Whistler [A sequel to The Chronicles of Hawklan] Page 15

  He stood silent and thoughtful as his instructions were implemented. Albor remained by him, standing close and confidential, instinctively demonstrating his superiority to the more junior Keepers now milling about the alley.

  'You think we'll find anything?’ he asked as the group dwindled to the two who had been posted on guard.

  Skynner eased him out of earshot of the two men. ‘I hope to Ishryth we do,’ he said. ‘But I doubt it.'

  Albor raised an eyebrow, detecting the unusual note in his superior's voice. Skynner answered the unspoken question. ‘It's got all the earmarks of a lover's tiff.’ Albor allowed himself a slight knowing smile at this heavy professional irony as Skynner continued. ‘But wives and sweethearts don't normally rob their heart's desire after they've killed him, do they?’ The slight smile became a slight nod. ‘So ...’ He seemed reluctant to spell out his conclusion and his voice dropped even though he could not be overheard by the two junior Keepers. ‘So it might be a random killing. We might have a lunatic on our hands ... someone who kills people for no reason, except some weird desire of their own.'

  Albor remained silent. Skynner's simple statement made as powerful an impression on him as any amount of ranting and shouting, and though he had no experience of such a killing, he was experienced enough to see the implications. If it had happened once, then...

  And neither laws nor Keepers could protect anyone from a murderer who would strike thus.

  He shivered slightly. He did not want to think about it. Indeed, he found it almost impossible even to imagine such a thing, notwithstanding, or perhaps because of, the presence of a mutilated corpse.

  'I've heard about things like that, but a long time ago,’ he said reassuringly. ‘I'll grant this is a bad one, but you're probably worrying unnecessarily. There'll be a jealous lover somewhere, I'll wager.'

  Skynner did not reply. His conviction was growing, and the thing that had been silently nagging at him came into focus. ‘It is a lunatic,’ he said eventually. ‘You saw the man's eyes. That wasn't someone fighting to keep his money, or trying to beat off a jealous lover. He was looking at something truly frightful.'

  'He was being stabbed,’ Albor remarked, in an attempt to move away from this conclusion. ‘He's hardly likely to have been smiling, is he?'

  Skynner gave a slight nod but his demeanour did not change. ‘We've got an ordinary person doing some ordinary thing here, suddenly faced with an unprovoked, unexpected and unstoppable attack. Suddenly faced with his worst nightmare. It's all in his eyes.’ He started walking slowly towards the mouth of the alley, motioning Albor to follow him.

  There was such certainty in his voice that Albor did not even consider debating the point. Besides, the man's eyes had given him the creeps.

  'If you're right, what can we do then?’ he asked.

  'Personal awareness and luck,’ Skynner said flatly.

  Albor looked at him quizzically.

  'That's what my old Serjeant told me when I was a pup,’ Skynner expanded. ‘Personal awareness and luck. Said he'd realized that the last time this kind of thing happened here.'

  Albor was openly surprised. ‘I've never heard of any ... lunatic ... murderer actually in Troidmallos,’ he said.

  Despite the rain, his interrupted sleep, and his dark thoughts, Skynner felt his spirits lift a little at the memory. The two men emerged into the street where their horses were tethered.

  'Nor will you,’ Skynner said, mounting. ‘It was all discreetly forgotten in the end.’ Albor leaned forward a little, detecting the change in tone. He did not have to prompt Skynner into continuing. There was nothing quite like Keepers’ gossip. ‘Ten people this fellow killed,’ Skynner went on, holding his hands out in demonstration. ‘Ten. Smashed their heads in.’ One hand folded into a fist and struck the palm of the other. ‘One every two weeks or so. ‘Course, there were no Sheets in those days, just the daily postings, but apparently there were crowds around the posting points, and the whole town was in a state verging on panic. Heinders were yelling at the Chief to “do something", the Chief was yelling at the High Captains, High Captains yelling at Captains and so on, right down the line. One of the Witness Party Heinders even tried to get an emergency law passed to forbid people from carrying cudgels.'

  Albor's mouth dropped open. ‘You're not serious,’ he said with amused incredulity.

  'Oh yes,’ Skynner confirmed. ‘Just like it is today, there's no end to the ridiculous things that a Heinder will suggest rather than admit he can't do anything.'

  'I presume nothing came of it?'

  'With most of the Heinders around him armed to the teeth, some of them even hiring private guards, and ordinary folks organizing armed patrols? It certainly didn't.’ He paused. ‘Awareness and luck,’ he said softly to himself. His mood darkened as he realized he was describing what might come to pass again if he was right. ‘It was a bad time by all accounts, Albor. Difficult to imagine. The whole town full of frightened people. One person holding tens of thousands in sway.'

  But Albor was not interested in social subtleties. ‘What happened in the end?’ he asked.

  Skynner pursed his lips appreciatively. ‘Some woman got him—a little old lady. Strange really, he'd always attacked men before. But who knows what these people think? Anyway, according to my old Serjeant, this old dear was walking home past Haven Park when a man appeared in front of her shouting something wild and waving an iron bar at her. At this, she's supposed to have folded her arms across her bag and said something like, “Stand aside, young man, I wish to pass,” even as he was walking towards her!'

  Albor was enthralled, and Skynner was beginning to enjoy himself. ‘But as the man's arm goes up to add number eleven to his list, out of the old lady's bag comes her best carving knife.’ Skynner thrust his hand forward in imitation. His horse lifted its head and shook it. ‘Not a flicker of a pause. Up under the ribcage, into the heart, end of murderer. Thus let it be.’ He chuckled loudly. ‘It seems that the old lady was once a butcher's wife.’ His chuckle became a full-bellied laugh.

  Albor was suspicious. ‘You're making it up,’ he risked. ‘I've never heard of any of that.'

  Skynner shook his head. ‘No, it's true to the best of my knowledge. There were other officers who remembered it. It was a tale they came out with almost every time there was a murder. The reason it's not commonplace is that the murderer was the son of one of the wealthy merchants—a big supporter of the Castellan Party—you know the kind of thing. And, as I said, there were no Sheets in those days. The daily postings simply announced that an unknown man had been killed while resisting arrest and the whole business quietly faded away.'

  The two men shared a brief spell of professional good fellowship in the glow of this tale as they rode quietly along, but the bloodstained body under the sheet soon returned to dispel it. Skynner began making plans for the immediate future. He would catch as much sleep as he could salvage from the rest of tonight, then tomorrow he would inform his Captain and set about the happy business of examining the body. He puffed out his cheeks in rueful anticipation. At least he could leave the Sheeters to the Captain. On the whole he'd rather deal with a dead body than the likes of Privv and his ilk. Somehow it felt more wholesome.

  * * *

  Chapter 13

  Cassraw sat pensively in the room that served him as an office for dealing with the considerable workload that tending the Haven parish presented him with. It was a typical Meeting House room, plain and spartan, and, despite its high arched ceiling, its long narrow shape and the poor lighting gave it a somewhat claustrophobic atmosphere. Had Cassraw chosen to look from the window that was providing this inadequate light, he would have seen a fine spring day bustling about its rich and varied business, with a strong wind tousling the trees and shrubs of the large Meeting House garden and hurrying bright white clouds across the blue sky and over the mountains.

  But Cassraw had little eye for such things. His gaze was on a far future; on a vision th
at had been given to him on the mountain and which grew daily. A vision of a Gyronlandt united again under the rule of the church, its various decadent and irreligious governments overthrown by a fervent people yearning to fulfil His will, yearning to come together into an army that would sweep His enemies not only from Gyronlandt but from all the lands where they were to be found. It was a heady prospect.

  He reached out and laid a hand on his favourite copy of the Santyth. At first he had been concerned about some of the messages that had come to him in the wake of his fateful encounter on the Ervrin Mallos. Sometimes, albeit rarely, the voice within him spoke as clearly to him as if He were immediately before him. Cassraw's legs shook even at the thought of the power that he felt when this happened. At other times the voice was distant and vague, its meaning obscure if not completely unintelligible. This must be a failing on his part, he was sure—a weakness of faith, something he must seek out within himself ruthlessly and destroy. And, strangely, he was having dreams now. Dreams full of strange shifting landscapes and black shadows that were not shadows, and where other things prowled, searching, watching, listening. He had never dreamed before.

  Vredech.

  The name came unbidden and, as was always the case these days when he thought of his old friend, he was filled with uncertainty.

  At some time, in some place, he had disputed with Vredech, he was sure. He had declaimed his power and his transfiguration into the Chosen One. He had filled the world with his being. But Vredech, small and insignificant, had defied him—defied him, even though in the end he had reduced him to less than the merest mote.

  The memory was vivid but the time, the place, were gone. It must have been in a dream, he presumed.

  Cassraw set the memory of his friend aside. It had the quality of a tiny buzzing insect, offering no threat, but ever there, reminding him of something, though he could not say what. He turned his mind to the thoughts that had recently been tormenting him. Thoughts the like of which he had never before experienced, not even in his wild and angry youth. Thoughts full of lust and violence. Thoughts markedly at odds with the words of the Santyth. He had prayed desperately for guidance when these had begun to manifest themselves.

  And his prayer had been answered.

  'You are the Chosen One. My vessel. You are not as others, nor as you were. All comes from Me. Obey. That which has been written shall be written anew.'

  Cassraw patted a copy of the Santyth that lay on the desk before him. It was a frequent, reassuring gesture. Already he saw in many of its verses meanings that had previously been hidden from him. And he had been told that where there was obscurity, inconsistency, new verses would be given to him. A thrill passed through him even at the idea.

  But now was not the time. Neither the church nor the people were ready yet for His new interpretations, still less new revelations. Now was the time for silently driving roots deep into the fertile ground of the Madren people. Roots that would grip firm and strong in the hidden darkness so that when the plant finally bloomed, no power of man would be able to draw it forth.

  Little by little, His will would be done. With the patient inexorability that wore down mountains, each deed done in His name, however seemingly slight, would set in train irreversible consequences, like ripples from an idly-thrown pebble spreading across the silent surface of a mountain lake.

  He looked up from the book and his eye fell on the glass-panelled door of a cabinet. In it, distorted and fragmented, was a reflection of part of the garden, and there, too, twisted and hunched by the irregular panes, was Dowinne. He turned to look at the true image of his wife through the window. She was standing motionless, apparently deep in thought, her hand resting lightly on the trunk of a tree, staring at a small ornamental pond.

  She too had changed since that first night following his return from the Witness Hall. Throughout their married life it had always disturbed him a little that, though affectionate enough, there had always been a quality of uncertainty—dutifulness, even—about her lovemaking. Now however, there were times when she would seize him with a breathless, exhausting passion as if some wild and long-hidden creature within her had suddenly been released.

  It is fitting, he thought. She senses His presence within me. She yearns to be one with Him, as I am.

  And she pleases Him.

  A discreet tapping on the door drew his mind back to matters of the moment. A servant entered. ‘Heinder Drommel is here, Brother Cassraw,’ she announced.

  He nodded and made a small hand gesture by way of reply. The woman bowed and backed out of the doorway without comment. Cassraw flicked open the Santyth and began studying it earnestly.

  'Brother Cassraw?'

  Cassraw smiled broadly as he stood up and extended his hand towards the speaker, a tall, thin man whose naturally straight posture was exaggerated by a nervous stiffness. ‘Heinder Drommel,’ he said warmly. ‘Thank you for coming to see me.’ He motioned him to a chair.

  'Who could refuse an invitation from the church's most famous preacher?’ Drommel said, sitting down a little awkwardly as if reluctant to bend any part of himself.

  'You'll have me guilty of pride,’ Cassraw replied, raising one hand in denial while the other came to rest on the open Santyth. ‘I but spread the Word that He has left for us, and tend to the spiritual and moral needs of my flock.’ Drommel looked as if he was about to say something, but Cassraw forestalled him. ‘You, on the other hand, tend to their ...’ he paused. ‘... their secular needs. You strive to keep justice in our laws, to ensure that our streets and highways are kept free from danger and open to the passage of the worldly goods that we require. You look to the safety of our borders, situated as we are, small and weak amid decadent and godless lands.'

  Slightly unsettled by this last reference and by the apparent trend of the conversation, Drommel intervened.

  'What we might look to do and what we can actually do are, sadly, two different things for a small party such as ours. Whenever possible, we try to bring a little morality into the proceedings of the Heindral but, alas, we are not often successful. Matters are often arranged for the best interests of the few rather than the many.'

  'We live in an imperfect world, Heinder.'

  A thin humourless slit cut Drommel's face. It was a smile. ‘Rendered thus by ourselves, if I remember my Santyth,’ he said.

  Cassraw waved a conceding hand. ‘Indeed,’ he said. ‘But remediable by us also.'

  He leaned back in his chair, his face suddenly serious and controlling the silence that hung between the two men. After a moment, he spoke. ‘You'll have to forgive me, Heinder, if I'm a touch hesitant about what I'm going to say next, but just as you risked venturing into the Santyth just now, so I'm going to risk venturing a little way into your territory.'

  Drommel's eyes widened slightly. He was intensely intrigued. The church was not above discreetly meddling in politics, but it concerned itself strictly with the realities of Canol Madreth's political life and only made its wishes known to either the Castellans or the Ploughers, whichever happened to be in power, and then only through its Covenant Member. Despite the fact that the Witness Party was often praised for its moral stand on various issues and even had Preaching Brothers amongst its ranks, it was never seriously expected to actually do anything, so it was never even approached. What, therefore, could Cassraw be up to?

  'This business with Tirfelden,’ Cassraw said, his voice intense and powerful. ‘I'm no expert in these matters, but I have the feeling that your party was expected to disagree with both sides and thereby ensure that no real action would be taken.’ He looked straight at his guest. ‘Why did you support the Castellans?'

  Drommel managed to disguise a nervous start as a look of attentiveness. Whatever he had been expecting from this interview it had not been an interrogation. He was half-inclined to be indignant, but even though he began weighing the consequences of risking a quarrel with a man who could possibly rise to become Covenant Member in due cou
rse, it was Cassraw's actual presence that deterred him.

  He settled for a haughty line. ‘A man was killed, Brother—a respected man who had travelled abroad in the quite legitimate pursuit of his business affairs. One of many such whose activities benefit us all in one way or another by helping to preserve our prosperity. This is not a matter for foolish political games. A strong response is necessary if our people are to feel safe as they go about Gyronlandt on our service.'

  'He was in his cups,’ Cassraw said sternly.

  Drommel responded in like manner, pointing towards the Santyth that lay under Cassraw's hand. ‘An activity of his own choosing, which though perhaps foolish, is legal both here and in Tirfelden, and in any event not one that deserves the death penalty.'

  Cassraw's expression did not change, slightly unnerving Drommel. Untypically, he blundered on rather than risk trading silences with this unexpectedly powerful individual. ‘The Ploughers with their foolishness would merely have injured us all. Such things as we trade with Tirfelden can be obtained from other countries, albeit more expensively. They would simply turn away from us and trade elsewhere.'

  Still Cassraw's expression did not change. ‘But your way might lead to violence,’ he said.

  Drommel shook his head. ‘Violence is begotten only by violence, and we shall be using none. We're a civilized people, after all. There's no reason why expulsion of their people should not be conducted in an orderly and peaceful manner. And such assets as are seized will be released in due course, after an appropriate deduction to compensate the victims’ families.’ He gave a slight shrug, which seemed to use the whole of his upper body rather than just his shoulders. ‘Besides, I doubt it will come to that. If we remain resolute then the Felden will behave in a sensible manner before the matter goes too far.'

  'And if we don't?'