Ravens Shadow 02 - Tower Lord (12 page)

They took rooms in a boardinghouse on the north side of the square, more expensive than the others but also considerably more comfortable. She didn’t use him this night, instead telling him to get some rest, taking the pack and going to her room. He lay on the voluminous bed until darkness, unable to sleep despite the luxuriant softness that engulfed him.
She’ll make me kill tonight.

The binding flared a few hours later and he went to her room, finding her dressed in black silk from head to toe, hair tied back from her face into a tight bun. She wore a dagger on each forearm and a short sword on her back. She nodded at the weapons set out on the bed alongside a silk shirt and trews, black like her own.

“Make no mistake, my love,” she said, smearing coal dust on her face. “You are unlikely to meet a being more vile and dangerous as the man you’ll meet tonight. I can afford no more nostalgia.”

The binding flared, the pain severe but just below the level when it became unbearable. Her control was absolute now, forbidding any hesitation or even thought. She would will it and he would act. He was completely her creature.

She went to the window, pushing open the blinds and clambering out onto the rooftop. She lingered, surveying the street below then ran along the tiles to leap to the rooftop opposite. He followed as she continued to make her way across the city from roof to roof, wall to wall, in a tireless display of athleticism that would have earned his grudging admiration, although the continuous flare of the binding left him incapable of any such feeling.

She led him north, away from the dense streets clustered around the main square, to the broader avenues near the docks. She stopped atop a wall overlooking a square where a small temple sat surrounded by trees. The temple was a rectangle of pillars supporting a flat-topped pyramidal roof crowned with a statue of a woman, her face hidden in her marble cowl. Unlike the other temples Frentis had seen this one was guarded, two armoured men with spears flanking the entrance. The door was closed but outlined by the glow of a fire within.

The woman rose, sprinting along the wall to launch herself into the nearest tree, catching a branch and hauling herself up with barely a leaf falling as she did so. He watched her crawl along the underside of the branch then drop onto the roof of the temple. Had the binding left any room for consideration, he would have concluded this was a feat he couldn’t match, despite all his training and years in the pits. But her will left no room for doubt and he followed without demur, running, leaping, catching the branch and crawling to the roof all as if he had done it a thousand times before.

She led him to the rear of the temple, past the statue, even this close, he could see only shadow in the cowl. The woman peered over the edge of the temple roof, withdrew a dagger from her wrist sheath and stepped out into space, turning in midair. There was a faint sound, only the softest thud. Frentis looked over the edge seeing her sheathing her dagger, standing astride the body of a third guard. He dropped down next to her as she tested the door in the rear wall of the temple. It swung open, smooth and quiet on oiled hinges. He saw her hesitate. This was unexpected.

The interior of the temple was austere, bare walls devoid of mosaics or reliefs, a narrow bed in the corner next to a table holding pen, ink and a few sheets of parchment. The space was dominated by the large fire burning in the centre, a marble basin filled with coals burning hot and bright, the smoke escaping through holes in the ceiling. A man sat in a chair facing the fire, his back to them. Frentis could see only the crown of his grey head and his hands on the armrests, gnarled and spotted with age. The woman stepped into the temple, forsaking stealth with a loud clatter as she shoved the door fully open. Frentis saw the hand on the armrest twitch, but the man in the chair didn’t rise.

“A temple to the Nameless Seer,” she said in Volarian, striding forward to stand in front of the old man, regarding him with an arched eyebrow. She kept Frentis where he was, dagger drawn, ready to stab through the chair-back at the slightest command. “This is where you choose to seclude yourself these days?”

There was a faint sound from the man in the chair that might have been a laugh. The voice was frail, the words unaccented. “Forgive an old man a small conceit.” A pause as the grey head shifted to regard her. “Still clinging to the same shell I see.”

“Whilst you have allowed yours to wither.” She examined the old man’s form with obvious disgust.

“What better protection from the Ally’s servile dogs? Why bother taking the body of a man who can’t walk more than ten feet without falling to his knees?”

“Why indeed.” She glanced around at the temple’s unvarnished interior. “I would have thought the Emperor might provide more salubrious accommodation for your dotage. Given the great service you did his forebear.”

“Oh he offered me great rewards, fine houses, servants and a sizeable pension. I asked only for this. People come seeking wisdom from the servant of the Nameless Seer and leave happy for the cost of a few coppers. A fitting diversion for a lonely old man.”

The woman’s lips curled into a small sneer. “I am supposed to believe you have mellowed with age? Don’t forget what I’ve seen, what we did.”

“What we were made to do.”

“I recall no reluctance on your part.”

“Reluctance? Oh there was that, when it was time to leave you, then I was truly reluctant. When your father’s army came slogging out of the marshes, even more so. I had changed by then you see, wanting only a quiet life, but the Emperor asked for my aid,
asked
. No commands, no threats . . . No torture. He just asked. It was the last time I used my gift.”

The woman stared at him in silence for a moment. “Why was the door unlocked?”

“It’s been unlocked for twenty years now. The guards are here at the Emperor’s insistence, not mine. In truth, I expected you and your young friend sooner, but my scrying is not what it was. It’s the way with stolen gifts, don’t you find? They tend to dull with age.”

She took a firmer grip on her dagger and he saw her hesitate before forcing out a final question. “Why did you leave . . . me?”

“You know why. You were cruel and fierce and beautiful, but the Ally made you monstrous. It broke my heart.”

“You don’t know what the Ally made me, Revek. But you’ll discover it soon enough.”

The binding seared Frentis with an implacable command, spurring him forward, dagger drawn back. The old man surged to his feet, quicker than any old man should, raising his arms, fingers splayed, turning, revealed a face of great age but also profound sadness as he regarded Frentis. His fingers spasmed and fire engulfed his hands, but this was not the illusion conjured by One Eye all those years ago. The blast of heat on his face told him this old man had just brought forth true fire from his hands. He raised them, two flaming fists aimed at Frentis as he charged.

The woman moved in a blur, looping her arm over the old man’s head to draw her dagger across his throat, releasing a red rush of blood. The old man’s fire died as he stumbled, uncharred hands clutching at his throat.

There was a crash as the front door thrust open, the two guards rushing in, eyes wide in horror as they viewed the scene. The woman killed the one nearest her with a dagger throw to the neck, drawing her short sword and rushing the other. He was quick and well trained, parrying her thrust with his spear blade then jabbing at her face and neck, keeping her at bay. Frentis started forward then stopped as the old man’s hand snared his ankle. He tried to pull away but couldn’t.
The binding was gone
.

Frentis staggered with the sudden rush of freedom, the pain vanishing in an instant. The old man’s mouth was moving in a welter of red spray, his other hand clamped around the gaping wound in his neck. Frentis crouched to hear his words, spoken in Realm Tongue, the faintest whisper, “The seed will grow.” Too quick to catch it the old man’s hand came away from his neck, clamping onto Frentis’s face, smearing, the blood staining his skin, clouding his eyes, seeping into his mouth. He reeled away, the old man’s hand coming free of his ankle, the binding returning instantly.

He looked up to see the woman side-step a thrust of the guard’s spear, catch hold of the haft and use it to swing a kick into his face. He staggered back, the spear coming loose from his hands, fumbling for the sabre in his belt. He was too slow, her short sword thrusting easily through the mail on his chest, plunging deep to find the heart.

She dragged her blade from the corpse and looked up at Frentis, striding forward, eyes searching his face. “He touched you.” She took a wine jug from a nearby table and splashed it onto his face, washing the blood away, then stood back in a fighting stance, sword poised and ready. The binding surged to its greatest severity yet, making him tremble from head to foot, his mind filled with the scream his lips couldn’t voice. She held him for what seemed an age, wary eyes searching his face the whole time. Finally she grunted and loosened her grip, letting him fall to the temple floor, gasping and writhing in pain.

Through the shuddering aftermath he saw her move to the old man’s body, kicking his lifeless chest, breaking frail ribs with an audible crack. She grasped his grey head in a tight fist, hauling the corpse upright, the short sword coming down once then twice to sever the neck. She lifted the head high, tilting her own back, mouth wide, the rain of blood falling into it as she drank.

The binding was loose enough to allow Frentis to vomit.

“Now,” the woman said, tossing the old man’s head aside and dragging a sleeve across her mouth, blood and coal dust smearing together in a black paste. “You’ll see what the Ally made me, Revek.”

She sheathed her sword and raised her hands, eyes closed in concentration, teeth clenched. For a moment it seemed nothing would happen then fire engulfed her hands and she screamed, both in pain and triumph. She laughed as she sent fire in a stream towards the old man’s corpse, leaving it in an instant shroud of flame, then cast fiery whips about the temple, setting light to anything that could burn. Soon the whole place was wreathed in flame and the heat fast becoming unbearable.

She let her arms drop, the fire vanishing from her hands. Her gaze settled on Frentis as the binding forced him to his feet, making him come closer. Great pain dominated her features and fresh blood streamed from her nose and eyes, but still she smiled, fierce and exultant, the flames gleaming red in her eyes. “There’s always a price to pay, my love.”

T
he office of the King’s Notary was free of other petitioners on this the first day of the Summertide Fair, but Vaelin was still obliged to wait for almost an hour before the clerk looked up from his ledger book. He was a youngish man with the harassed air of the overworked and underpaid. “My apologies, sir,” he said. “We’re short-staffed today, what with the fair.”

“I fully understand.” Vaelin rose from the bench and approached the young clerk’s desk, so piled high with papers and ledgers he resembled a badger in an untidy den. “When I was last in the Realm the Fourth Order had charge of the King’s records,” he said.

“Not these days. These days the brothers of the Fourth Order are more like the Sixth, swaggering about, swords and all.” The clerk reclined in his seat, stifling a yawn and giving Vaelin a curious glance. “You’ve been travelling then, sir?”

“Indeed, far and wide.”

“Anywhere exotic?”

“The Meldenean Islands most recently. Before that the Alpiran Empire.”

“Didn’t think they even allowed our ships to land any more.”

“I took a roundabout route.”

“I see.” The clerk reached for a blank piece of parchment. “So, good sir. What brings you here with the delights of the fair but a short walk away?”

“I require a Warrant of Acknowledgment, for my sister.”

“Ah.” The clerk dipped his pen in an inkwell and jotted something onto the parchment. “Complicated families are truly the life-blood of this office. Fortunately, the procedure is fairly straightforward. You simply swear to your sister’s legitimacy in my presence, I will inscribe the warrant, we both sign and the deed is done. The fee is two silvers.”

Two silvers.
It was fortunate Reva had agreed to sell the fine Realm Guard knife she acquired on the road. “Very well.”

“Excellent. Now, your name sir?”

“Lord Vaelin Al Sorna.”

The nib of the clerk’s pen made a loud crack as it snapped, ink splattering across the parchment. He stared at the black stain for a moment, swallowed and slowly raised his head. There was no doubt in his expression, just awe.

Pity,
Vaelin thought.
I was starting to like him
.

“My lord . . .” the clerk began, rising and bowing, low enough for his forehead to bump the desk.

“Don’t do that,” Vaelin told him.

“They said you were dead . . .”

“So I heard.”

“I knew it was a lie. I knew it!”

Vaelin forced a smile. “The warrant for my sister.”

“Oh.” The clerk looked down at his desk, then around at the empty office, sweaty hands leaving a stain on his tunic. “I fear this is above my station, my lord.”

“I assure you it isn’t.”

“My apologies, my lord.” He backed away from the desk. “If you could wait just one moment.” He fled into the shadowy depths of the office. There was the sound of a door being thrust open, a bark of annoyance then a hushed conversation. The clerk soon returned followed by an overweight man somewhere past his fiftieth year. He faltered for a moment at the sight of Vaelin but gathered his composure with admirable speed.

“My lord,” the man said with a formal bow. “Gerrish Mertil, formerly of the Fourth Order, now Chief Notary for the City of Varinshold.”

Vaelin bowed back. “Sir. I was explaining to this man . . .”

“A Warrant of Acknowledgment, yes. Might I enquire your purpose in seeking this document?”

“No, you might not.”

The Chief Notary flushed a little. “Your pardon my lord. But I am aware of the King’s Order regarding your late father’s property and the Magistrate’s judgement in your sister’s case. A Warrant of Acknowledgment will negate the judgement but not the King’s Word, which as you know, is above the law.”

“I am aware of that, thank you.” He reached into his purse and extracted two silvers, placing them on the desk. “Nevertheless I wish to acknowledge my sister. I believe I am merely exercising rights enjoyed by all Realm subjects.”

Gerrish Mertil nodded at the young clerk who hurried to prepare the documents.

“Would it be presumptuous, Lord Vaelin,” the Chief Notary said, “for me to be the first official of the Realm to welcome you home?”

“Not at all. Tell me, how does a former brother become Chief Notary?”

“By the King’s grace. When he decreed the crown should resume stewardship of the Realm’s records, His Highness was wise enough to recognise the value of skills possessed by so many brothers of my Order.”

“You left your Order at the King’s command?”

Mertil’s expression became sombre. “It was no longer the Order I joined as a boy. The ascension of Aspect Tendris brought many changes. Instead of bookkeeping, novice brothers were being taught sword play. The crossbow instead of the pen. May the Departed forgive me, but I and many of my brothers were glad to leave.”

The young clerk hissed an obscenity, crouched over a sheet of velum at a writing desk, the quill shaking in his hand. “Oh give it here.” The Chief Notary nudged him aside, blotted away the spilled ink and began to write in smooth-flowing letters. “In my day they used to whip us if the flourishes were not all exactly the same length.” It was quickly done, signed by the Chief Notary himself. Vaelin appreciated his silent patience as he laboured over his own signature.

“I hope all is to your satisfaction, my lord.” Mertil bowed, handing over the scrolled warrant, tied with a red ribbon.

“My thanks, sirs.” Vaelin held out the two silvers but the Chief Notary shook his head.

“I had a nephew in the Blue Jays,” he said. “He was with you at Linesh. Thanks to you his mother got to welcome him home.”

Vaelin nodded. “Fine regiment the Blue Jays.”

The Chief Notary and the young clerk were both bowing as low as they could as he made for the door, resisting the impulse to run.

◆ ◆ ◆

He found Alornis and Reva at the cross-roads of Gate Lane and Drovers Way. The streets were largely empty thanks to the fair but his experience at the notary’s office made him keep his hood in place. A large marble plinth was positioned in the centre of the cross-roads, covered in scaffolding from base to top. Alornis was standing on the highest platform, dressed in a mason’s apron, holding a rope threaded through a block and then to ground level where Reva placed various implements in the basket it was attached to.

“The big hammer!” Alornis called from the platform. “No the other one.”

“Your sister’s even more a tyrant than you,” Reva grumbled as Vaelin approached.

“Vaelin!” Alornis greeted him with a cheerful wave. “Master, my brother’s here!”

After a moment the head of an old man appeared over the edge of the platform. He was heavily bearded and dressed in the green robe of the Third Order, his brow furrowed like a ploughed field as he regarded Vaelin, grunted something then disappeared. Alornis gave a weak smile of apology.

“What did he say?” Vaelin asked.

“He thought you’d be taller.”

Vaelin laughed and held up the scroll. “I have something for you.”

She descended to street level by the expedient of taking a tighter hold of the rope and jumping off the platform, the heavy basket of tools acting as a counterweight. The old man’s surprisingly muscular arm appeared to haul the basket onto the platform above.

“So,” Alornis said after scanning the scroll, “ink and paper make me your sister where blood does not.”

“And a fee of two silvers, but they let me off.”

“So we can eat tonight?” Reva asked.

“I still need to petition the King,” Vaelin told Alornis.

“You really expect him to reverse his Word?”

His efforts will be wasted if he doesn’t, though I doubt I’ll like the price.
“I’m certain he will.”

Something fell to the cobbles nearby with a loud clang followed by a bellow from above. “Wrong chisel!”

Alornis sighed. “He’s tetchier than usual today.” She raised her head to the platform. “Coming Master Benril!” She began to gather tools together from the base of the plinth. “You two should go home. I’ll be a few hours yet.”

“Actually, sister, I was hoping you could take Reva to the fair. She’s never seen it.”

Reva gave a quizzical grimace. “Couldn’t give a snot for your heathen celebration.”

“But my sister does. And I would feel better if she had protection.” He tossed her his purse. “And you can choose tonight’s dinner.”

“I can’t,” Alornis insisted. “Master Benril needs me . . .”

“I’ll help Master Benril.” Vaelin undid the ties on her apron and lifted it over her head. “Off with you both.”

She gave an uncertain glance at the top of the scaffolding. “Well, he hasn’t paid me for weeks.”

“Then it’s decided.” He shooed them away, watching them walk along Gate Lane, the blood-song sounding the same curious lilting note when Alornis took Reva’s hand, chatting away at her as if they had known each other since girlhood. He saw Reva flinch, but was surprised when she didn’t snatch her hand away.

“Chisel!” came an impatient shout from above.

Vaelin gathered all the chisels he could find into a leather toolbag and clambered up the successive ladders to the top of the scaffold. The old man was crouched against the plinth’s summit, hands roving over the marble surface. He didn’t turn when Vaelin dumped the tool bag at his side.

“My sister says you haven’t paid her,” he said.

“Your sister would pay to help me, brother.” Master Benril Lenial turned to regard him with the same deeply furrowed brow. “Or is it just my lord these days?”

“I’m no longer of the Sixth Order, if that’s your meaning.”

Master Benril grunted and turned back to the plinth.

“What will it be?” Vaelin asked.

“The Realm’s monument to the greatness of King Janus.” The old man’s tone said much about his enthusiasm for this project.

“A royal commission then.”

“I do this and he promises to leave me alone for two years so I can paint. It’s the only true art. This.” He smacked a palm against the marble. “This is mere masonry.”

“I knew a mason once. I would say he was as much an artist as any man could be.”

“And I would say you should stick to swinging your sword about.” He glanced back again. “Where is it anyway?”

“I left it at home wrapped in canvas, as it has been since I returned to the Realm.”

“So you’ve given up more than just the Faith, eh?”

“I’ve gained more than I’ve given up.”

Master Benril shifted about to face him, showing no signs of stiffness in his aged limbs. “What do you want?”

“My sister, I need to take her away from here. I want you to tell her to let me.”

Benril raised his extensive eyebrows. “You feel my word carries that much weight with her?”

“I know it. I also know there is no life for her here, not as my father’s daughter, or as your pupil.”

“Your sister’s gift is a great and wonderful thing. To prevent her from nurturing it would be a crime.”

“She can nurture it in safety, far from here.”

Benril ran a hand through the long grey mass of his beard. “I’ll agree not to speak against her leaving, but that’s all.”

Vaelin inclined his head. “My thanks, Master.”

“Don’t thank me yet.” The old man rose and went to the ladder. “I have a condition.”

◆ ◆ ◆

“Hold still will you!”

Vaelin’s back ached and a cramp was starting to build in his neck. Benril had made him hold several poses now, each more theatrical than the last. This latest had him standing, back straight and head raised, staring off into the distance, holding a mop as if it were a sword. The old man had started and discarded numerous sketches already, the chalk never ceasing in his hand, his eyes flicking constantly between Vaelin and the dark brown parchment on his easel.

“You don’t hold a sword like this,” Vaelin advised.

“It’s called artistic licence,” Benril snapped back. “Lower your right arm.”

It was another half hour before five troopers of the King’s Mounted Guard trotted into the cross-roads, a riderless horse in tow. The captain in charge dismounted and strode forward to offer a smart salute, his polished breastplate providing Vaelin with a fine reflection of his ridiculous pose. “Lord Vaelin, may I say this is an honour?”

“I was expecting Captain Smolen,” Vaelin said.

The captain hesitated. “Lord Marshal Al Smolen is in the North, my lord.” He straightened with pride. “I bring warm greetings from His Highness . . .”

“All right.” Vaelin abandoned the pose and reached for his cloak. “Master Benril, it appears I’m needed at the palace. We’ll have to finish this another time.”

“Tell the King I need more coin for the blacksmith,” Benril said to the captain. “If he wants his monument before winter sets in that is.”

The captain stiffened. “I am not a messenger, brother.”

“I’ll tell him,” Vaelin assured Benril, pulling on his cloak. He paused to look at the master’s sketch, frowning in puzzlement. “I’m not that tall.”

“On the contrary, my lord.” Benril leaned closer to the parchment to add some shading to Vaelin’s cheekbones. “I think you stand very tall indeed.”