had come to an end. He picked up the note anyway and read it.
He has come.
Just three words and he was again the arrow in flight, somewhere between the bow and the target, arcing through the lives and deeds of others on a simple path. He had thought through a hundred times what he would do when he saw the note, and now he began to follow his plan.
He destroyed the note and left his chambers. Taking a horse from the stables he rode down out of the fortress, careful to keep his appearance relaxed and comfortable. He rode slowly when he wanted to gallop, slumped back in the saddle when he wanted to strain forwards. This, too, was planned.
At the foot of the rock he turned right and rode around the base until he came to the village. This was a place that he had created, but it was not a place to be loved yet. The trees were too young and the buildings huddled together against the cold and the wind. It was dusty.
Darius was there in the small village square, relaxing under a small tree, taking what shade he could.
“You came quickly,” he said as Serhan dismounted.
“As soon as I saw the note,” he replied.
Darius led him to a small hut on the edge of the settlement and ducked in through the doorway. He followed. Inside the hut it was darker than he had expected. The shutters were pulled over the windows. Almost at once he saw Delf Killore, sitting on one of three small stools set around a table. One of the others was occupied by a guardsman. Darius gestured and the guardsman stepped out into the daylight, leaving the two of them alone with Delf.
“You brought both sets of plans?” Serhan asked.
“O
f course.” Delf unrolled a sheet of paper that was a little bigger than the table. Serhan looked it over. It was the plan for the temple, and he smiled as he absorbed its detail. Exactly as he had hoped, Delf had gone to town on the thing, and no extravagance had been spared. It was the opposite of functional, and even the pomposity of the thing had pretensions. Everything about the building screamed arrogance and self indulgence. Gerique would love it.
“Very good,” he said. “And the other?”
Another scroll was unrolled on top of the temple plan. Serhan studied this one with greater care and asked many questions.
This, too, was an extraordinary piece of work. Delf had designed a palace of learning, a town of education. The design was in concentric circles. Outermost were the residences, designed for students, like brackets above, below and to either side of the main building, which itself was a great circle with a central atrium. Eight great passages led below the building to the atrium, and eight spiral stairs rose around that open space. On the lowest level, bounded by the passages there were storage areas, kitchens, a refectory. The top level held quarters for those who would teach, space for a library, offices. Between them lay entrances to the lecture halls, eight of them again. Each of these was shaped like a theatre, rising up towards the outer wall so that they widened and deepened, with seating that looked downwards towards the hub.
If such a building were built it would be one of the most remarkable in Shanakan.
“You can build this?” he asked.
“I can.”
Serhan asked many more questions. When he was satisfied, and a few small modifications had been agreed, he handed this second plan back to Delf.
“Build this one,” he said.
“And the temple?”
“I will show that to Gerique. It will please him. Now it is time for you to go, and ride hard back to Woodside. Do not take your time, for others may be looking for you. Once you are there things will be all right. Acquiesce to any request, tell anyone who asks the truth of the matter. It will not be important.”
Delf looked at the floor.
“What are you going to do, my Lord?” he asked.