Beyond the Hanging Wall (11 page)

Ravenna’s eyes widened—and lightened, Garth noticed. “I am willing to search any way that might provide answers,” she said softly. “But you, methinks, are more mystery than answer.”

Vorstus took a deep breath and relaxed back into his chair, his fingers drumming lightly against the armrests. “Let me share some—not all, mind—of my secrets. Then you can decide if you are willing to share some of yours. Brother Jorgan only knows me as Brother Vorstus from a companion order of Ruen, come south to visit Narbon’s admittedly excellent library. True enough, as far as it goes. But apart from my regular order, I belong to a slightly,” he hesitated, “
irregular
order known—and I would thank you not to mention this to anyone else—as the Order of Persimius.”

“Persimius is the name of the old royal house,” Garth said slowly. “What is the connection to this secret order of yours?”

“Close, young man, very close. We were founded by an ancient king, Nennius by name—”

“He was the king who adopted the Manteceros as his emblem!” Garth cried.

“Shush!” Vorstus hushed, irritated. “These walls are only of one stone’s thickness. Yes, the same man. Our society is dedicated to the protection of the Persimius family itself.” He tapped the tattoo on the
back of his right index finger that Ravenna had noticed earlier. It was the outline of a quill. “Our mark. You can always recognise our order by this.”

“And you are dedicated to protecting the Persimius family?” Ravenna smiled innocently, her toes stretching out gratefully towards the fire as her eyes locked into those of Vorstus. “Then you haven’t been doing a very good job recently, have you?”

Garth grinned behind his hand, and Vorstus grimaced guiltily.

“Witch! But, yes, we have been remiss in our duty, and it stings our consciences. Garth,” he took another deep breath, and now Garth noticed that he trembled. “Garth, we know that you found Maximilian down the Veins.”

For a long minute there was no sound in the room save the crackling of the fire and the light rain against the windowpanes.

“Ah…” Garth hedged, unable to stop an anxious glance at Ravenna.

“We
know
it, Garth,” Vorstus repeated softly. “For the past sixteen months we’ve had our suspicions about Maximilian’s whereabouts. We have kept the Veins and those who go in and out under close watch. Imagine our surprise when the young son of Joseph Baxtor should return from three weeks in the Veins to ask questions in marketplaces about the Manteceros, and search this library for any clue he could find about the creature’s relationship with the Persimius family. When I appeared in the market wearing the disguise of a trader, your hand and eye flew instantly to the medallion of the Manteceros—a small test I devised—and now, greatest surprise of
all, you appear in the company of a lady of dreams. One who could take you to the Manteceros itself. Tell me, have you talked with it?”

Garth closed his mouth, but Ravenna answered, her eyes steady on the monk. “Yes. I took Garth to the Manteceros.”

Vorstus raised his eyebrows at her. “So much power in one so young. Interesting.”

“The Manteceros refused to help us rescue Maximilian,” Garth said bluntly. No use keeping silent now that Ravenna had spoken.

“I have no doubt,” Vorstus said softly. “It would already have verified Cavor’s claim to the throne when the man made it. The Manteceros will be displeased that another claim may well be made. It is a creature of order and will be discomforted by the mess of a counter-claim.”

“How did you know about Maximilian?” Ravenna asked.

Vorstus steepled his fingers and raised his eyes to study the ceiling. “We are a small and somewhat secretive order, but not totally unknown. Some sixteen months ago a minor nobleman—there is no point revealing his name here and now—aged and dying of the wasting disease, requested our abbot attend his deathbed.”

“Yourself,” Garth observed, watching Vorstus carefully. The man had an aura of authority about him.

“Yes. Myself. He seemed anxious to confess a sin committed many years ago and which had weighed heavily on his conscience ever since. He said that years previously he had been involved in a…well, shall we say, an abduction? Yes, that will do nicely.
An abduction. A young boy, no more than fourteen, was seized by a group of men in the hire of a person that even the dying man was too frightened to name. They seized the boy, and subjected him to the horrific pain of having the mark on his right arm burned off.”

“It’s still there,” Garth muttered, close to tears, “under the scar tissue.”

“Is that so?” For the first time, Vorstus seemed excited. “Really? Well, all the more good.”

“And then what happened, Abbot Vorstus?” Ravenna asked, her eyes dark at the thought of Maximilian’s agony.

“Please, only call me Brother, lady,” Vorstus replied hastily, glancing about. “None here suspect my true identity.” He paused, then answered Ravenna’s question. “Three of the men tied the boy up—he had fainted by this stage—and carried him away. My dying sinner did not have a clear knowledge where…but he did have some idea.”

“The Veins.”

Vorstus nodded. “Yes, Garth, the Veins. But we could not be sure, and we had no way of seeing for ourselves. Even our arts could not penetrate beneath the surface…and there is no need for a monk below to confess the dying. From the Veins they go straight to the fire pits of the afterlife.”

At the mention of “arts”, Garth’s mind slipped back to Vorstus’ mysterious disappearance from the marketplace. “What ‘arts’?” he asked suspiciously, but Ravenna simply looked at Vorstus and smiled.

“Our order is dedicated to the preservation of the Persimius family, true,” Vorstus said, “but for many hundreds of years we had little to do save study
ancient arts and texts as the family waxed strong and ruled wisely under the Escatorian sun. Garth, once Escator was far more than it is now.”

“What do you mean?”

“Once Escator was the centre of learning in the known world—men travelled to study at our universities and academies from most of the Eastern Kingdoms. Narbon housed the largest university, but Ruen, Harton and even Sorinam to the north had well-established universities. All gone, now.”

“What happened—” Garth began, but Vorstus held up his hand.

“Shortly, my boy. Music and enlightenment, sciences and suppositions, dreams and knowledges were once Escator’s main exports. Now the filthy gloam feeds our populations and tinkles the coin into Ruen’s treasury.”

He paused and heaved a great sigh. “Ten generations ago, gloam was discovered in great deposits along the coast by Myrna. Initial excavations were so promising that the Veins were carved deep into the earth. The Persimius family withdrew funding from the arts to sink into the Veins—only in the past generations have prisoners been used to work the rock-face—and, hungry for the riches the gloam brought them, they allowed the universities and academies to fall into ruin.” He paused. “So much knowledge and learning was lost. Now this library is virtually all that stands from those once-heady days of knowledge. This library…and the Order of Persimius itself.”

Again there was silence for long minutes. Vorstus sat in a state of reverie, and neither Ravenna nor Garth dared to disturb him.

“Our arts, boy?” Garth’s eyes flickered from the fire back to the monk as he spoke again. “Arts? Simple, but sometimes effective.” Vorstus smiled with such genuine friendliness that Garth found himself responding in kind. “But nothing like those that Ravenna here displays. Suitable for making fast disappearances from marketplaces and—sometimes—for reading thoughts. You are yet young, Garth, and have not yet learned to dissemble. Thus often I find your thoughts clear and easy to interpret. Yours, young woman,” he turned his eyes to Ravenna, “are clouded in mist as thick as that of your border lands.”

Her mouth twitched, and she inclined her head, pleased.

Garth turned the conversation back to the Persimius family. “The kings were responsible for the decline in learning and for building the Veins?”

“Assuredly, Garth Baxtor. I would find it ironic, if it were not so tragic, that one of them now labours below the hanging wall itself. Perhaps…” his voice trailed into silence.

Garth leaned forward. “Vorstus? Can you explain how Maximilian has survived so long in the Veins? My father tells me that men normally live no longer than five years at the rock-face—and even that is unusual.”

“It is the ink that his arm was marked with, Garth. Always a monk will do the tattoo, and always with the blue ink that we guard so carefully. The ink has…unusual properties. It protects against murder, for instance. Whoever abducted Maximilian could not have killed him, no matter their heartfelt desire to do so. No wonder they threw him down the Veins.
But even there, even under the scar tissue, it appears the mark has worked to protect Maximilian.”

“My father told me the ink used to create the mark is rumoured to have been made with the blood of the Manteceros itself.”

But at that Vorstus only smiled slightly, and dropped his eyes.

“One of your number must have marked Cavor,” Garth said slowly.

“Yes. But then we truly thought Maximilian dead. And Cavor was closest in line to the throne—although in him the Persimius blood is thin indeed.”

Garth nodded, remembering. “My father and I treated his arm when we were in Ruen, Vorstus. The mark has not taken well. It festers, and causes him agony.”

“Really?” Vorstus sat up. “I did not know that.”

“Perhaps Cavor’s mark festers because the other mark in existence has been so badly damaged,” Ravenna said thoughtfully. She had been content to listen throughout most of the conversation, but now leaned forward, elbows on knees and chin in hand, so that the firelight trickled through her long black hair. “Perhaps the ink links both marks and both men.”

“Perhaps,” said Vorstus, looking at her with hooded eyes.

Garth ignored both remark and look. “Vorstus?” The monk swung his gaze back to Garth. “Maximilian claims that he is not the heir. He claims that he is not even Maximilian.”

Vorstus frowned. “Perhaps it is just that he has been lost below for so long that—”

“No. Not all,” Garth interrupted. “Maximilian said that he has no true claim to the throne because he is a changeling.”

“
What?
” Vorstus almost exploded out of his chair.

“Can it be true?” Ravenna asked. She had not moved at Vorstus’ violent reaction.

The monk’s hands trembled. “A changeling? I don’t know. Oh dear, this is dreadful…dreadful. Ah, let me think…his parents were old when he was born. Some thought his mother well past the age of childbirth when she produced Maximilian. A changeling?” Vorstus’ face had paled so badly Garth thought he might be about to faint. “Did she want to produce an heir so badly that she faked a birth—or even substituted a stillborn son with a healthy babe?”

“You would not have known when you saw the baby?” asked Garth.

Vorstus shook his head. “No. The mark can be carved into any arm with the ink, it does not have to be a Persimius arm.”

Garth and Ravenna exchanged worried glances. The Manteceros had said much the same.

Vorstus did not notice. “We were merely presented with the babe…and we marked him. No one thought that…that the queen would have…” he was unable to continue.

“Well,” Garth said firmly, repressing his doubts. “I believe that the man who labours beneath the hanging wall
is
the true king. Can your “arts” confirm that, Vorstus?”

The monk shook his head again, his eyes haunted. “No. Only the ordeal that the Manteceros administers can determine the true king from two rival claimants.”

“Do you know what the ordeal is?”

“No, Ravenna. It has never been administered before.”

Garth quickly informed Vorstus about the riddle the Manteceros had told them. “Vorstus, do you understand it?”

Now the man’s dark eyes were slitted and unreadable. “Perhaps. But the question is, does
Maximilian
know what it means? If he does, then the Order of Persimius will back his claim to the throne. It will not be definite proof of his blood, but it will be enough to show that he is the man who was once prince.”

“Vorstus.” Now Garth leaned forward. “Will you help us free Maximilian?”

“Assuredly, Garth. It is why I have come to Narbon to see you.”

Garth had to fight with his parents to be allowed back down the Veins.

“But look at how you felt after last year’s experience, Garth,” Nona said, her worried eyes flickering to Joseph. “I don’t want you to go.”

“Your mother has a point,” Joseph said seriously. “Since you returned from the Veins you’ve become over-serious. Too contemplative. Damn it, Garth! You’re still a boy! Enjoy life while you can!”

“I’m only two months from my seventeenth birthday,” Garth argued. “And well into my apprenticeship. And I’m good—you can’t deny that, father. I
want
to come.”

“After twenty years’ experience you won’t be so keen,” Joseph muttered, but he was giving way, and Garth could see it.

So could Nona. “Joseph!”

“He’s right, my love. He’s old enough to make up his own mind—and I can’t deny that I enjoyed his company last year. It made the horror more bearable.”

Joseph looked at his son. Garth had shot up another hand-span in the past year, his frame had filled out, and now he was more man than boy. His now-short brown hair added several years to his true age, and at some time during the past year Garth’s hazel eyes had become keener and more intense. Joseph dropped his own gaze, unable to bear the appeal in Garth’s eyes.

“Very well, Garth. You may come. Besides,” he grinned, trying to lighten the mood in the kitchen, “the summons also requires me to attend King Cavor again. No doubt the experience of court will amuse you, Garth. I remember that maid who caused your cheeks to blush bright red the last time we dined there.”

This time Garth’s cheeks remained pale—that too had changed, Joseph thought.

“Good. I look forward to seeing the king again.”

The day before Garth and his father were due to ride north, he hurried down to the wharves after his father had closed the surgery. He had thought Joseph would never finish, and he was worried in case he was late.

But he was just in time. The wharf cranes were still engaged in swinging great nets of supplies on board the ship, and passengers still milled about the wharf itself.

“Vorstus,” he breathed, relieved, as he approached the cloaked monk.

Vorstus swung around, his own face relaxing at the sight of Garth. “I thought you wouldn’t make it, boy!”

“Father kept me behind.” Garth’s eyes anxiously searched the small crowd behind Vorstus. “Is she…?”

“I’m here, Garth,” and Ravenna stepped forward. Both were travelling north on the supply ship, planning to disembark at the small port of Estorn, a day’s ride south of Myrna and the Veins. They didn’t want anyone remarking on their disembarkation at a place where they should have no business.

Garth eyed Ravenna carefully. Someone—Vorstus probably—had finally managed to persuade her to wear some thin-soled sandals, but she looked distinctly uncomfortable in them, and Garth guessed she would take them off the moment the ship was out to sea and clear of prying eyes. She still wore her simple white dress, but now it was covered with a well-cut cloak of red wool. Her hair was firmly plaited and wound about her head. She looked very much like what she was pretending to be—niece to Vorstus, and travelling north to visit family.

But her grey eyes were still mysterious—and ever lighter—and Garth hoped that Vorstus would take care of her.

Ravenna smiled as she saw Garth’s doubts “We’ll be careful, Garth,” and then she surprised and delighted him by leaning forward and hugging him fiercely. “When you get to the Veins, we’ll be there.”

Over the past month or two Vorstus, Ravenna and Garth had carefully discussed how they could rescue Maximilian from his living death. They had a plan,
but Garth felt that it was so flimsy the slightest miscalculation would see them all condemned to the Veins
with
Maximilian.

“Your father will let you come north?” Ravenna asked, leaning back, and Garth nodded.

“Yes, after some arguments. Mother is unhappy, and she tries to overfeed me, but don’t doubt that I’ll be there.” He looked about again. “Is Venetia here?”

Ravenna smiled and let Garth go. “No. She would not come to town…but she said she would stand at the edge of the marsh and wave to me. I will see her.”

Vorstus took Ravenna’s arm. “Come, girl. The ship’s mate is waving us aboard.”

Garth hesitated, then held out his hand. “Good luck, Vorstus.”

Vorstus gripped it. “And you, my boy. Now, come, Ravenna.” He hurried the girl towards the ship, and she turned to look at Garth one last time.

He looked lost and lonely on the rapidly emptying wharf, waving as they hurried up the gangplank.

“Maximilian,” she whispered. “We’re coming.”

Whether or not she had waved her daughter goodbye from the coast, Garth did not know, but Venetia was standing by the doorway to her hut as he and his father rode by the next morning. She waved briefly, and Joseph raised his eyebrows at his son.

“You have made a friend, it seems, son.”

But Garth, waving back, grinned at his father. His spirits were high this morning. At last they were doing something. “Perhaps she waves at you, father. Perhaps she has missed not seeing you this past year.”

Joseph harrumphed in embarrassment, and turned back to the road.

The beautiful minareted city of Ruen captivated Garth as it had a year earlier. It was as bustling and as important as he remembered, and he could not stop the broad grin as they rode through the almost choked streets towards their lodgings, with the sound of the city’s bells cascading about their ears.

Perhaps soon Maximilian would reign here in place of Cavor.

“Remembering that bright-eyed maid, Garth?” Joseph winked, and Garth smiled at his father.

“I’m sure she has no reason to remember me, father.”

Joseph laughed at the wicked light in Garth’s face, and wondered if this year the maid
would
have a reason to remember the physician’s apprentice.

They settled quickly into their lodgings, ate a hearty meal, then spent a pleasant evening wandering about the city streets, laughing at the tumblers and standing for over an hour listening to a particularly talented minstrel.

As the minstrel’s soaring voice lapsed into silence, Joseph wiped an eye then turned away. “It’s been many a long year since I heard a minstrel that beautiful, son.”

They began to walk slowly through the streets, heading in the general direction of their lodging house.

“Do you miss life in Ruen much, father?”

Joseph thought about that a long time. “Some aspects, yes, although your mother prefers life in Narbon.”

They were quiet for some time.

“Tell me about Maximilian,” Garth eventually said softly, his eyes on the street before him.

Joseph glanced at him. “I wondered when you’d ask me about him again. But ever since you came through Ruen last year you’ve had Maximilian on your mind. You’ve never spoken of him, but a father knows.”

He was silent a moment, remembering. “Maximilian? He was a bright lad, fun-loving, always laughing. Courageous—and that would be the death of him eventually, spurring his horse away from the main hunting party like that. He and I spent many an hour playing hoopball—yes, your old father knows how to play hoopball!—and often just talking.”

His voice wavered, and Joseph cleared his throat. “Sorry. I rarely let myself think on Maximilian. To remember his stupid loss…” He turned his head away.

Garth struggled with himself. “Father, there’s something I should tell—”

“Baxtor, you old rogue!” A hearty laugh boomed along the street and a man hurried from beneath the overhang of an ale-house. “I’ve not seen you in years!”

The moment passed, and Garth shut his mouth and watched as his father embraced an old friend.

The red-walled palace was as grandiose and as domineering as Garth remembered. Again they walked the pleasant paths through the gardens and were shown into the palace itself.

But this time the servant hurried them along a side corridor away from the Throne Room.

“Cavor’s private apartments,” Joseph murmured to Garth. “He must be sicker than I realised if he keeps to his bed.”

But Cavor was up and staring out the window as they entered. Both instantly fell to their knees, their heads bowed.

“Joseph, I cannot tell you how glad I am to see you again!” Cavor’s voice sounded cheerful and full of vitality.

“Sire, I trust your arm does not bother you too much.” Joseph raised his head, and Garth followed, looking into the king’s face.

He looked as vital as he sounded, and a wide smile beamed from his face. “And you’ve brought your son—Garth, isn’t it? Well, welcome. Come sit with me by the window.”

Joseph risked a glance at his son. Sit with the king? Rarely was anyone allowed to sit in the royal presence. But Cavor waved them towards a table placed so that it caught a gentle breeze wafting through the open window. Spring was warm this year, and Garth caught the fragrance of both garden and the street markets beyond the palace walls. It was a heady but surprisingly pleasant mixture.

They sat as Cavor himself sank into a chair. Now that they were closer, and Cavor sitting in the natural light, Garth could see that thin lines ringed his eyes and ran from his nose to the corners of his mouth.

And there were shadows lurking in his eyes, as if his sleep had been deprived recently.

“Are you well, sire?” Joseph asked carefully, and Garth saw his father shared his suspicions.

“Well enough, Joseph. Nevertheless, I am pleased to see you.”

“Your arm, sire?” Joseph murmured.

“Ah,” Cavor flicked his fingers through the air as if at some trifling matter, then his hand fell and his face darkened. “Joseph, I have lain awake through many nights waiting for your visit. I almost sent for you a month past, but…” his voice faded, and he finished on a whisper. “But that would have been giving in.”

Concerned, Joseph rose to his feet. “Sire, let me see.”

Not bothering to attempt to conceal his pain now, Cavor shrugged off his jacket. Its loose fit had concealed the fact that the king’s right arm was swathed in a massive bandage—larger than Garth remembered from the previous year. Stained with a yellow effluent, it gave off a sickening stench.

Now Garth knew why the king had sat by the window. The scent from garden and market had concealed the scent of his own decay.

“Sire!” Joseph muttered, appalled. “You
should
have sent for me.” His deft hands quickly unwound the bandage, and he snapped his fingers at Garth for some surgical scissors. “Hurry, boy!”

Garth was already at his father’s side with the scissors extended, and forceps to follow that. Carefully Joseph lifted the final layer of dressings, then both he and Garth stiffened in shock at what lay beneath.

Cavor had turned his head to the left so he did not have to witness their horror.

Garth took a deep breath and managed to avoid taking a step back only through a supreme effort.

Large weeping blisters littered Cavor’s biceps. Much of the flesh was raw, some hanging in thin, blackened tatters from his arm. It looked almost as if he had been burnt.

Ravenna was right, Garth thought numbly. The ink links both marks, both men. Slowly Garth raised his eyes to Cavor’s averted face. Was it
only
the ink that made this mark fester to match Maximilian’s? How deeply did betrayal and guilt link the two men? For the first time Garth wondered at Cavor’s involvement in Maximilian’s abduction and incarceration. He’d surely had the most to gain from the prince’s disappearance.

“Sire?” Joseph whispered. “What has the incompetent Oberon Fisk done to you this time? Has he tried…has he tried to sear the infection out?”

Cavor shook his head wearily. “No, Joseph. Weeks ago the abscess covering the mark burst, and it has looked like this ever since.”

“How do you live with the pain?” Joseph had reached into his bag and was now gently wiping cloth saturated with herbal disinfectants across the king’s arm. Garth quickly handed his father a clean cloth and stowed the stained and unclean cloth in an isolated side pocket of his father’s bag.

Cavor sighed. “I have grown used to it, Joseph.” He smiled wryly, trying to make light of his disability. “Kingship is never pain-free.” He paused. “I wish to the gods that Maximilian had grown to shoulder this burden and left me free to administer my estates and live a contented country life.”

At that last statement, Garth glanced at the king sharply again. Cavor’s voice had been tight, forced. Insincere.

Having cleaned the wound as best he could, Joseph wrapped his hands about the king’s arm. Garth could see the glimmer of distaste cross his father’s face as the evil feel of the infection flooded into his body through his hands. Garth shivered, anticipating Joseph’s request that he Touch Cavor as well.

“Ah,” Cavor relaxed a little, closing his eyes. “Joseph, you
are
a wonder worker.” He sat quietly, then opened his eyes. “I have come to a decision. You are wasted in Narbon, Joseph. I will that you move to court.”

It was not a request, and both Joseph and Garth knew it.

“No!” Garth cried. They must go to the Veins!

Joseph glared at him angrily, then turned to the king, wiping his face clean of any expression. “My King, I am flattered that you so crave my attentions. But I have responsibilities in Narbon, and Nona, my wife, enjoys it so much, and—”

“And
nothing
, Joseph!” the king snarled, and Joseph physically rocked at the expression on Cavor’s face. “You
will
move back to the palace. Your place is as the royal physician as it was years ago—and Garth seems to have the talent to be trained as a royal physician as well—despite his curious reluctance to do so.”

“My apologies, sire,” Garth said, bowing as gracefully as he could. “It’s just that my friends are in Narbon. And—” he thought quickly, “and my father and I are on our way to the Veins for our compulsory
three weeks’ service. Sire, I learn so much in the Veins that I would not like to miss out on the experience. Perhaps once my father and I have completed our duty we can return to the palace.”