Lord of Slaughter c-3

by M. D. Lachlan

  So what correspondence had afflicted the emperor? Loys used Basileios’ birth information to cast his horoscope, consulting the books for the position of the stars. It took him nearly all evening and revealed nothing. The emperor was blessed, according to the planets. Then Loys examined the last five years, to judge the particular influences and pulls of the stars there. Nothing. Fluctuations, difficulties but no grave disasters were apparent.

  He began to read another book — Ancient Blasphemies — a record of the beliefs that had been discovered during local purges. He browsed through, turning up nothing in particular until he reached a certain page. Hecate, the goddess of the Constantinople. Was it possible she was a demon and God had struck at the city for worshipping her? He read on — goddess of crossroads, of the dead, of walls and borders, of the borders between the living and the dead — she was associated with dogs and with poison and poetry. As if by command two of the palace dogs set off barking, making Loys jump. She was worshipped at the end of each month, when the people sacrificed black lambs at crossroads and at holy sites.

  So much information, so little use.

  By the time Beatrice came back from visiting the women of the lower court, parchment lay all over the room and she asked him if she could tidy it up. He let her, then he held her hand as she stood behind him to look at his work.

  ‘Is the sky still dark?’

  ‘Still dark,’ she said.

  ‘What do the ladies say about it?’

  ‘It’s an ill omen, what else could they say? First the comet, now this.’

  ‘What do you think?’

  ‘Our fortunes have improved since its appearance. But God is angry with the earth, it must be so. Lady Styliane says so. The comet is a sign of that, according to the wisdom of the Arabs.’

  ‘Who is Lady Styliane?’

  ‘A lady of the court. The chamberlain’s sister, no less.’

  Loys concealed his fear. ‘And she is wise in astrology?’

  ‘Her late husband took an interest,’ she said.

  Loys smiled. ‘I hope you haven’t been consorting with witches, Beatrice.’

  ‘She is no witch. Astrology is the study of nature, don’t you always tell me?’

  ‘Yes. In the hands of learned men. Not bored and credulous ladies. There it can slide into sorcery.’

  ‘Lady Styliane is neither bored nor credulous. She is an amusing woman. You should meet her. Or perhaps not. She’s very beautiful and I would not wish her to meet you when dark stars are governing our fate.’

  She kissed him.

  He thought of the comet and shivered. That had heralded nothing good for sure — the disappearance of the sun and the birth of a lasting darkness. But that was not the cause of the emperor’s malaise. The darkness had happened only recently, and the emperor suffered from a long-standing condition.

  Beatrice went to bed and he continued his studies through three candles. His head ached with the mental effort. Perhaps if he addressed the influence of the comet, then he would see something?

  He consulted his books and worked his chart, tracing the comet’s path across the sky as best he recalled it. Abu Mash’r — an Arab mathematician — was very helpful here, and Loys calculated his angles and drew his charts according to the wise man’s prescription. He cast the seven hermetic lots, his pen marking the lines against the ruler in quick and fevered swipes. In the lot of fortune he saw minor problems, in the lot of spirit some difficulties. Nothing pointed to an illness striking at Basileios.

  Beatrice stirred in her sleep. For a second he longed to join her but he had gone beyond tiredness in his desperation for an answer. So work backwards. When he did, he found nothing again.

  Beatrice woke him at his desk the next morning, a pool of wax from the candles at his elbow.

  ‘How are you getting on?’

  ‘Well,’ he said, not wishing to alarm her.

  There was a knock at the door and the eunuch servant entered.

  ‘Hello,’ Loys said.

  Beatrice put her hand to his head. ‘You’re very nice, Loys, but this is a court. If you behave like that no one will respect you.’ He had forgotten it was bad form to greet slaves.

  ‘I have a message, sir,’ said the eunuch.

  Loys glanced at Beatrice.

  ‘You can reply to that.’ She laughed and stroked his hair.

  ‘What is it?’ said Loys with exaggerated formality.

  ‘The Lady Styliane would see the Lady Beatrice in her rooms at noon tomorrow.’

  ‘Sounds like you’ve made a friend,’ said Loys.

  ‘It is a formal occasion for the lady’s particular friends,’ said the servant.

  Beatrice glanced at Loys. ‘Do you think I should go?’

  ‘If you want.’

  ‘It could be a worthwhile association for us.’

  Loys smiled. Beatrice had been brought up at a court and it was as natural for her to think that way as it was for Loys to overlook it. His wife would prove a big asset to his career — were he not mired in this magic business. She understood instinctively how things worked. He was wary of great people; she was drawn to them.

  ‘The invitation extends to you too, sir,’ said the eunuch.

  Loys and Beatrice exchanged a glance.

  ‘Me?’

  The eunuch lowered his eyes in assent.

  ‘What could she want with me? Is it normal for the ladies of the court to take their men with them?’ he said.

  Beatrice coloured slightly. ‘I don’t know if I did the right thing, but I mentioned your task to her.’

  Loys swallowed, trying to think before speaking. Panic rose in him and anger too — for the danger in which Beatrice had placed them both.

  ‘I said nothing about the emperor,’ said Beatrice, ‘just that you were researching magic on the chamberlain’s behalf.’

  Loys brought his hands together as if readying himself to pray. He saw what had happened. Beatrice had come to trust this woman and had made a casual remark that had rebounded to haunt her. He couldn’t blame his wife. He had put her in danger by telling her anything at all. Were they in danger from Styliane? Who knew? But he had seen already the court had its sectional interests and was certain he was about to encounter another.

  ‘Well,’ he said, glancing back at the useless results of his night’s scribbling, ‘let’s see what she has to say. She may be able to help.’

  And at least he could mention the soothsayers to her to see if any sort of protection could be offered to them.

  He squeezed Beatrice’s hand and gave her his best smile.

  13

  Help for the Hunters

  Mauger and Azemar walked through the umber light beneath the great dome of Hagia Sophia. Its windows were bright despite the dim day outside. Shining archways ringed the base of the dome, and the scholar imagined for a second they were the windows of heaven, with God and the saints gazing down at him.

  It was an incredible building, raised to the glory of God — whose commandments Azemar was obliged to break. He imagined his soul standing where he was standing, surrounded by those windows, with God on his throne on the final day, judging him for helping Mauger to murder his friend.

  ‘The scholars come here?’ said Mauger.

  ‘I think this is the best place to start,’ said Azemar. ‘It’s the church of Holy Wisdom. Where better to search for a scholar?’

  ‘You know about these things,’ said Mauger, ‘so I will trust you.’

  Azemar eyed the long roll of thick cloth the knight wore on his back. It was his bedding but also contained his sword.

  ‘You don’t intend to chop off his head here on the cathedral flagstones?’

  ‘If you see him, identify him and leave the rest to me.’

  ‘You’ll need to follow him to find the lady.’

  Mauger gave Azemar a look that suggested he’d thought of that already.

  Azemar shivered. The sky had frightened him, the sun reducing to a pale yel
low disc like a dog’s eye and then vanishing entirely. A half-hearted snow fell and the cobbled streets were slick and slippy, the unpaved ones muddy and filthy. The rich kept inside while the poor wailed and prayed, huddled beneath the porticoes or crammed into the churches.

  The only good thing to come of it was that Loys was likely to stay indoors. The cathedral contained its share of the poor now and their voices echoed to the ceiling. One voice sang above the rabble, sounding a kontakion loud and clear: ‘Though thou didst descend into the grave, O Immortal One, yet didst thou destroy the power of Hades.’

  Azemar crossed himself.

  ‘Ask.’ Mauger touched Azemar on the elbow.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Ask one of those scholars.’ A group of monks stood whispering by a pillar

  Azemar swallowed. At least Mauger couldn’t speak Greek. He would never know what had been asked.

  Azemar approached them.

  ‘Hello, dear friends in Christ. Foul weather we’re having, isn’t it?’

  The monks ceased their conversation.

  ‘You are a foreigner,’ said one, a tall man with thin lips and nose like a big crab apple.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Then perhaps you can tell us where this weather has come from. Did you bring it with you?’

  ‘No. That is… no. We don’t have its like in my lands.’

  ‘And where are your lands?’

  ‘Normandy, near Francia.’

  ‘I hear that it is overrun by barbarians.’

  ‘There are many fierce northern men there, it is true, and our dukes-’

  One of the monks held up his hand to interrupt him. ‘Then why don’t you go back to your fierce northern men and your dukes and take your weather with you?’

  Azemar smiled. This response gladdened him and he hoped he would meet its like every time he asked anyone anything. The harder it was to find Loys the happier he would be.

  He walked back to Mauger.

  ‘Well, I hope you saw that.’

  ‘What did you ask them?’

  ‘Just as you asked, Lord Mauger. For the whereabouts of our scholar Loys.’

  ‘I am not a fool, Azemar.’

  ‘Nor do I take you for one, but you note the response I got.’

  Mauger stood close to Azemar. ‘I can find him without you. With you it will be easier by far, but I have money enough to hire a translator who will do my work honestly. Let me be clear, Azemar. If I do not have an idea where this scholar is staying by the end of the week then I’ll kill you and go on alone. You choose.’

  Azemar felt the blood drain from his face. ‘I treat you honestly and fairly, Mauger; you do the same to me.’

  ‘So I shall. But I want to see you working hard for me.’

  Azemar held up his hands. ‘You shall see it, you shall see it!’ he said.

  For the next hour he busied himself in the cathedral, approaching people and asking them questions about everything but where Loys was staying. He tried to think of a way out of his predicament but he’d been trying that since Rouen and hadn’t come up with one yet. Eventually the subdued light of the church and the mingled odours of the poor sheltering from the weather, the incense and the reed lights began to make his head spin and he headed outside. Mauger followed five paces behind.

  Even the beggars had deserted the area outside the great church and the ground was wet under the sleet. Sitting by the wall on a huge black wolfskin was a boy — or not quite a boy, a youth — huddled in a rich blue cloak trimmed with gold. He was talking, and as Azemar breathed in the fresh air he found himself listening. The boy spoke in Norse, a language Azemar knew well. His grandfather had been a Norseman and his parents had used the language at home.

  ‘In the time of the famed King Ingvar lived a slave who was a precious jewel to her masters. For this slave was mute, which is a rare gift to a master, and she had lived a long, long time — longer than anyone else, and yet she had never grown old. In this way she was like an heirloom to be passed from generation to generation. Now know that she came to travel east with the princess daughter of her master to be married to a Wendish king. All was easy in the travelling but, on arriving at a certain port, a rich traveller claimed the slave for his own, saying he had bought her many years before. But the princess would not give up the slave and took her east.

  ‘Coming to a certain river, they travelled down it, but a fever struck among the crew until none but the princess and the slave was alive. Fearing for her life, the princess asked what might be done. The slave, throwing off her silence, replied that there was nothing to be done and her master was coming for her.

  ‘Then the princess died and the fever stepped out of her and became a man, the rich traveller who had-’

  ‘A good enough tale, boy.’ Mauger cast a coin in his direction.

  ‘Thank you for your compliment but not your coin,’ said the boy. ‘I am seeking things other than alms.’

  ‘I apologise for not seeing that you are richly dressed. What do you seek?’ Azemar noticed that Mauger spoke formally to the boy, giving him respect.

  The boy stood up. ‘The blessing of the gods. A man told me if I recited this story here then fortune would come to me.’

  ‘Has it?’

  ‘I haven’t finished the tale yet,’ said the boy.

  ‘You know this city?’ said Mauger.

  ‘Well enough.’

  ‘You speak Greek?’

  ‘Many languages.’

  ‘Then great fortune may have attended you. I want to keep my scholar friend here honest. I’d like your help.’

  The boy glanced Mauger up and down. ‘To what purpose?’

  Mauger seemed to think for a second. ‘I need to find someone.’

  ‘To what purpose?’

  Again Mauger took his time. ‘Revenge on an enemy.’

  ‘Should not a monk pray to find forgiveness in his heart?’

  Mauger said nothing, but the boy caught the meaning in his silence.

  ‘Since I have no better employment for the moment, I will help you.’ He stood and bowed to Mauger and Azemar.

  ‘You’ll be paid well,’ said Mauger.

  ‘I seek no pay,’ said the boy. ‘I am a warrior and a killer. To share the joy of your revenge will be enough.’

  ‘You speak like a warrior because our Norse tongue is the tongue of warriors,’ said Mauger. ‘I am Mauger and this Azemar.’

  ‘I am Snake in the Eye,’ said the boy. ‘Now, how shall we find your enemy?’

  14

  The Lower Caves

  When Elifr sensed water he thought it might be safe to light the torch. He got out the tinder and flint and set to work.

  His eyes adjusted to the light. He had come to a narrow shelf of rock at the side of a cave of black water — the ceiling supported by elegant pillars. He had no idea what this place was — that the Greeks used it to supply water to the palaces. Nor did he know the connection to the tunnels of the Numera had come about as the result of a rockfall, and since it was said the water spirits had been seeking a way to the surface, the hole that had opened had not been closed. His dream-sharpened senses told him this way led down.

  The route to this cave was not easily found or reached — just a split in the ceiling of the cavern. But Elifr, his wolf senses sharpened by hunger, sensed the deep water that lay beyond. Elifr had earned many meals in the mountains by taking birds’ eggs from perilous ledges and he climbed the rough wall to squeeze his way through.

  Could the prisoners get out this way? Which of them could get free of his manacles? Even if they did, the dark itself was as effective as any irons.

  Elifr peered out into the flooded cavern. He gave a start — there were faces staring up at him from the torchlit water. He calmed himself. They were not real. At the base of two of the pillars were the carved heads of snake-haired women, gazing blankly up. He tried to see further out, the swimming torchlight making a ghost of his reflection.

  Words came to
him, just the echo of a memory. I am a wolf. He’d spoken those words before, unimaginable years ago. Another word. Mother.

  He remembered his family, the hearth, the little house on the hill with its turf roof and low walls, lying next to his brothers and sisters in the night, breathing in the smell of their hair, listening to the push and pull of their breath. The spirits had called him and he had given up that life without regret but here it seemed precious again. No hearth, no home. Just this black water.

  A dry terror seized his throat, a terror not of death but of the ordeal that would precede it.

  No point delaying. He put a foot into the water. It was cold but he would get used to that. He had endured worse and knew he could survive a long time in there. The waters of this land were cold but nothing compared to the ones of his northern home.

  He propped the torch against a rock, swallowed as if gulping down his fear and offered a prayer to his spirits.

  ‘You that roar in the mountain winds

  You that sparkle in the waters

  Spirits of sunlight and moonlight

  Find your servant in this darkness.’

  The prayer gave scant reassurance. The realm he was moving in was not governed by the spirits of rock and stream. This was the realm of the dark god Odin, the magical, the mad.

  He threw off the loincloth the Greeks had put on him, wishing he still had the pelt that had been torn from him in the emperor’s tent. He would have been more a wolf in that, an animal that did not feel the creeping dread in that place.

  He walked forward into the pool, fighting down an urge to gasp as the water came up to his thighs. The torch stretched its shadows over his head as he went. The pillars seemed a city themselves, stretching out to the limit of the light.

  Each pillar had at its top a carving of a mythological beast, things of bursting eyes and ravening mouths. Reflected in the torchlight, they loomed below him like monsters from a dream.

  Elifr moved forward on instinct, not sure what to do. The pillars went on and on. Tear shapes were carved into some of them, ruder than the carvings at the tops. A strong sense of their meaning came to him. People had died here, lots of them, constructing this place. The tears were the only record of the slaves who had worked to build it.