The Goblin Gate (13 page)

Without waiting for an answer, she whisked Jeriah out of the room and down the corridor. They were descending the third-level servants’ staircase before he’d gathered his wits enough to ask, “What was that about?”

“Young Nevin making a fool of himself? If you’ve met him, that shouldn’t surprise you. I’m Mistress Chardane, by the by.”

“No, I meant…” Jeriah wasn’t sure what he meant. “Has the Hierarch been ill? I hadn’t heard that he had stomach problems.”

Severe ones, judging by Nevin’s reaction. But if that was true, why conceal it?

“Stomach problems?” They’d reached the fourth level, and Mistress Chardane was already turning away. “Even being personally chosen by the Bright Gods doesn’t grant a body perfect health, I suppose.”

“No, but why—”

“Lad.” The herb mistress turned back to him, her comfortable face inscrutable. “What happens on the second level is no business of yours or mine. If you want an old woman’s advice—which no youngling ever does—leave it be.”

Mistress Chardane departed. Was the Hierarch supposed to be so holy he was always in perfect health? Or was there some other reason to conceal the fact that he’d been ill? Chardane was probably right that it was none of Jeriah’s business, but he still wondered.

Two days after that Jeriah was checking out a discrepancy in the coal supply for the furnace—though furnace seemed too small a word for the thundering combination of water heater and pumps that not only supplied the laundry and bathing rooms, but also vented through all the floors and ceilings to heat the whole palace.

By midmorning Jeriah had determined that all the coal the merchant’s invoice claimed had been delivered was indeed stored in the subcellar bins, so the error lay in the palace inventory. Jeriah was making a note that the merchant’s payment should be expedited when Master Goserian came up to him, puffing from the long flights of stairs.

“Your presence has been requested in the Sunlord’s chambers,” he told Jeriah. “I wasn’t aware you’d ever served there?”

“I took the Hierarch a cup of tea,” Jeriah told him. “Which he requested! I don’t know why Brallorscourt made such a fuss over it.”

Master Goserian pursed his lips. “That would be Sir Nevin Brallor of Brallorscourt, not Lord Brallorscourt?”

Jeriah nodded.

“Then it probably isn’t a problem.” Relief brightened the Master of Household’s face. “I must admit, Lord Brallorscourt is a man I’d hesitate to challenge.”

“I’ve never even met Lord Brallorscourt,” said Jeriah. “And if he’s anything like his son, I don’t want to.”

Master Goserian cast him a disapproving look but said
nothing. After working for the man almost a week, Jeriah knew that meant that he agreed but didn’t want to say so.

Jeriah’s new-made resolve never to come to Lord Brallorscourt’s attention was foiled the moment Master Goserian led him into the Hierarch’s antechamber.

“So he’s the one.” The man who looked Jeriah over so critically had Nevin’s straight, pale hair, and also his bony nose and chin. “He looks suitable to me.”

Nevin scowled, but Master Zachiros, who was also present, nodded.

Master Lazur, the final person in the room, wore a particularly unreadable expression. “I never said he wasn’t suitable. My reservations are because of the…delicacy of the situation.”

Jeriah wished he knew what delicate situation they were talking about.

“He seems quite competent,” said Master Zachiros. “And the Hierarch likes him, which matters. In fact, given how many have already failed, I think that consideration is paramount.”

Who’d failed at what?

“It won’t be paramount if he’s out wandering the corridors unattended.” Nevin cast Jeriah a scathing look.

“That wasn’t young Rovan’s fault,” Master Zachiros pointed out. “And it wasn’t yours either. You can’t be in two places at once. Which is precisely the problem we need to solve.”

Jeriah wished they weren’t all staring at him. “What problem?”

“That’s not the only consideration,” said Master Lazur. “As the rest of you are well aware, because this is the third time I’ve said so!”

“But you’ve assured me the situation is under control,” Lord Brallorscourt said coldly.

“It is!” Master Lazur flung up his hands. “Oh, very well. If you all think this is the solution, we’ll try it.”

“What situation?” Jeriah’s voice was louder this time.

“Oh dear,” said Master Zachiros. “I’m sorry, we shouldn’t be ignoring you. But if Master Goserian gives you a good report…?”

“I do,” said Master Goserian. “Provisionally, because I don’t know what matter is under discussion.”

“We’re talking about assigning Master Rovan here to a new post,” said Master Zachiros. “As the Hierarch’s body squire.”

“What?” Jeriah’s head spun. “But…isn’t that Nevin’s job?” No wonder Nevin looked so furious.

“It used to be,” said Nevin’s father. “But I want him in a post with more political exposure. And when I say ‘in a post,’ I mean actually doing it, not neglecting it to serve—”

“This is a high honor for you, Jeriah,” Master Zachiros put in hastily. “The Sunlord himself requested your service. What do you say?”

What could he say? “It is an honor. Far higher than I deserve.”

Being the Hierarch’s squire would make it harder to look for the spell notes—had Master Lazur arranged it for that very reason? Tobin would probably start to sicken in just over two weeks. But it sounded like the priest had been arguing
against
giving Jeriah the job.

“It’s not too high an honor,” Master Lazur said, “for the brother of a hero who sacrificed himself for the good of the Realm.”

Was that some sort of warning? Jeriah sought frantically for a clever reply, but his wits were numb. “I’m, ah, honored.”

“Then it’s settled,” said Master Zachiros. “Before Dawn Prayer tomorrow, instead of reporting to Master Goserian you’ll go to the Hierarch’s rooms, and Nevin will begin instructing you in your duties. It’s a more complex job than you might think.”

Helping the Hierarch get dressed and serving him at meals? An honor, certainly, but complex?

Currents of hidden understanding seemed to flow between everyone present—except for Master Goserian, who looked almost as confused as Jeriah. Jeriah met Nevin’s hostile gaze and shivered.

The page woke him an hour before dawn next morning. The sky was slate gray when Jeriah hurried around to the central stairs. He heard movement in some of the rooms he passed, and a distant bird call.

What would serving the Hierarch entail? No matter what else happened, Jeriah still had to make time to search for the spell notes—even if he had to do it in the middle of the night. He’d made some progress, at least in terms of finding a number of places where the notes weren’t and marking many more places he needed to search. But it wasn’t going fast enough. If this new position took even more of his time…

On the second-level landing a guard stopped Jeriah, and asked his name and business. He was still trying to explain when Master Zachiros emerged from an entrance and waved for the guard to let Jeriah pass.

“Sorry about that. The guards on this level are more strict than on the other levels because…well, the reason will be obvious shortly.”

To Jeriah it already seemed obvious that the guards outside the Hierarch’s rooms would be more strict, but Master Zachiros went on, “I was supposed to give you a lecture on your duties and schedule this morning, but I’m running late again so you’ll just have to fake it.” His expression became serious. “You’ll soon see the way of things, I’m afraid.” He led Jeriah around the terrace as he spoke. “Just do what Nevin tells you—and more importantly, watch how he does his job. He’s very good at it.”

The outer entrance to the Hierarch’s quarters was a pair of guarded doors, embossed in gold with the emblem of the sun.

“Gentlemen,” Master Zachiros addressed the guards. “This is Jeriah Rovan of Rovanscourt, the Hierarch’s new body squire. He may be admitted at any hour on my authority.” The guards nodded, memorizing Jeriah’s face. Master Zachiros gave him an encouraging smile, opened the doors, and pushed him through.

Beyond the antechamber, which was even more richly decorated than the one Jeriah had already seen, was a beautifully appointed sitting room with comfortable benches and chairs. Warm woven rugs almost concealed the stone floor. The growing light from the windows told Jeriah he hadn’t much time, so he followed the sound of murmuring voices to a half-open door and entered the Hierarch’s bedroom.

There were three menservants present as well as Nevin, but Jeriah’s attention centered on the man who stood by the bed being dressed in priest’s robes that glittered with gold. Despite the creases age and responsibility had put on his face, the blue eyes held a deep serenity.

“You’re late.” But Nevin sounded more resigned than angry. “Come here. My lord,” he said respectfully to the Hierarch, “this is Jeriah Rovan of Rovanscourt, who will serve as your squire and help you in all things.”

Jeriah bowed. As he straightened, the Hierarch’s hand fell on his shoulder, and the blue eyes peered at his face.

“Jeriah,” said the Hierarch thoughtfully. “Good.” The hand fell away. Jeriah stepped back, feeling as if he’d passed some sort of test.

He watched carefully as Nevin and the servants finished the Sunlord’s robing. The garments weren’t complicated, despite their elaborate embroidery, and the menservants knew the process. They would remember anything Jeriah forgot.

The Hierarch’s gaze dwelled on the brightening windows. The sun awaited his welcome. What would it be like to have so much holiness, so much power?

Nevin glanced at the windows and murmured something, and the Hierarch rose and went to the door. Jeriah was about to follow him when Nevin hissed in annoyance and snatched a gold-trimmed tabard that matched his own out of a chest. He threw it at Jeriah, then dragged him after the Hierarch. Jeriah barely had time to pull it over his head as they climbed the temple stairs.

He’d been to enough dawn services by now that his mind had begun to stray during the prayer. This morning, knowing that he now served the man who welcomed the sun, its tranquility filled him once more. There were only three first-circle priests in the Realm, each of whom governed a separate district and held a seat on the Priests’ Council. The Sunlord, divinely chosen from all the priests above the third circle, had no ranking.

Serving him really was an honor. It might even please his father, at least a little. If Jeriah hadn’t had a brother to rescue, he’d have been thrilled by his new appointment.

After the ceremony the Hierarch disrobed. Jeriah put away
the gold-trimmed tabards, while Nevin chose the garments the Hierarch would wear that morning.

“A warm undertunic,” he told Jeriah. “It’s still chilly in the mornings. You have to pay attention to the weather when you do this, because after breakfast he hears public petitions—out of doors. The hearing room is that open area behind the Hierarch’s quarters. They put a canopy over his chair when it rains, but it’s never enough. So think when you choose his morning clothes.”

“Why don’t they do it inside?”

“‘The Bright Ones’ justice is to be administered under their sun, for all to see and hear,’” Nevin quoted. “It’s been that way forever.”

“What do they do if it snows?”

“Cancel the petitioning. We don’t get much snow here, though in winter that damp cold is a beast.”

The menservants brought breakfast, and Nevin lectured Jeriah as they ate. The Hierarch’s jewelry was enchanted to protect him from evil magics, and it must be properly stowed in a locked chest as soon as it left his body. For the evening prayers he entered the temple by the east stairs, in the morning from the west. His clothing must be of sufficient richness to preserve his dignity, and on and on.

The Hierarch, whose gaze had strayed to the windows, said almost nothing. Perhaps the holiness of the ceremony was still upon him.

A corridor at the rear of the Hierarch’s suite led out to a
crowded courtyard, where Master Zachiros sat at a writing desk on the dais that held the Hierarch’s throne. The desk, Jeriah was amused to note, concealed a footstool to prop up the secretary’s sore feet.

Nevin seated the Hierarch, then went down the dais steps to announce that petitions would be heard. “So, lad, how’s it going?” Master Zachiros asked quietly.

“It’s…confusing,” said Jeriah.

The Hierarch was gazing into space, over the heads of the crowd.

“It soon won’t be. Oh dear, where’s my pen?” Master Zachiros looked at the floor around the desk.

“It’s tucked behind your ear,” Jeriah informed him.

Nevin came back up the steps and announced, “Goodman Adder of Grimble Mill petitions the Sunlord for the return of three fields, seized for nonpayment of taxes two seasons past. The goodman offers the taxes he failed to pay and taxes for the next season, in hopes that the land may be returned to him.”

Nevin faced the Hierarch, but his gaze slid sideways to Master Zachiros. “Well?” he asked softly.

“Whose estate is he from?” murmured Master Zachiros, writing busily.

“Lord Solverscourt.”

“Hmm. Honest enough, but rigid as a splint. We take the taxes Goodman Adder failed to pay and half his taxes for the next season, leaving the other half for the goodman so
he can get a last crop in before he has to relocate. The Bright Gods are merciful and all that.”

Nevin bowed to the Hierarch, turned to the crowd, and announced the decision. Throughout, he had stood so his body hid the fact that the Hierarch hadn’t spoken, and had kept his face turned so it looked like he was talking to the Hierarch instead of Master Zachiros.

The chill in Jeriah’s heart spread, and his hands began to tremble. He clenched them and knelt before the Sunlord, looking up at his face. The blue eyes were serene as the sky…and as empty.

T
HEN THE STREAM DIED
.

“I just woke up and found it like this.” Tobin’s voice was steady; a soldier making a report. Makenna wondered why he’d awakened half an hour before dawn, but no one asked questions like that these days—she had enough nightmares of her own, without adding other people’s to the load. And he’d had the sense to fetch just her and Miggy, instead of rousing the whole camp to panicked wonder.

Gazing at the puddles lying between the rocks where a swift stream had run, Makenna was grateful for that. She felt a bit panicked herself, and she didn’t need an audience.

“There are things can stop a stream,” she told them. “Even sudden, like this. A big enough rock fall can create a dam and hold the water till it overflows and the stream runs again.”

“So all we have to do is wait a bit?” Miggy sounded both dubious and relieved.

“That might be all we need to do,” she said. “But I’m not
going to gamble on it. I need two scouting parties, Mig. One will go with Tobin and find us another stream, just in case. Tobin’s wandered a fair ways from the camp, scouting and timbering, so he’ll have the best idea which direction to go.”

Miggy looked troubled, but the young knight simply nodded.

Makenna didn’t give orders if she didn’t have to, but when she did, he accepted her command. It was one of the things she liked about him. Along with that quiet steadiness when bizarre things happened, and the way one corner of his mouth quirked up when the goblins said or did something that was perfectly natural to them but looked ridiculous to human eyes.

“The second party will go up the streambed with me,” Makenna went on. “I’ll want a Stoner, a Greener, a Flichter to find routes through thick brush, and whichever Bookerie knows the most about geology and water engineering.”

“And I’ll go—” Miggy began, but Makenna cut him off.

“You need to stay here, in charge of the camp while I’m gone. Someone has to, and you’re the one I trust most for it.”

“But mistress,” Miggy protested, “the others won’t take orders from another goblin. You know they won’t.”

“They will if I order it,” Makenna said. “As they used to take Cogswhallop’s orders.”

“But we were at war then!” Miggy wailed. “It’s not the same.”

Makenna’s gaze went to the empty streambed. “Isn’t it? I’m beginning to wonder.”

It took them the better part of two days to hike to the place where the stream had been blocked—but once they reached it, there could be no doubt what the problem was: a whole hill, almost a small mountain, complete with trees and wild-flowers, filled the gorge the stream had run down, cutting across the bed as if a giant had scooped it up and dropped it there.

“How is this possible?” Makenna stared at the green-clad slope, half expecting it to vanish when she blinked. But it hadn’t yet.

A few raw, dirty rocks had spilled into the streambed from the hillside’s edge, but the rest of its grassy soil looked undisturbed. And the trees…

“Not possible.” The Stoner glared up at the hill as if its existence were a personal affront.

“Possible or not,” said the Greener grimly, “I can tell you that most of those trees are decades old, some nearing a century. Even the smallest have been growing there for years.”

“This hill hasn’t been here for years.” Makenna stamped a booted foot in one of the puddles. The splash was small. The puddles were already drying.

“Amazing,” the Bookerie breathed. “It is clearly impossible for this hill to be here. But here it clearly is. A genuine,
incontrovertible paradox. Which in reality can’t exist! But here it is!”

He was clearly thrilled, and Makenna almost turned her glare on him. But Bookeries were what they were, and perhaps his scholarly obliviousness was just as well.

Makenna was terrified. And beginning to get angry. If they hadn’t been the only ones in this world, if it wasn’t completely impossible for
anyone
to move an entire, intact hill—complete with trees!—she’d have thought they had an enemy.