Tetrarch (Well of Echoes) (55 page)

‘How far now?’ Nish asked as they were taking breakfast by a stream whose pebbly bottom was perfectly clear. It was broad but shallow; the twins were frolicking in the water.

‘We’ll be there this afternoon.’

The ground had been climbing for some time, and across the stream they struck a path that wound up into hills that grew ever steeper. When they stopped for lunch the horses were plodding. The trees still extended in every direction, making it impossible to see where they were headed.

At the top they entered a clearing whose edge was marked by an old stone wall, partly collapsed and covered in moss. The trees hung over it. A wooden gate had once closed the path but only rotting timbers hung from the hinges. They rode across a meadow of cropped grass, by a cluster of roofless cottages. The inside walls were scarred by fire. The place made Nish shiver. More work of the scrutators?

On the other side, they looked over a shallow cliff. A river, broad, deep and entrenched into its valley, looped across a green floodplain. Below, the narrowest part of one loop had been cut through to make a dome-shaped island a third of a league across.

It was a pretty place, with orchards and vineyards higher up and lush meadows stretching down to the river. On top of the hill stood a large villa or chateau, built entirely of timber so old that it shone silvery in the sun. It was all verticals. The roofs rose in steeples, at least a dozen of them, covered in shingles. Verandas extended on all sides, in and out and in again. Everywhere he looked was another detail to distract the eye.

‘It’s stronger than it seems,’ said Yara. ‘Morgadis has stood for twelve hundred years, and troubled no one in that time.’

‘Has anyone troubled it?’

‘Many times, but eternal vigilance is our watchword.’

‘How pretty and peaceful it appears.’

‘No one has worked harder than Mira for peace.’

‘And yet she has lost a husband and three sons,’ said Nish. ‘I would do anything to end this conflict.’

‘You will have much to talk about, in that case, though I would advise you to choose your words with particular care.’

T
he river, the principal defence of Morgadis, ran fast and deep. No horse could have swum it, while waterfalls upstream and rapids downstream restricted the use of boats to a couple of leagues either side of the island. A rope bridge, supporting a plank walkway, was the only way in or out. It hung low to the water and Nish did not like the look of it. How was he going to lead his horse across that?

Fortunately he did not have to, for people appeared out of the forest and took the animals away. Mounce went with them. After an exchange of signals with the other side, they went across on foot.

The bridge held no fears for Yara or the children, who had crossed it many times. Nish followed, trying to appear nonchalant. It swayed underfoot and he was uncomfortably aware of the weight of his pack. If he fell in it would take him all the way to the bottom. But then, if he fell in he would drown anyway, for Nish was a poor swimmer.

He reached the other side in safety. To his left was a timber boatshed with two dinghies propped against one wall. Beyond were stacks of sawn timber and a partly erected timber frame, perhaps an extension to the boatshed. He followed the others up the hill, thinking of a cool drink and, with any sort of luck, a long scrub in a hot bath.

Up a steep series of steps, they turned onto a broad veranda. There they were met by a small woman, a head shorter than her sister, trim of figure and with neat, regular features, though set in hard lines. Her eyes were crinkled as though laughter had once not been far away, but no longer. Her lush brown hair was threaded with grey yet she could not have been more than thirty-five. She did not look anything like Yara.

They embraced. ‘I thought …’ the woman bit her lip.

‘What?’ smiled Yara.

‘That I would never see you again, or the twins. Everyone I love goes away and they don’t come back.’

‘I will always come back,’ said Yara. ‘Liliwen, Meriwen?’

They embraced their aunt, who then turned, looking questioningly at Nish.

‘My sister, Mira,’ said Yara. ‘Mira, this is Cryl-Nish Hlar, known to his friends as Nish. He has escorted us all this way.’

‘I’m pleased to meet you, Mira,’ said Nish, holding out his hand.

Mira’s hand stopped halfway. ‘Hlar?’ she said, studying his features. ‘Is he related to that warmongering perquisitor, Jal-Nish?’

‘His father is Jal-Nish Hlar, now acting scrutator for Einunar,’ said Yara.

Mira let her hand fall to her side. ‘I’m sorry, Cryl-Nish Hlar, but I don’t care what service you have rendered my sister. No Hlar is welcome in my house.’

Nish felt as if he had been slapped across the face. He stepped backwards, gained control of himself and bowed. ‘I am not my father, Mira, but if my presence causes you distress I will go at once.’

‘Stay,’ said Yara, waving her hand at him. ‘Mira, know that after the fall of Nilkerrand, Meriwen and Liliwen were lost and wandered alone on the road for a night and a day. Had not Nish befriended them they would have been despoiled and murdered by two of the vilest ruffians in the world. And he has done us further service since. Twice he saved my daughters’ lives.’

Mira stared at the girls. She put her hand over her open mouth. Nish thought she was going to scream, though her eyes were as dry as dust.

‘They were not harmed,’ said Yara, ‘though they will remember it to the end of their days.’

Mira threw her arms around the twins and wailed. It went on for ages. Nish looked on uncomfortably. Her eyes were webbed with red.

Yara stood back, head cocked to one side. ‘And so,’ she said when the embrace finally broke up, ‘if Nish is not welcome at your house, neither am I, nor my daughters.’

Nish was astonished. Although Yara had thawed since the monastery, he would never have expected her to defend him against her sister.

Mira pulled away, rubbed her eyes and made a supreme effort which dissolved the lines from her face and for a moment made her seem ten years younger. She must have been a striking woman, he thought,
before
.

‘I am sorry, Nish,’ she said, giving him her hand. It was deathly cold. ‘No doubt my sister has told you of my troubles. The war has torn out my heart and hacked it to pieces, leaving nothing but the curse of my own life. But that is not your affair. You must be weary. Come inside. The hospitality of my house is yours, though I cannot promise you entertainment.’

‘All I look forward to,’ said Nish, ‘is hot food, cool drink, and a bed wherever I may find one. I swear if you propped me against the fence I would go to sleep.’

Mira managed a smile and once again her face was transformed. ‘I can promise you all those things. This house has plenty of vacant beds, including my own.’ Her face crumpled, she choked back a sob, then froze her face and turned inside.

Yara said something to Nish with her eyes, though he could not read it. He followed her up the steps. The house was large, efficient and well run. Nish was provided with a handsome room lined with boards, walls and ceiling, looking out onto the veranda and down to the river, where mist was already rising with the evening. His dirty clothes were taken away and shortly a servant knocked at the door.

‘Your bath is ready,’ she said. ‘It is the door at the end of the hall.’

Nish sank into the warm scented water with a sigh of bliss. After scrubbing himself until his skin shone, he hung his arms over the side of the tub, closed his eyes and the next he knew the servant girl was knocking on the door. ‘If you would come to dinner, Mr Nish.’

Clean clothes were laid out on the end of his bed. Dressing hurriedly, he went down the hall to the stair, where another servant pointed him to the dining hall. This room was long, with panelled walls of dark timber and a steeple roof, also panelled. A fire crackled in a stone fireplace. A long table was set for five people.

Mira came in, wearing a gown of some clinging fabric that revealed a trim figure. Sitting at the head of the table, she indicated the chair to her right. ‘Please sit down.’

He hesitated, for Yara and the girls had not yet appeared.

‘I do not go in for pointless ceremony,’ she said.

Nish sat, looked at Mira, and away. What was he to say? ‘I am sorry,’ he said, ‘to hear about your –’

‘You did not know my man or my boys,’ she said, not harshly. ‘Let us talk of other things.’

Nish was generally comfortable with women of his mother’s age, and Mira was nearly that, but there was something about her that tangled his thoughts and he could not think of anything to say. ‘What would you like to talk about?’

‘Anything but war! What are you, Nish? A warmonger like your father?’

‘I am not. How do you know my father?’

‘My mother corresponded with every person of note on the continent. I have continued that tradition. And even among the monsters of this world the name Jal-Nish Hlar stands out. But the son is not
necessarily
the father.’

‘Do you travel a lot?’

‘I do not travel at all. Skeets were first tamed in these mountains by my family, more than eleven hundred years ago. We have been breeding them ever since. It is my sole pleasure, and I exchange with like-minded people all over the world, as my family have done for thirty-five generations.’

‘I never imagined such a thing,’ said Nish.

‘The Council of Scrutators think they own the world,’ said Mira, ‘but there are more powers, and older, than they know about.’

‘What do you mean by like-minded people?’

‘Is that the scrutator’s son asking?’

‘Of course not.’ He flushed.

‘I mean those who want peace rather than endless war.’

‘But the lyrinx –’

‘They did not start the war, and their every peaceful overture has been brutally rejected.’

Nish was staggered. ‘Are you saying that the scrutators
want
the war to continue?’ Another piece of a puzzle.

‘Some do, or did – those at the top. It suited their purpose in the early days, for it gave them control of the world. But control is slipping from their grasp. They cannot lose face by compromising, and the lyrinx no longer wish to. So we must fight until they are extinct, or we are. I do my small best to change that. What is your profession?’

‘I was forced to become an artificer at the age of sixteen,’ he said carefully, and as her face hardened he rushed out, ‘but before that I was a prentice scribe to a merchant of Fassafarn.’

‘What name?’ she interrupted.

‘Egarty Teisseyre. Do you know him?’

‘Only by reputation. He is honest enough, for a merchant.’

‘I loved being a scribe,’ he said wistfully. ‘And I was a good one, too.’

‘I suppose artificing was your mother’s doing, to save you from the army.’

‘So it seems, though it was a long time before I realised it. I
hated
being an artificer. I worked hard at it,’ he added hastily. ‘I did my duty, though I have little talent for that kind of work.’

Yara appeared with the twins, and the talk went on to other matters. It was an uncomfortable dinner, with long silences, and when the girls began yawning uncontrollably Yara rose, saying, ‘I will take my leave, sister, for I am quite as tired as they are. Good night.’

Nish rose as well but Mira said, ‘Stay awhile, unless you are weary. It is not yet nine.’

‘I napped in the bath and feel quite refreshed.’

‘Would you care for wine?’ The opened flask had been sitting on the table all through dinner but, as Yara had declined, Nish had felt out of politeness that he should do the same.

‘I would love some,’ he said. ‘I seldom get the opportunity to taste good wine.’

‘My man loved wine.’ She shivered. ‘Come, let’s sit by the fire.’

Nish was not cold, but he took his wine cup and sat in the other chair.

‘Ten years I have lived without my man,’ she said. ‘No man; no sons.’ She dabbed at her eyes with her sleeve.

Again he did not know what to say. They stared at each other.

‘What was his name?’

‘Chamfry, but I always called him Cham. It was my special name for him. Cham and I did our duty. I bore our first son when I was fifteen, the last three years later. I lost my man when I was twenty-two, my first son seven years after that. Each was fourteen when the war took them, one after the other. They were still children. That is my life, Nish. What is yours?’

Nish began on his tale from the moment he arrived at the manufactory. He told Mira everything, and with complete honesty for the first time in his life. He could not do otherwise, not to someone who had suffered as she had. Nish spoke of his difficulty with women of his own age – that he found himself tongue-tied and speechless. He told her about his crude pursuit of Tiaan, her rejection, and everything that happened afterwards, all the way to Tirthrax.

The level in the flask went down. Mira opened another.

‘I’m not a very nice fellow,’ he said, a little tipsy, and proceeded to tell her every one of his failings, real and imagined.

Leaning forward, she topped up his cup. ‘Go on with your tale, Nish. It quite takes me away from my own troubles.’ She pulled her chair closer.