by Martin Davey
Even as she looked at the house, the front door opened and a dark figure looking short under the giant doorway stepped out onto the porch to await their arrival. Ysora’s heart skipped for a moment until she saw the man was too old and stooped to be Tiege.
“Geyan,” Cioran leaned over and whispered to her. “Mashin’s taskmaster.”
Ysora looked again at the figure in the doorway. He looked like a spider, dressed in black with long angular limbs and his collar high. His hair was oiled and shiny and scraped in elaborate whorls and curls.
Finally close enough to the house to talk to Geyan, Cioran pulled his horse to a halt. He looked down at the older man, the Guardian’s mouth in a thin straight line which looked unfamiliar to Ysora. “Master Geyan,” he said. “Would you be kind enough to find someone to tend to our horses?”
Eyes which looked dark enough to be black flicked to Ysora and back again to Cioran. Geyan’s smile was thick-lipped and his round shoulders straightened just a little. “And who is this you’ve brought for us today, Guardian? Not often enough we get pretty young ladies this far out of the village these days.” Geyan spoke softly, almost as though every word was uttered on a single breath.
“This is Miss Ysora, Geyan. A student of mine.” Cioran swung a leg over the horse and landed lightly on his feet.
Ysora followed his lead, feeling dark eyes fixed on her all the time.
“Miss Ysora,” Geyan breathed as soon as she had righted herself. “A pleasure to have you with us. The Guardian never said he had found himself such a beautiful student. Not thinking of leaving us soon are you, Guardian?”
Cioran’s back was straight, his brushed hair bright even in the greyness. Ysora had never seen him look so tall and good. But then, she supposed most people looked like that in Geyan’s presence.
“Not soon, no,” the Guardian said. “The horses please, Master Geyan?” Cioran retrieved his bag from the saddle even as he spoke.
Dark eyes watched Cioran, the taskmaster’s hands clasped together, his pointed elbows sticking out, looking like a spider preparing to pounce. “The horses, of course,” he said as soon as Cioran turned back to look at him. Large, knobbly-knuckled hands clapped together. “Cheran!”
Moments later a boy, more like a young man, taller even than Ysora herself, hurried out to lead the horses away leaving Cioran free to remove his gloves, his bag of books clasped under his elbow. “We know the way, shall we--?”
A long-fingered hand rose to stop Cioran. “I think it only polite to take you to farmer Mashin, all the same, Guardian.” And without turning, he reached behind and opened the door for them, a nod of the head which somehow managed to be both servile and mocking, allowing Cioran and Ysora to step past him.
The inside of the house had all the colour of an old painting left in the sun too long. Faded. Everything from woven rugs, to candle holders, to tables and vases, everything looked faded, speaking of past glories and uncertain futures. A worn flight of stairs led upwards from the entry hall, a stained glass window at the top only seemed to wring the colour out of any light that might filter through it.
The door closed behind them. The taskmaster looked even taller and thinner in the claustrophobic light. He clapped his hands together again, dust motes dancing about his face. “Farmer Mashin is expecting you, Guardian.” A lazy look to Ysora, “Miss. Should I lead you both up?” Without waiting for an answer, he moved to the stairs, his strides long and sure, his shoes long and pointed.
A threadbare carpet rolled up the stairs, red with white flowers embroidered on it. It was covered with crumbs and other indeterminate things. Ysora looked up the stairs, at the window with grey-white light spearing though it, thought of the fat, lazy man waiting up there. A man who could make Cioran frown with disdain. And then there would be Tiege somewhere in the building. No doubt he would be striding about on his long legs looking organized and officious.
“I’ll wait here,” she said. “You’d probably prefer to be on your own with farmer Mashin.”
“Nonsense, nonsense.” Cioran touched her elbow, his hands cool. “You can’t come all this way and not be introduced to farmer Mashin. I think you’ll be interested in what he has to say.”
Ysora was about to shake her head, but then noticed that even Geyan was watching her from hooded eyes.
“It will be good for your studies, Ysora,” Cioran persisted.
Both men watched her. For such a large house, it seemed curiously empty. Dust motes danced lazily in beams of grey light streaming through the windows. Aged chairs and sofas and rugs and curtains listlessly watched her hesitation.
One last look around for Tiege. “Alright then,” she said.
Cioran smiled. Geyan turned and continued up the stairs without a change in his beady expression, his steps loud on the thin carpet.
“This will be good for your education, Ysora.” Cioran spoke quietly. This wasn’t a house to be shouting in. “See what happens to those who disappoint the Keepers.”
Ysora looked up the stairs as they walked, following Geyan’s skinny black legs. What was waiting for her upstairs? She was beginning to wish she’d stayed at Cioran’s house with his books and his cups of tea. Even Hal’s beaming smile would have been preferable to this strange, quiet place. “Why? What have they done to him?”
“Done to him?” Cioran raised an eyebrow at her. Even his eyebrows looked groomed today. She preferred the careless, carefree Cioran who always looked surprised. “You’ll see,” he said.
On to the second floor and Geyan followed the landing around to another flight of stairs. Weren’t the windows above this floor all grimy and covered by broken furniture? Not the kind of rooms to find the Master of the house in, anyway. Cioran didn’t look surprised, though, and followed Geyan without a murmur.
Every door they passed was still and silent and closed. A part of her wanted Tiege to come out of one of them, maybe reading a sheaf of papers, and looking surprised as he saw her. But then another part of her, the sensible fearful part, knew that she would never be able to hide the shock and guilt from her face if he did.
The house was too quiet. She touched Cioran on the arm as he was about to put his foot on the first step. “So what does farmer Mashin think you can do for him? What is it he wants from you?”
Cioran stopped and looked at her, his hand still resting on the rail. “Two very different questions there, Ysora.” He let go of the rail and stood close to her. He smelled of mirwood and blossomroot. “What does he want from me? He wants forgiveness for his sins, he wants to be told that once he dies, his soul will be free to fly to Insitur. But we all know that sins against the Keepers can never go unpunished, don’t we?” He smiled at her, his eyes cold as stone.
For the first time Ysora could imagine him being married to her mother. “I, well...” Perhaps she had underestimated him, been lazy around him? Maybe he wasn’t as understanding and absent-minded as she thought. Maybe he wasn’t as kind and forgiving as she thought. It would be interesting to see how he dealt with the fat and cruel Farmer Mashin.
Cioran laughed quietly. “I’m glad you came here, Ysora. We have spoken of the love of the Keepers for mankind. Now it might be nice for you to see the other side of that love. Sometimes children who are loved must be punished so they can learn to behave for their own sake.”
A cough from upstairs. Geyan was looking down at them with a large key in his hand. “If we could hurry it up,” he breathed.
With a final smile, Cioran began up the stairs. No carpets here, only wood stained with age and worn by years of booted feet scurrying up and down them. Cioran didn’t scurry, he walked slowly and Ysora soon caught up with him.
Paintings hung on walls here, scorched and faded by the sun until it was impossible to see what they had once been. A faint outline of a pale green hill here, a sky more white than blue there. And sometimes the faintest hint of a ship on a grey-white sea. Histories and memories and beauty washed away by the cruel glare of the sun spe
aring through the windows.
Past three doors, their feet scuffing in the dust of the bare wooden floor. Geyan trailed the key in his hand, pointing it at each one like a water diviner. He stopped outside a door much the same as any other, the keyhole large and worn smooth and dull, the paint thin and peeling. Definitely not the place to expect to find the Master of the house.
Geyan slid the key into the lock. Why would farmer Mashin be locked inside a room inside his own house? Her breath came in short, sharp gasps and her head felt light. The door unlocked with the finality of a mouse trap and both men smiled at her. No doubt they thought she would be afraid. She was afraid, but tried to look as unconcerned as possible.
The taskmaster pulled the door open. It didn’t seem to fit its frame properly and scraped along the floor. It smelled warm and damp in the room as Geyan walked in. All Ysora could see was a bare wooden floor stained with some dark liquid and a window shining fitful light about a pile of cupboards, wardrobes, tables and chairs all broken and battered and scarred like a pile of bodies after one of Maronghavian’s battles.
Cioran puffed out his cheeks and raised a well groomed eyebrow at her. Perhaps he was going to see some beautiful lady later, one he wanted to impress. Even Guardian’s had their needs, she supposed. But she was delaying. Geyan’s long black coat had disappeared behind the door. She followed him into the room, Cioran behind her.
Something, somebody was hanging from a rope tied to one of the beams striping the ceiling. Hanging from his wrists bound together above his head and swivelling in slow circles, his dark hair was plastered to his head with either sweat or blood. His head was bowed and bloody and he was stripped to the waist, angry red welts covering his chest and ribs. Four men stood around him, one of them immensely fat with his cheeks shining even in the dimness of the sparsely furnished room.
Ysora turned, wanting to be away, her bladder weakening with her fear. Tiege was dead. He couldn’t be dead.
Cioran stood behind her blocking the doorway. He was still smiling.
The blow was hard enough that she didn’t really feel it. A sudden explosion of noise in her ear, a flash of white across he vision and her knees fell away beneath her. Somebody shouted something but already the blackness had taken her.
CHAPTER 23
“Clerk Killian requests your presence,” Commander Perun had said. Even now the memory of those words filled Landros with fear. His obvious question had been answered by a right-fisted blow to his eye which had driven him down to one knee. At least the Guard had relented and not bound Elian’s wrists together on the journey back to the Clerk’s house.
Landros paced the solar, tension making his muscles ache, the still wet rope binding his wrists chafing his skin. Where had they taken Elian? What if the creature returned, possessing the body of another corpse and Landros had his hands bound together? “Pray to your gods that we never meet again,” it had said. And who was Clerk Killian? There wasn’t a living person in Katrinamal who could remember a time when Ricon Lovelin hadn’t been the Clerk. Even the oldest people with yellow teeth and dry grey hair, spoke of remembering Clerk Lovelin being there when they were children.
He sat down, only to get straight back to his feet, too nervous to stay in one place for long. Had it really been only a matter of days since he’d been here last? Now a Clerk was dead. Now he had spoken to the Nameless One himself. Landros sighed, the wet rope burning his wrists. What had they done with Elian? Would she be down in the dungeons, some strange Clerk’s long fingers pressed to her temples tearing the memories from her mind, nothing but pain and terror left in their wake?
Landros gasped aloud at the thought, leaned on the table with both hands, the rope tight, the skin on his wrists red and bunching under the knot. The table shone in the candlelight, books and scrolls still scattered about it. Strange to see the Clerk’s possessions still here as though nothing had happened. Feren had sat at this table, his eyes vacant and empty as he had spoken in tongues. Spoken in the foul language of the Nameless One. And there was the book he had been reaching for, his fingers scrabbling like blind worms as they reached for it. It seemed so long ago now. And yet everything on the table was exactly as it had been as though it had been only a matter of moments. The book was the biggest he had ever seen, the pages curled and yellowed, the binding faded and red. He pulled it across the table to him, leaning forward with both hands tied before him. The cover was loose, hanging from the spine as he turned it over. It smelled of grass and vanilla. An Account of the Second Wars of Ascension, the title page said in a scrawny scrawl. The paper was thin and the ink faded and black.
Footsteps, hurried and loud, neared the solar and Landros looked up, but the footsteps quietened again before disappearing completely. Another wild-eyed servant hurrying about their business, no doubt. The house had been in something close to a state of chaos when Landros had been escorted to the solar; servants, cooks, maids all hurrying around. A new Clerk arriving would have that effect on the house, no doubt.
Landros turned back to the book, flipped through a few more pages, a surprisingly awkward thing to do with his hands tied. Bloody words filled the book. Tales of fathers fighting sons, brothers fighting brothers. Tales of vast armies armoured in steel facing each other across fields of green, morning mists still thick in the air, banners flying in cold breezes. Bloody words, but written in a curiously sterile hand. No emotion, no judgement, only facts, it seemed like. Landros felt himself warming to the unknown author as he turned some more pages. And now he did find some emotion in the author. A battle he was at personally, he claimed. He had stopped for food and ale at the town of Karamir and so was witness to the assault of the Nameless One, the first mention of the Nameless One Landros had seen in the book. For a moment, Landros forgot where he was, leaning on the table and turning the page to find out more. The author had been disappointed as he saw the Nameless One ride out to parlay with Keeper Shenofah, his army of knights in shining steel far behind him: “He looked a man like any other,” the unknown author had written, “dressed in drab clothes of brown and green with a simple sword swinging from his hip. Kings and Queens and Princes remained behind with the army while this young man with collar-length hair and serious grey eyes came out to meet the Keeper himself. The only finery the Nameless One allowed was his horse. It was white, its mane almost silver and it stepped and pranced as the...”
“Ah, the mysterious Liandl.”
Landros almost tore the half-turned page in his hand at the sound of the voice. Instead, he took a breath and tried to compose himself before he turned around
All Clerks, it seemed, did have black eyes. Clerk Killian was pale as well, paler even than Clerk Lovelin in the way that snow is paler than paper. His hair was black, swept away from his face and reached just below his collar at the back. He had a narrow mouth on a long face and he was smiling. “An excellent historian, was Liandl. A man’s man, not prone to the somewhat obtuse emotionalism of, say, a Maronghavian. A shame that he was never able to complete his life’s work indeed.”
Landros looked at the Clerk, then looked back at the book, flicked through some more pages. After another ten pages or so, the pages were all blank. He flicked back to the last page with writing on it. The parlay had ended and the armies of the Nameless One had surrounded Karamir, strange orange lights lighting the sky on a black night as the hopelessly outnumbered army of Keeper Shenofah shivered behind the walls. “He was killed in the battle, Master?” He gently closed the book, careful of the ancient paper.
“So we have to presume,” Clerk Killian said. His voice was quiet and controlled, softer and smoother than Clerk Lovelin’s had been and with an accent that made Landros think of mountains with thin grass and thin air. “He was a man of mystery, was Riog Liandl. But after the butchery of Karamir when betrayal finally opened the gates, I think it is safe to say he ended his days in the town, along with thousands of other true souls. Along with a god. They say the Nameless One had Keeper Shenofah torture
d to death before his followers, forcing them to watch before they too were executed one by one. The women and the children first so the men could learn what it was to betray their own kind.”
Had the Clerk emphasized the word ‘betrayal’? Landros felt impotent standing before the Clerk with his hands bound. Would it be below a Clerk of the Five to strike him down where he stood? Or would it only be a fitting end for his betrayal? The words about the Nameless One were like a knife of ice sliding into his stomach. How could he have been so blind, so foolish not to warn the Clerk about the evil in their midst? How could he have been blinded by the face of his friend, of his mother, to keep quiet as the creature wheedled enough presence and power to slay a Clerk of the Five? Whatever the Clerk decided for him could never be punishment enough. His own death wouldn’t be punishment enough for his failures.
“Imagine that,” the Clerk said. “Being in the presence of a captured god. Watching him tortured and murdered by the very essence of evil. Seeing the god you had sworn to serve and worship, cut apart and killed in the most heinous manner imaginable.”
Landros felt the fury soaring within him as he listened to the words. Whether it was his own rage or whether the emotion was somehow oozing out of the Clerk, he didn’t know. All he could remember was the dream on Staxton Hill, of standing beside the creature’s throne as he had looked out on a world that had once been, looked at the hooded figure hiding its evil face behind its dark hood, speaking in a thousand voices, no doubt lost souls of the poor people of Karamir and countless other towns and cities the evil had destroyed. How had he not thrown himself on the figure and tried to tear it apart with his bare hands?