by Anthony Ryan
The thought summoned an unexpected smile to my lips, for I had been experiencing a curious sense of regret for the task ahead. We had grown up together after all. Also, what proof beyond my own endless pondering did I have of his culpability in Deckin’s demise? But, seeing the dark need in his gaze, all my scruples faded away and with grim anticipation I whispered a greeting he couldn’t hear. “Hello, Erchel.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
I didn’t kill him that night. Nor any of the five nights that followed. Of all the lessons Sihlda had imparted, patience had taken the most time and effort and I put it to good use now. Brewer was right about the consequences of murder in this place. Violence was a rarity in Callintor; in all our time here I had seen but one scuffle. A pair of fieldworkers had overindulged in cider and found reason to pummel one another outside the very door to Martyr Athil’s shrine. Not content with mere expulsion, the custodians had subjected both to a prolonged caning before shoving them, stumbling and bleeding, through the gate. If a mere brawl merited such punishment, murder was certain to attract the severest penalty.
Killing Erchel was also just one aspect of my intent. I also needed to extract what he knew about Lorine’s schemes and, I hoped, some indication of where she might be found. Such a thing would take time and privacy, both rare commodities in a place of endless toil and constant scrutiny. Then there was the matter of our escape and the means with which to fund it.
I remained diligent in my work at the scriptorium, completing the first copy of my version of Martyr Callin’s scroll with a rapidity that stirred both the admiration and envy of my fellow scribes. They were all old, or appeared so to my youthful eyes. Bent-backed, wrinkle-faced squinters with permanently stained fingers. Most had found their way here through forgery, penning false wills or sundry official documents regarding land or titles – something that appeared to be a lucrative sideline for most scribes in the outside world judging by the stories they told.
They talked a good deal, these aged scribblers, creating an oddly convivial atmosphere in a place that had been built for quiet reflection. I made efforts to befriend them all, or at least win some measure of trust, with varying success for these were not stupid men and could tell when they were being gulled. For the most part, I was treated with a wary condescension due to my youth, matched by a restrained resentment provoked by my flair with the quill and the speed with which I worked. In return, I felt little for them beyond the mingled pity and contempt the young reserve for the old, with one notable exception.
“Gently now,” Arnild cautioned, using a small ball of polished glass to apply the gold leaf to the vellum. “This stuff takes flight at the barest breath.”
He was a small man, his head barely reaching my shoulder, the bald, liver-spotted dome encircled by a bush of grey hair. It also sprouted in unkempt tangles from his ears and chops, although he would shave his chin every day, I assumed to prevent any tendrils besmirching his work. His was a craft requiring an additional tier of skill that set him apart in the scriptorium, for Arnild was an illuminator.
“And you don’t want to press too hard either,” he added, tongue poking through his lips as he applied the glass ball to the leaf. The decoration had been added to the first letter of the opening page to what would eventually become a bound book – the only actual book to reproduce Martyr Callin’s scroll in fact. Whereas I had penned every word in the volume, it was Arnild’s task to illustrate and garnish the text with various shiny embellishments. Given Martyr Callin’s love of thrift, I wondered if he would have approved of so much expense being lavished upon the story of his life. More interesting still was the source of the gold and silver with which Arnild crafted his admittedly marvellous creations, not to mention the garnets and amethysts that would in time decorate the engraved leather covering.
“You try,” Arnild said, setting down the tweezers and glass ball on a nearby tray and gesturing for me to take them up. The first character had been almost surrounded by gold but a small patch remained at the base.
“Are you sure?” I asked. “I wouldn’t wish to despoil your work.”
“We learn through action, Alwyn.” He smiled and inclined his head at the tray. “Besides, someone’s going to have to do all this when I’m called to the Seraphile’s bosom.” He paused to rub at his back, face set in a grimace of true pain. “Which I suspect may not be long in coming.”
“Nonsense,” I said, taking up the tweezers. I managed to place the gold leaf in the correct spot but not without overlapping the edge a little.
“Not to worry,” Arnild said. Picking up a sable brush he carefully teased away the excess gold, being careful to guide the small fragments into a jar. “Too precious to waste,” he added with a wink as he corked the jar. Sniffing he stepped back from the tilted podium where the finished page sat in its freshly crafted glory.
“Perfect,” I whispered in genuine admiration, something that drew a small tut from Arnild.
“Do this for long enough, my young friend, and you’ll discover that perfection is an endlessly elusive spectre.” He used the tip of his brush to point out the intricate rose-bush motif that covered the left side of the page. “The line is a little uneven here, and the colours not as vibrant as I would like. But still, it stands well alongside the quality of work produced in this scriptorium.”
His voice held a very slight edge that inevitably tweaked my curiosity. “The quality here is not,” I ventured in a low voice, casting a careful glance at the other scribes bent over their podiums, “exceptional, then?”
Always careful in his choice of words, Arnild twitched a bushy eyebrow at me in admonition. “It is in fact the finest scriptorium in all Albermaine,” he told me before stepping closer and dropping his voice, “but I have travelled far in this world, far enough to set eyes upon books that make everything produced here seem like the daubings of a clumsy child.”
“And where are these marvellous books to be found?”
His gaze clouded a little and he drew back, turning his attention to the tray containing his various jars and tools. “Heathen lands are always best avoided, lad. Hand me that knife, will you?”
“Heathen lands?” My voice held a little too much volume for he shot me a warning glance. Luckily, none of our fellow scribes seemed to have noticed, I assumed due to the deafness of age.
“Here.” Arnild placed the jars containing gold and silver leaf in a leather satchel. “Best get these under lock and key before the evening service. You know where to go?”
“I do.”
His expression became more serious as he handed me the satchel. “The Ascendant is scrupulous in weighing each jar at the end of every month. Just so you know.”
Before starting for the door I put my hand over my heart in mock offence, drawing a reluctant laugh from Arnild. If not for an excessive liking for dice and its attendant debts, he would never have found himself confined within these walls. By any measure of justice, Master Arnild should be celebrated the world over as a prince of illuminators. Instead, there are few scholars alive now who can name him even as they caress the pages he crafted with such devotion.
The storeroom where the shrine kept its supplies of gold leaf, and other enticing valuables, lay in the heart of the building behind a thick, iron-braced door. Usually there were two custodians standing guard over it, but today there was only one, a typically beefy fellow named Halk who possessed no more life in his soul than the door he guarded.
He grunted in response to my cheerful greeting and ordered me to stand back another yard before consenting to turn and unlock the door. My outlaw’s instinct for opportunity flared as he worked the key. He was big, but also slow and it wouldn’t have been too arduous a task to slam his head against one of the door’s iron braces. Two or three blows to put him down and, obviously, I couldn’t leave him alive. I would drag the body into the storeroom, help myself to the most valuable and portable treasures I could find, lock it up and be on my way. I required a few hours
to settle things with Erchel but reckoned it might be a good while before anyone thought to check on the absent Halk or unlock the door he had been guarding. All in all, I calculated, it was entirely possible I could attend to my business, collect Brewer and Toria and get clear of the city before midnight. Just one small murder to set me free…
“Haven’t got all fuckin’ day,” Halk growled, pointedly jangling his keys as he stood in the open doorway.
“Profanity contravenes the strictures,” I advised with a look of stern admonition. Judging by the way the custodian flushed and averted his gaze, it must have been quite convincing.
Proceeding into the store with a haughty sniff, I resisted the impulse to scan the shelves, instead focusing a short but intense scrutiny on the lock. It was a dispiritingly sturdy contrivance far beyond my abilities to pick. Toria, however, had a good deal more skill in this area and might be able to tinker her way past it with the required swiftness. My briefer survey of the store itself yielded mostly shelves crammed with anonymous jars lacking any useful markings. I did, however, espy a substantial chest in the shadowed recesses of the room. The fact that it was secured with a lock of its own instantly marked it as the object of most interest.
“May the Martyrs guide you,” I told a sullen Halk as I left, surmising that Brewer could probably choke him unconscious without the need for killing.
With my scribing chores done for the day I had a clear two hours before evening supplications. As I made my way to the shrine’s north-facing exit I was obliged to make obsequious progress past Ascendant Hilbert who was engaged in animated conversation with a Supplicant I didn’t know. The mud on his boots and cloak told of a recent arrival. He was a well-built fellow with a good deal more lean hardiness to him than was normal for a low-ranking servant of the Covenant. More unusual still was the mace that hung from his belt and the studded leather tunic I glimpsed beneath his cloak. While the dark grey of his garb bespoke a Supplicant, it was clear he was also a soldier and, judging by the old scars marking the crown of his grey stubbled head, one with some experience. He spoke in low, respectful tones I couldn’t quite make out, but Hilbert’s response was easily discerned, not least because of the restrained alarm I heard in it.
“She’s coming here?”
As I edged around the pair, I managed to catch the Supplicant’s soft reply, his voice kept to a carefully toneless pitch. “Yes, Ascendant. She will arrive tomorrow before noon and asks that all the faithful of this holy city be gathered to hear her words.”
“On whose authority?”
Knowing it would be unwise to linger, I rounded a corner before coming to a halt. Flattening myself against the wall, I cocked an ear to detect the rustle of parchment and fabric, followed by the harsher sound of a broken seal and a swiftly unfurled letter.
“You will find it signed by all members of the council,” the Supplicant said in his toneless voice.
There came a pause during which Hilbert let out an ill-mannered huff. “She’ll find scant pickings here,” he said in an aggrieved mutter.
I detected a shift in the soldier-Supplicant’s tone as he replied, a judgemental edge unique to true adherents. “The Pretender comes not just for the crown, Ascendant. Should he triumph, the Covenant will be perverted beyond recognition. My communicant captain assured me you were wise enough to know this.”
A short, tense silence as Hilbert tried, and failed to master his anger. “Your communicant should remember her rank, and so should you!” he snapped in the curtness common to petty tyrants who find their authority threatened.
The soldier said nothing but I could picture the blank expression of an unimpressed man as Hilbert let out a long sigh. “The seekers will be gathered,” he said. “And you’re welcome to drag away any foolish enough to step forward. They’ll require a good deal of convincing, however.”
“Those whose hearts are truly with the Covenant,” the Supplicant replied evenly, “will always answer the call when spoken by Communicant Captain Evadine Courlain.”
This name brought a puzzled crease to my brow, it being so familiar. Evadine Courlain? Surely it couldn’t be Lord Eldurm’s uncaring love.
The echo of Hilbert’s strident footfalls had me scurrying for the exit before I could ponder the question further. It would have been prudent to go home and explain my plan to Brewer and Toria but the lure of Martyr Athil’s shrine was too great. It had become my habit to spend the hours before evening supplications crouched in my bramble bush from where I could observe Erchel. As I watched him form the habits and small rituals that all labourers adopt, the various pieces of my scheme were slowly coming together. Subduing, concealing and questioning a man in a place like Callintor presented a host of problems, some of which I had resolved, others I hadn’t. But, as my eavesdropping had revealed, the morrow would bring some manner of significant distraction. All eyes would be on the mysterious Communicant Evadine and not on the small woodshed near the eastern wall that few seekers visited more than once a week.
I’ll need a rope, I decided, watching Erchel hoe the soil of the turnip field with all the energy one might expect of a man who had rarely done a day’s honest toil. Binding him would be tricky, but I knew getting the truth out of him presented an altogether more arduous task. It wouldn’t be easy to sort honesty from deceit when uttered by an accomplished liar desperate to save his own skin. Deckin had always possessed the ability to straighten a captive’s tongue through sheer weight of terror but that gift wasn’t mine. Getting Erchel to tell me the truth would require a good deal of judiciously applied pain, a prospect I found to my surprise I didn’t relish.
“Gerthe,” I whispered as I peered through the bramble thorns, buttressing my resolve with the memory of her hand slipping from mine as the bolt pinned her to the wall. “Justan, Hostler… Deckin. And me.” I filled my head with images of the pillory, the pain and the stink of it, the jeers of the crowd and the dread knowledge that this was nothing compared to the torments to come. “You’ll tell me all of it, Erchel,” I breathed. “Or I’ll feed you your fingers, one by one.”
As was so often the case throughout our youth, however, Erchel contrived to despoil my careful scheming with his vile appetites. I had noticed how his interest in Smiling Ayin increased since his arrival, his gaze tracking her giggling, skipping form as she carried baskets hither and yon. She was a decidedly odd soul to find in Callintor, always so bright of face and lacking in guile. It seemed hard to credit that she could have committed any act that merited seeking sanctuary within these walls, and yet here she was. Mostly, folk treated her with an indulgent affection but afforded little in the way of company. Ayin, it should be noted, was capable of scant conversation beyond giggles, the utterance of baffling nonsense and the naming of various creatures which she would run towards in the apparent hope of making friends.
“Hello, Master Wagtail!” she called out now, waving at a bird that had alighted atop a fencepost. It flew off with an irritated chirp as she scampered closer, bringing her within a few yards of where Erchel stood unenthusiastically tilling the earth.
I couldn’t hear what he said to her but it sufficed to swiftly capture her interest. She made no move towards prudent retreat as Erchel sidled closer to her, my straining ears detecting the word “cubs”. This brought a delighted laugh from Ayin who exhibited only eager excitement as Erchel rested his hoe against the fence, paused for a careful glance around to ensure no one had witnessed this interaction, then led her away.
Go home, I told myself, staring at the rapidly retreating pair. Erchel led Ayin towards the livestock pens, where the snorts and oinks of pigs and the honking of geese was sure to mask any commotion. The plan is a good one and you do not know this girl. Go home, tell Toria and Brewer their parts, and wait for the morrow.
As I slipped from the bramble bush and turned towards home a singular memory forced its way to the forefront of my mind: the time Erchel had brought a cat back to camp. He had found the beast skulking near an inn du
ring a scouting trip, a piteous, mewling bundle of damp fur. After carrying it to camp he fed it and nursed it for weeks until it returned to health, transforming into as fine and sleek a cat as you would ever see. One day he took it into the forest and the sounds he drew from the beast as he tormented it to death had never fully faded from my ears. He made it last so long that Deckin finally ordered Todman to go and finish the thing off so we could get some sleep.
Just a cat. Just a mad girl you don’t know. Go home.
All undoubtedly true. Why then did my feet turn towards the livestock pens? Why follow, keeping to the long shadows cast by the fading sun? Why crouch and take the small, cloth-wrapped knife from my shoe when I saw Erchel lead Ayin inside an old brick-built hut with a part-collapsed roof? Some questions we can never answer. Perhaps it was Sihlda’s teachings, years of patient tutelage having pushed a crumb of conscience into my soul. Or was it something deeper and less admirable?
As I watched Erchel guide his victim into that hut I knew he must have sought this place out with much the same careful diligence as I had the woodshed where I intended to torture the truth from him. Was his hunger so very different from mine? He was as much a slave to his cruelty as I was to my vengeance. The sense of recognition was almost painful in the discomfiting questions it raised, and, more than any other provocation, it was always pain that stirred me to violence.
The hut’s door closed as I rose from my concealment behind a pig pen. I kept low as I rushed towards it, slamming my shoulder against the old, part-rotted planks then reeling back as they failed to give way. The door was barred. The sounds of a scuffle and a muffled cry of pain from inside stoked my anger to rage and I threw myself against the door once again. Wood splintered and aged hinges squealed but still it refused to give. Hearing a sharp, agonised screech from within, I retreated a step and drove a series of kicks against the planks, aiming for the protesting hinges. This time it gave way, falling aside as I pushed my way into the hut, breath catching in my throat as I came to a sudden, horrified halt.
