“You look tired.” Sherin stood nearby, grey cloaked and pale in the lingering smoke rising from the charred ruin. Her face was still guarded but he saw no anger there, just fatigue.
“As do you, sister.”
“The curative worked. The girl will be fully recovered in a few days. I thought I should let you know.”
“Thank you.”
She gave barely perceptible nod. “It’s not quite over yet. We need to keep watch for more cases, but I’m confident any outbreak can be contained. Another week and the city can be opened once more.”
Her eyes surveyed the ruins then seemed to notice the statues for the first time, her gaze lingering on the massive form of the man and the lion locked in combat.
“Martual, god of courage,” he told her. “Battling the Nameless great lion that laid waste to the southern plains.”
She reached up to caress the god’s unfeasibly muscled forearm. “Beautiful.”
“Yes, it is. I know you’re tired sister but I would be grateful if you could look at the man who carved it. He was badly burned in the fire.”
“Of course. Where do I find him?”
“At the Guild house near the docks. I’ve had quarters prepared for you there. I’ll show you.”
“I’m sure I can find it.” She turned to go then paused. “Governor Aruan told me about the night you took the city, how you secured his co-operation. I feel my words may have been overly harsh.”
She held his gaze and he felt the familiar ache in his chest, but this time it warmed him, dispelling the blood-song’s sorrowful dirge and bringing a smile to his lips, though the Departed knew he had little to smile about.
“You have been released on the king’s orders,” he said. “Brother Frentis brought a royal command.”
“Really?” She arched an eyebrow. “May I see it?”
“Sadly, it has been lost.” He gestured at the smoking mess around them by way of explanation.
“Unusually clumsy of you, Vaelin.”
“No, I’m often clumsy, in my deeds and my words.”
A brief answering smile lit Sherin’s face before she looked away. “I should see to this artistic friend of yours.”
The gates were opened seven days later. Vaelin also ordered the sailors released, though only one crew at a time. It provoked little surprise when most chose to leave port with the earliest tide, the Red Falcon amongst the first to depart, Captain Nurin hounding his crew with desperate urgency as if afraid Vaelin would attempt a last minute retrieval of the bluestone.
Some of the richer citizens also chose to leave, fear of the Red Hand did not fade quickly. Vaelin managed to intercept the one-time employer of the man who had set fire to Ahm Lin’s shop, a richly attired if somewhat bedraggled spice merchant, chafing under guard at the eastern gate as Vaelin questioned him. His family and remaining servants lingered nearby, pack horses laden with assorted valuables.
“His name was carpenter, as far as I knew,” the merchant said. “I can’t be expected to remember every servant in my employ. I pay people to remember for me.” The man’s knowledge of the Realm tongue was impeccable, but there was an arrogant disdain to his tone Vaelin didn’t like. However the fellow’s evident fear made him suppress the urge to deliver an encouraging cuff across the face.
“He had a wife?” he asked. “A family?”
The merchant shrugged. “I think not, seemed to spend most his free time carving wooden effigies of the gods.”
“I heard he was injured, a blow to the head.”
“Most of us were that night.” The merchant lifted a silken sleeve to display a stitched cut on his forearm. “Your men were very free with their clubs.”
“The carpenter’s injury,” Vaelin pressed.
“He took a blow to the head, a bad one it seems. My men carried him back to the house unconscious. In truth we thought him dead, but he lingered for several days, barely breathing. Then he simply woke up, showing no ill-effects. My servants thought it the work of the gods, a reward for all his carvings. The next morning he was gone, having said no words since his awakening.” The merchant glanced back at his waiting family, impatience and fear showing in the tremble of his hands.
“I know you were not complicit in this,” he told the merchant, stepping aside. “Luck to you on your journey.”
The man was already moving away, shouting commands to put his household on the road.
He lingered for days, Vaelin mused and the blood-song stirred, sounding a clear note of recognition. He felt the familiar sense of fumbling for something, some answer to the many mysteries of his life, but once again it was beyond his reach. Frustration seized him and the blood-song wavered. The song is you, Ahm Lin had said. You can sing it as well as hear it. He sought to calm his feelings, trying to hear the song more clearly, trying to focus it. The song is me, my blood, my need, my hunt. It swelled within him, roaring in his ears, a cacophony of emotion, blurred visions flicking through his mind too fast to catch. Words spoken and unspoken rose in an incomprehensible babble, lies and truth mingling in a maelstrom of confusion.
I need Ahm Lin’s counsel, he thought, trying to focus the song, forcing harmony into the discordant din. The song swelled once more, then calmed to a single, clear note and there was a brief glimpse of the marble block, the chisel resuming its impossibly rapid work, guided by an unseen hand, the face emerging, features forming... Then it was gone, the block blackened and shattered amidst the wasted ruin of the mason’s home.
Vaelin moved to a nearby step and sat down heavily. It appeared there had been but one chance to know what message the block contained. This verse was over and he needed a new tune.
Chapter 8
He was called to the gate at midnight, Janril Norin limping to his room in the Guild house to wake him.
“Scores of horsemen on the plain, my lord,” the minstrel said. “Brother Caenis requested your presence.”
He quickly strapped on his sword and mounted Spit, galloping to the gatehouse in a few minutes. Caenis was already there, ordering more archers onto the walls. They climbed the stairs to the upper battlements where one of Count Marven’s Nilsaelins pointed to the plain. “Near five hundred of the buggers, my lord,” the man said, voice shrill with alarm.
Vaelin calmed him with a pat to the shoulder and moved to the battlement, looking down on a small host of armoured riders, steel gleaming a faint blue in the dim light from the crescent moon. At their head a burly figure in rust stained armour glared up at them. “You ever going to open this bloody gate?” Baron Banders demanded. “My men are hungry and I’ve got blisters on my arse.”
Shorn of his armour the baron was smaller in stature but no less bullish. “Pah!” he spat a mouthful of wine onto the floor of the guild house chamber which served as their meal hall. “Alpiran piss. Don’t you have any Cumbraelin to offer an honoured guest, my lord?”
“I regret my brothers and I are guilty of exhausting our reserves, Baron,” Vaelin replied. “My apologies.”
Banders shrugged and reached for the roasted chicken on the table, tearing off a leg and chomping into the flesh. “I see you managed to leave most of this place standing,” he commented around a mouthful. “Locals couldn’t have put up much of a fight.”
“We were able to effect a stealthy seizure of the city. The governor has proved a pragmatic man. There was little bloodshed.”
The Baron’s face became sombre and he paused for a moment before washing down his food and reaching for more. “Couldn’t say the same about Marbellis. Thought the place was going to burn forever.”
Vaelin’s disquiet deepened. The Baron’s unexpected appearance was unsettling, and it seemed he had dark news to impart. “The siege was difficult?”
Banders snorted, pouring himself more wine. “Four weeks of pounding with the engines before we had a practical breach. Every night they’d sally out, small parties of dagger men, sneaking through our lines to cut throats and hole the water barrels. Every bloody night a sleepless trial. The Departed know how many men we lost. Then the Battle Lord sent three full regiments into the breach. Maybe fifty men made it out again, all wounded. The Alpirans had set traps in the breach, spiked pits and so forth. When the Realm Guard got held up by the pits they sent bundles of kindling rolling in, all soaked in oil. Their archers set them blazing with fire arrows.” He paused, eyes closed, a small shudder ran through him. “You could hear the screams a mile away.”
“The city is not taken?”
“Oh it’s taken. Taken and taken again like a cheap whore.” Banders belched. “Blood Rose licked his wounds and drew his plan well. In truth I think his assault on the breach was a grand ruse, a sacrifice to convince the Alpirans they were facing a fool. Two nights later he drew up four regiments opposite the breach, making ready to assault. At the same time he sent the entire remaining Realm Guard infantry against the eastern wall with scaling ladders. He gambled the Alpirans were concentrating their strength at the breach and didn’t leave enough men to defend the walls. Turns out he was right. Took all night and the cost was high but by morning the city was ours, what was left of it.”
