Vinir pulled back one hand to run it through her long hair, unbraided for the night. “Well, that’s a lot to think on! But Salick, I don’t think he’s trying to destroy the Banehall, though he might like to change it.”
Salick looked up at her friend. There were tears in her eyes, and she reached out to take Vinir’s hand.
“But changing it will destroy it. Nothing will be the same, and we’ve all worked so hard to recover from the Duelists’ attack and Mandarack’s . . .”
Vinir patted her shoulder and nodded. “I know. I miss him too. Branet wouldn’t get away with half the clawed mistakes he makes if the Master were still here. And it’s cruel to send that Shirin out into the wilds to die! I don’t care if it was done two centuries ago or if Banfreat himself thought it was a good idea! No, don’t say anything! I know you love tradition, and it can be a shield against what hurts you, but you sometimes forget we can’t really stop change, only fight like fools against it. You know that, don’t you? Remember when we were young? You were a Lord’s daughter, and I was in my wretched uncle’s care. I saw you riding by with your father, Heavens he was a hard man, and I thought, ‘she’ll be a Lord one day, and I’ll be a washer woman, or dead from my uncle’s . . .’”
She stopped and started to shake, but Salick grabbed her shoulders and brought her close for an embrace.
“You’re safe now! He’s dead and gone, same as my father, and you’re surrounded by people who will protect you, Vinir. Stop crying, please!”
After some time, Vinir’s shaking stopped. Each Bane had a fear at their centre of their being. Fighting against it allowed them to battle real demons as well as the demons of their memories. Most waged that double war all their lives, and it was always a narrow thing between being crippled by fear or being able to use it as a true Bane. Like everyone else in the Banehall, Vinir lived within that terrible, narrow space.
“I’m all right. I just haven’t thought of him for a while, that’s all. Now let me go so I can dry my eyes.”
She got up to open the window a bit more. “It’s so close in here, isn’t it? Well, tears come before a storm, as we used to say in the Ward. Do you remember? But we were talking about you and Garet! What I was trying to say is that once we thought our future was carved deep into the stones of the city, a Lord and a weaver, you high and I low. But look at us now, both the same, friends and Banes, fighting to save our city. It’s wonderful! So why are you afraid of change?”
“But the Banehall, Vinir! If it changes, we may all die.”
“And we may not. I think I like this idea of a war, because it means we might win, instead of fighting and dying for another six hundred years. Listen you, Garet wants what’s best for the city, of that I’m sure, and I’m even more certain that he would never want to hurt you.”
Salick stood again, tears running down her face. “Then why is he trying to destroy what I love?”
She resumed her pacing, and Vinir could only shake her head at all the foolishness in the world.
IN AN EMPTY
training room on the first floor, Hallmaster Branet struck again and again with his iron-bound staff, hitting the biggest bag in the room until it bled sand onto the floor. He was not wondering what he should do. With each echoing attack, he was trying to stop wondering.
And so went the night.
GARET CAME DOWN
to his room when the rain started and slept fitfully until dawn. When he woke, Dorict was gone, and since Marick was still splinted in the infirmary, he was alone. He tried to remember his dreams, hoping to find some guidance in them, but when they bubbled up in his memory, he shuddered and opened the dusty curtain to let in some light. Images of the game board came again, with moving figures of children being pursued by the demon-like Hunter. Across from him, the challenger changed with each move. First it was Branet, then the King, then Tarix, and Marick, and even Salick glaring at him. The last was Dorict, who shook his head and, in a voice like a Shrieker’s, said, “This is no good, you Midland Crow. You must learn to play the game!”
He stared out into the near empty plaza, relieved to find a real, if cold, floor under his bare feet. He washed and dressed before going down to the dining hall. The place was quiet, as half the Banes were still out on the new patrols, and the other half were trying to get a last hour of sleep before they must go out again.
Garet had a feeling the day would bring no new demon attacks. The monsters had been called away for some purpose last night. Until that purpose was fulfilled, they would not return.
The dining hall had but a few Banes sitting together at the tables nearest the kitchen. Garet joined one where Dalesta and Chetorth, who also had day patrols, sat eating an early breakfast. It appeared others were also finding sleep difficult. Chetorth’s face still bore an angry red scar from the Snake Demon that cut him only seven nights ago. He was chewing his stew carefully, favouring the uninjured side of his mouth.
“Hello, Garet,” Dalesta said. She pushed a clean bowl and spoon across to him and pointed at the pot in the centre of the table. “It’s really good today, lamb stew and sweet buns. Yesterday it was beef and wild greens in a mushroom sauce! I think the Ward Lords want us to keep up our strength with all these attacks, but we’ll get too fat to chase demons if we keep eating like this.”
Garet spooned some of the stew into his bowl and stirred it around. His appetite must still be asleep, he decided, though it did smell very good. He tried a bite, and then another. “It is tasty. Tell me, Dalesta, what have you heard about last night?”
Chetorth broke into the conversation. “I hear that the temple priests prayed the demons away,” he said.
Dalesta sniffed. “Six hundred years of praying and it only works now? No, I think the Masters are as puzzled as we are. Our team saw a Shrieker coming across the rooftops and followed it from below. It passed up every opportunity to attack people in the courtyards and streets! By the time we caught up to it, the beast was climbing up and over the Wall. Master Taron led us out the Gate, but we saw nothing, only felt the fear fading away as it ran.”
“The temple,” Chetorth said, and stuffed his mouth again.
One of the kitchen help came out to clear the plates and stared pointedly at Garet’s half-filled bowl. He started in on it again, only asking his next question when the server had returned laden to the washing tubs in the kitchen.
“What did you hear about Shirin, the Mask caught in the Fifth Ward?”
Dalesta cocked her head to one side. “You would know more about than I, if the rumors are true. Didn’t you fight with her and turn her over to the King?”
Garet dropped his spoon into the bowl. He’d had enough, no matter what the cooks might think. “No, Dalesta, I didn’t. Well, I did fight with her, but only to try and talk our way out of this mad feud! Then Lord Sacourat brought her guards into the Maze and took her away. I only wanted to convince her to help us.”
Dalesta considered this and did not seem to notice Chetorth frown, then take his bowl and go sit elsewhere. She ran her finger through a spill of water on the table, tracing circles while she thought.
“All right, I see your point. It’s too hard to fight both the demons and the Masks. Didn’t we find that out last Winter with those Duelists and the King? But why must it be you? Shouldn’t Branet be doing this talking rather than a simple Green like you or me?”
She waited for his answer, her finger hovering over a drying circle.
Garet stood. “He should, but he won’t,” he told her and smiled to take some of the bitterness out of his tone. “Be safe, Dalesta, and keep up with those exercises. Tarix is right; they are helping you.”
“Sure, but Garet, where are you going?” Dalesta said. “And you, Chetorth, why did you move? Get back over here before I box your ears!”
Garet did not stay to see Chetorth’s surrender. He left the dining hall and walked slowly to the Records Room. As he expected, the Hallmaster was inside. Two other Reds, Relict and Taron, were there, and both men were speaking to Branet in raised voices.
“You can’t restart a tradition of exile,” Taron said. He was an older man with a precise moustache and beard. “It will be used to end political feuds, revenge, personal gain, and for all manner of idiotic reasons before it’s done. Have you no sense of the history of the Hall? Our fifty-first Hallmaster, Chalan, convinced King Balin the Wise not to exile the rebel leaders two hundred years ago. Since then, no one has been cast from the city gates.”
Relict nodded. “The chain gang is a harsh enough punishment. It was good enough for the Duelists, and you made no protest then! Branet, the city is torn over this. I heard the priests came from the temple this morning to plead for mercy, yet you wouldn’t even see them. Why in Heaven’s name do you need to see this woman dead?”
Branet looked up to see Garet waiting. “Green? What are you doing here? This is not for your ears. Leave immediately,” he said.
“I intend to, Hallmaster,” Garet replied.
He took off his sash. The green silk lay over his hands like a skein of spring growth. Relict’s eyes widened, and he held out his own hand, as if willing him to stop, but Garet walked forward and laid the sash on the counter.
“After last winter, I made a promise to myself not to harm anyone unless it was to save my life or the lives of others. Shirin’s death does neither, Hallmaster. Good-bye, Master Relict, Master Taron, it seems I can no longer be a Bane.”
“Garet, no!” Relict said. “You must think about this.”
He turned at the door. “My respects, Master Relict. Lately, I have thought of nothing else.”
Dalesta, coming out of the dining hall, stared at him, puzzled, until she realized his sash was gone. Her mouth dropped open, and she watched him go up the stairs. When Chetorth came out, she was nearly in tears.
He returned to his room, well not his room anymore, he realized, and searched until he found the bag of clothes he had borrowed from Torfor in the Market. He had not had the time to return them and now must go beg the loan of them a little while longer. After changing out of his uniform, which he left folded on the bed, he pulled a wooden box out from under the desk and examined its contents: tattered pants and shoes that no longer fit him, a wool tunic that he stuffed into the clothes bag, and a few coins that went into his pocket. There was also a small knife he hung on his belt, and nothing else. These few things were all he had from his life before the Banehall.
He left the old pants and shoes in the box, and sat down to write Dorict and Marick a note. He briefly considered writing another for Salick, but guessed she would probably tear it up unread after their meeting of the night before. Thinking of her cutting silence, he needed a moment to find his strength again so that he might continue.
Dorict and Marick,
I am leaving the Banehall. I cannot stay, and I think you know the reasons why. Please take care of Allifur for me. She will need friends in the Hall, and you are two of the best she could ever hope to find.
Farewell, Garet
He put it on Dorict’s bed and hefted the bag to his shoulder. He was not surprised to find Tarix waiting for him at the front door.
“Relict told you?” Garet asked. He settled the bag more firmly on his shoulder.
The Red nodded. She looked him up and down, taking in the rough clothes and wool cap.
“He woke me up, and I nearly clouted him for it. Then he told me what you did, and I wanted to clout you, or probably Branet—yes, definitely Branet!”
The rain drummed on the steps just outside the open doors. The Bane who recorded comings and goings had fled to a spot across the entrance hall where he could keep his notes dry.
Garet smiled. “I deserve a beating, I’m sure, for putting you to so much trouble over these past months. I couldn’t have . . .”
Tarix held up a hand, then placed it on his shoulder. “Don’t say it. I did what I did, and you’re doing what you’re doing. We all have our reasons, and I don’t take this as a final parting. Keep heart, Garet, most troubles pass. I feel we will work together again when we’ve all come to our senses.”
SHE WATCHED HIM
walk down the steps and into the Banehall Plaza. The number of people walking about was growing now, even this early and even in the rain. Word of the demons’ retreat had spread, and people came out to share in the wonder of it. Garet was lost in those crowds soon enough.
“He’s gone?” Relict asked. He had been hanging back to let his wife say good-bye to her student.
“Yes, for now,” she said. “Come, my dear husband, I need to talk to the Hallmaster.”
Relict shook his head. “Maybe it should wait, or we’ll both need new clothes.”
But Tarix was already halfway to the Records Room.
AT THE STEWARDS
School, Barick was still in his dressing gown. Standing barefooted at the door to his rooms, he blinked down at Garet and yawned.
“Garet! I did not expect you today, especially so early. Has the King called you? Is that why you are dressed so . . . peculiarly?”