Taste of Lightning (25 page)

‘Being cooped up isn't good for us, either,' Perrin pointed out. ‘Or Skir.'

‘I wonder why Ulia didn't turn up today,' said Tansy. ‘Hope she ain't in no trouble.'

‘Probably just too busy. She'll come tomorrow.'

‘We got to talk to Skir. Got to find a way.'

Perrin gave her a searching look. ‘Do you want to tell him about us?'

‘No,' admitted Tansy. ‘But I guess we should.'

‘You do realise he's got a crush on you?'

‘No he ain't! Don't be daft.' But Tansy's face had flushed pink. ‘We're friends, that's all. I always said that.'

‘I know that's what you
said
. That's what he'd say, too – but that doesn't make it true.'

‘Surely Bettenwey'll let us go soon,' said Tansy, changing the subject.

Perrin pulled a gloomy face. ‘Let us go – where? I can't go back to Rengan, you can't go back to Baltimar. And I'm sure Bettenwey won't let us stay in Cragonlands.'

‘It ain't up to him. That's for Skir to say.'

‘If you haven't noticed, Skir doesn't actually run this place. Bettenwey does, and I'll bet you five gold pieces he has us shooed over the border faster than Penthesi can gallop.
Which
border, that's the question . . . There's only one solution. You can head north and become a horse-breaker in Rengan, and I'll go back to Baltimar and be a wandering minstrel.'

‘You'll need another finger-harp, for the one you lost at Dody's Leap. And the Baltimarans would arrest you, too.'

‘I'll grow a beard.' Perrin stretched his arms above his head and said abruptly, ‘Speaking of music, let's go to the evening prayer and listen to some. It's almost sunset.'

The dawn and evening prayer ceremonies were held in a great hall. As in the throne room, the pillars were cased in beaten metal, and the floor was tiled; but while the throne room was enclosed and lit with torches, a room that belonged to the night, the Hall of the Faith, was open on two sides to allow the sun to stream in at sunrise and sunset, and the air danced with motes of gold. The people of Gleve flocked there to hear the twice-daily prayers and to make their own devotions, and the hall thrummed with shuffling feet and the rustle of bodies as men and women kneeled and rose and kneeled again.

Perrin and Tansy found their usual place in the gallery at the back of the Hall, where they were permitted to observe. With little else to do, they'd fallen into the habit of attending the prayer ceremonies, and had enjoyed them more than they'd expected. Tansy leaned over the rail with her hands clasped. Bettenwey stood in the ranks of priests on the platform. He was slightly built, flanked by burlier men, but his gaze seemed to pierce every person in the Hall. He glanced up at the gallery and his eyes glittered a warning at Tansy. Tansy shifted uneasily.

When Bettenwey stepped forward to speak, the murmurs and rustles died away. Even the smallest children fell quiet. The sounds of Gleve drifted over the Temple walls on the late summer air: the last calls from the market, the rattle of carts, the plaintive bleats of backyard goats begging to be milked.

Bettenwey's voice rang out like the deep chime of a temple bell, with the rich singsong intonation of well-worn ritual. Tansy remembered the night Skir had burned Elvie's luckpiece, and the words he'd spoken over Sedge. She shivered. It must have been Bettenwey who taught him to speak like that.

‘Sisters and brothers of the Faith, hear my prayer.'

The response rippled through the crowd: ‘Our brother, we pray with you.'

‘Earth beneath our feet, air upon our faces. Water in my left hand, fire in my right.'

The impassive priests placed the ceremonial vessels in Bettenwey's outstretched hands and he raised them high.

‘We give thanks for life and breath in this day that has passed. We pray for warmth and safety in the night to come. By light and by dark, we uphold the Faith.'

‘We uphold the Faith,' came the murmur of five hundred voices, and Tansy found herself whispering,
uphold the Faith
. Perrin sat with his head bowed as the music of the exchange flowed through him.

A single bell clanged, slow and rhythmic.

‘Sisters and brothers, take hands.'

All through the Hall, men and women reached out to clasp the hands of the strangers or loved ones beside them.

‘Sisters and brothers, give your strength in this time of hardship. Sisters and brothers, take strength now from one another. Let us pray together for better times. Let us create those better times together.'

And the crowd responded, ‘We will work together.'

The bell ceased, and the crowd stood in silence, heads bowed and hands clasped. Tansy watched Bettenwey as he watched the crowd, judging the moment to break the silence: too short, and its solemn power had no chance to build; too long, and people would cough and fidget. At precisely the right moment, Bettenwey's voice rang out.

‘Sisters and brothers! We give thanks –'

The High Priest paused, then frowned. There was a disturbance at the back of the Hall, under the gallery. Tansy leaned over, but all she could see was a wave of movement that compressed the crowd as someone tried to force their way forward. Blue-robed figures streamed along the edges of the Hall to the site of the scuffle. Bettenwey spoke, and now his voice was both nervous and angry.

‘For friends who know how to be silent, we give thanks! For those who give help
when it is asked of them
, we give thanks! For these and all our blessings, we give thanks.'

Perrin hung so far over the rail that he was almost upside down. The crowd had held back the person trying to push forward; now blue-robed priests flowed into the spaces in the crowd and clustered around a tall man. He had long brown hair tied back, and a drooping moustache; a grey-brown cloak was draped over his shoulders. For an instant, his eyes met Perrin's. Then one of the priests threw a blanket over his head, and he was borne, struggling, away.

‘Tansy!' whispered Perrin sharply. ‘It's him – the Captain! Wanion's man!'

‘
Here?
' Tansy jumped up.

‘Sisters and brothers of the Faith!' Bettenwey's voice rang out loudly. Slowly the hubbub in the Hall subsided; the crowd, which had bunched into knots and tangles, smoothed out again into its former lines, a little more ragged than before.

‘Sisters and brothers, we ask for these three things . . .' Bettenwey continued the ceremony, but Tansy and Perrin were running downstairs from the gallery and out into the courtyard.

The would-be assassin was surrounded by blue-clad figures. The Captain struggled silently beneath the blanket as the priests half-pushed, half-carried him across the courtyard and inside, into the warren of rooms in the priests' quarter. Perrin sprinted after them, with Tansy at his heels, and they plunged into the cool dark of the priests' wing.

They could hear furious voices. Someone had taken the blanket off the Captain's head.

‘I must see him!'

‘– disrupting our prayers – disrespectful –'

‘– the High Priest –'

There was a final, convulsive struggle in the half-light as the Captain threw them off. Like a beast at bay, he faced a circle of wary, dishevelled priests ready to pounce again. Everyone was breathing hard. The Captain glared beyond the circle to Perrin and Tansy. When he spoke, it was to them.

‘They won't let me see Skir.'

Tansy yelped; her hand twisted into Perrin's shirt to hold him back. But Perrin edged forward, holding the man's gaze, as he would have approached a wild dog. The Captain had steady blue eyes.

Tansy cried, ‘You stay away from Skir! Don't you dare hurt him!'

‘I want to speak to him, that's all. And I'm sure he wants to speak to me.'

One of the priests said, ‘It is not permitted.' He snapped his fingers at a passing servant. ‘When the evening prayer is ended, fetch the High Priest. Tell him Beeman has come.'

‘He already knows,' said the Captain dryly. ‘Didn't you hear him in the Hall, praying for me to mind my own business?'

Tansy gasped. ‘
You're
Beeman?'

Perrin began to laugh. Tansy's grip on his shirt tightened, but Perrin said softly, ‘It's all right, Tansy.'

Tansy cried, ‘Why didn't you say nothing, at the border?'

‘I did. I called to Skir, I was sure he heard me. But then he fainted and you dragged him away.' Beeman gazed at them intently. ‘You're his friends. You brought him here.'

‘Probably more accurate to say that he brought us.' Perrin's dark blue eyes flickered to a door on the right of the corridor; Beeman understood. The priests were muttering together, craning anxiously for Bettenwey; just for a moment, their attention lapsed.

‘Now!' shouted Perrin, and darted for the door. Beeman ducked beneath someone's arm and followed. Tansy pelted after them; she banged the door in the priests' startled, furious faces and dropped the bolt.

‘Can you take me to Skir?' panted Beeman, but Perrin shook his head.

‘No good. He's locked up.'

‘Penthesi?' gasped Tansy, and Perrin veered around the next corner in the direction of the stables. Everyone was at prayer; the Temple was nearly deserted at sunset. Servants and priests had just begun to stream out of the Hall of the Faith. One or two people turned to stare as they ran, but Tansy and Perrin were familiar figures around the Temple by now, and unseemly behaviour was almost expected from them. Running through courtyards was nothing; if they'd torn their clothes off as they ran, hardly anyone would have been surprised. As for Beeman, he pulled his hood over his face – another foreigner in their midst.

The Temple stables were large and well-appointed. Once, fifty horses were kept there for the priests to travel the breadth of Cragonlands; since the Baltimaran invasion, there were only half-a-dozen ponies left to pull carts to the market. One of the ponies whinnied and stamped as Tansy, Perrin and Beeman approached, and when they arrived in the stable-yard, Penthesi poked his head through the half-door as if he were waiting for them.

They all slipped inside Penthesi's stall, and Tansy closed the top half of the door. The stall was spacious, but with a large horse and three people inside, it felt cramped.

Beeman threw himself down on a bale of straw. ‘Thank you. Most uncivil behaviour, I thought, especially after all I've done for them.' He looked up. ‘What are your names?'

‘I'm Perrin and this is Tansy.'

‘Let's not get too friendly.' Tansy grabbed Beeman's cloak and flung it aside to reveal the white luckpiece. ‘What's
that
then? Ain't you Wanion's man?'

‘
No
. Absolutely not. I know how it looks.' Beeman sighed. ‘I posed as her agent, I wear her token. It's useful. I've learned a great deal. Though it's been hard on my nerves.' Tansy still glared at him. ‘Believe me. I would rather cut off my own hand than work for that woman. It was all pretence, a dangerous pretence.'

Perrin said to Tansy, ‘He's telling the truth. Quick, go and check, make sure no one's followed us.'

Tansy slipped out.

Beeman said, ‘I met with Bettenwey earlier. He let me think I'd be able to see Skir, but they stopped me.'

Tansy came back, shaking her head. ‘All quiet.'

‘I must see Skir,' said Beeman.

‘He fretted about you all the way from Arvestel,' said Tansy.

‘I must tell him I'm all right. Among other things. Are you sure you can't bring him here?'

Tansy shook her head. ‘They got him locked up tight. Tighter than us. With guards outside his room and spies all around. We ain't allowed to leave the Temple. Skir ain't allowed to leave his room. We ain't seen him either.'

Beeman ground at his eyes with the heels of his hands. ‘There are things I must tell him,' he repeated wearily. Penthesi whuffed softly at his ear, and Beeman gave an exhausted smile.

Tansy said uncertainly, ‘Penthesi thinks you're all right.'

‘Typical,' said Perrin to Beeman. ‘She pays more attention to that horse than she does to me.'

‘He's a handsome horse,' said Beeman.

‘Hey. I'm a handsome man.'

‘Penthesi ain't full of himself,' said Tansy tartly. ‘That's why I listen to him. And he's smarter than you, too. You hungry, Beeman? I know where the stable boys keep their snacks.'

A few moments later she was back with a handful of apples and a tin of biscuits. Beeman helped himself with a grateful nod. She'd also brought a lantern.

‘Ain't no one around. I thought everyone in the Temple'd be out searching for you, but it's dead quiet.'

Beeman brushed crumbs from his moustache. ‘They have more urgent business to attend to. Bettenwey has a plan. No doubt he's discussing it with the other priests.'

‘Is that what your meeting was about?'

‘Partly. Because of what I reported to Bettenwey, he will have to bring this scheme of his forward. He's not pleased about that.'

‘What scheme?' demanded Tansy. ‘What are you talking about?'

‘Broken Fire,' said Beeman and, between mouthfuls of apple, he outlined the plan to Perrin and Tansy. ‘Bettenwey plans to wipe out most of the leadership of both Baltimar and Rengan. He thinks that will win independence for Cragonlands. But it's much more likely that the Threelands would be plunged into chaos, anarchy and civil war. The initial explosion alone will kill dozens of people, but this foolish scheme could ultimately cost many more lives than that.' He picked up a biscuit, and put it back in the tin, as if he'd suddenly lost his appetite. His face looked old and haggard. ‘Bettenwey plans to use Broken Fire, a notoriously unstable explosive. It might not just destroy the White Pavilion, though that would be bad enough. In untrained hands, it could wipe out the whole of the Old Quarter. And believe me, it will be in untrained hands. Bettenwey doesn't understand what he's playing with.'