‘Yes, Mister Bastian,’ she repeated. ‘Thank you.’
She resisted the temptation to add a ‘sir’ to the end of that. She didn’t want to seem too much of an arse licker, after all.
Bastian nodded and followed his men out onto the street. The last of them closed the door behind him, shutting out the chill of night. Rag just stood there, thinking a while.
She could go far?
What the fuck did that mean? Was he grooming her for big things?
Inside she should have been jumping for joy, but all she felt was sick. It seemed that no sooner had she got past one trial she was jumping straight into another. He’d just put her in charge of this crew. Just promoted her. And all she’d had to do was tell a few lies and get a couple of people killed.
Rag wasn’t even sure how she felt about it. There certainly weren’t no guilt. The emptiness inside at learning she’d done for a couple of fellas gave her a bit of a fright.
Can’t do anything about it now though, can you? May as well just get on with things — play the hand you’re dealt.
She turned to head back into the bar and stopped. Harkas was just standing there. It was just the two of them, alone in that back room. She looked up, trying to give him that same smile she’d given him a few days ago. This time she couldn’t muster it.
‘I’ve been watching you,’ he said.
She’d never heard him speak before. His voice was pretty normal for someone so big.
‘What do you mean?’ she asked, playing all innocent, though it was clear there was no point in that now.
‘No one else sees it,’ he replied. ‘But I do. They’re all too busy talking, too busy with their own thoughts and words to look. But I stand there all quiet and I listen. And I watch.’
‘Good for you,’ said Rag, as panic welled up inside. The door was right behind her. Should she try to run? But she’d never make it before he grabbed her.
‘I could tell you were trouble right from that first day. I don’t know what Friedrik was thinking, but it’s too late now.’
‘Look,’ she said feigning annoyance in the hope it would put him off. ‘I don’t know what you’re on about and I don’t really care. Bastian just told me to make sure you lot stayed in line and that’s what I’m gonna do. If you’ve got a problem with it, see him.’
She hoped that would put him off; that the mention of Bastian’s name might bring him to heel a bit. It didn’t.
‘Yeah, I bet he did,’ said Harkas, bending low so he was at eye level. ‘People like you, don’t they?’
‘Yeah,’ said Rag, not too sure where this was going. ‘I suppose they do.’
‘I like you,’ said Harkas, and Rag almost sighed with relief. ‘You look out for your mates. What you did for Shirl … well … I won’t forget that. And you’re clever — more clever than Friedrik was. But then I suppose that’s why you’re alive and he’s dead.’
‘Yeah,’ Rag said, feeling more uncomfortable now than when she thought he was going to kill her. ‘I suppose it could be.’
With that Harkas turned and walked back into the bar.
He left the door open, and Rag could see in to the rest of the lads sitting by the fire. Would they accept her as leader? Would they do as she said?
Only one way to find out, she supposed, and walked back into the warmth of the tavern.
FIFTY
Waylian made his way up the tight winding staircase to Gelredida’s chamber. He was still aching from the explosion in the amphitheatre, his eyes still gritty from the dust that had got in them.
The door to the Magistra’s chamber was slightly ajar and as Waylian reached out to push it wide he paused. There was noise from within, as though someone were in pain.
Waylian’s memory flashed back to that chamber deep beneath the Tower of Magisters, to Nero Laius screaming in pain, crying for mercy, and he wondered if Gelredida had yet another victim in her clutches. As he peered through the crack in the door he saw it was only her, alone, her sleeves rolled up, her hands submerged in a bowl.
Though he knew he shouldn’t, Waylian just waited and watched. He was taking a risk — chances were she already knew he was there — but he needed to know. Wanted to see.
Up on the highest point of the amphitheatre he had seen her remove those gloves and lay her hands on the Sentinel Knight’s chest, bringing him back from the brink of death. Just as seeing such a feat of magick had struck him with awe, seeing the hands of his mistress, all blackened and cankerous, had filled him with horror.
He watched as she gently washed those hands, allowing the soothing waters to run over her tarnished flesh. With every gesture she breathed a sigh of discomfort until finally she finished.
‘You can come in now,’ she said without turning around.
I knew it! What an idiot to try to hide from the Red Witch.
Waylian slowly pushed the door open and stepped inside. He thought about speaking, to make an excuse, to tell her he hadn’t seen anything, but why make things worse? Best just stand and take whatever rebuke she threw his way. But it never came.
Gelredida merely dried her hands gently and then carefully drew on her red gloves. She winced in pain as she did so, the livid flesh clearly tender to the touch.
‘What is it, Magistra?’ Waylian asked.
She glanced up at him, silently admonishing him for his question. Then, with a sigh, she answered.
‘That night in the Chapel of Ghouls, I drew out a dark power from that dead girl. If I hadn’t done so, the rite enacted by Rembram Thule would have been completed. Regrettably, that power is still within me, held in check, though eventually it will be my demise.’
‘It’s killing you?’ Waylian asked, feeling a knot tighten in his stomach. The thought of losing Gelredida filled him with dread. He hadn’t realised before how much his teacher meant to him. ‘There must be some way to stop it?’
Gelredida shook her head. ‘Unfortunately not. But we all die in the end, Waylian. And I have lived more than my share of years. With luck I’ll be around long enough to see the Khurtas off.’
He stared at her as she busied herself tidying parchments on her desk. She spoke about her impending demise like she was planning a summer jaunt, like she was looking forward to the journey. Waylian wouldn’t be so matter of fact about his own death. No wonder she had been so nonchalant about putting him in peril when her own life meant so little to her.
‘Now, if that’s all,’ she said, stuffing scrolls onto a shelf, ‘we have a meeting to attend.’
‘There is one more thing, Magistra.’
She glanced at him expectantly. ‘Make it quick.’
‘In the amphitheatre? Up on the roof, the injured knight? Why did you change your mind and help him?’
Gelredida smiled. ‘Many things hold power in this land, Waylian. Swords, crowns, banners. Even stones dug deep in the earth. Such objects can decide futures and mould fates. More powerful than any of them is blood. The man I saved carries the blood of an ancient line — the blood of a king. We can’t just have a line of kings expire, now can we?’
‘I suppose not, Magistra. Though it doesn’t seem very fair that some are sacrificed while others are saved.’ He looked down at his feet, wondering if that had been the right thing to say. It bothered him, though: why one man got to live because of luck of birth, where so many others died. No doubt he’d have been one of the ones left to die, if it had come to it.
‘You will learn soon enough about sacrifices, Waylian, and why they must be made,’ Gelredida said. ‘One person cannot put themselves above the greater good. Above nation or religion. We are all part of the earth, some of us destined to be great tributaries, guiding the waters through the land, feeding it, making it grow. Some of us mountains, guarding the borders of nations, protecting its innocents from the machinations of invaders. And some of us are just flowers, given a short time to bloom under the light of the sun before we die.’ She gave him an almost sympathetic look. ‘Do you understand?’