But none of that mattered as his body heaved and shook with grief. All the fear and anger of the day seemed to break from him: the charge and the fall from his mule, the chase with the carriage, and the sight of the knights and the rumble of their hooves ...
Thunder broke in the distance.
It took a while for Ulric to recover himself. Though his throat was now sore, his spirit felt lighter.
The sky had faded to twilight.
Ulric pulled up his trousers and tied them. He wiped his eyes and nose on the sleeves of his tunic. He hadn’t even picked wood for the fire yet, or built the shelter they needed. He only hoped Dalathos had at least kept the fire going.
Then they could rest for the night. And set off fresh in the morning, back to the city. Whichever way he’d gone, it had been a very wrong path. He wanted far from it. Even if that meant starting all over again. Killing wasn’t the way to redemption, and he refused to accept otherwise. What he needed was some sign, some direction. Because now he felt more lost than ever.
A Petty Revenge
Sirath
The wood cracked, and the last hinge dropped loose in a cascade of splinters.
“That’s it!” Sirath’s brow sweated, his bandage damp. Prising that last hinge off had been a sore effort. Blisters had formed on his fingers. But he’d suffer far worse if he didn’t escape. His ribs still ached sore from the beating before, and last night. “Now let’s shift this door.”
All it needed now was a good shove. Once it started to fall, the weight should snap away any lock. The danger was of being crushed as it rent away. They’d need to get a clear distance when that happened.
And rush anyone who might come to the noise.
“Help me with this.”
Ezekiel groped along the wall in the darkness, and stepped up beside him.
Sirath took a deep breath. And pushed. Cold iron prickled under his hot hands. Ezekiel strained beside him. There was no movement.
Then a crack. Sirath dragged Ezekiel back with him. They crouched by the back wall. He slipped the buckle between his fingers — as a weapon to punch with, if he had to fight his way free.
Nothing happened.
His thighs began to ache. He could get up and check the door, and give it another —
There was the crackle of tearing timber. Then a metallic snap. The door creaked, twisted up, then crashed down.
The sound slammed through Sirath’s bones and left him stunned for a moment. That had not just been loud, but had made enough noise to heard down the street.
The danger now was that someone might come and investigate. Sirath needed to see how many, and from where. A ghostly light from a lamp came from ahead. Nothing disturbed it. No shadow moved. All that came to him was a fierce silence.
Sirath stalked up a short set of stairs, then stopped. He panted, from his efforts and fright.
Everything remained still.
A hallway lay ahead. A weak lantern hung in it. At the end stood the door to the street, and freedom. A pair of internal doors were open to his left, and stairs that led up into blackness.
This councilor had opened his front door by himself. There had been no suggestion of servants inside. And no one had reacted to the noise. It might be safe to assume these apartments were empty.
Still, there had been Cardinal’s Men around. Troopers might have remained to stand guard outside. There was a need to keep wary.
Ezekiel crept up beside him. “Won’t we want to move fast, not slow?”
Sirath kept still a little longer, then nodded. “Looks like we’re safe,” he said, barely convincing himself. He stood and walked with a hesitant pace — expecting someone to jump out at any moment.
Something grabbed his tunic and he whirled about with a gasp.
Ezekiel raised his hands in apology. He pointed aside to the first open door. It looked like a cupboard filled with scrolls. “This could be a library,” he whispered. “There may be something in here to explain Molric’s plans.”
Sirath could only stare, astonished, as Ezekiel took the lamp from the hallway, and rummaged through parchments. Sirath clenched his fists. “Ezzie-bloody-zekiel, this is not a good time to feel like reading.”
“I’ll be quick.”
Sirath hurried to the front door. He peered through a small, glass window beside it. Though cloudy, he could make out street lanterns outside, and a couple of figures walking by. A pony-trap trotted past. There was nothing urgent in anyone’s actions. And there were no guards. He turned to urge Ezekiel to hurry. And noticed a soft red glow behind the nearer door. He could dare risk a moment to check ...
For valuables. This was a posh house in a rich area. Sirath grinned greedily and stepped through.
Faint embers glowed in a fireplace. A patterned rug lay on the floor. Tapestries covered much of the walls. The light was faint, but things glittered upon a table in the centre — alchemical instruments of metal and glass, some filled with colored powders or liquids. Books and parchments were piled among them. Molric was probably studying something. Obviously not the dangers of leaving a lamp unattended in a city crazed by fear of fire.
Then again, Molric might not plan to be gone long.
Sirath stared past the draperies, open before a tall, glazed window. If troopers returned and blocked the front door, Sirath could throw himself through that, to make good an escape.
First, find something of value to grab. He crept to the table. He took a curious interest in the glassware there. And found the purse that they’d taken from him.
Sirath feared the silver gone, but there was a reassuring weight and chink of coins. He tied it back in position under his armpit, seeing as they’d taken — and cut — his new belt to bind him. He’d almost lost money twice today to people so rich they wouldn’t notice the difference. His neck tightened in anger. The rich always took from the poor without challenge. And he wasn’t going to stand for it now.
He looked about for a petty revenge. The tapestries and rug would be worth a few crowns, but were too big to run with. He couldn’t make out much of their design, because of the weak light from the embers. But ... they would burn. Easily.
That decided it. See how Molric liked that.
He dragged the rug to the fireplace. Too much too fast would smother what heat remained. But the edges were frayed. He placed a corner over the glow, and blew gently. A tiny flame grew and explored the threads. Sirath stood and turned. The tapestries next. He yanked them loose, and dumped them by the rug.
The light in the room grew as the fire took hold. The danger now was of it being seen from the street.
“I make that evens, you bastard,” Sirath said. The flames spread quickly, and a choking smoke began to fill the room. It reminded too much of the blazing warehouse a few days ago. He retreated back to the hallway. “Ezzie, I think we should leave.” He watched shadows dance as the fire began to crackle.
“In a moment ... ”
Sirath folded his arms as he stared back at the room, enthralled. The blaze spread fast along the fibers of the rug, and onto one of the crumpled tapestries. It was as though he’d given life to his rage. “Last warning, Ezzie.”
“Alright, alright!” Ezekiel hurried to his side with an armful of long scrolls. He stopped and sniffed the air. Then peered into the room. He stumbled back. “Fire!”
Sirath nodded. “That’s why I think we should get out. I’ve torched the place.”
Ezekiel flapped and stuttered. “You’ve done ... what did you do that for?”
“Because of what I had to go through to end up here.” He lowered his tone, as if in imitation, “And perhaps because I could, little man.” He pointed to the door. “You coming or not?”
“There could have been important information in there,” Ezekiel protested. “Notes, maps, diagrams ... ”
Sirath was fast losing his patience. It was Ezekiel who’d wanted to hang back, instead of escape. Now he wanted to stop to ask questions? The building had caught f
ire — it was time to leave. Before someone returned to stop them. “Stay, if you want, but I’m gone.”
Sirath pulled at the front door.
It was locked shut.
His stomach dropped. For a heartbeat he feared to be trapped in a burning building. However, Fortune remained with him — he flicked back a latch, and it clicked. He easily opened the door.
And stepped out into a cold wind. Lanterns were lit along the street. A couple of people left a nearby house. A rider clipped toward the end of the road. A pony-trap dropped off two men, then rattled along the cobblestones toward them.
Sirath was tempted to duck back and hide, before another hue and cry was raised. But then he remembered he was dressed like a gentleman. All he needed to do was act normal, as if leaving his own home.
Sirath closed the door, after Ezekiel had stepped out with his collection of scrolls. Sirath pretended to lock it, his hands trembling. “Very good. If anyone stops us I can say you’re my secretary.”
Ezekiel gave him a leery frown, but followed him onto the road.
Sirath felt invigorated by the stink of city air. But his insides twisted in fear of being spotted, and the fire discovered. Arson demanded a harsher penalty than mere imprisonment. If Pure Heart was going to help, now would be a good time. But she was a child with mad dreams. As usual, it was up to Sirath to save himself. All he needed now was his wits to save Jerine, too.
He walked as naturally as he could, so as to not draw attention. He held his gait in check, even though his knees started to knock from the nerves of it all. They needed to get away as fast as possible. At any moment Molric might re-appear, and turn the city upon them.
But Sirath didn’t know which direction to go. He only remembered the name Jerine had mentioned — the Bod and Bumpkin.
Sirath watched the pony-trap approach, and it gave him an idea. He waved Ezekiel closer. “We could walk all the way back, and I could watch you struggle with them scrolls. Then again, it’s a cold night and I’ve got money. Let’s travel in style.” He straightened his tunic, held an arm to the air, and shouted, “Carriage!”
Before the Storm
Jerine
Jerine stared out from the window, into the night — and ached with worry for where Sirath might be. Light rain streaked the glass. The weather was turning and a storm was coming. He was still out there. So was Ezekiel.
She had to trust that they’d find some way to keep safe and return. But it was tempting to go out and look for him again, no matter the danger. Not to her — she enjoyed the protection of the Goddess, and could step out in front of any fast carriage and escape harm. But her companions were not so invulnerable. As she’d learned, to their cost.
There was a rustle of robes behind her. And an absence of being that could only mean her sister coming up into the room.
Jerine didn’t turn around, in no mood to be greeted with fresh criticism. She reached a hand into a pocket for some leaf. Only a few remained, and she doubted even they would lift her spirits. Better to save them for when needed most. Not least after Tilirine’s latest judgment on her.
Tilirine came to stand by her at the window.
Jerine tensed for some opening remark — perhaps on her failure to keep everyone together. If it wasn’t bad enough that Sirath and Ezekiel were missing, Ulric and Dalathos had failed to return. And that had its own ominous feeling.
“I am sure,” Tilirine said, after a moment, “that they are all safe.”
Jerine waited for inevitable disapproval to follow. And waited. After nothing was said for some time, she ventured, “The lesson of patience is a challenging one, isn’t it?”
“It is the most difficult lesson of all.”
Jerine glanced at her sister. The tone was almost conciliatory. But Jerine had no intention of inviting a sour retort, so said nothing more.
“Go downstairs,” Tilirine said. “Take refreshment. I will watch if Erin wakes. If I need your attention I will call for you.”
Jerine nodded, deciding that it was best to leave with the least said. She descended the creaking stairs, running through her memories of this afternoon. If she hadn’t stopped to tie her boot buckle, then would Sirath be here now? What if she’d allowed herself to be captured, instead of hiding? Would that have helped him? There were many possibilities. But it was futile to wish the past to be different.
The small common room was packed with a crowd. Jerine sought Sirath’s face among them — just in case — but was still disappointed not to find him. A few returned her glance, but only briefly. Their attention was held by an old bard by the hearth, his hair and woolen tunic both grizzled gray.
He thumbed a lute, and began to sing the legend of Saturnyne and Pheiros. His voice was clear and beautiful, the words expertly intoned for rhythm and melody. It was a long time since she’d heard such a master. She folded her arms and listened from the staircase.
He plucked the strings playfully as Saturnyne discovered Pheiros. Then strummed them slowly as the moons became lovers. He beat out full chords as their child Solus was born to the heavens.
Jerine thought on Sirath, longing for him to be here. To be safe, and to share in this moment. Then her thoughts turned to Tilirine, and her demand for Jerine to wed.
The bard suddenly drummed at a table with a pair of thick pegs, jolting Jerine from her melancholy. Manora, the sun god, had discovered the lovers, and fought Pheiros for the honor of his daughter.
Distant thunder crackled, adding to the drama of the tale. Jerine could only hope that Sirath could find his way back, despite the bad weather.
The bard picked up a saw, and bowed mournfully as Manora banished Pheiros to the underworld. Nanarivia, the earth mother, pleaded with her husband. Though Manora was touched, he’d made his judgment before the witness of stars, and could not rescind it. All he could do was reduce the sentence to half of the year.
Playing a lute again, the bard sang of how Pheiros returned each spring, to chase Saturnyne across the summer sky — only for the earth mother to grow cold at her husband in winter, as Pheiros returned to the world of the dead. The bard sang in hope that one day Solus would return, and the family be reunited as one. The bard let a single note ring to silence, his tale ended.
The audience thumped and cheered their approval. After chattering among themselves for some time, they began to depart.
Jerine felt the song still inside her — a variation of the ancient legend from Eptemia. She’d performed in Ephistocles’s play of it, upon the Ruby Stage in Mardin, during the Arellia. She wished Sirath could have seen her in that. It had been her first lead. Dalathos liked his legends, too. She could only hope the Goddess watched over them all.
As the common room emptied, Portilla came to her. “Sit yourself down and eat.”
Jerine was about to protest — she was anything but hungry. But Portilla persisted the point with a mother’s insistence. Jerine allowed herself to be seated on a stool. Portilla fetched a hand-towel, scented with lavender, before returning with a hot bowl of stew.
Jerine ate idly. The hearth was low, but the room was still hot from having so many people in before. She stared about the walls. A few small paintings were set in frames — simple patterns, or depictions of flowers. Nothing like the grand wall decorations and mosaics she remembered from Uncle Niccolo’s villa.
Portilla appeared with a cup of steeped camomile. She caught Jerine’s gaze. “My daughter always loved painting, like her father. He was kept busy with the chores of a tavern, but she was too frail for that. So we indulged her in her passion. Each picture is a memory. I remember how she looked, and where she sat, and what she said as she painted them.” Portilla looked down, sadness in her lines. “You only get a lifetime with your loved ones, and it’s never enough.”
Jerine nodded in sympathy and made an effort to finish her food “Thank you, Portilla.”
“I’ll pray to the Mother that you meet with your friends again, soon.”
Jerine could onl
y nod at that, and hope for sooner rather than later. A drizzle of rain pattered against the latticed glass at the front of the tavern.
The front door clattered open. Sirath stumbled in. Ezekiel followed with an armful of scrolls. A cold wind whistled in with them. “Sirath! Ezekiel! You made it back!” Jerine jumped to her feet, and found herself embracing Sirath. She didn’t know whether to laugh or cry with joy. “Where have you been?”
“Some bloody nutter locked us up in his cellar. But we escaped. As you can see.”
Ezekiel shifted his step. “Is Erin ... ?”
“She’s as well as can be, no worse than before. Awake sometimes, and taking medicine. Tilirine is with her.”
Ezekiel nodded, then hurried up the staircase.
Sirath slouched onto a stool. “At last ... I can breathe safely again.”
Jerine hovered by him, in case he needed help with anything. A bright flash filled the room. Five counts after, thunder answered. He’d returned before the worst of the storm. He was safe, and with her now — for the moment at least. And Jerine could not be more thankful.
A Fool’s Anxiety
Galadon
Galadon felt unable to leave, despite the late hour. The lamps burned low, and left his office filled with shadows.
There had been no rap at his door with news of knights returned. That was disconcerting, but Galadon refused to entertain the worst of possibilities.
Piffle. This was all a fool’s anxiety.
With a sigh, he turned to the bothersome wax tablets and scrolls and parchments on his desk. He had tried to ignore them all day. If he must be in his office at this hour then work might help the time pass.
He unrolled a sheet of vellum. It listed the latest applicants for recruitment. Mostly merchants, and other dishonest thieves, depressingly eager to enroll their sons for the status that would bring. As was any New Man’s house that had come into title. Accepting commoners was done only from utter necessity, as with today. And those had been only temporary commissions. He sought any good patrician name. There were none. He left the list among ignored correspondences scattered across his desk.
Gathering (Chronicles of Empire 1) Page 33
