There was an armed sentry on the door now. The door was three parts enclosed in a small hut for the sentry’s protection. The sentry kicked on the panels of the front door until a slave opened up and took charge of Luterin.
In the windowless hall, gas jets burned against the wall, their nimbuses reflected in the polished marble. He saw immediately that the great vacant chair had gone.
“Is my mother here?” he asked the slave. The man merely gaped at him and led him up the stairs. Without emotional tone, he told himself that he should be the Master of Kharnabhar, as well as Keeper.
At the slave’s knock, a voice bade him enter. He stepped into his father’s old study, the room that had so often been locked against him during earlier years.
An old grey hound lay sprawled by the fire, vvoofing pettishly at Luterin’s arrival. Green logs hissed and smouldered in the grate. The room smelt of smoke, dog’s piss, and something resembling face powder. Beyond the thick-paned window lay snow and the infinite wordless universe.
A white-haired secretary, the hinges of whose lumbar region had rusted to force on him a resemblance to a crooked walking stick, approached. He munched his lips by way of greeting and offered Luterin a chair without any needless display of cordiality.
Luterin sat down. His gaze travelled round the room, which was still crammed with his father’s belongings. He took in the flintlocks and matchlocks of earlier days, the pictures and plate, the mullions and soffits, the orreries and oudenardes. Silverfish and woodworm went about their tasks in the room. The sliver of crumbling cake on the secretary’s desk was presumably of recent date.
The secretary had seated himself with an elbow by the cake. “The master is busy at present, with the Myrkwyr ceremony to come. He should not be long,” said the secretary. After a pause, he added, regarding Luterin slyly, “I suppose you don’t recognise me?” “It’s rather bright in here.”
“But I’m your father’s old secretary, Secretary Evanporil. I serve the new Master now.”
“Do you miss my father?”
“That’s hardly for me to say. I simply carry out the administration.” He became busy with the papers on his desk. “Is my mother still here?”
The secretary looked up quickly. “She’s still here, yes.” “And Toress Lahl?” “I don’t know that name, sir.”
The silence of the rooms was filled with the dry rustle of paper. Luterin contained himself, rousing when the door opened. A tall thin man with a narrow face and peppery whiskers came in, bell clanking at waist. He stood there, wrapped in a black-and-brown heedrant, looking down at Luterin. Luterin stared back, trying to assess whether this was an official or an unofficial enemy.
“Well… you are back at last in the world in which you have caused a great deal of havoc. Welcome. The Oligarchy has appointed me Master here—as distinct from any ecclesiastical duties. I’m the voice of the State in Kharnabhar. With the worsening weather, communications with Askitosh are more difficult than they were. We see to it that we get good food supplies from Rivenjk, otherwise military links are … rather weaker…”
This was drawn out sentence by sentence, as Luterin made no response.
“Well, we will try to look after you, though I hardly think you can live in this house.”
“This is my house.”
“No. You have no house. This is the house of the Master and always has been.”
“Then you have greatly profited by my act.”
“There is profit in the world, yes. That’s true.”
Silence fell. The secretary came and proffered two glasses of yadahl. Luterin accepted one, blinded by the beauty of its ruby gleam, but could not drink it.
The Master remained standing rather stiffly, betraying some nervousness as he gulped his yadahl. He said, “Of course, you have been away from the world for a long time. Do I take it that you don’t recognise me?”
Luterin said nothing.
With a small burst of irritation, the Master said, “Beholder, you are silent, aren’t you? I was once your army commander, Archpriest-Militant Asperamanka. I thought soldiers never forgot their commanders in battle!”
Then Luterin spoke. “Ah, Asperamanka… ‘Let them bleed a little’… Yes, now I remember you.”
“It’s hard to forget how the Oligarchy, when your father controlled it, destroyed my army in order to keep the plague from Sibornal. You and I were among the few to escape death.”
He took a considered sip at his yadahl and paced about the room. Now Luterin recognised him by the anger lines incised into his brow.
Luterin rose. “I’d like to ask you a question. How does the State regard me—as a saint or a sinner?”
The Master’s fingernails tapped against his glass. “After your father… died, there followed a period of unrest in the various nations of Sibornal. They’re used to harsh laws by now—the laws that will see us safe through the Weyr-Winter—but then it was otherwise. There was, frankly, some bad feeling about Oligarch Torkerkanzlag II. His edicts weren’t popular…
“So the Oligarchy circulated the rumor—and this was my idea—that they had trained you to assassinate your father, whom they could no longer control. They put out the idea that you had been spared at the massacre at Koriantura only because you were the Oligarchy’s man. The rumour increased our popularity and brought us through a difficult time.”
“You wrapped up my crime in a lie.”
“We just made use of your useless act. One outcome of it was that the State recognised you officially as a—why do you say ‘saint’?—as a hero. You’ve become part of legend. Though I have to say that per- sonally I regard you as a sinner of the first water. I still keep my religious convictions in such matters.”
“And is it religious conviction that has installed you in Kharnabhar?”
Asperamanka smiled and tugged at his beard. “I greatly miss Askitosh. But there was an opportunity open to govern this province, so I took it. … As a legend, a figure in the history books, you must accept my hospitality for the night. A guest, not a captive.”
“My mother?”
“We have her here. She’s ill. She’s no more likely to recognise you than you were to recognise me. Since you are something of a hero in Kharnabhar, I want you to accompany me to the public Myrkwyr ceremony tomorrow, with the Keeper. Then people can see we haven’t harmed you. It will be the day of your rehabilitation. There’ll be a feast.”
“You’ll let me feed a little…”
“I don’t understand you. After the ceremony, we will make what arrangements you wish. You might consider it best to leave Kharnabhar and live somewhere less remote.”
“That’s what the Keeper also hoped I might consider.”
He went to see his mother. Lourna Shokerandit lay in bed, frail and unmoving. As Asperamanka had anticipated, she did not recognise him. That night, he dreamed he was back in the Wheel.
The following day began with a great bustle and ringing of bells. Strange smells of food drifted up to where Luterin lay. He recognised the savoury odours as rising from dishes he would once have desired. Now he longed for the simple fare he had reviled, the rations that came rolling down the chutes of the Wheel.
Slaves came to wash and dress him. He did as was required of him, passively.
Many people he did not know assembled in the great hall. He looked down over the bannisters and could not bring himself to join them. The excitement was overpowering. Master Asperamanka came up the stairs to him and said, taking his arm, “You are unhappy. What can I do for you? It is important that I am seen to please you today.”