by Sarah Ash
She came slowly, carefully, down the spiral stair. At the bottom, she paused in front of the clerk’s desk.
‘Have you ever heard,’ she said, ‘of an illness called Accidie?’
He glanced up from his corrections, smiled and shrugged.
‘Never heard of it.’
Orial stepped out into the lane. The Accidie. She had grown up in a Sanatorium, her father was a doctor, she had heard him and his colleagues use innumerable medical terms… and yet this one was unfamiliar to her. And why use an ancient term in a contemporary journal?
Dr Magelonne’s study was lined from floor to ceiling with books of medicine and bound journals. Orial tiptoed inside, after first checking the corridor to make sure that no one had seen her come in. Her father was down in the treatment rooms, overseeing the first immersion of an elderly dowager crippled with rheumatism. Rheumatism was his speciality; he had written several papers on the subject and Orial was confident he would be busy for at least a quarter of an hour.
Dr Magelonne’s obsession with order revealed itself in the meticulously organised shelves. Everything in its proper place, every shelf labelled: ‘Anatomy’, ‘Rheums and Phthisis’, ‘Gout and its Treatments’.
Where to begin? An ancient malady might be found in an ancient tome… She pulled out the most decrepit volume she could see and started to check its yellowed pages.
‘Orial!’
The book fell to the floor. Her father stood in the doorway.
‘Sorry, Papa.’ She dipped down and hastily retrieved the book, slotting it back in place, standing with her back to the shelf.
‘Don’t apologise. It’s good to see you so interested in your work. When it comes to treating the frailties of the human body, one can never do too much research.’ He came towards her. ‘What were you looking up?’
‘Oh – oh, nothing important.’ Her hands were shaking; she hid them behind her back.
‘You can always ask me. You know that, don’t you?’ He drew her to him, gazing earnestly into her eyes. ‘I’m afraid I must seem somewhat preoccupied at present, Orial. My work takes up so much of my time. I want you to know that you can always come to me… and ask me anything.’
He kissed her on the forehead, his lips smooth and dry.
Anything, Papa… but the one thing I want to know.
CHAPTER 4
Acir Korentan strode past the elegant boutiques of Sulien on his way to the poste restante.
The trays in the baker’s were piled high with elaborate confections of spun sugar, choux pastry and whipped cream – but where was the bread? Wholesome, honest bread, ballast for an empty stomach. True hunger could not be assuaged with such airy trifles.
Everywhere he looked, he saw triviality. The elaborately dressed wigs in the coiffeurs, the ambered scents drifting from the perfumiers, the qaffë houses in which so many seemed to idle away their days in gossip. Sulien was as hollow at the heart as one of the patissier’s choux confections.
He was a simple soldier, accustomed to hardship and the ways of war. He had spent his years as a Guerrior fighting the Enhirrans to take back the birthplace of the Poet-Prophet Mhir. He could not understand the Sulien Smalltalk about weather, who had won at lansquenet, who had danced the cotillion with whom at the Rooms last night… Had they no idea what was happening beyond the borders of Tourmalise? The world was turning upside down!
At the poste restante, he asked if any letters were awaiting him. One had arrived from Allegonde: he recognised the crimson rose-seal of the Commanderie. He signed for it and took it away to read in private.
It was drizzling again, a fine, cold mist that seemed to penetrate every pore. Acir Korentan shivered and turned up his collar. He could not get used to this dismal climate. After five long years campaigning in the red deserts of Enhirrë, he felt the damp in his bones.
Acir had been wounded on campaign. A scimitar slash across the shoulder in Enhirrë had left him babbling with wound fever for days; an arrow in the thigh at the siege of Ondhessar. Each time, thanks to the skill of the surgeons and his faith in Mhir, he had recovered with only a scar – and this cursed aching in damp weather – as evidence of his brush with death.
A thin, dark-burning smoke issued from behind the steamy windows of the shop opposite. He sniffed. The aroma of roasting qaffë beans was too potent to resist.
He pushed open the door of the qaffë shop and seated himself in an obscure corner, close to the fire. The milky Tourmalise concept of qaffë was insipidly weak compared to the strong, darkly aromatic drink he had come to appreciate in Enhirrë. Maybe it was something in the roasting of the beans… But the qaffë shop, with its dark-varnished wooden booths, would offer privacy and warmth in which to read Girim’s letter.
When the owner had brought him a steaming copper pot of hot qaffë, he poured himself a cup and broke the seal.
‘My dearest confrère…’
Dearest confrère. The words warmed Acir’s heart. ‘A diplomatic mission of the utmost delicacy,’ Girim had said, ‘which is why I have confided in you, Acir, as I can confide in no one else.’
‘I am sorry to read that your efforts on behalf of our friend have so far proved fruitless. Persevere, I beg you.’
Acir drank his qaffë, feeling his chill finger-tips slowly thawing. As he placed the cup back on its saucer and reached for the pot to pour a second cup, he was suddenly riven by the thought that this – even this – simple action was beyond Amaru Khassian.
‘For it is essential that our friend must come back to Bel’Esstar of his own volition. Any attempt to use force is out of the question. We have no wish to prejudice diplomatic relations with our neighbours in Tourmalise. Neither do we want our friend to make himself a martyr to his cause.
‘Nevertheless, I must remind you that if he remains resolute in his heretical opinions, you may be obliged to resort to the other solution which we discussed.’
The other solution.
Acir folded the letter, frowning, and slipped it into his breast pocket.
Never before had he doubted Girim’s judgement. He had followed Girim to the pitiless red deserts of Enhirrë, knowing that his cause – the protection of the birthplace of the Poet-Prophet Mhir from the infidel – was just.
But this seemed less than honourable. He was a Guerrior, a traveller on the Path of Thorns. He was no assassin.
They had been walking in the Water Gardens of the Palace at Bel’Esstar when Girim had turned to him. The memory was rippled with light, the cloudy sky shot through with pale sunshafts, the silvered waters reflected in the clear, intense grey of Girim’s eyes.
‘And if he establishes a core of revolutionaries in Sulien? One as influential as Amaru Khassian could act as a magnet, drawing all the dissidents to him. These are dangerous people, amoral, dissolute… they could so easily wreck the work of the Commanderie. They could destroy the dream for which we have laboured so long.’
‘Is this man really so influential?’ Acir could hear his own voice asking above the trickling of the clear fountains.
‘Believe me, dear confrère, he is. The Prince was utterly infatuated with him. He must publicly attest his loyalty to our cause – for if he does not, we risk plunging Allegonde into civil war.’
‘But if he will not–’
Girim had stopped and gripped Acir by the arms, gazing into his eyes.
‘Then he must not leave Sulien alive.’
‘Kill him?’
‘If he will not be converted, yes. As to how you kill him, that is up to you. You will have to make a professional judgement as to how and when – and you will have to be discreet. We don’t want to make a martyr out of him.’
Girim’s gaze pierced him to the heart; shafts of clear glass.
‘Never forget, the future of the Commanderie rests with you, Acir.’
‘Go away! We don’t want your sort here! I’ll call the Watch!’
Mistress Permay’s voice, shrill with vexation, carried right up the stairs t
o Cramoisy’s apartment where the Diva was pouring tea for Khassian.
‘But I’m a friend of the Diva –’
‘That voice,’ Cramoisy said. ‘Could it be –’
‘Be off with you!’
Cramoisy set down the silver pot and hurried out on to the landing.
Khassian followed. He had reached the top of the stairs when he heard Cramoisy’s astonished cry.
‘Valentan!’
‘You know this… person?’ said Mistress Permay with a sniff.
‘Know him! My dear Mistress Permay, this is Celestion Valentan, the celebrated tenor. Celestion, come in, come in. You look exhausted. However did you find us?’
Khassian saw Cramoisy helping a dark-cloaked man up the stairs, Mistress Permay fretting behind.
‘It’s all one to me, Sieur Jordelayne, but I’d rather those travel-stained clothes didn’t come in contact with my striped brocades…’
‘A fresh pot of tea would be much appreciated, Mistress Permay, I thank you.’ Cramoisy said crisply.
Bloodshot eyes stared at Khassian from an emaciated, stained face darkened with several days’ growth of beard.
‘Amar?’ Valentan said, reaching out towards him.
Khassian slowly raised his burned hands, palms upwards, as though to grasp the tenor’s in greeting – and saw revulsion cloud the singer’s face.
‘Welcome,’ Khassian said stiltedly.
‘Tea!’ Cramoisy commanded, steering Valentan into his apartments.
“The – the brocades,’ he said, teetering on the edge of one of the striped and gilt couches.
‘Fa to her precious brocades!’ Cramoisy peeled the cloak off his shoulders and pushed him down on to the seat. ‘Drink this tea.’ He placed a bowl in Valentan’s shaking hands and waited as he obediently gulped it down. ‘More?’
Valentan nodded. A sharp tap at the door announced Mistress Permay’s arrival with a second pot of tea; she put it down with a crack on the tray and, taking up the empty one, flounced off, not before glaring pointedly at Valentan.
‘Her sand cakes are really quite palatable if you dip them in the tea.’ Cramoisy demonstrated, pushing the little plate of shell-shaped spongecakes towards the singer. Khassian watched in growing amazement as Valentan wolfed his way through the whole plateful.
‘Famished,’ he said unapologetically between mouthfuls. ‘Haven’t eaten properly in days.’
‘Then you’d better have these cress sandwiches too,’ Cramoisy said, one eyebrow raised.
‘Good,’ Valentan said, nodding. ‘Very good. I can’t tell you how – how relieved I am to see the two of you alive.’ There were tears in his eyes, tears spilling down his cheeks, leaving little pale runnels in the dirt. He seemed not to notice. ‘Bel’Esstar’s gone – gone crazy.’
‘Tell us,’ Khassian said.
Valentan wiped his cheeks with the back of his hand. ‘I – I still can’t believe I’m here. They arrested me. And the others. Singers, musicians, Poquelayne, Azare, Thanar… Rounded us up like common criminals. Put us up before some kind of tribunal.’
‘For heaven’s sake! On what charge?’ Cramoisy sat down slowly, staring at him in disbelief.
‘“Moral corruption.” Girim nel Ghislain’s term. It seems to cover whatsoever he wishes it to cover. A farce of a trial. We were all found guilty, all sentenced.’
‘Sentenced – to what?’ Khassian demanded.
‘Oh, have you not heard of the Grand Maistre’s humane methods of reforming the morally corrupt? I would have thought the Commanderie would have trumpeted their good works all over the whole continent by now.’ Valentan’s usually mellifluous voice was jagged with anger.
‘We’ve heard nothing.’
‘But you’ve heard of the Stronghold, Girim’s Fortress of Faith? The place of worship to rival all others, centre of pilgrimage, erected to protect Mhir’s shrine? How do you think Girim’s building this mighty edifice, this hymn of praise in stone?’
Khassian shook his head.
‘When I tell you that I and the others were sentenced to moral correction in the Sanctuary, you may begin to make a connection.’
‘You have been building this Fortress?’ Cramoisy said. ‘But you’re an artiste!’
‘Not an artiste, Diva. A wretched sinner whose only chance of redemption has been to make a full public confession of my sins – and, like our patron Prince Ilsevir, to undergo conversion to the Thorny Path.’
‘Oh!’ Cramoisy said, shocked. ‘How humiliating.’
‘You must understand,’ Valentan went on, his dulled eyes flaring at the memory, ‘that I have been treated with the utmost compassion and mercy. In past times, we would have been burned at the stake or impaled for our refusal to be converted.’
‘But this Fortress – it’s being built by prisoners?‘
‘Forced labour. They call us the Sanctuarees. A Sanctuary… What image does that conjure up for you? A place of safety? A refuge? That’s the image that Girim presents to Allegonde. His humane centre for the reformation of wrongdoers. This is the reality.’ He tugged back his lank locks of hair, exposing his right ear. A thick metal tag perforated the lobe, bearing the number 329. ‘Not Celestion Valentan any more. Just number 329.’ The locks dropped back as he buried his face in his hands.
Khassian stared at him in redundant silence. Anger. Yes, he felt a kind of anger. But it was the anger of logic. The real fury was locked away deep inside him, a slow-burning fire frozen in a glacier. He could see the flame – but all he felt was cold, numbed by this recitation of suffering.
‘I know what you need.’ Cramoisy went to the stoppered crystal flask on the escritoire and poured a glass of the clear liqueur inside. ‘Drink this. They call it pommerie here. It’s an apple eau-de-vie.’
Valentan took a hesitant sip of the pommerie, grimaced, then nodded and took another.
‘How did you manage to escape?’
‘Me? Through the loyalty of the others. We made a pact. One of us should get away and somehow find help. We drew straws. I was the lucky one. They created a diversion… a stone unaccountably came loose from its straps as they were hauling it into place… I made a dive for the ditch and climbed up the boundary fence.’
‘La! And did the Guerriors come after you?’ Cramoisy cried.
‘They shot at me!’ Valentan lifted his cloak, showing a rent in the fabric. ‘A bolt just missed my shoulder. Another grazed my cheek, see the mark? I was damned lucky it wasn’t worse. The only advantage I had was my intimate knowledge of the backstreets of Bel’Esstar. These Guerriors have spent too long defending Allegonde overseas. I gave them the slip…’
‘But how did you know to come here?’ Khassian said. ‘To Sulien?’
‘It’s no secret that you’re in Sulien. Look.’ Valentan fumbled in his mud-spattered jacket and brought out a folded newspaper, much crumpled. Cramoisy refilled Valentan’s glass and shook out the newspaper to decipher the smudged print:
SAD DECLINE OF WELL-LOVED MUSICIAN
Following the disastrous fire at the Opera House, the Diurnal is distressed to have to report that Amaru Khassian, composer, was so upset at the loss of his scores that the balance of his mind was disturbed.
Girim nel Ghislain, Grand Maistre of the Commanderie, has generously paid out of his personal funds for the Illustre to seek treatment at the Asylum for the Insane at the well-known spa resort of Sulien in neighbouring Tourmalise. Accompanying the composer is gifted Diva, Cramoisy Jordelayne…
‘Lies!’ whispered Khassian. ‘All lies.’
‘I rather like the “gifted Diva” passage. You didn’t let me finish.’
‘And you believed this?’ Khassian nodded towards the paper.
‘In the chaos of the fire, no one saw what happened to you afterwards. We were all hefting buckets of water, running around like idiots. No one realised how badly hurt you were.’
‘So you came to Sulien and asked for me at the Asylum?’ Khassian said. ‘They didn’t seem to
o eager to receive visitors. But then, I don’t suppose I looked too prepossessing like this.’ Valentan ruefully indicated the straggly beard, the tattered clothes. ‘But I wasn’t going to give up. I hadn’t come all this way over the mountains for nothing. I knocked at the door of every clinic, every sanatorium, in the city, until I was given this address.’
‘But insane? You believed that I had gone insane?’ Khassian got to his feet and began to pace. He was aware that Cramoisy was watching him apprehensively.
‘It made sense. The shock of the fire –’
‘Insane. That suits Girim’s purpose so well.’ Khassian could not stop pacing, could not contain the restlessness that Valentan’s news had released. ‘He can’t arrest me here in Sulien – but he can discredit my work as the inane ramblings of a madman. Who else but a madman would write an opera as contentious as mine?’
‘Amar –’ Cramoisy was delicately wiping the newsprint from his finger-tips with a broderie handkerchief.
Khassian suddenly stopped by Valentan’s chair and stared coldly down at him.
‘How do I know that you’re telling the truth, Valentan? How do I know that you’re not another of Girim’s agents, come to seek me out?’
‘Amar!’ Cramoisy exclaimed, one hand fluttering close to his rose-painted lips.
‘How do I know?’ Khassian repeated, ignoring him.
‘You must excuse him, Celestion.’ Cramoisy put his hands on Khassian’s shoulders. ‘Can’t this wait till tomorrow? Valentan needs sleep.’
‘I have to know.’
‘I can’t prove anything to you,’ Valentan said, his voice faint with weariness. ‘All I can tell you is that to see you both here, alive, has given me hope again…’
Khassian still stared at his haggard face, the half-closed eyes, lids drooping with exhaustion. He wanted to believe him. But since the fire, he had become wary of everyone, even those he had once called his friends.
‘We’ll talk,’ he said finally, ‘in the morning.’
Acir Korentan sat up late into the night in his lodgings, reading his worn copy of the Vineyard Verses by the light of a single candle. Girim nel Ghislain had given him the book when he first joined the Commanderie and he had carried it with him ever since.