'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.
It was market day in Irienn Square up ahead so the guard nudged Amanas right, down Hunter's Ride, and the noise and bustle of the docks fell away behind them. Folk kept a respectful distance, standing aside to let them past, and one woman with a basketful of eels afforded Amanas a sympathetic look, assuming the worst.
Everyone was out today, going about the ten thousand different tasks that keep any city running smoothly. A portly man stamped heavily down the other side of the street from them; the thick gold chain around the man's neck and clerks scuttling in his wake marked him as a successful merchant.
Then Amanas caught sight of a gutter-runner moving along the edge of the tiled roof high above the merchant's head. Like all those who lived above ground, he was dressed only in rags and had little meat on his bones. They were scavengers who used the network of
rooftops to travel quickly across the city. People often used them as the quickest way to get important information to its destination. The gutter-runners had a fierce code of honesty that ensured they were tolerated – even somewhat fondly – by Tirah's citizens. It was perfectly possible that the merchant was the child's employer that
morning.
Amanas and his escort were waved through the barbican gate by the pikemen flanking it. When they emerged back into the daylight, Amanas hissed in irritation at the mud caking his boots. He insisted on stopping to scrape off the worst of it before he was ready to labour his way up the open stairs to the Great Hall.
Finally he stepped over the threshold, squinting, and for a brief moment he felt like a fish out of water; foolish and delicate in a world that was not his own. He could hear the laughter of men ringing in his ears. He had dreamed of this scene several weeks past, and though dreams themselves usually meant nothing, dreams of the Chosen before they come to power were different: they spoke of the Gods. He remembered her emerald gaze – eyes that could pierce the darkest recesses of the soul. He knew of only one Goddess whose eyes were green, and Fate was not a patient mistress.
The Keymaster tightened his grip and entered the hall. It was years since Amanas had last come here, and in the intervening period it had hardly changed: it was still a dark and smelly army mess, lacking even the meagre dignity one might hope for in an elite legion. Groups of men were clumped around the two rows of tables that led up to the high table at the far end. Even that was hardly grander than the others, just a little longer and set on a raised platform.