by Glenda Larke
The hedrina, however, took her time in coming. It was a full half hour before she appeared at the door. Cylrie, the sole female member of the Sanhedrin, did not believe in hurrying anywhere, least of all to the summons of someone who’d once been her lover. When she did arrive, it was with languid ease. She was a tall, regal woman. Like him, she had a certain stature that proclaimed itself without her ever having to open her mouth. Although she was greying over the temples and the first wrinkles of age were already lining her face, he had to admit she was still a beautiful woman.
Also like him, she was dressed in the robes of the Sanhedrin. The red gown of silk reached her ankles, the gold stole of office was draped around her neck with its bells tinkling below the knee, and the heavily beaded belt of blue and gold was clasped around her waist. Over the top she’d flung a fur-trimmed cope of shot-silk, embroidered with the Chantry motif at the front edges. She shrugged the cope off on to a chair as she crossed to sit in front of him.
She gave him a lazy wave of her hand in greeting, causing the precious stones in the rings she wore to flash gaudily. ‘Well, Ru, what is it that merits a summons at this hour? You interrupted my session with the cloth merchant. He was just showing me some new silks—’
He cut her short. ‘A report I’ve just received.’ He flung it across the desk. ‘Here, you read this and see what you make of it. The man who wrote it is a devotions-chantor who was accompanying a fellowship on its way between the Third and the Fourth Stabs.’
She took the paper and read it carefully. Then she raised an arched eyebrow at Rugriss. ‘So?’ she drawled. ‘A traumatic experience for the poor man, I’ll grant you, but of what possible significance is the death of a mapmaker and a few pilgrims in a halt? Even if it did occur in a rather unusual and bloodthirsty fashion?’
‘Firstly because it smacks of a certain desperation on the part of the Minion concerned, and therefore on the part of Carasma. And anything that prompts the Unmaker Lord to desperation is surely of interest to us. And secondly, did you not note what the chantor said concerning the man who was asking about this same mapmaker several days earlier?’
Cylrie glanced back at the paper and then clicked her polished fingernails in recognition. ‘Of course! It’s Edion!’
Rugriss nodded. ‘Yes. Our elusive ex-Knight has surfaced. Now why do you think he would be so interested in a mapmaker, the same mapmaker that intrigued one of Lord Carasma’s Minions so much that they ventured into a halt?’
Cylrie shook her head. ‘I haven’t the faintest idea.’
‘Unfortunately, neither have I. But it worries me. And Edion has vanished again, of course. He could be anywhere in the Unstable by now.’
‘The rumours about this place called Havenstar continue?’
He nodded grimly. ‘And often linked to a man who fits Edion’s description. But the rumours are so…so grotesque. Impossible! How can one believe in such a place? One may as well believe in dragons!’
She looked at him shrewdly. ‘Why, Ru dear, I do believe you are worrying. That’s not becoming in an Anhedrin.’
‘Don’t needle me, Cylrie. This is a worrying matter. There’s a certain restlessness among the excluded of the Unstable that I don’t like. There are rumours, there’s an anti-Chantry sentiment, and there is evidence to suggest that Edion is behind it.’ He grimaced. ‘We made the biggest mistake of our lives when we excluded him. We should have kept him within Chantry where we could keep an eye on him. The man is dangerous.’
‘Huh! You’ve changed your rhyme in mid-verse. You were the one who always had a compassionate word when we wiser souls railed against Edion of Galman.’ She shook out a sleeve and admired the fall of the fabric.
‘So, I was wrong. I admit it. The problem is: what do we do now?’
‘That’s obvious. Chase him down and bring him in. Send a contingent of Defenders after him.’
‘Not so easy. How do I justify that? The man was excluded! The Defenders are not going to be happy if I order a contingent to scour the Unstable to bring in a man we ourselves insisted on banning from stability.’
‘You’ll have to choose between upsetting the Defenders, or letting Edion continue to do whatever it is he’s doing,’ she said impatiently. ‘I can’t see any alternative. Making difficult decisions is what being the Anhedrin is all about, Ru.’
He looked at her, frustrated. He had foolishly hoped she’d be able to offer some miraculous advice that would solve the problem, and of course she could not. Knight Edion of Galman had never been a man to be dealt with lightly.
‘You’re right of course. I’ll compromise. I’ll put out word to all Defenders and chantors making crossings to keep an ear and an eye out for him, and when he is found to bring him, preferably by persuasion.’ He fiddled with the papers on his desk. ‘I’ll admit Edion scares me. When we were boys together in the chantery, he had a mind as sharp as a fyrcat’s fang, and about as devious. All of eleven years old, and he was ruthless. Not cruel, but as ruthless as only the really righteous can be. And that makes him a dangerous man. I keep on remembering that bit in Predictions, about a man cast out in the darkness, only to rise up and change the world—’
‘You think that’s Edion? Bah! You can’t be serious! Haven’t you noticed how predictions can always be twisted to fit what you want? Remember the tale of Wedlear the domain lord, who went to the witch to ask what would happen if he cheated his neighbour’s widow and her son out of their inheritance? “There will be established the greatest domain in all the land,” the witch promised. So Wedlear cheated the widow, but the lad put an arrow through him in revenge and then seized all his land. There was a great domain established, all right, but it wasn’t Wedlear’s! And that, in my opinion, sums it all up as far as predictions are concerned.’
‘And the moral is: don’t read the Holy Books?’ he asked ironically.
‘The moral is read the Book of Predictions with a great deal of scepticism. Ley-fire, I never thought you would take one whit of notice of such superstitious nonsense.’
‘Watch that tongue of yours. That sounds perilously close to heresy.’
‘Rubbish.’ She began to buff her nails on her stole, but her gaze was thoughtful. ‘Haven’t you any ideas about the reason for this attack on the halt and the mapmaker?’
‘I don’t know what to make of it. The only thing I can think of is that Havenstar exists and that this mapmaker had a map of its location. Presumably Carasma doesn’t like the idea of a Havenstar anymore than we do. Perhaps he wants to find out where it is. And what it is.’ He shrugged, a taut shrug of frustration. ‘I don’t know. The desperation I sense in the attack, it doesn’t fit with what’s happening elsewhere. Chaos is winning. Carasma is winning. You have only to look at how the stabilities grow smaller with each passing year to know he wins. A report I had last week says a whole mountain vanished from the Impassables. The week before it was a ley line penetrating deep into the Sixth, crossing the kinesis chain as easily as it would a garden hedge. And there doesn’t seem to be a thing we can do to stop the inroads. Order is no longer enough. The kinesis chain is no longer enough. All our devotions are no longer enough…’ He looked up from his reports and there was real despair in his eyes. ‘We’re losing, Cylrie, and I don’t know what to do about it.’
‘If the presence of a mapmaker could somehow cause the Unmaker Lord to act precipitately even though he is winning, it would be interesting to know why,’ she mused. ‘The Minion could have easily waited until the mapmaker had left the halt before slaughtering him. Instead she confronted the Order of the halt, which can’t have been a pleasant experience for her… Yes, I see your point.’ She thought for a moment. ‘Well, it seems to me the only person who may just be able to throw some light on the matter is Edion. All the more reason to hunt him down.’
Rugriss sighed. ‘The Unstable is a big place, and the excluded tend to look after their own.’ Restless, he stood up, bells tinkling. ‘May as well look for a particular grain of sand
in a sand patch.’
Cylrie nodded. ‘Knight Edion,’ she said softly, eyes glinting in memory, ‘was always a very clever man.’
Rugriss did not reply, but he did forget himself enough to frown.
~~~~~~~
Chapter Seven
Go thou forth prayerfully and with good heart into the Unstable and face the ley with courage, knowing that the Maker has asked this of thee for thine own sake.
—Pilgrims III: 6: 24
Keris glanced around the group gathered by the pond and wondered if she was going to regret her decision to go to Pickle’s Halt.
The day had started well enough. Thirl had not found her, and although the Master Guide Davron Storre had been clearly puzzled by her need to go only as far as the halt, he’d agreed to take her there for the sum of one gold. One glance around the assembled travellers of Storre’s fellowship had, however, dissipated any feeling of complacency she might have had. This was not going to be an easy crossing.
A typical pilgrim fellowship consisted of young people embarking on the greatest adventure of their lives. She had seen any number of them ride past the shop on the South Drumlin Road, laughing, full of themselves, defiantly excited to cover their nervousness at what lay ahead. At a moment like this they would have been hiding the reality of their fears beneath boisterous good humour and banter. But the conventional pilgrim did not travel the length of the Unstable from the First to the Eighth Stability. The people gathered here to listen to Davron Storre’s final orders were no ordinary pilgrims. Certainly none of them appeared in the least excited.
Apart from Portron Bittle and Keris, there were four men and one woman. The woman was close to sixty years old, and rode a battered mule that bared its teeth and flared its nostrils at anyone or anything that came too close. From the old woman’s appearance, Keris half expected her to behave in a similar fashion. She was like old leather, chewed and tattered around the edges but still as tough as ever, and about as attractive. Shattered black teeth clamped down on the nicked end of a pipe stem; the bowl alternately glowed, or belched forth an acrid black smoke. So reluctant was she to remove the pipe that she spoke out of the edge of her mouth rather than do so, and as a disconcerting consequence much of what she said was accompanied by a sneering leer. She told them her given name was Corrian and then glared as if daring someone to ask her to divulge her family name. No one did.
Of the men, one was about the same age as Corrian, and totally blind. He rode a crossings-horse and waited with calm ease, wrists crossed and reins loosely held as though embarking on perilous journeys was something he did every other day. His sightless eyes rolled upwards, but something about his tranquil confidence suggested he did not miss much of what was going on around him. Keris half expected him to have an aristocratic name, but he introduced himself simply as Meldor and he wore no domain symbols. His voice was a mellifluous bass that sent shivers up her spine.
Next to him was a man of about thirty who gave his name as Graval Hurg, merchant. He did not seem to have much control over the dapple-grey mare he rode. She skittered this way and that, bumping into other mounts, generally upsetting everyone. The blind man’s horse, however, did not budge an inch, and eventually its rider reached out and grabbed the dapple’s bridle. He pulled her over until her face was next to his horse’s own and the mare, surprisingly, calmed. Hurg apologised abjectly, and Keris stared, wondering just how a blind man had been able to reach out so unerringly for something he could not see.
The other two men in the party were young, both were from Drumlin and they arrived together, but Keris doubted they were friends or even that they were long acquainted. Prime Beef and Scrag Ends, she had thought irreverently. Prime Beef was well-dressed, well-mounted and had two pack mules. He was solidly built, with a neck as wide as his head and a torso of hard curves that could have been carved from stone. He wore his shirt unbuttoned to the waist but the muscles he flaunted seemed ugly to Keris, somehow artificial. After a while she decided it must be because they were the result of weightlifting and exercise, rather than the natural outcome of hard work. When she glimpsed a gold domain-symbol around his neck a few minutes later, she knew her surmise was probably correct. The man was a Trician, a trained fighter. She spent a moment wondering why he was not riding with a Trician fellowship, until the obvious answer occurred to her. None would have been headed for the Eighth Stability. The question was rather: what was a Trician doing wanting to ride on the Long Pilgrimage?
Scrag Ends, who gave his name as Quirk Quinling, could have done with more muscles, not less. He was a reedy, hollow-chested and narrow-shouldered youth with a number of irritating nervous mannerisms. He chewed his lower lip, pulled at his side burns, picked at the skin at the edge of his fingernails, fidgeted unbearably before he said anything. He gave the appearance of being habitually uncomfortable in the presence of others. Yet, just when Keris was ready to dismiss him as an uninteresting nonentity, he said something about his own meagre luggage fitting into a Trician’s manicure box with room to spare, a remark that masqueraded as self-deprecating, but which was more truly aimed at Prime Beef’s extraordinary amount of baggage. It was enough to tell her that there was more to Scrag Ends than first met the eye.
His mount was an under-fed palfrey and he had no pack animal at all. Davron Storre took pity on the palfrey and told him to transfer the packs it had been carrying to one of the mules belonging to Prime Beef, otherwise named Baraine of Valmair. Baraine was outraged and only the threat of being left behind to wait for the next guide to the Eighth had secured his grudging acquiescence.
Confound the Unmaker, Keris thought, what an unpromising lot of travelling companions this is. A guide who doesn’t know how to crack a smile, an old woman who looks and smells like a greasy kitchen stove, a muscle-bound spoiled brat of a Trician, a young man who’s already scared out of his wits, an old man who can’t see where he’s going, a rule-chantor who talks too much, and a fellow who can’t ride as well as a sack of yams. A moment later she added, And a thief who stole from her brother and walked out on her dying mother. She sighed inwardly. This promised to be an awkward crossing.
She listened as Davron gave last minute instructions, noting how those deep rough tones of his carried. ‘My assistant,’ he was saying, ‘will be joining us once we leave the Stability. His name is Scow, and he is one of the Unbound, but I will not tolerate that you treat him any differently because of that. In fact, you will obey him as you would obey me.’ He singled out Baraine of Valmair for a hard stare. ‘This trip is always dangerous. In addition, for some reason, crossings this year are especially hazardous. Ley lines change with a rapidity we’ve never seen before, the Wild are especially vicious and the Minions seem more numerous. You can perform devotions for the Maker all you want, but He doesn’t see too many kineses out there. Lord Carasma rules in the Unstable and it is unwise to forget it. Given these dangers, it is essential that orders are obeyed, instantly and without question. If you stop to argue, you may well end up dead. As a guide it is my duty to get you to your destination untainted and alive, but in a dangerous situation neither Scow nor I will stop to help anyone who disobeys an order. Remember that.
‘Remember too, that although much of the vegetation is edible for both you and your mounts, all animals, birds and so on are Wildish, and it’s definitely not advisable to provoke them unnecessarily. No matter how harmless they look, they’re all tainted and you will have enough trouble with them without deliberately setting out to hunt them down. In other words, until we reach the first halt, the only meat you’ll eat will be what you’ve brought with you.’
His eyes swept around the group, missing nothing of their reactions to what he was saying. ‘I ride in front,’ he said. ‘Scow normally rides last.’ He looked at Quirk, who fidgeted nervously under his gaze.
‘Today’s ride is not an arduous one, nor is it particularly dangerous because we will still be close to the Stability. However, it is wise to be alert at all times, an
d prepared for the unexpected.’ With that remark, he turned his horse and rode out towards the Unstable. The blind man followed, giving his horse its head. Graval’s mare danced this way and that before finally trotting off after them.
‘Charming fellow.’ Baraine of Valmair had waited until Davron was out of earshot before muttering the words and then adding, more loudly, ‘You take care of the mule, Quinling, or I’ll snap you across my knee.’
The woman, Corrian, cocked her head at Baraine. ‘And you’re another charmer,’ she told him, grinning to display her mouth of blackened, cracked teeth. ‘Tell me, young fella, do the muscles in your arse match those of your mouth?’ Baraine jabbed his heels into his horse, but Corrian rode after him, pressing him with embarrassing questions in a penetrating voice.
Quirk Quinling gave a nervous laugh. ‘Baraine really, um, is a bit much,’ he said to Keris and Portron. ‘I met him last night for the first time, you know, and he spent several hours complaining about how his servant had broken his ankle and had to be sent back to Drumlin instead of making the crossing, dancing attendance on Baraine. One would have thought the poor man had done it on purpose.’
‘Maybe he did at that,’ she said grimly. She’d already decided she did not like Baraine of Valmair.
They crossed the kinesis chain about ten minutes later. Even if she had not seen the Chantry House beside the track, and glimpsed another, tangled in the mist, off in the distance, she would have known the moment they crossed from stability to the Unstable: something seemed to hit her hard in the middle of the chest. For a moment she felt that the air had been sucked from her lungs, and then she was through into another world.
Beside her Chantor Portron chuckled. ‘Felt it, did you lass? Don’t let anyone be telling you there’s no power in kinesis!’ He waved a hand at the Chantry House. ‘Think on it: there’s been someone performing kinesis devotions there, and in each of the Houses that circle each of the stabs, every minute of every hour of every day of every year for nigh on a thousand years. Eight circles of unbroken kinesis…’ He sounded smug, so she refused to comment on the marvel of it, but she was impressed nonetheless. She hadn’t expected to feel the barrier. Or was it perhaps the Unstable she’d felt?
