Ghost in the Yew

by Blake Hausladen

  I wanted very much to read the new book. I had never read out loud before. I could not imagine doing it.

  “Geart, sit. Read,” he said with a soft voice as he pointed.

  I opened the book and cleared my throat. I was too nervous to sit. I turned to the last page and read the words aloud.

  “Lime combined with wood ashes can usually be applied with safety in the spring or at any other season of the year, but autumn is always the safest time to apply caustic or slaked lime. It is generally considered best to apply the lime to the soil immediately after ploughing and to harrow it in thoroughly. Lime which is already slaked may be spread upon the soil directly from wagons or carts, or dumped into heaps and then spread with a shovel.” I looked up at Avin, still a bit queasy from nervousness.

  “Finish,” he urged.

  I took a deep breath and continued, “In conclusion it may be said, ascertain first whether lime is needed. If it is, apply it judiciously, and never depend upon lime alone to maintain the fertility of the soil, for all of the ingredients which plants need must be present in the soil to ensure the profitable production of crops.”

  “You will like this one a great deal more,” Avin said and slid it across to me.

  My hands shook when I picked it up. It was heavy, its cover and pages thick. I opened it to a page in the middle and was suddenly very troubled. Covering most of one page was a drawing of a swollen snakelike thing with a massive tick-looking thing attached in one place and a big stick jammed through it from top to bottom. Phrases like “chiefly appended” and “alterations in position,” jumped out at me. Many of the words were big ones—bigger even than “agriculture.”

  “What is that thing?” I asked.

  He pointed at the top of the snake. “The food you eat goes through here—comes out here.”

  “I have one of these inside me?”

  “Geart, hush. You have seen a man with his insides coming out, yes?”

  “What citizen of Bessradi hasn’t?” I shrugged. “I had never thought much about it, though. Are we all the same inside? I can heal these?”

  “Yes, but only if everything is in the right place,” he told me. “But you are getting ahead of yourself. Start at the beginning. You will understand as it goes. I promise.”

  “I thought this was going to be a book about the blue light.”

  “It is. It is about how and in what ways you can use it.”

  “I am sorry, Avin, I don’t understand.”

  “Yes you do. Do you remember the finger I healed, the broken pinky?”

  “Yes.”

  “Okay, think upon this for a moment. If the finger had been broken worse and the bone was sticking out, what would the song have done?”

  I sat on the bed and set the books beside me. I wasn’t so sure I was as smart as Avin thought I was. I tried to imagine the flesh as it healed.

  “Which way would the song’s magic go?” I asked. “Would it try and cover the jagged bones? Would I need to put the bone back in first?”

  “That is what the book will teach you.”

  I cared very little after that to watch the goings on of our arilas or his soldiers.

  56

  Arilas Leger Mertone

  Thirteen Days of Summer, 1195

  Kuren’s vulgar timbermen did not delay my ride south. The calendar and cloud cover were right for a midnight ride, and the bright yellow eye of the watchman’s friend guided me quietly through. I had it in mind to steal a few of the timbermen’s horses or start a few fires while they slept, but thought better of it. I would be marching them all out of Enhedu at the point of a spear soon enough.

  Cool days, cloud-free nights, and the full moon made the rest of the trip south quick and pleasant. The soft lope of a saddle was bliss compared to a wagon’s hard bounce, stubborn oxen, and squeaky brakes. Free of their distraction, the road showed me many new details.

  I found narrow gaps and suspicious cliffs, any of which could be used by a dozen to hold off thousands. How many Zoviyans must have perished to win access to Enhedu those long centuries ago, I could not imagine. If the Yentif came for us, they would pay by the brigade for every square of road.

  Wait, the Hessier. It had been so long since I had seen one, I had forgotten them. Fortifications and daunting roads could not stop them. I abandoned my dreams of watchtowers, gates, and tall boulders that could crush Hurdu by the score. Without a way to defeat the Hessier, there could be no victory defending that road. Kyoden and his Chaukai had tried and failed.

  When the stones gave way to the raised dirt roads of the plains, there was no feeling of homecoming. I shook my head at the change. I had become a man of Enhedu.

  I kept my pace quick and reached a familiar town on the border of the Kaaryon right on schedule. It was a courier’s stop, which meant a cheap bed and meal, and just as important, a room full of news.

  But the inn I made my way into was unnervingly empty. Only two weary couriers were in the large common room, and the plump innkeeper was taking a nap behind the bar. The kitchen was dark.

  “I need a room.”

  “Plenty to be had,” the innkeeper yawned and moved around toward a narrow counter and the guest book upon it.

  “What’s happened? Where’s everyone?”

  The trio eyed me. “You don’t know? Where are you from?”

  “The north. Heading toward Bessradi.”

  “Well, stranger, you might want to rethink your plan,” one of the couriers chuckled dryly. “The capital was still burning in places when I rode out.”

  “What?”

  “The fire started in the palace and spread all the way to the east river. Most of the princes were sleeping.”

  “Some are dead?”

  “Some? Stranger, do you even know that the eldest three were poisoned? When I said that most were sleeping, I meant most are dead. Civil war is upon us.”

  “You speak too coolly, friend.”

  He stiffened, worried, as he should be, that he had misread who or what I could be.

  “Where is Lord Vall?” I asked.

  “He was in Urmand for Prince Yarik’s academy review. He remains there still.”

  “Has he sealed the capital?” I demanded.

  “No.”

  “Are the Hurdu marshaled?”

  “The cavalry? No, sir. The Hurdu remain in Urmand.”

  “Then you do not know what you are talking about. When the Hurdu ride is when it is war. Who is the new crown prince?”

  “Rahan, but no one thinks he will make it very long.”

  I glared at the man until he shrank deep into his chair. The innkeeper was twitching.

  “Your name, friend?” he asked with a wave toward the guest book.

  “Alsman Leger Mertone.”

  The man yelped like he’d just accidentally knocked his daughter out of a moving carriage. I worried he would faint. The couriers were as affected. The innkeeper recovered as best he could, snatched a key, and offered it to me.

  “Number seven—up the stairs and to your left. It is our best room. Would duck with lemon and greens be sufficient?”

  “Fine.”

  “You will also find a bath at the end of the hall. The cistern is always heated, so feel free to make use of it while I prepare your meal.”

  I thanked the man, enjoyed the bath, and devoured the food. While I waited for sleep to come, I considered which way I would ride in the morning: back to Enhedu to warn the prince or south. I could be in Bessradi in two days if I pushed it and back to the courier’s stop in five if I bought a second horse. Had Haton been hurt by the fire? Was Darmia okay? Should I send a messenger instead? Could I find one I trusted? Could I afford one, or a horse for that matter? I did not have enough information for the decision. I let sleep come, hopeful the morning might provide some answers.

  I woke early, nervous from noise in the common room below. I got myself together and descended to find the room crowded with urgent and hungry couriers. None lo
oked like they had slept. The innkeeper and his kitchen were lively, the room filled with the smells of butter, bacon, and bread. The lull seemed to be over.

  I was shown to a table, and food arrived before I was seated. The innkeeper did not make the mistake of introducing me to the room. I did not need to join the conversations around me. I had only to listen.

  Each man bore messages from one noble to the next. Each sought word of the march of armies or rebellions declared. There was none to be heard of. The fires were out, the city’s gates were open, and the Hurdu had not been marshaled. One man claimed the fire was accidental. None believed him, but with no other evidence of war, an accident was a possibility, it was weakly supposed.

  Someone asked, “How many princes were killed?”

  Seven men gave seven different accounts, but it was clear the fire had claimed most. I could hardly believe it. There was little else informative in their chatter, so I gobbled down my food and started toward Bessradi.

  The news from those upon the road did not change as I got closer, and I arrived as informed as a traveler could be. I could smell the aftermath of the fire well before I crossed the bridge, but the city seemed otherwise normal. The streets were a bit hushed and light of traffic, but there was no sign of panic in the people.

  “Such a terrible accident,” I heard the chatter over and over. “What a waste. They put all those bars on the windows to keep them safe and then such a terrible fire. Bayen bless them all.”

  My first look at the palace stopped me in my tracks. The Deyalu was a blackened husk, and the gardens and Servants’ Quarter were unrecognizable. The devastation reached all the way north and east to the wide river. I could not even make enough sense of what was left to find the barracks I had called home on and off for decades.

  On the other side of the river, the home of the Sten and his church, the dark-stoned Tanayon Cathedral stood tall and untouched. Its long, sharp spires and teaming towers and gables leered even more sinister. I vowed I would see its stones returned to Enhedu.

  The jingle of chains pulled my eyes to a long line of slaves being led toward the destruction. The soot and ash that covered them told of their work. I hid my revulsion. The looting of things touched by Bayen’s fire was the providence of the church, and they never passed up an opportunity. The Sten’s take would be enormous. I wondered if the church had the nerve to scavenge the Deyalu, or if Vall had the nerve to stop them if they tried. I chuckled weakly but knew better than to hope for such a conflict. I hurried instead to find out if Haton and the Creedal had been spared.

  I expected at each intersection to see the results of the fire’s wrath or even the worry of a city so stricken. But something had kept the fire from moving south, and the faces of the people were calm and placid.

  I found the wide boulevard and the edge of the destruction. Haton and Bessradi had been lucky. The avenue between the Servants’ Quarter and his neighborhood had been too wide for the flames to cross. From Haton’s place south, the streets were narrow and the buildings made entirely of wood.

  But when I swung out of the saddle and stepped to the Creedal’s doors, I found them chained closed. The windows were broken and the interior a shamble of broken chairs, tables, and glass. A notice on the door proclaimed the place seized. The details of it were written in the priest’s language. So much for Haton taking his case to the Sten. This was bad. Very bad.

  It was time for me to leave. The fire aside, with Haton shut down, there was nothing at all for me in Bessradi.

  I came to a sudden halt. How could my thoughts have been so pulled? Darmia lived along the river. I sprinted down the half-burnt street and crossed the broad lane that marked the living from the dead. A patchwork of levy-militia guarded the remains. I ran through the line while they yelled.

  I found her building black and fallen. I had not known she had a view of the river, but there it was through the smoking timbers, gray and choked with debris.

  The soldiers came up behind me. One began to yell, but another put his hand on my shoulder.

  “A lot of people got out in time,” he said. “Now come with us. You cannot be here.”

  I huffed and seethed but followed. What was I doing? Where could I go to find her?

  The soldiers pushed me back across the avenue, and I began to feel the weight that was upon the men and women around me. A quarter of the city had burned to the ground, and those who had survived were listless walkers of streets. How many had lost friends, family, and the place they worked? The city was not hushed. It was numb.

  I walked back toward the Creedal and spotted a familiar face. He turned and paced alongside me.

  “Do I know you?” I asked him.

  “We swapped clothes once.”

  My questions collided. “What happened?” I managed and pointed at the Creedal.

  He took my arm instead of answering and led me down the street. We arrived at a small park with a short statue of a cavalry officer at its center. The place was deserted. He said out of the side of his mouth, “Can Barok deal with us?”

  “Yes. We received the letter,” I nodded. “Darmia?”

  “I do not know. Haton might. Be here again at sunset,” he finished and disappeared into an alley.

  I found a bench and tried to collect myself. So much for being armed with information. There was a vast sea between me and an understanding of what was afoot. The sunset was still a way off, but as I banged my thoughts together like wet rocks, the time did me little good. No word of Darmia. That was all that stuck. I left my weight upon the bench and stewed until a question shouldered forward.

  “Where is my horse?” I asked suddenly.

  I had left it in the street by the Creedal. I stood and tried not to run as I made my way back. I found the speckled gray tied to the post where I had left him.

  I had heard of men so distracted or indifferent they could become forgetful of important things—leave their coins upon a table, a document on a counter—but I had never heard of a man so ill of mind that he forgot his horse.

  I needed to clear whatever clogged my head. I found an inn with a stable and ate a meal. The food did not help and the sun was suddenly upon the horizon. I checked twice to be sure I had everything before I walked back toward the park.

  I waited by the cavalryman’s statue while the sun hid itself. A man at the far end of a nearby street was the only other person who did not continue along at the same dull pace. He jerked his head once and started away. I made the decision to follow.

  He led me west to the river and across into a part of the city I had not visited in decades. The smell of the Warrens had not changed. Men skulked along the narrow, winding streets, and women offered themselves for pennies. The air was still and rank, the stones underfoot old and greasy. It was fitting, somehow, that the Warrens had survived. For most in it, the flames would have brought something better. Bessradi was not capable of mercy.

  I lost sight of the man around a sharp corner. I got to where he had been but did not see him until a shape in an alley jerked its head and moved out of sight. I could not decide if I should follow, draw my sword, or flee. The alley was rank, black, and blind. It was also the only way that remained. I stepped across the street and into the narrow darkness.

  The dim light from an opening door showed me my guide, and he motioned me inside. The hallway beyond was low, and the half open door at the far end creaked when I pushed it. The dingy warehouse beyond had only a pair of lanterns lit against the dark. It smelled of dead animals and was cluttered hazardously with boxes. A wide table between the lanterns was crowded with men. Haton’s shadowed face was the only one I knew.

  He rose. “You made it, my friend. I am glad. Everyone, this is the man I’ve have been telling you about. Alsman Mertone, these men are members of my association, men I trust. Your timing could have been better, but it is not too late for it.”

  He chose not to elaborate, and the introduction left me on edge. His fellows wasted no time.
r />   “Who controls your craftsmen’s consortium?” one asked flatly.

  “A local man. A bowyer.”

  “What fee does the consortium charge its members?”

  “None. The organization has no debts or obligations, so currently has no need to lay charges on its membership.”

  The room frowned, and the man turned away from me. “Haton, it must be terribly small. How can we join such a place? How many craftsmen could this consortium count on its rolls?”

  I exaggerated the number only slightly. “Over a hundred, including master Sevat, whom you know.”

  He did not look impressed and continued to speak to Haton. “And how about their market? Does Enhedu even have one? Chairman, your plan seems very ill. I do not see it.”

  We all looked at Haton, and I hoped what he had to say would explain what was going on. They were obviously elbow-deep in something dark. They had the look of wanted men.

  “Alsman,” he began, “we are looking for a way free of Bessradi. Our association has lost much this summer to lawyers bearing orders of seizure. But until we can find a consortium that will accept our members, we are bound to the Kaaryon.”

  “There are no others that will take you?”

  “The Council of Lords has been forcing the other provincial consortium for a decade to adopt rules that close their rolls to craftsmen from the Kaaryon or charge punitive dues for new members. Some of us have escaped by paying, while those of us left are held entirely at their mercy. We are being bled to death by increased dues, taxes, and accidents.”

  “Accidents? Theft, sabotage, and murder,” another man spat. He leaned forward and pointed two fingers at me. “We have heard any number of rumors about a pledge of service that Prince Barok is offering. I will hear the truth of it. What are Barok’s terms?”

  Haton and his fellows were pressed, desperate. I was no longer confident they had a place in Enhedu. Should I leave or stay? I had come looking for dockwrights, a market for Enhedu’s crops, and perhaps a few like Sevat who would be willing to try Enhedu. What they were talking about was a wholesale move of their entire association. They were hunted, and their enemies had very long arms. I ignored the man’s question.