Songs of the Earth (23 page)

Ansel followed his eyes and took his handkerchief out again to wipe his fingers. ‘We have work to do, Danilar,’ he said firmly. ‘We cannot afford to be distracted now. There is far too much at stake.’

‘And what good is all our careful planning if you die before it
comes to fruition? I can’t carry your schemes alone, Ansel. It needs you, or it all goes for nothing.’

‘I know.’ The Preceptor inspected his hand for any last trace of blood. ‘There’s time yet.’

‘Enough time?’

‘I think so.’

Danilar, sounding dubious, said, ‘We cannot afford a mistake now. The Curia will have our hides for bookbinding if we’re not careful.’

The smile that Ansel shot him was positively dangerous. ‘Then we shall have to be very careful indeed, shan’t we.’

Carefully blotting his signature, Ansel set the last letter on top of the pile and pushed it to the front of his desk, ready for his secretary to take in the morning. The administrative drudgery seemed to take longer and longer these days. Edicts, correspondence, initialling the ponderous minutes of the Rede and its endless subcommittees; some days it seemed as if the Order ran on paper and ink, instead of faith.

Ah, faith. Once that had been all a Knight needed, that and a strong arm. Ansel sat back in his chair with a wince and looked across his study at the tapestry. It had hung opposite his desk for more than twenty-five years, a constant reminder of his task as Preceptor. Its glorious colours were faded now, muddy with dust and age, but the story told across the three panels could still be read. At leftmost, the First Knight was anointed by the Goddess Herself; he was kneeling to receive Her blessing. In the rightmost, a much-aged Endirion stood on a hill overlooking Dremen, his diamond helm on his hip and his other hand on the hilt of his sword as he watched the construction of the Motherhouse in the valley below. In the centre panel, Endirion battled a shadowy figure on the edge of an abyss.

Most depictions of the Fall showed Endirion triumphant, his
sword ablaze as he stood shining in a beam of the Goddess’ Grace and the angel slunk away or fell into a fiery pit. This tapestry showed the battle at its height. Darkness swirled around the angel like smoke, and Endirion’s teeth were clenched with the effort of defending himself. Where the Knight’s sword met the angel’s ebon blade, black and silver sparks showered the earth.

At this moment, the duel could have swung either way, salvation and damnation so finely balanced that a mouse could starve on the difference. There was resolve in Endirion’s expression, but a crease between his brows that spoke of fear. The angel’s eyes were alive with dreadful, gleeful hunger and he pressed his attack fiercely, but the way he crouched suggested his weight was on his back foot, just one hammer-blow short of taking the first backward step to defeat.

Some days when Ansel looked at the tapestry, he thought Endirion would be the one defeated and the whole of history would unravel before his eyes. Other days, when the sun shone and the darkness did not crowd so thickly or so close, he knew Diamondhelm would triumph. Tonight, the battle was too close to call.

You cast a long shadow, my lord. When we meet at last, I pray you are not disappointed in my stewardship of your Order
.

In the morning, he would swallow as much poppy syrup as that fool Hengfors would let him have and make the long walk from his lodging to the library behind the Rede Hall. He had an appointment with the archivists that not even Danilar knew about. It was a pity he couldn’t take the Chaplain along; his brawn would be useful to lean on when the poppy syrup failed, as it invariably did. But he would take his staff, which by happy chance was functional as well as ceremonial, and he would wear his finest white vestments with the gold Oak on its chain over his heart. It would take all the force Ansel could muster, backed up with every symbol of his office, to cow the keeper of the archives. A thick fur house-robe and slippers would spoil the effect a little, but that couldn’t be
helped. He was damned if the Motherhouse’s cold corridors would make him quake and shiver when he asked for the keys to the books that were hidden even from the Lector of Dremen himself.

Goran lifted the bottle down from the shelf and reverently blew away the dust. It was a thirty-year-old Tylan goldwine, the last of the case he had inherited from his father. He had opened the first one when he ascended to the scarlet; he had been saving the last for a special occasion. Tonight ought to be worthy of it.

Carrying his candle he climbed the steps from his cellar and locked the door behind him. With so many fine vintages sleeping out the years under his feet, he couldn’t be too careful. He dropped the key back into the pocket of his house-robe and shuffled through the quiet house to his study. A large square package sat on his desk, wrapped in oilskin and tied securely with twine. He tried not to look at it whilst he made everything ready.

He had managed to resist opening it for several hours. Anticipation had put a keen edge on his appetite, but it was important that everything was just right first. He turned down the lamps until the oak-panelled walls retreated into shadow, then set the candle to its brethren ranged along his desk. Candlelight was the best for this, he’d found: good white wax candles gave the cleanest flame. The curtains were already closed and the fire well built up; his study was a cosy nest of thick wool and polished wood, with
his favourite tapestry cushions on his chair and the household staff already abed so he would not be disturbed. Perfect.

From the silver tray by the hearth he took a single crystal glass and buffed it lovingly with a napkin. Then, with great care, he opened the brandy and poured himself a generous measure. The honey-coloured spirit made a delicious sound, thick and syrupy, and it glowed in the glass like the very decoction of good cheer. Humming a charming little tune, Goran settled himself in his chair and drew the package towards him.

Now. Snip the twine just so and lay the pieces aside. Unwrap the oilskin – oh, how marvellous! Dark red velvet underneath. His fat fingers twitching with excitement, he turned back the edges of the fabric to reveal his treasure.

A book – but not just any book; this was a book that Goran had spent almost a decade trying to acquire. Last year his agent had announced that he had finally located a copy in Sardauk that might be available for purchase. After ten months of delicate negotiations the bookseller in Marsalis had agreed a price that made Goran’s eyes water, but he had to have it, simply had to, so he had paid the five hundred Imperials. But it was surely worth it.

Pulse quickening, he squared the book on its velvet wrapping and fortified himself with another sip of brandy. The book was hand-bound in finest ivory calfskin. It was untitled – those who knew what it was did not need to see anything so vulgar as lettering on the spine, and those who did not know did not need to know. Merely looking at it was enough to start a little sweat on Goran’s brow. With great care, he opened
The Garden of Kendor
, and knew immediately that he would have paid a thousand Imperials for it and considered it cheap at the price.

Each thick vellum page was paired with a leaf of finest tissue to protect the illustration. He lifted up the first and his mouth fell open in wonder. The drawing was exquisite. Every line was fluid, anatomically exact; the artist’s pen had captured all the natural grace of the nude, the quivering, vibrant energy of a life suspended
in stillness. It was breathtaking, quite breathtaking. Goran reached out with his fingertip, hardly daring to touch the cheek of the lovely on the page before him. It was only a line drawing, but he fancied he could feel the downy skin, the quick beat of the blood beneath. Under his house-robe he felt the first twitch of arousal and closed his eyes, relishing it.
Yes
. He spread his knees to give himself room, then sipped a little more brandy. There was no rush. He had plenty of time to savour this feast on his table.

He let his eyes wander down over the illustration again, from the arch of the neck to the neat, flat nipples.
Slowly, slowly now, take your time
. His erection was growing, pushing up against his robe, and this was just the first plate! There were twenty in all, twenty perfect, glorious bodies for him to enjoy. Count the ribs down to the belly, stretched taut, the groin smoothly shaved. His heart beat faster now, he felt giddy with it.
Oh, this was truly a treasure
.

Another mouthful of brandy to warm his stomach, then he let his hand steal under his robe. He didn’t want to wait any longer, couldn’t wait. His fruits were tucked up tight and full already. Perspiration dewing his face, he curled his fingers round his aching member and began to stroke.

Someone pounded at the door. Goran shut his eyes and murmured a little prayer that whoever it was would go away. Then his eyes flew open again and his busy hand fell still. Who could it be at this time of night, out here at his country estate? The pounding came again, and damn it if his housekeeper wasn’t rolled up in her eiderdown in her bedroom at the rear of the house. He would have to answer the door himself. Damn, damn,
damn
.

Carefully he laid the tissue back down over the drawing and closed the book. Mopping his face with the napkin, he unlocked his study door and waddled out into the vestibule. The thick outer door shook in its frame as the caller knocked again, more insistently than ever.

‘Yes? Who is it?’ Goran snapped.

‘We need to talk, Elder,’ said a voice he dreaded to hear again.

His tumescence wilted. Hastily adjusting his robe, Goran slid back the bolts and swung the door open. Frosty air swirled round his legs. A slight, fox-faced fellow in travel-worn clothes leaned against the wall. He had a rent in his jacket as long as his hand.

‘I believe I told you not to come here, Pieter.’

The man pushed himself away from the wall and straightened up. He looked tired, and his wandering gaze seemed even slacker and more unfocused than usual. ‘I have information. May I come in?’

Goran stepped aside reluctantly. ‘Why couldn’t you send a note? Why just turn up here, where someone could see you?’

A vulpine smile flickered over Pieter’s face. ‘Your country house is more than a mile off the road and it’s past Low bell, Elder,’ he said, stepping over the threshold. ‘If anyone saw me, then they must have been about even darker business than mine. I think our secret is safe.’

Muttering irritably, Goran led the way to his study. Pieter glanced around at the panelling and the thick tapestry hangings with a distinctly acquisitive eye, as if reckoning up the value of the furnishings. Goran was quick to flip the velvet over his book before it was added to the tally-sheet.

Then the witchfinder shrugged off his cloak and dropped into a chair by the hearth without waiting to be invited to sit. ‘A fire is very welcome on such a raw night,’ he remarked, stretching out his legs. Mud flaked off his boots onto the good Gimraeli hearthrug. ‘A brandy would be even more so. Don’t stint with it, it’s been a long ride.’

Insufferable!
Goran ground his teeth as he poured a second glass.
As if it isn’t bad enough that I have to use the fellow at all, the man has the gall to turn up unannounced at my private lodging in the middle of the night, and now I have to share my Tylan goldwine with him!
He handed the glass over with poor grace.

‘So what news do you have? Good, I hope, to be worth disturbing me like this.’

Pieter took a mouthful of brandy and savoured it for several moments before allowing it to trickle down his throat.