Page 22 of Crucible of Chaos

Fortified abbeys like this one were easy to protect against the outside world. The causeway ensured a narrow passage for enemy infantry, and then only when the tides were low; the abbey’s position at the island’s summit lent it a superior vantage point for fighting off invaders, and the massive curtain wall itself could repel a siege for weeks or months if needed.

But once inside, the abbey was entirely vulnerable. Shared food and water supplies meant a single saboteur could poison hundreds. Without a standing constabulary, any attempt to incarcerate a well-liked rabble-rouser could incite rebellion if his friends or followers considered him innocent. But no vulnerability was as dangerous as the weakened bonds of fellowship and faith: two virtues which had apparently proven insufficient in maintaining order during these troublesome times.

‘The factions,’ Estevar asked, tugging Imperious’ reins to keep the mule moving. ‘How many are there?’

‘Ah,’ Caeda said, making no effort to hide the glee in her reply, ‘I could tell you one for every monk living within these walls and you’d have a hard time convicting me of perjury, Magistrate.’

Estevar bit back a retort. He’d never been fond of cynicism as a form of wit, but he was a stranger here, with precious little knowledge of the terrain or the monks themselves. If he hoped to bring Abbot Venia’s killers to justice–to say nothing of restoring peace to Isola Sombra–he needed a guide.

‘The theocratic coalitions are unstable, I presume?’ he asked, hoping for a more useful answer to his question.

‘As if we all stood on quicksand, Eminence.’

Her refusal to speak plainly revealed part of her desire: to have him be reliant on her expertise, and to be fully aware of that dependence.

Very well, Estevar decided,let us presume you have reasons beyond bitterness and malice for remaining here and see where you lead me.

‘Have you a theory, then, Madam?’ he asked. ‘Which faction presents the greatest threat to the abbey’s future and which seek to live in harmony within these walls?’

She turned and smiled up at him. She enjoyed being referred to as ‘madam’ or ‘lady’, he’d noticed. Perhaps she was accustomed only to spiteful looks and mean-spirited gossip from the monks. Had Abbot Venia, despite his claims of humility and open-mindedness, failed to protect Caeda from the callousness of his brethren, or had he hoped their cruelty would induce her to abandon this place and begin a life elsewhere, free from the shadows of whichever parentage had left her held in such low esteem?

‘Have you ranks within the Greatcoats?’ Caeda asked abruptly, halting their progress once again.

Estevar was glad for the chance to catch his breath. The fever, though somewhat abated, still bothered him, and he’d yet to recover from the additional injuries he’d accumulated.

Saint Eloria-whose-screams-draw-blood! What am I going to do if upholding my ruling over the governance of the abbey requires me to fight another duel?

His red-headed guide was staring at him with a curious expression and he realised he’d forgotten to answer her question.

‘Ranks, my Lady? Not really. When a trial requires the attentions of several magistrates, the whole is referred to as a “choir”, and the Greatcoat charged with leading that choir is called a “cantor”.’

Caeda sighed wistfully. ‘How lovely. It’s almost as if the law were a kind of music and all of you players seeking to compose a more harmonious song together.’

Another deflection from Estevar’s enquiry. Clearly, she wanted something from him, though she hadn’t demanded any kind of promise or assurance about who he’d side with or what sentence he might impose. Which meant the young woman wanted something more personal– something for herself.

Is that such an unreasonable expectation in exchange for her assistance?He set aside for a moment his own predilection for ignoring all considerations save those that dealt with the facts of the case.Whatever life she has lived here, it isn’t one I would wish on my own daughters.

An idea took him– a whimsical impulse, but one that might aid his investigations. ‘Among my people, who live across the ocean,’ he began with great solemnity, ‘we have an instrument called atonalto. It is a type of flute, made from silver and tin. In Tristia you have something similar– apiccolo, you call it.’

Caeda suddenly stepped back into him, turned to place a finger to his lips and hide the light of her candle. Before long, his ears picked up what she’d heard much sooner: the patter of sandals on the floor above them, carried down through a grating in the roof not three feet from where they stood.

Torches in the passageways above suggested they must now be beneath one of the abbey interiors; there was certainly more light in this part of the tunnels. Estevar leaned forward to glance up at the drain and saw a man in monk’s robes squatting over the iron grate. A moment later, the first trickles of urine drip-drip-dripped onto the rough stone floor in front of them, soon turning into a rather torrential stream. In the confines of the tunnel, the acrid stench invaded their nostrils. Caeda’s face pinched with disgust when something even more off-putting slithered down between the grate’s iron bars to plop down on the tunnel floor.

For his part, Estevar was intrigued by such blatantly disrespectful behaviour in the heart of the abbey.So at least some of the monks here no longer fear reprisals for desecrating their holy place.

After the monk had slunk away from the scene of his crime, Caeda unshielded her candle and stepped gingerly over the evidence of his malfeasance. ‘Pigs,’ she spat, picking up her pace to get away from the stench. ‘Now, what were you saying about these tolanos. . . tonaldi. . .’ She gave up mangling his native tongue and asked, ‘You mentioned something about piccolos?’

‘Lovely instruments,’ Estevar continued. ‘Their tone is light and delicate, but can rise to be heard over an entire orchestra.’

‘I suppose,’ she said without conviction, sounding annoyed by the obscure direction he’d taken their conversation. ‘I’ve never heard a piccolo. I suppose it makes a pretty noise?’

‘Not merely pretty, butpotent, as well– especially when one seeks to pierce the smothering din of ignorant louts who would otherwise talk or shout over the music. Often it is the piccolo which commands the silence of an audience and compels their attention.’

They were halfway up a slope now, and Estevar could see a narrow door waiting at the end of the passage. Caeda stopped, her expression excited, almost childlike, having finally understood his reason for discussing musical instruments. ‘This piccolo does indeed sound like a most potent device. A vital one, would you say?’

Estevar placed his hands lightly on her shoulders. ‘Caeda, you are not under my command, nor can I compel your service in this matter. Nonetheless, my investigation will be lost without your knowledge and insight. If we are to be partners, I must count on both your discretion and your willingness to comport yourself within the ethical boundaries of a magistrate. Might you, therefore, consider taking the part of the piccolo in this song we are to compose together?’

Delight blossomed across the young woman’s face. She took two steps back and gave Estevar the most preposterously flamboyant obeisance he’d ever seen, beginning as a curtsey, drifting into an elaborate bow and ending in a chaotic series of gestures that he presumed was meant to be a salute.

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