I gave a nod. ‘Where can I find you?’
‘I’m staying at my villa along the coast. It’s less than half a day’s ride, but the sea breeze is good for my spirits.’
‘Not a city man then?’
‘I like my sleep,’ he remarked.
‘The sounds of the city can get to all of us,’ I smiled.
‘It’s not that. It’s the coastal air – very soothing. If you’d seen what I’ve seen in Mauland, then you’d need it too.’
There was a sudden, distant look about the man.
I thanked the general for his offer and left him alone in the garden with his thoughts.
Inside, Leana was still reluctantly the centre of attention and, by the sound of it, facing a barrage of patronizing questions. She was relieved by my presence. We thanked Veron for his hospitality, made our excuses and finally left the mansion.
Exhausted, we headed through the dark streets in relative silence.
It had not been an entirely wasted night, I decided. At least I had some addresses to go on, and would soon be able to ascertain more about the Skull and Jasmine group.
We turned down a relatively empty street, moved across the stepping stones to the other pavement, something that was never that simple in the dark.
The two of us moved towards the light from a couple of braziers, and I could suddenly smell something potent, like vinegar, when…
… Leana was standing over me with her sword drawn. I was lying on my right side, my head supported by my cloak. Even in the darkness, I noticed the scratches across the back of my right hand, caused by the stone of the pavement.
‘How long did it last?’ I asked.
‘Not long. I counted a little over a hundred heartbeats and you began to show signs of settling.’
I wasn’t confused, just a little disorientated. I knew exactly what had happened. ‘Did anyone see me?’
‘No,’ Leana replied, sheathing her sword. She helped me off the ground. I felt unsteady for a moment, my body aching mildly from having been so tense. The sensation soon passed. In a few breaths I was able to relax a little.
Once again I looked at the scrapes, this time in more detail. ‘I must have been shaking quite a bit this time.’
‘No more than is usual.’
‘The gods were lenient this time,’ I replied and folded up my cloak. A hundred prayers to Polla echoed around my mind. ‘Thank you, Leana. As ever.’
Leana regarded me with perfect neutrality. I didn’t like a fuss being made over my seizures. I didn’t even like anyone knowing, but Leana had so often stood over me protectively until the sensation passed.
Leana alone could do this and not think it a slight of the gods – how could she if she did not believe deities could possess such powers?
A light sleeper, she would occasionally come into my room if the seizure happened during my sleep. Over the years I could think of no more trusting act than for her to stand over me while I suffered the vengeance of the gods. It was one of many reasons I could not cope without her.
‘Any visions?’ she asked.
‘No,’ I said. ‘Never have. I don’t think I ever will.’
‘A shame. In my tribe you would be deemed a notable shaman for such things.’
‘It is a pity I’m not in Atrewe then.’ Besides, even if I was experiencing visions, I could never remember a thing from a seizure. ‘I’ll need to make some offerings to Polla when we get home.’
‘I can sit by your bed later,’ Leana asked, ‘in case it happens again.’
‘I… would appreciate that. In this city more than any other, Leana, it is important no one ever finds out. In Venyn it might not have mattered so much, but here people frown heavily upon such things. There are strict procedures, strict social etiquette. People are conservative. Few would ever trust me again.’
Leana nodded. ‘If you like, I will show you an apothecary tomorrow – I saw one down towards Tradum from your house, on a very thin street. Maybe there is advanced medicine in Tryum also?’
‘There is, but what can an apothecary offer to protect against the deeds of bitter gods? No, I can only change this through prayer and by trying harder to please them. Come on, it’s late. We should at least get some rest before our early start. I can only hope that I don’t suffer from a headache during what’s left of the night.’
Debts
Swinging incense in a large silver burner, the pontiff led the small entourage down the steps of the Temple of Polla. Every priest and priestess had their face covered in a pale-blue paint, as was the wrapped body of my father, who was being carried along on a wicker throne.
The sight was painful yet I couldn’t help but feel strangely detached from the scene. It was happening – indeed I was very conscious of it – but it seemed so otherworldly, as if it was some mythological play, a story concerning the gods themselves.
It was just after dawn and the light was weak. Tryum was beginning to wake, but the funeral process had begun even earlier than this: two priestesses came to my house so that they could dismiss any bad spirits with their brushes. I hadn’t slept properly, the grinding wheels of carts making their way through the city’s streets made me want to flee to a villa deep in the countryside. Maxant had the right idea with his coastal retreat.
Even at this early hour, dozens of people had come to mourn as my father was carried to his funeral pyre, and I found the gathering to be touching. A rather hungover Veron was there, as was Lillus the barber, who nodded sadly to me across the way. Men and women from the Senate had come, but I had simply no idea who some of the others were. My father had been a man of some renown – so, for some, I’m sure there was a certain morbid fascination to see how the mighty are fallen.
Leana stood beside me, her hand moving to the hilt of her sword, scanning every face with great attentiveness.
‘Is something wrong?’ I asked.
‘I am convinced we are being watched,’ she whispered. ‘At least, there is some unwelcome presence here. An angry spirit.’
‘Surely no one is likely to try something in such a public space.’
‘Concentrate on mourning – that is your job. I will make sure we remain safe.’ Leana resumed scrutinizing the faces leaning out of windows, and those standing silhouetted on top of the nearby aqueduct. I noticed how one part of the structure was badly in need of repair, judging by the gaping hole in its masonry.
My father’s wrapped body, which would have been coated in a flammable balm, was carried into a small enclosed courtyard, where the rest of the pyre stood waiting for him, and his wicker throne was hauled up on top. The pontiff began a melancholic chant of the tale of Polla, as the goddess of the sun, she who shone light into the darkest of places. It was into the light that my father’s body would be sent. Polla was not one for blood offerings.
Torches were brought forward and the pyre was lit in several places; the flames soon began to spread, engulfing my father’s body. I felt a lump in my throat, but forced away any unsavoury emotions as masked dancers commenced the ritual of the Passage through to the Underworld. Their graceful, wide-armed movements were comforting, a welcome distraction. Only because I had travelled through many countries, and seen many different peoples, did the notion of ritual strike me as curious – that much of such displays was more about symbolism and tradition.
The flames became more ferocious and burned consistently, and for a long time. The painted faces of the priests and priestesses standing behind were soon blurred by the shimmering heat.