by Tom Lloyd
Isak had no problem keeping his face stern as he reminded himself of the cardinal’s crimes, which had at last been unearthed. As he reached out to touch the cardinal’s gold ring of office, he brushed the man’s finger with his own and quested out, sensing what he could. The touch of Nartis was weak, barely more than an echo - and confirmation of what Lesarl had turned up.
‘Look up, man! Stand up straight and show some backbone,’ Isak snapped. ‘I’m about to save your life here.’
The cardinal flinched as though he’d been struck, but he did manage to lift his head and keep his terror-filled eyes raised.
‘No one can hear us, but your life depends on your ability to act; understand me?’
‘I—Yes, my Lord, I understand.’ Certinse’s eyes betrayed more than a little confusion, but the man was a born politician. His nostrils flared as though finding a scent.
‘Good. Now you will have to face me down as we talk; save the finger-wagging for later but they must see you arguing, do you understand? Shake your head if you do.’
Certinse hardly hesitated at the strange instruction before violently shaking his head. A little colour returned to his cheeks as the condemned man grasped at that glimmer of hope.
‘Excellent. I’ll make this quick. You’re unaffected by the rage of the Gods, and I know why. Don’t bother to deny it, just let it stand. I am certain this is because Nartis has been replaced by some daemon ally of Cordein Malich’s. I have evidence that you were part of the Malich conspiracy from the start.’
Certinse opened his mouth to argue, then thought better of it. He gave Isak a wary look. ‘What is it you want from me?’ he asked in a small voice.
‘To look bloody angry would be a start, not scared, you fucking cowardly heretic.’
Isak’s words had the desired effect as Certinse bristled and his face purpled with anger. ‘Whatever evidence that deluded maniac Disten gave you, it’s false,’ he growled.
The bluster prompted a wolfish grin on Isak’s face. He smothered it quickly. ‘Sorry, but no - it’s real. You didn’t leave much of a trail yourself, but your aides weren’t so careful, and their appetites needed paying for. They stole from the bodies they were told to bury - and there’s more than one alibi that depends on the deceased disappearing at sea with all his belongings.’
This struck home like a physical blow. Certinse managed not to sag, but Isak saw the beaten look in his eye. He knew he’d been caught.
‘Why am I here then? Why have you not arrested me?’
‘Because this evidence means I own you, and much as I hate it, your past crimes mean you could be the solution to the present problem.’
‘I don’t understand,’ Certinse said, sounding pathetic.
‘It’s simple,’ Isak growled, leaning forward in his seat. The sight of his massive frame looming closer sparked fear in Certinse’s eyes, but any animation was better than exhausted acceptance to onlookers, Isak thought. ‘You have worshipped daemons and lived, and that means you are no longer bound to your God. Consequently, you are unaffected by this current rage. As much as it disgusts me, I must work with what I’ve got. Right now, you are the only cleric within the cults of Death or Nartis I can be certain is rational. So you will suggest you yourself are sent to conduct negotiations with Chief Steward Lesarl over the High Cardinal’s new religious laws, and I must accept this insult, or lose face.’
‘You’re just accepting this madness?’ Certinse asked, aghast. ‘Have you read his document?’
‘Right now I have no choice but to mollify the cults, or face insurrection at a time I cannot afford it - you’ll be easier to mollify than Echer, because the evidence I have means you’ll burn if it ever reaches a court.’
‘You cannot murder the High Cardinal!’
‘Who said anything about murder? He’s an old man using magic to keep himself strong; I’m confident he won’t last long.’
‘And then?’
‘And then your prominence in these negotiations will make you the natural successor to the position of High Cardinal. You will quell any suspicions of foul play, do your piece of screaming and shouting about moral decay, then accept a lessened set of laws - the bare minimum necessary to keep the people from fighting in the streets.’
‘You’re making me High Cardinal,’ Certinse said in disbelief.
‘In return for keeping control of the cults,’ Lesarl joined in. ‘You might need to have Jopel Bern forced from office, but I’m sure you could manage such a thing. Keep your house in order and you will have everything you desire: the position you have plotted to take for decades, and a long life in which to enjoy it. Now, go back and tell them we quarrelled about Disten’s investigation.’
Isak sat back and watched the emotions play over Certinse’s face. It took just a few seconds for Certinse to realise his position, then he shook his head fiercely and agreed.
Once satisfied his anger had been noted by the room, Certinse returned to report his argument to his fellow cardinals while the rest of the Synod presented themselves. Out of the corner of his eye Isak saw the frantic whispered conversation, but he managed to keep his expression blank to greet each of the faces arriving in front of him.
He paid little attention to most, save for the sad-eyed Corlyn, the head of the pastoral branch of the cult who administered the rural shrines and temples. He showed no signs of being affected by his God’s rage. Instead, the gentle-spirited old man had an expression of awful disappointment on his face; he knew some sort of deal had been brokered by the High Cardinal’s manner and was wounded by the ease with which Isak had apparently acceded to Echer’s demands.
Of the suzerains, he greeted several as warmly as he could, but his mind was elsewhere. The Corlyn’s distress had turned his heart cold and made him immediately regret the deal he would have to swallow. The measures would doubtless be so drastic that even a compromise would be terrible. A voice at the back of his mind told him he’d made a hash of offering his condolences to Suzerain Torl. The ageing warrior had lost both family and hurscals to violent clashes with bands of penitents, all because he had been revealed to be a Dark Monk, one of the deeply religious Brethren of the Sacred Teachings. Isak’s only consolation was that Torl had been too distracted to take offence. He had quickly replaced the colours of his mourning: the hood he had pushed back only when greeting his lord was red, for a death in battle.
Isak’s mood was further darkened by the grim news brought by Suzerain Saroc, Torl’s friend and fellow member of the Brethren. Saroc was as far from the image of a Dark Monk as could be, clad as he was in silks of white, yellow and gold, but his round face bore no trace of his customary grin as he knelt in front of Isak.
‘My Lord, I hear from Tor Milist that Duke Vrerr has grown pious,’ he said hurriedly, his voice tight with anger. ‘Normally I’d applaud such a thing, but the man’s a fucking cockroach who’d do anything to save his own skin. From what I hear he’s made contact with someone within the cult of Death - and that’s the reason they have so many novices and penitents looking like experienced mercenaries. He’s terrified you’re going to march south and sweep him up as you expand the border to include Helrect and whatever’s left of Scree. He knows he can’t fight off a full-scale assault on Tor Milist, so his mercenaries are better employed to divide us and create civil war here instead.’
‘How’re things within your border?’ Isak asked.
Saroc’s scowl deepened. ‘Difficult. There are too many armed men in the suzerainty for my liking. They’re even trying to dictate behaviour in the abbeys and monasteries. They’re pressuring those not as rabid as their leaders to at least declare their public support. If it wasn’t for the fact that we’ve standing garrisons in our towns, there’d have been serious bloodshed already.’
Isak sat back and sighed. ‘Whatever we do, it’s only a matter of time before that happens.’
His Chief Steward looked worried.
Despite the weather, everyone retired outside once the
ceremony was concluded. A regiment of servants waited with plentiful jugs of hot spiced wine to ward off the cold. Inside, the tables were being moved back into position and a feast laid out to honour their guests. It wasn’t often the vast majority of the tribe’s most powerful men were seen together in one room; Lesarl intended to keep them there as long as he could.
As evening fell, Count Vesna stood at the top of the wide stone stairs watching the noblemen and clerics as they cautiously mingled. Their faces were lit by a perimeter of torches driven into the ground. His role as Lord Isak’s bodyguard was over now the ritual had been concluded, but he’d decided to forego the festivities all the same. There were plenty of young men in the crowd below who would doubtless be interested in discussing their wives’ merits with him - men whose pride mattered more than Vesna’s much-trumpeted duelling skills. As it was, none had yet had the opportunity to provoke an argument with him so they could call him out, but in such company it was always a possibility. If that happened, he’d be needing a clear head.
It had appealed to the Chief Steward’s sense of humour to use Vesna’s charms as a weapon; he had bought the count’s personal debts to ensure his loyalty. Vesna shook his head with a rueful smile. I’d never have thought I’d feel too old for all that now, but it’s happened nonetheless.
Lord Isak was only a few yards from the bottom of the stair, looking a little bewildered in such company. It was sometimes easy to forget he hadn’t been brought up in these circles. He was almost kneeling so he could hear what Suzerain Ranah was saying. Ranah, an octogenarian who sat bolt-upright in his chair, was most likely telling a filthy story, judging by the looks on people’s faces.
Gods, and Tila thinks I was bad, Vesna thought suddenly, remembering when he’d stayed for an evening at the suzerain’s manor. That old goat claims all three of his wives died because he wore them out.
From time to time, Vesna could see Isak look up and direct a plaintive glance in his direction. He didn’t move. Lesarl had made it very plain that Vesna was to keep clear unless there was a threat to Isak’s person - and that was highly unlikely: Isak had been wound so tightly since the incarnation of the Reapers in Irienn Square that he’d likely cut any threat in slices before Vesna even had his sword drawn.
‘It reminds me of one of my father’s hounds,’ Vesna said softly to Mihn, who had joined him. He indicated the group of men around Isak.
Mihn blinked, taking in the scene. He was dressed in black, as always: a tunic of tailored cotton that wouldn’t catch or snag as he fought - though since returning to the palace, he had done little apart from haunting the cold corridors and ignoring offers from the guardsmen to wrestle.
‘The dog had a litter of puppies,’ Vesna went on, ‘with one much smaller than the other four. The rest bullied it constantly, but my father never let me separate them: it had to find its own way. They weren’t going to kill it, so it had to learn to rough-house with the rest.’
‘Well, I am pretty sure Lord Isak could take the one in the chair,’ Mihn said, nodding towards the group.
Vesna burst out laughing for a moment before disapproving faces hushed him. ‘Sweet Nartis, I think that’s the first time I’ve heard you make a joke. Morghien must have had more effect on you than I realised!’
Mihn’s only reply was a shrug. Vesna looked at him for a moment, before giving up. ‘Still close-mouthed though, eh?’
They watched Chief Steward Lesarl doing the rounds of the various groups. From time to time he would sidle up to Lord Isak and mutter something, then he would be off again, never staying long with any one person, never allowing any real response from those he’d ambushed.
‘Strike and withdraw, strike and withdraw - that is the Farlan way,’ Mihn said suddenly.
Vesna frowned. ‘I suppose so; would you have us do any different?’
Mihn shifted his steel-tipped staff from one hand to the other, still watching Isak. ‘It is a fine tactic, as long as you know where your enemy is. You were out-manoeuvred in Scree, however. The enemy was the one to strike and retreat - or so it appears. The Chief Steward has not had much success in tracking them down.’
‘So we must learn a new tactic?’
‘Perhaps so,’ Mihn said, ‘though I am no general, and I do not presume to know more than you on the subject.’ He paused and Vesna felt a moment of indecision hang in the air. ‘I . . . Of late I find myself only with questions, never answers.’
‘What sort of questions?’ He didn’t need to say he sympathised with the feeling; he knew Mihn had observed it already. Tila had brought the possibility of a new sort of life to the famous rogue: real happiness, instead of fleeting pleasure. He was not far from forty summers now, and the bruises didn’t fade as fast these days, but with more than half his life spent on one path, it wasn’t easy to contemplate another.
Again, Mihn hesitated. ‘Chief among them is how I can be of use to my lord. I will not break my vow again. I will not use edged weapons in anger, even if it means my death, but I realise that makes me of less use.’
‘I think you help him by your presence. It calms him just to have you nearby. You’ve seen how hard he’s finding this all’ - Vesna waved at the suzerains, most trying to suck up to the new Lord of the Farlan - ‘and who could blame him? There’s more pressure on that boy than any king could bear.’
‘I know. I fear it is taking its toll.’
‘His dreams?’
Mihn nodded again. ‘He does not confide in me, but I see it in his eyes . . .’ He paused. ‘It’s not the dreams themselves, but the fact that they might come true. He feels the presence of the Reapers in his shadow, the incarnation of violent death, and he dreams of his own death.’
‘Has he bound them to himself somehow?’ Vesna asked, his voice dropping to a whisper. ‘Isak brought them into life in Scree - a place where the Gods had been driven out . . . Could he have broken their link to Lord Death by doing so?’
‘And thus be to blame for intensifying the rage of the Gods?’ Mihn finished his question. ‘I do not know. I don’t think he does either, but he fears so, especially after Irienn Square.’
‘Then what do we do?’
‘Do you remember what Morghien did for him the first time we met?’
Vesna cast his mind back to their journey to Narkang, and the stranger who’d been waiting for them at the behest of Xeliath. ‘I remember. The spirits inside Morghien attacked Isak’s mind, to prepare him for what Aryn Bwr would do.’
‘Exactly, Morghien prepared him. When one can see what is coming, there are only two real choices: to try and avoid it, or to accept it and be prepared.’
‘My vote’s for avoiding death; that would be preferable here, don’t you think?’ Vesna’s laugh sounded a little forced.
‘Of course. But he has said nothing of the manner of his death. All we have is his past certainty that Kastan Styrax would kill him. To avoid death means killing Kastan Styrax first, and from all we’ve heard, that is not so simple a task.’
‘“The Gods made their Saviour the greatest of all men”,’ Vesna said, recalling what Isak had related of his conversation with Aryn Bwr. ‘They made him too perfect, too strong and skilled.’
‘And thus, presumably, a difficult man to kill.’ Mihn raised his head a little and Vesna followed his gaze to the boundary of torches forced into the hard-packed earth.
‘What are you saying?’
‘Merely that putting the enemy off-balance, doing what they do not or cannot expect, is half of the duel.’ He was watching a figure flanked by Palace Guards draw closer. Lesarl stepped into the path to intercept the person - a woman, or maybe a short man, Vesna guessed. The person was wearing a thick winter cloak with the hood pulled up to shadow the face.
‘You expect him to embrace his own death?’ Vesna asked. ‘What possible preparation can there be for that? Or do you expect Isak to be able to cheat Death himself?’ He sensed rather than saw Mihn tense beside him. For a moment he thought he’d taken offe
nce at Vesna’s words - until he saw the diamond-patterned clothes of the new arrival: a Harlequin, no doubt here to entertain the assembled dignitaries.
‘I make no such suggestion,’ Mihn said in a carefully calm voice, ‘only that such a thing might free him from the tangled web of his destiny. It had been said of Death’s throne room that no obligation or contract can follow you through those doors. What if he is tempted by such an offer? What if that is the only way to free him from those bindings?’
‘That’s not much in the way of freedom, is it? There’s no coming back from the grave, so let’s push him in the other direction, right?’
Mihn ignored Vesna’s attempt to lighten the tone of the conversation. ‘Will we get the choice? You know as well as I do that he is going to announce a march south so he can create a buffer-state to encompass Tor Milist, Helrect and Scree; there is little else he can do if the alternative is inviting chaos and bloodshed on his own border. The Menin have taken Thotel and conquered the Chetse.’ He cocked his head towards Vesna as the Harlequin passed Lesarl and started up the staircase. ‘If you were Lord Styrax and intent on conquest, would you look west to the relatively minor states there, or north to Tor Salan and the Circle City?’
‘Gods,’ breathed Vesna with sudden realisation. He pictured the map of the Land painted on Lesarl’s office wall. ‘They’re being drawn together?’
The Harlequin ascended the stair with a light, fluid step that Vesna recognised as very similar to Mihn’s. The notion sent a slight childish thrill down his spine. He knew Mihn had been trained as a Harlequin, that greatness had been expected of him, but the air of mystery around those masked performers reached out from his childhood to enthral him once again.
The Harlequin stopped dead when it saw them and stared at Mihn for a few moments. ‘I will not perform while that pollutes my presence,’ it said in a neutral tone.
The Harlequins’ sex was a closely guarded secret. Vesna recalled a story he’d heard once, of a drunkard who’d been determined to find out if the Harlequin entertaining his lord was female. It was probably nothing more than a tale spread to warn people off, but the story had described the loss of the drunk’s head and limbs in what the young Vesna had thought deliciously gory detail.
