“Why do they do it?” Ashkinet asked.
“Piety?”
Tevi pursed her lips. “Or addiction. The way the glamour feels, they probably have to fight off the volunteers.”
Beside her, Jemeryl sighed. “Right. Plan two. We get someone to create a diversion. Did you pick up anything of use there?”
“I think so. Two groups actually.” Larric turned to Ashkinet. “Have you noticed there aren’t many nomads in town?”
She nodded. “Yes. And I’ve been getting odd looks.”
“There’s been big trouble. Sefriall has forbidden the worship of any gods other than hers in the whole town, not just the temple.”
“My people would never forsake Yalaish.”
“Precisely. There were running battles in town between nomads and sentinels. The sentinels mostly won, so the nomads withdrew to the desert, where they’ve got the advantage.”
Tevi eyed Ashkinet in concern. With her coppery skin and fair hair, she was clearly from the desert tribes. “Do you think it’s safe for her to be in town? Does she need a disguise?”
Larric shook his head. “She should be all right. A few have stayed, like Raf. The ones who’ve given up on Yalaish. Maybe she could learn some Cyclian prayers to mutter when the sentinels are around.”
“I’ll do it.”
Tevi suspected the suggestion had been light-hearted on Larric’s part, although Ashkinet had taken it seriously. She resolved to pick up the makings of a disguise anyway, just in case it was needed.
Jemeryl looked thoughtful. “It sounds like the nomads would be keen to help us, if we can contact them.”
“That’s why I mentioned them.” Larric smiled. “I’ve also found out a bit about the old priests.”
“Are they safe?” Tevi asked.
“Some are. Some we saw on the way in, hanging from the gibbets.”
“Have you heard about Darjain?”
“I didn’t get names and if anyone knows where the ones who escaped are, they weren’t saying.” Larric frowned. “I don’t blame them. It’s got very nasty. That’s most of what I heard. People being denounced. Rounded up. Getting a five-second trial before they’re hanged, if they’re lucky. Mostly, the sentinels don’t bother and kill them on the spot. There were rumours about spies and paid informers—as in, if you don’t pay them, they’ll inform on you, regardless of whether you’re an unbeliever or not.”
“Anything else?” Jemeryl asked.
“Nothing that will help us.”
“You’ve done well.”
Larric smiled at the praise. “Thanks.”
“Tomorrow.” Jemeryl chewed her lip for a few seconds before continuing. “I’ll spend the day in the temple, working out the schedule. When guards change. Details like that. Ashkinet will try to contact the nomads and Tevi will hunt for the ex-priests. Larric—you can just go from bar to bar. See what you can pick up.”
“My dream assignment.”
“But for now, we need more practice at the pentagrams. Speed will be vital.”
Tevi nodded and reached for the bag in the corner. On the voyage, and any other chance since, they had taken turns to practise. All had grown proficient and could assemble the parts by the count of twenty, a fraction of the time it had taken Weilan’s assistant. Tevi just hoped they would get that long. How good would the diversion be?
*
Tevi sauntered along the street, acting like a pilgrim with time on her hands. From the outside, the bakery belonging to Parrash’s sister looked the same as before, although the flow of customers through the door had dropped to nothing. Presumably, the sister had been involved in the plot, and so had not been accused of harbouring the deposed priests. However, word must have leaked and the association with Sefriall’s spies was enough to scare customers away. Tevi felt that it fell short, as far as poetic justice went, but was better than nothing.
As she reached the open door, Tevi peered inside while trying not to appear too interested. Would she attract attention if she went in, given the way everyone else was avoiding the shop? Surely a stranger in town would not know the background, and might well see the lack of a queue as a bonus. Her mind made up, Tevi changed direction.
The shop owner was not around and the only person serving was a boy of about fourteen. Tevi guessed he was either Parrash’s nephew or younger brother.
“Can I help?” The boy looked inordinately pleased to see her. If business did not improve soon, his family was going to be out of work.
“Yeah. Got any meat pies? Something I can take away for lunch?”
“Sure. The best in town.”
If the pie that Tevi ended up with was the best, she could only dread the worst Kradja had to offer. The crust was stale and dry, easily two days old. Tevi decided not to put it to a taste test. If it had been sitting around for that long in the desert heat, the filling would be off. She could understand that, with slow sales, baking fresh food every day might be uneconomical, but poisoning the few remaining customers was a poor long-term sales strategy.
Tevi tossed the inedible pie onto a pile of refuse accumulating in the rear alleyway, while feeling a twinge of pity for any stray dog that might be desperate enough to scavenge it. Yet although her visit had failed to provide lunch, it had not been a waste of time. She had seen and heard enough to know that the bakery was not working normally. No voices or other sounds had came from the rear rooms and the temperature in the building made it clear that the ovens were cold. Sneaking into the cellar would not be without risk, but neither was it unacceptably dangerous.
Tevi looked around. The narrow alley was deserted. Several buildings overlooked the back of the bakery, but no faces peered through windows and with the evident unpopularity of the baker, the chances were good that anyone breaking in would not be reported, even if spotted. She pressed her ear against the cellar door. Judging by the total silence, nobody was on the other side. However, as expected, the door was locked. Anything else would have been too much to hope for.
The door itself and the wooden frame were of indifferent construction, and the state of repair was poor. With Tevi’s potion-enhanced strength, kicking it down would be easy, but not without making enough noise to alert the shop assistant, as well as everyone else in the neighbourhood. She needed another way in.
Tevi took a step back. The bakery had no ground-floor windows, and those on the upper floor all had closed shutters. These would be hard to reach without a ladder, and most likely were bolted on the inside, anyway. Another step back and Tevi’s gaze went still higher, to the top of the building. Like every other mud brick dwelling in Kradja, the roof was flat, surrounded by a low parapet. Tevi nodded. That was the place to start. She left the alley.
In under an hour, Tevi was back, carrying a small bag over her shoulder. The alley was as quiet and deserted as before. Tevi took a moment for a last quick look around and then pulled out a length of rope and a grappling iron. Within seconds, she was on the roof and the rope and iron were back in the bag. Anyone spotting her now would have no way of knowing that she was not supposed to be there.
As Tevi had hoped, the trapdoor in the corner was flung open, possibly out of habit. When the ovens were going, the rooftop exit would be used to vent heat from the building. A short ladder was in place, protruding slightly through the opening. Tevi crouched by the hatch, listening intently, but for all she could hear, the bakery might have been totally deserted.
Stealthily, Tevi climbed down the ladder to a landing at the top of a twisting flight of stairs. The three doorways around her were all closed. No sound of movement came from any of them. The stairs were old and warped, but she had no option. Descending them, Tevi transferred her weight from foot to foot as gradually as she could, keeping to the edge of the steps to avoid creaks. Twice the wood groaned under her, making her pulse race, but no challenge came.
At last, Tevi reached the ground floor. A short passageway provided a view straight through the shop to the street door, wher
e the young shop assistant was leaning against the jamb, staring out, most likely in the hope of spotting customers. Two more doorways opened on either side of the passage. Voices rumbled indistinctly on the left, but luckily the entrance to the cellar was on the right of the building. Carefully, Tevi inched open the door, ready to flee. If it came to it, she was sure she would have no problem bowling over the boy in the doorway.
A pair of cold ovens filled the rear of the room, a bare table occupied the middle, and a huge mixing urn stood in a corner, but apart from this, the room was empty. The trapdoor to the cellar was closed but unlocked. Tevi descended the final flight of stairs.
The first thing was to secure her escape route. The door to the alley was bolted top and bottom. Tevi slid the blots back and pulled the door open wide. Not only could she be off the instant she heard anyone enter the room above, but the light in the cellar was greatly improved to conduct a search.
Unfortunately, the light did not help. After a wasted half hour of scouring the cellar, Tevi slumped on the floor, resting her back against the wall, and looked around despondently. Was there anything she had missed? The piles of bedrolls and other belongings had gone, along with any indication that the priests had ever been there. No notes, no papers, and no clues as to what had happened. Was it a good sign that there were also no blood stains? How many had escaped?
To Tevi’s left, between her and the door, a wooden crate was shoved haphazardly away from the wall. The top was covered with a fine layer of flour, scuffed and scraped where it had been used as a table. Tevi had already checked it carefully, but now her eyes were level with the top, the oblique light picked up a previously missed imprint in the flour. Tevi shifted to her knees and got closer.
The overall outline was a soft-edged cone, about as long as her hand, with a small detailed design in the middle. Tevi twisted her neck to view it the right way up. The picture was a sunburst with a stylised antelope leaping over it. The heraldic nature made Tevi sure it was some sort of crest, and she was equally sure she knew what had caused it. At the meeting, Darjain had passed around a silver teardrop-shaped flask, filled with fine brandy, and had then had put the flask down on the crate.
Darjain was the leader of the group. He was also an old man, ill equipped to living in the cramped and primitive conditions of the cellar. If a devout supporter was offering better accommodation, surely Darjain would have had first claim on it. The fine brandy and silver flask certainly had not come from the bakery. It was more likely that Darjain had been staying with a wealthy benefactor. In which case, the flask would be from his supporter, and the symbol would be the family crest.
Tevi again squinted at the design. It was the nearest thing to a lead that she had, but was she reading too much into it? For completeness, she made one last circuit of the room, to be sure she had overlooked nothing, and then left, pulling the cellar door shut behind her.
The north of Kradja was the wealthy side of town, where mansions were enclosed in their own small estates. The families who lived there were rich, with high walls and armed guards outside their doors. Yet even they were not immune to the fear and sickness infecting Kradja. Tevi could sense it in the shuttered windows and edgy manner of the guards. While money gave the veneer of security, it might also make them a target. Presumably Sefriall was paying her sentinels with something. What would she do when the money ran out?
The midafternoon sun was high overhead, beating down and leaving little in the way of shade. Tevi walked along a wide street, lined on either side by heavy stone walls. No mud bricks here. She passed a wrought iron gateway, manned by more of the liveried guards bearing huge spiked halberds, twice as tall as themselves. Through the bars she caught a glimpse of palm trees, ferns, and exotic flowers. The guards eyed her suspiciously but made no other move. Their bearing and alertness was vastly more professional than that of the sentinels. Yet walls, halberds, and guards would be no defence against the hundreds who would attack, if Sefriall gave the order.
Tevi turned a corner. Midway along the street opposite was another iron gateway, but this was unguarded and open. As Tevi watched, two women dressed in the scruffy clothes of homeless pilgrims sauntered out and headed off down the road, arm in arm. It was hard to imagine what legitimate business they could have in the mansion. The pair were certainly not the owners, or their servants, or tradesfolk, but their manner was not that of thieves. Tevi walked up to the gateway.
The garden inside had been trampled and delicate plants uprooted. Wherever space allowed, crude shelters had been constructed from fronds stripped from the palm trees. A dozen or more people were in the ravaged garden, dressed similarly to the two women who had left. Most were sprawled in the shade, talking. One was cooking over a fire. An ornate fountain occupied the centre of the area. Water still cascaded from the mouths of twin lions, but the stone bodies had been daubed with the Cyclian symbol. A couple of young children were splashing in the pool, squealing as they ran through the spray.
On the opposite side of the garden was a manor house, graceful and prosperous, except the glass windows had been shattered and the doorway battered down. More Cyclian symbols were in evidence. Clearly this well-off family had already fallen foul of Sefriall. Her sentinels had attacked and pillaged the property and now it was home for the pilgrims flooding into Kradja. Even in its current state, it was better than sleeping on the street as many others were doing.
But who were the ousted family, and what had they done? Tevi could make a guess but she wanted proof—which did not take long to find, once she reached the house. Chiselled in the stonework over the entrance was a crest. Despite the Cyclian symbol painted over it, the antelope leaping over the rising sun was unmistakable.
Of course Parrash had known who was providing shelter and support for Darjain and his followers. The family and everyone else in the house would have been arrested within hours of Sefriall returning to Kradja. Tevi pouted. She had been wasting her time.
“The Calequirals.” A voice spoke at Tevi’s shoulder.
She glanced around. An elderly man had wandered over. Possibly he was one of Sefriall’s informers checking her out, or maybe he just wanted someone to talk to. In either case, admitting ignorance ought to be safe.
“I’m new in town. The Calec…um. What did you say?”
“Calequirals.”
“Did they used to live here?”
“Yes.”
Tevi pointed at the design over the door. “Was that their family crest?”
“I suppose so.”
“What happened to them?”
“They worshipped Yalaish. They’d been in Kradja for generations, but reckoned they had nomad roots. Wouldn’t swap to the true faith.”
“I hope the sentinels got them all.” Tevi tried to put some vehemence into her voice.
The man spat at the ground. “Nah. Not with their money. They’d paid off someone, so they got word. Most escaped. Now they’re out in the desert somewhere, with the other unbelievers.”
“Their time will come. You’ll see.”
“Trust on it.” The man patted her arm and wandered away.
Tevi again stared up at the leaping antelope. Maybe she had not been wasting her time after all.
*
Jemeryl could count over twenty sentinels in the temple, and at least ten times that many worshippers, gathered around the idol in adoration. The eyes of those nearest to it were glazed over, lost in the rapture. Jemeryl could well understand it. The allure was overwhelming, even though she was keeping as far back as possible without seeming conspicuous.
The effect grew stronger the longer and closer the person stood by the idol, until all thought was washed away by the sea of love. None were immune, including the sentinels, as Jemeryl noted thoughtfully. This might prove useful to their plans. If she and the others timed their attack towards the end of a period of sentry duty, the sentinels nearest would be dazed and slow to react. Those around the edge of the main hall would be quicker, bu
t they would also have further to travel, and they would have to plough through a field of worshippers.
From what Jemeryl had seen, the number of pilgrims increased throughout the day. Many would arrive intending only a quick visit, to pray or just gaze on the idol for a few minutes, but the weakest willed would be ensnared, and not leave until the sentinels bundled them out at dusk. Adding it all up, Jemeryl reckoned the best time to make their attack would be just before the end of the day, when the sentinels would be in a stupor and the largest number of entranced bodies would be in their way. She paused, chewing her lip. Or maybe just before the last changeover of sentries. Surely at the very end of the day, extra sentinels would be drafted in to help clear the mindless worshippers from the hall.
Mindless.
A shudder of revulsion gave Jemeryl gooseflesh as she looked at the people around her. The worst thing was that she could so easily give in and join them. She loved the idol. She could not help it. As with the first time she had come under the spell, the sense of helplessness was awful, but now there was an added edge. Before, the glamour had been the work of Ciamon, a good man, a friend, a sometime lover. Now it was bolstering the power of Sefriall, a murderer who wanted to impose her remorseless theocracy on the world.
Did the citizens of the Protectorate feel the same about magic? Did it all come down to trust? Did the citizens trust the Coven? And how much of her trust in Ciamon was purely personal, in defiance of the truth? For all his condemnation of the Coven, he had abused the power of magic in ways Protectorate laws utterly forbade. In his actions, he had shown contempt for the freedom he had espoused. Jemeryl bowed her head to hide the tears. But he had not deserved to die.
The sound of marching broke into Jemeryl’s thoughts. Her head shot up. What time was it? How long had she been standing there? She turned her head, looking through the open doors. Judging by the length of the shadows, she had lost the better part of an hour. She had to move away.
The marching had been the arrival of a fresh deployment of sentries. The newly arrived sentinels were rousing their comrades, while one wearing more gold braid than the rest snapped orders. This must be the last change of the day. Another two hours would bring dusk and time for the temple to close. The crowds around her had thickened while she had been in her glamour-induced daze. Jemeryl backed away from the idol towards the exit. Regardless of whether she might learn more by staying, she could not bear the thought of falling under its spell again.
The High Priest and the Idol Page 21