Vault Of Heaven 01 - The Unremembered (92 page)

Tents and wagons and makeshift shops lined the road around them, a few drum fires burning low in the night. But those who lived or traded here now slept in anticipation of another day of work. Only a few wakeful souls sat close to the flames, not bothering to raise their eyes toward them as they passed. The smell of people living in close quarters drifted on the wind: food scraps, grease drippings, animals, waste. An emptiness touched Braethen’s heart as he wended his way through the midst of the sleeping crowds.

At the gates Vendanj knocked and stood back. From above, a guard looked down, screwing up his face to say something. At the sight of the Sheason, he clutched his helmet and disappeared quickly from sight. A moment later, the hinges toiled as the left gate drew inward and the guard filled the opening.

“Sheason.” He gasped for a breath. “Vendanj, you come to us late.”

“Good to see you, Milon.” Vendanj nodded and extended a hand.

The guard bowed his head as he clasped the Sheason’s hand in a familiar greeting. “Things are astir here, my friend. It is fortunate you come at night.”

“What news?”

“A writ restricts access to the city.” The soldier looked over his shoulder at something behind the gate. “The regent has called the convocation again, but few nations answer so far. We’re flooded with aspirants to vacant lower seats at convocation, and countrymen claiming the right to have voice in rule. Hand-sewn ribaldry set on rakes announces them.” Milon offered a wry smile.

“Ribaldry?” Vendanj echoed, slight remonstration in his tone.

“My apologies, Sheason.” The man bowed again. “But it hardly seems to us like heraldry here. There are maybe thirty lower seats for every king that sits at the main table at convocation. It’s been so long since the Second Promise, these ladies and fellows have no idea what they should be doing. And plenty of them are pretenders, mark me. Their votes won’t amount to much—if I have my guess—when the regent calls for vows at convocation. But then I may be wrong. And meantime, very few, whether true seat holders or not, would like to take command of men and lead them to chase rumors—”

Vendanj’s eyes cut the man off cold.

“My Skies, they aren’t rumors, are they?” The guard’s face slackened visibly.

“We’ve urgent business, friend. You’ll keep our entrance behind your teeth.”

The soldier nodded and immediately signaled for the gate to be opened wider.

Riding beside Grant, Braethen came last, looking with amazement at the immense, dark shapes of buildings towering against the night sky. It was difficult to believe they had arrived. The Hollows, Bollogh, Myrr, Sedagin, and Widows Village all seemed like ages ago.

Each stop along the trail to Recityv seemed to signal an ending of some kind—of peace, of idealistic notions, even of life. He pondered whether it might always be so for the Sheason.
What must that burden feel like?
It did not show in Vendanj’s face, except as a promise of action and the stolid determination to prove the rightness of his course.

Braethen’s legs and back ached, and his cut hand throbbed, but all the hours of flight could not steal the wonder of beholding the grandeur of Recityv, dark though it was. A few windows glowed with faint candles; and a few, high and dark, caught the long rays of starlight like heavenly winks.

It stood in contrast to the last two days’ ride. Braethen had marked farms where fields had gone to seed, and plows left in the midst of tilling a furrow in the soil. Stock pens lay empty and doors stood open as though left in a rush. Some homesteads were still occupied, but at most of these, people peered out through windows from safe distances, wariness in their eyes. Children had not ventured toward them, being held tightly to a mother’s hip. Men stood with a look as though they meant to spit.

Tonight they’d arrived past dark hour, Recityv being so close. Once through the gates, Braethen’s anxiety eased, his shoulders relaxed. Though he wondered what would happen to those encamped beyond the great wall should Bar’dyn follow them all the way to the city.

Mira assumed the lead and turned left, following a series of narrow alleys and rear streets where garbage lay clustered outside back doors. Cobblestone lay slick with the sour runoff of refuse, a few stinking heaps steaming warmly in the chill air. More than one beggar curled close to these sources of warmth, using the waste as pillow and blanket; they did not stir at their passing. Even the stench of offal and human filth seemed not to bother the alley people.

Soon, they passed from the merchant district to a quarter dominated by large homes and inns with stables. The Far reined in at the rear of a simple, fenced two-story house. A rear courtyard lay behind a wrought-iron barrier that stood twice the height of a man. Lesser light washed a fountain dominated by a statue of a woman bearing a vase, like a specter attending an unholy anointing.

Mira swung down from her saddle and scaled the fence. She dropped to the inner court and walked to the back door, her head turning constantly. She rapped softly, and a moment later the door opened without the accompaniment of a lamp that Braethen might have expected. Without hesitation, the fellow followed Mira to the gate, keyed the lock, and motioned them all inside. The man still wore his bedclothes, but did not seem discomfited by the intrusion. He locked the gate behind them and jogged to the small stable in one corner of the fenced yard. Again he opened the door and let them in.

When the horses had been tended, the man led them to the house, never speaking, and leaving lights off even once they sat to table in a dining area adjacent to the door. High windows admitted the neutral lunar light, paling the visage of their host—a middle-aged man with thinning brown hair and a strong face. It also hit Braethen squarely in the eye, and cast shadows of the others across the table, leaving their expressions cloaked.

“I apologize for the caution of darkness, Sheason,” the man began. “But we are watched closely since the regent’s order, and more yet since Rolen’s arrest.”

“What has happened, Malick?” Vendanj asked.

“Two months past, the Exigents laid a snare to trap him.” The man shook his head in disgust. “A leagueman poisoned one of his own children, believing it could solicit Rolen’s hands to heal the child. It worked. Rolen is being held in the catacombs beneath the Halls of Solath Mahnus. He will not rescue himself and waits there to be sentenced.”

“The order calls for death,” Mira said.

“Sentence of
how
to die, not
whether
to die,” Malick added.

Braethen could not see Vendanj’s face clearly, but his anger was tangible. Grant made an incredulous noise, chuffing air out his nose. Braethen looked away at the window and saw the Far’s profile come into focus. She seemed poised to attempt a rescue that very moment.

“Rolen will go to his death. He will hold to his covenant.” Malick shifted in his seat. “Forgive me, Sheason. You know what I mean.”

“It is nothing,” Vendanj said thinly. “Each man must attend the oath individually, Rolen in his way, I in mine.”

“We stand with you both,” Malick said, his voice serious and clear.

“I know, Malick. Thank you.”

Braethen’s heart leapt.
We stand with you both. Is this man a sodalist?
Searching his face and clothes, Braethen could see nothing to indicate it was so. No insignia, no weapon. Nothing in the room to show it. Yet the timbre of his voice as much as the proclamation to Vendanj told him it was true. Braethen’s weariness sloughed off him like a shed garment.

“You will not be safe here long,” Malick resumed. “The recall of the High Council and the Convocation of Seats has upset the league leadership. They fear a challenge to their authority. Those few of us who remain in Recityv are hounded as relics of an unfortunate age. By day men and women loiter outside, often following us upon our errands. By night they haunt shadows. I pray you weren’t seen coming.

“Between us, my guess is that they are worried the council might reverse the Civilization Order. That is why, I believe, they set their snare for Rolen. Forcing his hand garnered them support among the people. It does not take much to incite suspicion of a renderer. And the example of a Sheason who is also a lawbreaker reinforces the need for that law.”

“Has any appeal been made?” Grant asked.

“There can be no appeal of such a decision,” Malick said ruefully. “The Court of Judicature has voted on it. Helaina could have chosen her own wisdom over that of the court, but it is unlawful to challenge the mandate once it is law. Such a thing would bring the irons to the protester’s wrists.”

“Perhaps not,” Grant replied.

Braethen wondered how someone could defy the will of the council and later escape punishment. The exile seemed to have something in mind.

“The irony is that the leagueman was also convicted of treason and sentenced to hang.” Malick smiled bitterly.

“I would have liked to have spoken with him,” Vendanj said.

“You still may,” Malick told him. “On the moment of his descent in the noose, an arrow severed his rope and dropped him to the ground unharmed.”

Vendanj sat forward, his head inclining at an inquisitive angle. “By whose hand?”

“The League claims he is not one of theirs. But they needn’t protest, not with us anyway.” Malick splayed his fingers on the table before him. “We here don’t believe they would try to save their man; he’s to be made an example of. No, it was a stranger.

“The Convocation of Seats has brought gentry from far and wide. With them, pretenders to the same appointments come in droves. Some follow the scent of fortune and the promise of a name to be earned in gallantry, all believing that some campaign is imminent. A great many more wait beyond the wall, Vendanj.” It was the first time the man had used the Sheason’s name, and it raised the hair on the back of Braethen’s neck. “
These
men are sent by their mothers, their wives, land folk who say that in the great stretches between Recityv and Con Laven Flu they hear the coming of the Quiet. Men and boys sent here to prepare for war because they want to protect their homes and families.

“Leather jerkins, hay forks, crooked staffs, sharpened hoes, old plow horses, and cabbage boots, Vendanj. They sit in open fields, held at bay by a necessary writ that keeps them beyond the city wall. While inside, the streets teem with charlatans, profiteers, conscripted leagueman eager for a little authority, and the soft scions of noble houses expecting a commission from Van Steward in a battle they claim is nonsense behind the backs of their hands. I’ve not seen such things in all my skies.

“The rescuer is one of these fellows, no doubt,” Malick continued. “Seeking to earn a name for himself by cutting free a leagueman sentenced to hang to death.” Malick shook his head again.

“You believe the leagueman is innocent?” Vendanj asked incisively.

Malick drew his head back sharply at the question. “As innocent as any Exigent. Fah. But the man had a family. There’s a sadness in that.”

“Where is this man now who cut him loose?” Grant demanded.

“According to those sympathetic to us, the archer is confined to the same cell given Rolen—an Exigent’s idea of insult and justice. They’ll attempt to try it as a high crime. Claim it repudiates the wishes of the regent—”

“Did this archer act alone?” Mira cut him off.

“He came with another. Both are imprisoned. None know his name, but he is cursed in the streets as the Archer.”

“This other who came with the archer,” Mira pressed, “did he wear a glove?”

“The glove of the Sedagin,” Malick said. “Do you know this man?”

Braethen’s head whirled. Tahn and Sutter had made it to Recityv safe.

“We do,” Braethen broke in. “They are friends of mine from the Hollows.” For the first time Malick gave Braethen a long look. “I am Braethen,” he said, introducing himself and extending a hand toward Malick in the cold light of the moon.

Malick met the greeting. As they clasped hands, Braethen instinctively folded his first finger back into Malick’s palm. At the token, Malick’s jaw dropped visibly. He likewise folded his first finger back, and squeezed Braethen’s hand in an iron grip. “And we are one,” he said.

Braethen could think of only one response. “I am I,” he intoned softly. In the neutral light, Braethen watched as amazed eyes whipped to Vendanj, seeming to seek confirmation.

The Sheason nodded gravely. “He wears the Blade of Seasons, Malick. I have entrusted it to his hands. His stripling years are not long behind him, but he has studied the books. And at Will’s door he accepted the metal, though its edge was and is yet a stranger to him.”

“Pardon my doubt, Sheason, but how can this be so? A boy to wield the blade. And how will he learn his duties to it, to us … to you?”

“He knows some. I give you leave to teach him as you can,” Vendanj said. “For but an hour. Tomorrow’s work will require sleep.”

“An hour?” He shook his head. Then focused again. “What’s to be done about the rest?” Malick dropped his hand from Braethen’s grip and looked back at Vendanj.

“We will speak with the regent. The man they call Archer must be set free, both he and his friend. The Whited One pursues them, even into the Hollows, even to the forests beyond the Nesbitt Hills.” Vendanj looked away as though seeing the western hills they’d traversed to reach Recityv. “Helaina was right to call the convocation. Pray it has not come too late.”