An Artist's Eye (Dica Series Book 5)

by Clive S. Johnson

  “Well,” Nephril said as he sat down opposite and stared up at the ceiling. “The obvious difference be the heat I suppose. Baradcar still has a furnace of molten rock beneath it.”

  “And Leiyatel needs that heat does she?”

  “’Tis essential, aye. It be to where she drains all Nature’s detrimental chance. What enables her to send out only the beneficial to the world within her embrace.”

  Another knock at the door and this time a young woman came in.

  “Your bath is now ready, Mistress. Would you like me to show you the way?”

  Prescinda nodded and gave her thanks. About to leave the room, she paused and turned to Nephril. “And that’s how everyone within her embrace is kept preserved?”

  Nephril narrowed his eyes again. “Aye, ‘tis so.”

  “And herself I take it?”

  “Herself? Indeed, all living things of course but her especially.”

  “So, without call upon that intense heat Leiyatel herself would perish?”

  “Naturally. But why...”

  “Right. Thanks, Nephril,” she said as she closed the door behind her, seeing the maid waiting further along the corridor.

  Therefore, Prescinda reasoned, Ulbracar must, in all certainty, be devoid of its own Certain Power, Ceosana long gone from Eyesgarth.

  She joined the maid who stood at an open doorway, through which she gestured. Prescinda entered into a gently lit bathroom, the bath already full and steaming.

  “There’s a robe and some fresh clothes,” the maid told her, “and towels on the rail. Soap and the like are on the shelf beside the bath. Should you need anything else, Mistress, then please just pull the cord above it and I’ll attend.” She bowed her head. “Please enjoy your soak, Mistress Prescinda,” and withdrew, closing the door behind her.

  The water proved almost too hot, but once in, quite invigorating. She lay back and closed her eyes, feeling her bones slowly warm. Heat, she thought again, the need of all life be it man or Certain Power.

  Her eyes shot open, bathwater slopping over the side. “It has to be. That’s what Breadgrinder was up to, finding out if the place was hot or cold. So, why’s the steward so interested in knowing if another Certain Power could still be there? More to the point, was Breadgrinder going to be taking bad or good news back to his master?”

  She slid under the water and ran her fingers through her hair, trying to untangle it. She needed soap and so surfaced, eyes still closed, and felt along the shelf where she’d seen a cake.

  “Either way,” she told herself, “I’m still no closer to knowing what he’s really up to.”

  She was soon lathering her hair but stopped when she thought of Falmeard. She hoped he was safe, and then wondered where he was now.

  “Nephril’s right, though,” she had to admit to herself. “Without we know more about the steward, we’ll be at a loss as to what to do. I just hope Nephril finds out something soon, something useful, otherwise we’ll be well and truly stumped.”

  She sank down into the bath and rinsed her hair until coming up and resting her head against the end of the bath. Her bones now seemed to have dissolved in the heat.

  She’d only closed her eyes for a moment, but that moment somehow persisted. It took with it the gurgling and hissing sounds of the bathroom’s pipework, and the hollow drip of the tap, as her mind finally floated away, adrift upon sleep’s own still waters.

  53 In Sepia and Brown

  For a moment, Prescinda couldn’t remember where she was. Utter darkness engulfed her, but the soft sheets about her warm body brought back the wonderful memory of having finally slipped into bed. A far better place to sleep than the bath, she recalled, where a mouthful of tepid water had abruptly awoken her, spluttering and coughing.

  What time is it? she wondered. Unfortunately, her room had no tell-tale window, nor could she see in the darkness the clock she knew to be on the wall.

  Unusually, her hand felt no chill when she reached from beneath the bedclothes, her fingers searching for the strange lamp she’d doused before falling asleep. She brushed something on the bedside table, though, which fell to the floor. A further reach and a warm amber glow at last lit the room.

  When she peered over the edge of the bed, she saw her late mother’s bracelet lying unharmed on the floor. Squeezing it back onto her wrist, she looked up to see the clock now said half past four.

  Which half past four, though?

  Somehow now wide awake, she was soon out of bed, dressed and taking a peek into the corridor. It held only a gentle light and the incessant hum of Galgaverre.

  Padding to the main chamber, she found little different there. Clearly it was half past four in the morning and was about to return to her room when she heard a loud fart rattle out, a long sigh in its wake.

  “Nephril? Is that you?”

  “Prescinda?” he called back from somewhere much further into the chamber. The scrape of a chair came down to her from the library above.

  He met her part way down its steps, his face aglow.

  “Glad I am that thou art awake,” he said. “Come and have a look at what I have found,” at which he turned tail, and with a spring in his step, raced back up the steps.

  The library’s musty, warm and mellow smell struck her first, surprisingly reassuring. The room’s unexpected size, though, pushed all thought of old men’s habits from her mind and shocked her anew into staring.

  From the balcony on which she now stood, she could see down long aisles of dimly lit, dark-wooden shelves, crammed and stacked with all manner of books. Obscuring the walls at the far end of each, piles of boxes spilled their literary contents onto an already cluttered floor.

  “Here, come and look at this, Prescinda,” Nephril enthused, beckoning with an insistent finger. His other hand firmly patted the seat of a chair, drawn up beside his own at a desk.

  Clutter also covered the desktop, on top of which lay a large tome, its open pages yellowed almost to brown. Thin, wedge-shaped metal rods had been placed on it to underline various bits of text, but it was the large, ornate lettering at the head of the page that drew Prescinda’s gaze. Despite the script’s unfamiliar hand, as she sat down a recognisable name leapt out at her.

  Defeasance Perniman tar

  Graanter af Corrody

  betweon

  Noble Folc Mudark &

  Noble Folc Styblower

  “You know I can’t read the old tongue, Nephril. So, what’s it about?”

  “This, mine dear Prescinda, be our glimmer of light in the swilling darkness of our ignorance. We have before us a court-leet register, a very early form of judicial record.”

  “You mean a royal document?”

  “Nay, well before High Dicans first reckoned they should enrich the realm with their royal line. No, this be a copy of a baron’s court ruling, made in the presence of witnesses.”

  “A ruling? On what?”

  “A defeasance,” Nephril told her as he pointed to the first word, “is an annulment of an earlier ruling, in this case a Graanter af Corrody.”

  “A what?” and Prescinda couldn’t help but laugh.

  “A corrody was an allowance, oft made in reparation of a slight, or even actual damage or harm. In this case, however,” and he pointed to the text above one of the metal bars and read aloud, “en reparten af boklos disfama machened undtar en af der secgan Noble Folc Mudark.”

  “Which means?”

  “Err, well now, let me see, yes, in reparation of libellous defamation,” mine dear, “libellous defamation made unto and of the said Noble Family Mudark,” and he grinned, triumphantly.

  “So,” Prescinda said, leaning closer to the text, as though it would then gain more meaning, “this document cancels a previous award of damages. For what, though? Libel? Is that what you said?”

  “Ha. Thou art quick, even in the early hours of the day,” and a broad smile broke across his face. “See here,” he said, pointing to another metal rod.

>   Prescinda haltingly tried to read aloud what it underlined. “Thet aeghwilc esligieres af dalier eyn sire af nahthabban stirpes bweyn stricanen,” but gave up and turned to stare at Nephril. “Well?”

  His mouth trembled against the thin line he’d made of it, a hint of a grin escaping as he turned back to the text. “That all allegations of dalliance, in sire of improper stirp, be struck from all records, and so on, and so on.”

  Nephril’s expectancy now overpowered her, and so she tried again to make sense of it. Finally, she asked, “What are stirpes?”

  “Stirpes? Ah, well. Stirp be the trueness of an inherited line. True blood so to speak.”

  “And dalliance in sire I take to be the usual weakness of men, that an ancestor of the steward’s had an interest aside from his wife?”

  “Something of the kind,” Nephril allowed, “although I suspect somehow not quite a run-of-the-mill kind of dalliance.”

  “Eh?”

  “Think, mine quick-witted friend. Think to whom this document pertains, and what we have always assumed about our own Melkin Mudark. Well?”

  She still couldn’t see what he was driving at.

  “This document,” he said, almost lovingly caressing its vellum face, “be a ruling of a High Dican court. Yes? Upon two High Dican families.”

  “Ah, of course. Obvious when you put it that way. It only makes the riddle worse, though, Nephril. Doesn’t it? How can a Bazarran like Melkin Mudark have High Dican ancestors? It doesn’t make sense.”

  “But it dost if thou accept Steward Melkin Mudark be no Bazarran.”

  “He’s ... you’re saying he’s a High Dican?”

  “Of a long forgotten and, I suspect, a long reclusive family. I for one have never heard the name Mudark afore but here it be, in sepia and brown,” at which he tapped the ancient tome.

  Prescinda could only knit her brow at first, staring beyond the text. Something was missing, she realised, some piece of the jigsaw they’d yet to find.

  “How does a High Dican from a noble family get to become steward of Bazarral? Eh, Nephril? It doesn’t sound possible.”

  “Indeed not. I must agree. Fortunately, however, I have some of mine own records stored here, one of which be a more recent volume of Land Rights.” When Prescinda looked no more enlightened, he added, “All noble families have land otherwise they be not noble at all.”

  “And you think you’ll find the Mudarks there?”

  “Not think, mine dear, but know. I have already looked them up.”

  “So, what did you find?”

  Nephril’s eyes seemed to sparkle, his grin trying hard to hide a genuine love for his able assistant, a pride and a joy. He gently stroked her cheek, tilting his head to one side.

  “I think thou art in need of some fresh air, mine cherished one,” he said. “Thou art looking somewhat peaky today. A rosy hue far better becomes thee.”

  “Oh dear. Where are we going this time, Nephril? You have that look again, the one I should have long ago learned not to trust.”

  He removed his hand and leant away, feigning indignation. “O thee of little faith. Dost thou truly suspect me of wishing der greafen en der graften upon thee?”

  She only stared at him and waited.

  “I would have thought a spirited lass like thee would find naught but enjoyment in a nice ride out in the country.”

  “The country?”

  “Yesterday, Prescinda, I did ask Layostler to arrange for mine old carriage to be brought hither. I knew not then where we might be bound, but I do now.”

  “I have a horrible sinking feeling, Nephril. Do you know that?”

  “Nay, lass. Fret thee not. What could possibly go amiss on a wealcan ride into the Vale of Plenty, eh? Out to its furthest corner perchance? To enjoy the picturesque River Braithgang, where it dost so dramatically issue forth from the mighty forest-enshrouded foothills of Strawbac.”

  “You make it sound so wonderful, Nephril, you really do, which worries me. What worries me the most, though, is that you know I’ll agree.”

  “Ha! Tut-tut-tut,” and he affectionately patted her cheek, that damned twinkle once more rising beguilingly in his old, grey eyes.

  54 Hawesdale

  The rush of air through Prescinda’s hair felt liberating now Nephril had finally got the hang of the wealcan again and she could begin to relax. He no longer had problems staying between the kerbs of the Lost Northern Way, but passing oncoming stoom-wagons still made her nervous.

  Nephril had seemed more concerned about the state of their mount than his own rusty skills. The wealcan had certainly suffered neglect; its stay in the Viewing Gallery at the Scarra Face had not been at all kind to it. There were dints and scratches, ones the Galgaverran who’d recovered it insisted weren’t his doing.

  Even its stash of popig had gone missing, Nephril bemoaned. Prescinda had bitten her tongue at that, remembering Falmeard’s kind offer to recover the stuff as pain relief for her father before he’d died the previous year.

  “Time was when people could leave things anywhere without having to worry about it being stolen,” he’d shouted against the wind, from his driving seat behind her. “I do not know what the world be acoming to, Prescinda, I really do not.”

  Since leaving the castle, midmorning sunlight had slanted across the road, the threat of rain having slunk off towards the Sea of the Dead Sun. It didn’t yet feel warm but the brightness cheered Prescinda.

  It helped relieve the disappointment she’d felt when they’d turned off Eastern Walk and had seen no sign of Falmeard plodding his way towards them. Full circle, she’d thought, back to where he’d led them through their reluctance to go any further, not that many days ago.

  Soon heading north, the Lost Northern Way cut a straight line across the Vale of Plenty, gently rising and falling with the lie of the land. Mostly lined with ancient trees and hedgerows, little could be seen of the fields to either side.

  Ahead, beyond the fast rolling slap of the wealcan’s leather belt, the road clearly pointed them towards the Forest of Belforas. Its long, sweeping spread climbed the gentle rise of the foothills of Strawbac, a lush green band becoming bluer with each further hill’s rise.

  Here and there, regular and sharply defined bald patches pocked its ancient face, marks of the incessant appetite Dica now had for wood.

  The wealcan had reached a little over half way across the vale when Nephril slowed it and turned left into a narrow lane. They pressed on beneath overarching trees, the lane’s gentle amble beside streams and becks forcing an unhurried pace. It gave them time to delight in the close smell of wild garlic and honeysuckle.

  Occasionally, through the trees, Prescinda caught sight of tidy farm estates which made her wonder. “Do other noble families have their homes out here in the vale, Nephril?”

  “A few but not many. Those who prefer it to the Lords Demesne live further south, towards the Eyeswin. So they can be nearer the Royal Court, not that it matters much these days.”

  “So the Mudarks really did choose to live well out of the way?”

  A family of ducks waddled their way across the lane ahead, briefly stopping to loiter at its crown. Nephril therefore brought the wealcan to a halt.

  “There be nowhere quite as remote as where we are bound today, Prescinda, which does makes me wonder. There must be more to the Mudark’s predicament, more than just an ancestor’s one-eyed wanderer. After all, having issue from other than one’s own noble wife be not uncommon. Many a family have bastard leaves upon the branches of their tree.”

  The ducks had moved on by now so Nephril continued their sedate drive along the lane’s sunlight-mottled meander. Slowly but steadily they followed the sun’s celestial arch towards the west. Each hour, though, saw them pass far fewer folk about their daily chores.

  Come midday, the lane having climbed a shallow rise, they caught sight of the Forest of Belforas once more. Nestled against its hem, where its ancient reach drove south into the vale i
tself, fields of waving barley spread a patchwork quilt.

  The vale rolled on still, like the gentle swell of a settled sea, but now seemed higher somehow, not as close, the air less heavy beneath the noonday sun. A breeze hushed through the trees, bringing with it a faint hint from the west of salt and seaweed.

  They’d passed many a minor junction but now came to a split, both choices looking equally well-used. Nephril again brought them to a halt but this time only stared silently down each lane in turn.

  “Anything wrong?” Prescinda ventured, but Nephril was clearly lost in thought. The right-hand option, she noticed, appeared to turn and rise northwards towards the forest whereas the other dipped away into a shallow, tree-filled clough.

  “The Land Registry plan,” Nephril finally said, “did not show this fork. Of that I am quite sure.”

  “When was it drawn up, though, Nephril?”

  “When? Oh, err, well, perhaps three or four hundred years ago, not that I remember its date exactly.”

  “Then we go right, Nephril. Clearly.”

  “Right? How canst thou be so sure?”

  “I know my history well enough to know that Ufflangcoss would’ve been long deserted when your plan was drawn up, and my geography’s good enough to tell me that the place itself lies to the southwest of us.”

  When she turned at his silence, his stumped look made her smile.

  “The lane to the left, Nephril,” she explained, as though to a child, “must have come about more recently. Mustn’t it? To get produce down to the port’s new quays.”

  When Nephril still looked lost, she added, “So, the original way, the one marked on your plan, must be the one to the right.”

  “Ah. Of course. How astute of thee,” at which, clearly embarrassed, he stirred the wealcan and pushed them on down the right-hand branch.

  It took them towards the forest for a while but then turned sharply west, downhill towards the valley in which the Braithgang flowed. Their first sight of the mighty river soon appeared in the distance, its glittering volume cascading from a high cliff top along which the edge of the forest ran. There, the Braithgang spouted from its narrow cut, arcing out and falling clear of the sheer cliff face below.