Gil Trilogy 3: Lady Pain

by Rebecca Bradley

  Astonished, I stared up at the stone face from the foot of the jetty. The giant lips were half-smiling, the chin raised, the brows drawn together into the beginnings of a frown. A noble young guardian god, that face suggested, keeping a kindly but stern and inescapable watch over the harbour with his great stone eyes, equally ready to bless the good and scuttle the bad. A most impressive piece of statuary. It was odd that it managed to look so handsome while being a very decent portrait of my father.

  * * *

  4

  THAT WAS THE EXTENT of my sightseeing in the Pearl of the World for some time. While the black-clad troopers were loading me into a litter at the waterfront, I seized an irresistible opportunity to kick the customs scribe in the belly with my bound feet. The troopers reacted to this by knocking me into a grey daze; worse, the scribe reacted by vomiting on my legs. Consequently, I have only vague impressions of the litter jogging along with more jolts than seemed strictly necessary, each jolt sending livid streaks through the fog in my head, voices skimming across the waterfall in my ears, a disgusting bilious stink in my nostrils. At some point, out of sheer nausea, I fell asleep.

  The next thing I remember is waking up on a soft clean-smelling pallet, without my britches and bonds and the mouth-stopper. Only a dull ache remained of the pain in my head, but it was worse when I moved. I worked my eyes open and found myself in a large room, dim and comfortably cool, with a few heavily latticed windows in the wall opposite my pallet and furnishings that were good and solid and reasonably ostentatious, the sort one would expect in the receiving room of a prosperous merchant's residence.

  Tigrallef was sitting cross-legged on the bottom end of my pallet humming softly to himself, as he often did when the Pain was not giving him much trouble. He took no notice of me until I managed the daunting feat of sitting up, when he leaned over and put his cool hand on my forehead. At once I felt better. Disturbingly better.

  "Careful, Tig."

  He pulled his hand away and examined it suspiciously.

  "No, don't worry about it," I said, "just tell me what's happening."

  His eyes brightened. "Well, they've done some marvellous restoration work on the Gilgard."

  "That's nice."

  "Tallislef Second's postern and the gardens outside it—Tallislef himself wouldn't know the difference."

  "Oh, really?"

  He leaned closer, dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "Mind you, I suspect they've committed a few infelicities in the Scion's Ride."

  "Surely not."

  "Alas, yes." He shook his head sadly. "For example, though I couldn't see very well through the mask, I suspect the figures on the keystones—"

  "Tig."

  "—are only in low relief, or even," he added with creeping horror and contempt, "or even just incised into the stonework—"

  "Listen to me, Tig."

  "—whereas, unless I'm almost impossibly mistaken, the originals were in very high relief, virtually in the round—"

  "Father, shut up and listen."

  He gazed at me with suddenly clear eyes; his fingers moved. You should not call me Father. Not here. Not yet. The eyes held mine for a few seconds before shifting back into shining madness. "I think they've retained some portions of the old Sherkin bastion—" he began. I seized both his shoulders and shook him just hard enough to get his attention.

  "I don't want to discuss Gillish architecture."

  He looked shocked.

  "Listen carefully. We're in trouble. We don't even know if the others are alive or dead. Right now, I don't give a fart about the old Sherkin bastion."

  He looked hurt.

  "Try to listen," I said. "There's something important to tell you, something that might help explain what's going on. No, Tig, look at me, listen. I saw a monumental stone icon at the waterfront, a huge head-and-shoulders, half as big as the Fifth, placed where every ship in the inner harbour could see it."

  He frowned. "I missed that. What a pity. It must be new—I don't remember it being mentioned in any history of the corniche. Was the face mine?"

  Astonishment gagged me as effectively as any mouth-stopper. I nodded.

  "Well," he said, "is it a good likeness?"

  I nodded again. "Very good—a bit flattering, even." Choking a little, I added, "How did you know?"

  "The glyphs on the banners."

  "What about them?"

  "One of them's my name. But I was only guessing about the statue, really. They'll be here in a minute."

  From long experience, I was adept at following the dog-leg turns in my father's conversations. I straightened up and swung my feet on to the floor. "How many?"

  He cocked his head as he listened. "Two Flamens in the lead. I'm sure about that—it's the sweeping noise their robes make. A young one and an old one," he added helpfully.

  "How many guards?"

  "Twenty."

  "Damn. That's too many. Any ideas?"

  "A few. First of all, they should demolish the rest of the Sherkin bastion . . ."

  About an hour later, twenty troopers and two Flamens (one young, one old, as promised) were marching us along a broad, deserted corridor in what Tig whispered to me was the Temple Palace. The troopers, who were of the black-tunicked variety, treated us with courteous efficiency, neither gawking at Tigrallef nor using me for boxing practice. The elder priest, a kindly looking greyhead in his early seventies, introduced himself as the First Flamen; the other, whom I judged to be no more than thirty, turned out to be the Second Flamen. One glance at his well-cut but icy face, the stone hardness of his glossy eyes, and I had a good idea how such a relatively young man might have risen so high in the ranks of the priesthood.

  It seemed we were still prisoners, but we were honoured ones. The Flamens issued what amounted to a gracious invitation to accompany them to the audience room. They were apologetic about my bruised face and burgeoning black eye and the lumps on the back of my head. The tonic they gave me to drink chased away the last of the pain. The clean britches they brought me were of the best quality, and fitted as though they had been tailored just for me. Despite all this, I remained on my guard and had to keep squashing impulses to kick people.

  There was one sticky moment as they conducted us through the Temple Palace, but it was Tigrallef's turn to be difficult. Doorways were set at intervals along the corridor, some fitted with wooden doors, others opening directly on to narrow passages that faded into shadow within a few feet. Tigrallef and I were marching pretty smartly along in the middle of the column, the Flamens and ten troopers ahead of us, ten troopers behind, when Tigrallef smoothly wheeled into one of these side passages without breaking stride and vanished into the darkness. He did not get far—two troopers from the rearguard pounded down the passage and retrieved him within seconds—but their captain was furious and the First Flamen was visibly shaken. Tig was unruffled by his recapture.

  The captain, with a glare at the rearguard that said volumes about their competence, parentage and future prospects, ordered the column to continue. As we went, I muttered sidewise into Tigrallef's ear, "By the Rages of Raksh, what was the point of that? Surely you weren't trying to escape?"

  "Of course not," he answered, in a voice so loud and clear that the captain turned his head and scowled back at us.

  "After all," I whispered, "you're the one who told me not to resist."

  "But I wasn't resisting, Vero. I was following my feet."

  "Well, don't do it again," I said crossly. "Follow my feet, not yours. This is not the time or place to try escaping. Really, Father."

  "I was not trying to escape," he insisted. "It was habit. That was the way to the archives."

  While I was thinking this over, we came to a point where the corridor turned at right angles and then dead-ended at a pair of tall wooden doors, broad, plain and solid, flanked by troopers in the same black livery with green armbands. Tig slowed as we turned the corner, then stopped altogether; and finally responded to a gentle prod from t
he trooper behind him by bolting ahead a few paces, all in astonished silence. I caught his arm and pulled him into step with me, whispering fiercely, "What is it now?"

  Nothing trivial, to judge by the death-hold he took on my arm. "There's a familiar voice behind those doors, Vero, an old, old friend." I stared down at him with dismay. He was wearing the kind of expression that made me want to throw a cloth over his head, as if he were a raucous bird in a cage. I didn't dare to ask whose voice he meant, or which old friend, only whispered the phrase that had become a reflex response over the years: "Keep hold, Tig, keep hold." The doors swung open before us.

  A vast chamber lay beyond, a curious mixture of opulence and emptiness. The floor was an expanse of grass-green carpet, apparently seamless, smooth as a lawn trimmed blade by blade. I could not begin to imagine what it must have cost. The walls were masked by a sweep of figured tapestries of equally unguessable worth. The crystalline panes in the high-arched windows to our left could only be of Crosthic manufacture, and were larger and more transparent than I thought was technically possible.

  But despite all this magnificence of setting, the chamber was nearly bare—nothing but a cluster of settees, chairs and low tables around a great stone hearth at the far end. I could see one personage sunk into a large armchair near the empty fireplace, with a blanket tucked around him although the room was warm. Beside him, three figures in green tunics were sitting in a prim row on the edge of a settee, each stiffly holding a beaker of wine in one hand. They turned their heads to watch as we approached.

  I recognized them at once: the three scribes who had boarded the Fifth the day before and presumably brought the full force of Gillish authority down upon our heads. In the middle was the one whose scrawny white underbelly I had kicked and would dearly love to kick again. Tig nudged me. "Keep hold, Vero, keep hold." I gritted my teeth and walked on.

  Busy controlling myself, I did not even glance at the man in the armchair until the Flamens led us in front of him. Besides, it was a deep chair and he was sunk almost invisibly into it, shadowed by its winged sides. I saw only that he must be terribly thin or wasted, that the chair could almost have been empty under the heavy green blanket.

  Then he leaned forward, and I recognized him at once from Tigrallef's highly coloured descriptions; told myself not to be so bloody stupid; did the arithmetic in my head and realized it was just possible; looked at him again and knew that it was true. He'd be late in his nineties now, but my father always said the old goatfish was too cussed to let himself die. He still had his teeth, too.

  The Primate Mycri.

  An old face. Older than time, harder than stone, colder than the ice-mountains of Myr. A mask of mottled yellow marble, I thought, carved by a sculptor who was paid by the wrinkle; only the eyes were young and strong, twin dark glimmers under a shelf of white eyebrow. Tigrallef was vibrating with excitement. I found his hand without looking down, spelt into the palm: Keep hold. Tigrallef laughed out loud.

  "You seem happy to be here, boy." The Primate's voice, deep and harsh, was still powerful. "Sit down over there, close to me. Let me have a look at you. By the Lady, it's like seeing a ghost."

  The two Flamens waved us to the settee opposite the old man's chair, divided from it by a low table set out with wine and biscuits. Long moments passed while the Primate studied first my father's face, then mine. At last he said to the Flamens, "The little one's resemblance is more than remarkable, it is exact. The other one is less like, but it's been years since anyone saw the Priest-King; it may be that we can find a use for him too." He turned to the scribes. "You did very well to bring these young men to our attention."

  The scribes' settee was at an angle to ours, so I had a good view of their faces. Stark terror was politely disguised in the two underlings, but their chief wore a look of such soon-to-be-richly rewarded smugness that my fists hurt from clenching. It was a minor satisfaction to see him flinch when our eyes met—the unconscious move to protect his belly was especially heart-warming. After that he looked a little less smug.

  "Tell me, Scribe," the Primate went on, "did anyone else see this young man up close?" He indicated Tigrallef.

  The scribe answered eagerly. "Oh no, Most Revered One. Only we three and the guardparty who went on board with us yesterday. I was most careful in carrying out your instructions."

  "And this morning?" The old man looked to the captain of the black-uniformed troopers.

  "Only the Flamens' Corps, Most Revered One. The regular troops did not go on board until the—the young man's face was covered."

  "Very good. Report?" He extended a hand like the claw of dead lizard, to take a neat sheaf of papers from the captain. The Most Revered One read with amazing quickness, nodding to himself, obviously approving in a grim sort of way, until he reached the top of the final page. There he paused, hissed between his teeth, and scowled. The captain shifted nervously on his feet.

  "We're already searching, Most Revered One. I've got fifty men out, and the cordons went up an hour ago."

  "Then let us hope fifty men are enough, and an hour ago was not too late." The Most Revered One glared at the captain for only a few seconds longer, but they were sizzling seconds, and I saw beads of sweat begin to pop out on the captain's neck above the black tunic; then the Most Revered One startlingly rearranged his face into something like a benevolent smile, and turned to the trio on the other settee.

  "You did well, scribe, and I am grateful. You may go now. Second Flamen, go with them and make sure they find their way out."

  "Most Revered One?" the scribe began.

  "Don't worry, you'll get your reward. Now go."

  With a last filthy look in my direction, the scribe put his beaker down on the table and departed with his colleagues. I wondered why there was such pity in Tigrallef's face as he watched the doors close behind them, a pity that I saw mirrored in the old First Flamen's expression.

  Hesitantly making a formal gesture that I did not recognize, the First Flamen said, "Most Revered One, I ask once more, is it really necessary to—could we not—"

  "Be quiet, Kesi," the Primate broke in, "we went through this already."

  "But Most Revered One—"

  "I told you, the Mosslines are fine for illiterate soldiers, but these ones are scribes—the tongues alone would make no difference, not while they had hands to write with. And what use would they be in the Mosslines without hands? I agree, it is most unfortunate. Now be quiet."

  The First Flamen subsided unhappily and slumped on to the settee vacated by the doomed scribes. As for me, I may be slower than my father, but I understood. I felt a moment's regret for having wasted a perfectly good kick on the belly of a dead man, even if he was still breathing at the time; it was just a pity about the other two.

  And now it was our turn. The Primate had featured as a ruthless tyrant and schemer in my father's stories, and I was getting the impression that extreme age had not mellowed him. At least three men were dying, apparently for the misfortune of having met us—what, then, was going to happen to Shree and Chasco, to my mother and sister? What were the Primate's plans for them? How easy it would be, I thought suddenly, to leap across the low table that separated us, to take his furrowed neck in my hands and snap it like a chicken bone before the troopers struck me down . . .

  Tig's fingers clamped painfully around my wrist.

  "A hundred pardons, Most Revered One," he said, "but what have you done with our family?"

  The Primate stared at him, shaking his head. "Even the voice, Kesi. Astonishing. If I didn't know better, I'd think it was Tigrallef in the flesh. What a dreadful thought. As for you, boy, you do not yet have permission to speak. You have permission to listen."

  "Most Revered One?" said the First Flamen hesitantly. "It would do no harm to assure them their family is safe and well."

  The Primate's claws tightened in anger on the armrests of his chair; but I filed Kesi's small act of kindness away in my mind. Someday I would thank him for
it. Tigrallef's tension, however, was as powerful as before. The Primate, after a short statutory glower at the First Flamen, picked up the sheaf of the captain's report again and leafed through it.

  "Correct me if any of this is wrong," he said to us. "You are Vero and Tilgo, sons of Selki, a Gillish copper merchant who resides in Calloon. Yes? Good. Born in Calloon, both of you? And you arrived in Gil yesterday: small windcatcher, cargo of copper and wood, well nourished, good health, visible means of support, no security risk, Affidavit of Entry recommended—that's how the report would have read, young Tilgo, if you hadn't poked your head out the cabin door. Do you know what made the difference? Do you have any idea why you're here?"

  Tigrallef frowned and put his chin on his hand in an exaggerated posture of deep thought. Don't overdo it, I prayed silently. "I look like somebody famous?" he suggested at last.

  "By the Lady, it could have been the Scion himself speaking. Even," and the Primate's voice hardened, "to the implied insolence. I warn you, young man, the Scion Tigrallef learned to fear and respect me, and it's a lesson you should learn right now."

  Tigrallef managed to look truly repentant, while I wondered what other rearrangements of history the Primate would be serving up. I was about to find out.

  "I will assume," the Primate began, "that your Gillish parents have told you something of Gil's glorious history—the Scions of Oballef, the Lady in Gil, the Bright Ages—"

  "The Pearl of the World," Tigrallef interjected.

  "Yes, quite. Don't interrupt, boy. I'm sure you have also heard of the atrocious brigandage of the Sherank, the invasion, the concealment of the Lady in a secret place in the Gilgard, the many years of suffering under a heavy Sherkin yoke—"