Khassian’s face itched with several days’ dark growth of beard. His stomach rumbled.
God, he was starving. Why was his empty stomach the only thing he could think of?
At first he had disdained to eat the Sanctuary food. Then by the end of the second day he was so ravenous he had got down on hands and knees on the flagstones and gulped the millet porridge from the bowl like a dog.
Now he had become quite skilful at raising the bowl to his mouth, using his stiffened hands as a crude scoop. The process was inelegant – but who was to see if porridge dribbled out of one side of his mouth, if he slopped soup down his shirt?
Two meagre meals a day. Were they trying to starve him into submission?
He kicked at the door of his cell until his stubbed toes protested.
‘Get me a lawyer. You have no right to hold me here against my will. I want to see a lawyer.’
No response, as usual. He waited a while and then shouted out again.
“The Prince is my patron! I demand to send a message to the Prince!’
He had nearly shouted himself hoarse when the door was suddenly unlocked and a bearded Guerrior appeared, his broad bulk filling the doorway.
‘This is a place of silence and meditation. You are disturbing the concentration of the other Sanctuarees.’
‘I don’t care!’ Khassian snarled. ‘I demand my rights as a citizen of Bel’Esstar. I demand –’
The Guerrior struck him across the head. Khassian fell to the floor, dizzy, ears ringing from the blow.
‘H-how dare you!’
‘You will keep silence,’ said the Guerrior, slamming the door.
Khassian put one hand up to his stinging ear and brought it away, moist with blood.
The Diva had been gone five hours.
Orial went to the window of the villa and gazed out again over the street. No sign or sound of a carriage. The River Faubourg drowsed under a heavy sky.
They had been installed for several days in the Diva’s riverside residence, the Villa of Yellow Vines, days which had been filled with writing letters and petitions on Khassian’s behalf. This morning the Commanderie carriage had arrived without warning to escort the Diva to the Winter Palace. The invitation – to attend upon the Prince at his levee – was most pressing. The Guerriors would not even wait for the Diva to change into a costume more fitting for the occasion.
Since then, there had been no word and Orial had fretted away the hours alone. The housekeeper had brought her some lunch; she had tried to eat but felt so sick with apprehension that she only managed to swallow a spoonful or two of the delicious iced tea-cream dessert.
The Diva must have been arrested. That was the only explanation for so long an absence. All her plans had been aborted before there was time to put them into action.
There came a distant rattle of hoofs over gravel. Orial sped to the open window, leaning far out over the vine-covered sill. A carriage drew up at the gates; a man climbed out.
‘Diva!’ cried Orial.
She ran down the stairs and flung open the door to greet him, hugging him tight.
‘Such effusion!’ said Cramoisy. ‘Anyone would think you had not seen me in years.’
‘What happened? Why were you gone so long? Did you see the Prince?’
Cramoisy sank into a fauteuil and kicked off his shoes.
‘My ankles are quite swollen with standing so long. Court levees are a terrible trial on the legs, carissa,’ His voice was hoarse with strain.
‘But did you see Prince Ilsevir?’
‘His Royal Highness was gracious enough to grant me an audience. We agreed that I will make my confession before the court in the royal chapel. He wanted me to sing an aria or two from Talfieri’s new oratorio The Path of Thorns,’ Cramoisy made a little moue of disgust. ‘I was almost glad to tell him that my voice is ruined for I cannot abide the man’s music. And do you know, Orial, what Ilsevir then said to me?’
‘No…’
‘“We shall pray together for your voice to be restored. Perhaps the Blessed Mhir will restore your voice as He restored me to health.” ‘Cramoisy pulled a grimace. ‘I preferred Ilsevir as he was before – this sanctimoniousness makes me queasy.’
‘But what of Khassian?’
‘Ilsevir would not talk of him. I know he heard what I said. We may yet achieve something…’ There was a slight tic at the corner of Cramoisy’s left eye; the strain of the encounter had not left him unscathed. ‘And you’ll never guess who I saw as the carriage was driving through the Winter Gardens?’
Orial shook her head.
‘Captain Korentan! Striding along with a face as dark as thunder.’
‘Captain Korentan?’ Orial said consideringly. ‘Maybe he would help us. Maybe I should go in search of him…’
‘Heavens, no, carissa! A young girl out alone in Bel’Esstar? You must remember you are not in Sulien now. Men can go where women cannot. You must leave the negotiating to me.’
Time seemed to have lost its meaning. The sun set and the solitary cell grew dark. The sun rose again.
Khassian hunched in a corner.
He would not recant.
If only they would let him send a message to Prince Ilsevir. If the Prince knew they were holding him here like an animal in a cage, he would surely order Girim to release him? Even if Ilsevir no longer cherished him as his favourite, he still respected him as a musician.
Khassian let his eyes drift slowly shut, remembering…
There had always been a special understanding between the Prince and his young protégé. It had begun when Amaru and Fania had been brought to perform before the court and Ilsevir had smiled at the ‘charming moppets’ and given them each a bag of sugared almonds and a gold medal. A year or so later, the young chorister from the royal chapel had been singled out to sing and play for the Prince… and not long after Fania’s death, Khassian had found himself the royal favourite, showered with money and favours, his training paid for by the Prince himself.
At first, Khassian had felt desperately out of his depth. He was aware of his own beauty, yet not certain how to react to the Prince’s admiration. And then, as he grew more self-assured, he had begun to enjoy the attention, to manipulate it ruthlessly to his own advantage.
He had taken all that Ilsevir had to offer in gifts, honours – and commissions.
And in return, he’d granted the Prince… the occasional favour.
Khassian let his head drop back until it rested against the white-washed wall of the cell. White of lime-washed walls… Ilsevir had always favoured the pale, bleached colours of winter. Through half-closed lids Khassian glimpsed again Ilsevir’s bedchamber with its stucco walls: a winter landscape of white, grey and gold, Ilsevir, lingering in the ivory-draped bed, calling for him to come back to his side… whilst Khassian, all physical passion forgotten, sat at the desk scribbling away feverishly, his head filled with a glory of sound…
Ilsevir had always been seeking after the unattainable, Khassian saw it now so clearly. For years the Prince had pursued him, hoping perhaps that he might absorb a little of his beautiful boy’s genius by some mysterious, carnal alchemy…
Maybe if he could have shown more kindness to his benefactor, maybe if he had not been so absorbed in his own musical projects, Ilsevir would not have turned his back on earthly pleasures – or have been so easily swayed by the visionary sermons of Girim nel Ghislain.
But Ilsevir had wanted more than kindness from his protégé. He had wanted his heart, his soul. Unable to create his own compositions, Ilsevir had sought to gain control of Khassian’s music. This phrase was too angular, that modulation too unexpected, too harsh…
Khassian shuddered, remembering disagreements, clashes, ugly scenes. Words that should never have been spoken; cruel, bitter words. Words that could not be unsaid. His head drooped slowly forward until his forehead rested on his updrawn knees.
Ilsevir would not help him now… not unless he capitulated to all Girim’s demands.
And he would not recant. He would never recant.
Khassian’s cell door was flung open and two Guerriors came in. One grabbed his wrists and twisted them behind his back, forcing him to his knees. Khassian struggled. Another seized his head between his hands, twisting it sideways.
Pincers bit into Khassian’s ear-lobe. He yelped aloud, outraged at the indignity. A metal tag was forced into his tender flesh and firmly clamped down with tongs. The metal tag, heavy and cold, grazed against his neck, pulling the torn lobe down. Blood spattered his grey tunic.
His pierced ear on fire, he stared at his oppressors, speechless.
‘Now, move.’
‘Wh-where are you taking me?’
‘You can’t leave the Sanctuary without a tag.’
In the yard outside, the daylight hurt his eyes. The Guerriors pushed him up a ramp into a wagon where they chained his wrists to the seat.
The wagon left the Sanctuary and trundled away across the heath.
Narrowing his eyes against the sunglare, he saw an extraordinary structure on the horizon, a monstrous unfinished building whose jagged walls were swarming with workers.
At first he had not recognised them. And then, as face after face had slowly turned towards him, he had seen the flicker of recognition in their eyes – and he had known them.
The unlucky ones. The ones who had not got away in time. His musicians. His singers, his orchestra. The cast of the ill-fated opera.
Clad only in filthy overalls, they laboured to move the huge blocks of stone. They were covered in stone-dust, their hair and faces powdered.
The air was thick with the choking dust; it dried Khassian’s throat, it settled on his lashes. He could see how their efforts to shift the stones had lacerated their hands; fingers which had once moved over strings and keys to produce sounds of delicacy and subtlety, were now bleeding, torn by the coarse stones.
They did not dare to acknowledge him. He saw how their eyes slid away, avoiding contact, how their shoulders drooped as they turned from him back to their work.
He wanted to cry out to them, ‘Don’t give up! Don’t let them break you!’ but the wagon moved on, taking the road into the city.
The twilit avenue was filled with a sea of bobbing torches; a procession of citizens was winding down towards the Winter Palace. They were singing, chanting the Psalms of Mhir.
‘What is this? Why are they singing?’
His guards still did not answer; the wagon followed the procession to the Winter Palace.
On the torchlit balcony of the Grand Maistre’s apartments, Khassian saw the figure of a man, clad in a simple white robe. Girim nel Ghislain stood beside him, attended upon by several of the Commanderie.
As the chanted psalm died away, Girim nel Ghislain lifted his arms to the crowd.
‘The unbeliever repents. Rejoice with me as yet another convert is born again into the Faith.’ He turned to the white-clad man beside him who dropped to his knees and kissed the hem of his robe. Girim nel Ghislain placed his hands upon his bowed head – and then raised the man to his feet again, embracing him.
A cheer rose from the crowd and the chanting began again.
‘The moment is drawing nearer,’ Girim cried. ‘The time is almost upon us. But not until all have bowed to the name of Mhir will He know that His city is ready to receive Him again.’
Khassian watched in growing fury.
‘Why insult my intelligence by forcing me to watch this charade? Who ordered me to be brought here?’
‘The Grand Maistre himself. He felt it would prove edifying.’
That night as Khassian lay sleepless in his cell, he saw nothing but the musicians’ eyes – empty of accusation, empty of hope, empty of everything except exhaustion.
So many fine musicians, sensitive, skilled performers, whose only crime had been to make music – his music – condemned to an endless misery of hard labour.
‘Next.’ Acir pretended to be examining the nib of his pen and did not even glance up as the two Guerriors brought Amaru Khassian into the chamber.
‘Sit down,’ he said. He would not look Khassian in the eyes, not in the presence of the Guerriors. He was too afraid he would betray their familiarity – and now everything hinged on his remaining aloof, preserving the appearance of the dedicated Commanderie officer.
‘I prefer to stand.’
Acir flinched, hearing blatant defiance in Khassian’s voice. He looked up and saw what the ravages of Sanctuary life had done to the musician. Hair matted, unkempt, face grimy beneath a ragged growth of beard, Sanctuary overalls stained with slopped food. Only the eyes were recognisable – though now they stared wildly back at Acir, burning with an ungovernable fury.
‘Leave us,’ he said to the Guerriors.
‘The Sanctuaree could be violent, Captain.’
Had they been given orders not to leave them alone together? Exactly what had Fiammis told Girim – and what had the Grand Maistre deduced from her report?
Acir slowly turned around. He allowed his mouth to curve in an ironic smile.
‘I think I am well able to look after myself, confrère.’
The two Guerriors released Khassian’s arms and stepped back, saluting. The door clicked shut behind them.
Acir hastily came round the desk to Khassian, reaching out to him.
Khassian raised his unkempt head and spat, hitting him in the face.
Acir stopped.
He felt the spittle trickling down his cheek.
A riot of conflicting feelings burst in his heart – but he willed himself to betray no emotion. He reached into his pocket and drew out a handkerchief, slowly wiping Khassian’s spittle from his cheek.
‘Come on, Captain Korentan. Aren’t you going to hit me?’
Acir put away his handkerchief, each movement deliberately slow and considered, taking time to regain his self-control. This was going to need as much skill as he could summon – and even then the risk of failure was great. At least there was no grille in the door through which they could spy on the interview.
‘I respected you. I came to believe you were different from the rest of your cursed Commanderie. Why don’t you just hand me over to those thugs outside and let them beat me senseless?’
‘Have you quite finished?’ Acir said briskly.
‘No. The food’s inedible. I’m crawling with lice, I can’t even scratch –
‘Amar! For Mhir’s sake, listen to me!’ Acir wanted to grip him by the shoulders, to shake him until the bitter, incoherent stream of complaints ceased. ‘I want to help you. But you’ve got to trust me.’
‘Trust you!’ Khassian threw back his head and began to laugh. And then the laughter choked into sobs; his shoulders began to heave.
Anguished, Acir could only stand lamely by and watch. After a while he began to speak; quietly, insistently, hoping the sound of his voice would eventually penetrate Khassian’s grief.
‘You are going to have to call on all your theatrical skills. You are going to have to act the unwilling convert. Just as I will have to act the interrogator. We are going to play at priest and penitent. There is no other way I can get time alone with you – to relay messages to you, to plan your escape. Are you hearing what I’m saying? This is the only way no one will suspect.’
Khassian wiped his streaming eyes and nose on the filthy sleeve of his tunic.
‘It’s just another game. Cat and mouse. You played this game with me in Sulien. I’m not playing this time.’
‘Maybe you saw it as a game in Sulien. Now there are others, many others, relying on you. But if you want to give up…’ Acir shrugged. ‘It’s your choice.’
‘Wait,’ Khassian said, voice still thick with tears. ‘Others? This is just another trap. I play along with you – implicate others – and then the Commanderie arrests us all. No promise of conversion this time. Conspiracy trial, and execution.’
Behind the desk Acir dug his nails into his palms. Damn the man! Was he always going to be this stubborn?
‘I heard them singing your song at the Fortress of Faith: “Freedom”. Until they were beaten into silence. But they won’t be silenced forever. You’ve given them hope. They’ll be singing “Freedom” again.’
‘Why are you doing this? Is this some kind of Commanderie power struggle? Perhaps you want to be Grand Maistre in Girim’s stead?’
‘Me – Grand Maistre!’ The preposterous suggestion incensed Acir.
‘It doesn’t make sense.’ Khassian gazed doubtingly into Acir’s face. ‘I thought you really believed it? When you spoke of your faith, you spoke from the heart.’
The door opened and the two Guerriors appeared.
‘How dare you interrupt this interview?’ Acir cried.
‘Governor’s orders. Each Sanctuaree is entitled to a half-hour. No less, no more.’
‘And so you interrupt without even the courtesy of a knock at the door?’
‘We have our orders, Captain.’
Had they overheard the last of the conversation? Were they well-trained at spying – or merely doing as they were ordered?
‘Very well. But when you are interrupting my interviews, you will knock at the door and you will wait for me to tell you to enter.’ He fixed each Guerrior in turn with his eyes, unblinking. ‘Do you understand?’
‘Understood, Captain!’ barked the elder of the two.
‘And bring me no more Sanctuarees until I have completed my reports for the Grand Maistre.’ Acir sat down again and drew out a clean piece of paper from the sheaf on his desk. When they made no move, he looked up again, feigning irritation. ‘Well, what are you waiting for? Take this one away.’
The Guerriors took hold of Khassian by the arms and hurried him out of the chamber. Acir listened as their footsteps died away into the distance, listened until all he could hear was the pounding of his own heart and the perpetual slow drip-drip of water.
He exhaled slowly, raggedly. He picked up the pen, dipped it in the inkwell, and then saw that his hand was trembling so much that spots of black ink spattered down upon the clean page even before the nib had touched the paper.
Khassian let the Guerriors manhandle him back to his cell. He was glad to rely on their rough strength as his head was light with hunger. There was a clean, scrubbed smell to them: even their sweat smelt of strong soap. He concentrated on the physical sensation, trying to forget what had just happened.
But he could not forget. The shock of seeing those steel-blue eyes in the interrogation cell had quite unmanned him. Time had flickered about them and he had found himself back staring into those same eyes, as freezing riverwater cascaded from Acir’s hair on to his face.
‘You should have let me drown…’
And the irony of the situation had suddenly seemed foolishly, crazily funny. When the laughter began, he just could not stop it. Painful, racking laughter that seemed to tear from his throat, convulsing his body until the tears started from his eyes.
Of course he had not been crying. They were tears of laughter, scornful, defiant laughter.
If it had been anyone but Acir Korentan –
Now that he was alone, he began to recall fragments of the extraordinary interview.
‘You’ve got to trust me.’
And had he imagined it – or had Acir Korentan really called him by his first name? How dare he be so familiar! And yet just remembering sent a shiver through him… a shiver of hope.
No.
It must be a deliberate ploy.
He had heard of such tricks of interrogation. The interrogator would befriend the prisoner, win his trust… and then draw the information he needed from him by stealth.
And yet Acir Korentan had never played him false. He had been open in all his dealings with him. Acir Korentan had even warned him of Fiammis – and he, like a fool, had laughed the warning aside.
‘Trust me…’
How much he ached to trust him. To know there was one person in Bel’Esstar upon whom he could rely.
Khassian drew his legs up to his chest, resting his chin on his knees, holding in the gnawing pain in his empty belly.
At that moment he would have betrayed his own father for a loaf of fresh-baked bread.
‘Dr Magelonne – there’s something wrong with the water supply to the treatment pools.’
Sister Crespine’s voice penetrated Jerame’s consciousness – but as if from a great distance away. All he could think about was Orial’s note.
She was gone.
‘What are we to do? I shall have to send the patients away. Without spa water for the treatments –’
‘Mm? What’s that?’ He looked at her, blinking. He realised he had not heard a word she said.
‘The patients, Doctor!’ Her voice was crisp with exasperation. ‘Do I send them away? I’ve called for the ingenieur to come and check the pipes.’
‘The water supply?’ Jerame began to take notice of what she was saying. ‘Have we a leaky pipe? A fault in the hydraulic system?’
The first thing he noticed as they approached the treatment pools was the absence of humidity. His spectacle lenses did not steam over. The little hot bath and the exercise pool were almost empty, the tiles covered with a thin film of greenish water.
‘A crack beneath the tiles?’ He squatted on the edge of the pool to get a closer look.
‘Message for Doctor Magelonne!’ An errand boy appeared in the doorway, waving a paper.
‘What’s this?’ Jerame unfolded the paper. ‘“Unavoidable delay in answering your request for assistance.” This is unacceptable! I have patients waiting for treatment!’ He hadn’t the time to go chasing after ingenieurs, sorting out plumbing faults. He had to start looking for Orial.
‘It’s the same all over,’ stammered the boy.
‘What d’you mean, all over?’
‘All over the city, Doctor. All the baths, all the pools.’
Jerame looked at Sister Crespine. She gave a perplexed little shrug.
‘Shoddy maintenance! Scrimping on essential works! I’ve been warning them about this for years. I trust the Mayor has been informed.’
‘They’re saying it’s bad luck ‘cause the dragonflies didn’t fly.’
‘Silly superstitions!’ snorted Jerame. He spun the boy a coin. ‘Go on, boy. Here’s for your pains. Tell your master I’ll be pleased to see him just as soon as he can get here.’
‘I’ve heard the self-same rumours,’ Sister Crespine said when the boy had pocketed his tip and gone. ‘It’s not just the Sanatorium. The Temple is closed. They say the sacred springs have dried to a trickle…’
‘Impossible,’ Jerame said. ‘We’ve had plentiful rain in the past years. Springs don’t just dry up overnight.’
‘Not without divine intervention…’
‘Oh, Crespine, I’d believed better of you! Don’t tell me you give credence to all this talk of the vengeance of the Goddess?’
Sister Crespine opened her mouth – and then snapped it shut again.
‘We can offer manipulation today.’ Jerame turned and made for the stairs. ‘Any patient who can be treated without immersion or hot mud can still be seen.’
‘And if they want to see you?’ Sister Crespine called from the foot of the stairs.
‘I have to go to the Constabulary. Book them an appointment later…’
A noisy crowd filled the street outside the Guildhall. Crudely painted banners proclaimed ‘Restore Our Hot Water’. Jerame hastily skirted around the edge of crowd, hoping no one would recognise him and ask him to join their protest. He had no time to spare in his search for Orial.
But as he reached the Constabulary, he met the Commissaire coming down the steps in company with several of his constables.
Jerame hailed him.
‘Any news of my daughter?’
‘I’m sorry, Doctor Magelonne, all my men have been busy investigating this business at the springs. Now there’s unrest outside the Guildhall. And as you have no proof of forced entry into your property – or abduction – there’s little I can do.’
And the Commissaire walked on past him.
‘Damn!’ Jerame sat down on the Constabulary steps. Every trail he followed petered out. He had had posters put up about the city, offering a reward for information as to Orial’s whereabouts. But the disappearance of one girl seemed to matter little to a spa city whose water supply had suddenly, inexplicably, dried up.
Acir reined his horse to a halt in the shade of a clump of silver-leaved poplars and dismounted.
A thin stream trickled over gravel beneath the poplars; he led the bay to the water and let it drink. Swarms of black flies buzzed under the leaves; the horse swished its tail vigorously as it drank. Acir drew out his water-bottle and drank too. It was hot and humid, even in the shade of the fluttering leaves, but it was not the dry, intense heat of the desert which seared the skin and made the air taste of fire and dust. On balance, he thought, wiping the sweat from his face, he preferred that intense desert heat to this uncomfortable stickiness.
Propping himself against a poplar trunk, he took out his orders from his jacket and re-read them.
‘Report to me on progress at the Sanctuary Quarry. Marcien is the Commanderie officer in charge. Assess the situation. We need more stone for the Fortress. Do they need more Sanctuarees?’
A junior officer could have carried out this mission equally competently. So there must be a reason why Girim wanted Captain Korentan out of Bel’Esstar today.
In the distance the mountains that divided Allegonde from verdant Tourmalise shimmered in a blue haze of heat.
Inscribed below the written orders was a map; when he looked at the site of the Quarry, it seemed more close to Tourmalise than Allegonde. Girim could have elected to build his Fortress from Allegondan granite. This insistence on costly red stone could be seen as further proof of a disordered mind – or as an act of ultimate devotion to the Faith.
It was past midday when Acir reached the shade of the mountains. Glad of the fresher air, he stopped again to check his map.
Suddenly the ground rocked as a dull thud reverberated through the air. Choughs rose up in a black cloud, circling and cawing in panic.
His startled horse whinnied and shied. He pulled hard on the reins, stroking the brown head and murmuring reassuringly.
An explosion – deep within the mountain.
As he rode on up the road, he saw indisputable evidence of quarrying: traces of fine red dust powdered the bushes and brambles.
A little further on he had to pull his horse in to the side of the road to make way for a cart drawn by a team of oxen, laden with blocks of fresh-quarried stone, heading down to the Dniera and the stone barges.
Around the next bend, the road suddenly opened up and Acir found himself gazing at a vast excavation in the mountainside, a raw, red gash.
Here everything was clogged with red dust; the road, the few stunted trees, the rocks. In this barren hollow, men were working, tiny as ants against the sides of the cavernous bowl that had been hacked out of the hill.
‘Good day to you, confrère.’
A Guerrior approached Acir, striking his hand to his heart in salute.
Acir returned the salute.
‘Where is Captain Marcien? I’ve come from the Grand Maistre with new instructions.’
‘I’ll take you to him. Follow me.’
Clouds of choking dust blew into their faces as they entered the quarry.
‘We’ve been blasting a new tunnel,’ said the Guerrior, taking out a kerchief to cover his nose and mouth.
‘Blasting?’ Acir wiped the dust from his watering eyes. ‘Do you use explosive charges often?’
‘The best stone is in the heart of the mountain. We have to go in deep.’
Acir frowned. ‘Into Tourmalise?’
A look of suspicion flashed across the Guerrior’s face.
‘Have there been complaints?’
They had reached a wooden shack tucked under an overhang. The Guerrior gestured to Acir to dismount and took his horse’s reins.
An officer came storming out. He was caked in stone dust; even his beard and eyebrows were thick with red powder.
‘Who the deuce are –’ He stopped, seeing Acir’s badge of office. ‘Ah, Captain. Welcome.’ His eyes, startlingly green amidst the dust, belied the words of welcome, staring at Acir with overt hostility.
Acir began to relay the Grand Maistre’s message. Before he had finished, Marcien erupted.
‘More stone! Tell him we need more workers. More Sanctuarees. There’s been sickness with the heat. Bad water.’
‘Heat sickness?’ Acir said, suddenly alert. ‘Let me see them. I served in the desert. I have some expertise in these matters –’
“That won’t be possible,’ Marcien said hurriedly.
Now Acir was certain: Marcien was hiding something.
‘Take me to them.’
‘You’ve come at a most inopportune time.’
‘I’ll be making a full report, Marcien. If you have been concealing anything from the Commanderie –’
‘Confound you and your report.’ Marcien glared at him. ‘You pen-pushers – what do you know about the risks of quarrying stone?’
He led Acir towards the entrance to a cave.
In the dank, cool air, he saw forms lying on the cave floor, human forms covered in bloodstained sacking.
Bodies.
Marcien flicked back the sacking from the nearest, watching Acir’s face. He forced himself to show no emotion; he sensed that Marcien wanted to shock him – and yet it was hard not to feel pity at the sight of the twisted, crushed corpse.
‘How?’ he asked.
‘Rockfall. We were blasting deeper into the mountain and the tunnel caved in.’
‘Any survivors?’
‘One. He’s so badly injured he won’t last the night.’
‘I’ll need a list of the names of the dead to take back to Bel’Esstar. For the records.’
‘You and your damned Commanderie records. I need fresh men. Fresh supplies. Tell Girim that. Then he’ll get more stone.’ Marcien went out of the cave towards the shack.
Acir knelt down and gently replaced the sacking over the dead Sanctuaree, murmuring the Obsequy from the Requiem Canticles. There was already a buzz of flies at the cave entrance; he feared this perfunctory farewell would be the only form of funeral rites granted to the dead Sanctuarees.
‘Here’s your list.’ Marcien thrust a paper in front of Acir’s face. Acir glanced down the list of numbers and names beside them.
‘All Sanctuarees.’
‘The Sanctuarees are here to work the stone – and we’re here to see that they get on with it.’
Acir swung around to face him.
‘I take exception to your attitude, confrère. Men cannot work in these inhuman conditions!’
‘Oh, but they can – and they do.’ Marcien smiled at him, an openly provocative smile, baring his teeth.
‘You’ll have no workforce left if you make them labour through the heat of midday – and keep them in the tunnels when you’re blasting.’
‘You make my heart bleed,’ Marcien was jeering at him. ‘Have you forgotten who these men are? Convicted criminals. Rebels. They’d slit our throats and make off across the border if we didn’t watch them night and day.’
‘But these names!’ Acir struck the sheet with his hand. ‘These men were not murderers. They were intellectuals. Musicians. Poets.’
‘Intellectuals?’ Marcien spat into the dust. ‘Word-twisters. Rabble-rousers. And they make cursed useless stoneworkers, I can tell you.’
‘Have you no sense of compassion?’
‘Compassion? This is a place of correction, not a convent.’
Furious, Acir turned away and began to retrace his steps; he could not trust himself not to strike Marcien down.
‘For a Guerrior you seem uncommonly sympathetic to these revolutionaries.’ Marcien called after him. ‘Where do your allegiances lie, Korentan?’
‘Bring in the next witness!’
Khassian stared about him in dismay. Guerriors lined the walls of the courtroom. High up in the public gallery he caught sight – behind the ranks of Guerriors – of anxious faces peering down: wives, mothers, children.
Three men stood chained together before a bench at which a panel of three judges sat in their indigo robes and wide-brimmed hats of office.
‘Is your name Amaru Khassian?’ said one of the judges.
‘It is. But –’
‘Bring him forward.’
‘Is this a trial? Who is being tried?’ Khassian cried as his guards caught hold of him by the arms and hustled him to the front of the court.
‘Amaru Khassian. Do you recognise these men?’
They were gaunt. Their sunken eyes seemed to burn with fever, and their faces showed the livid marks of brutal treatment: swollen mouths, half-healed cuts and weeping sores. But changed as they were, he knew them. They were his musicians.
Wordlessly he begged them to let him know if he should identify them – or plead ignorance. But they would not meet his eyes.
‘Do you know these men?’ repeated the judge. ‘Did you employ them?’
‘Yes,’ Khassian said miserably.
‘Their names, please. And former occupations.’
‘Saturnin – bass. Teriel – hautboy. Ignace – viola d’amore,’ he whispered.
‘Thank you.’
‘Shall we take him back to the Sanctuary?’ asked one of the guards.
‘No. The Grand Maistre has specifically requested that he should be present throughout the proceedings.’
The judge turned back to the three musicians.
‘Now that you have been formally identified, we shall proceed. You have been charged with conspiring to assassinate an officer of the Commanderie. How do you plead?’
There was silence.
‘This is your chance to defend yourselves.’
Still the accused remained silent.
‘We have many witnesses who saw you deliberately cut through the rope holding the masonry when an officer of the Commanderie was passing beneath. What have you to say in your defence?’
Saturnin, the bass, cleared his throat.
‘We do not recognise this as a court of justice.’ His words were slurred; Khassian saw that he moved his bruised jaw with difficulty. ‘This is a travesty of a fair trial. We demand a civil hearing – with a lawyer to defend us against these accusations.’
‘Your protestations do not alter the facts of the case. You plotted to kill one of our officers. And for that, the Grand Maistre demands the ultimate penalty – death.’
‘No!‘cried Khassian, straining forward. His guards caught hold of him and pulled him back.
‘It is the sentence of this court that you be taken from here to a place of execution and hung by the neck until you are dead. Let your deaths be a warning to all those who seek to conspire against the Commanderie.’
There was a cry from the public gallery, a woman’s voice, harsh and sobbing. Khassian thought he caught sight of her, arms outstretched over the balcony – and then the Guerriors closed in and in the ensuing pandemonium, he found himself being dragged away by his guards.
‘Saturnin!’ he shouted. ‘I didn’t know, I didn’t –’
‘Fight on, Amaru!’ cried the bass. ‘Don’t let them defeat you! Don’t –’
Khassian did not hear his last words as his guards pushed him back into the passageway that led beneath the court.
Acir Korentan stopped in a vineyard to rest and water his horse. He felt weary and dispirited by what he had seen; the raw, red gash in the mountainside was an atrocity, an Allegondan rape of Tourmalise’s resources. But worse still was this wanton squandering of the miners’ lives.
Acir took the remains of the rations he had brought with him from his saddle bag: unleavened bread, olives, cheese… but after a mouthful or two he found he was not hungry.
He lay back beside the young vines, gazing up at the brilliant stars, his eyelids slowly closing…
He walks alone through the verdant vineyard in the last light of the setting sun. The fiery sky is streaked with flame and gold: thunderclouds are massing overhead.
The new grapes on the vine tremble in the rising stormwind which comes gusting through the vineyard. It is growing dark.
Acir is gripped with a sudden and inexplicable sense of terror.
‘Acir.’
A man stands between the young vines. A hood covers his face, shadowing the features. How does he know Acir by name? The voice, though low, is sweet as the taste of new wine on the tongue, sweet and strong.
‘I have a gift for you, Acir.’
‘A gift?’
The hooded stranger draws from the breast of his robe a green spray and offers it to Acir.
He slowly stretches out his hands to take the spray – and as his fingers close around the branch, he sees the drops of living blood on the fresh leaves from the torn and lacerated hands of the stranger, red as new wine.
The spray is a rose branch, prickled with vicious thorns that pierce deep into his own flesh. His blood begins to trickle, mingling with the blood of the stranger.
‘Ahh… it burns !’ Seared by the fiery pain. Acir looks up into the shadowed face.
‘What do you want of me?’ His whispered question is almost drowned in a distant grumble of thunder.
For answer, the stranger beckons him towards the vines. In the stormlight, Acir sees the new grapes have shrivelled, the green leaves have turned dry and brown.
‘They are dying.’ The stranger begins to walk away into the darkness of the oncoming storm. ‘Save them. Save my harvest, Acir.’
‘What must I do to save them? Tell me what I must do!’
The stranger turns and looks back and in the sudden pale brilliance of lightning, Acir sees his face.
‘Now do you know me?’
Acir awoke with a start, heart pounding with exhilaration. The young vine leaves rustled softly, stirred not by the storm wind but a faint, warm breeze. Overhead the stars glittered in a cloudless sky.
He knew it had only been a dream – and yet such a vivid dream that he gazed down at his hands in the starlight, half-expecting to see the bleeding thorn-scratches where the burning blood of the Poet-Prophet had mingled with his own.
It was dawn by the time Acir reached Bel’Esstar.
Even as he approached the city, he sensed that something was wrong.
Three bodies swung slowly from the gallows on Pasperdu Hill. A guard of four Guerriors was stationed beneath the gallows.
Acir dismounted and strode over to the guard.
‘What’s happened? Who were these men? Why were they hanged?’
‘Conspirators, Captain. Revolutionaries. They tried to murder an officer of the Commanderie.’
Acir gazed up at the bodies. Sacks had been tied over their heads. But he knew only too well who they were. Girim had deliberately disregarded his recommendations. He had made an example of the musicians.
‘Cut them down.’
‘But our orders were to –’
‘Your orders have changed. Cut them down. And let their families have the bodies for burial.’
When the Guerrior still stood there, hesitating, Acir climbed up on on the platform and began to set about the grim task. Reluctantly, the four Guerriors clambered up to help him.
When all three bodies were laid out beneath the gallows, Acir called the Guerriors together.
‘If anyone questions what you have done today, tell them that you were ordered to do it by Captain Korentan.’
As he turned to go back to his horse, he thought he glimpsed shadowy figures, women watching, waiting in a passageway, supporting each other, clinging to each other for comfort.