Page 33 of Crucible of Chaos

‘What a preposterous name,’ he said to the earthen mound covering the body of the man who’d summoned him here. ‘Trumpeters?’ He glanced around the place, nearly catching his unwanted companion as the fellow ducked behind a row of shrubs in a flurry of grey wool. ‘There are none of that particular species of poisonous yellow flower to be found in this abbey, nor anywhere, I suspect, on the entire island.’ He kicked the mound. ‘Was that not a clue you should have acted sooner to prevent the faction from forming in the first place, you silly fool?’

No response came from the interred abbot, but the sudden slap of sandalled feet on the flagstones, as quickly halted, told Estevar a great deal about his stalker.

A slight limp on the left foot, he thought,presuming he starts with his right, as most people do.More illuminating, however, was the way the spy had set off so quickly when Estevar had kicked the dirt, only to then stop again.The desecration of the abbot’s resting place troubles you, does it, my friend? And yet you’re too cautious to challenge me directly.

Estevar suspected he’d found Venia’s gravedigger, the one who reinterred the cadaver each night after it mysteriously rose from the ground during the day.

Why do you not remain at your rest?he wondered. Even now, he could see particles of dirt trickling down the unquiet mound as if something were burrowing slowly beneath.

‘Oh, will you rise up to remonstrate with me now, Venia?’ he asked aloud. ‘Have I ever struck you as someone impressed by cheap parlour tricks– whether supernatural or not? Perhaps you intend to resume our debate over whether humanity’s place is to follow the will of the gods or whether the gods, those arrogant reflections of our own faith, serve us best by pointing out the hollowness of our intentions?’

Still no answer came from the dead abbot’s grave, and Estevar was surprised by how deeply he missed the squat, thin-haired fellow, the strident tone that rose and fell in pitch as he illustrated his argument with extravagant gesticulations. A rapier blade too often drawn becomes nicked and dulled, requiring a whetstone to sharpen, but a mind is honed only through the vigorous clash and clang of incompatible ideas.

‘Why were you killed, Venia?’ he asked quietly. ‘The who, I will uncover by one means or another. The motive will be, as always, greed or jealousy or spurned love or mindless fury, but the reason–thetruereason–why you lie unquiet in this mound of dirt surrounded by the dust of dead gods? That is the knot I must untie if there is to be any hope for this abbey you so loved.’

Estevar stood, only for dizziness to overtake him. He pressed his palm to his forehead, gauging the degree of heat and clamminess of his skin, then looked about and saw on the opposite side of the courtyard an open door. If he recalled aright, it led to the chandler’s workshop, which had a small cot in the corner. Estevar liked candles. They were both a reminder of his duty and a metaphor for his vocation.

Cast a light upon the things that hide in the shadows,he told himself as his tired legs carried him resentfully over the debris towards the workshop,for there can be no justice in darkness.

‘I am going to rest a while,’ he said, loud enough for his silent companion to hear, then patted the rapier belted to his side so the hilt rung against the brass rim of the scabbard. ‘You may try to kill me if you wish, but others have found it an onerous endeavour, and should you succeed, there will be no one to find your beloved abbot’s killer.’ As he was about to step into the chandlery, he added, ‘Oh, and do something about your left heel. The awkwardness of your footsteps suggests the limp is recent.’ He felt at the wound beneath his ribs. ‘Best not to let these things fester.’

CHAPTER 21

THE TOWER OF VIGILANCE

Noon had come and gone before Estevar woke inside the abandoned chandlery. The cot had proved more comfortable than he’d anticipated, the pair of brass candlesticks with which he’d barred the door a sufficiently reassuring means of both delaying and warning against any potential intruders. Alas, slumber had failed to provide any new insights into the death of Abbot Venia. There would be no avoiding his visit to what he felt sure would be a garden whose flowers had more thorns than petals.

When at last he made his way across the courtyard to ascend the stone steps of the Vigilance Tower, the doors swung open before he had a chance to knock. His arrival had evidently been expected.

Two hooded monks wearing sleeveless yellow surcoats over their black robes dashed out and grabbed him by the arms. Neither of his would-be captors was of any great size, but Estevar offered no resistance when they hauled him inside. A great thump behind him signalled a pair of similarly garbed brethren placing a heavy wooden bar across barricade brackets mounted into the stone walls on either side. The iron was so free of rust that the brackets fairly gleamed, in spite of the dampness permeating the tower.

A recent addition meant to withstand battering rams, not a few swords wielded by Strigan and his drunken hounds, Estevar observed to himself.

‘Watch for the witch or her traitor,’ bellowed one of Estevar’s captors as she stripped the borrowed rapier from him. She drew back her hood and Estevar recognised her as Sister Parietta, the swordswoman who’d attempted to wrest him from Brother Agneta’s clutches– was it only the day before?

‘The witch or her traitor,’ Estevar repeated silently to himself.So Caeda’s relationship with Malezias is well known, and his loyalty to her considered treachery to Mother Leogado, which is further proof of my theory that he was once a soldier under the captain’s command.

The interior of the vigilia, the abbey’s watchtower, was as unlike that of the Venerance Tower as Sister Parietta was from Strigan the Wolf-King. This vigilia was more fortress than palace, the stone walls bare of tapestries or portraits, the main floor a single massive room filled with yellow-garbed monks standing over rough-hewn wooden tables performing tasks as varied as chopping potatoes and grinding millet to oiling the rust off old swords and trimming feathers for fletching. There was no sign of excessive opulence and revelry in this place.

‘Upstairs with you,’ Parietta ordered him brusquely.

‘A pleasure to once again make your acquaintance, Madam,’ he said, and set off up the stairs spiralling around the tower to its upper levels.

On each floor there were more yellow-robed monks hard at work, though not all at siege preparations. On the third level, a dozen were busily wrapping gold-framed paintings, porcelain sculptures and what at a glance looked to be musical instruments in woollen blankets before packing them carefully into wooden boxes.

‘Keep moving,’ Parietta said, pairing the instruction with a jab in the small of his back from the pommel of her longsword.

The pain was noteworthy, triggering a sharp-tongued response. ‘Offer such romantic attentions without my consent again, Sister, and you will find me—’ Estevar caught himself. What was he doing building up to another of his customary long-winded challenges? He’d barely bluffed his way out of the last one.

‘What did you say to me?’ she demanded. The hiss of a blade drawn from its sheath preceded a sharper prodding against his back.

‘Forgive me Sister,’ he said, raising his hands in surrender. ‘I was recalling a most inappropriate invitation I received from a woman of noble birth but less than noble intentions.’

Parietta shoved him from behind to make it clear his pace was inadequate for one she considered her prisoner. ‘Can’t imagine any woman wanting you in her bed– not unless she can afford to replace it once you’ve done breaking it.’

A different approach then, Estevar decided, and turned briefly to wink at the stern, yet not unhandsome woman. ‘Your faith in my sexual prowess is most flattering. Perhaps I was too hasty in my reproach of you finding so many ways to touch me.’

‘What?I wasn’t—’

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