The distraction of the troops proved enough for the big sergeant to make up the ground and he chopped through the priest’s right hand with one savage blow. Momentum carried him close enough to hammer the pommel of his sword into the mystic’s cheek and he was already falling back from the force of the blow as the sergeant rammed his sword deep into the mystic’s stomach.
A hush descended. Lonei saw a spasm of agony cross the mystic’s face as he fell to his knees, spitted on the long sword. The sergeant lifted the hilt up, forcing the mystic to open his mouth in a silent scream as he yanked the sword out. The mystic fell as the sergeant turned away, leaving the dying man to twitch his last.
He turned his malevolent gaze to those watching. ‘Arrest them all, every one you can take,’ he roared.
In the torchlight he looked like a raging daemon, a cruel grin on his scarred face. Lonei whimpered as he looked at the prone figure of the old priestess lying on the steps. The soldiers ran to obey their commander, but Lonei was frozen to the spot. He didn’t see the troops run past him, nor the gap-toothed man who barely checked his stride to smack his pike handle into Lonei’s head.
A flash of light, a screech of pain . .
. Lonei felt himself fall into blackness where there was only the face of a daemon in a scarlet uniform.
CHAPTER 21
In the city of Tor Milist, in a grand house redolent of neglect, a woman stood with her hands clasped, staring at her unexpected visitor. Gian Intiss presided over her late husband’s household like a duchess, but not even pride and determination were enough to keep everything together. Civil war left its mark on every building, just as it scarred the families within. Everywhere Gian looked she saw reminders of their failing fortunes: the cracked paintwork, the warped boards, the broken trap in the yard. Even when she closed her eyes it was all around her: the distant bang of a shutter in the wind, its latch broken; a gust of wind through the broken window pane . . .
The day’s cost felt like a punch to the gut, but though the ledgers had nothing but bad news, she had had no choice: Harol’s birthday marked his entry into adulthood, and as such it required a celebration worthy of a merchant’s first-born. Without it, both competitors and creditors would start to ask questions, questions Gian couldn’t answer.
She stood at the kitchen door, barely listening to the clatter of preparation going on behind her as she looked down the hall that was the heart of the house. White mourning drapes still hung from the beams and around the other three doorways, and what decorations they had added were barely noticeable in comparison. The hall presently held more than fifty people, adults standing in knots of four or five while children raced around them squealing in delight. A nursemaid squatted on the ground next to the small playpen containing half-a-dozen toddlers who were crashing Harol’s old wooden toys against each other and delighting in the noise.
At the other end of the hall a slim figure faced away from her, standing perfectly still and looking at nothing as far as she could tell. The noise from the room washed over it as though it was just a ghost, belonging to another place and time. The Harlequin had removed only its bearskin and pack when it arrived. It was still wearing a long sword on each hip, as it had when it arrived and announced it would entertain her guests. Tunic and breeches were a patchwork of multi-coloured diamond shapes, each one no longer than her middle finger. Brown boots covered its legs, a white porcelain mask its face. The hair visible from behind was so dark it was almost black, and long enough to be tucked inside the Harlequin’s collar.
Gian shivered. She knew she should be grateful and give thanks to the Gods for its presence, for it added to the veneer of continued wealth, but there was something about its manner that made her nervous.
‘You’ve got that look on your face again,’ said a voice beside her. Harol slipped an arm around her waist and gave his mother a kiss on her cheek. ‘You’re worrying.’
‘It feels like I’m always worrying about something,’ she sighed, giving her waifish eldest son a tight squeeze. ‘But if I don’t, who will?’
They had always been close, and Gian had never understood why father and son had found so little common ground between them. She and her bear-like husband had been as close as could be, and she adored her son, but something had always set the pair at odds with each other.
‘You should eat something then,’ Harol said, gesturing at the platters of food that had been laid out on the long oak table. He was wearing his new velvet tunic, and Gian realised the thick sleeves she’d given it did nothing at all to hide his skinny, boyish arms. ‘Try the honeyed pork, it’s delicious.’
‘You’re the one who needs building up,’ she replied, giving him a weak smile and patting her stomach. ‘The last thing I need to do is eat more. A fatter belly and more worry lines: that’s all I’ll get from this party!’
‘What is there for you to worry about?’
‘That Harlequin,’ she started, but stopped. ‘I don’t know, it’s just—’
‘Harlequins are always a bit odd, aren’t they? You offered it meat and wine when it arrived, didn’t you?’ Since his father’s death, earnest young Harol had taken a sudden interest in protocol and etiquette, as if he thought he had to become master of the household immediately. He had begun to affect a strangely formal manner in front of guests.
Gian nodded. ‘But it refused the Harlequin’s covenant and said it would only take bread, only drink water.’
‘Why?’
She sighed heavily again. ‘I don’t really know. It said it would make no further covenants until it found ‘innocence’. What did it mean by that?’
Harol made a dismissive sound and stuck his tongue out at the Harlequin’s turned back. While his figure was every bit as slim and androgynous as a Harlequin’s, Harol’s face was always animated - when he wasn’t telling himself to act grave and adult.
His cheeks were flushed, no doubt with wine as much as excitement at the day. Celebration had become a rare thing in Tor Milist over the last decade; even the end to the slow, drawn-out civil war had been met with uncertainty and apprehension. They knew Duke Vrerr’s moods and methods too well to shout for joy.
‘Listen to me well, for I am a guardian of the past,’ the Harlequin said in a sudden loud voice, still facing away from the room.
The voices died to nothing almost immediately. Even the smaller children sensed the change in atmosphere and ceased their raucous play. Several crept forward to where their parents stood and sat at their feet, all heads turned towards the speaker.
Without warning the Harlequin turned to face the room. Gian felt her hand tighten as its masked face swept the room, the bloody teardrop on its cheek alarmingly bright. One of the smaller children whimpered at the sight, but she could see the others were enraptured.
‘In the city of Aineer in the years when the Gods were unquestioned throughout the Land, there was born a Yeetatchen girl by the name of Jerrath. Aineer was a city of faithful piety in those years, content in its fortunes, and far removed from the city it was to become - the city that Lliot, God of the Seas, destroyed for the behaviour of its citizens.’
A mutter ran around the room. Gian saw the face of a friend of hers tighten and become stern. Far from stopping, the rumours had been exacerbated by the sudden change in the priesthood. Folk said Scree had been destroyed by the Gods, obliterated in a firestorm while the cowled head of Death looked down from the clouds, His laughter like thunder.
She frowned as a grim quiet fell over her guests.
Why remind people of that? Why stir up more anger and resentment?
she wondered. Tor Milist had been spared major violence, but there were reports of skirmishes, religious executions and arbitrary punishments coming into the city from every direction.
‘Jerrath was the perfect daughter,’ the Harlequin continued, ‘cheerful about her chores and humble in her manner. From an early age she took to walking the streets each morning to visit each of the city’s main temples.’
The Harlequin’s voice was strong and clear, somehow unmuffled by the thin porcelain mask it wore. It stood perfectly still, hands clasped in front. ‘Ever-courteous, Jerrath became a popular sight on the morning streets. As the years passed all of Aineer came to know her face and love her. When she neared womanhood, however, no suits of marriage were offered by the rich men of the city despite her beauty. It was clear to all that Jerrath was too good for a mortal life and was destined to join the priesthood.’
The Harlequin’s voice softened. ‘One Prayerday morning, the High Priest of Nartis passed his counterpart in Tsatach’s service and they fell into conversation. Both looked decidedly pleased, and each enquired why the other was so happy. The answer given by the Night Hunter’s servant was quickly echoed by the other: “There is only a week until Jerrath comes of age and joins my temple”.
‘Both priests looked at each other in astonishment before realising that the Jerrath they knew as a faithful and devoted servant of their God, was just as devoted to all of the Gods of Aineer. Quickly they gathered all of the senior priests of the city and, unable to agree amongst themselves, went to the house of Jerrath’s father to demand a decision from the girl herself.’
Gian felt a tingle run down her spine. She hadn’t heard a Harlequin tell a tale since childhood, but even as a careworn mother of three, she felt the spell of its words just as strongly, every syllable teasing the nerves down her neck like a lover’s caress.
‘The humble Jerrath could make no such decision. She became frightened as the gaggle of clerics shouted their demands at her, for she had never realised she would one day have to prefer one God above the others. It fell to Jerrath’s father to hush the mob, whereupon Jerrath begged him to make the choice on her behalf. Her father thought for a long time, frightened by the decision he was to make.
‘Knowing only too well that Jerrath was beloved of the city, he saw the avarice of the priests who might benefit. Jerrath’s popularity would bring the citizens of Aineer flocking to whichever temple she served; the God of that temple would become first among the Gods of Aineer. He feared his decision would give that high priest sway over the entire population.
‘The longer he delayed his decision, the angrier the priests became.
‘Soon he could no longer stand the clamour as more shouting clerics gathered outside the house to add their voices to the debate. He called for silence and was ignored. Twice more he cried for quiet and each time they continued to shout. Eventually Jerrath’s father pounded on the table with a leg of lamb, freshly slaughtered and being prepared for their evening meal, and blood flew over the whole crowd. Only then was there quiet.
‘In a loud voice Jerrath’s father declared he could not choose one God over another, so he would leave it in the hands of the Gods themselves to decide. Upon hearing this, all assembled understood what he meant by this, for Aineer was a city that loved competition and wagers as much as the child they were fighting over. The temple coffers were filled by taxes upon both these activities and offerings from competitors.
‘Jerrath’s father declared that on his daughter’s birthday a race would be held in the streets of Aineer. The priests of each temple were to carry the statue of their God from one temple to the next, following the path Jerrath took each morning. The first to reach the Temple of Alterr on the far side of the city would be declared the winner.’
The Harlequin paused and took stock of its audience, standing in rapt attention. Gian followed its gaze around the room; only she moved; her guests and servants alike were statue-still, as though frozen by some ancient spell.
‘The day of the race,’ it continued, starting straight at Gian, who felt a sudden cold chill, ‘the whole city lined the route before the first rays of dawn touched the rooftops. Bets were laid and a feast prepared for the winner, but a surprise awaited them all as the sun crept into view. Drawn by the fervent prayers of their servants, the Gods themselves stood in the bright morning light outside the house of Jerrath’s father, surrounded by the priests of their temples.
‘Jerrath’s father walked out of his house to start the race and the blood drained from his face. Before him were the eight most prominent Gods in the city, as tall as houses and terrifying to behold: Tsatach, with his great flame-bladed axe and fat copper bands on his arms; the Queen of the Gods in robes of red and orange - she whose true name is accursed for the pity she demonstrated during the Great War - and beside her stood proud Larat in his patchwork cloak of every colour in the Land. Behind them were Veren, God of the Beasts, alongside his winged brother, Vellern; then the sister-Goddesses of Love, Triena and Etesia, whose purple ribbons danced in the air, and grey-faced Kebren, God of Justice, with his huge brass scales across his shoulders.
‘The Gods were silent, all watching Jerrath’s father as he stood in the doorway of his house, shaking with fear, until Jerrath herself squeezed past him and bowed to each God in turn, prompting him to follow suit.
‘With the Gods themselves thus arrayed on his doorstep, Jerrath’s father announced that the priests should not carry a statue of their God on a litter but the God itself. The crowd watching cheered his words immediately and in the face of such enthusiasm the Gods agreed. They lined up as best they could in the street, and each of the Gods sat upon a litter with a dozen of their strongest priests carrying them.
‘With a great roar from the crowd the priests started off towards the first of the temples - all but Kebren’s servants, who, try as they might, could not manage to stagger more than a few steps under the weight of their God’s enormous brass scales. All twelve priests fell to the ground, exhausted. As hesitant laughter rang out from the crowd, Kebren gave a roar of fury to silence the voices and disappeared in a clap of thunder.