The City (24 page)

The boy ran off, the basket under one arm, the rest of the food clutched to his thin chest. Bartellus had no doubt he would help
himself to an apple or two, but he did not mind. In the world’s terms Bart was a rich man, although he was at pains to conceal it.

He thought again about their impending visit to the merchant’s house, and he frowned. He had believed what he said. He thought it right for Emly to attend on the merchant, and he would have to go with her. He was proud of his adopted daughter and wanted her talent recognized. He believed that in ten years, perhaps five, she would be creating glass windows for the emperor’s palace. He had told her that. But he had not told her he would not be with her. If he lived that long, he could never again show his face in the Red Palace.

There was another, more urgent, reason he wanted his daughter’s talent recognized by powerful men. She was fifteen, she guessed, perhaps already sixteen. She needed a powerful patron to keep her out of the army. The fat wine merchant wasn’t such a man, but commendation by him might lead to more influential connections.

And the merchant he had no concerns about. He seemed a pleasant enough fellow, not well endowed with brains. It was his son who worried Bartellus – a sly, skulking youth with a mean eye. Bart had disliked him on sight, but he recognized this was at least partly because such a young man should be in the military, serving his City, rather than still lolling at his father’s table. The way the boy had watched him made him cautious. He could not have recognized him. He had been a babe when Bartellus was commanding the armies of the east and north. And no portrait of the general existed that he knew of. Nevertheless he was suspicious of the boy, and hoped he would be absent when the glass window was delivered.

Bartellus was aware of the irony: he despised the merchant’s son for evading armed service, while himself plotting to keep Emly from the war. But he had come a long way from that dark day in a sewer when he had argued with an old woman that girls should be drafted to serve their City with their lives and deaths.

He was comfortable with his about-turn, and if someone had accused him of hypocrisy he would have shrugged, and explained, ‘She is my daughter.’

It was a long walk and the thin autumn sun was making him sweat under his greatcoat by the time he arrived, limping slightly, at the Shining Stars inn. The old, sprawling brick building had once been a monastery. But the holy men had long since met their gods, and
now it served as a hostelry for visitors from other parts of the City and, rarely now, foreigners. Bartellus seldom entered the inn, but ducked under a low arch into the wide, well-planted courtyard. A career soldier himself, he enjoyed the company of veterans and his heart relaxed as he walked among the patterned tables where other old boys idled away their mornings playing knucklebones, checkers and urquat. In the corner of a cobbled wall in the shade of a fig tree he spotted Creggan and Dol Salida as they set out the urquat table. He smiled and walked over to them.

The two boys, brothers, who had followed Bartellus from Blue Duck Alley watched him go into the inn’s garden.

Scowling, the younger boy grumbled, ‘I told you he’d come here. Walking all morning for nothing.’

‘We’ll still be paid, stupid,’ his brother told him. ‘It’s where he goes after this they’ll want to know.’

‘He’ll be here for hours. He always is. Let’s go home and come back later.’

‘You go. It doesn’t need two of us.’

But the younger boy sighed and sat down in the shadow of a low wall. His brother grinned and sat with him in the dust. The sun rose over the inn and their patch of shade slowly disappeared as they waited.

‘About time,’ grumbled Dol Salida, as Bart sat down at the five-sided table, arranging the coloured counters and dice in front of him. ‘We nearly started without you.’

Bartellus nodded gravely. His friend always said that, but the only game they played was urquat – and that was a three- or five-handed game. It required both luck and skill and Dol Salida was a master; perhaps the best in the City. But after three years as his students, Bartellus and Creggan had acquired skill enough to make the game interesting for him, the master told them smugly.

After agreeing the day’s small wager, Creggan started the play by throwing the dice. The rattle of the bone pyramids on the wooden table was infinitely comfortable to Bartellus and he settled back in his chair with the prospect of enjoyable hours ahead. A servant quietly put a jug of ale at his elbow, for he was well known at the Shining Stars, and his credit was good.

‘How’s that daughter of yours, Bart?’ asked Creggan after a while, sitting back and taking a sip of ale.

‘Well, thank you,’ Bartellus replied, staring at the counters in front of him.

‘That window will soon be finished, eh? The fish one.’

‘Very soon.’

‘I’d like to see one of the windows some day.’

Bartellus grunted agreeably. Although he liked the two men he had no intention of inviting them to his house. He believed in keeping the different parts of his life separate; in that way one could not compromise another. Emly would not meet Creggan and Dol Salida, and none of them would know of the whore’s attic he visited in Gervain. None of them would learn of his visits to the Great Library, and long evenings studying ancient manuscripts on the history of the City. If people found him secretive, well, so be it. He had reason to be.

Dol Salida won the first three games briskly. Creggan sighed and complained, as he so often did, ‘There is no point playing you. We’re wasting our time.’

The master grinned, and set out the board again. ‘You have beaten me before, Creggan. Let me see … last spring, wasn’t it? And Bart beat us both only a few days ago. Consider my feelings, man, how dull it must be for me to win all the time. Would you like to increase our wager?’

‘No,’ both men said with feeling, and Dol Salida laughed.

He was a gregarious man, with an easy smile. Though his head was bald and brown he affected a wide white moustache which he stroked absently as he played. Bart had long ago learned that the master’s moustache-stroking, though apparently involuntary, gave no indication as to his game strategies. When Dol left the Shining Stars, Bartellus had discovered, he would go back to a wife and many grandchildren in a crowded house close by the Red Palace. A former cavalry officer, he had been invalided out with a shattered leg a decade before. He leaned heavily on a stick now, but if the limb pained him he never let on.

Creggan, by contrast, was a widower. He had no children, and he lodged with a blacksmith’s family in Gervain. He seldom spoke about himself and Bartellus knew only that he was an infantryman and had served in the forces of Grantus, victorious commander of the southernmost armies, some twenty years before.

Unlike most of the old soldiers around them in the courtyard, who spoke of nothing else, the three men seldom discussed the war, and rarely referred to their fighting years. They came together to play urquat and their conversation was limited. Bartellus spoke of Emly’s work, Dol Salida of his family, and Creggan of the birds of the City which were his passion.

So it was rare for Creggan to comment, ‘I hear we lost a naval battle two days ago.’

Bartellus said nothing, and there was a pause before Dol Salida laid down two counters then muttered, ‘Half-truths and speculation. Where do you get your information from, Creggan? These old gossips?’ He gestured to the grey-haired veterans hunched over tables around them.

Creggan shrugged. Finally Bartellus volunteered, ‘There was no sea fish in the market today. Only river bream and reedfish, that I could find.’ The two men glanced at him and nodded.

Bartellus thought that was the end of it, but after a while Creggan offered, ‘I heard it from a soldier. Infantryman. In there.’ He gestured towards the inn.

‘Oh, not a gossip then,’ Dol Salida replied sarcastically. ‘Just a drunken grunt.’ He chuckled.

‘Was he seeking information, or selling it?’ asked Bartellus. ‘In exchange for ale?’

Creggan shook his head, threw the dice and groaned. ‘No luck today,’ he complained. ‘No, he paid his way. He was talking to Fat Lanny. I just overheard.’

Bartellus smiled to himself. Fat Lanny had served ale at the Shining Stars for time out of mind. He spent his days with old men telling war stories and showing their scars. He always nodded and smiled, and went on wiping glasses. Bartellus doubted he listened any more.

Their game went on and the sun rose high above them, sparkling down through the leaves and dappling the table.

‘Funny thing about him,’ Creggan said.

‘About who?’ Dol Salida asked irritably.

‘The man in the inn yesterday.’

The master sat back and stared at him. ‘By the gods, man, you think as slowly as you play. Are you still on about that barfly? Did you fall in love with him?’

Unruffled, Creggan repeated pedantically, ‘Funny thing. He had
a tattoo on his bicep the same as the inn sign. Seven stars. I pointed it out to him and we laughed about it.’

‘The Shining Stars refers to the Seven Sisters,’ Bartellus told him. ‘It’s one of the pictures placed there by the sky god.’

‘I know that, man,’ Creggan said, irritated himself now. ‘I’m not a simpleton. It’s a regimental tattoo, Second Adamantine. I just thought it was funny, a man with seven stars on his bicep drinking ale at the Shining Stars inn.’

‘Hilarious,’ grunted Dol. ‘Are you going to play or not?’

Creggan threw his dice, then went on, ‘And he had an odd mark on his forearm. A brand, like it was burned into the skin. Like an S.’

‘A burn?’

‘No, I mean he was branded. Like a horse.’

Memory flashed in Bart’s mind. A dark-haired soldier with sky-blue eyes. ‘What did he look like?’ Bartellus asked, trying not to sound too interested.

Creggan shrugged. ‘Like a soldier. Shabby. I don’t know. Fair hair.’

‘How do you know he was a soldier?’

Creggan gave him a pitying look. ‘The tattoo. Anyway, you can tell.’

‘Tall?’

‘He was sitting down. Why do you care?”

With a satisfied grunt, Dol Salida turned over the red counter to reveal a white disc on a blue background. ‘Moon and two,’ he said grinning. The other men sat back, defeated.

Bartellus asked his friend, ‘Do you know of this brand, Dol?’

The master shrugged. ‘Slave mark, I expect. Why, are you interested?’ he asked, his penetrating dark gaze flicking at Bart.

Bartellus kept his voice casual. ‘How could a man have both the honourable tattoo of the Second Adamantine and a slave mark?’ he asked, gathering the counters together.

Dol shrugged again. ‘I couldn’t care less.’

Then, perhaps lulled into complacency by the warm sun and the ale, Bartellus volunteered, ‘I saw its fellow a long time ago. On a corpse.’

‘Blueskin?’

‘No. At least, I don’t think so. He had many tattoos on his body and head. This single burn mark was on his shoulder. It is strange. I have thought it over and over and can make no sense of it.’

‘Sense of what?’ Dol asked.

Bartellus explained. ‘Tattoos are common among soldiery. Men carry the mark of their regiment, the symbol of their unit. Even members of a platoon sometimes carry the same tattoo – it welds them together, shows their pride in their unity.’

The two men nodded and Dol rolled up his sleeve to show a striking serpent, symbol, Bartellus knew, of the First Imperial cavalry. A mark of great honour.

‘And this man had such a tattoo …?’ the master asked.

‘He carried what looked like a regimental tattoo on his back. A rampant goat with a serpent’s tongue.’

The two others laughed. ‘A goat?’

Bartellus shrugged. ‘It is not unusual,’ he said. ‘It is false modesty. In fact they think of themselves as lions, or eagles, but they use the sign of the lustful goat to show they are careless of such boastfulness, that they are more interested in rutting. It is false modesty,’ he repeated, ‘and not very subtle. But then soldiers are not known for their subtlety.’

‘So you know this tattoo?’

‘No. I have seen similar pictures, but not this rearing goat with a flickering forked tongue.’

‘But you think he was a soldier?’

‘Had been a soldier at some time, I’m sure. I recognized his battle tattoos. But his tongue had been cut out.’

‘Informer,’ said Dol heavily, nodding to himself.

‘Maybe,’ Bartellus replied. ‘But here is the conundrum. Some soldiers wear a simple sign on a bicep or shoulder. But most of their tattoos are covered under clothing or armour, not on arms or legs. In a soldier’s code, it is considered vulgar, fit only for slaves or women or foreigners, to have limbs covered with tattoos.’

‘But this man did?’

‘No, his arms and legs were clean of marks. But his scalp was shaven and covered in small tattoos, from high on his forehead to the nape of his neck. And why would anyone have unblemished arms and legs and neck, then cover his head with tattoos?’

THE GREAT LIBRARY
was a city in itself. Built over millennia, it sprawled across several acres, and included living quarters for labourers and custodians, eating houses, kitchens, stables and a blacksmith’s forge, gardens, orchards, two lakes, and an entire wing for foreign visitors, now largely untenanted. And storage rooms, hundreds of them, piled with thousands of books in many stages of preservation or decay. The history of the library was a lifetime’s study, and it was said that down the years many old men, invalided out of the army and with time on their hands, had spent their declining years labouring on the matter, many of them producing their own texts to add to the millions of words already existing on the subject, mostly unread and unregarded.

In the long afternoon Bartellus made his way, as always, to the central reading room, a huge chamber of light and shadow, its ancient roof supported by hundreds of soaring stone pillars. The green glass roof was centuries old and in a constant state of repair. Instead of a quiet refuge for scholars, the Chamber of Pillars was often a place of bustle and noise, and danger. Workmen laboured high above, talking and arguing and occasionally shouting a warning below of a dropped tool or piece of fumbled glass. On the floor there was the continual movement of the custodians, men and women dressed in sage green, who trundled small wooden carts piled with books. The cart wheels made a clickety-click percussion over the stone flags.
The high windows either side of the hall were of green and yellow glass and the light in the chamber had a queasy underwater quality. When it rained there was the constant drizzle and plop of water into the hundreds of rusty vessels placed in every aisle and corner.