by Tim Stead
“And this book tells that story?”
“No. This is the Book of Rollo.”
Taranath shrugged. “Who’s Rollo?”
“The Wizard of Sorocaba, the man that Serhan killed.”
Taranath thought about this for a moment, but it still didn’t explain the importance of the book, unless…
“The Free,” he said. “It’s their book.”
“Yes,” Ella beamed. “And until tonight we had no idea that it even existed.”
“What does it say?”
“A great deal, but I think I’ll have to educate you before it makes sense. It’s about Eramondi.”
“You’re right. It means nothing to me.”
Ella put the pages down and sat back in her chair. “It’s ancient scholarship,” she said. “The old mages, the ones before the Faer Karan, theorised that there are dozens, hundreds, perhaps thousands of worlds, and that they all occupy the same space.”
“How can that be?”
Ella put a page on her table. “This page occupies a certain square on my table,” she said. She placed a second on top of it. “And this one the same square.”
“But it’s higher that the first,” he said.
“And the ancients thought that there were more directions than up-down, forwards-backwards and side to side. They made up names for them, like warm-cold, bright-dark, and several others. It seems that the Faer Karan came from one of these other worlds, and that the Mage Lord banished them back whence they came.”
“And these worlds are Eramondi?”
“No. I’m sure they all have their own names, but Eramondi is the space between the worlds, the boundary if you like.”
Taranath shook his head. It was too much for him to take in at one sitting. “The book is about the non-existent gap between worlds that we can’t see?”
Ella smiled. “Sounds silly, doesn’t it? But this book claims that Eramondi is an infinite world where the … minds of the dead go to dwell if they have lived virtuous lives.”
Taranath laughed. “How can a mind live without a body?”
“The mages thought it possible.”
He looked at the floor, rubbed his unshaven chin with his hand. “I am just a lawkeeper, Councillor Saine,” he said. “When a man is killed, he’s dead. I know this.”
“But you see the significance?” Ella asked.
“It escapes me.”
“Minds without bodies don’t die. They don’t age.”
“They live forever? Who would want to live forever?” It was an honest protestation. Sometimes life seemed a trifle short, it was true, and some died younger than they should, but to live for ever? When you’d done everything you’d ever wanted to do – everything you could imagine doing, what then? Do it again? And again?
“When I’ve translated the pages I’ll send you a copy,” she said. “You’ll see.”
Taranath stood. “I’d best be getting back to the lawhouse,” he said. “There’s a lot to be done before tomorrow.”
“I expect so,” Ella said. “But one thing. Don’t tell anyone about this - what it is. Tell them you lost it. Best if everyone thinks it’s lost until we have a few copies in safe places. Do you understand?”
“You want me to lie to Arla? To the chief?”
“I suppose not,” Ella said. “It would be safer for all if nobody knew, but no-one else, and impress it upon them that it is a most grave secret. If they knew we had their book here I’m sure they’d try to get it back.”
“Double your guard,” Taranath said.
“We doubled it days ago,” she replied. “After Calaine was attacked. Didn’t you see the bowmen on the walls?”
46 Betrothal
Arla stood with the chief on the walls of the citadel just above the great gate. The street below them was thronged with people. It looked like a fair. Shopkeepers had set up stalls all along the route from the citadel to the great house – only a couple of hundred paces, but the street was broad, and could hardly have held a bigger crowd. Street performers from all along the coast were plying their trade among them. The sight of so many people clearly made Hekman nervous.
“They won’t be down there,” she said.
Hekman frowned. “We’ve men on every rooftop. Every window overlooking the street has been checked,” he said. “They can’t be anywhere else.”
“They can’t get close enough with a knife,” Arla said. “And a crossbow shot through the crowd would be impossible. You’ve persuaded Calaine and Portina to walk, so nobody will even get a good look at them before they reach the Great House.”
Hekman had been insistent that the royal couple not ride the short route. High up on horseback they would have presented too tempting a target. Calaine had protested that limping to the Great House would not be inspiring, her leg being still strapped and painful, but Hekman had not retreated from his position, and in the end Calaine had grudgingly surrendered.
Arla hadn’t thought the matter settled. There had been a look in Calaine’s eye that belied her acquiescence.
She looked at Hekman. He was frowning, one hand rubbing his chin, the other unconsciously on the hilt of a short sword he barely knew how to use.
“I hear you’re getting married,” she said.
Hekman’s head snapped around. His frown vanished to be replaced by a look of astonishment. “What? How…?”
Arla grinned. “I am your investigating officer,” she said. “Besides, I went to see Ishara today and she told me.”
“She told you?”
“Of course. It’s normal to want to share good news, Chief. Anyone would think you were trying to hide something shameful.”
Hekman frowned again, but this time it wasn’t at the street.
“I’m worried,” he said.
Arla waited. Sometimes it was the best way to get people to talk.
“She’s rich, Arla,” he said eventually. “And I get profits from her trading. I’m getting rich, too. It feels wrong for a lawkeeper to be rich.”
“Chief, you’re not rich. The Saine’s are rich. They could buy you with a week’s turnover. You’ve just never had money before. Neither have I.”
He turned to her. “What do they spend it on?” he asked. “I eat, I buy clothes, I drink, I have a house – I even have a servant and the money keeps piling up.”
Arla grinned again. She almost knew what he meant. She had trouble spending her own salary, and it was half his. She looked him up and down and told herself that the chief was a simple man. His clothes – worn and patched, the dyes faded from black to something lighter by the sun – screamed it.
“Worse things could happen,” she said. “You could get a new suit of clothes.”
Hekman looked at her sharply. “That’s what Ishara says.”
“There’s no conspiracy here, Chief. You just look a little frayed these days. How old is that jacket?”
“Not that old,” he said. He shrugged. “Two years, I think. I suppose I could get a new one. She wants to send me to a tailor, to have clothes made.”
The thought of Hekman in a tailor’s shop getting measured made Arla smile again. “It might be a good thing,” she said.
Somewhere a trumpet sounded a single note and the noise of the crowd changed – a brief burst of excitement, then a hush. In the distance the main doors of the Great House opened. Soldiers marched out. They came two abreast, dressed in royal blue with bright cuirasses polished to a mirror finish and matching helms. Each carried a long spear with a black shaft and a glittering point. Arla didn’t think she’d ever seen king’s men looking so decorative. They marched in a kind of open order, two paces between each double rank until about seven score men had emerged, and then they stopped with a single stamp of heavy boots that echoed around the tall buildings.
A bell began to ring.
Arla recognised it at once. It was the temple bell, its clear tones could be heard all over the city, and on its seventh strike the gates of the citadel opened ben
eath her feet and men began to march forth. They matched their counterparts from the Great House in every respect, and they proceeded up the road in the same open order until the two lines met.
Silence fell. The two lines of soldiers now faced each other all the way from the citadel gates to the doors of the Great House. At some invisible signal they turned as one and faced the crowd. Their spears spun with a rush of air that was audible even up on the walls and stopped at the horizontal, held a little below chest height and parallel to their line.
Now the two ranks of soldiers began to advance on the crowd with small steps, almost shuffling as each rank pushed away from the other, opening up a clear path all the way along the road. The people fell back willingly, and Arla had to admit that even the Ocean’s Gate guard could not have bettered their display.
All this time the bell had been ringing, but when the soldiers stopped, now formed up as the fences to an open road, the peals ceased.
The crowd muttered their anticipation. Even the stall-holders were silent, craning their necks and gawping over the heads of their customers. Arla could see a few of Gilan’s men among the crowd, seeking out the pocket pickers who might try to take advantage of the distraction.
Bren Portina walked out of the citadel gate, surrounded by twenty Blayish nobles. Their procession was like a pheasant escorted by peacocks. Portina himself wore mostly white. Even his boots were white. But about his waist he had tied a gold sash, the tasselled end hanging down his right leg, his left being adorned with a gilded sword. On his head he wore a crown, a lacework of fine gold that hinted at subtle majesty, almost as though he did not seek to bludgeon people with his rank, but merely to remind them. Arla had never seen him wear a crown before. She thought it suited him.
The King of Blaye strolled up the alleyway of soldiers. Now and then he passed a remark to one of his retinue. Now and then he waved to the crowd, which had begun to cheer him as soon as he stepped through the gate. He smiled. It was a gracious, relaxed performance, and you would not have thought the man had a care in the world. Arla knew better.
Hekman, Arla and two dozen other lawkeepers on rooftops scanned the crowd for any sign of a crossbow, for any movement towards the king, but nothing happened. Portina reached the Great House and was escorted through the door, and gone from sight.
Hekman breathed out a sigh.
“Looks like they’re waiting for Calaine,” he said.
There was a sound of horses’ hooves from the citadel courtyard, and the chief frowned again.
“Blood and fire, I told her not to ride.”
But Arla had already turned her attention back to the citadel courtyard, and she smiled. “Look,” she said.
Hekman took the couple of paces that were needed to span the wall and looked down.
“You’ve got to admit it’s clever,” Arla said.
Hekman snorted. Down below them in the courtyard stood a carriage unlike any Arla had ever seen. Its base was slung well below its axles, and it had clearly been designed for show. A single chair sat in the centre of the carriage, an ornate chair bright with gold leaf and red velvet. Everything else was white – white wheels, a white floor, a white structure set about the chair like an oversized birdcage, and four white horses to pull the thing. A coachman dressed in royal blue held the reins.
The whole effect was to put Calaine almost at the level of the road, and seated as she was there would be almost no sight of her for any would-be assassins. And of course there would be no unsightly limping.
Calaine looked up from her seat and waved to Hekman, a discreet, royal wave. She, too, was dressed in white and gold glittered from her sleeves and throat.
“I thought I heard carpentry last night,” Hekman said.
The princess’s wagon rolled out through the citadel gate and up the solider-lined road towards the Great House.
“Now or never,” Hekman said, and Arla scanned the crowd. The cheering rose to a new pitch and people pressed forwards, but there was no untoward shoving. Nobody tried to reach the front rank or push past the soldiers.
The wagon passed the half way mark, too far for Arla and the chief to be of any use. There were others up by the Great House, not least Corin and Taranath, who watched.
“We should go,” Arla said. They both had roles to play at the Great House itself, in the ceremony of betrothal, but Hekman was still squinting down at the crowd.
“This isn’t over,” he said. “They haven’t given up.”
In the distance the wagon stopped outside the doors of the Great House and Arla saw Calaine step down from her chair, take the hand of a tall, sandy-haired figure that must have been General Grand, and the doors closed behind her.
Safe.
Maybe.
Arla clattered down the stairs in the nearest tower and made for the gate. It was her job now to oversee the security inside the Great House. Most of the work was already done. She had set her people to investigate every merchant, every soldier, every servant who had been invited or recruited to be in the Great house that day. She had spent half the previous night wandering the place, checking doors and closets, making sure she knew who had keys to what, and how trustworthy they might be.
Outside in the street the soldiers had reformed their lines and were marching back to their respective origins. Those headed for the Great House would take up station in the banqueting hall where the ceremony was to take place, and that alone should have been enough to deter a sane man.
Arla pushed her way through the crowd. One or two people knew her and nodded respectfully as she passed, but for the most part she was ignored – just another anonymous figure buffeted by the happy throng.
She reached the Great House and the door was opened for her. Corin was waiting just inside.
“All’s well,” he said.
They walked together along a broad corridor that plunged into the centre of the building and emerged directly into the banqueting hall.
There was no other room like it in Samara. It measured a full sixty paces by thirty, all of it floored in white marble. A dais at the western end held a single table that could seat fifty. For today a clear space had been left just below the dais and beyond that a fleet of smaller tables lay at anchor on the marble sea. Every table bore its own fleet of folded cloths, shimmering cutlery and shining plates, and all around them sat the great and the good of Samara. The whole room buzzed with conversation and its echo, thrown back from the high walls, the stone floor.
In the open space between the dais and the rest of the hall there were two chairs and on the chairs sat the happy couple, the King of Blaye and the Princess of Samara. Arla wondered how happy they were. Portina certainly seemed delighted with his fate. He smiled and exchanged words with his nobles.
Calaine sat alone.
It surprised Arla. She had expected to see the general at her side, or perhaps Ella Saine. But the princess sat and stared into space, looking, it seemed, at the great tapestry that hung on the opposite wall. It was a new work, depicting the somewhat abortive battle of Samara Plain. Most of the cloth was taken up with the Saratan army and on the left side, smaller than Arla would have expected, stood Serhan, the Mage Lord. His hand was raised above his head. The great deed was about to be done. Somehow the tapestry was more effective for Serhan being so small, so marginal, so alone.
Arla pulled her eyes away from the image and looked around the hall. It was the storm before the calm. In a few minutes the King of Samara, Simon Tarnell, would arrive and formality would descend, but for this brief moment she could watch Samarans taking amongst themselves, merchants to soldiers, poor to rich, men to women. Calaine had insisted that many of the common people be invited, that they should not feel excluded and could bathe, at least for a day, in the warmth of the King’s hospitality.
The soldiers from the street had arrayed themselves neatly around the room. The spears were gone, and each now carried only a short sword. They stood like statues, close to the walls, but she had no
doubt that they were ready to act if any outrage should be attempted. They had all been warned. They knew the threat was real.
Arla still carried her bow, and it drew some looks from those that did not know her. She was the only person in the room not decoratively armed. She kept to the outside, walking around the ring of soldiers, stopping here and there to take in the view.
It was difficult to see how the assassins might strike. The only weak link were the servants, gliding about the tables in gold-trimmed blue coats and white trousers, dispensing dainties and wine to the expectant diners. But Arla had vetted all of them, put each to the test with Seer Jud, and all had passed. There were no traitors here.
How then?
All she could do was watch and be ready. Hekman was certain that they would try again, and he was rarely wrong these days. The Chief had gained an uncanny degree of insight since the incident with the child killers some years ago.
A trumpet sounded and the doors at the far end of the hall, beneath the tapestry, swung open.
Simon Tarnell, the King, entered. He was flanked by a single soldier on either side and was dressed entirely in black with a silver belt and buckles, a long sword on his left hip. He paused, allowing the chatter in the room to die away completely, and strode forwards looking neither left nor right. He passed Calaine and Portina and stopped again once he had mounted the dais. He turned and faced the room.
Tarnell looked older than Arla remembered. His hair was grey, his face heavily lined, his eyes looked sunken. Perhaps his health was not all that it had been.
The King was no friend to Arla. She’d killed his son. That had been long ago, before the fall of the Faer Karan, and he’d attacked a group of Ocean’s Gate guardsmen outside a tavern in the old town. It had been a drunken, stupid act, and Arla had shot him in self defence – not thought twice about it until she knew who he was. After the fall Tarnell had tried to have her executed, but Hekman and Calaine had prevented it. Hekman she’d expected, but Calaine, the brother of the man she’d killed, was a surprise. Arla had owned a deep and abiding respect for the princess ever since.
