Page 34 of Crucible of Chaos

Despite being a little short of breath already, Estevar forced himself to trot up the remaining stairs, leaving Parietta to chase after him. ‘No time for flirtations now, my dear,’ he called. ‘My next assignation awaits!’

When he finally reached the top of the tower, Estevar, noting the absence of any guards, opened the door, slipped inside and turned to close it in Parietta’s face. ‘Alas,mea amadore, we must be parted a while. Your would-be abbess and I have business to discuss.’

Sliding the bolt into its iron brace, Estevar remained at the door a moment longer, allowing himself a small measure of enjoyment at the remarkable string of curses accompanying Parietta’s footsteps back down the winding staircase.

‘That was foolish,’ said a voice behind him, this one deep, mature– strong without relinquishing its femininity. This was a voice accustomed to command, neither brutish nor bullying, merely certain of itself. ‘Sister Parietta has a temper sharper than her sword. A wise person would not fence with either.’

Estevar hadn’t turned yet. He’d always preferred to study a suspect with his ears before his eyes, and this one bore close listening. However, he couldn’t stand staring at the door for ever. This particular conversation– no, thisinterrogation, he reminded himself– would take place face-to-face, with neither of them afforded the opportunity to retreat before he had his answers.

‘With regards to tempers and swords, Madam, from the moment I set foot upon this supposedly holy isle, I have noted with regret that far too many of your brethren have forgotten their manners.’ He turned to stand before the woman who had transformed at least a third of the abbey’s faithful from humble monks into fearsome soldiers. ‘Far too few of you ask yourselves what price you might pay for making an enemy of me.’

‘Let us begin, then,’ said the General of the Trumpeters, ‘and decide whether either of us can afford to make one more.’

CHAPTER 22

THE QUEEN OF SWORDS

She was close to Estevar’s age, which was to say past, though not long past, her fighting years. The hem of her long black wool robe was a touch more frayed; her yellow and gold surcoat lay discarded on the floor by the door, beneath the hook from which it had doubtless fallen. In one hand she held a short, curved knife, and in the other, a piece of wooden dowelling she was carving into what appeared to be the shape of a knight standing at attention.

‘Helps me think,’ she said in response to Estevar’s questioning gaze.

Her skin was a shade darker than his own Gitabrian colouring, but where his hair and beard were a rich, pure black, the short, tight curls clinging close to her scalp were a lighter brown, sprinkled with grey. Despite being a full head shorter than he was, still her presence dominated the observance chamber atop the Vigilance Tower.

‘You are Mother Leogado, I presume?’ Estevar asked, though he had no doubts about whom he was addressing. ‘Or do you preferGeneralLeogado?’

She turned her head, casting him a smile he found both genuine and surprisingly charming, and stepped towards the sole piece of furniture in the otherwise empty chamber: a huge wooden table constructed from rough planks. It must have been built inside this room, for it was too large to have fitted through the door. It was littered with maps, charts and scraps of parchment bearing scrawled diagrams that could have been military formations. The largest of these, the yellowing paper curling at the ends, was a sketch of the island upon which figurines like the one she was now carving were assembled into several wooden armies, knights, archers and ships amassed against a handful of helpless-looking wooden monks.

Mother Leogado placed her latest creation on the map, then walked to one of the tall windows, this one facing southwest towards the causeway and the mainland beyond.

The same window from which she no doubt watched me ringing the bell, Estevar observed. He could see her attention was far away, miles from the abbey.

‘The first assault will come by land,’ she said as if resuming a prior conversation with a trusted lieutenant rather than sharing military intelligence with an outsider, ‘after the tides have subsided and the causeway is passable again. Three days, perhaps four.’

Estevar said nothing. She still hadn’t met his eyes.

She left that window and moved to the one facing due west, overlooking the water. Even from where he stood near the door, Estevar could see the tumultuous waves, higher than they’d been this morning. He had to force himself not to hold his breath at the memory of his near-drowning.

‘After we repulse them at the causeway,’ Mother Leogado went on, still with that quiet, distracted voice, as if speaking only to herself, ‘they will attack by sea. He hasn’t many ships of his own, but he has influence and will make whatever promises he pleases to those who can provide them.’ She squeezed the handle of the carving knife still in her hand. ‘With the help of his knights, he’ll beg, borrow and bully his way to a modest fleet–perhaps a dozen ships–along with enough mercenaries to overwhelm us when they storm the beaches.’

‘Of whom do you speak, my Lady?’ Estevar asked, feeling it prudent to remind her that there was someone else in the room with her.

She crossed her arms, still gazing out to sea. The blade of her knife jutted upwards from her hand as she leaned against the rough wooden window frame. ‘Forgive me, Eminence. The tales I’d heard of the King’s Crucible spoke of a sharp wit that detested the plodding pace of idle conversation. I assumed you’d prefer we skip over the usual pleasantries and posturing and instead get to the matter at hand.’

‘That being your prediction of an invasion by the Margrave of Someil?’

‘Prediction,’ she repeated slowly, making clear her disappointment in his choice of words. ‘The invasion is a matter of time, not intention. Someil craves Isola Sombra as a new and loftier seat of power from which to achieve his ambitions. This abbey shoulders a great history– greater, some might argue, than Castle Aramor itself. Where the latter serves as little more than an ostentatious country house for kings and queens, Isola Sombra is where the people of this nation turn for spiritual guidance.’ She reached up with her free hand to pull a slender brass lever, then pushed the window open. The wind that rushed in brought the smell of seawater, and something else, too: the strange, not-quite-burning scent of air before the lightning strikes.

‘I’ve read theCanon Deicover to cover, Madam,’ Estevar said. ‘I can quote you the passages that claim the gods were born when lightning struck the ores deep beneath Tristian soil where slaves penned up by foreign conquerors had prayed and carved their prayers into the rocks, though they had no religion of their own, no priests, no holy books.’

‘The gods never asked us for scriptures or rituals,’ Leogado countered. ‘They awaited only our faith to give them form,here, on Isola Sombra. Love. War. Death. Craft. Coin. The Mys—’

‘The map of holy sites across this country whose clerics make that same claim would be crowded indeed.’

‘And that’s what a Greatcoat must fear most, isn’t it, Estevar Borros? Some charismatic zealot concocting their own pantheon, enshrining a God ofThisand a God ofThat–along with a new set of commandments to take precedence over your precious King’s Laws?’

‘They are laws written by human beings, Madam: laws meant to serve the men, women and children of this nation, not the whims of supernatural beings conjured from mystical rocks and poor weather.Thatis what makes them precious.’

Mother Leogado laughed, and Estevar found himself laughing as well. He doubted either of them had expected this meeting to devolve into the kind of theological dispute Abbot Venia had so adored. The leader of the Trumpeters was correct in one regard, however: Isola Sombra held tremendous value, even beyond its accumulated riches and strategic positioning. History is replete with minor nobles whose cunning conquest of a revered holy site was the first step to anointing themselves as chosen by the gods to rule over all.

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