Whistler

by Roger Taylor

  Laffran made to interrupt but Mueran ploughed on. ‘I’m not going to allow a discussion on that matter now,’ he said, with uncharacteristic firmness. ‘The church’s position is quite clear. The Santyth is, at best, ambiguous on the matter and we favour the search for rational causes for sickness before we invoke Ahmral’s personal intervention.’

  Though Mueran was merely stating the church’s official view on such matters, he was far from happy. Laffran’s remark could pitch the gathering into the deepest theological waters and he desperately wanted to keep their discussion on the simple pragmatic level of a sick colleague presenting an awkward administrative problem.

  He was spared any further debate by the entry of Morem, who had been attending to Cassraw. He went straight to his seat, dropped down in it heavily and put his face in his hands. When he looked up he started a little, as if surprised to find himself where he was.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘I was preoccupied.’

  Mueran’s concerns were not eased by Morem’s manner. ‘How is Brother Cassraw?’ he asked, only just managing to keep his voice calm.

  Morem frowned. ‘I don’t know,’ he said. ‘He’s covered in cuts and bruises. Presumably he must have fallen over a good number of times when he was going up the mountain, but he’s suffered no blows to the head or anything else that I can see that should affect him this way.’

  Laffran cleared his throat noisily, his jaw taut. Mueran glowered at him. ‘Could he just be exhausted?’ he tried hopefully.

  ‘We’re all exhausted, Mueran,’ Morem replied, unusually sour. ‘It’s been far from the day any of us thought it was going to be. But no one’s anywhere near the point of collapse. And Cassraw’s probably the fittest amongst us.’

  There was an awkward silence. Mueran was at a loss to know what to ask and Morem seemed disinclined to offer any suggestions as to the nature of Cassraw’s condition. Vredech looked up. He was having difficulty in concentrating. He wanted to be away from here. He needed to think about everything that had happened today; needed to let loose the questions that were clamouring for release and preventing him from thinking clearly. He turned towards Morem. ‘No reflection on you, Morem, but do you think we should call in his physician?’ he asked.

  Mueran’s finger tapped the table nervously.

  ‘I don’t think so,’ Morem said, after a moment’s thought. ‘Cassraw will be in some pain for a while, thanks to the knocking about he’s given himself, but I’ve examined him very thoroughly and nothing’s broken. Nor is he losing blood. Everything that really matters seems to be all right. Pulses, breathing – calmer and steadier than mine, for what it’s worth. Reflexes – fine.’ He rubbed his thighs gingerly. ‘He should be wide awake and grumbling like the rest of us, not lying there motionless.’

  ‘Well, we’ve got to do something,’ Mueran said pointlessly.

  ‘Perhaps his wife might be able to help,’ Morem said, his face lightening a little.

  The atmosphere around the table changed. ‘We can’t bring a woman into the Witness House, just like that,’ Laffran exclaimed, eyebrows raised. ‘It’s…’ He floundered.

  ‘It’s a good idea,’ Vredech heard himself saying, cutting through Laffran’s confusion. ‘If Morem says he’s not badly injured that’s good enough for me. And if there’s nothing physically wrong with him then it’s head or heart.’ He tapped his head, then his chest. ‘Either way, his wife’s better equipped to reach him, wherever he is, than any of us.’ He became practical. ‘Besides, Cassraw would have gone home tonight. She’ll be expecting him.’

  Thus it was that, despite his reservations about the matter, Laffran found himself escorting Dowinne to the Witness House. Reluctantly, after his announcement that Cassraw had ‘had a bit of an accident’ he had found it necessary to give Dowinne some assurance that nothing serious had happened to him but that Mueran thought it would be helpful if she were with him. It was near enough to a lie to make him decidedly uncomfortable, and he could do little except smile at her rather weakly in the dim lamplight whenever he caught her eye as they swayed from side to side in the carriage.

  It did not occur to Dowinne that it was odd that she should be travelling in one of the church carriages with the blinds pulled down. Had she thought about it at all, she would perhaps have reasoned that although those appalling black clouds had dispersed, it was still very gloomy and near night-time anyway. The reality was that Mueran wanted no indication of anything untoward reaching anyone other than those who already knew, and the sight of Cassraw’s wife being driven through the streets towards the Witness House would be around the town within the hour.

  Her thoughts were elsewhere, however. After the initial shock of Laffran’s news, she tried to work out what might have happened in order to decide how she must behave when she arrived at the Witness House. But to no avail. Apart from one or two servants, women were rarely allowed into the Witness House, and then usually on special ceremonial occasions. Thus, despite Laffran’s assurances, she knew that something serious must have happened even though it might not involve any physical injury to her husband. Once or twice she questioned Laffran, but he was evasive and obviously under instructions not to say anything. After a while she leaned back into the corner of her seat and, lifting her hand, rested her head on it. The action relieved Laffran greatly as he had been looking all around the carriage in an attempt to avoid her gaze. Dowinne had always made him feel uncomfortable and being confined with her under these circumstances was proving to be a considerable ordeal.

  In the darkness behind her hand, Dowinne did not find the calm reflection she was seeking. Unthinkingly, she lifted her other hand and tested the bruise where she had inadvertently struck the metal dish earlier. The slight pain brought back the thoughts that had been troubling her all day; the feeling that something bad was about to happen, that forces beyond her and her husband’s control were in motion. It was not something that was susceptible to logic, but it was real nonetheless and it was some measure of Dowinne that not the slightest sign appeared on her face, as she faced this unknown, unreasoned intrusion and determined that she would deal with whatever had happened, however grim or strange.

  Alert, but calm and clear in her mind now, she lowered her hand and examined her companion. He smiled feebly yet again, and she acknowledged him with an uncertain but calculated smile of her own. ‘Not much further now,’ he said needlessly, assuming his professional sick-visiting manner.

  Part of Dowinne’s old self had already noted the discreet luxury of the carriage, but now she became aware of the even more discreet quality embedded in its design, as shown by the fact that she had not noticed when they had begun the final uphill climb. It reaffirmed her new intent. She would deal with this pending problem without losing sight of her long-term ambition for a single moment.

  When they finally drew to a halt in front of the Witness House, Laffran helped Dowinne down the carriage steps. She had never felt more assured. It wasn’t something bad that was going to happen – or had happened – it was only something disturbing, something that brought change in its wake. And that could only be to her advantage.

  Chapter 6

  Privv was a Sheeter. He liked being a Sheeter – but then, he would. He had always been a worm. Admittedly, a worm with some skill in the handling of words, but a worm nonetheless: most at home when wriggling through the mouldering outer reaches of society or exposing to the light the darker labyrinths of human nature. Not that he considered himself to be so meanly inclined; he could justify his chosen profession, as he called it when he was feeling dignified, with the best of them.

  ‘It’s only the likes of us that guarantee our ancient freedom. People are entitled to know what the Heinders are doing in their name. And the Chapter Members of the church, with their secret meetings. And the great merchants. And the Guild Masters.’

  And anyone else who exhibited any remotely human frailty that might serve as food for the indiscriminate and ever-greedy god of gos
sip that Privv so assiduously served.

  It did not help that there was a great deal of truth in what he said, of course. More than a few states in Gyronlandt suffered under the heels of autocracies of one form or another, and the first two acts of such governments on coming to power were invariably to disarm their loyal subjects and then ban all the Sheets to ensure that as little as possible about what was really happening would become public knowledge.

  Sheeters were a resolute bastion against such eventualities.

  Sometimes.

  They were also a deep pain.

  Often.

  Privv scowled and scratched himself unceremoniously. He swung his feet down from his desk and walked over to the window again. Not by any definition a sensitive man, he nonetheless enjoyed the view he had from this particular room. To the north stood the dominating bulk of the Ervrin Mallos, halfway up which could be seen, on a clear day, the Witness House. To the east, visible in almost any weather save the grimmest, stood the elegant spires of the PlasHein, home of the Heindral.

  Most fitting, he would think in his more sanctimonious moments, that he should have the two great institutions of the state constantly within his view. It was not without symbolic significance. It was where they both belonged. It was the way things should be. Who better to guard the guardians than himself?

  But he was in no such philosophical mood now and his eyes were narrowed and fretful as he gazed out at the distant shape of the Witness House. His thumb came to his mouth and he began chewing the nail vigorously.

  ‘You’ll be growling when that’s all inflamed again.’

  The voice was unusual. It was female, high-pitched, hectoring and generally unpleasant. It also existed only in Privv’s mind. Not that he imagined it – it was real enough. It belonged to Leck. Privv referred to Leck as his companion, even his partner. Everyone else referred to her as his cat.

  ‘Shut up,’ Privv replied irritably. ‘I’m trying to think.’

  A disdainful hiss, quite clear in its meaning, filled his head, but as there was no specific reply to which he could respond, Privv contented himself with a silent, lip-curling sneer. Most people grow out of their sneers as they reach adulthood but, as was usually the way with Sheeters, Privv had not managed this, and thus one of youth’s more regrettable traits had become an adult characteristic. It pervaded most of his thinking. True, it was usually only in the privacy of his own home, as now, that he actually allowed it to show on his face. Though, that said, had he thought about it at all, he would probably have considered it to be a thoroughly wholesome and worthwhile inner quality. He had never been able to differentiate between scepticism and cynicism.

  How Privv and Leck came to communicate with one another as they did is not known. Neither could communicate with anyone else in this manner and, as far as they knew, neither came from parents who had the same ability. It was just one of those things. Not that it was unique in Canol Madreth, or for that matter in Gyronlandt as a whole, but it was rare. And it still carried with it faintly dubious overtones from the Court of the Provers. To the Judges of the Proving, the ability to communicate with an animal in such a way was, beyond any dispute, the mark of an individual who had had dealings with the Great Destroyer, Ahmral. Indeed, more than that, such an individual might well be possessed by one of His demons, and could therefore look to be lingeringly destroyed for the greater good of the church and, of course, his own soul. Now, in these more enlightened times, the residue of the fear that had brought about such horror showed itself merely in an unspoken but general acceptance that this particular ability was not really attractive in polite society.

  Not that Privv cared overly about what was socially desirable or not. It was sufficient for him that he kept silent about his gift and knew how to make the necessary noises to move freely in whatever level of Madren society he found himself. His only real concern was for the accumulation of wealth, followed, a little inconsistently in the light of his chosen profession and his inner disdain for society, by a desire to be both famous and respected. He also enjoyed manipulating people and events – though this was as much a hobby, and tool of his trade, as an ambition. Certainly he had no desire whatsoever to volunteer for the constraints offered to the traditional ways of achieving power, namely through the Heindral or the church. As a Sheeter, he was, of course, unfettered, the Sheeting profession being comparatively new to Canol Madreth.

  Leck seemed to be very similar in character to Privv, though who could say what ambitions a cat might harbour? She was a true predator however – she really enjoyed power, enjoyed it enormously, and as an end in itself. An ordinary, innocuous-looking cat, predominantly white but with various brindled markings scattered indiscriminately about her, she affected a loving disposition, invariably fawning around the legs of anyone who might prove useful, and, of course, purely for pleasure, about the legs of those visitors to Privv’s house who particularly did not like cats. She also demonstrated the same general lack of civilized traits – ethics, morality, etc – that characterized Privv. Unlike the Sheeter, though, she did have at least some vestige of an intellectual justification for her disposition, in that she was not human. Indeed, she was inordinately proud of that fact and she had a line in scorn about humanity that could set even Privv’s teeth on edge when she chose to use it.

  An unlovely couple in almost every way, they tended each other’s needs, or rather, served each other’s ends with a generally ill grace and little or no affection. Yet they were bound together by ties far deeper than either of them could reach. Ties of which they were scarcely aware, save that they were there and were perhaps unbreakable. Ties that came with their strange shared gift.

  ‘And pray, when you’ve finished eating your hand, do tell me what object is being given the benefit of your great intellect now,’ Leck went on, jumping up on to the windowsill and following his gaze. ‘Shouldn’t you be finishing that piece on the market officials?’

  ‘No rush for that,’ Privv yawned. ‘Besides, it’ll do them no harm to sweat a little. With a bit of luck they might even try to bribe me, then we’ll have an even better story.’

  ‘True,’ Leck conceded. ‘Unless, of course, it’s a really worthwhile bribe.’

  Privv chuckled. ‘Well, one has to use one’s professional judgement in such matters, hasn’t one? There are always long-term implications in such matters.’

  ‘You don’t normally bother about them where money’s concerned,’ Leck retorted, stretching herself luxuriously.

  Privv shook his head in denial. ‘As a puppeteer, I’m always looking out for strings, particularly when they might be fastened to me.’

  Leck feigned indifference for a moment, then leaned against him and began to wheedle. ‘What’s going on, Privv? I smell… interesting events. Really interesting. You’ve been quiet all day, and you keep looking out at the hill. I see the Witness House is quite clear today. Not thinking of joining the church, are you? Not suffering from religious doubts brought on by the passage of the great cloud?’

  Privv ignored the sarcasm. It was time to get Leck involved anyway. She could start ferreting for some more information about this business. He made no preamble.

  ‘Something’s up,’ he said, nodding towards the Ervrin Mallos, ‘at the Witness House. Something’s happened – something spectacular. And they’re trying to keep it quiet.’

  ‘Ah,’ Leck purred, her interest engaged immediately. ‘Scandal amongst the clerics, eh? Excellent! We haven’t had one of those for quite a time. What is it? Adultery, pederasty, or coin?’

  Privv shook his head. ‘I don’t know. But my every nerve tells me they’re up to something.’

  ‘Tell, tell.’

  Privv returned to his chair. Pushing it on to its back legs, he swung a foot up on to his desk, rattling a plate on which was spread the congealed remains of a half-eaten meal. He began rocking himself backwards and forwards and chewing his thumb again.

  ‘I met my religious adviser last night,’ he
began.

  ‘The church’s privy cleaner?’ Leck inquired.

  ‘The Witness House Maintenance Superintendent,’ Privv corrected.

  ‘The privy cleaner,’ Leck confirmed. ‘I know him… by sight and by smell. One of your occasional creatures.’

  ‘An old friend and one of my respected personal couriers with a continuing interest in the propagation of the truth,’ Privv retorted.

  Leck sneered. ‘A paid gossip, you mean. And whoever heard of a Sheeter with friends?’

  ‘Do you want to hear about this or not?’ Privv said irritably.

  ‘You’ll tell me anyway,’ Leck retorted, ‘as soon as you want something done. Suit yourself when – now or later. I’m not that interested.’ She turned to peer out of the window again.

  Privv mouthed an oath at the back of her head. ‘I met my man last night.’

  ‘You’ve just told me that.’

  Privv opted for iciness and, with an effort, managed to avoid repeating his opening statement. ‘He says there was some big row at the Chapter meeting yesterday.’

  Exaggerated shock filled his mind. ‘Not another change in cassock design? Not ructions over the prayer-sheet printing contracts?’

  ‘Will you listen?’ Privv snapped irritably.

  There was a long pause.

  ‘Well, go on,’ Leck prompted.

  Privv swung his other foot on to the desk and spat out part of his thumbnail. ‘My man says that one of the Chapter Members crashed out of the meeting and went dashing off up the mountain. Right up into the thick of that cloud.’

  ‘More cloud madness, eh?’ Leck’s tone was only slightly caustic. A great many strange occurrences had come in the wake of the passing of the black cloud, and the Sheeters were suffering a surfeit of wild tales which, with their usual talent for imagination, they had categorized under the collective name of ‘cloud madness’.