The Grave thief

CHAPTER 20

High Priest Antil waited until the sound of footsteps receded. He was standing in a tiny, dimly lit corridor, looking down the cramped spiral stair, holding his breath as he strained to hear anything below. Out of habit he mouthed a silent prayer to Shotir. Hale had become a frightening place of late, and even if the God of Healing heard his servant's prayer, Antil still feared for his charge's safety. There were limits, it seemed, even to a God's blessing. Next time there might be no priest of Death to stop penitents searching the temple.

Fortunately for Legana, the only way to reach the consecrated hospital, kitchen and dormitories that occupied most of the temple's space was through the shrine room. Thus far, the soldiers had balked at marching through, but Antil didn't expect that to last much longer. Since the Ruby Tower massacre there was a whisper of betrayal on the wind, and the remaining militants were looking for anyone to blame.

Antil scratched his neck before abruptly pulling his hand away again. It was a nervous habit of his and these days he was sporting a patch of permanently raw skin there. The stairway remained dead quiet; the temple's priests were all busy as the hospital room remained full despite their best efforts. Legana's presence was a secret Antil had divulged to only one other, an amiable junior priest known as Fat Lonei, and for safety's sake Antil intended to keep it that way.

Father Lonei was entirely lacking in magic; his obesity was purely a product of gluttony. He had been banished as a danger from the hospital room, but he was a good worker in the kitchen and had been Antil's faithful helper for years. For all Lonei's simple nature, Antil knew he could trust the man to have relieved the priest attending the shrine downstairs and have checked the way was clear.

Antil retreated to his room. It was as dim as the corridor, yet Legana still squinted when she looked in the direction of the window. Her eyesight was terribly poor now — she was trapped in a blur of grey, barely able to make out shapes or colour. She reacted mainly to movement, and now she flinched as he crossed the room towards her, her hands moving within the folds of the robe he'd given her.

'It's only me,' he said softly as he stopped and slowly waved his right arm in front of his face. He wasn't sure how well she could hear him, so he kept the movement going until he saw her nod in acknowledgement. Despite his best efforts, Legana had managed to find at least one of her long daggers and he had no intention of startling a woman who could move as fast as she did, half-blind or not.

The shadowy hand-print on her throat remained and Antil was sure her voice was ruined beyond repair, but the rest of her body had healed supernaturally quickly, considering the broken bones and inevitable internal damage.

Legana gave a raspy whisper and fumbled for the slate he'd found for her. On the slate she scribbled three words. It is time.

'Give Lonei a few more minutes; we're in no rush,' Antil said in reply.

— We go now, she wrote and started to manoeuvre herself off the bed.

Antil reached out automatically to help her, but she pushed him away. She was as tall as him, and while she lacked his build, she was stronger, however unsteady at times. Her grey- and copper-streaked hair was inexpertly cropped short by Antil; he'd tied it back out of her face, but once she was standing she pulled the scraps of ribbon out so her hair fell over her face, partly concealing her startling eyes. Her face had recovered now, and except for the mark on her throat, her skin was perfect, unblemished by cuts or bruises.

'Why now?' he asked with a pantomime shrug.

— Twilight.

Antil frowned and repeated his gesture. 'You fear the Gods are hunting you?'

She cocked her head to one side for a moment, straining to catch his words before realising his meaning and shaking her head. With her sleeve she erased the word on the slate.

— Distraction. I feel it, like a spider-web moving.

Antil wondered at this. Spider-web? Qods, what sort of spider walks Hale that she can feel it?

There was obviously no point arguing; her mind was made up, so he walked ahead of her to pull the door open. He reached out a hand for Legana to take and reluctantly she did — he could see she hated to be reliant on someone else. Her shinirfg green eyes wide open, she shuffled along the wooden floor until they reached the stair, sliding her free hand along the wall.

The robe Antil had given her was a little short, enough to stop her tripping over the hem. Antil was often called away to tend those unable to leave their homes, so with luck, no one would bother a priest and novice of Shotir.

The pair encountered no one until they reached the shrine room where Fat Lonei hovered, peering anxiously around the yellow-painted door.

'Father, I can see soldiers,' he hissed when he noticed them.

Antil gestured for Legana to stay and hurried to Lonei's side. 'What're they doing?'

Lonei shook his head, fear showing in his eyes. Antil stepped past him into the street, noting they were far from alone: monks, novices, priests and laymen — everyone he could see was staring down the street at a company of Ruby Tower Guards, marching past the crossroads in two neat columns, followed by a less orderly band wearing the grey-and-white of the Byoran Guard that served in Hale.

As Antil watched he saw more than a few people taking flight at the sight of the soldiers. Shotir's temple hadn't been the only one called upon to deal with the victims of the troops' savage reclamation of control. But far from matters calming down, the violence was escalating, with the activities of the previous night as shocking as anything Antil had heard of in peace-time. Some of the Byoran Guard, given their heads, had vented their anger at the Temple of Etesia, then moved on to Triena and Kantay as well. They had dragged priests and novices of both genders out into the courtyard between the linked temples and raped one after the other, butchering any who put up a fight. All except one of the eunuchs had been killed; the lucky — if you could call it that — survivor had been bound to one of the temple archways with the entrails of Etesia's high priestess. The soldiers had cut off one of her breasts and jammed it in the eunuch's mouth, cutting off a finger every time he spat it out. Antil had heard the brutal story in silence, only the greyness of his skin betraying his horror.

And now it looked as if it was starting again.

'Where are they going, Father?' Lonei asked anxiously.

'I don't know,' Antil replied, his sense of foreboding growing. He looked up at the sky. 'Whatever they intend, they're doing it at twilight, when the Gods rest.'

The breeze tugged at his yellow robes, like a child urging him on, and brought the scent of burnt spices from the Temple of Tsatach upwind of them. The fires were still burning there, but he saw none of the usual bustle on the sacred ground itself.

'So the Gods cannot see what they do?' Lonei almost gibbered at the thought. 'Are they going to desecrate another temple?'

Antil scowled. 'I don't know, but whatever they plan will lead to more deaths — of that I'm sure.'

Following the troops of the Byoran Guard were two carts, each piled high with wood. As the carts jerked and bounced over the stony ground, a long plank slipped from the back of one and crashed to the ground.

'It looks like they're going to build a barricade. I wonder where?'

He felt the touch of a hand on his back and flinched until he realised it was Legana standing behind him. Her eyes were screwed up, though in truth it was anything but bright.

'Yes, it is time to leave,' he said.

He thanked Lonei and ushered him back inside, promising to return as soon as he could, and warning him again to say only that he was visiting the sick.

Legana walked with him in silence through the open streets of Hale, not objecting to the firm grip he maintained on her arm. When he looked at her face Antil felt more and more confused: that the girl was terrified at her vulnerability was plain, but there was also an air of wonder about her — as the breeze touched her cheek or as a horse passed by close enough that she could feel the vibrations of its falling hooves. Following Hale's gentle downward slope the pair eventually came to the Pigeon Gate leading into Breakale. There was only one guard on the gate, a young man with long dirty hair and pinched cheeks. His face brightened when he saw inside Legana's raised hood, but when he realised her eyes were almost entirely closed he scowled in disgust.

'Permit.' he announced in a flat voice.

'Excuse me?' said Antil, confused.

The youth held out a hand. 'Permit,' he repeated, his eyes dull and unblinking like a fish.

'I need a permit to leave Hale?'

'You're a priest, ain't you?'

'When was this law passed?' Antil asked in dismay.

'Three days ago. Proclamation was put up all over the bloody place.' The guard took a pace forward. 'You ain't going nowhere without a permit.' He carried a halberd, which he leaned on as he peered at Antil.

'I'm sorry,' Antil said, keeping his voice gentle. 'I've been attending to patients for the last few days. How do I get one? I need to get this woman back to her family in Breakale.'

A lopsided smile crept onto the guard's face. 'Well then, we can't have you failing in your duty, can we?' he declared and jabbed a thumb towards the small guardhouse set into the stone wall. 'Take the young lady in there and I'll sort you out.'

Antil laid a protective hand on Legana's arm. 'No, I think perhaps we should just return to the temple.'

'Oh you reckon, do you? Well how about I decide you're traitors? Maybe saw you running from the Ruby Tower after all your mates got killed?'

'No!' Antil said, his voice betraying his fear.

The guard lowered his pike-head to shoulder height. 'Then get in the guardroom and we'll see about that permit,' he growled.

Flustered, Antil allowed himself to be herded into a dark room thick with the smell of tobacco and sweat. Aside from a weapons-rack on the far wall, the only furniture was a square table and a pair of stools. As soon as he was inside the guard gave him a rough shove and sent him stumbling over one of the stools onto the floor.

'Just you stay there,' the young guard warned, setting his pike against one wall but patting the pommel of his currently sheathed short-sword as he gave Antil a meaningful look.

As the priest started to climb to his feet the guard kicked the door shut with his heel and shoved Legana back against the table. Legana gasped in shock as the guard ran his hand up her body and closed about her right breast. He hardly saw her left hand move as she grabbed his wrist between thumb and forefinger, twisting it away effortlessly. The guard gave a strangled yelp as something snapped, but his scream was cut off when Legana pulled her dagger from her sleeve and slammed it into the guard's throat so hard she pinned him to the wall. She kept her hand on the blade for a moment before gripping his jaw and pulling the knife out again. The corpse fell to the floor and she bent over it to wipe her blade clean on his uniform.

Antil hasn't had time to react at all, so fast had Legana moved. Now she turned to him, her eyes wide again and her hands reaching, hands out like those of a lost child. She opened her mouth wide enough to scream, but only a dry croak came. Antil looked down at the guard, then, his mouth too dry to speak, he gave a jerky wave to attract Legana's attention. She fumbled for the slate hanging from her belt and wrote: — Wine merchant. Beristole.

'The Beristole?' Antil wondered aloud. 'I know where that is — off the main highway to Wheel — but I'm going to take you to a friend's, where you'll be safe.'

The smile fell from Legana's face. — Friend, she added to the slate, rapping it with two quick taps to emphasise her point.

He didn't bother arguing. Legana, even as near death as a person could be and still remain conscious, had proved to be as stubborn as a mule. 'Very well, the Beristole it is.'

Her smile returned.

The streets in Breakale were narrower than in Hale, the buildings taller and more regular. They found a walking rhythm soon enough, shuffling along with their eyes fixed on the ground ahead. For the main part passers-by gave the pair pitying looks, but from time to time Antil found himself jostled; fear of being caught stopped him from commenting. The first woman to do it had continued without even a glance back as Antil stumbled, and only Legana's strength had stopped him from falling in a sprawl into the street.

It didn't take him Icing to realise that the anger emanating from the temples, both in sermons and proclamations, was reaping the only crop it deserved. The fact that he wore the yellow robes of Shotir, God of Healing and Forgiveness, seemed to make no difference.

Can I blame them? Antil wondered as he was elbowed in the ribs by a man whose face was bruised yellow and purple all down one cheek. Where were my exhortations for calm? When Death's priests were baying for the blood of sinners, my objections were too softly spoken.

The wind picked up as the sun dropped to the horizon and light from windows started to glow into the street. When they paused at a crossroads for Antil to recall the way, he felt suddenly exposed. Since becoming high priest he had left Hale only rarely, and then usually for Eight Towers; calls for ministration from Wheel and Burn — the ramshackle shantytowns of workshops, tanneries and every other sort of physical labour — were attended by younger priests. Even before the recent tensions, these had not been safe places for a high priest to walk without escort.

He looked around, getting his bearings. Left would take him into the heart of Wheel, bisected by the two swift rivers that drove many of the district's water-wheels. Beyond were the miles of cul-tivated fields running towards the treacherous fens. In the place of

temples and statues the buildings in Wheel tended to be haylofts, water-wheels and warehouses.

Burn, to the right, was a cramped and squalid imitation of Breakale. It straddled a deep fissure in the ground from which, every year or so, a great gout of gas and flame would erupt, killing

anyone up to a hundred yards downslope. The hot springs dotting

the area meant folk had to pretty much ignore the danger.

Criminals ran both districts. Byora's rulers had long ago realised that as long as poverty remained rife there, their control would only ever be tenuous. An unofficial but well-known accommodation had proved cheaper and easier for all involved.

Legana gave his arm a tug as he stood still, the urgency plain on her face.

There was a statue in the centre of the crossroads around which

the crowds hurried, presumably representing a God or Aspect since

its arms and head had been broken off and filth smeared down one side. That wasn't why he'd stopped.

'The sun's going down,' he explained. 'I can't remember exactly how far the Beristole is, but I know the Byoran Guard don't go there after dark.'

She checked her dagger in the long sleeve of her robe before drugging him forward once more.

'Yet here we go, perhaps to our deaths,' Antil said under his

breath before moving ahead of Legana to guide her to the safer part of the road, away from the carts and horses. As he did so he felt a body thump into his back and he crashed first to his knees, his hand slipping from Legana's, then fell face-first onto the cobbled ground, too quickly to even cry out before his head struck the stones.

'Whoa, sorry about that, Father,' said a man behind him. Antil moaned as a jolt of pain ran up his arm from his already cold hand.

Before he knew what was happening a pair of hands had gripped his under the arms and lifted him upright. Antil winced, letting the man take most of his weight, his feet wobbling underneath him.

'You hurt, Father?' asked the man, a dark blur wavering in front of his face until Antil blinked and the details resolved into a youngish face, rounded features and tufts of black hair poking out from under the hood of his cape. He didn't sound like a local, and from the scars on his face, Antil guessed he was a mercenary of some sort, but the man was grinning like a monkey and sounded genuinely apologetic.

'I… No, I am fine, I think,' he said, touching a finger to his temple and not finding anything hurting too badly there. 'Thank you,' he added, rather belatedly.

'Ah, don't worry about it,' the man said, making a show of dusting Antil down, though it was apparent from the smell that dust was the least of his problems. 'Should've been watching where I was going.'

'Death's bony cock,' growled a voice behind the man. The grin fell from the man's face and he looked over his shoulder at the speaker.

'Steady on, boyo, man's a high priest,' he remonstrated, but his companion paid no attention. He was staring at Legana. Her hood had slipped a little and she stood in the emerging moonlight like a ghost, her skin pale and her eyes unfocused.

The first man squinted at her for a moment. 'Shitting fuck,' he breathed, frozen with surprise. His companion shoved him out of the way and grabbed Antil by the collar, hard enough to make the priest cry out.

'You better pray to Shotir that you weren't the one to do that do her,' he hissed, pushing his face into Antil's. He was not as scarred, but he was more heavily-built and looked just as well-used to violence. Antil picked out a small tattoo, on his earlobe of all places. 'If you were, you're in more trouble than you could possibly imagine.'

'Got some strange luck on you, Father,' muttered the first man, 'running into us like that. Pissed off the Lady recently?'

Fat Lonei did not like the Land outside Hale." Whenever he was asked to travel elsewhere in the city, he was obedient and mindful of his vows. He performed his task as best he could, then scampered back to Hale, his heart pounding nervously until he was once again in familiar streets. He was a foundling, and had been nicknamed Fat Lonei in his fourth year in the temple, less out of malice — he was an amiable child and hard to dislike — more a statement of fact. He had never given anyone the impression he was unhappy with the name; it was simply who he was. His was a life of humble wants. Had the Gods themselves offered to make his every dream come true, Fat Lonei would have wondered what they wanted to hear from him.

He had been watching High Priest Antil head off down the street with the strange blind woman on his arm when he was suddenly struck by the notion that events of importance were afoot. A braver man would have followed the high priest and his charge to ensure they reached their destination safely, but one moment of imagining himself doing that was enough to make him realise that would leave him, Fat Lonei, out in the open, all alone. The chaos and bustle of Breakale frightened him and even the image of people lurching and shouting and barging brought the prickle of sweat to his brow. He saw himself surrounded by darkness, looking big and bright and obvious in his yellow priestly robe, while the filthy masses edged closer, baying for the blood of priests. No, that he could not do, but there was another option and this he embraced with the relief of a man who'd found a way around his conscience.

Scuttling from shadow to shadow, hanging well back, Fat Lonei followed the column of soldiers through the streets of Hale. The locals, clerics and laymen alike, scattered like frightened rabbits in the face of their advance. He heard the authoritative voices of the sergeants breaking the evening quiet, calling pointless orders, keeping their lines in order — anything to impose their presence on the cowed district.

Only when a halt was called did Fat Lonei realise their destination was the black needle-tipped dome of the Temple of Death, but not even seeing the carts brought clattering to the head of the column made him guess their purpose. He crept closer, careful to ensure that there were others nearer than him to provide ready targets, should the soldiers turn.

He saw the troops fan out, their weapons at the ready. A band of men, Byoran Guard, jumped to work when a big sergeant with a cruel face shouted. Lonei saw he was dressed as a Ruby Tower Guard, though he was, unusually, a foreigner, set apart not just by his tanned face, but also by the strange elbow-length gauntlets he wore that seemed to wink slivers of bluish reflected light.

He heard cries of dismay emanate from inside the temple, swiftly echoed by many of those watching from a safe distance. Entreaties, angry shouts and the wail of young novices accompanied the bustle around the open entrances of Death's temple, the traditional three arches leading into the main temple. When the big sergeant climbed to the top step and bellowed at his men to work harder, Lonei realised the Byoran Guards had been dragging their feet once they'd collected the wood from the carts. Perhaps they'd not properly understood the order correctly.

The sergeant struck someone about the ear and knocked him down: there was no mistake. Tools were produced, wood lifted up and the first of Death's open gates was quickly blocked. Lonei felt his breath catch; he'd never seen or heard of such a thing before. Barring Death's gates? That was such a blasphemy he could not even conceive of it… the priest of Shotir sank to his knees like a puppet with the strings cut. Those around him stared in disbelief and horror, as shocked as Fat Lonei.

'By the order of the duchess,' the sergeant bellowed at the top of his voice, waving a piece of parchment to the crowd assembled just out of reach of his cordon of Ruby Tower Guards, 'the Temple of Death is closed until the traitors within the cults are brought to justice. Any violation of this decree will bring summary punishment.'

It was a ridiculous decree, most likely impossible to enforce without leaving a garrison, yet even Lonei realised its effectiveness as the strength drained from his limbs. The Temple of Death was the heart of Hale, the house of the Chief of the Gods this was a punch to the gut for all of them and it drove the wind from all those witnessing it. An insult and injury: Death's house denied, Death's honour spat upon by a handful of soldiers.

An old woman, a priestess of Death, mounted the steps howling with grief. The sergeant turned at her high shrieks but motioned his troops to stay back. Each step was leaden as the priestess wove a path towards the sergeant, screaming curses at him between her heaving sobs. The sergeant laughed and reached out one hand to hold her off as she tried in vain to claw out his eyes, her fury impotent against his size and strength.

Lonei bowed his head, praying for Death to answer the insult. He didn't see the crossbow bolts flash towards the soldiers, but he looked up when the screams became more urgent and people started to flee in all directions. Through the scattering crowd he could see two of the Byoran Guard on the ground, one lying still, the other writhing and crying out. He looked around and caught sight of a handful of men with crossbows fleeing down the street, the brown robes of Ushull's priests flapping wildly as they ran.

Angry yells came from the ring of soldiers and some men started off down the street before being called back. As they turned Lonei saw a man suddenly burst forward through the cordon, long scimitars in each hand. The man was wearing a bronze-edged robe of bright, bloody red. He was short but extremely wide, and his head was shaved. The angry shouts turned into cries of alarm as he cut across the nearest man's face and spun gracefully away, slashing at the next as he moved in behind the troops.

Lonei gave a gasp: he was watching a Mystic of Karkarn. The God of War had always attracted penitents, and some of those found a deeper truth in the combat skills they had learned, honing their prowess with prayer and fanatical dedication.

The line of soldiers crumpled inward as the mystic's long shining swords, flashing like bolts of lightning, tore through the unprepared men. The big sergeant gave a furious shout, drew his own weapon and jumped down the steps to the street. The mystic turned neatly away from a falling man to meet the new threat with a flurry of blows, but somehow the foreign soldier parried them all and managed to plant a heavy kick in the cleric's side.

The shaven-headed priest reeled, riding a blow that would have knocked a weaker man flying, but he was given no time to recover.

He twisted to deflect an outthrust pike behind him, then raised a leg clear of a blade sweeping towards his shin before driving the point of his curved weapon into his attacker's throat.

The distraction of the troops proved enough for the big sergeant to make up the ground and he chopped through the priest's right hand with one savage blow. Momentum carried him close enough to hammer the pommel of his sword into the mystic's cheek and he was already falling back from the force of the blow as the sergeant rammed his sword deep into the mystic's stomach.

A hush descended. Lonei saw a spasm of agony cross the mystic's face as he fell to his knees, spitted on the long sword. The sergeant lifted the hilt up, forcing the mystic to open his mouth in a silent scream as he yanked the sword out. The mystic fell as the sergeant turned away, leaving the dying man to twitch his last.

He turned his malevolent gaze to those watching. 'Arrest them all, every one you can take,' he roared.

In the torchlight he looked like a raging daemon, a cruel grin on his scarred face. Lonei whimpered as he looked at the prone figure of the old priestess lying on the steps. The soldiers ran to obey their commander, but Lonei was frozen to the spot. He didn't see the troops run past him, nor the gap-toothed man who barely checked his stride to smack his pike handle into Lonei's head. A flash of light, a screech of pain… Lonei felt himself fall into blackness where there was only the face of a daemon in a scarlet uniform.