Songs of the Earth (62 page)

‘Doesn’t Savin know this?’ Gair demanded. ‘Doesn’t he realise what he’s doing?’

‘I’m sure he does. I’m also quite sure he doesn’t care. Savin would take the world apart stone by stone to find the tick, then not be bothered to put it back together again when his curiosity was sated. Maybe he thinks the Nameless will be so grateful to be free that He will reward him in some way. I don’t know. I only want to stop him.’

For a moment, Gair saw Alderan’s true feelings about Savin: loathing, fear, and deep, deep regret, and over it all, an ocean of sorrow. Then the old man’s expression closed up, drew all the pain inside and hid it away.

‘Let me help,’ he said. ‘Please, Alderan, you could use me.’

‘I can’t, lad. If Tanith removes that shield before you’re healed, you’ll almost certainly be lost. I won’t take that chance. I think there is work for you to do yet, but it’s not here and not now.’

‘What do you mean? I don’t understand!’

The shield above them flared again, but this time the light was weaker, webbed with blue and purple. The Song inside Gair resonated in response to something, but he did not know what.

‘Alderan, what just happened?’

Alderan didn’t answer. His eyes were searching the fabric of the shield as he drew on the Song.

The weight of the weaving above Gair became oppressive. His nerves crawled as if he had fire-ants in his skin. ‘Something’s wrong,’ he whispered, straining to feel what it might be. He yearned to touch the Song, but it was locked up tight behind the silk-fine, steel-hard wall of Tanith’s shield.

Alderan’s hand pressed in the middle of his back. ‘Get down off the parapet, Gair. I have a feeling we may yet need your sword.’

Deep inside Chapterhouse, someone screamed.

The Rede-bell rang, silver-bright, and sent the Citadel’s doves clattering around the Sacristy spires.

Pausing in his dictation, Ansel peered at his secretary over the sheaf of notes in his hand. ‘I thought we were still in recess,’ he said as a stray dove whirred past the windows.

‘The Rede is not scheduled to reconvene until after St Saren’s.’ The young clerk frowned over his daybook, long fingers flicking through the pages. ‘I have nothing in my book, my lord. Someone must have called an extraordinary session.’

Any Elder could do so, with the support of two seconds, if he could convince the clerk of the court he had sufficient reason. Ansel had done it himself, years ago, when the Curia had dithered about sending the legions to Gimrael. He tossed his notes down onto the desk.

‘Run down to the hall, will you, and see who rang the bell? Those letters will keep.’

‘Very good, my lord.’

When the clerk had gathered up his writing case and closed the door behind him, Ansel stared unseeing at the administrative detritus that cluttered his desk. So the first arrows had been loosed. The timing was perfect: spring recess almost over, and
many of the Elders still at their parishes. Much easier to find a quorum then, with so many of the Curia out of the city and out of reach.

With a roar of rage, he swept his arm across the desk. Pens and correspondence scattered onto the faded rug.
Damn them!
Damn them to the Nameless’ dark!

The door opened to admit a husky, sandy-haired youth in novice’s grey. Blue eyes watched the papers sifting down to rest, then his fingers flickered through the shapes of words.

I take it you heard the bell
.

‘I heard it,’ Ansel growled. He hoisted himself from his chair and winced. Leaning on his desk for support, he tested his weight on his aching knees.

Goran?

‘Aye, or his puppet-master. Goran’s cunning as a ragman’s dog, but I’d bet my stones he’s not the one orchestrating this.’ Ansel took a tentative step towards the door to his bedchamber and fiery needles stabbed through his joints.

So who rang the bell?

‘I’ve sent Euan to find out.’ Another step, and more pain. He let go of the edge of the desk, but had to grab on to it again when his knees threatened to buckle. ‘I’ve been waiting for this, Selsen. I could see them manoeuvring. Like jackals,’ he spat. ‘Wait until their prey is weakened, then attack in numbers to bring it down.’

And then they feast
.

‘Ha! They can try.’

What the boy signed next brought a tight grin to Ansel’s face, despite the pain.

‘We are in the House of Eador, you know. Only I’m allowed to swear with impunity.’

I’ll say five Hail Mothers and a Domine Me before I go to bed
.

‘All twenty-eight verses?’

Of course
. Selsen folded his hands in his sleeves and offered his
Preceptor a face that shone with honest piety.
And in Greic, to show proper respect
.

A full Domine Me in the elegant, formal tongue of Greic that only scholars could read would take the lad an hour and a half.

‘Show-off. Fetch my robes from the closet, would you? I’m going down to the hall.’

Are you sure? They’ll make it harder for you to walk
.

‘They’ll also make it harder for me to be ignored.’

Selsen’s sandy head dipped to hide a smile as he glided towards the closet.
Mother always said you had a strange sense of humour
.

‘And you have her sharp tongue, I see. Take care it doesn’t cut you. Is there any poppy syrup left in the bottle on the nightstand?’

Doors opened and closed; fabric rustled. The novice emerged from the bedchamber with his arms full of pearly silks and swathes of velvet that he draped over Ansel’s chair.

The bottle’s empty but for a few drops. Fortunately, I have learned where Hengfors keeps the keys to the dispensary
. He produced a small bottle from a concealed pocket of his robe and held it out.

Ansel popped the cork with his thumb. ‘My boy, you are a great comfort in my hour of need,’ he said. Tipping back his head he took a generous swig of the cloying syrup.

Be careful with that – too much and you’ll sleep through the Rede
.

‘I know what I’m doing.’

It shows
.

Ansel slapped the cork into the bottle and threw it back. ‘You have some latitude with me, but I suggest you don’t abuse it.’

Selsen gave the merest half-bow, blue eyes not in the least contrite.
Yes, my lord
.

Even in thieftalk the boy managed insolence. A glower washed off him like rain off a roof-tile. Just like his mother.

Ansel shrugged out of his woollen house-robe and reached for the clothes Selsen had brought out. The high-collared silk shirt slithered over his back, chill as ice. Despite himself, he could not suppress a shiver.

Afraid, old man? You survived Samarak, you’ll survive this. When there’re arrows in the air you raise your shield and you
hold,
damn it
!

He jerked the shirt closed and began to fasten it. The tiny pearl buttons were wilful; each time he chased one down and brought it close to its buttonhole, it popped from between his fingers. Wretched things. A pox on the tailor who’d stitched them! He fumbled for another button.

Selsen’s square hands intervened.
Here, let me help
.

Damn his age, that he couldn’t even fasten his own clothes now, but had to let someone dress him. An idiot child could be taught to manage his buttons and laces – gah! Ansel ground his teeth as the novice deftly fastened his shirt front and cuffs. He held out his arms for the shirt to be tucked in and the heavily brocaded robes lifted onto his shoulders.

I feel like I’m armouring you for battle
, the boy signed.
First your arming-jacket, then your breastplate
– he smoothed the brocade, with its glittering thread-of-gold curlicues –
then your surcoat
. He picked up the heavy velvet outer robe, satin lining whispering as he shook out its folds.

‘Goddess knows it weighs as much as war-plate.’ Scowling, Ansel thrust his arms into the sleeves. ‘And it’s about as hot, too.’ Already the shirt was clinging stickily to him, and he couldn’t get to it through the layers to pluck it from his skin. ‘Well? Am I presentable?’

Polished vambraces and greaves would look stunning, but I think you’d fall over
.

‘Cheeky whelp. Just give me my staff, before I paddle your backside like you deserve.’

I still don’t think all that regalia is wise
.

‘Maybe not, but you were right, you know. We are going into battle, so by the Goddess we’ll go caparisoned in silk, with all our banners flying.’

The Rede-bell rang again, and the corners of Ansel’s mouth turned down. Only a quarter of an hour left, and then things
would end, one way or the other. Time to go. He pushed himself away from his desk and straightened up. The poppy syrup’s numbing hands were already at work, stroking and soothing his crumbling joints. It would wear off eventually, and there would be a price exacted of him for walking so far, but he’d pay that bill when it came due.

A glitter of sun on gilding caught his eye. His scabbarded sword hung from a peg on the end of the bookshelves by the window, its coiled belt dusty and cracked with disuse. A pity he couldn’t have found an excuse to have that on his hip when he walked into the Rede Hall. Leaning on that mighty two-handed hilt made even treacherous whoresons sit straight in his presence.

Selsen followed his gaze.
It would make them remember who governs this Order, at any rate
.

‘Then I’ll save that for the last,’ Ansel grunted. ‘When there’s nothing left but to do or die.’

For now they get the steel hand in the velvet glove
. Selsen plucked the Preceptor’s formal robes to hang straight, and brushed a speck of lint from the sleeve. Then he grinned wolfishly, and looked so much like his mother that Ansel’s heart ached.

‘Ready?’ he said, hoping the gruffness in his voice would be taken for determination. ‘Let’s meet them on the field.’

Danilar looped the bell-rope around its hooks as the echoes of the last stroke shivered into silence. So much for Goran’s attempts at secrecy. Now the whole Motherhouse would know – including, the Chaplain hoped as devoutly as he hoped for his own redemption, the Preceptor. Please Goddess, Ansel had heard. Please Goddess, he could reach the hall in time.

Quietly letting himself out of the small door at the foot of the bell-tower, he cocked an ear for sounds of commotion, but the long vestibule remained empty. Nothing stirred in the sunlight slanting through the high windows but the banners hung from the
vault and the doors between the pair of mailed guards remained closed. If anyone inside the Rede Hall had heard the bell, it hadn’t stirred them from their plots.

Danilar’s fists clenched. Whatever flaws Ansel might have, however the Curia might disagree with his stewardship of the Order, there was a procedure to be followed to resolve differences. The rule of law must be obeyed, or what remained but chaos? Anxiety and righteous anger quickening his steps, he strode back to his lodging to change into his formal robe. As Chaplain he had no vote to cast in the consistory court, but he was entitled to be there when they sat, and there was too much at stake for him not to be.