by Lloyd, Tom
At last Shanatin smiled. His only true friends were the three books he owned - at least, he had owned them, until a drunken sergeant had ripped them to pieces and pissed on the remnants.
Not one of the master’s greatest acquisitions, Luerce reflected, but sometimes we must make do with what is available. If a few soldiers are the price of his service, I’d gladly pay it ten times over.
‘Now,’ Luerce continued, not wanting the fat lump to get distracted by what might await his tormentor. The first time a snivelling Shanatin had been nursing his bruises alone and the shadows whispered his name, the result had been his abuser clawing his own eyes. This time might not be so dramatic, but it would suffice. ‘Do you remember what to do?’
Shanatin affected to look hurt, but only managed constipated. ‘’Course I remember. I’ll go now.’
‘Thank you, my friend.’ Luerce put something in Shanatin’s pocket and patted it meaningfully. Then he tugged the hood of his white cloak up over his head and smiled at the witchfinder from the shadows within it. ‘Stay strong, the twilight reign is coming. Our time is coming.’
The thin Litse turned and disappeared into the broken rear room of the building, secreting himself out of sight until Shanatin had gone. They were in the poor inner district of Akell, the Circle City’s northern quarter, where few Devoted would venture.
Unlike Byora where the rich lived in the lee of Blackfang’s cliffs, here the long, shallower slope led up to the highest side of the mountain. Parss, that malevolent - some said simpleton - child of the mountain Goddess, Ushull, tossed his boulders down this slope too frequently for the rich, for they hit the buildings as if flung from siege engines. Shanatin left and checked his surroundings before leaving, careful to wait until the street was empty.
The witchfinder headed east, following the tall spur of wall that was all that remained of a gaol once built here. A landslide had demolished the rest during a storm when Shanatin was a child. As he walked through a haphazard network of makeshift shacks, the sound of the landslide boomed again in his ears. That demonstration of divine power had been his reason for joining the Knights of the Temples, just as the petty cruelty of men had been spark for him to accept what Azaer promised him, years later.
When he reached the more respectable areas he started seeing Devoted uniforms and hunkered down low as he walked. He had been careful to not wear his uniform - the white and black of the witchfinders was as easily noticed as Shanatin himself - but it meant he had to return to the Brew House, where they were quartered. It was an island within the main garrison complex, so he’d be forced to pass the barracks. He gritted his teeth and walked with head down and hands in pockets, silently asking Azaer to watch over him as he went about his task. He’d never heard the shadow’s voice or felt its presence except after sundown, so it didn’t worry him when he didn’t receive a response.
And Shanatin muttered words of thanks when, almost an hour later as the sun met the eastern horizon, he reached Cardinal Eleil’s offices unmolested. He’d done his best to ignore the sights as he walked; the entire main thoroughfare was lined with punishments of various sorts, from stocks at the mouth of the street, at the junction of the main road, to the gibbets closest to the Cardinal’s office. He didn’t count the soldiers and citizens being disciplined that day; undue interest itself was a crime now. The priests had made cowards of them all, though it was a familiar sensation for Shanatin.
He was admitted to the courtyard with only a cursory inspection, the guards making it clear they thought him incapable of causing trouble as they opened the gate. Inside he discovered the offices were in fact two tall buildings connected by a central hall.
The cardinal himself was said to have a desk situated on a mezzanine in the hall - from which, if rumour was to be believed, he could see and hear everything that happened at the desks below, the administrative heart of the Devout Congress.
Outside the hall’s wide barred windows, and blocking Shanatin’s path, was a company of soldiers, dressed like regular Knights of the Temples infantry, except they were armed where most of the other soldiers in the city had turned their weapons in to the Menin. A few eyed him suspiciously, the rest didn’t bother.
‘You lost?’ a soldier called out. Shanatin shook his head and approached the man, a sergeant with pox scars on his face.
‘I need to speak to Cardinal Eleil,’ Shanatin said in a quiet voice.
‘The cardinal?’ The sergeant snorted. ‘Gen’rally speakin’, he don’t bother with any damn stray that wanders in.’
Cardinal Eleil, once head of the Serian in the Circle City, the Devoted’s intelligence-gathering arm, was now High Priest Garash’s deputy on the Devout Congress. While Garash was the driving force behind this moral vigilance within the Knights of the Temples, it was Eleil who administrated and instituted Garash’s reforms.
‘It’s important,’ Shanatin insisted, dropping his eyes to look at the sergeant’s scuffed boots. The man looked like a bully to Shanatin; he just had to hope he looked cowed already.
The sergeant was silent a moment. ‘Better be,’ he muttered before walking past Shanatin and jerking open the main door. ‘Hey, you - where’s Chaplain Fynner?’ he asked someone inside.
Shanatin didn’t hear a reply, but the sergeant stepped back and a few seconds later a tall, white-haired man in the dark red robes of a chaplain came out.
‘What is it?’ Fynner asked in a deep, rich voice.
‘Witchfinder’s askin’ for the cardinal, Father,’ the sergeant explained, pointing at Shanatin. ‘Says it’s important.’
The chaplain frowned at Shanatin, who wilted under the look.
‘Very well,’ said Fynner with resignation, ‘come with me.’
Shanatin followed him into the large, chilly hall. It was still bright inside; orange-tinted sunlight streamed in through the windows lining the wall above the door and lamps were lit below. There appeared to be no one looking down over the room, but a dozen or so priests of various ranks were busy at the lower desks.
Once the door had shut behind Shanatin, Fynner rounded on him. ‘So, Witchfinder, you’ll have to convince me before you see anyone,’ Fynner said sternly.
‘Yes, Father,’ Shanatin mutter respectfully. ‘I ... I overheard somethin’ I shouldn’t of a few days back. I been keepin’ my eyes open since then and I don’t think he’s the only one.’
‘The only what?’
Shanatin hesitated. ‘Mage; a mage off the books.’
‘You are talking about an officer of the Order? That is a serious charge, young man; a very serious charge for an enlisted to make.’
‘I know, sir, important officer too.’
Fynner looked around the room. The other priests seemed to be busy with their work and oblivious to what was going on, but still he beckoned for Shanatin to follow him to one end of the hall, where they went through a door. Without a further word Fynner took him up a short flight of stairs, past a sentry and into the private quarters of the cardinal.
‘Cardinal Eleil is eating,’ he explained at last when they reached one doorway, ‘which may be for the best; this is sensitive information after all.’
Shanatin nodded, looking relieved. Fynner knocked and entered without waiting for a response, ushering Shanatin inside and shutting the door behind him.
‘Fynner?’ inquired the cardinal, seated alone at the head of a polished mahogany table and with a laden fork raised.
Shanatin felt his mouth start to water as the aroma of roast pork filled his nostrils. He could see roasted apples and potatoes on the plate, all liberally doused in thick nut-brown gravy. For a moment all thoughts of his mission were forgotten - until Chaplain Fynner cleared his throat pointedly and Shanatin realised he was staring open-mouthed at the food.
‘My apologies, Cardinal Eleil, but this man has just brought a matter to my attention that I felt sure you would want to hear.’
‘Well?’
Cardinal Eleil was older than Shanatin ha
d assumed; his face wrinkled and weathered, his hair perfectly white, which indicated he was probably pure Litse blood.
‘Ah, your Grace,’ Shanatin stuttered, giving an awkward bow.
The error put a slight smile on the cardinal’s face, as Shanatin had hoped. He inclined his head to acknowledge Shanatin’s respect and took a swig of wine while the witchfinder started to speak.
‘I was comin’ back from ... ah, meetin’ a friend, four nights back - past midnight. I was out past curfew so I was sneakin’ back into the Brew House, but before I got in I saw two men speakin’ in the shadows. I hung back ’til they left. One o’ them was Sergeant Timonas, see, from the witchfinders.’
He hesitated and glanced at Fynner, who gestured for him to keep going. ‘Right, well, the other were an officer, and he bought some dose off of Timonas, gave him money, right in front of me. For more than one person too - brew don’t last too long after it’s cooked, and I reckon Timonas gave him enough for two, maybe three. Before the officer left he told Timonas to make damn sure he was doin’ the next inspection too. The sarge said the schedules had bin worked out right an’ it was all sorted.’
The cardinal leaned forward, his meal forgotten. ‘Did you recognise the officer?’
‘Yes, sir. It were Captain Perforren, the Knight-Cardinal’s adjutant.’
The two priests exchanged a look, then Fynner spoke. ‘You are certain that was what was being discussed? There is no room for confusion or explanation?’
‘No, sir, they was clear enough, an’ I recognised the bottles Timonas gave Perforren - they’re the ones we use for the dose.’
Shanatin fell silent, letting the news sink in. The Order’s laws were specific: all mages within their ranks had to be registered and monitored. A man with ambitions, however, would know any ability as a mage would count against him when it came to promotion - certainly no mage would ever be elected to the Council, and Captain Perforren was aide to the man who had led that Council for years. Corruption, bribery, wilful flouting of the Codex ... these were all breaches of the law, and they added up to a capital offence.
‘They did not mention who the others were?’ Cardinal Eleil asked at last.
Shanatin shook his head.
‘Then we must move cautiously. What is your name, Witchfinder? ’
‘Shanatin, your Grace.’
‘Then, Witchfinder Shanatin, under the Second Investigation Act you are hereby co-opted into the Devout Congress. Add his name to the register of devout, Fynner.’
The chaplain bowed as Cardinal Eleil continued, ‘Shanatin, you will return to your duties and investigate further. Monitor this sergeant and secure a copy of the schedule for the next . . . how long does the dose last?’
‘Up to a fortnight, sir.’
‘Very well, the next three weeks. You will be contacted in the next few days by someone who will act as your liaison from now on. Do nothing that will alert them. This conspiracy may be bigger than we have seen thus far.’
The cardinal’s tone made it clear the meeting was over. Shanatin didn’t seem to notice, but Fynner did and took the witchfinder’s arm, directing him outside again. The chaplain lingered a moment longer in case the cardinal wanted to speak to him further, but he had already returned to his pork. Fynner shrugged and accompanied Shanatin outside.
Once the door was closed Cardinal Eleil sat staring at it a while, slowly chewing the meat while he thought. He was naturally suspicious - a lifetime of the Serian did that to a man, and Witchfinder Shanatin had prickled his paranoia.
‘He’s just the sort I’d use myself,’ he mused, spearing a piece of apple and holding it up to inspect. ‘Simple and stupid, too obviously a fool to be a good ruse, and therein lies his value.’
He ate the apple, enjoying the sensation of the cooked fruit melting inside his mouth.
‘An attempt to discredit the Congress?’ he said eventually before shaking his head. ‘No, surely anyone trying to make us act rashly would take such information to Garash instead. Misdirection perhaps? Have us waste our efforts on the Knight-Cardinal’s men so others find a little more freedom to move?’
He finished the pork, saving the crackling until last. The first piece he tried was overcooked, too solid for his ageing teeth so he sucked the juices off it and discarded it in favour of other bits.
‘There is of course the possibility that the fat cretin is telling the truth,’ he had to admit finally, ‘that he’s stumbled across something and seen a way to profit from it.’
He pushed the plate aside and stood. Immediately something caught his eye, a small glint half-obscured by a chair near the door. Curious, the cardinal tilted his head sideways. It appeared to be a coin, a gold coin, lying on the floor.
‘Where have you come from?’ Eleil asked the coin, rounding the table. ‘Did I not notice you when I came in? I can’t believe Witchfinder Shanatin would have any call to be carrying gold with him, nor Fynner.’
He stood over the coin, looking down at it, but making no effort to pick it up. The coin was large, but not one he recognised, certainly not Circle City currency. While each quarter had its own, none of the gold coins used there were even similar. After a moment he crouched to pick the coin up, hissing at the clicks in his knees as he did so.
The coin was a thin disc, half the width of his palm, flattened at the rim to produce a very dull edge. There was nothing on it to indicate its origin; it wasn’t really a coin at all since there was no sign of currency stamped on it. He carried it back around to the table and set it down, peering closely at it.
‘So what are you then?’ he asked.
Now he could see that symbols had been badly engraved onto the surface, around a crude cross. Something about that made him think of Elven core runes, but his education on such matters was limited. The cross was not composed of single lines, but half a dozen or so roughly parallel grooves.
He picked up the coin and was about to turn it over when he felt a tingle in his fingertips. On a whim he placed it upright on its edge and turned it around instead of flipping it over. The other side also had a strange script engraved on the surface, so lightly it looked almost like scratches, but the main symbol was a circle of several grooves around the flattened edge. The coin - disc - was old, and the gold had more than a few minor dents and scratches, but still Cardinal Eleil could see a distorted reflection within the polished circle. He turned it again, then flicked it with his fingernail to set it spinning on its edge.
As he watched the runes and faint reflection merge, he thought he heard a tiny sound from somewhere behind, the softest of whispers. He jerked around, but there was no one there. Doors set with two panes of glass led out onto a balcony, but he could see no one though the panes and the bolts top and bottom, out of reach of anyone breaking the small windows, remained firmly closed.
‘Foolishness,’ he muttered, and returned to the coin, which was lying flat on the tabletop, cross side up. Again he put it on its edge and set it spinning to watch the two sides merge. It reminded him of a toy he’d once had as a child, a piece of painted wood on strings which, when turned quickly, merged the image of a bird on one side with the cage on the other.
A susurrus sigh came from his right and the cardinal half-jumped out of his seat. He slapped a palm down onto the coin as he turned to where he’d heard the sound. There was no one there; nothing was disturbed, and the only piece of furniture that could possible have hidden someone, a padded recliner he often took an afternoon nap on, was at such an angle that it would have been impossible.
He resisted the urge to ask, ‘Who’s there?’ and rose instead. He went to the bureau against the wall behind him. With one eye on the far side of the room he pressed a catch just inside the footwell and opened one of the drawers, reaching inside to pull a thin dagger from its hiding place.
With that in his hand he advanced to the other end of the room. The light was starting to fade and Cardinal Eleil realised the room was gloomier than he’d realised while eat
ing. This end of his study had only one small window, above head-height. Set into the wall was an elegant fireplace with a tallboy on either side and a gilt-framed mirror above.
He glanced back at the coin, on the table where he’d left it. Its warm yellow colour looked markedly out of place in the dimly lit room. A slight scratching sound came from the wall by the door and he whipped around - to see nothing there at all ... but his heart gave a lurch when, out of the corner of his eye, he saw something reflected in the mirror. He faced the wood-panelled wall, but still he saw nothing unusual there at all, and when he looked back at the mirror it was empty.
‘Gods, am I going mad?’ he whispered, his fingers tightening around the grip of his knife.
He looked back at the other end of the room, almost certain that for a moment he’d seen someone stood in the corner there - a grey figure - but it remained steadfastly empty. When he inspected the mirror that too looked fine, free of dust or dirt that might blur the image.
