The Grave Thief: Book Three of The Twilight Reign (47 page)

Mihn smiled. ‘Jesher was a theologian of great note in his time, and his parables are characterised by the depth of his insight. You will find his work instructive on the subject of death - you might also try a Menin play called
The Stargas
. The Menin style of declamation may amuse you, and the character of the Prophet Dirik is beautifully written, however inaccurate.’

‘I think I’ve heard of that one. Doesn’t he pray for death each morning?’

Mihn’s eyebrows rose. ‘I’m impressed, my Lord. Dirik prayed for death, for then he would be relieved of the burden of prophecy.’

The white-eye grinned. ‘Don’t be impressed; I just remember Tila saying I make her say a prayer for Dirik some mornings. I didn’t understand the reference so I made her explain it.’ He slammed a palm down on the desktop. ‘Damn you! I almost forgot what I’d kept you here for!’

‘The Chief Steward is waiting,’ Mihn reminded him.

Isak gave an exasperated grunt. ‘Fine; you win. But tell me what the tattoos are about. You don’t need to show me, just tell me. I’ll trust what you say.’

Mihn didn’t react immediately. His almond eyes thinned a shade and dropped momentarily to his palms. ‘Very well, my Lord,’ he began slowly. ‘You expressed a concern over my safety, thus I have asked the witch to tattoo my arms with rowan and hazel leaves. Both types of wood are used to protect against a variety of supernatural influences. She used sap from the plants in the ink and placed charms of protection on each leaf. Her magic is not powerful, but I am not a man of power - I believe her subtlety will complement my own skills to keep me as safe as any man could hope to be.’

‘Rowan and hazel, eh? Very well, thank you.’ He looked down at the desk and after a moment flipped the book shut. ‘That’s enough reading for one evening, I think. Go and help Xeliath. She’ll probably be on her way down to the training ground by now, even though there’s bloody snow on the ground. I’ll join you once I’ve finished with Lesarl.’

 

The Chief Steward’s face bore a permanent frown these days and today was no exception, Isak saw. Tila told him how hard Lesarl was working these days, barely getting three hours of sleep on a good night, and spending large parts of his days riding from one part of the city to another.

Every other day the clerics would think up some new problem - refusing to acknowledge the authority of magistrates, or judges, or the Palace Guard - and only Lesarl’s swift intervention had prevented anything worse than minor bloodshed on Tirah’s streets. To make matters worse, Swordmaster Kerin had died of the injury he’d taken at the Temple of Law and the Ghosts were unwilling to back down from any confrontation. On top of that, he had fifteen lawsuits over the new religious decrees going through the courts, plus the aftermath of Isak’s investiture, where he had brokered and signed more deals among the nobility than in the whole previous two years.

‘You have news?’ Isak asked, indicating they should sit by the fire.

Lesarl sank gratefully into the armchair’s embrace. ‘Unfortunately, I do.’

‘That bad?’

‘My Lord, I do not know how long we can continue in this way,’ Lesarl admitted. ‘We have bands of penitents attempting to restrict what little food that comes into the city, and violent clashes on a daily basis. I’ve needed troops to clear courtrooms and prevent the Morality Tribunals from trying civil and criminal cases . . .’ He sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose, screwing his eyes up tight for a moment. ‘Just today a priestess of Vasle set up her own independent court and she’s passing sentences of drowning, while I have just had confirmation that a warehouse owned by the cult of Death is being used as a makeshift gaol for people who’ve publicly opposed their troops. I could go on—’

‘Anything I can do?’

Lesarl shook his head. ‘I don’t want to give anyone the satisfaction of your personal intervention, and where there’s fighting there’s always the chance someone will try to assassinate you.’ He sighed and reached his hands out towards the fire. ‘If you die we have civil war, if you’re injured we still need to conduct the purge we’ve been trying to avoid for weeks now.’

‘So your news concerns something different?’

‘Yes, my Lord. Your guest in Lomin has apparently become less than satisfied with incursions into the Great Forest. After the fall of Scree he started taking religious matters seriously.’

‘Oh Gods,’ Isak groaned. ‘I think I can guess what’s coming next.’

Lesarl’s face was grim. ‘The cults have invited him to Tirah; they’re looking for a figurehead and my agent in Lomin tells me he is obsessed with the liberation of his people. His physical appetites have apparently waned since the high summer, presumably triggered by the fall of Scree, and instead he is starting to see himself as some sort of mystic, a spiritual leader as much as soldier. I hardly need tell you of all people what a terrible combination that makes.’

‘Can we not stop him coming?’

Lesarl shook his head. ‘I can’t have the offer withdrawn without killing more priests to give Certinse the moderates he needs on the Synod - and we’d need to lose too many. We cannot expect to reason with him any more than we can be confident of killing him on the way. If Sir Kelet and a team of rangers were in place already, I would have chosen that path - even he would not survive a poisoned arrow - but as it is they won’t be able to negotiate the cults’ patrols in time.’

Isak found himself picking at the chair as he thought. ‘So the alternatives are?’

‘Allow him to come here and see massive bloodshed on the streets, or deflect him.’

‘Have they asked him to lead a revolt?’ Isak said in surprise.

‘No, my Lord, but you are white-eyes and these are fraught times. With the two of you in the city, you will fight - I guarantee it. With armies at your sides, the destruction in the city will be extensive.’

‘Your expression tells me I’m not going to like the other choice much either.’

‘No.’ Lesarl was quiet for a moment while he stared into the fire.

Isak felt trepidation flood his body.

‘My Lord,’ Lesarl began hesitantly, ‘this is the only viable course of action I can recommend. I don’t want you to think too long about it because the longer you do so the more terrible it will seem.’

‘Understood, now tell me.’

‘Suzerain Torl is a devoted servant; he will realise the necessity. We need him to persuade the dark monks to go south, drawing every fanatic in their wake. I cannot entirely predict the end result, except to say that where religious fervour is concerned the usual rules of war, diplomacy and common sense do not apply.’

‘You’re talking about a crusade?’ Isak said, feeling the enormity of his words like a millstone on his shoulders.

‘Yes, my Lord. To avoid civil war here in Tirah, the Brethren of the Sacred Teachings must announce a holy war against the Menin - to be joined by the whole spectrum of murderers, madmen and self-serving opportunist bastards in our priesthood when we circulate the rumour that Lord Styrax has consorted with daemons.’ He sighed. ‘And they will ask Lord Chalat, Chosen of the God Tsatach and deposed Lord of the Chetse, to lead them.’

It was cold in the Duchess Chamber of the Ruby Tower. Dropping the antechamber onto Byora’s clerics had opened the room to the winter wind gusting through the large double-doors. The small group of petitioners trooped in under the beady eye of Jato, Steward of the Tower, mindful of the positions they had been assigned. Luerce was almost last, lacking both wealth and a title, but that position gave him time to observe the others. Timing was everything, and Luerce was well-used to gauging a crowd.

He was a slight man, pale and thin-boned as most Litse were, but folk described his face as washed-out rather than porcelain, the more usual description for those of that tribe. It was an easy face to see weakness in, and few doubted it when that was what was displayed. Azaer hadn’t had to show him the value of weakness; he already knew it.

The group on either side of the door included workmen, and a fat man in a drooping velvet hat. While some repaired minor damage to the plaster, others watched as the fat man painted on the newly whitewashed wall, tracing faint lines with sooty water. Luerce couldn’t quite resolve the shapes into anything recognisable, but still it made him want to smile: he was painting shadows where once images of the Gods had been. The destruction of the antechamber had revealed enormous murals of Death and Ushull. The duchess had fallen into a rage at the sight of them and demanded both be whitewashed within the hour.

Now the duchess sat on her throne, with little Ruhen on her left, in the shadow of Sergeant Kayel. As Luerce stared at Ruhen, scarcely able to believe what he saw, the duchess said something to the boy and brought him round to sit beside her. Ruhen, apparently five winters of age and the picture of innocence, smiled up at the duchess as she bent to place a kiss on his brown curls. At the side of the room a grey-haired woman watched, bewildered - the child’s mother, Luerce remembered. She was little more than skin and bone, and she looked broken, lost. He could see nothing more than a glimmer of recognition in her eyes, and it obviously wasn’t enough for her to take exception to the duchess’s motherly attentions to her son.

Then Ruhen looked up and stared straight at Luerce, and he felt that electric tingle down his spine. As his master fixed his gaze upon him, the sounds of shuffling feet and hurried whispers withered to nothing.

‘Gods below,’ Luerce breathed. The woman ahead of him turned and gave him a puzzled look, but he was so lost in the swirl of shadow in his mind that he hardly noticed.

Careful to keep the thought to himself, he recalled,
I was there that day in the square when the duchess took you in, just a matter of months ago, no more, and look how you have grown.

‘Where is Lady Kinna?’ the duchess called, fingers idly stroking Ruhen’s hair as though the boy were a pet.

Steward Jeto cleared his throat. ‘Ah, she sends her apologies, your Grace. She came down with an ailment, an illness of the throat, two days past; she has been unable to leave her bed since.’

‘Have my doctors been sent to attend her?’

‘They have consulted with Lady Kinna’s doctor, a woman from Helrect, so I am told. Your doctor is satisfied that she is receiving good care. They tell me a few days’ rest will see Lady Kinna better than ever.’

Jeto finished his statement with a nervous cough. The fussy little sexagenarian had jet-black hair and a prominent nose, both of which contrived to make him look rather like a crow amongst pigeons. Black hair was rare in Byora, and Jeto lacked the height and thick bones of the Menin. Luerce was a small man himself, but he felt sure he could snap Jeto’s neck like a twig if it became necessary.

‘Very well, let us begin,’ the duchess announced, holding Ruhen close.

Steward Jeto bowed ceremoniously and brought the first petitioner forward, a tall woman of similar age to the duchess - and her rival in wealth, if the jewellery with which she was adorned was anything to go by. Indeed, the duchess greeted the woman almost as a friend as Jeto began to outline the suit. Luerce let the words drone on without listening. He had a task to complete, but he could not risk interrupting a woman as powerful as this one clearly was.

Luerce had been apprenticed to a chandler from an early age, but he had not found the trade to his liking, despite being a good worker and popular with the customers. People were his greatest skill, making friends and connections as much as ferreting out their secrets. The old master had not lasted long after Luerce had married his daughter.

Now he left his wife to run the chandlery; so many foreigners passed through Byora that there were always opportunities for a man with a quick mind and glib tongue. His illicit living had been even more profitable than the chandlery, but he’d thought the fun had come to an end the day he tried to con a man with scarred hands and a quicker mind than his own. He’d spent the next few days confined to bed while the swelling subsided, and during those uncomfortable sleepless nights the shadows had spoken to him.

Since then Luerce had been waiting for the day he was needed, all the while extending his contacts within the city and smiling sympathetically at stories of hauntings and unfortunate accidents among his rivals.

The second petitioner was a waddling mage in robes that had once been very fine. Luerce bided his time, unwilling to steal a mage’s thunder. The third was a meek-looking merchant whose fortunes had seen better days, judging by the state of his clothes. With a mournful wail Luerce slipped through the lines and past the merchant, falling to his knees well short of the point where Ilumene would have to give him a second beating.

‘Your Grace,’ Luerce moaned, ‘I beg your forgiveness but I cannot wait any longer! I am cursed; cursed by a vengeful priest of Death. My daughter lies at home, one foot inside Death’s Gates because of his spite and no healer can help her.’

He felt the crowd behind him shift, alarmed at the mention of a curse. The guards on either side started to move closer before Ilumene raised a hand to stop them. He had already stepped forward, putting himself between Ruhen and Luerce, as a bodyguard should, and now he peered at Luerce as though trying to see whether he was mad, or simply desperate.
He is a great actor
, Luerce thought.

‘Why do you come to me?’ the duchess asked sternly, not at all cowed by the mention of a curse. ‘I have no dealings with the priesthood.’ She spat the last word out and Luerce cringed. ‘I suggest you find a mage to undo the curse, or some witch to fashion a charm for you.’

‘I have tried,’ howled Luerce as the tears began to come, ‘and none have been able to break its spell. First my wife sickened and died, then, as a black dog crossed his path in the street, my brother’s heart gave out.’ He gave a choking sob. ‘Your Grace, most blessed lady of Byora, I beg your intercession, I beg help—’