The Grave Thief: Book Three of The Twilight Reign (46 page)

‘He’s on his way.’

‘What? Are you certain?’ Certinse looked up, the papers piled on his desk immediately forgotten.

Senior Penitent Yeren nodded absentmindedly as he wandered over to the drinks cabinet, scratching the stubble on his cheek. ‘Mebbe hasn’t left yet, but he’s accepted the invite.’ He gave the fat brass door handle an experimental tug and smiled as the door opened.

I shouldn’t have left the damn thing unlocked
, Certinse thought, taking another sip of Fayl whisky and rolling it around his mouth. Yeren pulled out a decanter of wine and held it up to the light, wrinkling his nose at what he saw.
The brute even knows what he’s looking for
.

Reaching further into the recesses of the deep wooden cabinet he found a rather smaller decanter. This time the pitch-black liquid received a nod of approval. Yeren plucked a glass from the top shelf.

‘That’s a goblet,’ Certinse said. ‘The blackwine glasses are on the far left.’

‘Yep,’ Yeren said, setting the decanter down so he could remove the stopper, ‘but they’re tiny.’

Certinse rounded the desk with rare speed and removed the goblet from his hand, replacing it with a far smaller one shaped like an opening tulip.

‘I don’t care. Blackwine isn’t for quaffing, or whatever it is your sort do. It is to be savoured,’ Certinse said firmly. To his surprise the mercenary didn’t argue and filled the glass he’d been handed before raising it in toast.

‘How did you find out?’ Certinse pressed.

‘My men are better couriers than any wet-behind-the-ears novice. Most clerical correspondence goes though us nowadays.’

‘Haven’t they noticed you’re reading the messages?’

Yeren laughed. ‘Your lot are bloody stupid, didn’t you know that? They know nothing of secrecy. If they declare war on Lord Isak, the Chief Steward will have them for breakfast.’

‘A good thing too,’ Certinse pointed out, refilling his own glass, ‘but before you make too many claims to competence, might I remind you that Ardela ended up not dead, but in the Chief Steward’s custody? Lucky for you I managed to make a bargain with Lesarl to deal with her quickly.’ He sighed and sat back on the edge of his desk, pondering the news Yeren had brought for a while. ‘Every member of the Synod thinks he should be the leader of a glorious religious crusade,’ he said eventually. ‘I’m amazed they managed to agree in council that he should be invited - whatever his religious status, he’s still from another tribe.’

‘Well they did, and he is,’ Yeren announced, unperturbed. ‘You don’t want him?’

‘Use your brain, man; can you imagine what will happen?’

Yeren grinned. Certinse could smell the alcohol on his breath - not blackwine, but some sort of rough moonshine the soldiers brewed.
Gods, he probably can’t even taste the blackwine. He’s just drinking it to annoy me - and to show he does know what the good stuff is.

‘Would be quite a sight if you ask me,’ Yeren said.

‘And afterwards?’

The mercenary’s face fell slightly. ‘I see your point.’

 

‘He is coming to Tirah.’

‘Are you certain?’

‘Of course, you damn fool.’ Certinse’s voice rose to a high whine. ‘The Synod has approved it and invited him openly.’

‘Can you not persuade the Synod to change its mind?’ Prayer kept his voice to the barest whisper. He believed they were alone in the vaults beneath the Temple of Nartis, but voices carried far in the dim underground passages. Though the vaults were home to room after room of records and religious texts, there were few scholars willing to come here these days. While the newly raised High Cardinal Certinse had blunted the savagery of his predecessor’s Morality Tribunals, it hadn’t stopped half a dozen different sorts of purges being enacted. Some were cross-cult, most were simply unfathomable.

‘They are suspicious of me as it is. The Morality Tribunals haven’t turned out the way they intended and they’re looking for someone to blame - and the tribunals were
my
success!’ Certinse spat the last word as though it burned his mouth to say.

Prayer could imagine the look on the High Cardinal’s face, though he was unable to see it because he’d positioned himself round a corner in an attempt to keep his identity secret. He had left the High Cardinal instructions for how to contact him in an emergency, never really believing it would come to that. Lesarl preferred his coterie to keep a pace back from events, listening and gathering information rather than actively behaving like spies.

‘What are they saying about the deaths of Bern and the last High Cardinal?’

‘They know Lesarl was behind Bern’s death - Gods, even a child of five summers could work that one out - but they can’t work out how to officially blame him yet. As for High Cardinal Echer, they’re confused; the death of the Lady has thrown them. They don’t know what to think there. They know Lesarl uses devotees, but Ardela has never been on the roster. Because she has always been a clerical bodyguard that means she’s come from their own camp.’

‘They have accepted your evidence?’

‘Yes, and for that reason they don’t want to hear any more of it. If Lesarl announces he has captured and executed her immediately they will breathe a sign of relief. None of them trust each other. Just don’t let her surface where she’ll be recognised, and keep her from coming after me. I’ve got enough problems without her pursuing a vendetta.’

‘You cannot stop him?’ Prayer said, getting back to the matter in hand. He heard the swish of robes against the stone wall and imagined Certinse shaking his head violently.

‘Lesarl must find a way.’

‘He must,’ Prayer agreed. ‘We don’t want to have to rebuild Cornerstone Market again, do we?’

 

Dancer stamped his feet on the paved floor in a vain attempt to get some warmth back into them. He winced as the unyielding leather pushed down on his toes, and once again tried to work out a better way to meet his employer clandestinely. Cold Halls had been abandoned as a ducal palace, and failed as any other sort of private residence every time someone tried to make it their home. Though it was undoubtedly grand, Cold Halls lived up to its name. Dancer didn’t know whether it was because of a quirk of architecture, an underground river or supernatural forces, but by the time Chief Steward Lesarl turned up he wouldn’t be able to feel his own face.

Dressed in the uniform of a Palace Guard - courtesy of a guardsman only too happy to lend it out while he sat in a coffee-house with his feet up in front of a fire - Dancer lurked just inside the stable-side door of Cold Halls and waited. From time to time a clerk would hurry through the door, stamping the snow off their boots, and head off to their office without even a glance at the soldier guarding very little in the dim hallway.

After the best part of an hour Dancer heard neat little footsteps patter down the corridor towards him. He remained at attention until he was sure the Chief Steward was alone. When at last Dancer did turn to face his employer he realised the man was even paler than usual, a rare sign of strain.

‘You look ridiculous,’ Lesarl grumbled.

Dancer bit back a comment about the way Lesarl’s coat hung on his spindly frame. ‘He’s coming.’

‘The High Cardinal can’t stop it? What damn use is the man then?’

‘It’s out of his hands, as you well know,’ Dancer said firmly. The Chief Steward’s mood had been foul of late, but Dancer didn’t have the luxury of time to coax him round from whatever bee was in his breeches. ‘We need to find a way to stop it.’

Lesarl nodded. ‘I spoke to Whisper earlier, but she had pressing business and couldn’t wait for you.’

‘Gods, I never expected this when Lord Bahl offered the man sanctuary. He was supposed to be a boon for the tribe! Have you come to a conclusion?’

The question prompted a scowl. Despite everything, Dancer had to keep himself from laughing; Lesarl, the hunched, glowering minister stalking the corridors of Cold Halls reminded Dancer of a play he’d seen some years back, portraying King Deliss Farlan, father of the first white-eye, Kasi Farlan, as a scheming tyrant degenerating into syphilis-induced madness. The actor had somehow managed to capture the essence of Lesarl in his portrayal, much to the amusement of most of the city.

‘A conclusion of sorts,’ Lesarl said eventually. ‘Far from one I like however - it’s a bad sign when even the theory leaves a bitter taste in one’s mouth. How I will persuade Lord Isak I cannot even begin to imagine.’

‘You can’t kill him?’

‘If we could manage that,’ snapped Lesarl, ‘there wouldn’t be a problem in the first place!’

‘But how do we deflect his attention?’

The clatter of something falling echoed down the corridor and Lesarl held up a hand to silence his companion. It was a full minute before he continued, ‘I have received a letter from Duke Lomin. The man is keeping a careful distance from Lord Isak, as you might expect, but he’s a loyal soldier all the same. He gave me advance warning of this. The only way we can deflect this is to offer the fanatics something they would prefer, and sooner or later, for fanatics, that comes down to a sacrifice of some sort.’

‘I don’t follow.’

Lesarl shook his head, lips pursed in anger. ‘
Bloated beasts of hatred and petty jealousy; a murderer for a sire and a fool for a shepherd
,’ he said, more to himself than Dancer.

The nobleman frowned, recognising the words but taking a moment to place them. When he did, the enormity of Lesarl’s decision took his breath away. The words were a playwright’s; spoken by the last great Litse lord, Yanao Tell, when he was told Deverk Grast had mustered the entire Menin tribe.

‘How?’ Dancer croaked.

‘You must persuade Suzerain Torl to gather his Brethren and make a declaration.’

‘Torl?’ Dancer said. ‘You want the Dark Monks involved?’

‘Hardly.’ Lesarl paced the stone-paved floor. ‘But they are the only way. Tell Torl you are speaking with my authority. I cannot go myself - Lord Isak cannot be seen to be involved. The declaration must come from an independent group.’

Without waiting for a reply Lesarl turned back the way he’d come.

Dancer listened to the sound of his footsteps even after the man had turned the corner. Even when he could no longer hear Lesarl, Dancer found himself unwilling to leave his post. The chill in the air no longer mattered. It had paled in comparison to the emptiness in his stomach.

 

Isak sat up suddenly, drawing in a deep breath, as if he’d suddenly come up from under water. He looked around, blinking in momentary surprise. It was a rare thing for him to be so absorbed in a book that his senses withdrew from the Land around him.

The palace library was still and silent aside from the lazy crackle of the fire opposite. Isak sat facing the fire - and the door - at the huge partners’ desk that stood in the very centre of the room: a nearly square block of red-tinged wood and gleaming brass fittings. The room was softly lit by a heavy-based lamp sitting in the middle of the desk, and by the brass oil lamps on the ends of the bookshelves which extended from three walls into the room.

Most of the palace must have turned in for the night, Isak guessed, though something must have started him out of his reverie. ‘Probably Tila, slamming doors again,’ he muttered. His eyes drifted longingly towards the massive padded armchairs flanking the fireplace. There was something irresistible about a comfortable chair beside the fire - but he’d be curled up like a cat and asleep before he’d turned a page.

He stretched and was about to return to his book when the door opened. Isak relaxed when he saw Mihn enter.

‘The Chief Steward is looking for you, my Lord,’ Mihn said, his voice indicating that Lesarl was right behind him.

‘And the last place he expected to find me was the library, no doubt,’ Isak said with a smile. His eyes narrowed. ‘What’s that on your neck?’

Mihn’s hand flew to his neck, where a dark mark was visible over his collar. ‘Nothing of importance, my Lord.’

‘I don’t believe you. Very little of what you do is unimportant. ’ He pointed at Mihn’s neck. ‘Show me.’

‘Yes, do show us,’ said Lesarl as he walked through the door.

‘Lesarl, give us a moment, please.’ The Chief Steward’s eyes glittered at the command, but he bowed and retreated without a word. Isak was very protective of his unusual bodyguard; now that Lesarl had accepted Mihn would never be an agent of his, he avoided conflict on the subject.

‘It is just another tattoo,’ Mihn replied once Lesarl had shut the door behind him, a flicker of discomfort in his eyes.

‘Like the ones on your hands?’

‘Exactly, my Lord.’

‘Tattoos of what exactly?’ Isak urged.

‘Leaf patterns, nothing more.’ Mihn walked up to the desk and turned his head to look at the book Isak had been reading.

‘
Last Days of Darkness
,’ Isak said. ‘Stories from the end of the Age of Darkness.’

‘Your reading tastes have become somewhat morbid of late,’ Mihn noted.

‘You’re the one who started me on that path,’ Isak protested. ‘You told me to accept everything about myself, including my dreams of death! If I am to accept something I must understand it better. I . . .’ Isak hesitated. ‘I’m not entirely sure what I’m looking for, but I need to know what the dreams mean.’

‘Then I suggest you try Cardinal Jesher’s collection of parables, most specifically the one entitled “The Moneylender”. It is the story of a moneylender who dies, but is so obsessed by his trade that his spirit visits his debtors after he is dead, trying to collect what he was owed.’

Isak thought for a moment. ‘Sounds like you’ve just ruined the story for me, but I’ll give it a try, I suppose.’