The Hero's Lot (12 page)

The bleeding slowed. Rale turned the bolt by increments as Rokha wiped the blood away.

“That's it. Stop.”

Errol could see the ends of the watchman's severed artery. With deft movements, Rokha threaded a small needle and began sewing the captain's leg together. The watchman clenched his teeth and stared at the sky. Sweat poured from him, but he never moved.

At last Rokha tied the last knot and put away her needle. As Errol watched she dug through her pouch, unstopped a bottle that held a gray powder, and sprinkled a generous amount on
the captain's wound. The watchman hissed, his lips drawn tight against his teeth, and then appeared to lose consciousness.

Rokha drew a deep breath and nodded to Rale. “Release the pressure slowly, very slowly.”

Errol's gaze locked onto the watchman's artery, willing Rokha's stitches to hold. Blood welled in the wound.

“It's not holding,” he said.

Rokha watched for a moment longer. “Yes it is. The blood is from smaller veins—serious, but not life-threatening.” She wrapped the wound with long strips of cloth in a figure eight and tied them off.

“Now what?” she asked.

Rale sighed. “We'll drop him off at Port City. There are healers there who can take care of him.”

“No,” Errol said. Every gaze turned to him where he still held the watchman's leg. “He'll want to come with us. And we won't be going to Port City. I made a mistake planning our route too far ahead. The only way to avoid Valon's net is to make our decisions quickly, randomly. That way, by the time he knows where we're headed, it will be too late for him to catch us.” As the words left his mouth, his eye twitched. His plan was sound, but he was missing something.

“Makes sense,” Rale said.

“He won't be able to travel for at least a week, Errol,” Rokha said. “That artery needs time to heal.”

Errol shrugged. “Then we'll get him some urticweed to help with the bleeding so he can recover more quickly.”

Rale regarded him with serious brown eyes. “How do you know he wants to come with us?”

Errol met his gaze. How much could he say? He glanced down at the captain of the guard. “He said he wanted to make sure I lived. When he wakes we'll ask him what he meant. In the meantime we'll need a stretcher.” He turned away before they could ask him any more questions.

The ship heeled over to bypass Port City and sailed for the next major port north, a hundred-league journey to Steadham, the capital of the Einland province. Merodach woke halfway there, his eyes sharp, darting. Errol held vigil by his side. Everyone else had been kept away, ostensibly by Rale's orders, but in reality by Errol's request.

The watchman nodded. “You're alive.”

Errol's fingertips floated across the smooth grain of his staff. “You seem to be of two minds about that, Captain. First you try to kill me, and then you seem bent on keeping others from doing that very thing.”

Merodach didn't smile, but something in his countenance lightened for a moment before he grew somber again. “My men?”

Errol shook his head. “You were the only survivor, Captain. I'm sorry.”

A sigh. “They wanted you very badly, Errol, to chance so many men in the strait.”

“Why would the number of men make any difference?”

Merodach stared at the ceiling of Salo's cabin, commandeered as the watchman's makeshift infirmary. “That ship is a declaration of war. I have no doubt the Merakhi had hoped to keep us asleep for a while longer, preying on our desire for peace.”

Errol waited for more. Merodach lay with his eyes closed. Only the twitch of his sword hand gave evidence of wakefulness.

“What is your part in this, Captain? You seem determined to go to extreme lengths to keep me alive.” Errol's pulse quickened. Each time he'd encountered Merodach, the captain of the watch had appeared without warning—to fight or save him and then disappear without explanation. Now the captain's wounds held him captive. An unexpected opportunity to interrogate Merodach presented itself.

Merodach opened his eyes, stared at the ceiling.

If only Errol could find the key to unlock the man's tongue. Desperate acts meant desperate motivations. Attacking a three-masted cog loaded with crossbows was definitely desperate.

Errol leaned in, drawing closer to his erstwhile assassin. “We're
headed north, Captain. Our plans for Port City were made too far ahead of time. Valon, or one of his circle, knew of them.”

The captain acknowledged this but didn't speak.

“I'll send Rokha to you now that you're awake.” Impatience rankled Errol like an itch he couldn't scratch. “We'll make provisions for your care once we reach port.” He rose, turned his back to the watchman. Merodach's voice caught him at the entrance.

“You cannot afford to leave me behind, Errol. I will be able to ride as soon as it is necessary. Valon gambled much on this attack and lost. It will take him time to marshal enough men for another strike—but when he does, you'll need me with you.”

 12 
The Cathedral

M
ARTIN STARED AT HIS FEET
while he worked his way toward the cathedral. A light drizzle, unexpectedly chill in the early autumn air, aided them. The people of Windridge who had cause or desire to be on the streets went with their heads down. Martin and Luis wouldn't attract attention.

He hoped.

In the week since the solis rescued them, Cruk had strengthened, but his ability to travel was still some days off. Martin chewed on this thought with resentment. Time spent with the solis, implacable as a Frataland glacier and sometimes as distant, had left Martin shaken. Every argument of theology and training he'd used to refute the herbman's statements had been ruthlessly turned aside.

Karele's rejoinders put Martin on the defensive. They all came down to a simple position: If Deas was supreme in power, then how could a simple herbman frustrate a consecrated benefice and the secondus of the conclave?

Luis walked next to him in silence that defined their interactions in Windridge. An urge, like a desire to shed a physical
burden, filled him, and he turned to the secondus to speak, to voice his desperate doubts. He swallowed his words, forced them down deep to his belly, where they churned.
Tell the church the spirit of Deas talks to men directly? Me?

They'd never believe it. The only real question was how they would kill Martin after he uttered such blasphemy. He stumbled at the thought and righted himself. He'd done his part. The priests in his diocese were forbidden to persecute the solis. Since Deas wanted someone to tell the Judica that Aurae spoke to the herbwomen directly, let someone else do it.

If
, he corrected with self-excoriation.
If
Deas wanted someone to tell the Judica!

“Not a sign,” Luis said.

Startled, Martin pulled his gaze from the grimy cobblestones to search for the object of Luis's comment. “What?”

The secondus almost sounded mournful. “There's no sign of pursuit, Martin. Not a trace. We've been out on the street for at least an hour, walking in a straight line toward the cathedral. The worst reader in Erinon could have tracked us by now.”

“Thank the three they cannot find us,” Martin said. Yet even to his own ears he didn't sound very thankful.

“It will mean the end of the conclave,” Luis said.

Martin nodded. Yes, and who knew what else?

They turned a corner, and the cathedral rose before them. A weight like a cloak of lead settled onto his shoulders. They'd come to Windridge looking for answers; now he wasn't sure he wanted them.

They crossed the broad plaza to the cathedral. The local guards, dressed in faded red uniforms of the church, stood watch over the approach, ignoring the complaints of those they ordered to raise their heads in the gray drizzle. Martin lifted his head, shivered a bit as the damp found his neck, and approached the lieutenant.

“We would like to see Abbot Gerold.”

The guard took in their nondescript clothing and shook his head. “So would most of the supplicants who come to the
cathedral. The abbot can't see you all. I'll let one of the brothers know you're here.”

Martin stepped close enough to the lieutenant to shield himself from casual passersby. Then he reached into his tunic and pulled out the heavy symbol of his office, cupping it in his hands so only the guard could see it. “Do you know what this is?”

The guard's eyes widened. He nodded, took a step back.

Martin stepped forward to keep the guard from bowing. “And do you know what it means?”

“Y-Yes, Your Excellency.” The guard stood, his body twitching as if he couldn't decide whether or not to genuflect.

Martin sighed. “Keep your voice down.” The lieutenant was probably a good man, but he wasn't very bright. Martin waited, but the man in front of him showed no sign of recalling his request. “The abbot?”

Relief washed over the guard's face at being presented with an opportunity to leave. “Yes, Your Excellency.” He turned and disappeared into the cathedral at a trot.

The guard returned a minute later with one of the brothers in tow. He practically flung him at Martin. “This is Brother Gilis.”

A short man with a bulbous nose and an unruly crop of thick black hair stood in front of Martin, trying to free his arm from the lieutenant's grasp. The church solider stared at Martin, seemingly unaware that he still held the brother's arm.

No, not a bright man. “Thank you, Lieutenant. I think you can let him go now.”

Gilis nodded his thanks. “I'll take care of our guests, Otto,” he said to the guard. Otto nodded but showed no signs of moving. The brother looked heavenward, muttered something that sounded like a prayer for patience under his breath. “You can go now, Otto.”

The lieutenant nodded several times, pumping his head up and down and smiling before he left.

Gilis lifted his hands. “A nice lad, the third son of a local lord.” He stepped to one side, raised an arm in an invitation to follow him into the cathedral. “If you'll follow me, I'll take you to the abbot.”

They passed from underneath the overcast skies into the deeper gloom of the cathedral. Candles burned in the narthex, where pilgrims offered prayers. The shadows of their bent forms danced on the walls in parody. Gilis led them to the right—through the sanctuary, past the sacristy, and down a hallway. He stopped before a pair of double doors Martin recognized as the previous abbot's personal dining room. With a knock, Brother Gilis escorted them into Abbot Gerold's presence, bowed, and withdrew.

Martin paused to appreciate the change in decor. Abbot Gerold was cut from different cloth than Morin, thank Deas. Morin's opulent furnishings had been replaced with a simple trestle table and chairs. Except for the signs of the abbot's office and a pair of detailed drawings of the cathedral, the walls were bare.

Martin nodded to Gerold. “My compliments to your decorator, Abbot. The furnishings are much improved since I visited last.”

Gerold, tall with a hawklike nose and that bird's piercing hazel eyes, waved his arms to show his dismay. “You saw that? When I arrived, I thought I'd walked into a brothel. As bad as this room was, Morin's private chambers were a nightmare. I had Brother Dominic sell the furnishings. He bargains well, but I'm afraid the sheer quantity of Morin's frippery overwhelmed the market for such things.”

The abbot's casual manner melted away, and his eyes became even more piercing. “I'm given to understand that you are a benefice. You'll forgive me if I seem doubtful, but we live in troubled times, and those who wear the red have been called to the Judica, in Erinon.”

Martin brought forth his symbol of office. “I am Benefice Martin Arwitten. This is Secondus Montari. A matter of urgency—those troubled times you spoke of—called us unexpectedly away from the proceedings on the isle.”

Gerold nodded his apology. “Please forgive my hesitation. How may I serve you?”

Martin pulled a deep shuddering breath into his lungs. “Abbot
Morin kept a prisoner here, an old herbwoman guilty of nothing more than helping peasants in the countryside. I would like to have her released into my care.”

The abbot's face fell.

“She's dead!” Martin waved the bitter truth at Karele. In his peripheral vision, he saw Cruk stir and push himself up to a sitting position on arms that trembled with the effort.

“Yes,” Karele said. “I know.”

For some reason that simple acknowledgment stoked Martin's anger. He closed the distance between himself and the healer. “Do you know how she died?”

Their host shrugged. “She was killed in her cell, probably the night you escaped from Windridge.”

Why had he hit Morin? Martin tried to speak, but his words shattered in his throat. Tears burned his eyes as he gathered the broken shards of his speech and threw it at Karele. “I could have saved her!” He hid his face. “She was torn to pieces.”

Martin spun away from their stares, gathered himself. People died. He pulled a cloth from his pocket and scrubbed his face. “You could have saved us a trip to the cathedral. We never should have returned to this place.”

He could almost hear Karele shrug his feeble accusation away. “I don't think you would have believed me, and your trip to Windridge accomplished something necessary.”

Martin didn't respond. Their trip to Windridge had been a disaster; they should have trusted the lots and gone south. The herbwoman—the solis—was dead, and Cruk had almost died as well—all for a fat benefice's pride.

“What did we accomplish coming to this place?” Luis asked.

Karele's smile held more in it than Martin could discern. “You now know that the solis, with Aurae's guidance, can nullify a reader's craft.”

Martin held up a hand, as if he could keep the consequences of this new knowledge away. For hundreds of years the church's
decisions had been guided and confirmed by lot, by the skill and dedication of the conclave. What would they do now?

“Martin,” Luis called to him. “We will need all the allies we can get. They will be needed.” He gave a helpless laugh. “They can't help but be needed.” The secondus stood next to Cruk, his brown eyes filled with resignation. “Since Magnus's time, the conclave has belonged to the church, Martin, not to men. If casting lots becomes worthless, I will find another way to serve.”

Martin gave himself a shake. Enough talk. Despite the revelations they'd uncovered at Windridge, their mission remained the same. They needed to discover the truth behind Liam's and Errol's importance. He turned to Cruk. “How soon can you travel?”

“I can travel now,” the captain answered. Spots of fatigue on his sunken cheeks told a different story.

“Of course he can,” Karele said, “if you want him to die. I can't protect you outside the walls of Windridge.”

“Can you go with us?” Luis asked.

Martin stared at his friend in shock, vowed he would never again underestimate him.

Karele's gaze passed through Luis where he stood, and he cocked his head as if listening. When his eyes focused on Martin again, the solis's eyes were resigned. “I am commanded. Aurae says I am to submit to you.”

“When can Cruk travel?” Martin asked.

“Two days.” The healer shook his head. “But he'll be useless in a fight.”

The fact that their captain didn't protest Karele's assessment told Martin it was true.