I shook myself. Deliberately, I hunched my back and pulled the cloak over my head in approved Gilman style. It stayed. I hobbled a few steps, and looked back. Calla was still standing there, amazement showing through the filth and wrinkles on her face. "Call me Tig," I cackled, in a very old voice.
* * *
9
WE TALKED, CALLA and some of the council and I, late into that night. Calla was unnaturally quiet—I suppose I had either impressed her or frightened the britches off her beside Oballef's Fountain. Whichever it was, the few words she said were helpful rather than hectoring, and she watched me much of the time with a meditative look on her face. Bekri, who was sharing his sofa with Jebri, the Second Flamen, seemed encouraged by her report.
"My lord Tigrallef," he said after Calla finished speaking, "I congratulate you. You've not only survived three days in Gil, which is half a day longer than the best of your forebears, but you seem to be making progress."
"Yes, well, thanks," I said apprehensively. In my experience, praise from a Flamen was usually a prelude to something less pleasant.
But Bekri only signalled to Jebri to pour me out a beaker of wine. "Have you any questions about what you saw?" he asked.
"Oh yes, quite a few." I hesitated, putting my thoughts in order. "Calla's transactions in the marketplace—I had a strong feeling there was more to them than would show to, say, any Sherkin spy who happened to be around. Am I right?"
There was a small stir among the other Flamens, but Bekri simply gestured for me to go on. I took a gulp of wine.
"First, I think messages were being passed: the alms that Calla threw to her cousin the beggar; and I suspect the maggot seller and the shull merchant were also more than they seemed."
"That's correct," said Bekri. "Information, orders and small items of contraband were being passed both ways, in the goods and in Calla's payment. What else?"
I drew a deep breath. "I think the surliness of all the business in the market is a blind. Whatever is said aloud, the real conversations happen like this." I moved my fingers in a small-scale version of the Gil gesture of greeting, followed by a polite enquiry as to the Revered Flamen's health. Bekri smiled—I had less trouble reading his face now—and answered in similar fashion that he was quite well, thank you very much, and how was I? Then he laughed out loud, and leaned forward to slap me on the back. "What was it you said, Hawelli? That perhaps the Scion has hidden talents? So you have, my lord. You have eyes and brains, and know how to use them."
"The Flamens-in-Exile would be very surprised to hear that, Revered Bekri."
"And what do they know? How many Scions have they sent to their deaths? Just think, my lord Tigrallef, they very nearly didn't send you!"
"Yes," I agreed dolefully, "just think of that."
Hawelli had been prowling the council chamber restlessly throughout this exchange; now he strode into the centre of the circle. He could be only a few years older than I, but he was built like a hungrier version of Arkolef; clean and in the garb of a Flamen, he was so physically impressive that I wondered how even Mysheba could disguise him for the street. His chiselled face was dark with hostility.
"So Lord Tigrallef can recognize fingerspeech when it's right in front of his nose. So what? Are we training him for a career as a shull merchant?"
"Hawelli—" Bekri began, but the younger Flamen cut him off.
"You're all fools," he said contemptuously. Calla's face, caught in the corner of my eye, became watchful. "Look at him! A weakling, a bumbler, a memorian, by the balls of Oballef. Less street-sense than the newest Gilborn baby, yet you tell him the secrets of the Web, and propose to send him off to the Gilgard to hunt for that damned pinchbeck figurine, like all the fools before him. Why don't you simply deck him out as a sacrifice and send him straight to Lord Kekashr?"
There was a general gasp at Hawelli's blasphemies. A few Flamens, including Jebri, jumped angrily to their feet, but Bekri raised his voice in a sharp call for order. When all had reluctantly seated themselves bar Hawelli, who remained defiantly upright, Bekri turned to me.
"Hawelli is our resident hot-head, my lord Scion. Are you surprised that he wears the green robe of a Flamen?"
"Well, yes," I murmured, conscious of Hawelli's hostile eyes.
"He is qualified, and he chooses to wear it. We've learned to live with his unbelief."
"You need me, old Bekri," Hawelli broke in bitterly. "The time will come when you realize how much."
Bekri continued to ignore him and to address himself to me. "Our brother Flamen believes the quest for the Lady is a fool's chase—that even if she were found, and by a Scion, she would be useless against the Sherank."
"Legends," Hawelli growled. "There is no magic, there never was. The Lady would be no more potent than those toys the jugglers used to throw about in the marketplace, before they were all sent to the salt-pans in Sher."
A furious hubbub of voices broke out, but I jumped up and motioned for silence before I realized what I was doing. To my great surprise, everybody shut up, even Hawelli. I had a moment of panic. I was not used to being heard—for twenty-three years I had never expressed myself on any issue more controversial than a new cataloguing system for the archives. In the dead silence, I cleared my throat.
"Thank you," I said. "Hawelli Flamen, I gather you don't believe in the power of the Lady in Gil."
"It's a gutload of superstitious nonsense—my lord," he added insolently. "My brothers in the Web despise the Flamens-in-Exile for their blind trust in the old ways, but aren't the Flamens-in-Gil just as bad? Look at them! Waiting on their arses for seventy years for a miracle that will never happen—pinning their hopes on a bauble that, for all they know, was melted down for its gold content decades ago. Magic!" he spat, "there is no magic in this world but the edge of a good blade."
"Ah," I said happily, "you're what we memorians would call a militant corporealist. How very interesting. However, I think you're wrong. There are four great validated magics in the world, and the Lady in Gil is by far the greatest and best-documented, and the only all-purpose one. I see no reason to doubt that she'll do the job. Then there're the Healing Bones of Medioch, of course, and the Zelfic Crystal, and—"
"Stop!" he thundered. I shut my mouth and looked at him enquiringly. From the look on his face, I inferred he was not interested in academic discourse. I sighed.
"What's your idea, then?" I asked.
He stepped closer and bent his head down to mine. "We must fight, my lord Tigrallef," he said fiercely. "We must rise up, the Web leading the rest, and slit the throat of every shull-arsed Sherkin on the island. We have the manpower, all we need is the will!"
"How about the weapons?"
"What?"
"Weapons. You know, swords, knives, flame-slings—"
"Yes, yes, I know. Of course we need weapons, but that's where you come in, Lord of Gil."
"Me?"
"Yes!" He was excited now, his handsome features alive. "You're the first link with Exile that hasn't walked straight off the boat into the jaws of the Sherank. Go back to Exile, my lord Tigrallef—tell them about the Web. Bring us back the weapons we need, and join us in the uprising." He stepped forward, I stepped back. His eyes were little flames of bloodthirsty zeal, burning into mine. I cleared my throat again.
"Yes, well, a most interesting idea, Hawelli Flamen. I especially liked the first part, where I go back to Exile. But it wouldn't work."
His face darkened again. "Why not?"
"Well, first of all, the Flamens-in-Exile are rather set in their ways, as you may have noticed. I might persuade the other Scions to join ranks with me, but without an actual Priest-King we have little say in what happens."
He muttered something involving the word "feeble." I ignored him and went on. "Then there are the difficulties of smuggling back enough weapons to make a difference. You know very well how tightly the Sherank have the island sewn into a sack—why, it's a chancy business landing one little Scion
every few years, let alone a boatload of weaponry. And even if we could launch an armada from the Archipelago, fight our way past the Sherkin patrol boats and help you to overcome the garrison, there would still be the real problem."
"And what's that, Lord of Gil?" His voice was heavy with contempt.
"Sher itself. Do you have any idea what would happen if Gil did rebel successfully, with the world as it is? I can tell you exactly: the warlords in Iklankish would send a thumping great punitive force to retake the island, and our sufferings would double on the instant."
"Not if we showed them we will no longer wear their yoke!"
I sighed. "Don't be stupid, Flamen. Do you know how strong they are? They're the most powerful empire to rise on earth since the fall of Fathan. The League of Free Nations can only just hold them to the treaty. And they'll never free us if they can avoid it—Gil is their showplace, their greatest prize. They'll punish Gil for ever for how wonderful it used to be."
There was applause from Bekri's direction, a rapid snapping of fingers. Hawelli and I jumped; I think both of us had forgotten that others were present. Bekri leaned back on the sofa, his own strange version of a smile broadening across his face.
"I like you more and more, Scion," he said. "I'm afraid Hawelli lacks that wider view. Tell me, do you really want to go back to Exile?"
I thought about it. "Oh yes," I said, "but I can't."
"Why not?"
"I've been sent here to do something." I thought of the Great Garden, superimposing Marori's lush, lyrical paintings on the dreary midden of the marketplace; of a child like Callefiya's child, covered with running sores and shivering with fear; of Calla—why in Oballef's name was I thinking of Calla? I glanced at her, and saw she was watching Hawelli with a deep frown creasing her forehead. "That is to say," I finished, "I have a mission to carry out."
"Then you're as stupid as you look, Lord of Gil," said Hawelli stiffly. He turned and strode through the door, which he slammed behind him with such force that one of the tapestries slid to the floor. Calla half-rose, then settled down on her haunches again. She looked more thoughtful than ever. The Flamens, including Bekri, seemed to be waiting for me to say something.
Slowly, I gestured the blessing for the stout-hearted in the direction of the closed door. "Hawelli Flamen may play the part he desires someday," I said, also slowly. "In the meantime, honoured Flamens, Revered Bekri, I need your advice—how can I gain safe entry to the Gilgard?"
"Ah," said Bekri. "We've been working on a plan."
"Already? Oh." (Long pause.) "Good. What is it?"
"It's really quite simple. The Gilman in charge of the castle scullery is one of ours—from the Web. His name is Calvo. He can arrange a job for you within the next few days, which will get you safely inside the Gilgard; when the time is right, you can start off from the scullery using the old between-ways."
I goggled. "The scullery?"
"Yes, the scullery. As a crocker, to begin with."
"Crocker?"
"Crocker. Someone who washes dirty crockery."
"But—I don't know how. I've never washed a dish in my life."
"It isn't hard to learn, my lord, and bear in mind that it's safer than scaling a wall."
"That's a point," I said, after a short, reflective pause.
"You agree, then? Good." He settled back and looked at me steadily. "There is one more small thing: in a meeting of the council this afternoon, we agreed that you should not go alone into the Gilgard and the Caves. We want to send one of our people with you."
I hesitated. It took me a few moments to absorb the idea. In even my most hopeful imaginings I had seen myself searching for the Lady alone, carrying the burden of my heritage in the approved and traditional solitude, like all the Scions before me. Other figures had never intruded, except perhaps those of the Sherank or of Marori's terrible creatures of the dark, even though I didn't believe in them. "That's stretching our agreement a bit thinly, even for me, First Flamen," I said finally. "Accepting your help is one matter, accepting a companion is quite another."
"Is that the Heroic Code talking, my lord Tigrallef?"
"The Lady forbid," I exclaimed, insulted.
"Then why not?"
Why not indeed, except that a hero was expected to go by himself? I looked past Bekri's head to the tapestry on the wall. It showed a hero from one of the old tales, gloriously alone, waving a short sword in the face of a rippercat three times his size. In the next panel, he was standing victoriously—and rather smugly—on a mound of bleeding catflesh. No, not my style at all. "Now that I think about it, First Flamen, it's a sensible suggestion. A companion would increase my chances of surviving to find the Lady, which is the whole point of going. But how can I ask anyone to share that kind of danger?"
After a moment when nobody said anything, there was a voice from near the floor. "You don't need to ask. I'll go with you."
I turned to stare at Calla, who was picking casually at one of the fake boils on her cheek. She looked up. "With your permission, my lord," she added in the same calm voice. Suddenly and impenetrably, she grinned. I was even more bewildered. I was sure she loathed me.
"Excellent!" said Bekri. "A volunteer—and we couldn't ask for a better one. That's also agreed?" He took my stupefied silence for consent. "Corri, make sure the scullery is informed. Calvo will need a few days to set things up. Perhaps, Jebri, you could tell the Scion what he needs to know."
Jebri, old, pompous, and a bit fat for a Gilman, proceeded to talk at great length, but I was too busy puzzling over Calla to pay him much mind. As it happened, this did not matter at all. Another factor was already at work.
* * *
10
DARK EYES SHONE through a slit in the helmet, a helmet snouted like a shull, inlaid with golden traceries and toothed with gold in its snarling mouth-orifice. It towered over me, loomed closer as the rider leaned forward on his prancing, circling horse. A sword slim as a snake lashed out, caught itself in my tattered cloak, jerked me out and down, my feet sliding on the muddy cobbles. A deep voice above me: "Welcome to the Gilgard, Scion." I screamed and scrambled backwards, pulling him off the horse with his own snagged sword—the helmet tumbled, showering me with dirt that wriggled with maggots, filled my mouth, clogged my nostrils. The sword was a snake writhing to free its fangs from my cloak. It struck, deep in my belly—
I awoke, sweating. And leaned over the side of the pallet to vomit again, coughing frantically afterwards to clear my air passages. There was nothing dreamlike about the pain in my gut. It stabbed again, and I lurched urgently off the pallet to scrabble for the pisspot in the corner. A lamp appeared in the doorway and I dimly heard whispers. The lamp advanced into the room, underlighting Mysheba's motherly face.
"I've been poisoned," I moaned from my strategic position on the pot.
She put the lamp down and felt my forehead. "Feverish," she muttered. Then to me she said, "Not poisoned, my lord Tigrallef. Just a touch of the Gil-gut fever. We should have expected it—why, even the Sherank get it when they first arrive, or so we're told."
"How about the other Scions?" I asked through gritted teeth.
"Who knows? None of them survived long enough to find out. Anyway, there's nothing to worry about. We know just how to deal with the old Gil-gut."
A healing Flamen named Faruli, whom I already knew slightly, arrived at that point and poured something almost as vile as vomit down my throat. Whatever it was knocked me out, right there on the pot—and when I awoke, clean but smelling of babyshit and herbs, thin sunlight was filtering through the dirty slats on the window. Calla was cross-legged on a cushion beside my pallet, stitching industriously at a pair of tattered britches. In a clean yellow robe, with her face washed and her dark hair spilling abundantly over her shoulders, she was as demure and pretty as any of the well-reared maidens I'd ever seen in Sathelforn. When she saw I was awake, she stopped sewing long enough to feel my forehead and cheeks.
"Fever's
down, Tig," she said, picking up her needle again. "Are you hungry?"
"Ravenous. What time is it?"
"Mid-morning."
"Only? I feel like I've been sleeping for days."
"You have—three days. Faruli's tincture has that side-effect. It makes you helpless and fairly disgusting to nurse, but it does save your life."
Fairly disgusting to nurse. Damn it, I thought, betrayed by my own bowels. I lay back on the pallet and turned my face away out of pure shame. "Who nursed me, Calla? Did you?"
"Among others. Don't worry, Tig, the belly-rot is all part of living in Gil. I'll get you something to eat."
She laid down her mending and disappeared through the curtains. Wisps of memory floated through my mind—wrenching pains, cool hands, foul tastes and smells; yes, I could easily believe three days of disgustingness had passed, witnessed at close hand by Calla, of all people. She reappeared with a bowl of soup, looking so fresh and flowerlike that I groaned with humiliation. Calla took no notice.
She raised me expertly to a sitting position and propped her cushion behind me. I felt weak and tearful, and the bottom dropped out of my head. "Dizzy?" she asked, spooning soup into my mouth. "Don't worry, that's normal. I've told the Flamens you're awake—Faruli will be along to see you shortly."
The Flamens. That reminded me. Urgently, I tamped down my embarrassment and struggled to evade the spoon. "Calla—what about the scullery? The council's plan?"
"It's been put off until you're well again. Next month, probably. Don't think about it. Eat."
I swallowed another spoonful. "But Calla?"
"Yes?"
"There's something I have to know." Another spoonful. Calla was almost too efficient a feeder. I pushed her hand weakly aside. "Why did you volunteer to go with me?"
"Why not? Stop talking and eat."
"No, that's no answer. You hated being assigned to me as a guide; you've made it quite clear from the beginning that you think I'm a bumbling idiot. And I suspect you agree with Hawelli about the quest, anyway."
Gil Trilogy 1: Lady in Gil Page 7
