‘The numbers have been down for years, more so in the last five.’
‘He only just arrived.’
‘There’s the Father’s-voice. And now there’s two of them, competing for the king’s ear.’
Graelen cursed. He’d sworn an oath to use his gift to protect half-bloods. If, as he suspected, this white-haired Malaunje had been sold to someone down south and ‘rescued’ by the king, or hidden by the church as a baby and reared to serve the king, then he had never heard of the oath. He knew only what the Mieren had told him of his own kind. Fed lies since he was old enough to listen, it wasn’t surprising he’d been convinced by the church of the justice of their claims.
Even so, how could he sacrifice his own kind? Infants, at that. Contempt filled Graelen. ‘This has to be stopped.’
‘If it is happening,’ Harosel agreed.
‘You brought this to my attention. What’re you–’
‘All I’m saying is, we need to be sure before we execute him.’
‘You’re right. It’s time we questioned this Warrior’s-voice.’
SAFE IN THEknowledge that no one would recognize her in the guise of a Sagora, Imoshen slipped out into a lane and then onto the causeway boulevard, where she mingled with the passing trade as she made her way down to the gate.
This was the same gate she had entered eight years ago, seeking sanctuary, and when she stepped through it this time, a wonderful sense of freedom filled her. It came as a shock to realise how much she hated the Celestial City.
Look what it had made her do to Rohaayel before it would accept her; look what it had done to generous, kind-hearted Reoden; look what was happening to Iraayel, as the boy she loved disappeared behind a shield of determination and martial prowess.
At the arched bridge to the foreign quarter, she found a Sagora servant waiting to escort her to their residence. The buildings of the foreign quarter were owned by banks and great merchant families whose influence spanned kingdoms. The first of these houses had been built on stilts in a shallow part of the lake almost two hundred years ago. As more and more premises were built, walkways and bridges had been added, linking the buildings.
At last they came to the Sagoras’ premises. Three storeys above them, the scroll and the nib symbolised the Sagoras’ quest for knowledge. Conviction filled Imoshen; this was where she belonged.
The servant showed her where to hang her Mieren half-cloak, then led her through a courtyard to a chamber. ‘Merchant Mercai will be with you presently.’
The servant left her in a wood-panelled chamber, where every shelf was packed with books, curios and intricate brass machinery, all glowing in the late afternoon sun.
Merchant Mercai entered, giving the Sagora bow, and she mirrored him. He sat cross-legged on a cushion on a raised platform. Imoshen felt somewhat intimidated as he looked down on her.
‘While we are here we have no names, no titles. You are student and I am teacher. You speak only Sagorese during the lesson.’ He indicated she was to sit.
Imoshen took out her nib and paper and prepared to make notes.
Nothing happened.
She waited.
Normally, her gift enabled her to read the subtle nuances of expression and movement. The Sagorese style of dress left nothing for her power to work on. She felt blind.
The servant showed someone else into the chamber. They wore the traditional Sagora costume but Imoshen sensed the male gift. Her stomach tightened with fear and her power tried to rise. She forced it down. No attempt had been made on her life since she executed Rohaayel, but every time she went into the free quarter she sensed the animosity of the T’En men. They would never forgive her.
The T’En man bowed to Merchant Mercai, settled himself cross-legged and took out a nib and ink.
Of course, if he was wearing the Sagorian costume, he was just another student. Imoshen almost laughed with relief.
Then a wave of annoyance swept through her; she didn’t want to share her teacher. Lessons with the gift-tutor had taught her how frustrating learning could be when other students took too long to understand. She was not going to put up with that here. She would study hard, and too bad if he couldn’t keep up.
As the lesson progressed, Imoshen opened her mind, absorbing every scrap of information, adding to the framework of grammar she had created to learn Chalcedonian. As she laid down each new piece of information, she ran over it three times to be sure it was firm.
Despite her misgivings, the student kept up with her every step of the way. She felt alive, exhilarated by the challenge, and truly awake for the first time in years. How could she have forgotten her love of learning?
A chime sounded somewhere out in the courtyard, bringing Imoshen back to the real world with a jolt.
Merchant Mercai switched to Chalcedonian. ‘Soon, the Mieren bell will ring. A servant will escort you to the city gates before they close.’
Imoshen came to her knees to give obeisance and spoke in Sagorese. ‘Student-she thanks teacher.’
‘Student-he thanks teacher. May the light of knowledge burn more brightly every day.’
Once the teacher had departed, Imoshen came to her feet and turned to her fellow student. ‘You know more Sagorese than you let on. Just how many languages do you know?’
‘Four, fluently. There’s another four or five I can get by in.’
Why would he need to know so many languages? Only the sisterhood’s sea captain, Iriane, knew... He must be a ship’s captain.
As they turned to go, Imoshen noticed an astrolabe on a shelf. She could not resist going over to examine it... so cunningly wrought.
A six-fingered hand stopped the outer circle turning. ‘This is a tool, not a toy. An astrolabe reveals the path of the stars.’ He proceeded to explain exactly how the planets moved. Imoshen bit her tongue.
And watched him talk. At first she was annoyed but, as the explanation went into more detail, she came to appreciate his depth of knowledge.
‘Sorry.’ He gave a rueful grin. ‘I forget not everyone is interested in the paths of the planets.’
Imoshen shrugged. ‘It’s no surprise to find an astrolabe here. The Sagoras came from across the Endless Ocean. They must have an excellent understanding of the stars and planets to have navigated this far. No one else has sailed from beyond the eastern horizon in over three hundred years.’
‘You knew what it was?’
‘Yes, but you explained it so well, I didn’t have the heart to stop you,’ Imoshen told him sweetly, and walked out into the courtyard.
One part of her wanted to rush home so she could go over what she’d learnt. Another part of her wanted to bait him. It was invigorating.
They’d reached the foyer, where her Mieren cloak hung. There was no Mieren cloak for him. He was too tall to pass for a True-man. Seeing her cloak reminded Imoshen of her life outside these lessons; she didn’t want him walking her back to the free quarter. If he knew which sisterhood shop she changed in, he might guess she was Imoshen the hated All-father-killer. And that would be the end of her fun.
‘I’ve thought of something I must ask the teacher,’ she said. ‘You go without me.’
‘Until next lesson, then...?’ He paused, waiting for her to give her name.
Instead, she gave the Sagora obeisance. ‘Student-she bids farewell to student-he.’
He smiled slowly.
Imoshen waited to be sure that he had gone and wasn’t lurking nearby before she donned the Mieren half-cloak. She only just made it back to the sisterhood’s shop in time.
As she changed into her own clothes, she remembered the ship’s captain who had bought the astrolabe from the Sagoras’ shop, back in early spring. Only All-fathers Chariode and Paragian had trading fleets, so it would not be hard to find out his identity. But she didn’t want to.
GRAELEN WATCHED THE comings and goings in the plaza. Today, when the Warrior’s-voice went to the Father’s church, they would take him for questioning. Haros
el was already in place.
The half-blood would then be taken to a wine cellar. Below the earth, surrounded by thick walls, they could question this betrayer of his own kind without fear of being interrupted. Graelen was ready to slit the half-blood’s throat himself.
Shouting, and the steady thud of many booted feet, echoed across the plaza. The local Mieren hurried out of the way as a long column of men-at-arms, walking four abreast, entered the plaza. In the lead rode their captain. It appeared another baron was heading off to claim his estates.
As Graelen watched, the white-haired Malaunje came out of the palace, accompanied by the king and one of his barons. They said their farewells on the steps. The baron looked grim as he strode down the stairs with the Warrior’s-voice by his side, followed by a foreign Mieren youth in dark priestly robes, carrying two travelling kits. He strapped them onto their horses’ saddles as the three of them mounted up.
Graelen glanced to Harosel, who shrugged. They hadn’t anticipated this. Why was the half-blood accompanying one of the barons?
Graelen left his hiding place and met Harosel, as the baron and his men-at-arms marched past.
Graelen studied the baron’s banner. ‘Any idea who–’
‘The newly restored Baron Nitzane. His father’s estate was confiscated when Matxin seized the throne. He’s the grandson of Baron Nitzel. Since his banner carries both symbols, I expect the king has returned his father’s estates and his grandfather’s as well. He’ll be on his way to reclaim them.’
‘Why does he have the Warrior’s-voice with him?’
‘No idea. Should we follow? Take the half-blood on the road?’
‘From amidst two hundred men-at-arms?’ Graelen grinned. ‘No. He’ll be back. He serves the king.’
‘And if he doesn’t come back? Maybe the king’s rewarding him with an estate and title, too?’
Graelen snorted. ‘A half-blood?’
‘Look what this half-blood does for the king. He receives visions, Grae.’
Graelen let the use of his familiar name slide. ‘At what price?’
They both stared at the half-blood as he passed.
‘Give me a day with him,’ Harosel muttered, voice thick with anger. ‘I’ll get everything he knows out of him.’
‘Give me a few moments. I’ll break his walls,’ Graelen said. ‘He won’t be sacrificing any more Malaunje after that. He won’t be much good for anything.’
Chapter Forty
SORNE STUDIED THE stronghold. A solid stone structure, built on the hilltop above a bend of a river, it was not a castle he would want to be laying siege to. From where he sat, astride his horse, he could see people scurrying about in the small, walled township clustered around the base of the hill. Having spent the last eight years at Charald’s side, Sorne was skilled in assessing defences and planning attack strategies. ‘The gate to the township is open, as is the gate to the castle itself. They know we’re here, so–’
‘It’s hard to march two hundred men across the countryside without the locals noticing,’ Nitzane said. He’d been furious when King Charald sent the Warrior’s-voice with him, and he hadn’t missed a chance to snipe at Sorne. He didn’t know that Sorne had been sent to discover if Charald’s second wife had died, and kill her if she hadn’t. Had Nitzane given his mother a moment’s thought, these last eight years?
Idan shifted in his saddle, irritably. The Khitite prince had sworn the holy-sword’s oath when they had arrived in port and had been a faithful companion ever since.
The captain of the men-at-arms said nothing. He was a veteran and had served Nitzane’s older brother, who now ruled Navarone. Sorne gathered that he’d fled with the brothers when they were banished, and now he wanted to return home; probably had family on Nitzane’s estate.
‘I think the baron who held his estate under Matxin has fled,’ Sorne said. ‘He will have taken his family and faithful retainers. What we can see are probably the original farmers, townsfolk and retainers, who served your grandfather and would no doubt welcome you back.’
‘I don’t see why we had to come here first,’ Nitzane said. ‘This isn’t my home. I would rather have reclaimed my father’s estate.’
Sorne urged his horse closer to Nitzane. ‘If you look west to the sea, and follow the curve of the river, you will see the Mother’s abbey.’
Nitzane frowned and glanced quickly to Sorne, who nodded once. Sorne did not particularly like Nitzane, but he thought the man deserved to know what Charald had in mind for his mother.
‘You two stay here, I want to get a closer look,’ Nitzane said. ‘Come with me, Warrior’s-voice.’
They rode on a little until they were out of hearing, then Nitzane brought his horse around to face Sorne. ‘I knew my mother retired to one of the Mother’s abbeys. It’s this one, isn’t it? Charald has sent you to find out if she still lives.’
‘He’s sent me to make sure she’s dead.’
Nitzane grimaced. ‘Go ahead. You have my blessing.’
Sorne was shocked.
‘What do I care for the mother who abandoned my brother and me to marry King Charald? I swear my father’s body was still warm the day she married the king!’
‘It’s not like she had much choice. Your grandfather had her husband murdered. He held you two boys as surety of her good behaviour–’
Nitzane’s riding crop flashed out. ‘You lie!’
‘I had it from Oskane.’ Sorne felt a sting and blood trickled down his cheek.
‘He lied.’
‘I read it in his journal, his private journal.’
‘Ha! I have you now.’ Nitzane urged his horse back towards the others, calling over his shoulder. ‘Charald gave me Oskane’s journals. The Father’s-voice has had them all these years, and Oskane left them to the king.’
Sorne’s horse caught up with Nitzane’s. ‘Why would the king give you–’
‘Because he can’t be bothered reading them. According to Oskane, no True-man knew more about the Wyrds than he did. The king thinks there might be something useful in them. I have them on the supply cart, so you can show me the passage and prove your allegations.’
When they joined the others, Idan and Ballendin stared at Sorne’s bleeding cheek, but said nothing.
‘What’s your assessment of the keep, Captain Ballendin?’ Nitzane asked. ‘Should we just ride in?’
‘We have two hundred men. You’d be lucky if there’s four hundred people in the town and castle, and most of them will be old folks, women and children. The gates are open and no one’s going to stop us.’
So they rode right up to the township’s wall, through the gate and up the rise towards the castle. Sorne cast an assessing eye over the buildings. Some were of a reasonable size, but they had been allowed to fall into disrepair. The baron who’d taken this estate had milked it dry.
Thin-faced, nervous people watched from doorways; women held skinny children at their sides. They whispered and pointed to the banner, which incorporated their old lord’s standard.
‘It’s Baron Nitzel’s grandson come home,’ Captain Ballendin announced. ‘Baron Nitzane.’
Nitzane smiled. By the time the party reached the castle gate, the locals were cheering.
‘I don’t think there’ll be a feast tonight unless we supply the food,’ Captain Ballendin told Nitzane.
‘Go ahead, organise it. There’s something else I must do.’ Once they were in the castle courtyard, Nitzane dismounted. A skinny boy ran forward to take his horse.
Nitzane beckoned Sorne, and together they pulled the old chest off the cart. When Sorne saw the elaborately carved chest, he recalled climbing into Oskane’s bedchamber to read the scholar’s journals and his agents’ messages.
They carried the chest into the castle, where the wife of the original castle-keep greeted them. She showed them to the baron’s private chambers, which had been stripped of everything that could be loaded onto a cart.
Sorne and Nitzane placed the c
hest in front of the empty fireplace. Sorne opened the shutters, letting in a shaft of sunlight.
‘There.’ Nitzane opened the chest with a flourish. It gave a terrible creak. ‘I swear this has not been opened since the day Oskane died. Now prove you speak the truth. If you’ve been lying to me, I’ll have my men hang you from the rafters.’
Sorne spotted the journals under a pile of scrolls. ‘Who would have thought the old scholar had so many scrolls?’
‘You’re saying you can’t find it?’
‘Nothing of the kind.’ Sorne removed the scrolls by the handful. As he did so, he read the tags. For the most part they were treatises on the Wyrds, dating from before King Charald the Peace-maker’s time. He’d often seen Oskane going through these scrolls and questioning the she-Wyrd, making careful notes from her responses.
Below the scrolls he found the journals. Maybe they would tell him why Izteben had died. But first he had to satisfy Nitzane.
Sorne found the relevant journal and flicked through the pages. His mother’s name leapt out at him. He and Nitzane had a lot in common; both Sorne’s mother and Nitzane’s father had been killed so that Charald could take Nitzane’s mother for his second wife. Now Charald wanted to do away with this wife so he could marry again.
‘Have you found it?’ Nitzane asked.
‘Did you know, Charald ordered my mother killed, so he could marry yours?’
‘That... that would make you Queen Sorna’s son.’ Nitzane’s eyes widened. He grimaced. ‘You were a newborn, I was less than two years old. How can we ever know the truth? You tell me my own grandfather ordered my father’s murder, so my mother could marry Charald. Prove it.’
‘Here it is.’Sorne read the passage. ‘Then I will tell him the truth, most importantly Nitzel’s part in his mother’s murder. If Nitzel hadn’t had his own son-in-law murdered, his daughter would not have been free to marry Charald. Sorne needs to know who his enemies are.’
Besieged (The Outcast Chronicles) Page 40
