Deadhouse Landing

Chapter 10

The Twisted slid down its greased track of logs with a shriek of wood on wood that made Cartheron want to cringe. It crashed into the harbour raising a spray that misted high enough for him to have to brush droplets from his face. Even so, he couldn’t keep a satisfied smile from his lips – until he gasped as a hard elbow dug into his side.

He sent a glare to his brother, who was grinning and pointing. ‘See that? Ain’t she the prettiest thing?’

‘Pretty? You said she was the ugliest wreck you’d ever seen.’

‘What? I ain’t never said no such thing!’ Urko motioned again to the rocking, black-tarred hulk. ‘Put the fear o’ Hood into everyone, she will.’

‘That’s for sure,’ Cartheron muttered darkly.

It wasn’t that she looked particularly fearsome, he reflected. Neglected, perhaps. It was more her reputation, spread in waterfront taverns and sailors’ bars all across the islands south of Quon Tali. A tale of men lost at sea, ill-timed storms, and bad luck all round. That last bit was the important part; men and women at sea were superstitious, and bad luck, like an illness, was something to be shunned. Not that he was some hick, or that he carried a charm to Nerrus round his neck.

Amiss ambled over, hands tucked up under her armpits, and nodded to him. ‘Recruits, Crust.’

Cartheron pointed his brother to the vessel – ‘Get to work’ – then followed Amiss to where a line of five men and three women waited – none of whom were Napan, of course. One of the men he recognized immediately: the burly marine from the Avarice, Dujek. He beckoned the fellow to him, laughing. ‘What’re you doing here, man?’

Looking a touch embarrassed, Dujek shook his hand. ‘Hess is a jumped-up popinjay who couldn’t handle a boat in a tub. When I heard you was captaining the Twisted here, I quit my letters.’

‘Well, you’re more than welcome.’ He turned to the first of the women. ‘And you are?’

‘Autumn.’

Cartheron looked the slim young woman – still a girl, in truth – up and down. ‘You a sailor?’

‘Yessir.’

‘Seen action?’

‘Yessir.’

Cartheron didn’t think that likely, but held his peace. ‘Where do you hail from?’

‘Purge.’

‘Mock’s short on crew – why aren’t you signed?’

Dujek leaned in, saying, ‘Took down one o’ Mock’s officers, she did. Crashed a chair over him for his straying hands.’

‘Ah. Fine.’ Cartheron moved on to the third recruit, a battlescarred woman older and far bigger than Autumn. ‘Name?’

‘Glory.’

‘Glory … really.’ He knew it wasn’t her real name, but that was to be expected. Most in this trade took on new names; a new name for a new life. ‘You a sailor?’

The woman curled her lips in the way one who considered oneself superior to her company would. ‘No, sir. More a fighter.’

He nodded. ‘Very good.’

The next was very obviously an experienced sailor in tarred canvas trousers, sun-blackened and barefoot. ‘Name?’

‘Torbal, sir.’

‘Why aren’t you signed?’

The man’s mouth turned down in distaste and he spat aside. ‘Don’t like Mock’s way o’ dispensing rank … sir.’

Cartheron nodded. ‘I understand.’ The next recruit was a female version of Torbal. ‘Name?’

‘Clena, sir.’

‘What’s your story?’

‘I’m with Torbal, sir.’

Cartheron nodded again. The next recruit was a skinny kid, a boy. ‘What’s your name?’

‘Orthan.’

‘You look too young, lad.’

The youth’s hands clenched to fists at his sides. ‘Please take me on.’

‘Why?’

‘Two summers ago Gef’s bastards beat my brother senseless. Ain’t been the same in the head since. Can’t hardly even remember his own name. Broke Mam’s heart. Please take me on.’

Cartheron nodded. ‘I see. All right, lad.’ He came to the next to last recruit, a grizzled old veteran. ‘Name?’

‘Brendan, sor.’

‘Long in the tooth, aren’t you?’

The oldster smiled, revealing four yellowed and worn teeth. ‘Know the Twisted of old, I do. Grew grey together we did over the years, you could say.’

Cartheron couldn’t help but eye the fellow a little uncertainly. ‘Really? You served on board her and now you’re willing to return?’ Then he had a thought and asked, ‘All those stories of losing half the crew to the plague, all those sailors lost overboard or maimed in accidents, failing to take a prize in years – are they all just tall tales then?’

Grinning, the old man offered him a wink. ‘Naw. They’re true.’

Cartheron blinked, a touch nonplussed; personally, he’d half counted on that’s being the case. ‘Ah … well…’

‘Naw. It’s just that I’m of the opinion that runs of luck, good or bad, that’s all just nonsense.’ He scratched his scraggly beard and winked again. ‘And maybe it’s time for the luck to turn, anyway.’

Cartheron answered with a half-grin. ‘I see. Then you are more than welcome.’ Nodding a farewell, he continued on to the last recruit. He was a tall young fellow with a swordsman’s wide shoulders. Dujek leaned in to say, ‘I take credit for this one – recruited him myself. Been through the old Talian officers’ academy at Unta.’

Cartheron looked the fellow up and down, impressed. ‘So. An officer?’

The young man shook his head. ‘No, sir. Didn’t graduate.’

‘Why not?’

‘Killed a fellow student in a duel.’

Cartheron frowned as he considered this. ‘I thought such things were sanctioned. An occupational hazard, you might say.’

‘They are. But the student was of an Untan noble family and his father is a regent of the academy.’

Cartheron’s brows rose as he understood. ‘Ah. Put a price on your head, hey? And what have you been doing since then? A veteran, I assume?’

‘Yes, sir. Some army work, some hire-swording.’

‘What’s your name, then?’ he asked, knowing he’d get a pseudonym.

‘Jack, sir.’

‘Just Jack?’

The fellow looked quite uncomfortable and Cartheron felt for him – no need to embarrass him. ‘Fine. More of a marine, safe to say then. Yes?’

The fellow actually saluted, saying smartly, ‘Yessir.’

Cartheron waved them all in. ‘Okay. Get to work. I’ll write up the papers tonight.’ He watched while Choss set them to work, thinking, gods, an island-wide recruitment and this is all who’d dare show. Malcontents and those spurned by Mock. They were still grossly under-crewed. If he were a superstitious fellow he’d almost say it reeked of bad luck … but he wasn’t. He raised and kissed the amulet round his neck.

* * *

It was the overcast and rainy predawn of the day of departure and the entire Malazan fleet of forty-two raiders was finishing its last details and readying to quit the harbour.

All save one. The flagship of the fleet. Mock’s own Insufferable.

Tattersail paced the wet deck, fuming. Where was the fool? Yes, he’d been out all night ‘celebrating’ with his favoured captains – all of whom had since reported for duty and were busy preparing their vessels for departure. He’d not shown up since!

Where was he! She shot yet another searing glare to Marsh, the mate, who ducked his head – almost guiltily, it seemed to her. Guilty? Why guilty?

‘All is ready?’ she demanded.

‘Yes, ma’am.’

‘And the rest of the fleet?’

‘Waiting on the Insufferable, ma’am.’

She bit at her lip, seething. Should they depart without him? That would be absurd. A fleet without its admiral. They had no choice but to wait.

Moments later, a small carriage came rattling down one of the narrow cobbled lanes that led off the waterfront wharves. It clattered to a halt before the Insufferable’s waiting gangway and the door was kicked open.

Out unlimbered Mock, wincing and holding his head. He waved a farewell to someone within and tottered up the gangway, gripping its rope guide for purchase.

‘Cast off!’ he called the instant he set foot on the wet decking, and winced again, a hand cradling his forehead.

Tattersail pounced on him. ‘Where were you!’

The pirate admiral blanched, hunching. ‘Not so loud, my dear.’ To Marsh: ‘How’s the wind?’

‘Thin. But we’ll manage.’

‘Very well. Raise more sail if necessary.’

‘Aye, aye.’

‘And who was that?’ Tattersail demanded.

Mock’s brows clenched as if he were puzzled, then he waved airily. ‘Just an old friend, dearest. That’s all.’ He slipped an arm round her waist. ‘Come, let us retire to our quarters. My head is pounding fit to kill me.’

‘Why didn’t you return to the Hold?’

‘Because I knew we’d be travelling together, yes? Now, come. I am sorely in need of your soothing hands.’

Tattersail steered him towards the cabin door. ‘You fool. You’re not young any more, you know.’

‘I know, I know.’ He leaned more of his weight on her and she was glad to accept it.

The Insufferable eased from its mooring as its sails bellied and the tide drew it into the bay.

* * *

Later that day, at sea, Tattersail walked the rocking deck. To either side and behind, the full fleet of the raiding island of Malaz slammed the waves under full sail; the Intolerable and the Insolent flanked her, the core of the strike force, while beyond stretched captured merchant caravels, galleasses, fat barques armed now with siege catapults and onagers, and even low open longboats, oared and under sail, captured from foreign travellers.

She nodded to Marsh, pleased with their passage so far. Soon they would make sighting of the mainland and head for the prearranged rendezvous off Point Spear, east of Cawn, before entering the Bight of Cawn as dawn rose and with the tide behind them.

All was going to plan – provided the damned Napans showed.

She glanced behind, far to the south, and thought she glimpsed something there amid the iron-grey waves – a dark blotch or smear. She motioned Marsh to her.

‘What’s that, there?’ She pointed.

He shaded his gaze, frowning. ‘I see nothing, ma’am.’

‘Something’s there. Get a man up top.’

‘Probably just a laggard falling behind.’

‘I don’t like the look of it.’

‘No need to worry yourself, ma’am.’

She eyed the man and raised one brow. ‘Your sea-mage orders it.’

Marsh pulled a hand down his unshaven jaws, swallowing hard. He nodded, said, ‘Yes, Tattersail,’ and stomped off, yelling, ‘Get Olan up top, right quick!’

Moments later a lean young lad went shimmying up the mizzen to where the very top swayed sickeningly with every wave and there he clutched the slim pole like a monkey, legs wrapped round it, peering to the south.

After surveying the waves for a time he shouted down: ‘Can’t believe it!’

‘What, lad?’ Marsh called up. ‘What can’t ya believe?’

‘Damme! ’Tis the Twisted!’

Marsh turned to gaze at Tattersail in wonder. ‘I can’t believe they got that scow under sail.’

Tattersail crossed her arms, gazing south. She nodded to herself. ‘Looks like we’re going to be joined by all kinds of Napans.’ She went to give the news to Mock.

The admiral was in their cabin, head clutched in his hands, a glass of wine before him. Tattersail braced herself with a hand on a beam of the low ceiling as the ship rocked in the waves.

Mock massaged his temples. ‘Why are you telling me this?’ he asked, his voice pained.

‘Just thought you ought to know.’

‘That ship is a wreck. It was legend decades ago. They’ll just fall further and further behind. It matters not.’ He looked up, blinking and pale, and it struck Tattersail that this vaunted pirate was, of all things, seasick. Or perhaps just hung-over.

‘And how are we doing?’ he asked, swallowing and grimacing at what he tasted.

‘We’ve made the arc to avoid Napan waters and should make the rendezvous at Cawn in plenty of time.’

‘Excellent.’ He lowered his head once more. Tattersail thought she heard a groan.

She hesitated, but decided to broach the subject that was worrying her. ‘Mock … about this raid … perhaps we should hold a few ships back.’

‘Whatever for?’

‘In case Tarel tries something. Betrays us.’

Leaning back, he waved a dismissal. ‘Why would he do that? And in the face of a successful raid … sacrifice all that loot? No.’ He opened his hands. ‘Listen, Sail dear. I’m certain he wants the riches of Cawn as much as we do.’

She couldn’t argue with that, though misgivings remained. She shook her head. ‘I still don’t like it.’

‘Don’t worry, child. We’ll keep a close eye on young King Tarel, never fear.’

She almost felt embarrassed: of course they would be keeping an eye on things! What was she thinking, imagining these experienced raiders wouldn’t be careful? She gave a nod, smiling, ‘Of course, Mock. Do you need anything? Soup?’

The admiral paled, waved a negative, gasped, ‘No, nothing. And Sail, not a word to anyone about … this. Yes?’

She took one of his hands, found it cold and shaking and slick with sweat. ‘Of course, dearest. Not a word.’

* * *

Lee was in the main room of the Golden Gyrfalcon when the man himself came down to confront their new hired knife.

It was long overdue; for more than a week the lazy ass had done nothing but slouch around, eat Geffen’s food, and take long ambling walks about town. Lee wondered why the boss had tolerated the situation for so long.

Geffen came to the table and stood there, hands on hips, glaring down at the young fellow where he sat peeling a boiled egg.

‘I’m not paying you to rest,’ he growled.

The lad continued peeling the shell from the egg – something in the way he did this with his slim fingertips made Lee feel vaguely sick.

‘What are you waiting for?’ Geffen prompted again.

The lad took a tiny bite out of the egg. ‘He’s not here on the island, is he?’ He reached for the salt.

‘Who’s not?’

‘Our man … Dancer.’

Geffen’s hands clenched to fists at his waist – perhaps to avoid grasping the knives thrust through his belt. ‘Who cares? His people are. Take them out, it’ll weaken him.’

The skinny lad frowned at his egg as if the salt hadn’t improved it. He set it down and picked up his tea. ‘There’s only one name on the contract, Geffen.’

‘I don’t fucking care, you damned prick! I hired your services—’ He stopped himself, flinching slightly as the lad surged to his feet.

Lee was impressed to note that Cowl, as he fancied himself, didn’t spill one drop from the full cup as he stood. He finished the tea and set the glass down. ‘You hired me for one kill, and one kill only. Now, if you don’t mind, I’m going out for some air.’ And he ambled to the door.

Geffen stood fairly trembling with suppressed fury. With his glare he urged Lee out after the bastard; shrugging, she rose and headed to the door.

Walking after the fellow, she wondered why Gef bothered having her shadow him at all. After all, his strolls about town always brought him to the same damned place – coincidentally the one place Lee really did not want to linger. As a longtime resident of Malaz, she found it nearly as disturbing as the natives did. The local haunted house. Almost every city had something like it.

In this case an old stone house in a tangled neglected property close by the waterfront.

And so she found him here, a hand on his chin, regarding the selfsame abandoned dwelling. She made no secret of her approach; she knew he knew she’d been following him – she had to admit he was at least that good.

She leaned on the low stone wall, her head turned to him, away from the building itself, which gave her a headache whenever she looked its way. ‘Thinking of house-buying?’ she asked.

The lad actually smiled – a thin lipless slash. He raised his chin to indicate the place. ‘What do you see?’ he asked.

She refused to glance over. ‘I’d rather not.’

He nodded his understanding, crossed his arms, let out a long thoughtful breath. ‘When I arrived here and found that our man worked with a Dal Hon mage I knew I had the right target this time. He’s the one.’

Lee was surprised that the fellow was actually opening up, and so she pressed, ‘Why do you want him?’

He lifted his thin shoulders in a shrug. ‘Reputation. It’s all about reputation. I’ve worked hard to establish a name as the best at what I do. But as of last year all I hear is the name Dancer.’

‘So … what’d he do?’

‘He killed King Chulalorn the Third.’

Lee couldn’t help herself – she blurted, ‘Bullshit!’ But the lad was nodding quite seriously. ‘No fucking way! He musta bin guarded by an entire army of Nightblades and fifty trained Sword-Dancers!’

The lad looked quite irritated. ‘I’m familiar with the story.’

‘Sorry. So, if that’s true, what’s he doing here? He could cash in so huge on that. I mean, any king or ruler from Quon to Gris would pay just to buy him off.’

‘Exactly. Now we get to the nub of the matter. Why here?’ The lad crossed his arms and took hold of his chin once more. ‘This is what has been bothering me all this time. Until now.’ He pointed one long pale finger to the house. ‘Now I know.’

Lee forgot herself and glanced where the finger pointed; the strangeness that assaulted her vision there made her wince and she quickly looked away. ‘Why? What’s there?’

‘You’re not a mage, are you? Have you any talent in that regard at all?’

She shook her head – she’d always secretly regretted that lack. ‘No. Nothing.’

‘Yet even you feel it. Power. There is power there and it is warning you to keep away.’

‘Okay, so there’s power there. So what?’

‘Our friend and his ancient mage sponsor are going to make a try for it. Many have, you know. Over the centuries.’

‘Many? You mean it’s been looted?’

The slim youth ran a hand through his short hair and shook his head. His frail-seeming skin was so pale Lee could see the blue tracings of his veins beneath. ‘No. All failed.’

‘What killed them?’

The youth shook his head again. ‘Oh, no. Most of them are still alive.’ He pointed to the grounds. ‘They lie imprisoned below. The structure is holding them there – perhaps using their might to defend itself.’

Lee’s flesh shivered in revulsion at the idea. Perhaps this is what she sensed, and what repelled – or terrified – everyone about the place.

‘So you’re saying it would snatch me?’

That condescending smile returned but Lee let it pass. ‘Not you. Unless you attacked it, I suppose. No. Not you. Me. It would like to get its claws on me. I can sense it now, you know … trying to reach for me…’ The youth’s voice trailed off as if he’d been struck by an idea and he nodded to himself, his brows crimping. ‘You know – it would be a kind of immortality. You wouldn’t die. It wouldn’t let you.’

Lee shivered again, but not because of the house – because of this youth standing next to her.

The lad tapped a knuckle on the top fieldstone of the enclosing wall. ‘Well. We’ll see. If he doesn’t return, then I’ll just have to catch up with him elsewhere.’ And he ambled off, whistling tunelessly to himself.

Lee remained behind for a time, still shivering, yet perhaps this time with the wet chill of the island. It now seemed to her that perhaps Gef had made a mistake in sending for this odd fellow; that they were caught up in something far beyond the usual mere scuffle of street-gangs. Something far more deadly, and rather frightful.

She decided then that Gef be damned. She’d keep her head down in the future – especially in any fight involving someone who made her skin crawl the way this one did.

* * *

Locked in his unofficial prison, Tayschrenn did not bother to keep track of the mundane passage of days. He was intent upon his meditation, and this, when he achieved total focus, was by definition timeless. And so it was something of a surprise when some strangeness drew him back to himself. He blinked, centring himself upon the here and now, and he found two of Tallow’s cult proctors standing by the open door to his cell, their staves just lowering from prodding him.

He nodded and slowly straightened on his numb tingling legs. The proctors pointed the way, directing him by a roundabout route through unused narrow tunnels to a closed door that he recognized as a side way into the inner temple audience chamber.

So. The trial would be held here in the secret precinct rather than the open main temple. The audience would be kept to a minimum, all high-ranked cult functionaries. Tallow had stacked the deck as thoroughly as possible.

No matter. He was innocent of any wrongdoing; that truth would prove undeniable.

They waited, one guard behind, the other before him at the door. Presently, the small door was opened. The priestess who opened it was a red-robed court custodian – a Fang of D’rek – who carried one small curved blade only, but this was more than enough to enforce order, for its sheath was sealed in wax and the blade saturated in a scorpion’s venom so potent that just being a Fang was the most deadly position in the cult, from accidental poisonings alone.

The hatchet-faced woman gestured him in. Only now did a tinge of unease brush his spine as it occurred to him that court sentences were sometimes served in a rather summary manner, and usually by the Fangs of D’rek. He entered, squinting momentarily, as the audience hall was very dark. Deliberately so, of course. The bench behind the heavy basalt table held seven judges – seven high-ranked priests. Tallow sat at the centre, the position of the Demidrek, and seeing this Tayschrenn could not keep a frown from his face. Before the court stood one priest whom Tayschrenn was surprised to recognize as Feneresh – he had not thought him sufficiently high in rank to be involved at this level. Similarly, he remembered two on the court as being far too low to be serving as magistrates. None were particular friends of his, nor allies of Ithell, while two, Salleen and Allatch, stood as longtime rivals of the former Demidrek. Tallow must have promoted these mid-echelon priests and priestesses within the last month. That sickening feeling returned to him in strength. He had not even considered the possibility of such a thorough winnowing of the ranks. Tallow had been very busy indeed.

He peered round the hall and made out a small audience, very small given the charges and – he presumed – the importance of the case. Feneresh gestured to him and announced to the court, ‘The accused.’ And from his pompous and self-satisfied smile, the loathsome fellow was obviously in his element.

The trial, Tayschrenn was surprised to see, had been in session for some time. Feneresh, acting as the prosecution, had already made his opening statement and now called upon a series of lesser priests and priestesses to answer questions regarding the accused. Tayschrenn could only lift one brow in silent commentary as he heard himself described variously as unfriendly, dismissive, cold, unfeeling, aloof, conceited, vain, ruthlessly ambitious, self-seeking, self-obsessed, deceitful, manipulative, and careerist.

He only frowned at the last few; these he’d certainly take issue with. He drew breath and addressed the court, speaking over Feneresh as he droned on. ‘All very well … but flaws of character are no crime.’

Feneresh threw his arms up in exasperation as if to say: See? What have I said?

Tallow, he noted, remained unmoved, his thick arms crossed. It was Salleen who leaned forward, fingers tapping the stone slab table before the court. Old Salleen, whose official role was overseeing cult discipline – such as at the Pits. ‘Of course,’ she agreed. She directed a cold glance to Feneresh. ‘You do have complaints of a material kind?’

Feneresh bowed. ‘Of course, ma’am. Merely laying the groundwork.’ He waved to another of the Fangs of D’rek. ‘Bring forth the priest Imarish Laccon.’

Inwardly, Tayschrenn winced. By the Great Worm’s Fate, that one was still rattling around? He would have nothing good to say.

The Fang brought forward an elderly, emaciated priest whose fringe of grey hair stood in all directions as if he’d just emerged from a windstorm. His rheumy reddened eyes darted about the temple until they latched on to Tayschrenn. He pointed, and began nodding fiercely. ‘Yes, yes,’ he croaked in his hoarse crow’s voice. ‘That’s the one. That’s the slimy dissembler. The trickster.’

Feneresh was waving his hands for silence. ‘Please! For the court: what is your accusation?’

The priest drew himself up as straight as he could. He pressed a knotted hand to his chest. ‘For near two decades I was assistant to dear old Ithell. You all know that. I wore the red sash and was proud to be of service!’ He shot a bent finger to Tayschrenn. ‘Then this one came along. Spreading lies about me, undermining my authority. Through his tricks and dissembling he wheedled his way into Ithell’s confidence. He turned Ithell against me … the man I dedicated my life to … and he stole my position!’

Tayschrenn could not help shaking his head. The old man had never really recovered from being asked to step aside. But he’d been half blind, and so very forgetful; indeed, Ithell had been of the opinion that his mind had been going, and that was over four years ago.

Feneresh clasped his hands at his back and, lowering his voice, asked, ‘What … tricks … exactly are we speaking of?’

The oldster nodded eagerly, the pointing finger quivering. ‘He stole documents and hid them – important cult communications – and blamed me! He forged fake notes, records and inventories – signed them in my name! All to make me look bad…’ the old man’s wet lips started to shake and he was blinking uncontrollably, ‘incompetent even … when I was just serving a great man! Broke my heart, the bastard.’

Tayschrenn knew he should stop shaking his head, but he could not. It was obvious that all the man’s resentment and bitterness at being set aside had settled upon his head. As to the missing documents, and the error-ridden records, yes, he had called Ithell’s attention to the oversights – duty had compelled him. And now Laccon had obviously deteriorated mentally even further; surely this must be obvious to all.

‘He even … even…’ Laccon wavered, swallowing hard and peering about as if lost.

‘Yes?’ Feneresh urged. ‘He did what? You can tell us – you need not fear him.’

Fear me? Tayschrenn sent a beseeching glance to Salleen – please! The man was leading the witness to elaborate.

The man wet his lips. ‘He even … even boasted about how he’d be the next Demidrek!’ Hugging himself, nearly shrieking, he added: ‘He said that he’d get rid of Ithell too!’

Quite a few of the audience gasped audibly at this revelation. Tayschrenn blurted a scoffing ‘Oh, come now!’ and instantly regretted the outburst. Six of the judges cast him glares, while Tallow kept his eyes lowered. Feneresh held both hands out towards Tayschrenn as if inviting all to examine him as if he were some sort of specimen, and murmured just loud enough to carry about the temple: ‘Quite remorseful, I see…’

Furious with the ridiculous proceedings – and more with himself – Tayschrenn clenched his teeth until their grinding chattered about his skull. He’d played into Feneresh’s oily hands. Yet Laccon’s infirmity and absent-mindedness had been known to many here. Surely they must see his accusations as the phantasms of a weakened mind. Tayschrenn glanced to the gallery, and while he’d never been one to exchange pleasantries or nods of greeting with the many who crowded the temple halls, it unnerved him now to see open loathing in the eyes of some gathered there.

Had he been labouring under the delusion that abstract ideals such as justice or truth had anything to do with these proceedings he would have been even more outraged and affronted. Yet – naively perhaps – he found that he could not entirely set aside the belief that some element of reason and logic must apply. And so he cast Salleen a glare and called out, challenging: ‘Where is the evidence?’

The old priestess actually nodded her bird-like shaven head and looked to Feneresh. ‘Have you any more witnesses to call?’

Feneresh bowed. ‘Just two, Magistrate.’

‘Proceed, then.’

Feneresh turned to one of the Fangs of D’rek. ‘Bring forth the priest Koarsden Taneth.’

Tayschrenn’s breath actually caught. D’rek’s mercy … what on earth could they want with Koarsden? He looked at Tallow, but the fellow was still sitting with his eyes downcast, hands clasped before him, thumbs tapping. The Invigilator had yet to speak, but Tayschrenn knew him to be the true architect of all this – and a masterful one at that.

Koarsden was dragged forward by one of the Fangs. The tall and always composed priest looked far from dignified now. He was sweating, his usually immaculate robes dishevelled, and though Tayschrenn sought his gaze his friend would not meet his eyes. His heart clenched. Oh, Koarsden … not you too. He found his own eyes stinging, and looked away, blinking.

‘Koarsden Taneth,’ Feneresh began, ‘you know the accused?’

Koarsden nodded, then coughed into a fist, murmuring, ‘Yes.’

‘Would you describe yourself as his friend – in as much as this overly proud and disdainful man could be said to have any friends at all?’

Still unable to look at Tayschrenn, Koarsden nodded again, then added, weakly, ‘Yes.’

‘Would you say the accused and the honoured former Demidrek Ithell were close?’

Koarsden frowned, but nodded, ‘Yes. I would say so.’

‘And yet, was he present when Ithell was gathered up by D’rek?’

Koarsden shook his head. ‘No. He was not.’

Feneresh was looking at the judges as he went on, ‘Is it not true that in fact several days passed before the accused even bothered to enquire after the welfare of his great friend and mentor?’

Koarsden bit his lip, frowning again, but nodded. ‘Yes. It had been a few days, but—’

‘Thank you!’ Feneresh cut in. ‘And tell me, after Ithell’s passing, did you detect any expression of mourning or grief from the accused?’

Now Koarsden was blinking, and it seemed to Tayschrenn that the man was holding back tears. ‘No. He displayed none – yet everyone is different in—’

‘Just answer the question!’ Feneresh shouted. ‘Now … think carefully about this. In your discussions with him, what was the accused’s opinion of the appointment of Invigilator Tallow as temporary Demidrek?’

Koarsden had turned his face away from Tayschrenn – as if he could not bear to risk a glance; his hands were fists at his sides. ‘He … disapproved…’

‘Disapproved?’

‘He thought it … wrong.’

‘Wrong? I see. Who, then, did he think should have been appointed?’

Koarsden cleared his throat and swallowed hard, as if choking. ‘Someone … someone from within the temple, I imagine.’

‘And who would this have been, pray tell?’

Now the young priest leaned his head back, blinking rapidly. He took a shuddering breath as if steeling himself, and said, ‘Himself, I think.’

Tayschrenn had to suppress a groan. He knew the terrible pressure that could be brought to bear upon anyone – the threats, the promises, the physical and emotional torture – but he’d hoped that Koarsden would have somehow resisted it all, somehow held out. Shouldn’t he have? He wondered, then, whether he had ever really understood people at all.

Feneresh was nodding slowly and deliberately – for the benefit of the court. ‘Yes. Thank you.’ He waved Koarsden away. ‘You may go. And thank you for your service to this investigation. I realize it must have been difficult for you.’

Koarsden turned to go, but at the last instant paused as if he would turn back, perhaps to look at Tayschrenn at last, and Tayschrenn steeled himself not to reveal the surprising hurt that clenched his heart. Yet Koarsden’s will, or intent, faltered, and he could not bring himself to raise his gaze all the way. His shoulders fell, and he exited by the small side door.

Now Feneresh addressed the court once more, calling his last witness, and saying a name that Tayschrenn could not believe he heard. He flinched as if stabbed, and realized that all the torment he’d endured to this point was but the shallowest preface to what was about to come.

For Feneresh had called Silla Leansath.

She came on the arm of one of the Fangs of D’rek. Indeed, it appeared that the court custodian was supporting her as he drew her forward. She walked listlessly, her arms at her sides hidden beneath her long robes. She looked unwell to Tayschrenn, thin and drawn, her long hair clinging sweaty and unwashed to her skull.

Unlike Koarsden, she looked directly at him – yet not. No recognition glimmered in her dark eyes. No emotion whatsoever animated them. He thought it was as if she were asleep, or profoundly withdrawn.

‘Silla Leansath,’ Feneresh began, ‘do you recognize the accused?’

‘Yes,’ she answered, her voice flat and dull.

‘You are a close friend of the accused?’

‘Yes.’

‘Perhaps even the closest?’

Silla licked her lips, murmured, ‘Yes.’

‘So close,’ Feneresh said, turning to address the entire court, ‘that you met in his quarters many times late after hours, in defiance of all rules?’

She swayed, blinking, but nodded, and said, ‘Yes.’

‘And during those long, ah, conversations, what did the accused say to you regarding the arrival and installation of Invigilator Tallow?’

‘He…’ Silla paused, licked her lips, then continued, ‘he was … furious. He thought he should’ve been named the next Demidrek.’

Tayschrenn would have thought he was dreaming were she not standing before him staring him directly in the eye, unblinking, as if mesmerized.

Feneresh nodded his understanding. ‘I see. And what of the passing of his mentor, Ithell? What private demonstrations of mourning did you witness? What confessions of loss and heartbreak?’

She drew a heavy breath, moved to raise an arm as if to wipe her face but hurriedly lowered it before it emerged from the loose folds of her robes. ‘I saw none such. He seemed … indifferent to the man’s death.’

Tayschrenn could only stare; was this some imposter? An illusion? Yet no sorcery could possibly be enacted here – all would sense it. It was she.

Silla … what have they done to you? What had he done to her? Was she not standing here because of him? Because of his selfishness? His pride in refusing to flee? His mind seemed to wallow and capsize as he tried to make sense of what he was hearing, what was unfolding before his eyes.

Feneresh shook his head as if appalled. And he sighed heavily, as if greatly saddened. ‘I see. And do you know what the accused was doing during his long errands so far beneath the temple?’

Silla swayed, blinking once more, then righted herself. ‘Yes.’

‘And?’ Feneresh prompted.

‘He was searching for any ancient poison, or weapon, or curse to use against Invigilator Tallow.’

The gallery gasped as one, both in outrage and in dread, for the precincts beneath the temple had long been put aside as the depository of all things most holy – and therefore most dangerous in the hands of an assassin.

Here Tayschrenn could have objected, for this was all supposition. Yet he could not speak, could hardly even move. It was as if he’d been struck senseless by the fact of Silla’s standing here, now, witnessing against him.

‘And how could you possibly know this?’ Feneresh was asking. ‘Is this mere speculation on your part?’

She licked her lips and took a steadying breath before enunciating, clearly and strongly: ‘Because he told me so himself.’

Feneresh’s brows shot up as he scanned the judges and the gallery. Tayschrenn jerked forward. He wanted to rush to her, to hold her, to apologize, to let her know he understood, then froze as a blade pressed his side.

‘Move again and die,’ the Fang next to him breathed.

‘He told you?’ Feneresh echoed with an exaggerated incredulity. ‘How could this be so? Why did you not immediately inform the cult disciplinary body?’

Silla nodded at this and Tayschrenn screamed inwardly – Rote! Couldn’t everyone see that it was all rehearsed? Then his shoulders slumped as he understood that of course it all was, and the magistrates knew it. They would not have dragged him out until everything had been prepared.

All carefully arranged beforehand. Theatre. Just theatre. Arranged for the express purpose of discrediting him.

He pulled his gaze from Silla in order to look at his true accuser here, and found him sitting with eyes still downcast, mouth pursed, fingers tapping; the very picture of the saddened and disappointed patriarch. How he burned to smash the man with all his force! Yet the blade still pushed against his robes – the slightest cut and he would be dead.

He forced himself to relax – and then he almost laughed aloud. Some strange, fey mood took him. What foolishness! All to dispose of a political rival within the ranks of the priesthood!

Indeed, he had to stop himself from actually saluting his enemy right then and there.

Silla answered, flatly, ‘Because he threatened to kill me if I spoke one word of this.’

And Feneresh was nodding to the court in his exaggerated and outraged way. ‘Of course,’ he murmured. ‘Well, your ordeal is at an end, child. You no longer need fear this monster among us.’ He waved to the Fang and Silla was escorted from the court.

Tayschrenn wanted to call out as she went, but suppressed the urge, not wanting to risk possibly making things even worse for her. What he felt now was shame; shame that he hadn’t given enough thought in the past to what was to come.

And to think he’d thought himself smart. A smart fellow. He raised his eyes to the ornate carved ceiling above and almost laughed again.

Really, he should be grateful. Tallow and the priesthood had taught him a great deal just now: in particular his complete blindness to the depth of human self-interest and duplicity. It was limitless, and never again would he assume otherwise.

A rather meaningless resolution, given the short time left to him.

Feneresh faced the judges and bowed. He announced, ‘The prosecution rests, revered ones.’

Salleen nodded, then eyed Tayschrenn the way a crow might examine an extremely old and unpromising carcass. ‘Accused,’ she called, ‘have you anything to say in your defence?’

He stared, almost bemused, considering it. Could he possibly have anything to say to this court? This ridiculous farce? Why say anything? There was frankly nothing that would sway any one of these men and women. So why bother? Why play through this pathetic pantomime that was human interaction?

He crossed his arms and shook his head, making an open show of his contempt. ‘No. Nothing.’

Salleen nodded as if expecting such. ‘Very well. The court will confer.’

The judges leaned to one another, whispering a few words. Tallow, Tayshcrenn noted, remained silent for the moment. Salleen took in the opinions of the others then leaned to the Invigilator. They whispered briefly and Salleen nodded her wrinkled shaven head. She returned her attention to the chamber and tapped a knuckle for silence against the basalt slab of the table before her.

Tayschrenn kept his arms crossed. Death was, after all, death. There was really nothing he could do at this point.

‘Accused,’ Salleen began, and Tayschrenn realized that even his name was in the process of being systematically erased, ‘we have heard much testimony regarding your character and opinions, and we are agreed that its conclusions are disturbing. However,’ and she cleared her throat into a fist, ‘no direct evidence of wrongdoing or culpability has been presented, and so in the estimation of this court your guilt remains unresolved.’ She regarded him critically, and idly tapped her crooked fingers on the polished stone surface before her. ‘The burden of determining your sentence, then, falls to me, and the lack of conclusive proof drives me to offer the final decision to Holy D’rek. Therefore, it is my decision that you be presented to the Great One’s judgement at the Civic Pit on the Feast of the Sun’s Turn, in…’ she bent her head to confer with another judge, ‘in half a moon’s time.’ She rapped a knuckle to the stone slab in final punctuation, and added, ‘May D’rek have mercy upon your soul.’

The judges pushed back their chairs; the gallery of witnesses started up a loud murmuring and whispering. Meanwhile, Tayschrenn watched Tallow, and was rewarded by the faintest crooking of his lips as he rose; this couldn’t have gone any better for the new Demidrek, he realized. A rival eliminated and his hands completely clean of any perceived conniving or manoeuvring.

Likewise priestess Salleen: a death sentence levelled and all responsibility for said death sidestepped. An admirably bureaucratic solution to a thorny problem. He almost tipped his head to her in acknowledgement of the deft handling of such an unwanted and potentially damaging duty.

Two of the Fangs of D’rek now flanked him; the female gestured, beckoning him back to the small side door by which he’d entered. He nodded to indicate his cooperation yet hesitated, casting one last glance around for Silla – was she still present? Perhaps not, as he saw no sign of her amid the rising gallery of witnesses.

The guard urged him on with a hand at the small of his back. ‘Don’t make me use the blade,’ she whispered.

Coming to himself, he blinked, nodding again. Feeling utterly numb, strangely disassociated from himself and the chambers, he allowed the two custodians to usher him from the court.