‘I woke up with the flames and the smoke,’ said Rabalyn. ‘I tried to get Aunt Athyla out, but someone put a bench against the front door. I had to climb out of the window to move it. Will someone help my aunt!’
A woman knelt beside Athyla. She also felt for a pulse. ‘There is nothing to be done,’ she said. ‘Athyla is gone, Rabalyn.’
‘I asked what you saw, boy,’ repeated Raseev. ‘Could you identify the villain who did this?’
Rabalyn pushed himself to his feet. He felt light-headed, as if it all were but a dream. The pain from the burns on his hands, arms and legs faded away. ‘I saw no-one,’ he said. He looked around at the faces of the gathered townsfolk. ‘But I know who did it. I only have one enemy.’
‘Speak the name, boy!’ ordered Raseev.
Rabalyn located Todhe in the crowd, and saw no fear in his eyes. If Rabalyn named him nothing would be done. No-one had seen him torch the cottage. He was the son of the most powerful man in the town. He was immune from the law. Rabalyn turned away and dropped down to his knees beside his aunt. Reaching out, he stroked her dead face. Guilt was heavy on his heart. Had he not made an enemy of Todhe, Aunt Athyla would still be alive. ‘Who is your enemy, boy?’ demanded Raseev.
Rabalyn kissed his aunt’s cheek, then rose to his feet. He turned to Raseev. ‘I didn’t see no-one,’ he said. He swung towards the crowd. ‘But I know who did it. He’ll pay. With his bastard life!’ He looked straight at Todhe — and this time there was real fear in the youth’s eyes.
Todhe ran forward and grabbed his parent’s arm. ‘He is talking about me, Father,’ he said. ‘He is threatening me!’
‘Is this true?’ thundered Raseev.
‘Did he torch my aunt’s house?’ asked Rabalyn.
‘Of course he did not!’
‘Then he has nothing to fear, does he?’
Rabalyn walked away. In that moment Todhe broke away from his father and drew a knife from his belt.
‘No, son!’ yelled Raseev. The burly youth leapt at Rabalyn. Hearing the cry Rabalyn turned. Todhe’s knife flashed towards his face. Rabalyn swayed back. The blade missed him by inches. He hammered an overhand right to the side of Todhe’s jaw. The bigger youth, off balance, staggered.
Rabalyn ran in and kicked Todhe in the stomach. Todhe dropped the knife and fell to his knees. Without thinking Rabalyn swept up the blade and plunged it into Todhe’s neck. The blade thudded against bone then sliced through the youth’s jugular. Blood gushed over Rabalyn’s hand. Todhe gave a strangled cry and tried to stand. His knees gave way and he fell to his face on the ground. Raseev shouted: ‘No!’ and ran to his son’s side.
Rabalyn stood there, the knife in his hand dripping blood.
For a moment nothing was said. The crowd stood stunned into silence.
Then Raseev looked up. ‘Murder!’ he shouted. ‘You all saw it! This vile creature has murdered my son!’
Still no-one moved. But then two soldiers of the Watch pushed themselves through the crowd. Rabalyn dropped the knife and ran, vaulting the low wall round the burning cottage, and sprinting through the streets.
He had no idea where he was going. All he knew was that he had to escape. The punishment for murder was public strangulation, and there was no doubt in his mind that he would be found guilty at trial. Todhe had dropped the knife. He was unarmed when Rabalyn slew him.
Panicked now, the pain from his burns forgotten, the naked youth ran for his life.
Raseev Kalikan’s view of himself was complex and distorted. People saw him as honest and a loyal worker for the good of the town and its people.
Therefore, in his own mind, that was what he was. The fact that he misappropriated town funds for his own benefit, and awarded building contracts to those of his cronies who paid him bribes, did not alter his own view of himself. On those rare occasions when his conscience pricked him he would think: ‘But this is how the world works. If I didn’t do it someone else would.’ He used words like honour and principle, faith and patriotism. His voice was rich and deep and persuasive, and when he used those words in his public speeches he would often see tears in the eyes of the townsfolk, who loved him. It was most moving, and, caught up in the moment, he would become quite emotional himself. Raseev Kalikan truly believed only in what was good for Raseev Kalikan. He was his own god and his own ambition. In short, Raseev Kalikan was a politician.
His greatest talent was an innate feeling for which way the political wind was blowing.
When the King’s armies had suffered defeats, and the ruler had turned on his advisers, the day of the Arbiters had dawned. Until now the Arbiters had been a minor force in the political life of Tantria, raging against what they saw as the malign influence of foreigners living within Tantria’s borders. Now they were preeminent. All the ills that had befallen the new nation were laid at the door of foreigners from Dospilis or Naashan or Ventria. Even the few Drenai merchants in the capital were viewed with deep suspicion. The irony was that the new leader of the Arbiters was himself a foreigner: Shakusan Ironmask, the Captain of the Warhounds, the King’s mercenary bodyguard. Raseev had greeted the Arbiter emissaries to the town warmly, and made them welcome in his own home. He had embraced their cause and pictured himself rising through the ranks, and perhaps moving on to a greater role in the future in Mellicane.
When the Arbiters had spoken against the church Raseev had spotted an opportunity not only to advance himself politically, but also to wipe away his debts. The church owned much of the property in the town, and also lent money to aid local businesses. Raseev had taken out three large loans in the past four years, in order to promote and build his business interests. Two of his ventures — timber felling and mining — had failed miserably, leaving him facing large losses. The church men were doomed anyway, so why should he not turn their destruction to his financial benefit?
The problem was that he had not been able to stir up the people sufficiently to attack the church directly. Many of them recalled how the priests had helped them during the time of plague and drought. The attack on the old teacher by some of Raseev’s hired men had been viewed with distaste by many — though no-one had spoken out directly. And when that other priest had caused the Arbiter to stab himself some had even laughed at his misfortune.
But now there was a way forward.
People’s sympathies were with Raseev following the death of Todhe, and word had been spread that the killer had taken refuge in the church, and that the abbot had refused to hand him over to the authorities for trial. It was not true, but it was believed to be, and that was what counted.
Raseev stayed in his house that night, the body of his son laid out in a back room and dressed in his best clothes. He could hear his wife weeping and wailing over the stupid lout. How strange women are, he thought.
Todhe was useless in every way. He was dull, vicious and a constant trial to Raseev. At least in death he could achieve something.
Several of Raseev’s most trusted supporters were out now, stirring the crowds, calling for the church to be stormed and the killer taken.
Antol the Baker was a bitter, vengeful man, and he would lead the crowd. Others who worked closely with Raseev would have weapons hidden, which would be drawn as soon as they were in the church buildings. Once the killings began the mob would rage through the environs of the monastery. Those priests who were not slain would flee.
Then Raseev would locate the Order’s treasury and seize its assets. It would also be a good time to find and destroy their records.
He took a deep breath and began to work on a speech. The murders of the priests could not be overlooked, and he would be forced to speak out against the dangers of hatred, and to have the speech recorded and placed in the council records. Political winds had a habit of changing and, at some point in the future, Raseev could then point out that he had been against the violence.