Authors: Antoine Rouaud
‘It’s easy to fight with a sword.’
A crowd of officials, councillors, captains of the guard and nobles, all dressed in their finest, were gathered before the sanctuary door. Most of them were already sporting the colourful masks that every inhabitant of Masalia would be wearing during the festivities that evening.
‘But to vanquish one’s demons, a blade is of no use.’
At the foot of the cathedral’s steps, a red carriage decorated with gold trimmings came to a halt. Laerte studied the ground a few yards below him. And leapt.
‘If you are on your knees, pride gone, then stand up, even if you tremble, and regain your dignity.
‘Regain your dignity.’
‘“For it is the only weapon which protects you from the powerful,”’ recited de Page.
The coach rocked and swayed, making the duke, seated upon a purple bench, seem to dance to the rhythm of the vehicle’s movements. One hand gripping the handle by the window, he glanced out at the misty countryside. The misshapen silhouettes of dead trees loomed out of the fog and, at times, he glimpsed crows perched on their twisted branches.
‘The only weapon,’ he repeated thoughtfully. ‘Dignity . . .’
He was wearing a plain black outfit, with no adornment but a golden buckle on his belt, flared black gloves and a pendant that hung from his closed collar. Otherwise he was dressed with a sobriety which Laerte did not recall seeing before. The first time he had met the man had been at Emeris during one of his orgies. The second time, at the villa, Laerte had felt like the plains they were travelling across at present: befogged and forsaken.
Shaken by the jolts, Laerte observed the duke carefully, studying each gesture, each sentence he uttered, in the hope of finding some certainties about the man. De Page was a schemer and, although he had saved Laerte’s life, the young knight favoured wariness over blind trust. He did not believe the duke was his friend for a single instant.
‘Do you know who wrote that?’ asked de Page as he looked out at the mist.
Laerte shook his head. The duke appeared to have expected this response since he continued without even giving his travelling companion a glance.
‘Your father,’ he said.
The smell of burnt grass filled their compartment, forcing de Page to turn away from the window. Through the opening, Laerte glimpsed a flaming heap being stabbed by the silhouettes of peasants armed with pitchforks. The duke pinched his nose for an instant before sighing and leaning back against the bench. He allowed a moment to pass, observing Laerte.
‘I’ve read his writings. I managed to obtain copies even though they were banned by the Fangolin monks.’
Laerte nodded, his heart suddenly heavy. He’d never had the chance to read anything Oratio had written.
‘Do you know what he meant by that?’
‘No.’
‘That only dignity puts us on equal footing with decision makers. I’ve seen poor men who were more dignified than their ill-mannered,
cowardly barons. I’ve seen peasant women stand up to tax collectors in order to defend their meagre harvest. I’ve seen enslaved Nâaga hold their heads high, I’ve seen—’
He stopped speaking suddenly.
‘Swords are not the only way to fight, Laerte.’
He turned back to the window.
‘We’re arriving.’
The coach slowed, the jolting became less severe, until the vehicle finally shuddered to a halt and the horses snorted.
They had travelled for more than two hours from Garmaret, where they had agreed to meet. Laerte had left the duke’s villa nine years ago. He had been roaming the remains of a broken Empire, in a newborn Republic which, day after day, had restored hope in its people. He had been following the course of events from afar and yet he always had the feeling that he was in the heart of Emeris, almost the Azdekis’ shadow. De Page had played his part in ensuring that.
For, even separated by great distances, they had remained in close contact all these years, Aladzio having placed a most reliable friend at their disposal, charged with delivering messages. Nine years of travel, comings and goings, farewells and reunions. From the Vershan mountains to the West, to the far North, to the gates of Masalia, Laerte had hunted for Esyld. When his despair grew too strong he returned to de Page’s villa to seek out Rogant, and sometimes Aladzio. The inventor also travelled back and forth at the orders of the Azdeki family, searching the Fangolin monasteries in the hopes of finding the key to the Sacred Book. The passage of time might have kept them apart and discouraged them. But the eleven long years since the fall of the Empire had in no way shaken Laerte’s resolve. When the councillor sent word that the moment had come to settle their affairs, he had been quick to reply to the invitation.
Aladzio’s friend welcomed them with a piercing cry as the coach door opened. Laerte stepped down from the coach’s running board, his foot sinking into dense mud. Raising his head, he spotted it in the mist, circling the ruins of a tour, continuing to call. The gods alone knew how the creature had been able to locate him during his travels, but it had always appeared in the sky and landed on his outstretched arm, bearing a capsule containing a letter.
‘Don’t be fooled by the look of the building,’ the nobleman advised
him, with a raised eyebrow and a faint smile. ‘Its beauty lies inside.’
With a wave of his hand, de Page invited Laerte to approach the heavy wooden door, from which several planks were missing, revealing the flickering flames of torches within. The tower had been built upon a waterlogged hill, where even the grass struggled to grow. A thick, viscous mud clung to Laerte’s boots. He took a step forward, then halted, certain he’d seen a similar tower before, despite the gaps in the stonework and mouldy beams jutting from its crown.
‘Fangol,’ said de Page, detecting his puzzlement. ‘A Fangolin monastery, one of the first to be built. It’s the same design as the Tower of Fangol, although on a smaller scale, of course.’
Of course. In the
Liaber Moralis,
the most sacred shrine of the Fangolin Order was described as immense, rising from a mountain-top to reach the sky. On some days, according to legend, its summit pierced the clouds. It was strange to see its replica bathed in mist.
De Page pushed the door open and entered first, removing his gloves and slapping them against one another. Dust covered the stones and the air seemed foul despite the embrasures in the walls. In one corner, there was a wretched old table at which sat a man in an even more pitiable state. He lifted his chin, with a blissful smile on his lips and shaggy white hair falling over his round, wrinkled face. At the rear, in a hollow of one sagging wall, a staircase rose and next to it there was a trapdoor set in the ground. Laerte closed the door behind him and was greeted by a snickering laugh.
‘So, here they are,’ the old man applauded with hands twisted by arthritis. ‘Oh yes, the scent, the pleasant scent of the noble lord. And with him . . .’
He sniffed the air. Coming closer, Laerte saw that the man’s eyes were covered by a white film.
‘Cataracts,’ de Page explained. ‘Don’t mind him, he’s mad.’
‘A man of the sword?’ the old man cried cheerfully. ‘Wise, wise, yes, oh yes, but not sufficient.’
‘Shut up, you stupid old monk,’ ordered de Page. ‘We’re not here to listen to your foolishness.’
Laerte had never heard the duke speak so sternly. When the councillor turned towards him, he saw his face also bore a severe expression.
‘Brother Galapa looked after this monastery. The crazy old fool never realised what a treasure he was sitting on.’
‘Oh, but I did,’ Galapa contradicted him, still wearing a grin. ‘Yes, oh yes, but other people never listen to me, ha-ha! Galapa doesn’t see? Galapa sees everything! And he hears things too.’
De Page seemed annoyed, but he adopted a more seemly attitude, placing a hand on Laerte’s shoulder.
‘Come, we’ll find Aladzio down below.’
He led the young knight to the trap door and took hold of the rope attached to lift it. There was a flickering glow in the darkness beneath. De Page stooped to enter.
‘It’s all down below, yes, oh yes, always,’ laughed Galapa, rubbing his hands. ‘The little knight will find so many things down below. Was it written? Oh yes, surely. Yes, oh yes.’
The old man continued to nod his head, giggling. Laerte gave him a final suspicious glance before entering the hole in his turn. There were stairs and, to his great relief, the passage grew steadily larger. He climbed down, gradually straightening up, and joined de Page who waited for him at the mouth of a tunnel. Torches sputtered on the damp walls. Their light flickered upon the heavy stones, the cracks between them filled with black dust.
They followed the tunnel until de Page caught sight of a small alcove.
‘Here.’
He ducked his head and stepped within.
The creaking of the old door was loud in the narrow corridor. Laerte hesitated for a moment before entering the niche, seeing a small opening that led him into a large and strange-looking room filled with the scent of pepper and jasmine. Here and there among the long, heavy wooden tables, candelabra diffused a golden glow over piles of books. The high ceiling featured heavy slotted beams from which giant spider webs hung. A few alembics filled with boiling liquids of various colours fumed away on top of dusty old tomes.
‘My lords,’ a small voice to their right called out in greeting.
Startled, Laerte instinctively brought his hand to the pommel of his sword. But he relaxed slightly when he saw it was an attractive young woman. Her green eyes shone in the soft light.
‘You don’t recognise Viola?’ the duke laughed. ‘Viola Aguirre?’
He patted Laerte’s shoulder, amused. The young knight stood looking at her. When he had first met her, during one of his stays at
the villa a few years earlier, she’d been a child fresh from the country. Today she was a young and pretty woman with her red hair tied back, a few delicate strands falling upon her milky white nape and dangling in front of her ears. She had timid eyes and freckles sprinkled across her cheeks. Wearing a simple brown dress, there was a certain elegance about her.
He wasn’t attracted to her, no, just surprised to see how much she had changed. But had he remained the same? His years of wandering had surely hardened him.
‘She’s trustworthy. She’s a historian now!’ de Page informed him proudly, walking between the tables overflowing with manuscripts.
Viola greeting the young man with a clumsy curtsey, blushing. Just as she was about to speak to him he turned away, intrigued by the strange utensils sitting beside the books. As to what purpose these odds and ends might serve, he had no idea. On the other hand, the person making use of them was no great mystery.
‘Frog! Ah, ah, ah! Frog!’ chortled a jovial voice.
In a corner dimly lit by a few candles, a familiar figure was descending a ladder placed against a tall bookcase. When he walked towards Laerte with his arms opened wide the knight discerned, little by little, a coat with puffed shoulders and a tricorne jammed over a face split by a wide grin.
‘So good to see you here! Ha-ha! Fro . . . excuse me, Laerte,’ Aladzio corrected himself. ‘I’ll never get used to that.’
‘Well, who would have guessed that the cellar of that mouldy old tower was hiding such a library?’ Laerte said in wonderment.
‘No one,’ replied de Page.
Laerte looked around for the duke and found him sitting in a large armchair behind one of the book-laden tables. The nobleman rubbed a hand over his smooth-shaven chin.
‘Viola,’ he called, while staring at Laerte. ‘If you would be kind enough to leave us now, Galapa will be happy to tell you one of his mad stories.’
Near the small door, the young woman gave a brief nod of her head, barely disguising her disappointment. She knew certain things would be kept from her until the end and, despite her curious nature, she was forced to accept the situation. De Page was careful to keep control of everything, both information and the roles of everyone involved.
‘As usual?’ she asked a little wearily. ‘I can just pretend to be listening to him?’
‘That’s it,’ de Page smiled.
When the door shut behind her, Aladzio gave the young man a friendly pat on the shoulder.
‘It’s such a great pleasure to see you, if you only knew. Such a great pleasure,’ he repeated cheerily. ‘How many years has it been since our last meeting?’
‘Three,’ Laerte replied simply.
They’d been at the villa, he recalled. A brief conversation before he returned to the road, seeking Esyld. De Page had scarcely had any news to give him on the subject during all this time, but nothing other than his thirst for vengeance could divert him from his quest.
‘Three,’ Aladzio echoed thoughtfully. ‘Yes, three years. You were returning from Polieste. Did you take my advice and go back to the Saltmarsh?’
Laerte let out a sigh. The Saltmarsh. He had been avoiding travelling to the region, it would be his last resort. Returning to the marshes, seeing Aëd’s Watch again, walking in the footsteps of the past . . . he had baulked at the idea for several reasons. Of all the lands within the Republic, Esyld might well have found refuge in the Saltmarsh after the fall of the Empire. If he couldn’t find her there, he would lose all hope of ever being reunited with her. So, perhaps paradoxically, he kept postponing a visit there.
Aware that he had touched on a delicate matter, Aladzio immediately moved on to something else.
‘Beakie has often told me about you, you know. I think she’s grown fond of you after all this time.’
Laerte relaxed.
‘Aladzio,’ he smiled, tilting his head towards him. ‘It’s a bird.’
‘A falcon!’ protested the inventor, drawing back from him. ‘A peregrine falcon who, I may remind you, has always brought you our letters. She’s not a . . .’
He pinched his lips distastefully before scornfully pronouncing:
‘. . .
bird
, as you put it.’ He pointed an accusing finger at Laerte. ‘She will be sad when I tell her you said that. Really, really sad.’
Laerte could not hold back his smile. How good it was to have Aladzio for a friend. While Rogant reassured him with his calmness and self-control, Aladzio’s lunacy brought some lightness to his
heavy heart. Sometimes when he found himself alone by a campfire and felt his anger gnawing at him, he imagined that the inventor was there at his side.