The Left Hand of God

22

Three weeks later IdrisPukke and a still yellow-looking Cale made their way up to the great keep of Memphis.

Secretly Cale had expected some sort of official welcome and-though he denied this to himself-he wanted one. He had, after all, killed eight men single-handed and saved Arbell Swan-Neck from a hideous death. It was not that he required much for enduring such dangers: a parade of several thousands throwing flowers and cheering his name, capped off by the tearful welcome of the beautiful Arbell, standing on a dais decorated in silk and beside a desperately grateful father so overcome with emotion that he could not speak would be enough.

Instead there was nothing, just Memphis going about its relentless pursuit of making and spending money-today under looming skies as a thunderstorm approached. As they were about to enter through the great gates of the keep, Cale’s heart leapt as a sudden loud peal of bells rang out from the great cathedral, which was caught up in a wonderful ringing echo across the great city as the other churches followed suit. But his hopes were dashed by IdrisPukke.

“They ring the bells,” he said, nodding at the approaching storm, “to keep the lightning away.”

Ten minutes later and they were dismounting at Lord Vipond’s manor house. A single servant was there to greet them.

“Hello, Stillnoch,” said IdrisPukke to the servant.

“Welcome back, sir,” said Stillnoch, a man whose face was so deeply lined and creviced that it reminded Cale of an old man’s testicles. IdrisPukke turned to the exhausted but deeply disgruntled boy. “I’ll have to go and see Vipond. Stillnoch will take you to your room. We’ll have dinner tonight. I’ll see you then.” And with that he walked over to the main door. Stillnoch motioned Cale toward a smaller door at the far end of the manor.

Some stinking hovel, thought Cale to himself as his resentment blossomed.

But in fact his room, or rooms, turned out to be extremely pleasant. There was a sitting area with a soft couch and an oak dining table, a bathroom with its own jakes, something he had heard about but dismissed as a wild fantasy. And, of course, a bedroom with a large bed and a mattress stuffed with feathers.

“Would you care for luncheon, sir?” asked Stillnoch.

“Yes,” said Cale, on the basis that it sounded as if it might be food. Stillnoch bowed. When he came back twenty minutes later with a tray of beer, pork pie, boiled egg and fried potatoes, Cale was asleep on the bed.

Stillnoch had heard the rumors. He put down the tray and looked the sleeping boy over carefully. With his yellow skin and drawn features caused by the infection that had so nearly killed him, he did not, thought Stillnoch, look up to much. But if he had given that cocky little bastard Conn Materazzi a bloody good hiding, then he deserved respect and admiration. And on this thought he drew the covers up over the sleeping boy, closed the curtains and left.

“He walked through their camp like Vile Death himself. I’ve seen some killers in my time, but nothing like this boy.”

IdrisPukke was sitting opposite his half brother and drinking a cup of tea, and was clearly a troubled man.

“And is that all he is-a killer?”

“To be honest, if all I’d seen of him was that-well, I’d have got away from him as fast as I could. And I’d have told you to pay him off and get rid of him.”

Vipond looked surprised.

“Good God, you’ve got very sentimental in your old age. Such people are useful-of course they are. But I’m asking you if he’s more than a homicidal thug.”

IdrisPukke sighed.

“Very much more, I’d say. And if you’d asked me before the fight at the Cortina pass, if you can call it a fight, I’d have told you he was a great find. He has suffered much, but he has wit and brains-though woefully ignorant about some things-and I would have said that there was a good heart in there. But I was shocked by what happened. There, that’s all there is to it. I don’t know what to make of him. I like him, but-to be blunt-he scares me.”

Vipond sat back, thoughtful. “Well,” he said at last, “he’s won you golden opinions whatever your doubts and-to be fair-me also. And, God knows, you could do with them. Marshal Materazzi has forgiven all your sins and now you hang in his good favor like an icicle on a Dutchman’s beard.” He smiled at IdrisPukke.

“Indeed, if it wasn’t for the need to keep this business secret, you’d both have had a parade and a band and all the fixings.” Vipond smiled, this time mocking. “You’d have liked that, wouldn’t you?”

“Yes, I would,” said IdrisPukke. “And why wouldn’t I? God knows it’s been a long time since anyone was pleased to see me.”

“And whose fault is that?”

“Mine, dear brother,” laughed IdrisPukke. “All mine.”

“You should perhaps explain to the boy why his reception has been so muted.”

“To be honest, I don’t think he gives a damn. Saving Arbell Swan-Neck was just a means to an end for him. He thought it was in his interests to risk his life-and that was all. He’s never asked once about her. For all my misgivings, I praised his courage, and still he looked at me as if I were a fool. He wants money and a safe passage as far away from his old masters as the sea will carry him. This is not someone who cares for praise or blame. If he pleases or doesn’t please, it’s all the same to him.”

“Then,” said Lord Vipond, “he really is a most exceptional fellow.” He stood up. “At any rate, whether you’re right or not, the Marshal wishes to thank him personally tonight and, of course, Arbell Swan-Neck-though by the look on her face when he told her, she’d rather eat a weasel.”