‘As it is you. But if you’ll excuse me, I’m a bit busy for pleasantries right now.’ A groan from Carel made him turn back to the injured man.
‘Isak, go and do your job. You are no surgeon, and if you think I’m going to let you touch me, then you must have been brained in the battle.’ Carel forced a smile that Isak returned. He touched Carel lightly on his good hand and rose.
‘Well, Cardinal, it appears I do have time after all. Please, rise.’ He gestured over at the figure of Karlat Certinse being stripped of his armour. ‘And now you can at last write the final chapter of your book.’
‘Hah,’ the cardinal replied humourlessly. ‘It’s been a long time coming, for certain, but I don’t intend to stop until I’m sure I’ve got them all. Life will be happier when I see his mother off to face the judgment of the Gods. I’ll be praying the creatures of the Dark Place find something sufficiently inventive for the lot of ’em.’
To Isak’s surprise there was little satisfaction in the cardinal’s voice, just a grim determination. He guessed the long years pursuing Malich’s followers had been his job rather than his calling. Perhaps the cardinal was just tired of dark secrets and death. Isak was already learning that too much of either could sour any man’s soul.
‘Would you do me the service of seeing to it? Acting with my authority to bring them all to trial?’
‘I will do as I am commanded, my Lord.’ Cardinal Disten bowed low, then gestured to a group of men who lingered on foot behind him. ‘May I present Brother-Captain Sheln, and Count Macove, a major of our order.’
Both men bowed low to Isak, who nodded as he inspected his newest allies. They were dressed in black studded leather and painted cuirasses and carrying their peaked Y-slit helms. Their heavy cavalry sabres were sheathed. The brother-captain was a grim, craggy-faced man of about fifty summers whose skin had an unhealthy grey pallor. There was a cold immovability about Brother-Captain Sheln that Isak was immediately wary of; there was no compassion in those eyes, and he had a sense of remorselessness, and ruthlessness -not what Isak wanted to see in the face of a religious fanatic, no matter whose side he said he was on. Isak had the impression the man was carved from stone.
Count Macove was younger, and looked like the dour expression worn by most of the dark monks didn’t come so easily to him. As if to confirm Isak’s first thought, Vesna approached and took the man’s arm in a familiar gesture.
‘I hadn’t expected piety from you, Macove,’ Vesna exclaimed, a broad smile cracking across his face.
‘Good to see you too,’ the man replied in equal cheer. ‘As for my piety, we must all grow up and take responsibility for our lives at some point - even you’ll find yourself doing so one day.’
Isak opened his mouth to make a comment, then closed it again. He was the Duke of Tirah now, and barrack-room banter was hardly appropriate. Instead, he looked around at the other dark monks nearby.
‘Is Suzerain Saroc not with you?’
The brother-captain didn’t react to his words, but Count Macove betrayed a flicker of uncertainty that made Isak press the matter.
‘Come on, I could hardly expect two forces to be tramping around without at least one alerting the suzerain. Since I see no hurscals or banners, I would guess he’s part of your order and just too far away to introduce himself yet. If, however, he is deliberately snubbing his new liege lord, I will have to take offence and replace him with someone a little more respectful unless he steps forward
right bloody now!
’ Isak’s voice had risen to a shout.
‘My Lord,’ called a cowled figure standing twenty yards off. Revealing his face to the daylight, Suzerain Saroc marched forward to kneel before Isak, his cheeks red. The suzerain was a remarkably short man, but powerful, almost a direct opposite to the second man who stepped forward, a pace behind Saroc, and also knelt. Isak glimpsed the devices sewn over their hearts, the only signs of nobility they wore. Saroc’s was a red chalice; the other man bore a white ice cobra. Isak recognised it even as the owner spoke.
‘Forgive us for not coming to greet you, my Lord,’ said Suzerain Torl, his pale face contrasting with the black uniform when he pulled back his cowl. ‘It is our policy to keep those with power in the Order from having to confront their lieges as emissaries for the Brethren. Our Order does not play the great game. We have no wish to act as though we were making a show of who our members are, lest it cause complications.’
Isak frowned momentarily, then reached out a hand to take the suzerain’s arm in greeting.
‘That’s the second time you’ve fought by my side; if such crimes were the only ones I had to forgive, I would be a far happier man. But what are you doing here? You’re a long way from your home . . .’
‘I am. I was in the hills on the Danva-Foleh border on business when an associate informed me of Lord Bahl’s death. As I came in search of Suzerain Saroc, one of my agents informed me that the Duke of Lomin had left with his hurscals suddenly, so we decided to keep track of them.’
‘A welcome decision for me - but how did you find out about Lord Bahl’s death so quickly if you’ve come from the Danva border?’
Torl’s expression was grim. ‘The Brethren have a number of -we’ll call them
associates
-who use unorthodox methods -and in certain cases, lack sanity. These are not men we have brought into our Order, but we often find uses for them.’
‘That’s not an explanation,’ Isak pointed out. The suzerain looked uncomfortable for a moment, shifting his weight from one foot to the other as he struggled to match the looming white-eye’s stare.
‘The College of Magic would describe him as a rogue mage, which he is, but not in an insane or impious way. His methods simply differ from other mages, and that makes him a valuable asset.’
‘So why did you hesitate to tell me that? It’s a simple enough explanation.’
Torl gave a sigh. ‘That may be, but how he knew of the death of Lord Bahl is not. He first saw an image after spending several hours watching sunlight filter through the branches of a yew; then again in the movement of leaves in a herb garden. To most people that sounds like he’s some sort of prophet, and I wouldn’t want to give you that impression of our Order.’
‘I’m intrigued,’ Isak said. ‘Perhaps I should meet the man -and when you bring him to Tirah Palace, I look forward to your report on your Brethren as well.’ ‘My Lord—’
Isak quickly cut him off. ‘Your loyalty is not in question, but I must know what other allegiances my nobles hold. The events in Narkang and Thotel mean I cannot afford to be ignorant of anything, certainly not the activities of my subjects.’
‘The rumours about Thotel are true then?’ Suzerain Saroc interjected before Torl could continue his objections. He was very conscious that the dark monks and the Ghosts were eyeing each other suspiciously, and neither side had yet sheathed their weapons. ‘Has Lord Styrax has taken the city and torn down the Temple of the Sun?’
Isak nodded. ‘So I’ve been told.’
‘But what about Narkang? Were you not returning to claim your inheritance because you felt Lord Bahl’s death?’
‘Unfortunately, it’s not as simple as that. These parts may see more fighting before—’
‘My Lord,’ the ranger Jeil broke in, ‘I need your help.’
Isak nodded at the suzerains and returned to Carel. He crouched down beside Jeil to inspect the damaged limb. Carel was terribly pale, and sweat poured off him as he panted, almost gasping for breath.
‘I can’t save it,’ Jeil said calmly. He was too experienced to bother trying to hide the truth from Carel. ‘You’re his best chance.’
‘Me? I’ve never done anything like this,’ Isak protested.
Jeil pointed at Eolis. ‘The marshal doesn’t need a healer, not at the moment. He needs a butcher, and saving your pardon, my Lord, you’re the best we have. Eolis will give the cleanest cut, and with a touch you can cauterise the wound.’
Isak looked down at Carel. He could see the old man was weakening before his eyes.
‘There’s no other way?’
‘None.’
Isak looked around, but none would meet his gaze. He stood and drew Eolis. Carel couldn’t stop himself howling in pain as Jeil manoeuvred the injured arm away from the body and indicated where Isak should cut. As Isak raised the slim sword, he looked at Duke Certinse, a glare of such pure venom that the duke shrank back in fear.
‘On a spike,’ Isak growled. He slashed down.
CHAPTER 4
‘Lord Isak, your health.’ Suzerain Saroc, looking markedly different dressed up in silks and fine linens, raised his goblet for the other guests to follow. A bronze brooch bearing his chalice device was pinned to his left shoulder and he now sported his earrings of rank - though the three hoops through his left ear were not plain gold, like those worn by Count Vesna and Suzerain Torl; his were intricately carved and set with flecks of jet. To Isak’s intense surprise, the deeply religious Saroc, last seen dressed in dour black, had transformed into something of a peacock once they reached his estate.
The men echoed the suzerain’s words; the women, all wearing tight-wrapped dresses and feathers in their hair,
hmmm
ed agreement. It was the first time Isak had participated in a formal Farlan toast, but Tila had found a few minutes to coach him in his expected role -which largely boiled down to draining his cup whenever his name was mentioned. He still didn’t grasp why only men carrying weapons were allowed to speak above a mutter, though she had pointed out one or two wearing ceremonial swords solely for that purpose.
Emptying his goblet: Isak was more than willing to do that in the name of protocol, and he did so with a flourish. He nodded graciously to each of the noblemen around the table and set his goblet down for it to be refilled - but somehow he miscalculated, and the thump as it hit the table caused the bowl of rice beside it to jump and overturn. He frowned at the table; it seemed to be closer than he’d first thought - but when he looked up, he realised there were startled faces turned his way. Perhaps that had been a little loud; suddenly he was reminded that his huge frame was oversized for this rather delicate dining hall.
A hot feeling began at the back of his neck as he felt the eyes of the room on him. With painstaking care he disentangled his fingers from the goblet and raised his hand in apology to the suzerain, who smiled back and nodded graciously as the rest of the room looked away with embarrassed expressions.
Oh damn,
Isak thought,
I’m the guest of honour, I shouldn’t be apologising. Didn’t Tila say I couldn’t do anything wrong at a meal in my honour?
‘He’s going to be fine.’ The soft voice in his ear was accompanied by a waft of perfume. Around them, conversation sputtered back into life as the guests returned to their meals.
Isak turned to Tila and nodded glumly. The doctors were agreed on that point at least, despite it being the only one they had been able to reach a consensus on. A middle-aged monk with a hard stare, accompanied by three novices, had arrived from a nearby monastery to help tend to the wounded. He’d been friendly to the suzerain and polite to Lord Isak, of course, but his face betrayed his feelings when he saw a local woman also tending to the sick; her hair cut short to display the scars and tattoos around her neck marked the woman clearly as a witch. No one said much, but even the veteran soldiers had deferred to her opinion.
‘I know he will be,’ Isak said, prodding the lump of pork on his plate with a knife, ‘but I can’t seem to get the smell of burned flesh out of my mind.’
Looking round at the forty or so faces in the hall, Isak saw a number still watching him with slight concern; the Countess Saroc was one who had little time for alcohol and no patience with drunks. Isak ignored her sharp eyes, which shone from her long, thin face. His natural charisma had a more dramatic effect on inanimate objects than on the Countess Saroc, but her courtesy remained faultless and her compassion for the injured unmatched; that she didn’t like him was a small price to pay.
‘He’s too old to be leading men into battle,’ Isak continued, picking at his meal. It was too rich, and had set his stomach churning. Aside from the wine, he had consumed only rice and a bowl of dressed tomatoes. Popping another in his mouth, Isak licked the oil from his fingers and sighed. ‘I shouldn’t have asked it of him.’
‘You’re right that he’s too old,’ agreed Tila, placing her fingers on his forearm. ‘You’re wrong that it’s your fault. The old buzzard knows his own strength better than you do, and you can’t claim to be more aware of the dangers of battle than he. Let his decisions be his own.’
Her hand looked like a child’s against Isak’s green-edged cuff. They had little time to sit together and talk as friends these days. Isak didn’t resent the love that had flourished between Tila and Count Vesna, for both had become dear to him, but in his first weeks in Tirah Palace, he and Tila had spent nearly every minute of the day together.
Isak saw a fond smile appear on Tila’s rosebud mouth. ‘And, of course, a friend should be on hand to cut one’s arm off when one makes the wrong choice.’
Isak resisted the urge to reach out and hug her, uncomfortably aware of the eyes on them. Instead, he stuck his tongue out at her, prompting a muted squeal of amusement, and went on the hunt for more wine.
‘My Lord.’ Suzerain Saroc spoke as Isak filled his own goblet from the decanter in front of him, placed there by Mihn so he wouldn’t have a servant hovering at his shoulder all night -the tale of the battle in Narkang had raced through the suzerain’s household, and every one of the staff was surreptitiously trying to catch a glimpse of Isak’s left hand that had been left as white as the tunic he wore. Isak turned towards the suzerain, his body feeling heavy and ponderous.
‘Might I persuade you to rest here a few weeks before returning to Tirah? We seldom have the chance to entertain our lord down here in Saroc; your presence would be a blessing for us all.’