The Grave thief

CHAPTER 17

Mihn realised he was lurking outside the Chief Steward's office. He kept to the shadows and ignored the men and women who walked past — he was not exactly waiting, nor exactly hesitating… He was glad the palms of his hands had at last stopped stinging. His feet were another matter, but he'd already padded his boots with wool and there was very little more he could do beyond easing from one foot to the other, an occasional, small reprieve.

For the twentieth time that day he inspected his hands, squinting in the poor light. It was late evening now and most of the staff who worked here had gone home, braving the icy streets. Mihn had spent most of the day in Lord Isak's chamber, keeping an increasingly frustrated Xeliath company, or sitting with Isak himself.

The white-eye wasn't a garrulous person at the best of times, but the last week had seen him turn even further inward. Now he was spending hours sitting on a ledge above his own ducal chambers, with his feet hanging over the edge and the bitter wind constantly buffeting him, watching the Land pass by. The slippery stone and treacherous swirl of winds meant he had been completely alone until Mihn had clambered out to join him.

Now it had become a strange little ritual, one that left even Lady Tila and Carel shaking their heads in incomprehension. Mihn would make his way up to the roof a while before dusk to find his lord there, a strange sort of gargoyle perched on the edge of his ledge and puffing on a pipe. Without a word Mihn would claim whatever space was left on the ledge and sit for as long as Isak was there. Isak remained silent while Mihn sang whatever songs occurred to him, from laments to lullabies.

The only response Mihn ever elicited from his lord came when he spoke the short prayer that accompanied the setting sun. Each day Isak frowned at the words and each day Mihn ignored it entirely, refusing to allow the upheaval in the cults to affect his own habits.

Without warning the office door jerked open and Mihn looked up with a guilty expression, quickly hiding his hands behind his back. Tila started out of the door, exclaiming in surprise when she saw him.

'Merciful Gods, what are you doing lurking out here?'

Mihn let her imperious gaze wash over him without reaction before he replied, 'Waiting for the Chief Steward, of course.'

'If he sent for a painted lady I think you might be something of a disappointment,' she said, trying to elicit a smile. There was a famous pair of statues overlooking the largest of the river's docks; a man and a woman, side-by-side, known to the locals as Fisher and the Painted Lady. Someone had made the comment on the training ground the previous day, having seen Mihn's hands, and by the next morning it had spread throughout the palace.

'Or perhaps something rather more serious, judging by your expression,' she added, giving up.

'Something rather more serious,' Mihn agreed. He knew he frustrated Tila. She could be a charming girl when she wanted to be, and combined with her looks, it meant most men in the palace did exactly what she wanted. Aside from Isak, Mihn was the only man she couldn't influence, and she didn't conceal her annoyance on that front.

'You do realise one day you're going to have to trust me,' she said sharply. 'I spend all day as Lord Isak's representative while Lesarl runs the nation. I'm party to state secrets and yet you won't even trust me with what you had for breakfast!'

Mihn gave her an encouraging smile. 'Then to make amends I will make a point to tell you that every day. This morning it was porridge. Yesterday it was also-'

'Oh shut up,' she said, more amused than exasperated. 'How about giving me something a little more substantive than that?'

Mihn screwed his face up in thought. 'More substantive than porridge?'

'Information! Don't try your pantomime skills on me, I'm too tired.' She gestured towards his hands. 'What about those? Tell me about the circles.'

The emotion fell from his face and his expression was blank again. 'There is nothing to tell.'

'Hah. It's just as well I'm too much of a lady to respond as Vesna or Carel might to that.'

Mihn bobbed his head in acknowledgement. 'And I am grateful for it.'

'Might I at least see them?'

Her voice was softer now and Mihn hesitated, running the sounds of each word through his mind. Harlequins were trained to speak every dialect, to mimic every mood. Few were as adept at scrutinising intonation as they, and after a moment's thought he nodded. She wasn't trying to charm him now; her words contained only honesty.

He held out his left hand and let her take it and turn it palm-up. It was a strange sensation for a man who had been effectively celibate his entire life. Harlequins kept their gender a secret, and Mihn's subsequent exile had not given him much opportunity to explore or worry about such things.

Her soft fingers on his sent a tiny electric tingle up his arm. Tila, oblivious, bent low over his palm. She was taller than he, but slender, even compared to his lithe frame. Fascinated, she brushed a finger in a gentle circle over the tattoo covering most of the palm of his hand. Only his physical training stopped him twitching at the touch, but Tila still glanced up at him as though he had flinched.

'And Ehla did this for you?' she asked.

'It would have been hard to do myself,' he replied, noting that she, like many of the Farlan, was uncomfortable calling the witch of Llehden by her title — despite the fact that the tribe was noted for its attachment to titles. Instead of referring to her as 'the witch', they had all latched onto the name she'd provided. Fernal's words returned to him: 'A name shapes, just as it is comes from shape.'

How true, and more people know her as Ehla — light — than her real name. But has she made herself vulnerable by allowing a name to be bestowed, or does she have a purpose in mind for what that name might change in her?

'Why an owl's head?' Tila asked, breaking his chain of thoughts.

The tattoos, on the soles of his feet as well as the palms, consisted of three concentric circles, and in the centre of each was a stylised owl's head. The two outer rings contained writing, angular Elvish runes for the inner and a stylised form of the witch's own western dialect for the other, mantras she had chanted as she tattooed his skin, imbuing his body with words of silence and stealth.

'It seemed appropriate,' Mihn replied. He slid his hands from her grip and adopted a firmer tone. 'I must speak to the Chief Steward now.'

'What about?'

'A personal matter.'

'Personal? Since when do you and he have personal business?' she said sharply. 'Has something changed since last week? You normally scurry around these corridors avoiding him in case he asks you to be his principal agent.'

'Scurry?' Mihn said, arching an eyebrow. It got the desired reaction and Tila laughed. 4

'Perhaps that was not the most appropriate word.' She waved him into the room. 'Come on, and I'll sit in — I'm sure Lord Isak will want to hear about whatever it is Lesarl is trying to get you to do.'

Mihn acquiesced with a curt nod and followed her inside. The Chief Steward's office was a long thin room with a pair of windows at the far end. His desk, an enormous carved monstrosity inlaid with ivory, squatted in the very centre, the only piece of opulence the day-to-day ruler of the Farlan permitted himself. The long walls on either side were shelved from floor to ceiling and crammed with tied leather files. Between the windows, a pair of bookcases were placed back-to-back. One shelf was not full, Mihn noticed, but he guessed it was only a matter of time.

'The most accurate history of our last two hundred years,' Lesarl announced when he saw Mihn looking around at the files, 'if you know the way to read it. Can you guess which file is yours?'

'I expect one of the more recent ones on that bookcase behind you,' Mihn said, approaching the desk. Two straight-backed armchairs were positioned next to it.

'You'd hope so, wouldn't you?' Tila commented breezily, walking around the desk to her own chair, 'but it turns out our Chief Steward's paranoia knows no bounds. The numbering system allows for new files to be inserted into the system at apparent random and I have yet to work out how to identify either the dummy files or the false documents inserted into most of the

folders in case the wrong eyes do find them. I have started to get the hang of his elliptical style of notation at last, so the infrequency of names is proving less of a problem now.'

Lesarl smiled at Mihn like a snake about to swallow a mouse. 'It would be foolish to rely solely on the security precautions of the palace, don't you agree?'

Mihn shrugged.

'No desire for idle banter?' the Chief Steward asked. He was a thin man, with spidery limbs and a narrow, pointed face. His grin was one of the most malicious expressions Mihn had ever seen, and it was clearly one of Lesarl's favourite from a selection that might not have been as varied as a Harlequin's repertoire, but was certainly as accomplished.

He stood up and said, 'As the Lady Tila is quick to point out, my paranoia imposes significant demands on my time, so if you want to just sit there and stare, that's fine; you'll forgive me if I get some work done in the meantime.'

'I want some information,' Mihn said.

The smile returned to Lesarl's face. 'It is something I have in abundance, but you may have to be a little more specific'

'A journal — a very unusual journal, one Lord Bahl read before his death.'

It was almost imperceptible, but Mihn thought he detected a very slight hesitation before the Chief Steward answered him.

'Our lord was an erudite man; you would have to be more specific.'

Interesting — you know what I'm talking about, and it's a subject you don't want to discuss. Either you're not the sadist you're reputed to be, or there's something here you'd prefer didn't come to light.

'I think perhaps you know the journal,' Mihn said.

'Perhaps I can make an educated guess,' Lesarl replied coolly, 'but what of it?'

'I want to read it — do you still have it?' Mihn ignored Tila's bewildered expression.

'You arrogant little-!' Lesarl snarled suddenly. 'Are ydu fishing to find out if I have sold it?' He leaned forward on the desk. 'I have done nothing of the sort, and nor would I — how dare you suggest such a thing?' The Chief Steward was almost shaking with anger. 'I take my position here more seriously than any of you- you children could possibly understand. My remit is specific and to stray beyond that would mean immediate execution without trial-'

'I thought it prudent to ask,' Mihn interrupted, keeping his voice quiet. 'It is a sensitive subject, after all.'

Lesarl looked at him, considering. His heightened colour started to dissipate and his voice was calmer when he said, 'It is. The journal isn't for public consumption. Before we go any further, I would like to know why exactly you want it — in fact, how you heard of it in the first place.'

'Lord Isak mentioned it in my presence,' Mihn said. 'As for what I want with it, I cannot tell you exactly. I seek answers — and perhaps more questions. As yet I am not entirely sure. But I am answering you honestly.' And this is the problem; I don't know exactly what 1 want it for. Perhaps Isak's recklessness has rubbed off on me. 'Cannot? When this is a matter of state security?' Out of the corner of his eye Mihn saw Tila's expression grow more intent, but she didn't interrupt. Doubtless she knew all too well that Lesarl loved to hear someone beg him for information. 'Should Lord Isak be asking why you did not destroy it?' 'Do not think to threaten me with that; bluffing doesn't work when I'm the one who can see all the cards. Anyway, if you do know what it is, you will also know that such things are not easily disposed of.'

Mihn smiled grimly. 'I assume you will be able to think of an appropriate favour in return for either the journal or its location.' He shivered at the sudden, unequivocal delight that flourished on Lesarl's face.

'A favour, eh? Now that is an interesting prospect.' 'A favour,' Mihn warned, 'no long-term arrangement.' 'Frightened of commitment?' Lesarl grinned. 'My mother always warned me about men like you.' 'Do you accept?'

Lesarl pursed his lips and nodded thoughtfully. 'I do, but the favour comes first.' 'What is it?'

'Give me a day or two; I'll need to make some preparation first.' 'And you'll tell me about the journal once I've finished.' Lesarl gave him a beatific smile. 'It will be discussed the very moment you return.'

Two nights later Mihn found himself squatting behind a statue, trying to avoid the worst of the wind whistling up the river. Gusty spurts of rain made the exposed streets of Tirah even more unpleasant. The Irist, the city's principal waterway, was running high and dangerous this winter; and its surrounds were dark and treacherous.

A hundred yards upriver lay the Temple of Death, Mihn's destination. Like most temples, this one was adjoined by the clerical quarters and offices. The temple was built like an enormous cross marking the location of buried treasure on a map. It occupied a large stretch of prime waterfront, and had converted the buildings on either side of the temple itself to more secular activities or rented them out to merchants.

This ensured there was sufficient wealth to properly welcome their unusually large crop of penitents, while many of the actual temple staff — devotees, priests and novices — had been moved further south. Only the principal residence of the high priest remained; a modestly sized palace that nestled in the crook of two arms of the temple cross and retained the fine river views lost by those less devoted to their God. It meant there were fewer people around to catch Mihn when he finally left the statue's shadow to break in.

He had eschewed his staff in favour of a pair of fighting sticks, more easily stowed on his back and better for use indoors. Aside from those and the rope-and-grapple currently tied around his waist, he also carried a small porcelain vase with a lid screwed on tight and bound with wire, a flask of moonshine the Palace Guards had named bastard, and a black cloth hood from which trailed a plait of horse-hair.

Showing a breathtaking lack of loyalty, Lesarl had suggested that last so that if Mihn were seen, his build, coupled with the plait, would lead observers to direct any possible blame towards the Temple of the Lady and her devotees. The Chief Steward hadn't been impressed that his agents there had recently ignored his orders; he was quite happy for any potential problems to land on the temple's doorstep rather than his own.

Mihn had skirted the perimeter earlier and had a fair idea of where the guards would be stationed. Even while taking care not to be seen — he was, after all, suspiciously foreign-looking, as Isak was always quick to point out — he'd made ah extra effort to keep clear of the patrolling penitents. The crucial detail of the mission was to avoid being detected; Lesarl's other available agents were better at murder than subtlety, hence his current position.

But as was often the case, subtle also meant convoluted. Lesarl had been vague on the details of what would happen when Mihn unbound the wire and removed the vase lid, but he did at least suggest that Mihn beat a swift retreat and make his escape in the ensuing confusion.

Mihn slid off the oilskin he'd been wearing, kicked off his boots and set off through the darkness. Immediately he felt a change, an altering of his perceptions of the Land. He couldn't hear his own footsteps against the drumming of the rain falling on the cobblestones, and yet only an occasional discordant drop fell on his shoulders. The pain from his tattoos had been replaced with a warm tingle as he walked from one shadow to the next. It was disconcerting at first, but it wasn't long before Mihn was enjoying the sensation. It was not comforting, nor even comfortable, but it sparked inside him a thrill like he'd experienced when his father first taught him to track and stalk: the excitement of a predator hunting.

Mihn had mastered the art with such remarkable speed that his father had known years before time that his son was easily agile and deft enough to be trained as a Harlequin. Now he had the witch's magic, which enhanced his skills even further, beyond any normal human talent.

The cold was painful on his toes but he blocked out the discomfort and focused instead on his journey. The first patrol loomed out of the darkness and Mihn veered closer to the warehouse… their gazes washed over him without registering. In darkness it is less shape that betrays the prey than movement. The spell woven into his skin did not mask what he was — the magic required for that was beyond the witch's abilities — but it did hide his actions. Wearing black in the shadows, Mihn could have stood still in a shadow half the distance from the two sodden penitents without being spotted.

As their heads turned to check the other direction, Mihn broke from the shadow and continued on his journey with swift, silent strides. He smiled underneath his hood as he saw the high priest's palate up ahead. The tattoos had done everything Mihn had asked from the witch. Now it was time to see what trouble a ghost with a mission could stir up.

The palace was not a building designed to prevent intruders, and the increased security of the past month was founded upon complacency. Reaching the end of the warehouses, Mihn took a few moments to check one last time. There were guards at the temple entrance of course, as Death's house must remain always open, but the palace of the high priest had only a single patrolling penitent doing slow circuits. Mihn waited for the man to stray into a blind spot where he would be out of sight of the outer guards, then raced soundlessly up behind him and used one fighting stick to deliver a hard blow to the back of his head.

He dragged the unconscious guard into the shadows and pulled out the moonshine. He poured most of it into the man's mouth and massaged his throat until he swallowed. If he did wake up again he'd have twice the headache. Then Mihn spilled a liberal amount down the penitent's robe, and dabbed a bit of the man's blood on the wall nearby.

Bastard was well-known and popular with the more serious drinkers, being a fast road to blackouts and near-comatose sleep. Lesarl's informants had told him the priests had restricted supply within the compound, so the most likely question to be asked here was why the guard hadn't shared with his mates. If he woke to tell a different story, it would just as likely be viewed as weaselling out of a charge, rather than the truth.

That done, Mihn checked there were no patrols in sight before he took a run at the nearest wall; momentum carried him to the raised ground-floor windowsill. The bite of icy-cold stone made Mihn hiss softly as he dragged himself up to on the ledge, but he didn't intend using his grapple on such a clear, silent night unless absolutely necessary. The ceilings of the ground-floor rooms were at least twenty feet high, grand enough for receiving important guests, but with the added bonus that the windows went up almost to the ceiling.

Once he was upright, supporting himself on the window embrasure, Mihn could see the sigils scratched into the thin panes of glass that would amplify the sound of breaking glass, and it was fair to assume that there would be more on the thick oak frame to do something similar if the whole window was broken or removed.

Carefully, Mihn turned himself around so that he was facing out towards the street. Ancient Tirah was a magical sight with its spired halls and imposing towers illuminated by Alterr's light. Tirah in the middle of a winter rainstorm was something else again: a miserable city of hateful streets and uncaring, lofty arrogance.

A city of snobs, looking disdainfully down on everyone else — especially everyone who has business outside on a night like this, Mihn thought with rare petulance as he watched a patrol wander past in the distance, not even bothering to look up at the palace. His fingers and toes were starting to ache with the cold, and they complained further as he flexed them to keep the blood flowing.

But then again, I've spent more nights like this outside than I can remember, and everywhere looks pretty awful when it's raining.

The life of a wanderer had taught Mihn one thing above all else; bitterness would kill him if he let it. As an automatic reaction he argued the point in his mind, aware that complaint would poison his mood and allow mistakes he couldn't afford.

Qods, I'd almost forgotten what it was like at home; the freezing rain coming down off the northern coast that felt like it could strip the flesh from your bones. Slowly a smile forced its way onto his lips. And Pirail in the Elven Waste — how stupid to forget to leave that place before winter set in… damn wind didn't seem so awful in summer.

He shook his fingers out. Time to go. He put flattened palms against the wall on either side of the window, braced, and lifted himself up until he could do the same with his feet.

And Tio He, he continued in his head to distract himself from the pain of the stone's freezing, rough surface on his skin as he edged his hands upwards and repeated the movement. Air so thick and heavy you could almost take a bite out of it.

He manoeuvred one hand under the lintel and wedged the fingers of his right in the crack above it so he could pull his feet up further, ignoring the screaming complaints from his fingers as they took so much of his body-weight. He wasted no time in pushing himself clear of the window and up, grabbing the windowsill of the first floor with his left hand.

M ihn gave a quiet grunt as he got his forearm onto the windowsill and pulled himself up until he could twist and sit down. Ter Nol, he thought as he filled his lungs with air and flexed his hands again, this time checking for cuts as much as keeping the circulation going.

Perhaps I could go back to Ter Nol and enjoy the view for a few years. Summer and autumn both, some of the most beautiful evenings I've ever seen were while 1 was sitting on Narwhale Dock. I'm sure after a year or two I'd hardly even notice the smell.

He stood on the windowsill and leaned out to check the window above him. The second floor was a fair way off. He pulled a pair of what looked like broken daggers from a leg pocket. They each had a fat inch or so of metal, like hooked blades, and were designed for climbing rather than fighting. Reaching above the lintel he stabbed one between the stones and pulled it gingerly, gradually letting it take his weight. The blade was strong enough, but he felt his wrist wobble slightly — the blade didn't have enough purchase. Sighing, he jerked the dagger out of the mortar and slipped them both back into the pocket.

'Grapple it is then,' he whispered, his lips brushing against the stone of the wall as he leaned to the right to gauge the distance. 'Let's hope they didn't bother securing every window in the whole damn building.'

The double-headed hook was securely bound to his back, but even with numb fingers Mihn managed to free it quickly. He hadn't wanted to use the grapple, but the distance was short enough to the next windowsill that he was confident it wouldn't be too obvious except to anyone already watching, and if that were the case, he already had a problem. Within a minute he was crouched in the shadow of the second-floor window and smiling at the pristine surface of each pane of glass.

He stowed the grapple carefully before removing the lead around one pane with his knife so he could ease out the glass and slide a hand inside to open the bolt. Soon he was standing in a barely furnished office, thanking the accuracy of Lesarl's information as he put the window pane back and redrew the heavy curtain against the winter air. As an after-thought he dried as much of his body as he could on the inside of curtain — it would dry long before anyone might check, and it was certainly safer than leaving damp footprints in the corridor.

He left the room and ventured out into the corridor, taking a moment to place himself on the map he'd memorised, then setting off left for the servants' stair. He went up two flights and quickly found the high priest's bedroom, which, together with the man's vast private office, occupied half the floor.

The ornate patterned curtains that hung over the three doorways to the room had been drawn back from the middle entrance which, by tradition, lacked a door, in imitation of the temple. This was where High Priest Bern received formal petitions. Mihn stepped silently through and checked his surroundings. The single oil lamp hanging in the corridor gave only a little light, enough to reveal the bare outlines, but that was sufficient for him to make out the shelves against the walls, and only a desk and a couple of chairs standing in the centre of an otherwise clear floor.

On the right was another doorway, which led to the high priest's bedroom. Mihn guessed it would be locked, despite the weak security he'd encountered thus far, but he didn't bother trying it — he didn't need to. He pulled a sheaf of papers from inside his shirt and scattered them around the desk, then unstrapped the jar and set it on the floor.

Above him was a long beam running the length of the room, almost as wide as his body and certainly big enough to perch on while he watched events unfold — he was pretty sure anyone entering the room soon wasn't going to be bothered about looking up, and he had the witch's spell if they did. He carefully unknotted the wire holding the jar's lid on. The jar itself was little bigger than a flattened palm, and twice the thickness. It had a dark green swirling pattern on it that Mihn didn't recognise. Once the lid was dislodged he didn't wait around but launched himself off Jopel Bern's desk. He grabbed the beam above and quietly swung himself up until he was lying flat along it. Then he kept very still and watched the jar.

It did precisely nothing. One heartbeat stretched into five, then ten. Mihn realised he'd been holding his breath and let it out softly… and as he did so a dull green glow began to build around the mouth of the jar. Without warning it rose in the air and expanded into a cloud larger than a man before coalescing into a figure.

Merciful Qods, let the witch's magic work here too, he prayed as he gripped the beam tighter.

The daemon was the size and approximate form of a large man, and naked, with irregular clumps of spines like a mangy porcupine. While its left hand was relatively normal — if you ignored the over-long lingers and claws the right was much larger, with two stubby, finger-like protrusions from which extended a spray of long, thick spines.

As Mihn watched, the daemon twisted its body left and right. It had no neck on which to turn its flattened head, but it did have an assortment of eyes to cover most angles. For a moment he wondered why it was turning — until he heard a snuffling sound and saw the hanging flap of skin on its face twitch up and jerk first in one direction, then the next.

Realising what it was doing, Mihn readied himself to leap from the beam the moment he saw the quill-arm rise. The daemon continued to look around, sniffing the air with increasing vigour, taking a step forward towards the neatly stacked shelves on the opposite wall. It continued by fits and starts, following a scent Mihn couldn't fathom, until it reached a corner shelf.

The daemon sniffed hard, grabbed the end book and flung the entire row of files and books onto the floor, then gave a growl and swept something else aside — a wooden panel, Mihn guessed, from the way it clattered to the floor — and peered at the wall.

Mihn couldn't see what it was looking at, but whatever it had found didn't worry the daemon. Nor, it appeared, did the sound of a muffled voice from the high priest's bedroom. With a heavy, rolling sound that might have been a chuckle, the daemon reached out and wiped its hand against the wall before reaching into a recess and pulling out a thick book. In the faint green-tinted light of magic playing around the daemon, Mihn saw the corners of the book gleam.

Silver, most likely; it's a grimoire — but what's a priest doing with a grimoire? Only mages bother compiling a book of spells.

The daemon turned back, hefting the large book in one hand with an appreciative grunt. Though he couldn't see its mouth, or even if it had a mouth beneath that strange, oversized nose, Mihn could tell it was pleased: it had found what it had been looking for.

There were more noises from the bedroom now, and the daemon raised its lethal right arm. Looking up, it caught sight of Mihn, perched on the beam. The flaps of its nose rose towards him.

'The one who is to be protected,' the daemon rasped as if through a throat made of sandpaper. 'He should not have worried. I smell power on you. You belong to one greater than I.' It raised the book. 'The writings of Cordein Malich; the account of his obligations and the scent of his soul. Tell the other I am satisfied.'

In the next moment the bedroom door was flung open and High Priest Bern emerged like a ghost in a billowing nightgown, his walking stick raised threateningly. The daemon moved forward almost lazily and flicked its spiny hand out to impale the high priest in the chest. Bern gave a wheeze of pain as the spines ripped right through his body and emerged out his back, spraying blood over the wall behind. The daemon gave another laugh and turned its body towards Mihn, the gleam of two of its eyes bright in the darkened room.

'The other requested mayhem to aid your escape.' It reached out and dabbed a finger to the blood pouring out of the high priest's wounds before licking it clean. 'Mayhem will be a pleasure.'