by Tad Williams
We make our own Hell on Earth, he thought. But the difference was, death would end this Hell. The other one, though, the one that waited for unshriven sinners, not just for murderers but for drunkards and thieves as well, both of which Porto had been—that Hell awaited. And in that Hell, the bleak, terrifying night in the Thrithings camp would last forever.
Porto realized he had wandered near to the edge of the camp, where the Erkynguard had built bulwarks on the banks above the Laestfinger. On the far side of the wide river lay the shadowed, flat emptiness of the High Thrithings. But it was only empty of trees and mountains. Even as he walked along the edge of the barriers he could see grasslanders of the Bison Clan on the far side of the river, carrying torches, hooting and taunting the Erkynguard, sometimes throwing spears that splashed into the river. Once or twice one of them even got off a throw so powerful that a long spear crunched into the sandy bank on the near side of the river.
Somebody hailed him from one of the guard posts and he walked over. The nearest Erkynguardsman offered him a wineskin. The night was cold so Porto took a swig, but the next time it was offered him he waved it off. He could not stop thinking about what Levias had said.
“God’s mercy, here’s that big one again,” said one of the guards. Porto looked up and saw they were all peering over the barrier, across the river. A large shape, monstrously malformed by the flickering light of windblown torches, was loping toward the far side of the river. The spear in his hand disappeared as he threw it, sailing invisibly through the blackness, then it landed with a loud kritch in the sand of the nearer bank.
“He’s going to get one in here before too long, you mark my words,” another soldier said.
“Well, keep your heads down then,” said the sergeant. “Bloody fools.”
But one of the other guards had stood, drawing his bow.
“Hi, there, what are you up to?” the sergeant said. “Put that away or I’ll have you whipped. You want to start something with these mad clansmen?”
“Just wishing I could let him have one,” said the soldier, sighting down his arrow. “Tch! There he is! I’d love to give the big hairy bastard one in the belly.”
“He’s at it again,” someone else said. “Get your heads down!”
Porto was peering between two of the huge logs of the barricades, and saw the giant Thrithings-man had been given another spear, and was starting a run to the edge of the water. A dozen or more other grasslanders trotted beside him, waving torches and bellowing their approval. The big man took a last step, but jerked and stumbled as he released his spear, which wobbled only a short distance and disappeared into the gurgling river. The man who had thrown it took another wobbling step, then slumped to his knees. As the other Thrithings-men gathered around him with their torches, Porto saw a long, feathered shaft sticking out of his belly.
The Erkynguard sergeant had seen it too, and his voice rose to a panicked rasp. “Bloody Tree of the Aedon, Renward, what did you do?”
“It wasn’t me!” the soldier said. “See, it’s still on the string!” He brandished his bow and unshot arrow, as if that would make what had happened go away.
“Sweet Usires, someone did it!” cried the sergeant. “Now we’re in the shit and that’s certain!”
The slain spear-thrower had collapsed to the ground with his comrades milling around him. One of them let out a high-pitched howl of rage that seemed barely human, then waded into the river, spear in one hand, ax in the other, still screaming his anger. The rest of the grasslanders followed him. Within the space of a few dozen heartbeats they had splashed their way across and were running up the bank toward the Erkynlanders’ barricades, waving their torches and shrieking like the tortured souls Porto had been imagining just a short while before.
“Someone blow a horn, for the love of Heaven!” the sergeant shouted. “Raise the alarm! We’re under attack!”
Porto heard the sputtering wail of a horn climb into the air. Within moments it was answered all along the edge of the camp by more horns and the shouts of startled Erkynguards.
“They’re coming! The grasslanders are coming! Every man forward! To arms!”
43
Something for the Poor
The wafting smoke of torches and incense filled the Cathedral of Saint Granis, a murk that hovered like a cloud above the heads of the mourners, obscuring the stained glass images of the saint and the Ransomer’s other acolytes. Miri stared at the windows, hoping to glimpse some sunlight or at least some color through the pall.
She definitely did not want to look at the corpse of Drusis in its casket, resting on a bier in front of the high altar. It was not because the body was horrible to look at—the funeral priests had done their work well, and the wounds that had killed him were hidden. Earl Drusis, hands folded across his sword, looked as if he was merely resting before rising to lead Nabban against barbarian invaders. But Miriamele had never been so fearful about her mother’s country before, and the dead man was at the heart of that fear.
Who had killed him, and why? She stole a discreet glance at Duke Saluceris, who had decided to attend his brother’s funeral despite Miriamele’s cautions. Of all in Nabban, it seemed that Saluceris had the most to gain from the death, and she did not doubt many if not most of those present at the funeral mass believed the duke was guilty, especially with his strange story of having been tricked and then locked into the family burial vault while the murder took place. But it was precisely the ludicrous nature of the story that made Miriamele doubt Saluceris had been involved. The most powerful man in Nabban could easily have arranged for his brother to be killed in a way that made him look less culpable.
Still, it was hard to imagine who else would benefit. Dallo Ingadaris, sitting grim-faced a few seats away from Saluceris, had lost his best tool for opposing the ruling family. Yes, it made Saluceris’s position shakier, but that seemed like a poor trade for Dallo to make. His niece had only been married to Drusis for the shortest period of time—why would Dallo act to destroy that?
Miri could not make much of the expression Turia wore, because her face was hidden behind a dark veil, but it was not hard to guess: the girl was a mere thirteen years old and already a widow. Miri had no doubt that Dallo would be marrying her off again soon to the next suitor who could bring him some advantage in the dogfight of Nabbanai family politics. She seemed to be handling the situation bravely—Miri had not seen a shudder or sign of despair from her once during the long funeral mansa—but she must be frightened at how quickly her life had changed.
Escritor Auxis finally began the last stages of the Mansa séa Cuelossan. Miri shifted in her seat, fighting the ache of sitting too long in one place. Lector Vidian had conveniently decamped to his winter palace in Sina Gavi—conveniently for him, at least—leaving Auxis to carry the flag of Mother Church. If there had been any doubt that the escritor was Vidian’s heir-apparent, it was gone now. For a brief instant Miri wondered if Auxis might be the one manipulating things, but although she did not like the man, she had seen nothing in his character or acts to suggest he might actually murder an important noble to further his own ambitions.
Sweet Mother Elysia, save me from this madness! she prayed. I suspect everyone of everything. When she had agreed to come back to Nabban she had feared that the violent bitterness of the age-old struggle for power here might pull her into ugly situations; that fear had been proven horrifyingly real.
The Octander Covenant is as good as dead now. I will try one last time to force Dallo Ingadaris and Saluceris to sign, but Dallo knows the advantage has shifted to him, as well as the sympathy of the people. Would that have been enough to lead Dallo to kill Drusis? She could not make it work out. Drusis was a much more useful player alive, as an unspoken alternative to his brother. Now Dallo was the leader of the opposition, and though the fat little man was vain, he was also clever enough to know he was not liked or trusted even b
y his allies.
As Auxis began the final blessing and everyone rose, Duke Saluceris made the Sign of the Tree and then, with his guards, moved toward the back of the cathedral so they could leave ahead of the procession that would carry Drusis’s body back to the palace to be entombed in the family vault. Miri approved of the duke’s caution. The streets were full of angry people, and they would be even angrier when the body of Earl Drusis was brought out.
As she looked up, a thin shaft of sunlight stabbed through the nave, illuminating for just a moment the glass window of Saint Granis himself above the high altar. The saint was praying at the base of the Execution Tree, hands raised in woe and supplication before the writhing, inverted figure of Usires. The only other figure in that momentary illumination was humble Saint Yistrin, his shovel lying on the ground beside him. Yistrin’s Day had just passed—Simon’s birth-day—and Miri was suddenly pierced by a pang of love and regret. She missed her husband and felt shamed that she had not written to him in days, despite all that had happened—all that he needed to know. She resolved to prepare a letter that evening, so it could go with the packet ship on the morning tide.
Escritor Auxis had finished. The bearers of the casket had stepped forward to move it to the wagon that would carry it to the Benidrivine vault. Miri rose, assured Count Froye and Captain Jurgen she was well, and then waited for the crowd to file out. She was going to break tradition by walking at the back of the funeral procession instead of leading it, which would have been the normal protocol, but she felt it important at this moment to try to separate the High Throne from the local passions that had turned so murderous.
* * *
• • •
The morning sunshine vanished as the clouds blew in from the sea; the mourners were lashed by rain as they climbed the Mahistrevine Hill behind the earl’s casket, from Saint Granis’ Cathedral to the Benidrivine family mausoleum, but the procession halted before continuing into the ducal palace.
“What is this?” said Sir Jurgen. “Why have we stopped?”
“Has someone attacked us?” asked Froye, nervously fingering the Tree that hung on his breast.
“It feels too orderly to be an attack,” Miri said.
“Let us go around, then,” Jurgen said. “We will force our way through to the palace.”
“Do not let your men draw weapons unless we are truly threatened,” she warned him. “That is an order. I will not be the cause of a riot. Not today.”
When they had forced their way around the edge of the crowd, swollen now with many who had not been in the church but had waited outside, she could see that the wagon bearing Drusis had stopped before the gates of the Sancellan Mahistrevis. It was not hard even in the rain to see faces in the palace windows, and Miri felt certain that one of them would be that of the duke, since he had left early and his troops were now lining the walls in full armor. She could breathe a little easier now—at least Saluceris and his family were safe. But why had the funeral procession stopped? What was Dallo doing?
The answer came quickly enough. A portly shape, aided by soldiers wearing the Ingadarine Albatross, clambered up onto the open wagon to stand over the casket. As the sun found a chink in the heavy clouds, Count Dallo pulled back his hood and looked down on the mourners, who had begun crowding even closer when the funeral procession stopped.
“Today is a day of sorrow for us all!” cried Dallo in a voice loud enough for even those far from the wagon to hear him. “Drusis, Earl of Trevinta and Eadne, lies here in his coffin, struck down by vile murderers in the chapel of my own house. Twelve wounds his murderers gave him—twelve times they struck with their cruel knives, and left him dying on the floor. Murderers who still walk among us!”
The crowd’s murmur rose to a growl of anger.
“For the love of our Ransomer, what is he doing?” asked Froye. “Does he mean to whip them into attacking the palace?”
“No,” Miri said. “His tricks are always more subtle than that. Jurgen, keep that sword sheathed. We are guests in Nabban.”
“I will not let anyone harm you, Your Majesty.”
“Nobody has offered me harm—not yet.”
As Dallo continued to declaim about the murder, Miri looked at those who had been closest to the wagon and saw Lady Turia immediately behind it, her veil thrown back, watching her uncle with a blank, pale face. What must she be thinking? Miri’s heart ached that a girl so young should be dragged into such events, as she herself was when her father had gone mad. But whatever else Dallo planned by this display, she felt certain he would not want any harm to come to his own niece, the dead man’s grieving widow.
“And the last of them struck at his heart—his lion’s heart, that beat only for Nabban and his people!” Dallo had been enumerating the wounds of Drusis. “Only then did he cease fighting his cruel attackers. Only then, with his noble blood soaking the stones of the chapel, did he give up his struggle. They killed a great man.”
The crowd’s roars took on a hungry note, a sound of need, of violence barely restrained. Miri suddenly wondered whether Dallo really might intend to try to rouse them to attack the Sancellan Mahistrevis.
“We stand before the palace of our leaders,” said Dallo. “We stand before the heart of our nation, and I ask Duke Saluceris, where are the murderers of your brother Drusis? Does someone hide them? Why have they not been brought to justice?”
Miri could hear the cries of some of those nearby. One man screamed, “Burn it down!” and Jurgen moved his men in more tightly around the queen, Count Froye, and the other courtiers, who looked terrified. Miriamele could also see the danger, and was just considering having Jurgen and the other soldiers force a way through the crowd when Dallo abruptly held up his hands.
“But this is not merely a day to mourn,” he cried. “This is also a day to celebrate the life of Drusis, who cared for his people more than he cared for himself. For not only did Earl Drusis fight for Nabban against the barbarians of the grasslands, and against all traitors and dishonest men here in our great city, but he made a will to share his wealth with you, the people, whom he loved best.” Dallo gave a sign to his soldiers and a couple of them climbed up onto the wagon with him, bearing a wooden chest that even the pair of them struggled to lift. Dallo threw back the lid and reached in, then withdrew his hand and showed it to the crowd. Even beneath gray skies and slanting rain, the gleam of gold was compellingly bright. “Drusis said, ‘If I should die untimely, give my gold to the people!’ And I cannot but honor his wishes.” So saying, Dallo threw a handful of golden and silver coins into the crowd. Some were caught in mid-air, but many more fell at the feet of the mourners, who threw themselves down like otters chasing a fish, shouting and struggling to snatch the rolling coins.
“Do not fight! Drusis would not want that! There is enough to share for all who loved him!” Dallo reached down for another handful to fling into a different part of the crowd. “Drusis said ‘Give the people my gold!’” he shouted.
As the coins flew glinting through the air like burning bits of the sun and stars, some snatched by grasping hands, others splashing into puddles so that men and women wrestled for them in the mud, Miri stood dumbfounded. Count Dallo was clearly enjoying himself, death of an ally or not, flinging coins far out into the throng and watching the convulsions where they landed.
“We must go, Highness,” said Froye in a panicky voice. “Even if they do not mean to storm the palace, Ingadaris will make a riot here. We are not safe. You are not safe.”
But as Jurgen and the rest forced a path to the gates through the surging throng, Miri could not help looking back, wondering what Dallo hoped to accomplish by this bizarre spectacle. He had all but suggested the dead man’s brother was hiding the killers, but instead of fanning those flames into an inferno of anger, he had turned the mournful procession into a festival of mud and gold.
The people had crowded clos
e to the funeral wagon now, despite the best efforts of Dallo’s Albatross guards. Many who pushed toward it were beggars who could not hope to win out in a physical struggle for what Dallo was distributing, and so besieged the wagon instead, a garden of waving, grasping hands all around Dallo Ingadaris and the earl’s casket. A few of them even made it past the guards and began to climb the wagon itself, which rolled a little bit from one side to another as the soldiers dragged them back off again.
Then, as Miriamele watched, one determined beggar in a tattered cloak made it onto the wagon and crawled along the side of the coffin to Dallo’s feet, but instead of snatching gold from the chest or raising his hands to plead like the others, the cloaked figure grabbed at Dallo’s legs. While the count swayed and tried to pry him loose, the beggar swung his arm at the count’s stomach, as if trying to shove him away while still clinging to him, then abruptly let go and rolled off the wagon and disappeared into the frenzied crowd. Dallo stood up straight, watching where the tattered figure had gone, then looked down at himself and slowly raised his hands toward his face.
For a moment, because of the rain and dim light, Miri thought the dark stuff on Dallo’s fingers was something else—mud, perhaps—but then the count swayed and took a step and fell full-length across Drusis’s casket, smearing it with blood. The guards kneeled beside him, and the mourners nearest the wagon let out screams of horror and alarm.
“Mother of God preserve us!” Miri cried. “Dallo has been attacked! Hurry, Jurgen. We must get away from here now!”
Like salmon swimming up the Gratuvask rapids, the queen and her party forced their way through the tide of humanity pressing forward to see what had happened. The moment of stunned near-silence had given way to shrieks of terror and bellows of despair. One of the guards pushed his way onto the driver’s bench of the funeral wagon and whipped the horses forward while the other cradled Count Dallo. Many could not get out of the way fast enough, and were trampled beneath the hooves of the horses or ground beneath the wagon’s huge wheels.