Songs of the Earth (24 page)

The wretch thinks he can appreciate thirty-year-old spirit, does he?

‘The witch still lives.’

‘I paid you a great deal of money to ensure that would not be the case.’

Pieter shrugged. ‘You didn’t tell me he wouldn’t be alone.’

The bottle chimed on the rim of the glass as Goran topped up his drink. So the boy had had help – but from whom? Impossible that anyone could have known the Preceptor would overturn both law and precedent when faced with such incontrovertible evidence of guilt. Yet he had, and someone had known it. Goran’s hand steadied. There was advantage to be had from this, if he could play out his cards in the right way. He set the bottle down and pushed in the cork.

‘Tell me.’

‘I followed him along the Anorien road into Belistha, then down into Elethrain – had to stay well back; that witch has ears for my kind. They took ship downriver towards the Havens on a grain barge. River travel can be chancy sometimes, so I arranged for trouble to come their way.’ The witchfinder drained his glass. ‘I would have set a higher price if you’d told me he was armed, too.’

‘You already charge far too much for your services.’

‘Few people can do what you pay me for,’ Pieter said. ‘Scarcity affects the price, whatever the commodity.’ His undercooked gaze slid sideways to the velvet-covered shape on the desk.

Goran felt a twinge of unease. Pieter always made him uncomfortable, which was why he preferred to deal with him at arm’s length, through his agent. That way he didn’t have to be in the same room as him and his …
abilities
, useful though they were. They made his flesh crawl. The thought that the repulsive fellow might have seen the object on the desk, even guessed at its
value, disturbed him even more. Suppressing a shiver, he swirled his brandy around the glass.

‘The man he was with. Who was he?’

‘Never seen him before. Older fellow, solid-looking. A bit shabby.’

‘Is that the best description you can give me? That could be half the Curia, man!’

‘I didn’t give him much mind. He wasn’t the one I was being paid to follow.’ Pieter rubbed his face wearily. ‘Why do you want him so badly, anyway? He’s headed downriver. With any luck the Havens waterfront will see his throat opened for you soon enough.’

‘I don’t pay you to ask questions, just to get the job done, which you have singularly failed to do. I don’t feel the need to explain myself to you.’

‘Well, see if you can feel the need to pay me another ten marks for a new horse.’

‘What happened to yours?’

‘Dead. I was leading him through the trees when your boy took a shot at me with a shortbow. Missed me by a prayer, hit the horse. He took down two of the lads I paid as well. All in all, it wasn’t the duck-hunt you told me it would be.’

This was a development Goran could have done without. He frowned down into his glass, brain ticking busily through the possibilities. ‘Do you think you could pick up his trail again?’

‘It’s long cold. I could try to find out where the barge stopped – the Havens is the best place to start, but the bargee’s a drunk. He’ll hardly remember what he had for breakfast yesterday if I ask him tomorrow, let alone three months from now.’

‘But you can try.’

‘Aye, I can try. For a price.’

‘There always is a price, with you,’ Goran grumbled.

The witchfinder spread his hands. ‘I have taxes to pay, Elder. If it’s charity you want, ask the Little Sisters of St Margret.’

Damn the man – damn him and all his kind. But however Goran wished it might be different, the fact remained that there were some things he simply could not do himself, so he had to hire men who could, and that took coin. No way around that. But he could wish the loathsome Pieter didn’t take quite so much of it.

Kneeling by the hearth, careful to keep his back turned so that the witchfinder would not see where his hand went, Goran touched an insignificant-looking knot in the panelling. A section in the side of the chimney-breast sprang open on a concealed hinge, revealing three strongboxes on shelves built into the structure of the chimney. He lifted out the bottom one and opened it on his desk, carefully nudging
The Garden of Kendor
out of the way. Inside the strongbox were rows of leather pouches, each with a paper label tied neatly round its neck. Goran opened several and took a handful of coins from each – oakmarks, Imperial crowns, Sardauki
zaal
, Gimraeli talents – and estimated the value as he tipped them into an empty pouch. He had paid in oakmarks last time because he had not expected the hunt to cross the border, but this time he would have to be better prepared. Two hundred Imperial, give or take: that should be more than enough for the journey Pieter faced. He could not afford to take any chances, not when the high seat of Preceptor could hang on the outcome.

‘This should be enough for any inconvenience.’ He tossed the purse across the room.

The witchfinder caught it with one hand. When he felt the weight, his eyes narrowed, his gaze coming sharply into focus. ‘Let me be sure I understand you, Elder,’ he said. ‘You want me to ride eight hundred miles and back again in the depth of winter just to find one witch? I could get you five for a twentieth of this without setting foot outside Dremenir. Why is this one so special?’

‘Just find him.’

‘Alive or dead?’

‘I don’t care. Just find him, damn it, or I’ll send you to the questioners in his stead!’

Pieter pushed himself to his feet. ‘I’ll send word when I’m near.’ He set down his brandy glass and shouldered his cloak. ‘A pleasure to be of service to you, Elder, as always. Allow me to see myself out.’

With a sardonic little bow, he left and closed the door behind him. A moment later Goran heard the front door close as well, and feet on the gravel path outside, walking away. He shuddered. Goddess, what a repellent creature the witchfinder was, if a necessary one. He closed his strongbox and returned it to its hiding place, closing the panel with a click. Then he poured himself some more brandy. It took several sips to dispel the chill. What he needed was a distraction, something to take his mind off the unpleasantness of the last hour and let his subconscious work through this new information to see how it could best be used.

Eyeing the clock on the mantel, he rubbed his ample belly contemplatively. It was not too late; he could still enjoy a stroll in the
Garden
before he retired. He settled himself in his chair, but Pieter’s news had so soured his mood that not even the exquisite agonies of Kendor’s torture-garden could rouse him again.

Scrambling backwards on his rump Gair fled the clammy embrace of his bed-sheets. His throat was raw from shouting and his heart hammered against his breastbone. No matter how he panted, he couldn’t draw a breath. The air in his room was too thick with heat. When he swung his legs over the side and sat on the edge of the bed, even the floor clung to his feet.

Another nightmare of the questioners. Gair shuddered. What had brought them back out of the shadows now? He rubbed his hands over his face, then raked them back through his sweaty hair. Why couldn’t he leave them behind?

Who is your demon? What is your familiar? Speak, boy, and be saved!

Saints, it was hot in his room, and airless. He pushed himself to his feet and flung the windows as wide as they’d go. Cool night air
stole in, scented by the sea.
Better
. Leaning on the windowsill, Gair made himself take deep breaths.
Much better
.

The water in the pitcher on the washstand was tepid, but better than nothing. He poured some into his palm and rinsed the staleness from his mouth, then splashed more over his face and neck. Rivulets ran over his body, but did little to cool him.

It had only been a dream, but the pain had felt very real. He touched his belly where the bruises had been. They were long gone now; from collarbones to crotch his skin was unmarked, ridged only by the muscles underneath. No scabs, no dried blood, no raw red welts. His flesh remembered the lash vividly, but nothing showed on the surface. Surely he was safe now.

He hadn’t felt the witchfinder crawl over his mind since the raid on the
Trader Rose
. Perhaps the seeker had lost his trail there on the river, or simply given up. Maybe he had been luckier with the bow than he’d thought. Whatever, he had to believe he was safe on the Isles, or he’d never be free of the questioners.

A blackbird chattered outside. Wings whirred; a dark shape darted over the silvery fields and disappeared into a hedgerow. Dawn barely smudged the eastern horizon. He should try to get some more sleep, if he could in that disordered bed. He glanced at it. No. The thought of pulling that damp sheet back over him made him shudder.

In his closet were several clean sets of whites. He pulled on a pair of the loose canvas trousers. The adept who’d been with him at his testing had been right, they had softened with wear as he had worn them most mornings over the past two weeks. Shouldering his sword belt, he let himself out into the corridor.

The rest of Chapterhouse slumbered; even the cooks were still abed, though it wouldn’t be long before the kitchen fires were lit and the bread set to bake. But for the time being Gair had the place to himself. He padded through the corridors, turned left past the changing-rooms and made his way out into the smallest practice yard. Simiel was fading into the dawn sky, but there was more
than enough light for his purposes, thrown back by the white walls. Up on the ridge-tiles, another blackbird flicked its wings and tail at being disturbed, then with a thin ‘tsee’ darted away.

Gair had developed this routine soon after his arrival at Chapterhouse: the yards were always quiet until after breakfast, so he had a couple of hours alone to get rid of the kinks of the night before and clear his head. It soothed him to work the solo forms over and over; it helped him focus, view his worries in dispassionate perspective, like seeing the landscape through the eye of the eagle. It was the only way he knew to stop dwelling on the nightmares.

Now he drew his sword and propped the scabbard against the railing. The earth floor was dew-damp under his bare feet, but it wasn’t slippery. A breeze sprinkled goosebumps across his chest. That didn’t matter; he would soon warm up once he began. By the time he was done, he intended to have washed off every last shred of the nightmare with clean, honest sweat.

He settled himself, wiped his hand on his whites, and began the exercise.

It took time to find his rhythm. His muscles were stiff; the first five or six forms were clumsy and his footwork poor. Gair scolded himself; he should know better.
Smoothness first
, Selenas had taught,
be smooth and the speed will follow
.

Starting the exercise more slowly, he focused on each step, each breath he took. When the birds began to chatter and then to sing, he barely noticed; when the sun peeked over the eastern wall of the yard and drew his shadow out beside him, he never felt it. All he was conscious of was the flow of his muscles as he made the sword fly. In time, the questioners were, if not forgotten, at least put back in the past, where they belonged.

With a final salute to the empty walkways that ringed the yard, Gair put up his sword. Sweat coursed over his chest and back and
his whites clung to his legs. The sun sat almost a hand above the eastern wall, and glared like a demon’s eye. Saints, it was still so hot! He should have brought a water jug. According to the calendar, Eventide and the turn of the year was still a full two months away. Back in Leah, the snow would have been over his knees by now, with more falling every day. The nights should have been bone-achingly, tree-shatteringly cold, not so muggy and thick that even a single sheet was too much to bear. Even after two weeks, he was no nearer becoming used to it.