Beyond the Hanging Wall

The hound jerked to a halt, his head raised, his body quivering. There. Again. The secret whistle he had been trained to obey from puppyhood. Without hesitation he bounded down a small trail through the trees, following the sound only canine ears could pick up.

The other hounds attached to the hunting party did not recognise the whistle, and so they paid it no heed.

Maximilian pulled his chestnut mare to a halt, frowning. Why had Boroleas bounded off like that? His mare fidgeted, eager to run, and Maximilian’s frown relaxed into a grin. Perhaps Boroleas had picked up the scent of a hart. The hound had more than proved himself in the six months since he’d arrived at court, the gift of an anonymous well-wisher for the prince’s fourteenth birthday, and Maximilian
trusted the hound’s instincts. He looked about, still hesitating. The rest of the hunting party had spurred their horses after the pack of hounds following the trail north, and in the excitement no-one paid the prince any attention.

Maximilian’s grin widened as he made his decision, and he swung his mare after Boroleas. Let the pack follow the hare, he thought, for when I corner the hart I shall earn a place in the first ranks of the hunt.

The mid-afternoon light faded into dull gloom almost as soon as Maximilian urged his mare down the narrow forest trail. She was fleet of foot and eager to run, and soon drew close enough to the hound to allow Maximilian to see Boroleas’ dim shape racing between the trees.

The scent of the hart
must
be strong, he thought, for Boroleas to race so unhesitatingly. Caught fast in the thrill of the chase, Maximilian leaned still further over the mare’s neck, urging her to greater efforts.

Only the sounds of the forest followed Maximilian down the forest path. As yet, no-one had noticed his absence from the hunting party.

Boroleas gave a bay of excitement and leaped into a small glade dappled with pale forest light. Maximilian pushed his mare after the hound, convinced that Boroleas had finally cornered the hart, then lost his grip on reins and saddle as his mare twisted sideways in a massive shy.

The prince hit the grassy floor of the glade hard enough to knock the breath from his body and force
dirt between his teeth. He lay still for a moment, then spat the dirt out and rolled slowly onto his back, blinking ruefully at the light as it filtered through the forest canopy. “Father will surely have words for me now,” he muttered, slowly sitting up and wincing at the grazes on the heels of his hands.

Then he raised his eyes to look for his horse and all thoughts of his father’s retribution fled from his mind.

He was surrounded by silent horsemen, the last of them just emerging from the shadows behind the trees.

Boroleas gazed incuriously at the prince. He sat quietly by the side of a horseman idly swinging a small whistle to and fro in one hand.

“What?” Maximilian said softly, half rising to his knees. All of the horsemen were dressed in brown leather body armour, their heads encased in dull metal helmets; black cloths, wrapped about the lower portions of their faces, hid their features. None wore markings or insignia of any kind.

To the last man, their eyes were cold and unblinking.

For the first time in his life, Maximilian felt the glimmerings of true fear. As the only heir to the throne of Escator, Maximilian’s father kept him well protected—too well, as far as Maximilian was concerned—thus his rush of excitement earlier when he’d thought to corner a hart all by himself.

Now he wished he were safe at home with his mother soothing his black hair back from his brow and his father reading him yet another lesson on the art of kingship.

His movements slow, Maximilian rose warily to his feet.

If he felt afraid, it did not show on his aquiline face.

One of the horsemen kicked his mount forward. “Well, well, Prince,” he said, his voice roughened with outlander accents and heavy with sarcasm. “Lost yourself, have you?”

The prince took a small step backwards, a hint of fear finally shining from his deep blue eyes.

The horseman laughed, harshly and gutturally, and turned his head slightly to one side. “Have you heated the irons, Furst?”

“Aye, my lord,” answered a man standing unseen behind the circle of horsemen. “But would it not be easier to kill him? Have done with the brat here and now?”

Now openly terrified, Maximilian whipped about on his heel, seeking escape, but the encircling, blank cold eyes left no room for hope.

As he stopped, his chest heaving, the horseman slid to the ground, drawing his sword with a chill rattle. “A tempting suggestion, Furst. But no. Even though it has been carved on a changeling, the mark guards him from a murder. Now, no hesitation. We have our orders. Seize him!”

They searched for days, then weeks, and hope only faded after months. The people of Escator mourned with their king and queen, for Maximilian had been a beloved prince, and his disappearance spelt the end of the Persimius family, who had ruled Escator for centuries.

Two years later a woodsman, searching for spoor in an isolated quarter of the great forest, stumbled on a pile of bones at the foot of a ravine. Horse bones, his sharp eyes saw, and those of a dog. Several of the bones were scored with raking claw marks, and the horse’s left femur had been ground by powerful jaws intent on finding the marrow. The woodsman raised his eyes, suddenly wary. But curiosity overcame wariness. What had happened to the rider? He spotted a trail through the rocks and climbed forward, his movements slow and silent. A little further down the ravine he found a deep overhang of rock guarding the entrance to a small cave.

A bear’s den. Now his every movement stiff with care, the woodsman edged into the shaded recess. He paused and sniffed. The air was rank with the scent of bear, but he could not see or hear any movement, and so he crouched down, quickly sifting through a pile of bones to one side. They were broken and gnawed, and all but unrecognisable. The woodsman almost turned away, but his eye was caught by the glint of something golden underneath one of the heavier bones.

He pushed the bone to one side—and his eyes filled with sudden tears. A beautifully worked golden ring lay among the detritus of the bear’s hunger.

The woodsman picked it up. It bore the insignia of the Manteceros, the symbol of the royal family of Escator.

The woodsman bowed his head, his tears running free. Here lay what remained of the last member of the ancient house of Persimius. Six months previously the king had died, followed three short weeks later by
his queen. Neither had ever recovered from their grief at the loss of their only child, and the king’s distant cousin, Count Cavor, had succeeded to the throne.

“And best they be dead,” the woodsman mumbled, wiping his eyes with the back of one hand. “For it would have pained them greatly to have known of this sad end.”

He pocketed the ring, wondering whether he should make some attempt to bury these bones. But he decided against it. With the bear likely to return to its den at any moment he could not afford the time, and from what he could see there were few human bones left in this sad pile anyway. What remained of the prince was surely scattered from one end of the ravine to the other by this stage. It was a wretched resting place for a prince, but there was little he could do about it.

The woodsman shook his head, said a swift prayer for the dead prince’s soul, then moved out of the ravine as quickly and as silently as he could.

For weeks he debated whether or not to pass the ring back to King Cavor. Finally he kept it, not really knowing the reason why.

ONE
THE SUMMONS
Fifteen years later…

“Feel it?” Joseph Baxtor asked his son in gentle tones.

Garth raised his head and met his father’s compassionate brown eyes. He nodded slightly, and Joseph could see the sickness flicker across Garth’s face. He was proud of his son; despite the pain and decay that he obviously felt through his hands, Garth had not flinched nor loosened his grip on the hand of the woman who sat on the chair between them.

Joseph touched the woman gently on the shoulder. “I will mix grinnock and juminar powders for you, Miriam, and you must take them four times a day mixed with milk. With milk, mind, otherwise they will irritate your stomach.”

Miriam, a small and delicately boned woman in middle age, sighed and stood. Garth let go her hand and stepped back. If he felt any relief at breaking the contact between them he did not show it.

“The ache is getting worse,” she said, and Joseph held her eyes steadily.

“I will not lie to you, Miriam. I can take the worst of it away with the grinnock and juminar mixture, but you have a wasting growth inside of you. I can do nothing to stop its spread.”

Her dark eyes were anguished. “Not even with…?” She glanced at his hands.

Joseph folded them before him. “I am sorry, Miriam. In your case I can soothe, but little else.”

Miriam’s eyes filled with tears and, unasked, Garth stepped forward and took her hand again. He had his father’s depth of compassion and now his face, as did Joseph’s, radiated understanding and sympathy.

Miriam blinked, then she composed herself, grateful for Garth’s touch. “You are a good boy,” she said quietly, and patted his hand. “Mind your father’s lessons.”

Then she turned and picked up her coat.

Joseph helped her slip it on, wincing at her fragile shoulders and arms, and grateful that his thick dark beard hid his expression. Despite his years of experience, it never failed to distress him when he was faced with a disease he could do nothing for. And Miriam was a close neighbour and a friend. It would be hard watching her die. “Garth will come around later this afternoon with your powders, Miriam. If you need anything more, let him know then.”

Miriam nodded, then turned and left the surgery, her rope-sandalled feet whispering across the stone-flagged floor, her thin fingers clutching the coat about her.

As the door closed behind the woman, Joseph looked at his son. “Are you all right, Garth?”

Garth turned away, fiddling with some instruments on a tray to one side. He was a rangy youth, tall and raw-boned, but with warm hazel eyes and an open and friendly face under a mop of curly hair as dark as his father’s beard. On his twelfth birthday, almost four years ago now, Garth had entered his seven-year apprenticeship in the craft of physic with his father.

It was a craft he had been born to. Not only because Joseph was a master physician himself, but because Joseph had bequeathed the Touch to his son. For generations the Baxtor physicians had aided their knowledge of diseases and herbal powders with their gifted and sensitive hands. The Touch could not heal by itself, but it aided understanding, soothed hurts, and encouraged the processes of healing. In Garth the Touch was stronger than it had been for many generations; Joseph knew that one day he would be a physician of note.

But the Touch also acted as a conduit for malignant tumours that sometimes afflicted people, and Joseph realised Garth would be feeling physically ill himself after holding Miriam’s hand for some fifteen minutes. The Touch was a wonderful gift, but when a Baxtor boy began to demonstrate his burgeoning powers around nine or ten, it sometimes took him years to learn to cope with the pain and the death that would all too often flood into his own body through his hands.

“It was worse today than I have ever felt it before,” said Garth eventually, his voice strained, and
when he turned back to his father Joseph could see how pale his face was.

He stepped over to his son and put his arm about the boy’s shoulders. “Miriam’s growth is particularly virulent, Garth.” He hesitated. “I wish I could say that you will become used to the feel of death, that you will become inured to it, but you never will. You must learn to accept it.

“Now,” he forced some cheerfulness into his voice. “Mother will have boiled the pot and made us some tea. Come. We can mix the powders in an hour or so. For now we both need the comfort of your mother’s smile.”

Nona had both tea and raisin buns hot from the oven for her husband and son. She locked eyes with Joseph as they entered the spacious kitchen from the surgery next door, knowing Miriam had been to see them, then glanced at Garth.

The youth smiled for her, but Nona could see the strain about his eyes. Well, she had become used to the strain about Joseph’s eyes, but it was a hard thing to see the lines now appearing about Garth’s eyes as well. Nona turned back to the stove for the teapot, wishing not for the first time that she had managed to bear another child, a child she would not lose to the Touch and to the demanding craft of physic.

And, to add to her worries, there was the matter of the sealed letter the courier had delivered earlier.

“Well now,” she smiled, placing the pot on the table, “you have kept Garth in there too long, Joseph. Breakfast was hours ago. Sit down and have something to eat.”

Joseph and Garth sat silently, letting Nona bustle about them, their faces relaxing in the warm spring sunshine and the reassuring sounds of the street that flooded in through the open windows. When Joseph had set up his practice in the busy trading port of Narbon almost seventeen years ago he had purchased this house and surgery right in the heart of the town. “Easier for my patients to reach me,” he’d explained to his young wife, and both Joseph and Nona had quickly become accustomed to the noise and bustle of the town. Garth had never known anything else.

“Master Goldman said he would come to see me this afternoon, Garth,” Joseph said eventually, putting his empty mug back on the table. “His hands have several minor lesions caused by the chemicals of his craft. I would like you to treat him.”

Garth nodded. His father usually let him deal with most of the minor problems that came into the surgery. It had been easy to learn to treat the countless minor skin rashes, lesions or lacerations that presented themselves each day, and it relieved Joseph to concentrate on the deeper diseases that required years of knowledge and experience—and extensive use of the Touch—to be able to treat.

Joseph smiled slowly, his teeth gleaming behind his beard. “I’m proud of you, Garth. You did well with Miriam. Once you have treated Master Goldman and delivered Miriam’s powders—I’ll show you how to mix her particular preparation—you can have the rest of the day off. Enjoy the sunshine.”

Garth grinned, his face losing its seriousness and relaxing into boyish enthusiasm. “Really? Thanks, father!”

Joseph rolled his eyes at Nona. “No doubt the lad will rush down to the wharves and gaze moon-eyed at the cargo ship from Coroleas that docked this morning.”

But Nona did not smile as he expected her to. Instead she wiped her hands on her apron and licked her lips. “Joseph. A letter was delivered this morning. From Ruen.”

Garth’s face fell and he glanced at his father. Joseph’s own face had lost all traces of amusement and his hands had tightened about his empty tea mug.

Joseph sighed. “From Ruen.” It was not a question. All three knew what such a letter meant.

“Sometimes I hate spring,” he said into the silence. “With the sunshine comes the inevitable summons. With the spring warmth comes the inevitable three weeks of darkness.”

“It’s only three weeks,” Nona said, trying to put the best light upon it that she could. “Then you’ll be home again.”

Garth’s eyes flickered between the two of them. “Father? Can I come this year? I can help. Truly I can.”

Joseph shifted his eyes to his son. “If you knew what awaited you, Garth…”

“I
can
help,” Garth said. “It will lessen your load if I come to help. And I’ll have to go one day, anyway.”

Nona watched her husband with increasing consternation. Surely he couldn’t be considering…“Joseph!
No!
”

Joseph looked at her wearily. “He’s right, Nona. He
will
have to go some day.” And Garth would be a
help. And it would relieve him of some of the stress. But was it fair to subject Garth so young to…

“The Veins,” he said quietly, returning his gaze to the mug, now turning restlessly between his hands. “Nona, let me see the letter.”

Any hope that it might be something completely different died the moment Nona placed the sealed parchment in his hands. A great blob of sky-blue wax sealed the flap, and impressed into the wax was the royal insignia of Escator, the legendary Manteceros. He hesitated, then broke the seal with his thumbnail and opened the letter.

“Physician Baxtor,” Joseph read, and his voice was emotionless although the lines deepened about his eyes, “you are hereby summoned to your yearly service in the Veins. You shall arrive two weeks after the receipt of this summons and remain for three weeks. This duty will discharge your debt to the royal treasury.”

Instead of paying taxes, all physicians in Escator spent three weeks of the year treating both guards and prisoners of the Veins, the mines where gloam—the tarry black rock used as fuel—was mined.

All physicians would rather have paid tax.

“There’s more,” Joseph added, his forehead creasing. “You are also summoned to attend King Cavor at his court in Ruen. You may attend the king on your journey to the Veins. Be there.”

He smiled wryly. “Etcetera, etcetera, etcetera. So, Cavor has need of me again.”

Nona sat down at the table. Eight years ago Cavor had also required Joseph to attend his royal person on his way to the Veins; her husband’s skill
with the Touch was widely known and appreciated. “It is a pity you can’t discharge your duty to the royal treasury by your assistance to the royal person, Joseph.”

Joseph put the summons down on the table and smoothed it out. “To be frank, Nona, I’d rather use my skills on the prisoners of the Veins than Cavor. They need me more than he. Still,” he lifted his eyes and stared at Garth, “no doubt the boy will enjoy the spectacle of court.”

Garth sat back, both excited and nervous. It was a measure of his father’s trust that he would allow him to accompany him to the Veins, and a measure of his father’s pride that he would allow him by his side to court. He would see the king!

“Joseph!” Nona cried, distressed. “Let him wait another year or two, please!”

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