Petrodor: A Trial of Blood and Steel, Book 2 (41 page)

Sasha stared at him. And realised that some clothes might actually be good, right about now. She pulled on the robe and tied the sash at the waist. “I'm not swearing anything. Who the hells are you?”

The priest pulled back his hood, and revealed the face of a small man, bald and bearded, with lively eyes now earnest and…anxious. The face of a man who was up to something. “My name's not important. What I'll do for you is very important. I'm going to help you escape. All you have to do is listen.”

Sasha nodded warily. Escape was good. Just keep him talking. “I'm listening.”

“My brothers are being murdered,” the small priest said. “The archbishop has taken sides—and his chosen side is that of Family Steiner. He is behind the murder of my brothers, I am sure of it. I expect I shall be the next victim, or close to it, so it's very important that you listen very closely.

“Something very big is coming. The archbishop and Patachi Steiner have made plans, I'm certain of it. Halmady were a threat, and I'm not entirely sure why—maybe they really
were
plotting against Family Steiner, it's possible, but I simply don't know. Now Halmady have been eliminated, and—”

“Eliminated! When?”

“Last night. Eight families in all, most of their patachis are dead, and the Dukes of Danor, Coroman and Vedichi lent soldiers to the fight. The Steiner alliance has purged their ranks, and something far bigger looms. I do not know what to do. Fear lurks the temple halls, and the Holy Guard are supposed to provide protection, but there are rumours that some are bought men. Family Maerler would challenge Steiner on these murders, but a threat to the archbishop would give Steiner all the excuse they need to eliminate
Maerler, and many of the dukes may join them, in the name of defending the archbishop.”

“And Steiner's alliance is the northern stack,” Sasha half murmured, aghast. The little priest frowned at her. “They're closer, Father. They can blockade the temple if need be. Or capture it. Maerler can do neither from the south.”

The priest nodded impatiently. “Yes, yes. I fear that the archbishop merely ploughs the field for decisions to come, decisions that require holy blessing. The other fathers can be troublesome, they have a voice in the council and they are drawn from all the families…it has always been a balance before, but now the balance is tilting. Do you understand?”

“You…you think that Patachi Steiner will strike at Maerler for good, with the archbishop's blessing?”

The priest shrugged hurriedly. “Perhaps. I cannot speculate, I am a man of the gods, not of politics. All I know is that the archbishop has violated his holy vows and approved the murder of those who should be most beloved to him. He is no longer an agent of good, but an agent of evil. I cannot allow him to succeed. Should I do so, I could never face my gods again.”

“And how will my escape aid you?”

“It will unbind the hands of Kessligh Cronenverdt, whom the archbishop fears. And something else that shall become clear later. How well do you swim?”

Sasha frowned. “Well enough for a Lenay. Where am I swimming?”

“Out there.” The priest pointed out beyond the mouth of the cave. “I have arranged with loyal men to have a small boat waiting, beyond the light. If you can reach it, they will take you to Dockside.”

“What…tonight?”

The priest nodded. “Now. This very moment.”

“And the crossbowmen?”

“The far emplacement is only for show, it's rarely ever manned. Tonight it is not. I have just visited the men of the near emplacement, and they now sleep.” He held up a hand, displaying a familiar-looking ring. On its inside protruded a slim needle, just like the one Marya had used. “But you must go now, or they will be discovered.”

“They'll be discovered anyhow!” Sasha exclaimed. “Or they'll tell what happened to them…unless you…?”

“No.” The priest shook his head and gave a little, helpless smile. “My vows do not allow murder, and the gods despise a hypocrite. They will catch me, and I will probably die. Such is life.”

“You could come with me,” Sasha suggested.

The smile grew a little broader. “I can't swim. It was not meant to be. Here, take this as well.” He reached into a pocket within his robes and withdrew a leather pouch. “You will need both hands, so fasten this about your neck. It has a clasp, make it tight, for the sake of all the holy spirits do not drop it.”

“What's in it?” Sasha asked dubiously, taking the pouch.

“There's no time. Don't unwrap it, I packed it tight. Just be certain you tell Kessligh Cronenverdt what I've told you, and give that to him. The rest will explain itself. Now you must go. The guards wait further up the stairs, they will grow suspicious.”

Sasha fastened the pouch about her neck as suggested and took her sword from him and tied the leather bandoleer together where it should clip to her belt…which she now lacked. Slipped the bandoleer over her shoulder. And paused on the step down to the landing, looking back at the small priest.

“Look,” she attempted, “if the boat's just out there, you could make it. You just stroke and kick, like this…” she demonstrated.

The priest smiled more broadly. “It is not my fate, Sashandra Lenayin. May the gods look upon you.”

“I'm Goeren-yai,” Sasha objected.

“The gods are generous.”

Sasha nodded and descended the steps. “Thank you,” she said. And splashed across the landing to the barnacled steps. A swell crashed on the lower steps and rushed on, water spraying about her shins. Staring out into the dark beyond the cave, she was struck by sudden, frightening doubt. Perhaps it was a trick. Perhaps they needed to dispose of her in some manner that did not look like cold-blooded murder. Here she was, making an escape attempt with a stolen object of some description, only to be shot by vigilant archers. She stared up at the small priest suspiciously.

“Have faith, Sashandra Lenayin,” he said. “And know this—if you do
not
escape now, you shall be disposed of eventually. You have been a troublemaker all your life, I know. In Petrodor, the powerful dislike troublemakers. They'll never let you go alive. Take your chance while you have it.”

Still eyeing him warily, Sasha made first the Goeren-yai spirit sign, then the Verenthane holy sign, in quick succession. The priest's smile grew wider, and he repeated her actions. Sasha had never, ever seen a Verenthane priest make a pagan spirit sign. Most would never risk it, for fear of their souls. It was good enough for her.

The next swell rushed up the steps and, as it came to its peak, she dove into the water. The water churned as the receding wave rushed back down the steps, and spun her into the middle of the cave. She splashed hard, and the
bandoleer strap immediately slipped from her shoulder and dragged at her arm. Kicking to keep her head above water, she adjusted it…and found herself being swept dangerously close to the cave side. She put her head down and tried swimming again, but the bandoleer was slipping around now, the weight of the sword pulling down, alternately banging an arm and then a leg. And now a new swell approached, heaving her upward and pushing her back into the cave mouth despite her struggles. Already her arms were aching, and her breath coming hard, and she began to wonder if this were such a smart idea after all.

But then the backwash from the second swell swept out of the cave, and took her out with it. Suddenly she was in deep, cold water, and could see brief glimpses of cliff face through the salt that stung her eyes. There behind her, a small, square guardpost with arrowslits. She swam harder, heart thudding, telling herself that if she just survived the first shot, she could dive, and swim underwater, and come up for air only briefly. But now, her lungs were beginning to burn. She was extremely fit, she knew, but swimming was not an accustomed activity. Fitness meant different things for different activities. Worse, the sword was trying to drown her. Probably, the thought occurred to her as she struggled and gasped and splashed, that was some kind of divine, poetic justice.

At least she hadn't been shot. She clung to that optimistic thought as the swell heaved her up once more, and forced her to swim uphill. She tried not to think about the vast, dark, gloomy distance that now stretched below her, within which all kinds of strange and usually hungry creatures she knew to dwell. She simply made stroke after stroke, and tried to find a rhythm despite the frustration of the sword, justifying that swimming must surely be like running, where rhythm was everything.

Finally she stopped and trod water, and looked about. She couldn't see any boat. Well great, just fucking wonderful. Out into deeper water, she could see the lights of ships at anchor. There was no way known she was going to make it out that far. She should head back, only westward, back toward Petrodor. If she could get ashore just downshore of the cave, she might be able to make her way down the cliff face, hopping along the rocks, until she reached the Cliff of the Dead. If the waves didn't smash her against the cliff first. But she didn't see that she had any choice—too much longer out here and she would drown.

She'd barely begun stroking again when she heard a splash nearby. She looked about and saw with shock the bow of a boat coming straight at her. It pulled alongside and a man in a hood shipped his oar and leaned over to offer her a hand. Sasha grabbed it, hauled, and embarrassed herself by barely
managing to get her arms over the edge. The man grabbed her about the waist and pulled her over, and she fell gracelessly onto hard wood and bench seats. And lay there, gasping. Whoever that little priest had been, she owed him in a big way. And she hoped that his gods would save him from an ill fate.

“I…I didn't see you,” she gasped, heaving for air. “I thought I'd have…to swim back.” The boat was moving now, steady strokes of the oars. She propped up her head to look, and found that the wet robe had ridden up as she'd come overboard, exposing her from the waist down. Thankfully, the two oarsmen now had their backs turned as they rowed, and in turn blocked the view of the man at the tiller. She'd hurt her hip coming into the boat, and she rubbed at it, pulling the robe into some kind of modesty. One more bruise to her collection.

She struggled up, and took a seat at the bow, pulling off the dangling sword and putting it aside. She remembered suddenly to feel at her throat and found the leather pouch still in place. They were headed into deeper water now, but roughly back toward Petrodor. Behind, Porsada Temple loomed, white and shimmering in torchlight. Strange how the whiteness of the exterior made no impression inside. Strange to think that she'd been there at all.

The oarsmen stroked on as the boat rose up on the heaving swell. Sasha blinked her eyes clear of sea water and gazed back at the men in the boat. All hoods and cloaks. She clambered back a bench, to look between the oarsmen at the tillerman.

“Thank you,” she told him. “Are you priests too?” There was no reply. Nor, she observed, the prospect of receiving one about anything. “Sure, I understand. No questions. Fine with me. Thank you anyway.”

They were good oarsmen though, she reckoned, having seen enough of small-boat seamanship to be a judge of that. She doubted they were priests. Possibly they were simply men for hire. In which case, she should sit still and shut up, before they realised she might be worth more money to someone else than whatever the little priest in the cave had paid them. Possibly they didn't even know who she was.

She passed the time examining her sword for damage and watching the passing ships at anchor. The sword looked fine, though she would need to polish it soon—serrin steel rarely rusted but salt water wasn't good for anything. And she'd need to rewrap the handle binding.

Eventually the boat brought her alongside a pier at Dockside, and Sasha jumped off onto a tied-up fishing boat. The men rowed off immediately, leaving her to climb across two more boats and then up a ladder to the pier. The pier was mostly empty, as was the dockfront. That was unusual. The air
seemed tense with danger, even here in Nasi-Keth heartland. She crouched where she was, knowing that it would be near impossible to see her amidst the rigging of tied boats against the black background of the harbour. She searched the docks with her eyes. She'd been away two days, she had no idea what had happened, nor how far the Halmady trouble had spread downslope.

Seeing nothing, she unfastened the strap about her neck and poured water from the leather pouch. Then, figuring that it would be best to be prepared, before bringing Kessligh anything of value, she undid the pouch. It took a while, as the fastener string was tied with tight knots. Once opened, there was another bag made of silk. She undid it and pulled out a hard, round metal disk. Even this far from the dockside houselights, the glint of gold was sharp.

Expensive, then. It didn't excite her particularly—if she'd wished nothing but wealth in her life, she'd have remained in Baen-Tar and been a proper Princess of Lenayin. It was a Verenthane star, she realised. A star had guided Saint Tristen to Mount Tristen, and in the blazing light of that star, the word of the gods had been proclaimed to him. Stars marked the holy path, and such stars had eight points, for justice, truth, love, brotherhood, and…and…damn, she forgot. All archbishops had a new star forged upon appointment, and each star became a unique signature of that man's life and order. The stars of the saints were legend, and said to be imbued with powers granted to those saints by the gods themselves.

This star…she peered at it closely, trying to discern its features in the dim light. This star had eight shallow points, the spaces in between encrusted with precious jewels. It was smaller than some, fitting within the hollow of her palm. It had a slim, gold chain, to be worn about the neck. And it had writing on the back in a circle about a central gemstone—a ruby. The writing looked to be in some Bacosh language, most likely old Enoran. She knew a little, as much of the Torovan tongue borrowed from Bacosh religious terms, and thought she could make out a couple of words…

And her heart nearly stopped. No. No, surely not. Surely the priest had not given her
that
one? Had that little, smiling, bearded man gone completely and utterly mad?