Bakune could not even speak to answer. He lay propped up against the wall, panting in agony.
Shortly, Ipshank returned; he carried the young girl slack in his arms.
‘Is she… dead?’ Bakune mumbled, and he spat out a mouthful of blood.
Ipshank shook a negative. ‘No. Unconscious. She will awaken remembering nothing.’ He extended an arm and pulled Bakune upright. The Assessor clutched hold of the man’s shoulder to take one limping step. ‘So… who is she?’
‘Just a vessel. A body used and cast aside. An avatar, some might say.’
‘Then… what of the Lady?’
They were approaching the entrance hall and the priest was peering ahead, frowning in puzzlement. ‘She is elsewhere, as I said.’
Bakune squinted as welclass="underline" the outer doors were closed and barred. With Hyuke and Puller was Manask. But Bakune frowned, for it looked as if both ex-Watchmen were struggling to stab the giant with a spear. Then the scene reversed itself in Bakune’s rattled mind and it became clear that both men were struggling to yank out a spear stuck in the huge man’s chest. Hyuke had one foot up against Manask’s stomach and was heaving while Puller was jerking the haft up and down. Manask himself had his back to a wall, both fists on the haft, his face crimson with effort.
‘Ah ha!’ he called, noticing them. ‘The holy man comes descending from the mount! What wisdom for us mere mortals?’
‘Find anything, Manask?’
The giant’s eyes flicked left and right. ‘Why… no. Nothing. Nothing at all. Not a thing. No sacks of pretty gems set aside in secret hordes. No jewel-encrusted gold icons. Odd that, a cloister without icons! No stone chest of gold coins so large I could not move it hidden in the foundations. A shame that. In short, I come away empty-handed.’ And he let go the spear.
‘And this?’ Ipshank flicked the end of the spear haft.
‘A mere token of affection from the thousands of devout surrounding us.’
Ipshank’s brows rose. ‘Ah. I see.’
Hyuke peered at the girl. ‘Who’s this?’
‘A survivor,’ Bakune quickly said. ‘Everyone else is dead.’
Ipshank eyed him for a moment, saying nothing. He looked to Hyuke. ‘Find me somewhere she can sleep.’
‘Sure. There’s lots of rooms.’
Bakune eased himself down one wall. His left arm ached ferociously and he couldn’t move it. He suspected it was broken. At last Manask managed to pull the spear from his thick armour; he eyed its bright razor tip, impressed. ‘This one almost tickled me.’
Bakune had been studying the man’s face — one quite thin and long for someone supposedly fat. ‘You’re Boneyman, aren’t you?’
The man grabbed at his great mane of bushy hair, patting it. ‘What’s that? Boneyman? Ridiculous!’ He cleared his throat and peered around. Lowering his voice, he asked, ‘You wouldn’t happen to have a hammer and chisel, would you?’
‘No. Why?’
‘No reason! None at all.’ He examined the long spear, its wide thick blade, and rubbed his chin. ‘Hmm. Well, while no one is looking, I shall sneak away unnoticed! Here I go, stealthily, like a very shadow.’ And the man clumped off down the hall.
Farewell, Manask. Best of luck with whatever mad plan it is you’ve concocted.
Bakune gathered a handful of sleeve and wiped at the blood drying on his face. ‘What are they doing out there?’ he asked Puller.
The man frowned, thinking about that. ‘Sitting. Praying.’
Bakune slowly nodded at the news. ‘Right.’ No more challenging questions for that one…
Ipshank returned. Bakune raised a questioning brow.
‘She’s sleeping.’
‘What now?’
The priest looked off towards the front, his wide mouth turned down. ‘Wait till dawn then get you out of here.’
Bakune paused in wiping the flakes of blood from inside his ears. ‘I’m sorry? I can’t hear so well right now. Did you say… me?’
‘Yes. You.’
‘Whatever for?’
The priest found a carved stone fount in which he splashed his face. ‘What for? Hasn’t it occurred to you, Assessor, that you are now the senior authority here in Banith? Who else must negotiate with the Moranth?’
Bakune stared. ‘Me? Negotiate?’
‘Yes, and soon.’
‘Soon?… Why?’
Ipshank pressed his fingers to his brow, sighed. ‘Before someone else does.’
‘Someone else? But whoever would do that?’
The priest peered down at him as if to see whether he was serious. ‘Boneyman, for example. He just might decide to take himself down to the wharf.’
Bakune lurched to his feet. ‘No! All the gods — not him! We must go.’
Ipshank was nodding steadily.
From the doors Hyuke spoke up: ‘If you’re in charge now can I be captain? I mean… you have to have more’n a sergeant guarding you. Gotta impress these backwoods Moranth, an’ all.’
Smiling evilly at Bakune’s discomfort, the priest gestured up the hall.
CHAPTER VIII
The Holies of the Lady’s worship are a triumvirate: the Three Gems. The first is the Lady Herself, She Who Protects. The second is the Chest, That Which Abides Within. The third is the Priesthood, Those Who Serve.
Thus are we protected, sustained, and guided. It is a perfect system and the envy of all.
At first Ussuwas merely irritated by the late night summons from the Envoy, Enesh-jer. Hands at his back, he tramped up the shallow hillside of the Ancy river valley. A servant preceded him, lantern raised, while two Moranth Black guards followed.
The bodyguard was a recent precaution Borun had forced upon him since the assassination attempt a week ago. Only his sudden recourse to the Warrens, a reflex action, had saved his life that night. The unleashing of power that came with that summons had surprised even him. The assassin had been pulverized instantly, organs burst, fluid gushing from all orifices. The man’s slim keen blade had only brushed the surface of his neck — no more than a shaving cut. Later, he and Borun kicked through the wreckage of his tent. Neither spoke; Ussu imagined both their thoughts ran to suspecting a Claw. How many, he wondered, had Greymane arrived with… the openly self-declared plus the covert, salted away to remain hidden, watchful.
And the Lady had not intervened. She’d allowed him this — teasing? — access to his Warren. Perhaps even abetted his effort. Never had such raw puissance come at his call. It was, to be frank… seductive.
Pausing, he turned to peer back over the valley. Numerous fires glittered here on this west side of the Ancy while on the eastern shore hardly a one lit the pure dark of the night. False and true gods: they’ve even run out of firewood. The stories they’d been hearing of the privations endured on that far shore almost moved him to pity. Almost. Starvation, boiling leather to gnaw upon. Sickness. Countless soldiers cut down by bow-fire as they desperately attempted to fish the river. A number had even been caught here on this side having swum across. And were they spying? No — they carried panniers crammed with stolen food.
Ussu drew his thick winter cloak tighter about himself and continued on. A childish display, this summons. An attempt by the Envoy to remind everyone he was still in command, while succeeding only in demonstrating his pettiness.
Guardians posted at the iron-bound door allowed Ussu entrance to the keep proper. Within, he hung up his thick wool cloak. His Moranth guards bowed, halting, knowing they were not allowed in the private quarters. At the inner chamber doors two more Guardians of the Faith stood watch. These pulled open the heavy oaken leaves. Within, Ussu was surprised to see quite a crowd. Most of Enesh-jer’s coterie of minor Roolian aristocrats and army officers stood jammed almost shoulder to shoulder in the smallish meeting hall. More Guardians of the Faith lined the walls, fists on their iron-heeled staffs.