Besieged (50 page)

‘I know.’ Imoshen sat beside her. ‘No one knows what to make of it. They say he has visions and advises the king. Egrayne has asked our people in port to find out more about him, but he’s so deeply immersed in the Mieren world it’s proving dangerous for our informants. What do the Malaunje say? Are they tempted to leave the city and try their luck in the church? No more T’En to answer to, no more fear of gift addiction?’

Frayvia looked up sharply; there must have been talk. ‘Only fools would think that. This Warrior’s-voice – I don’t know who he is, or where he came from, but I do know this. He’ll come to a bad end.’

Imoshen suspected she was right.

G
RAELEN WATCHED AS
a stream of priests wearing the dark robes of the holy-swords left the palace, carrying travelling kits. There was no sign of the Warrior’s-voice amongst them. It was hard to tell Mieren apart, especially when they wore identical robes and tied their hair back the same way. They entered the Warrior’s church and did not come out while he waited.

For the last nine days, Graelen had walked to the plaza to watch for the Warrior’s-voice. He’d seen the white-haired Malaunje cross from the palace to the Father’s church at around the same time each day and stay for at least one prayer bell, before returning to the palace. There was an intense rivalry between the two churches. Before this, the Father’s high priest had always been the king’s advisor. Now a half-blood from the Warrior’s church advised him, even though there was a True-man who claimed to have visions.

What was the Warrior’s-voice doing in the Father’s church? Why hadn’t he moved his personal belongings into the Warrior’s church, when his holy-swords had moved there?

Here he came now, crossing the plaza. He glanced over, as if he sensed Graelen’s presence, but he didn’t break his stride.

Rather than wait around for him to come back out, Graelen headed to the docks. Harosel had said he might have information for him today.

As one of the war barons rode by, followed by a column of men-at-arms, Graelen stepped into a doorway. King Charald had been rewarding his war barons. This was the third baron to ride off at the head of a long line of men-at-arms to claim his estate and flush out Charald’s enemies.

As soon as the baron passed, Graelen stepped down onto the street. It was amazing how the Mieren could watch him, without actually meeting his eyes. He’d learned to maintain his mental shields so that their unguarded minds no longer gave him a headache.

Was that Harosel coming this way? The veteran looked grim, and Graelen increased his pace. When they met at a crossroad, Harosel led him into a dim alleyway, where Mieren children played in the puddles.

A grubby child looked up. ‘Wyrds!’

The children disappeared into the rickety buildings that rose three and four storeys high. The lane was not wide enough for Graelen to walk with his arms outstretched. Harosel glanced up and down the alley.

Graelen didn’t need to be a raedan to read his anger. ‘What is it?’

‘The Warrior’s-voice is sacrificing half-blood children.’

‘What? Impossible. Are you sure?’

‘No. But I went to Paragian’s warehouse. They’ve had half the usual number of Malaunje infants delivered. So I went to the sisterhood warehouse and their numbers are down, too.’

‘I see.’

‘Mieren parents can’t keep their half-blood children. If they do, other Mieren turn on them. They have to hand them over.’

Graelen nodded. ‘The Warrior’s-voice makes sacrifices to gain power from the higher plane. He has no innate power of his own, so he has to break the walls somehow. The beasts of the higher plane are hungry for the life force of Mieren. If they have a choice, they prefer the gift-enforced essence of T’En. Half-bloods aren’t quite as tasty, but...’ Graelen shuddered, sickened. It was all making horrible sense. Outrage made his heart race and his gift surge. ‘The Warrior’s-voice does have pure white hair. He must have been immersing himself in stolen power, paid for with the blood of innocents.’

‘The numbers have been down for years, more so in the last five.’

‘He only just arrived.’

‘There’s the Father’s-voice. And now there’s two of them, competing for the king’s ear.’

Graelen cursed. He’d sworn an oath to use his gift to protect half-bloods. If, as he suspected, this white-haired Malaunje had been sold to someone down south and ‘rescued’ by the king, or hidden by the church as a baby and reared to serve the king, then he had never heard of the oath. He knew only what the Mieren had told him of his own kind. Fed lies since he was old enough to listen, it wasn’t surprising he’d been convinced by the church of the justice of their claims.

Even so, how could he sacrifice his own kind? Infants, at that. Contempt filled Graelen. ‘This has to be stopped.’

‘If it is happening,’ Harosel agreed.

‘You brought this to my attention. What’re you–’

‘All I’m saying is, we need to be sure before we execute him.’

‘You’re right. It’s time we questioned this Warrior’s-voice.’

S
AFE IN THE
knowledge that no one would recognize her in the guise of a Sagora, Imoshen slipped out into a lane and then onto the causeway boulevard, where she mingled with the passing trade as she made her way down to the gate.

This was the same gate she had entered eight years ago, seeking sanctuary, and when she stepped through it this time, a wonderful sense of freedom filled her. It came as a shock to realise how much she hated the Celestial City.

Look what it had made her do to Rohaayel before it would accept her; look what it had done to generous, kind-hearted Reoden; look what was happening to Iraayel, as the boy she loved disappeared behind a shield of determination and martial prowess.

At the arched bridge to the foreign quarter, she found a Sagora servant waiting to escort her to their residence. The buildings of the foreign quarter were owned by banks and great merchant families whose influence spanned kingdoms. The first of these houses had been built on stilts in a shallow part of the lake almost two hundred years ago. As more and more premises were built, walkways and bridges had been added, linking the buildings.

At last they came to the Sagoras’ premises. Three storeys above them, the scroll and the nib symbolised the Sagoras’ quest for knowledge. Conviction filled Imoshen; this was where she belonged.

The servant showed her where to hang her Mieren half-cloak, then led her through a courtyard to a chamber. ‘Merchant Mercai will be with you presently.’

The servant left her in a wood-panelled chamber, where every shelf was packed with books, curios and intricate brass machinery, all glowing in the late afternoon sun.

Merchant Mercai entered, giving the Sagora bow, and she mirrored him. He sat cross-legged on a cushion on a raised platform. Imoshen felt somewhat intimidated as he looked down on her.

‘While we are here we have no names, no titles. You are
student
and I am
teacher
. You speak only Sagorese during the lesson.’ He indicated she was to sit.

Imoshen took out her nib and paper and prepared to make notes.

Nothing happened.

She waited.

Normally, her gift enabled her to read the subtle nuances of expression and movement. The Sagorese style of dress left nothing for her power to work on. She felt blind.

The servant showed someone else into the chamber. They wore the traditional Sagora costume but Imoshen sensed the male gift. Her stomach tightened with fear and her power tried to rise. She forced it down. No attempt had been made on her life since she executed Rohaayel, but every time she went into the free quarter she sensed the animosity of the T’En men. They would never forgive her.

The T’En man bowed to Merchant Mercai, settled himself cross-legged and took out a nib and ink.

Of course, if he was wearing the Sagorian costume, he was just another student. Imoshen almost laughed with relief.

Then a wave of annoyance swept through her; she didn’t want to share her teacher. Lessons with the gift-tutor had taught her how frustrating learning could be when other students took too long to understand. She was not going to put up with that here. She would study hard, and too bad if he couldn’t keep up.

As the lesson progressed, Imoshen opened her mind, absorbing every scrap of information, adding to the framework of grammar she had created to learn Chalcedonian. As she laid down each new piece of information, she ran over it three times to be sure it was firm.

Despite her misgivings, the student kept up with her every step of the way. She felt alive, exhilarated by the challenge, and truly awake for the first time in years. How could she have forgotten her love of learning?

A chime sounded somewhere out in the courtyard, bringing Imoshen back to the real world with a jolt.

Merchant Mercai switched to Chalcedonian. ‘Soon, the Mieren bell will ring. A servant will escort you to the city gates before they close.’

Imoshen came to her knees to give obeisance and spoke in Sagorese. ‘Student-she thanks teacher.’

‘Student-he thanks teacher. May the light of knowledge burn more brightly every day.’

Once the teacher had departed, Imoshen came to her feet and turned to her fellow student. ‘You know more Sagorese than you let on. Just how many languages do you know?’

‘Four, fluently. There’s another four or five I can get by in.’

Why would he need to know so many languages? Only the sisterhood’s sea captain, Iriane, knew... He must be a ship’s captain.

As they turned to go, Imoshen noticed an astrolabe on a shelf. She could not resist going over to examine it... so cunningly wrought.

A six-fingered hand stopped the outer circle turning. ‘This is a tool, not a toy. An astrolabe reveals the path of the stars.’ He proceeded to explain exactly how the planets moved. Imoshen bit her tongue.

And watched him talk. At first she was annoyed but, as the explanation went into more detail, she came to appreciate his depth of knowledge.

‘Sorry.’ He gave a rueful grin. ‘I forget not everyone is interested in the paths of the planets.’

Imoshen shrugged. ‘It’s no surprise to find an astrolabe here. The Sagoras came from across the Endless Ocean. They must have an excellent understanding of the stars and planets to have navigated this far. No one else has sailed from beyond the eastern horizon in over three hundred years.’

‘You knew what it was?’

‘Yes, but you explained it so well, I didn’t have the heart to stop you,’ Imoshen told him sweetly, and walked out into the courtyard.

One part of her wanted to rush home so she could go over what she’d learnt. Another part of her wanted to bait him. It was invigorating.

They’d reached the foyer, where her Mieren cloak hung. There was no Mieren cloak for him. He was too tall to pass for a True-man. Seeing her cloak reminded Imoshen of her life outside these lessons; she didn’t want him walking her back to the free quarter. If he knew which sisterhood shop she changed in, he might guess she was Imoshen the hated All-father-killer. And that would be the end of her fun.

‘I’ve thought of something I must ask the teacher,’ she said. ‘You go without me.’

‘Until next lesson, then...?’ He paused, waiting for her to give her name.

Instead, she gave the Sagora obeisance. ‘Student-she bids farewell to student-he.’

He smiled slowly.

Imoshen waited to be sure that he had gone and wasn’t lurking nearby before she donned the Mieren half-cloak. She only just made it back to the sisterhood’s shop in time.

As she changed into her own clothes, she remembered the ship’s captain who had bought the astrolabe from the Sagoras’ shop, back in early spring. Only All-fathers Chariode and Paragian had trading fleets, so it would not be hard to find out his identity. But she didn’t want to.

G
RAELEN WATCHED THE
comings and goings in the plaza. Today, when the Warrior’s-voice went to the Father’s church, they would take him for questioning. Harosel was already in place.

The half-blood would then be taken to a wine cellar. Below the earth, surrounded by thick walls, they could question this betrayer of his own kind without fear of being interrupted. Graelen was ready to slit the half-blood’s throat himself.

Shouting, and the steady thud of many booted feet, echoed across the plaza. The local Mieren hurried out of the way as a long column of men-at-arms, walking four abreast, entered the plaza. In the lead rode their captain. It appeared another baron was heading off to claim his estates.

As Graelen watched, the white-haired Malaunje came out of the palace, accompanied by the king and one of his barons. They said their farewells on the steps. The baron looked grim as he strode down the stairs with the Warrior’s-voice by his side, followed by a foreign Mieren youth in dark priestly robes, carrying two travelling kits. He strapped them onto their horses’ saddles as the three of them mounted up.

Graelen glanced to Harosel, who shrugged. They hadn’t anticipated this. Why was the half-blood accompanying one of the barons?

Graelen left his hiding place and met Harosel, as the baron and his men-at-arms marched past.

Graelen studied the baron’s banner. ‘Any idea who–’

‘The newly restored Baron Nitzane. His father’s estate was confiscated when Matxin seized the throne. He’s the grandson of Baron Nitzel. Since his banner carries both symbols, I expect the king has returned his father’s estates and his grandfather’s as well. He’ll be on his way to reclaim them.’

‘Why does he have the Warrior’s-voice with him?’

‘No idea. Should we follow? Take the half-blood on the road?’

‘From amidst two hundred men-at-arms?’ Graelen grinned. ‘No. He’ll be back. He serves the king.’

‘And if he doesn’t come back? Maybe the king’s rewarding him with an estate and title, too?’

Graelen snorted. ‘A half-blood?’

‘Look what this half-blood does for the king. He receives visions, Grae.’

Graelen let the use of his familiar name slide. ‘At what price?’