Tackle clinking, they set off at a leisurely clop, down the shady side of the ridge. Here Port Awl’s houses overlooked the farmland to the north and the shining mountain peaks. The streets were cooler and rang with the sound of blacksmiths and gunsmiths at work. Ianthe peered through doorways to see coal-blackened muscles and forges and anvils, racks of carbine rifles and hand-cannons.
Late morning found the carriage clattering across a stone bridge over the River Irya, which Briana explained was merely an ancient word for water. Farmsteads dotted the landscape on either side of the waters. Sparrows darted among hedgerows of rosehip and stowberries. Sheep and cattle grazed in green pastures, raising their heads to watch the travellers pass.
‘What breed are those?’ Ianthe asked, pointing to a herd of black cows.
Briana snorted. ‘How should I know? I’m not a farmer.’
Ianthe asked nothing more about her surroundings, but she continued to drink it all in: the fields of barley and whittle-grass, the furrowed black earth bursting with every type of produce, the quince, plum and apple orchards, the clumps of gnarled old oak and elm. In one field men and women in wide-brimmed straw hats loaded golden hayricks onto a cart. Fishermen sat on the banks of the Irya. Bees buzzed across meadow-flowers. This land was a hundred times richer than Evensraum. She wanted to get out of the carriage and take off her boots and splash through the rushing river, but that would not have been seemly.
They stopped to water the horses at a roadside tavern. Ianthe stretched her legs in the field behind the stables, returning to the carriage to find that Briana had bought a basket of bread, cheese, apples and a bottle of honey-coloured wine. They ate their lunch and drank wine from clay cups by the side of the road with the sun on their faces and the sound of birdsong in the surrounding hedgerows.
‘Do you have other girls from Evensraum?’ she asked the witch.
‘We had a girl from Whiterock Bay,’ Briana replied. ‘A frightful peasant. That would have been back in thirty-nine.’
‘Is she a Guild psychic now?’
‘Didn’t complete the training.’
‘Why not?’
Briana shook her head. ‘I don’t recall.’
‘So where is she now?’
Briana stuffed the remains of their lunch into the basket. ‘Why do you ask so many pointless questions?’ she said. ‘Come on, I want to get there before dark. There are wolves in those hills, you know.’
‘We had wolves in-’
‘In Evensraum, yes. Really, Ianthe, you have to stop wittering on about that muddy little island.’
Ianthe hung her head. ‘I’m sorry.’
Briana laid a hand on her shoulder. ‘It’s not your fault, dear. As the Haurstaf like to say: It takes time for the dirt to fall from one’s boots.’ She smiled. ‘I only have to look back four or five generations to find parts of my family that came from relatively humble stock.’
‘They were farmers, too?’
‘Tax collectors.’
Late in the afternoon the road began to climb into the Irillian foothills. It wound its way up through forests of thousand-year-old oaks, their great boughs forming cathedral-like spaces in the green gloom and their roots smothered by leafy hummocks. Mossy stones marked the trail, and here and there shafts of light picked out the tumbledown remains of cottages set back from the trail. Birds whistled and insects buzzed, and once Ianthe thought she heard the rustle of a larger animal moving through the undergrowth. A deer perhaps? She noticed that the carriage driver had a pistol on his lap, but the horses seemed calm enough, so she didn’t mention it.
Shortly afterwards, they encountered their first checkpoint. Two soldiers in blue uniforms manned a barrier beside the road. A section of forest had been cut back, leaving a wide perimeter around a central concrete bunker. Spirals of razor-wire encircled the encampment. Smoke rose from one corner where six more men sat around an open fire. Each of them carried a carbine rifle slung over his shoulder. One of the two barrier guards raised a hand to stop the carriage but then waved them on when he spotted Briana.
‘All quiet, Captain?’ the witch asked.
‘Nothing but birdsong, ma’am,’ the man replied.
The military presence became more frequent after that. In places, acres of woodland had been burned to stubble to accommodate larger camps where hundreds of soldiers milled around gun emplacements and paced perimeters and trained in muddy meadows between the concrete buildings. Razor-wire enveloped everything. Great cannon batteries pointed at the skies. The sound of small-arms fire became more frequent.
Ianthe flinched as yet more gunfire crackled nearby. ‘Are they training?’ she asked.
‘News of our arrival precedes us,’ Briana said. ‘Most of these units have telepaths attached.’
‘They’re Guild soldiers?’
‘The finest war machine in the empire.’
‘I thought the emperor’s Samarol were the finest?’
Briana just snorted. ‘I once saw one brought down by an unarmed man,’ she said. ‘How good can they be?’
At last, with the long light of evening sloping through the trees, they passed through a final checkpoint in the gates of a massive stone wall, where soldiers winched up an iron grate to allow the carriage to pass. Ahead of them lay the Guild Palace of Awl. The Irillian mountains framed tiers of dark, pyrite-veined towers that soared skywards, their windows ablaze in the last rays of sun. Flags of white and gold hung from a score of poles set into the barbican, while pots of meadow-flowers adorned the promenade before the walls. On all sides, paths and steps led off into the cool shade of the forest behind. Ianthe spied a gazebo down beside a brook, where a group of eight girls in white robes sat listening to an older woman. Other Haurstaf strolled among the trees, enjoying an evening that seemed infused with the aura of summer itself.
Four carts waited on the flagged promenade before the main palace gate, while their drivers reclined on a grassy bank nearby. Ianthe’s own carriage drew up beside the others, whereupon their driver opened the door and folded down the steps.
‘What do you think?’ Briana asked.
Ianthe smiled, thankful that her lenses hid her tears.
The palace interior was cool and quiet, with grand halls and cascades of dark marble stairs and airy corridors leading in every direction. Guild psychics passed by, their white robes whispering on the mirror-black floors. Briana led Ianthe along a corridor in one wing and pushed open a set of double doors.
They had reached an enormous library, where hundreds of girls sat at desks, reading books. The faintly musty scent of paper and old leather bindings lingered in the air. Heads turned to face Ianthe. A murmur passed through the room. Someone giggled.
‘Sister Ulla,’ Briana said.
An old woman came over, her arms full of books. She was no larger than a child and wore her hair in a grey knuckle behind her head. Her face had the texture of a rotten log, and her restless little eyes looked like they had burrowed in there to escape predators. She glared at Ianthe with open hostility, then opened her mouth to speak.
Briana held up a hand. ‘This is Ianthe,’ she said. ‘I want her tested for the usual, then put in with the current class.’
Sister Ulla said nothing.
‘I am aware of that,’ Briana said, ‘but-’
The old woman remained silent.
‘Probably an affectation,’ Briana said. ‘You know what these-’
Sister Ulla continued to stare at the other woman in silence.
Briana wrung her hands in frustration. ‘Obviously that depends on what you find,’ she remarked. ‘I want a full progress report on this one.’ She glanced at Ianthe, before returning her attention to the old woman. A long moment of silence passed between them.
Sister Ulla then turned to Ianthe. She frowned and said, ‘Ignorant peasant. Don’t you have any inclination of what I just said to you?’
‘I’m sorry, ma’am,’ Ianthe replied.