Slow Turns The World (18 page)

“What would you do to be with that child?  For you to know it, for it to know you?”

“I have told you, Lord, what I would do and what I will not do.”

His Lordship looked to Torrin and for a moment seemed puzzled, as if the answer was not expected.  Or, perhaps, as if the question had not been meant for Torrin to answer.  

“Driver,” His Lordship called from the window, “take me home.”

They entered His Lordship's villa.

“I will be retiring soon,” said His Lordship.  “Have Alasam instruct you in your duties.  Tell Graselle I wish to see her.”

Torrin made his way to the kitchen where most of the servants were gathered again.  Valhad sat amongst them and greeted him eagerly.

“Torrin I have been into the city!  You will not believe the things that are there…”

Marasil smiled at Valhad's childlike enthusiasm as he began to speak of fountains, temples, and the other wonders he had seen.  Torrin guessed that she had been his guide.

“You can tell me all you have seen,” said Torrin.  “But first, Graselle, His Lordship has asked to see you.”

Graselle bit her lip and seemed to tremble a little.  Marasil squeezed her hand, looked her eye to eye and gave her a little nod that seemed to say  'it's all right, be strong'.   And then Graselle rose, took a deep breath, and went from the room.  Many knowing and sad eyes watched her leave, then Alasam broke the silence.

“Protector, you will come with me.”

Torrin followed him into the entrance hall of the villa.  Stood against one wall, as tall as Torrin, was a finely crafted cabinet that emitted a slow, regular metallic tick.   Set on its upper part was a clock face, an engraved dial with a single hand that moved imperceptibly.

“The position of this hand that moves around the dial,” said Alasam, “is set according to the great clock of the inner tower which sounds bells according to the hour.  There are eighteen hours in the cycle.  The city sleeps, works and rests, each for one third of the cycle.  You will see that we are now at the twelfth hour, and the time of sleep begins.  The windows will be shuttered, and none may leave their homes and disturb the quiet, unless at the bidding of the church.  All may sleep now, save one, and that is you.”

“Why am I not to sleep?” asked Torrin, watching the creeping clock hand.

“You are His Lordship's protector.  You may not sleep when he is sleeping.  You will sit before his door, or patrol the house, until the great bell sounds to say that sleep is over.”

“So when am I to sleep?”

“A protector must learn to be asleep and awake together.”

The house was quiet now, except for the creaking of the boards beneath Torrin's feet and the slow ticking of the clock that seemed to grow and fill the empty space.  The grim faces of the portraits, mostly caught in the agonies of martyrdom or some other anguish of the soul, stared back at him in the flickering light of the lantern.  The house was sealed in darkness; even the glass dome of the vestibule was concealed behind heavy curtains.  There had been so little darkness in his previous life, even within the skin tents of the Vasagi, or the deepest glen of the forest, the slanting red rays of the sun were always probing close by.   Then there had been the ship with its pitch-black bilges stinking of rank water and now this tomb dark, silent dark, yet with a sense of restless multitudes all about.   A door creaked open on the floor above and light footfalls sounded across the boards, another door creaked and all was silent.  It was, as Torrin guessed correctly, Graselle leaving His Lordship's room and returning to her own quarters.

Throughout the vigil there was the chiming of many distant bells sounding the hours and finally amidst all the eighteen tolls was one deeper and more reverberant, striking a single note.   Alasam appeared, opening the many shutters, admitting the brightening rays of light together with the sound of hooves and carriage wheels.  

“Protector,” said Alasam. “You may eat now, and rest, until His Lordship commands.”

The fearsome cook presented Torrin with a plate of oven-warm bread and steaming mug of a strange sweet brew.  She issued the provisions with a resentful look, still suspicious of him, regarding him as she might some pilfering rodent discovered in her pantry.  He wandered out through an open door into a courtyard where a fountain bubbled and splashed into pool.  Strange, fragrant blooms adorned the walls and entwined themselves with carved figures that looked on with sad and wistful countenance.  More images from the Text, Torrin supposed, more grim faces to drive all joy from the world in the name of God.

“Torrin!”

It was Valhad who had called.  He was carrying a tray of seedlings, accompanied by the villa’s gardener, who had a selection of tools gathered in his arms.

“Torrin, did you sleep well?”

“I did not sleep badly.”

“I am to learn the way of growing things, and about all the plants that are in the garden.”

“It is a beautiful garden.”

“We could never do this,” said Valhad looking around him, breathing in the many scents. “To take the seeds of the most precious of flowers and grow them together.  They are from all over the world, did you know that?  All gathered here where the light will never die, where cold and darkness never come.”

The gardener cleared his throat loudly and paced from foot to foot.  Valhad took the hint and they went from the courtyard to the outer gardens leaving Torrin alone with his thoughts.  They were wistful, disturbing thoughts.  What would happen if he fled the city and made his way to the coast?  Would there be a ship that would take him south?  More likely the soldiers would catch him first, or that if he found a ship he would become a slave in its service.  And if he escaped what would happen to Valhad, what would his fate be?   

It had been easier in some ways when he had been a slave upon the ship, when there was no time to think of anything but the task at hand and fending off the perils of the sea.  Now there was too much time to think, too many long hours to pass in the darkened house, where visions of distant lost faces, eclipsed other images from his journey; the Jidsat warrior skewered on a spear, a hooded stranger reeking of conspiracy, the sneering cruelty of the Qualzes….   Most haunting of all was the dread fear that he had become some small cog in a monstrous and evil machine that ticked and turned remorselessly, drawing him deeper and deeper within.

His Lordship had business in the tower.  Torrin sat beside the driver as the coach made the short journey and then they were dismissed until the time of rest.  They returned to the Villa where Torrin was finally able to sleep for a while in the tiny room that was his own.  Later, Alasam took him into the city.  They passed through a heavily guarded gate into the noise and throng.  Buildings of many strange designs formed narrow meandering canyons through which turbulent streams of humanity passed.  The wares of shops and traders, of leather, wood or beaten metal overflowed and were stacked high on trestles or laid out upon the walkway.   There were strange aromas of food, spices, of the beasts of burden that laboured before carts stacked high with fruits, and sacks of grain.  The people were dressed simply but their clothes were dyed in bright colours and finely made.  Everywhere was the sound of laughter, arguing, bartering and loudly whispered gossip.  

They came into a wider plaza set before a domed temple.  It was bounded on one side by one of the spoke walls in which was a gate connecting to the next segment of the city.  Torrin could see now that there were window slits in the wall and many doors along its base, each one heavy and tightly closed.  As they passed between the doors, beneath the dagger tips of a portcullis, he wondered what purpose they served.   In the next segment of the city they passed another domed temple where a small group of soldiers were gathered.  They were overseeing a man who was scrubbing vigorously at the temple walls.  The painted words,  'drew forth a great mountain', could still be read.  The soldiers eyed the passing people suspiciously and muttered amongst themselves.  A shout sounded out.

“You can wipe it from the wall but you can't scrub it from the Text!”

The soldiers turned with fierce eyes, hands reaching for their sword hilts.  A young man standing some paces away had shouted the words.  The street became silent as the passers-by stopped and watched nervously.

“And where does it say you can steal our sisters and daughters?”

The taunt was followed by the sound of swords unsheathing and running feet.  The young man took flight and vanished into an alley, the soldiers followed but returned almost at once having evidently failed to catch their tormentor.  Alasam hurried them away from the scene, watching nervously over his shoulder as they went.

“What did he mean about sisters and daughters?” asked Torrin.

“We do not need to be concerned with what was said.  It was blasphemy, heresy, nothing more.”

“The priests take women, maidens, for their own, don't they?  Against their will?”

“No.  The church blesses them, and takes them into its protection.”

“Marasil, Cardura, Graselle?  They are blessed in this way?”

“They are so honoured.”

Alasam said the words but did not meet Torrin's eyes.  

“Are you slave or free man?” asked Torrin.

“I was born free.  Then I gave my service to His Lordship and am now bound to him until he releases me.”  Still Alasam looked away as he spoke.

“You gave him your life?”

“It was the only way.”  Alasam spoke almost in a whisper now.  Then he turned and looked Torrin in the eye again.

“I gave him my service when Marasil was taken.  She is my daughter.  It was a way to stay together.”

“You serve the man who stole your daughter?”

“I serve His Lordship and we are both pledged to do that, Protector.  Do not forget it.”  

When His Lordship returned he summoned Torrin to his chamber.  Torrin entered to find his master seated and writing.

“Vasagi, you will take this letter of introduction to a place where skills useful to you can be learnt.  Ask Alasam where the College lies.   You may report there now.”

He was handed the sealed envelope, and soon after he walked the avenues of the citadel towards a high walled enclosure containing a few buildings and much open space.  Guards admitted him suspiciously and he quickly saw what new skills His Lordship intended him to learn.  Priest-soldiers practised the art of combat all around him.  Some shot arrows and bolts into targets, others clashed with swords, the steel ringing as they swung, thrust and parried.  Horses galloped past, controlled skillfully by riders who hacked at straw men arranged beside their path.  A surly guard led him towards a building where smoke and vapours rose, where the sound of hammers beating on metal made a din.  

On entering he saw a score of men busy forging swords; beating the glowing metal upon anvils and sharpening new blades on rolling grindstones. The gleaming weapons stood all around in quantities beyond reckoning.   There were crossbows in production too, wooden stocks stacked high upon workbenches and countless wooden cases filled with bolts.  They passed into another chamber filled with sealed cases; identical to those he had seen in the ship’s hold, but in quantities sufficient to equip an army.  Torrin wondered what hands were meant to wield these weapons, what distant tribes would be seduced by their shine and glitter to do the will of Etoradom.

An officer of high rank stood beside an underling who was making a tally of the arsenal.  Torrin heard them speak as he approached.

“All these are to be loaded ready for the Havens.  Organise the wagons and a company of men to guard them.”

“Yes, sir.  Will ten men be sufficient?”

“No.  Make it twenty.  The Synod fears that heretics will seize one of these consignments before they reach the Havens.”

The officer saw Torrin, and looked at him as if he were some dung that the horses had left in his path.  He snatched the letter from Torrin’s hand and scanned it quickly.

“So, ‘protector’,” he said the word in a derisory and doubtful way, “you are to be trained in combat?”

“If that is my Lord’s instruction.”

“Come outside, let’s see what you are made of.”

On the training field a tall and powerful soldier was beckoned.  The other priests stopped their practice and gathered to watch what promised to be good entertainment.  Torrin and his opponent were armed with staffs, which the tall soldier twirled expertly in his hands.

It did not go well for Torrin, his feet were knocked from under him with a single swift blow that left him sprawling.  The spectators cheered and laughed.

Torrin rose warily and circled the smiling soldier.  He tried a blow, but it did not connect, and he found himself a moment later winded and hurting on the ground.

“Come on you heathen savage, come on, do you have no anger?”  The soldier taunted him as he got to his feet once more.

“Hey, heathen,” called his opponent, “do you have a wife?”

“That is not for you to know!” snapped Torrin, gripping the staff harder.

“Where is she now, heathen?  Who’s between her thighs? Is it her father? Or her dog?”

Torrin struck at him in a fury and managed one good blow before being knocked to the ground again.

“Well then,” said his adversary, a trickle of blood leaking from his nose, “so you can fight.”

He snorted, threw the staff down and walked away.  As he went the crowd dispersed, leaving Torrin to struggle painfully to his feet.

Life settled into a new routine.  There were the long dark periods through the time of sleeping.  Then His Lordship would leave for the tower and spend some hours in secret conference.  Torrin would sleep a while and was then free to wander the city as he pleased.  He went often to the college, as commanded by his master, and slowly mastered the art of the sword and of the horse.  His instructors told him that he would never be a warrior, that he had not enough hate and anger inside him.  This opinion did not displease him, for he was never comfortable wielding weapons made for the killing of men.  He did not much like the company of the priests; some treated him kindly enough, but to most he was just a heathen, something less than human; a soulless creature like the animals.