"It is a sanctified place and older than the kingdom," said Agryn.
Guthred grunted once more.
The Patriarch shot a scathing glance down the aisle at their chatter, his tiny eyes as piercing as a sea eagle's.
"All right, men," murmured Coensar.
As Durand writhed in a fool's agony, he glanced up in time to notice something strange in the high glass sheet beyond the others. One of the tiny panes of glass didn't have the same sheen as the rest. Something was moving beyond it: an eye slipping away.
Something moaned—nowhere near the window, but high above. The sound throbbed again. Down the aisle, Lamoric had struggled onto one knee. The Patriarch was turning, his long mantle swinging out. Every bell in the sanctuary tower moaned in doleful warning.
Snarling, Durand leapt past the others, springing low through the wicket gate and out into the dark. The spy had been at a side window, so Durand pelted for the corner, knowing he had taken too long, and that any spy worth his wages would be gone.
As he careered into the dark yard, however, he saw a figure stooped some twenty paces away. The man wore a black gardecorps robe. The sleeves swept the turf like black wings.
The Rook lifted his finger. "Shh."
Durand charged headlong, but the little man spun from him, darting off in a riot of cloak and sleeves and shadows, until there was nothing left but scattering darkness.
With nothing to chase, Durand skidded to a halt, his gaze raking every crevice and shadow among the tombs and trees and distant houses. And then he heard voices. Swords were rattling from scabbards.
"There!" Guthred shouted. Coensar and Agryn followed him, looking up toward the roof of the high sanctuary. The throbbing of the bells had ceased. "What's he done? Is there something here?" Guthred was saying.
It was Agryn who approached Durand first. His eyes were on the yard, as he murmured, "What did you see?"
Du
rand did not know how to answer. What unwholesome impulse had drawn the Rook to Alwen's tomb? What was he doing in Acconel? Durand could not lie, but what could he say that would not destroy him?
"Someone. In the dark. Watching," he said.
Coensar had stalked over to the flawed window. He thrust two fingers through the space of the missing pane.
"I gave chase," Durand continued, "but he'd gone before I could lay hands on him."
"Now you've got us chasing shadows?" Guthred said.
Oredgar the Patriarch stalked around the comer with Lamoric following behind.
"No," said the Patriarch. He stalked straight for Durand. "It has gone. But there was something here. Unnatural, but held at bay by the wards of the Ancient Patriarchs." He turned, robes bright against the darkness. "It had its eye on you all."
Lamoric's retainers stared out into the streets of Acconel. No one said a word.
"My sister is inside," Lamoric said.
The others waited
in the dark sanctuary, as nervous as a lost troop in a hostile land. A man could not draw steel in the high sanctuary without barring the Bright Gates, but each of them had his fingers on his blade's hilt. Durand clutched his new sword with the same hand that had seized Alwen's arm.
Their clothes dried where they stood.
In the third hour of night, Lamoric completed the cycle of prayer for his sister and took the long walk back to his men. Durand avoided his eyes.
"You will want to be with your family," was Coensar's surmise.
"We will go to High Ashes," Lamoric answered.
Coensar tucked his chin a fraction. "Lordship, we have lost two days. And, from Acconel, half of Lost Hesperand is between us and Mornaway." It was too far.
'Then we must hurry."
Coensar fixed Lamoric with a steady stare, then nodded. "Aye, Lordship."
T
he company crowded the courtyard of an inn, men and horses jostling for space. Though Lamoric had wanted to be gone in the night, the men had been desperate for sleep. Now, though, it was nearly noontide and still they lingered in Acconel. Durand slung the last of the saddlebags just as Lamoric stalked from the inn doors, heading straight for Guthred. "Where did those whoresons go?" he demanded. "Still down at the barber's," said Guthred. "Badan won't be fit to ride till—"
"—Then we'll haul him on a bloody cart!" snapped Lamoric.
"We'll get him," said Durand. Guthred rounded on Durand. "Find a damned wheelbarrow; it was your elbow cracked his teeth."
Out they went, jogging over mud and cobbles to a market in Haywarden Street. Durand's empty wheelbarrow boomed like battle drums.
Drunken storefronts and canvas stalls leaned over the heads of a mob of townspeople. There was no sign of the two stragglers.
"Hells. Should have been here," said Guthred, out of breath.
Durand surveyed the stalls and caught a fleeting glimpse of a pair of soldiers reeling past the mouth of an alley. One had a patched eye. "There!"
Guthred was off, bowlegs pumping. They charged through crowds and alley rubbish, Durand shoving the wheelbarrow bounding ahead.
In a few moments, Guthred had hold of Berchard's sleeve. The one-eyed old campaigner had Badan braced like a drunk against the wall.
"Are you finished, Sir Berchard?"
A wide grin split the man's beard. "Oh! You should have seen our Badan."
The stricken man sagged, his eyes like two slices of boiled egg. There was a butcher's gutter down his shirtfront.
"We have to get back," Guthred said. "It's bloody leagues to High Ashes. We're losing time."
Berchard nodded. "Here," he said, "let's get him into the barrow." Durand took Badan's ankles, and they swung him in. Durand lifted the handles.
Berchard whacked Durand's shoulder. "Durand, boy, you ought to have come along."
The face looking up from the barrow was swollen as red and hard as an apple. The man had deserved it. Durand set off, pushing as fast as he could.
"Anyway," Berchard continued cheerfully, "the tooth-puller pried open our man's jaw, and what's he reckon? He'd best yank seven. Not one. Not two. Seven!" Berchard shoved a blunt finger into his mouth. "Everyshing on zhat shide." The finger smacked free. "A penny a piece."
Guthred was shaking his head. "He pays the puller by the tooth," the old shield-bearer muttered, disgusted.
"I'll tell you this for nothing, friend Durand," said Berchard. "It's a lucky thing you've still got both eyes. You'll have to sleep with one eye open if you want to see your next Naming Day."
Durand gave the man a pained grin, preoccupied with the wheelbarrow. Badan was no lightweight, and, at Guthred's pace, the barrow's wheel dove down every rut, careering for walls and alleys like a living thing.
"Anyway," said Berchard. "I take Badan into the little tent." He waved back toward the market. "It's in a tent. Just a pair of stools and a box of picks 'n pincers. The man looks into Badan's mouth, staring right into the reek. And Badan opens as far as he can, only it's nowhere near far enough. You couldn't ram a knifepoint between his teeth. So the puller sets his hands on Badan's face, real gentle. Badan hardly noticed. Then the fellow yanks." They passed under a sort of bridge between two houses, and the old campaigner's laugh racketed around the arch.
T thought Badan was going to crack his skull between his heels, he jerked back so fast. Lucky thing Badan was drinking since sunset." He tapped his temple with one knuckle. "No fool him."
There was a louse on the back of Durand's neck, pricking like a needle. He couldn't stop to claw at it.
"Truth," Berchard swore, jogging sideways with his hand in the air. "I swear, I think he bought half that innkeeper's claret. He figured the red stuff had to do with blood, and that he was going to lose a fair bit.
"Anyway, we start to pick Badan up, and, when he realizes what's happening, he shakes us off. He doesn't want to look like any coward. He sits down on his own. No help. His fingers are digging into his knees pretty good, though. His chin's up. I thought
he
was going to be first to draw blood.The puller pries our boy's mouth open. And—oh!—the tears are squeezing from Badan's eyes. But he takes it! He lets the bugger work."
Durand nearly walked the barrow into the legs of a carthorse. Gjuthred had tramped right through a crossroads.
"Then the examination commences," said Berchard. "Our puller's got this iron needle. I say needle, but it's longer, more of an awl, and it's blunted on the end. Squared off. Badan doesn't open his eyes. The guy starts probing, and you can tell when he hits a bad one from the way air kinda sniffs— sharp—up Badan's nose. So he's prodding and prodding
and Badan's all hisses and whistl
es."
Guthred cursed. Durand's shoulders and fists were burning.
Berchard held off the interruption with the flat of his hand. "But then the puller starts
talking”
.
I don't know what was going on in his head. Me, I'd've got in and out quick as I could, but he started up: 'This man I knew—in Eldinor—he was working on this woman once. Pretty thing. And the worms had had one of her teeth. Too many sweets. It was near gone.
Just a ring. Nothing in it. And he told her what he had to do, and he went in with his pliers, and he started to work on her. Pulling and pulling. You know? And then the tooth popped. He had the pliers too high up, you know? And the tooth just snapped shut under the pliers. Now. He went one way, and she went the other. Knees up, if you follow. From the waist down, bare as the day she was born. And he's looking at this—arse, dimpled knees, thighs—staring while she blubbers on— when, all of a sudden, he feels this greasiness under his hand, and he looks. His hand's all blood. He's used to blood, of course, being a tooth-drawing man, but, when he looks close, he sees something else. He thinks one of his finge
rs is bent down—broke probably
and when he looks even closer. Kind of turning it over? There's naught there. Naught but this little white chicken bone sticking out of the blood, halfway—'" Durand winced.
"Hold on now. You've got to remember; Badan's hearing this the whole time. He hears every word, and I can see sweat standing all over his face. I can smell it. He lets go of his knees. Quiet. He's all restraint is our Badan. And he slips his hands up, while the fellow's talking, and poking, and he slides his fingers into the greasy collar of this fool's tunic, and just as he got to the part about the chicken bones, Badan jerked that collar tight.
"That fellow froze, and Badan gave him this look." Berchard took a moment to make a mocking fist and finger sign over his heart. "I've never seen anything like it. Drawer's eyes are bulging out, and Badan's are just these puckers of yellow bile.
"When he lets go, this puller, he isn't about to say another word. You could see him shoving all his stories about wrong teeth pulled and broken jaws and wisdom teeth and rusty pliers and all that sort of thing into a big old strongbox, and tipping the lot into a river. I swear. He even brought out the good stuff. Must have been poppy or ivy or mandragora. Let them
both
settle down a bit. I swear though, the vein in that man's neck stopped jumping the same time Badan's eyelids shut.
"Once he got going, though, he seemed to know his trade. Badan didn't stay out once the drawing started. I expect it's hard to doze with a man up on your chest." He shook his head thoroughly, valiantly suppressing a laugh, when a moan from the wheelbarrow broke his will.
The inn swung into view. There was a shallow hill to climb, but Durand clenched his teeth and in a few moments they were at the door.
"He'll be right as rain now, though," said Berchard. "Puller's told our man to wash his mouth with malmsey and brine to draw the evil. When he comes round."
Guthred nodded. "They'll go for blood every time, but the spirits love a lick of wine or salt water."
Sir Agryn was waiting at the inn doors.
"He would be better," said Agryn, "to think of the Host of Heaven. But he is Badan."
Coensar noticed the new arrival.
"Hells. Get him in a cart. Lamoric's already headed west."
Half an hour
later, their train jolted through the cavernous Gates of Sunset and out over the West Bridge after Lamoric. Durand fingered his new blade as they rode over the span, thinking that the road to Mornaway led through the domain of the Duke of Yrlac: father or son. During the night, he had looked closely at the sword, noting every notch and ripple in the well-worn blade. While it was neither new nor ancient, the blade was straight, and its apple-wedge iron pommel lent it good balance. He would have to work to deserve it.