‘Whatever!’ snapped Paolin. ‘I care nothing for this… this subterfuge.
They are traitors and they deserve to die. That is enough for me.’
‘Then you must do as your conscience dictates,’ said Raseev smoothly.
Paolin moved away to walk alongside Antol and Marja. Raseev hung back just a little.
He glanced around at the crowd. It was some three hundred strong. It seemed to Raseev likely that the priests would bar the gates, but they were of wood and would burn swiftly enough. Antol had made sure some of the men were carrying jugs of oil and there was dry wood aplenty on the slopes before the castle. Barring the gates would suit Raseev. It would give the crowd time to grow angry.
The captain of the Watch, Seregas, approached Raseev as they moved on. Seregas was a canny northerner who had been stationed in Skepthia for the last two years. He had reorganized the Watch, increasing foot patrols in the more wealthy areas and the merchant district. For this service Seregas levied extra monies from shopkeepers and businessmen. It was purely voluntary. No-one was forced to pay, or threatened if they did not. Curiously, those who did not pay were certain to see their businesses or homes robbed. Taverns and eating places whose owners chose to remain outside the levy saw fights and scuffles break out, and a significant decrease in their turnover as customers stayed away from their troubled premises.
Seregas was a tall, thin man, with deep-set dark eyes and a thin mouth, partly hidden by a thick beard. The previous day he had come to Raseev’s home. Raseev had taken him to his study and poured him a goblet of wine.
‘You know the boy’s tracks led away from the church, Raseev,’ he had said.
It was not a question.
The slope is rocky. He probably doubled back.’
‘Doubtful at best.’
‘What are you saying?’
‘It is quite simple, councillor. You will ask them to surrender a boy they do not have. Therefore they must refuse. I am sure that this misunderstanding will lead to bloodshed.’
Raseev looked at him closely. ‘What is it that you want, Seregas?’
‘There is a wanted man at the church. There is a small reward for him.
I’ll take his body.’
‘Wanted by whom?’
That is none of your affair, councillor.’
Raseev had smiled. ‘You are becoming rich, Seregas. A small reward would interest you not at all. It occurs to me that — if matters get out of hand — all the bodies will be burned. Mobs and fire, Seregas.’
Seregas sipped his wine. ‘Very well, councillor, then I shall be more open with you. One of the priests is worth a great deal of money.’
‘As I asked before: to whom?’
To the Naashanite Queen. I have already sent a rider to Naashan. It should take him around five days to reach the border, and another two weeks, perhaps, for my letter to reach the capital.’
‘Who is this priest?’
‘Skilgannon.’
The Damned?’
‘The very same. We will need to keep his body for viewing. If we remove the inner organs then cover the corpse with salt it will dry and remain largely intact. Enough for them to see the tattoos. He has a spider on his forearm, a panther upon his chest and an eagle upon his back. In all other respects he also matches the description: dark-haired, tall with eyes of brilliant blue. After he arrived here the abbot sold a Ventrian pure bred black stallion for more than three hundred raq. It is Skilgannon.’
‘How much is she willing to pay?’
Seregas chuckled. ‘The question is, councillor, how much must I pay you?’
‘Half.’
‘I think not. You are organizing murders. Times change, as do political ideologies. You might well need someone in authority to give evidence of your good will in these troubled times.’
Raseev refilled the goblets. ‘Indeed so, captain. Then what do you suggest?’
‘One third.’
‘And that sum would be?’
‘A thousand raq.’
‘Sweet Heaven! What did he do to her? Slay her firstborn?’
‘I do not know. Are we agreed, councillor?’
‘We are, Seregas. But tell me, why did you not merely arrest and hold him?’
‘Firstly, he has committed no crime here. More importantly he is a deadly killer, Raseev — with or without weapons. I don’t doubt that many of the tales are exaggerated, but it is well known that he entered the forest of Delian alone and slew eleven warriors who had captured the rebel princess
— as the Queen then was. You also heard how he dealt with the Arbiter. I saw that, Raseev. The skill was extraordinary.’
‘You think he will fight tomorrow?’
‘It will not matter against three or four hundred. He is not a god. Sheer weight of numbers will drag him down.’
In the bright light of morning Raseev walked with the crowd, Seregas beside him, three other soldiers of the Watch close by. As they approached the old castle Raseev saw that the gates were open. The abbot, Cethelin, was standing beneath the gateway arch, two priests alongside him. One was tall and lean, the other black-bearded and heavily built.
‘The tall one is Skilgannon,’ whispered Seregas. Raseev held back, allowing other people to pass him.
‘Very wise,’ said Seregas.
CHAPTER FOUR
FOR BRAYGAN IT WAS THE SINGLE MOST TERRIFYING MOMENT
OF HIS life so far. He had become a priest to escape the horrors of a world threatened by wars and violence, droughts and starvation. Now, before he was even twenty, death was marching towards him.
More than twenty of the thirty-five priests were already fleeing through the rear gates, running out towards the sheep paddocks and the woods beyond. He saw Brother Anager emerge from the main building, a canvas sack upon his shoulder. Braygan stood very still as the cook came alongside him. ‘Come with us, Braygan. It is futile to die here.’
Braygan so wanted to obey. He moved several steps towards the paddock, then glanced back to where Abbot Cethelin was standing beneath the gateway arch.
‘I cannot,’ he said. ‘Fare you well, Anager.’
The other priest said nothing. Hoisting his sack to his shoulder he ran out to the paddock. Braygan watched him labouring up the green slope.
In that moment a feeling of peace descended on the young acolyte. He took a deep breath and walked slowly to where the abbot waited. Cethelin turned as Braygan arrived. He smiled and patted the young priest on the arm. ‘I saw a candle in my dream, Braygan. It stood against the onrushing darkness. We will be that candle.’
The crowd were closer now, and Braygan saw the tall, lean figure of Antol the Baker, his dark hair held in place by a bronze circlet, his protruding eyes wide and angry. Beside him was the Arbiter who had punched Braygan to the ground, and then been stopped by Brother Lantern. Braygan flicked a glance at Lantern, who was standing very still, his face impassive.
‘Bring out the criminal Rabalyn,’ shouted Raseev Kalikan. ‘Or face the consequences.’
Cethelin stepped closer to the milling crowd. ‘I do not know of what you speak,’ he said. ‘There are no criminals here. The boy Rabalyn is not within these walls.’
‘You lie!’ bellowed Antol.
‘I never lie,’ Cethelin told him. ‘The boy is not here. I see you have officers of the Watch with you. They are free to search the buildings.’