‘I think you're getting ahead of yourself there.'
‘Well, you must admit it is a possibility. The Cardinal and Suzerain
Certinse I can probably shut up; the Knight-Cardinal is a different matter. What would you have me do there?'
Bahl sighed. 'Let's deal with Isak first. The Devoted are a problem for another day.'
CHAPTER 7
Quitin Amanas was a strange man. His family and friends all knew it, and it looked like the palace guardsman standing stiffly before his desk was well on the way to forming that same opinion. No doubt his reaction to Lord Bahl's summons was not quite what the man had expected, because Amanas was relieved rather than apprehensive. Though the new Krann had been in the palace barely a week and the city was still aflame with gossip about him, Amanas had been expecting this summons for a lot longer; he would be glad to finally meet the one at the root of all this excitement. Tell me, young man, what's the Krann like?'
The soldier blinked in surprise. 'He's- well, he's a white-eye. They're all pretty much the same, aren't they, sir?'
'But he's one of the Chosen, and that will make him different.' 'Still a white-eye, sir – quiet till you piss him off – ah, if you'll pardon the expression, sir. Killed a man on his first day; they say he did it like it was an everyday occurrence.' 'I'm sure there was more to it than that.'
'Oh, probably, sir,' the guardsman agreed quickly, rather patronisingly in Amanas's opinion, 'but that's all I've heard.'
'Tell me, do you know what I do?'
'You, sir? Well the library is where all the family trees are kept. I suppose you're needed to sort out his estates, now that he's a suzerain.’
Amanas wrinkled his nose, the guardsman smelled how soldiers always smelled: a damp scent of metal and ripe sweat-stained leather that the pristine white livery covering it could do nothing about-The longer the guardsman stood there, the more palpable it became – hardly his fault, of course, but still it made Amanas uncomfortable-Men of violence were unpredictable. He imagined it would be a small thing for the guardsman to draw the sword at his side and run him
through. No doubt as a soldier he had done it many times before. Once more would probably matter little at his day of judgement. It troubled Amanas to be confronted by such a person.
'I do keep the library, but I also produce the crests and colours for newly ennobled men, as well as personal emblems for men of good family when they come of age. No doubt you thought that was just a case of drawing a suitable creature to carry on your shield?'
The soldier shrugged, plainly confused by the whole situation. 'I won't deny that I've dreamed of a knighthood, like every man in the Guard, but I've never really thought about that part of it, how the crest would be drawn up.'
'Actually, it is a little more complicated than just "drawing something up". It requires a blend of magic and artistry. If you like, I could show you how. Give me your hand.'
At the mere mention of magic the guardsman recoiled from Amanas's outstretched hand.
'No? Oh well, perhaps it would be tempting Fate – her sense of humour is somewhat notorious, after all. In any case, my powers are very weak and specialised. When I touch a man I can visualise something of his spirit, and what he could become. The interpretation is, of course, a vastly different matter, and much depends on context. Karlat Lomin is a good example of that; you know of him, Scion Lomin?'
The guard nodded. 'Of course, sir. Everyone's saying how his father the duke has taken a turn for the worse; that he won't last through winter. It won't be long until the scion becomes the fourth-most powerful man in the country. And last week,' he added in a concerned voice, 'the Krann killed Scion Lomin's cousin in weapons training ~ ran him right through, sir.'
'So I heard, most unfortunate. The scion's crest is that of a snarling wolf's head. The obvious implications are borne out by his noted prowess at arms, but if you take his family crest into consideration – a castle keep – then it could just as easily refer to how men see wolves, as
savage and violent creatures.'
The guardsman took a step back. 'I wouldn't know about that, sir, but I'd advise you to be more careful with your opinions of the scion;
you'd have to be mad to get on the wrong side of him.'
'Oh, I'm not important enough to bother the great house of Lomin.
In any case, my talents are very useful to the nobility in general. You need to have a tendency towards prophecy to do what I do and that'
rare enough to protect me.’
The guard took another step back, his expression showing that he really did think Amanas was mad now.
'Oh now, don't look like that. There are clear signs of becoming a true prophet. You're quite safe from me.' Amanas chuckled. It was nice to have the man of violence worried. The poor souls who went beyond foresight and became prophets were left utterly insane by the things they saw; most had to be chained up for the safety of everyone concerned.
'My point was that this is something I can do when I'm in the presence of the man, in contact with him,' he explained. 'But this Krann… I've never met the man, but for months I've been dreaming of a crest. I'd had it made up it into a shield even before the Krann was Chosen. He must be more than just a white-eye to have that effect'
The guardsman didn't seem to know how to respond to that. He was disquieted by the whole conversation. After a long pause, he said gruffly, 'Well, we'd better not keep Lord Bahl waiting.'
Amanas nodded and rose to lead his guest to the library, a dark room panelled in old oak, with scroll-holes down the left-hand side and two rows of reading shelves on the right. A number of lecterns stood in the centre. Some huge books, obviously valuable, were chained to the reading shelves, but the Ke/master ignored these and instead shuffled along to the door at the far end which opened into something that looked like a jeweller's strong-room.
Once Amanas had unlocked it and retrieved a lamp from one of the lecterns, the guardsman could see neat piles of paper on the narrow shelves that lined the cabby – and on one shelf, something large, wrapped in some sort of dark cloth.
Amanas moved some of tie papers out of the way and reverentially withdrew the object. He leaked over his shoulder and glared at the guardsman. 'Do you know why two of your comrades stand guard outside my office door?'
'No, sir, only that Chief Steward Lesarl ordered it.'
'Ah yes, the Chief Steward; a man of remarkable insight. This library is more precious thar most people realise. It was all I could do to keep it from being moved to the palace or Cold Halls once Lesarl realised that. Our nobility is a faithless breed that sires bastards as though they were in competition. My records are meticulous – they must be so – and my skills allow me to see through the lies. I suspect only the Chief Steward, one of his agents and I know the full extent f a certain count's escapades, but since some of those sired are at marrying age now, a watchful eye must be kept on negotiations.
'Even the Dukes of Perlir and Merlat travel to Tirah to present their heirs to me; they all understand the need for such a tradition, and it has become a rite of passage nowadays. I suspect white-eyes have less of a care for such things though, hence my summons.'
Gathering up the corners of the material, Amanas balanced it precariously in the crook of his arm while he wrestled with the lock. When the guardsman offered to help he gave the man a grim look in reply and struggled on by himself, careful not to expose any part of the object to the man's view.
He hugged it protectively to himself as they walked down the street side by side. The Heraldic Library was in the oldest district of the city, surrounded by the tall, ancient buildings where the oldest families lived and the richer dukes and suzerains had their – now much-neglected – court residences.
Cutting through the merchants' quarter took the pair on to Hunter's Ride, the road that ran from the river to intersect Palace Walk where it began its gentle climb towards Tirah Palace. The day was wet and dull; a scattering of early snow had briefly clothed the city in white, but it was too warm for the flakes to settle. Many of the innumerable statues that lined the city streets were crying tears of melted snow, which struck the Keymaster as a poor omen.