The Light of Heaven tok-3

by David A. McIntee

  In the stem of the tower, four wide staircases with marble banisters wound around and through each other in an eye-straining helix, and Batsen immediately saw the two men again on the opposite side of the central shaft, a little lower down. Satisfied, he reached out with his mind, and spread the fingers of his hands, drawing on the threads to bend the light around him so that no-one would see him leap across the central shaft. Thickening the air below him so he would travel further without falling, Batsen landed, catlike, on his feet three steps behind the two men.

  Batsen's elbow slammed into the back of the older man's head, just behind the ear, and he started to sag. Even before the second man, or anyone else traversing the stairs, could turn to look, Batsen had grasped the banister and let the elemental magic flow into it. The section next to the crumpling old sailor shattered into fragments just in time to allow him to topple through it. There were several screams, but only one ended with a wet slapping sound far below.

  The nearest people looked down into the central shaft, gesturing and exclaiming wildly. They all seemed to be assuming it was an accident; a terrible shame that a piece of marble must have had a crack in it. Only the second man was looking around, his thin face pale, and limp blonde hair flying, and Batsen knew that the man was looking for him. Batsen marched forward, planting a hand on the startled man's chest and walking him back into an alcove behind a statue of one of Miramas' most famous playwrights.

  "Hand it over," Batsen ordered.

  "They'll see you! You'll never get away."

  "All they see is an entertaining accident that's giving them a better thrill than anything on stage. Now, hand over the scroll. I won't ask again, and I will be leaving with it."

  The man raised his head, looking haughtily at Batsen. "You've made a great mistake, heretic. You have no idea who you're dealing with!"

  "I'm dealing with a minor functionary of the Final Faith and, I might add, one who seems far too reluctant to become one with his god."

  The man swallowed. "If I do — ?"

  The unasked question was obvious to Batsen. Would he spare the man?

  "Your journey to Kerberos will be quick and painless."

  Batsen held his hand out. The man was foolish; he grabbed Batsen's wrist and twisted it, shoving the assassin aside. He never made it out of the alcove, as the statue suddenly turned, under Batsen's control, pinning him to the wall with enough force that Batsen heard ribs crack. Batsen slipped a hand under the statue's arm, extracting a tight bundle of scrolls from a poacher's pocket hidden in the folds of the man's tunic. "

  "You'll burn for this!" the man hissed.

  "You first," Batsen promised.

  In the folds of the man's tunic tongues of flame started to take hold.

  The man twisted, still pinned by the statue, trying to beat out the fire. The flames spread rapidly, consuming flesh and bone. More screams could be heard from up and down the staircases, as people saw the flames and heard the tortured screaming of the burning man.

  Batsen had already crossed to the central shaft in three long steps, and stepped off into thin air. Rather than cloak himself from view, he concentrated on the threads of elemental magic, drawing up the air itself to thicken beneath him and slow his descent. The uprush of air also had the effect of blasting aside the corpse and the people surrounding it. While they struggled to stay upright, as if trying to walk into a hurricane, Batsen touched down and set off, running as easily as if he had simply jumped down from the back of a cart.

  In seconds he was out into the wide open streets of Miramas and slowed his pace, walking briskly out from under the shelter of the theatre and into the sun a few hundred yards away.

  He didn't run, knowing that would attract the Miramas guard but simply passed calmly into a market square.

  As he passed through an archway, he removed the brown wig from his shaved head, and dropped it into the gutter, igniting it with little more than a passing thought. A moment later, he recovered the black tabard and grey cloak he had secreted behind a water-butt and pulled them on. The average, brown-haired, pastel-clad theatre-goer was gone, as if no such person had ever set foot in Miramas.

  Satisfied that all had gone well, Batsen made his way to a tavern, where many people were taking shelter from the blazing summer sun. He went to a corner table and sat beside a tall man, who hid his warrior's build under shabby clothes. His golden hair was braided, his features hard and angular.

  "It's done," Batsen said simply.

  "The documents they were carrying?" Batsen passed him the scrolls under the table, and the blonde man gave them a cursory glance. "Have you read them?"

  "You know me better than that, Kell. I've no interest in them, beyond ensuring they are indeed the documents you engaged me to recover, and I've no desire to suddenly be counted as one who knows too much."

  Kell smiled. "I knew I could count on your discretion. The payment will be made in the usual manner."

  Batsen hadn't expected anything else, though he had, of course, been prepared. "Is there anything else I can do for you?"

  "Probably. But not today."

  Batsen rose, no longer interested in spending any more time in Miramas. "Then you know how to contact me." He slipped out of the tavern, and was out of the city within the hour.

  When the assassin had gone, Goran Kell took a few minutes to finish his ale, just in case anyone was watching; he didn't want to be seen leaving at the same time as Batsen. When he did rise, he gave a barely-perceptible nod to a swarthy man propping up the bar. This man, who wore loose green and blue clothing, and had his black hair tied up in a topknot held with a gold ring, followed Kell out.

  They walked a short distance in silence, then entered a coaching inn and went upstairs to the small room that Kell had rented for a Tenday. It was directly over the kitchen, and the smells of cooking vied for attention with the less savoury smells from the stables next door.

  Safely inside, Kell changed his tunic and shirt, just in case anyone had spotted them in the inn and was looking out for them as a way to recognise him. There was a tattoo over his heart, showing two linked circles.

  Once changed, Kell began unrolling the scrolls with delight. The ones tied up in an oilcloth were the ones he was most curious to see, but he glanced through the others very quickly beforehand. Most of them were uninteresting reports on the appointment of Faith officials to various positions in three Pontaine cities. The Faith didn't have anything like as large a presence in Pontaine as it did in the Empire of Vos but the cathedral and adjacent abbey in Andon formed the religion's main centre of operations in the nation. There were only two other Faith cathedrals in the whole of Pontaine; one in Gargas, and one in Volonne.

  Once he started reading the scrolls, he found that he couldn't stop. It was as if he was spellbound. The swarthy man, sitting by the window, coughed to get Kell's attention.

  "Are you all right, sir?" he asked.

  "More than all right, Chaga," Kell said, a grin sweeping over his features. "Far more than all right. This isn't just the usual Faith paperwork, old friend. This is…" He fell silent.

  "Something more interesting?"

  Kell thought for a moment, seeking the right term. "This is such an important thing for our Brothers, but that means it's also going to lead to a lot of hard work. It's time to move on. The Faith may not be as endemic here as they are in the Empire, but when they realise a courier has gone missing they'll find someone to come and look for him."

  "I'll get the horses seen to." Chaga said. Kell gave an approving nod, and began to roll the scrolls back up. "What about Scarra?"

  "Scarra?"

  "Are you going to bring him in on this?"

  Kell barked a mirthless laugh. "Scarra has his uses, but he also has his problems. That big mouth doesn't just let too much food and wine in; it talks too much as well. The less he knows about this, the happier I'll be, and the more I can trust him. Still…"

  "Yes?"

  "There are arrangements tha
t must be made, old friend. Things must be set into motion. I'll tell you what this is, Chaga," he said gesturing to the scrolls. "It's freedom.

  "Freedom, for all our Brothers."

  CHAPTER 1

  Half a year after Kell had met Batsen in Miramas, ashen flakes fell from clouds the colour of old bathwater, and gathered at the feet of walls throughout the grey Vos city of Kalten. In summer, the greens of leaves and bushes had clashed brightly with the rocky coastline, but now the winter storms came in and drenched the cold granite on which the castle stood.

  Castle Kalten overlooked the river mouth and the sea beyond. It was almost crescent shaped, as much carved out of the rocky promontory as built upon it. From the esplanade, which doubled as a market square, the castle's curtain wall looked wide and squat, seeming much less high than it really was. Narrow wooden tenements encrusted with sea salt huddled together on South Cliff's rocky terraced steps down to the river mouth. Rickety jetties meandered out across sandbanks from their lower levels. On the North Cliff, taverns and merchants' holdings clustered around the esplanade in front of the castle.

  Five travellers in thick winter cloaks strode briskly along a narrow street leading to the esplanade, almost running down anyone who didn't get out of their way in time. Few others were in the street as the bells tolled the changeover from the Hour of Walkers to the Hour of Smoke. Four of the hooded heads turned back and forth, scanning the men and women around them, but the centre man's unseen eyes kept to the front.

  The citizens in the street gave the group a wide berth, trying not to look at them when the weapons and armour under their cloaks clanked and rattled. The group made directly for the castle gatehouse, where two soldiers in mail, wearing the Ducal crest of Kalten in addition to the stylised Vos eagles on their red surplices, emerged to meet them. The leading cloaked figure handed one of the guards a scroll bearing a wax seal. The guard immediately saluted, and allowed the five men inside.

  Once within the castle, the travellers lowered their hoods. Four of them wore highly polished helmets, with a T-shaped opening for their eyes, nose and mouth. The fifth man had only neatly-combed jet-black hair on his head. His pale blue eyes and thin-lipped mouth remained as expressionless as any steel helmet. Several pages met them at a further interior door, and took their travelling cloaks. While the four escorts wore mail over thick gambesons, and sleeveless white surplices with a crossed circle on the chest, the black-haired man wore expensive robes of deep blue. Golden thread was woven around the hem and sleeves, and the same crossed circle hung in silver from a chain around his neck.

  While the armoured guards took up sentry positions, another page led the man in blue up a spiral staircase, and showed him into a room that was lavishly appointed. Murals of ships were painted on the plaster walls, while colourful tapestries gave the room a cheerful warmth. A fire burned in an impressive stone fireplace. Bread, cheese, fruits and meat were spread on platters spread across a long dark table, interspersed with pewter tankards and goblets.

  There were three other people in the room already, wearing similar blue robes and crossed-circle pendants. The two men were in the middle of some discussion, but they stopped when he entered.

  "Eminence Kesar," the sole woman in the room said.

  Elena Fehr would have been attractive if her expression wasn't one of cold detachment. Her black hair was cut short and the upturned tip of her nose took a few years off her which the crinkles at the corners of her eyes added back on.

  She raised a goblet. "Your health, Eminence Kesar."

  Rodrigo Kesar nodded in return. "Well," he said pleasantly, "I'm sorry to have kept you all waiting. He began helping himself to food. "Suffice it to say the weather hasn't been getting any better."

  Jan Voivode turned his large and watery eyes on them. He was the oldest person in the room. The waves of his hair now flowed as much with silver as the copper that had burnished it in his youth.

  "You should, perhaps, have come by carriage," he suggested. "At least that would have brought you all the way into the castle."

  Kesar merely smiled. "The journey down from Oweilau is quicker by ship. Or at least it usually is." He took his platter and moved to a window, opening a wooden shutter to look out over the courtyard. "Four Eminences to witness a single wedding. Interesting."

  "Freihurr vom Kalten is an important man," Ludwig Rhodon said, all business-like. "For a secular noble," he added quickly.

  Rhodon's hair was whiter than Voivoide's, having been born albino. Somehow the white suited his almost baby-faced appearance. "It is only proper for the Final Faith to acknowledge his standing."

  "And for the Duke to acknowledge ours," Fehr added.

  "Which he has done, by inviting representatives of the Collegiate of Eminences." Rhodon, ever fastidious, dabbed at the corner of his mouth to remove a crumb. "I hadn't expected a marriage to take place at this time of year though, to be honest."

  "People get married at all times of the year," Voivode said with a shrug.

  Fehr shook her head, smiling. "Not Dukes and royalty, or their families. A summer celebration is more usual."

  "And would be, shall we say, a little too late." Kesar said.

  "Too late?" Voivode echoed.

  Fehr merely nodded to herself.

  Kesar glanced briefly around. "By summer the blushing bride's condition will be far too obvious for either family to make political capital out of it. After today, it will mean good news in the spring — a happy cementing of an alliance — but a summer wedding would be an all-round embarrassment."

  "And none of us want that." Rhodon said.

  "Our blessing is a sign to other nobles that Freihurr is an important man in the eyes of God as well as in the aristocracy," Kesar mused. "Perhaps he has some plans to expand his influence and the backing of the Final Faith will certainly help him make any proposed advancement stick."

  Fehr scowled. "I'm not sure the Anointed Lord would be so approving of a bride in this condition."

  "Indeed not, but at the same time she recognises that Kalten is loyal and important, so this compromise suits both sides. With the wedding being earlier, we can attend and not have to make public our disapproval of a staunch ally." Kesar locked gazes with Fehr. "Unless you're suggesting that you wish to withdraw?"

  "I never said that."

  "I'm certainly not withdrawing," Ludwig Rhodon said. "A winter wedding allows us all to appear at our best, and the alliance between Kalten and the Duchy of Malmkrug is a positive one, should we need to call on the western cities for anything."

  Voivode nodded. "A strengthening of our alliances can only be a good thing."

  "I suppose you're right," Fehr agreed. "But the tacit agreement to these… laxer morals troubles me. And it troubles the Anointed Lord."

  "Are you claiming to speak for her?" Kesar asked.

  Fehr flushed slightly. "Not at all, but her beliefs on such matters are well known."

  "I know she's concerned with that which gets between Man and God. I don't believe a child does that, do you?"

  "The pursuit of pleasures of the flesh does." Fehr snorted. "Still, everything is set, and the Anointed Lord has given her blessing, so I will give mine."

  Rhodon and Voivoide exchanged relieved glances, while Kesar's features remained bland. As their meeting broke up, he remained where he was, keeping that bland expression; it had taken him many years to perfect it, and it was too useful a weapon to leave unused.

  Kesar didn't relax until he was alone in the room, then he smiled. Tomorrow would prove to be an interesting day.

  The shooting cell was cramped, but it was well hidden, and that was the most important thing to the man inside. A person could stand right outside the base of the tower and look straight up at it, and see nothing but stone and wood, with no sign of the opening that looked out at the Esplanade. To see the opening, an observer would have to be a magician, hovering at least twenty feet in the air.

  The shooting position itself was a bare
two feet high, forcing him to lie flat, with a small loophole giving a good field of vision. Thankfully there was a small cubby-hole behind it, just large enough to stand up in and stretch. He made sure to do this at least once an hour during wakefulness. He knew better than to let himself become cramped or numb and so miss the shot when the time came.

  He had placed a covered chamber pot and a knapsack of provisions in the cubby hole. He also had a bucket of earth next to the chamber pot, to hide the smell with. It would be embarrassing, as well as fatal, to be discovered because of an out-of-place stink. He had spent one night sleeping in the cell already, and there would be another before his chance would come. He had known that when he first entered the cell, but the timing had felt right. It was better to already be in position, waiting, than to try to slip in when the target was already on the way.

  The cell granted a good view of the esplanade that fronted the castle, a blank white expanse with a cliff face to the right, and tradesmen's stalls and shops in a descending terrace to the left. Despite the chill weather, there were people on the streets below. Most were tradesmen going about their business, or hawkers selling their wares to sailors and fishermen selling the day's catch. A dog stood out stark black against the snow and a cart rumbled out of the castle.

  The assassin had a keen eye, and was confident that he could put an iron-tipped bolt through the chest of anyone in the esplanade below. But he was after one target, and one only. Besides, some of the people below were there to confuse and confound any pursuers while he escaped and he didn't know who they were. They didn't know him, he didn't know them. It was safer for all of them that way.

  The man in the cell smiled and aimed his crossbow at a couple standing near the dog. The woman was pretty enough, the man not sufficiently handsome for her, in the shooter's opinion. The man looked on his woman proudly, as if he wanted any observer to see what a catch he had made. Then, for an instant, he looked up at the clouds, and his throat was an inviting target. He would never see his death coming. However, the man in the shooting cell settled for cocking a finger at him instead.