To his sides and against the walls stood young caratsa, brown-robed and anxious; about the room were the Holy Guard, in full silver and black. Marlen Steiner's cold blue eyes flicked to the spot where a table and chairs usually stood before the wide, open windows…but the tall windows were latched firmly shut and there was no table.
Marlen Steiner walked before the phalanx of Holy Guards, and wondered where all the other priests were. Porsada Temple's grand hall had been deathly silent, with only the sentries to break the uniform stone arches and hallways. Marlen's son Symon followed at his father's side and, with them, their loyalest provincial allies, Duke Tarabai of Danor and Duke Belary of Vedici. There was no need for more patachis now. Patachi Marlen Steiner, of the great house of Steiner, was the only patachi in Petrodor now worthy of the name.
“Your Holiness,” said Marlen, walking slowly with the help of his cane. He passed between the Holy Guard, and knelt on one knee. He kissed the archbishop's extended hand, where the large gold ring bulged on the finger. His knee hurt as he rose, a familiar ache. Marlen considered the archbishop, he looked tired. Marlen doubted the man had slept much. From his windows, he must have had a grand view of Dockside all through the night.
Greetings done, the archbishop clapped his hands and the caratsa filed for the door. They moved quickly, Marlen noted. Their manner spoke of fear. The Holy Guards retreated several steps.
“Your Holiness,” Marlen said once more, with as low a bow as his aching joints would allow him. “How good of you to see me at such short notice.”
Archbishop Augine managed a thin smile. “How remiss would it be if the archbishop did not listen to his people?” Fear. Again, Marlen smelled it. Guards everywhere. No priests in sight. The archbishop's private chambers rearranged for most intimidating effect. The man had rolled the dice, and lost. Now, he feared. Perhaps he had cleansed his fellow priests too thoroughly. Perhaps those priests now forgot their holy vows in turn, and sought revenge, providing access to the temple for armed men of their respective families. So long as the archbishop seemed strong and commanded the respect of his allies and his guards he was safe. But the cold light of this fine morning had shown Augine's failure.
“I have news, Holiness,” Marlen continued, resting his weight heavily upon his cane. “I have spoken with Patachi Maerler.”
Augine's eyebrows raised with attempted off-handed interest. “Oh yes?”
“The patachi sees that his position has changed. He informs me that he no longer claims command of the great Torovan army. He concedes that Family Steiner is the logical choice for such a command. I feel that the issue is resolved.”
Augine blinked at him. His chin rested in one hand, gold-ringed fingers tapping nervously on his jaw. “Resolved, you say? Resolved how?”
“Patachi Maerler concedes to my authority,” said Marlen Steiner, his stare firm and level. There could be no mistaking his meaning.
“I…see.” The archbishop replaced the hand on his leather-bound book. “And how shall you recover the Shereldin Star? This matter seems…much unresolved.”
“There are ways,” said Marlen.
“Ways?”
“Yes. Ways.”
Augine's jaw trembled in rage. “I shall not be kept from your plans like a child! Without the star, you shall have nothing! No Verenthane holy warriors shall follow you on a crusade while that symbol remains held to ransom by pagans on Dockside!”
“Perhaps,” said Marlen Steiner, cooly, “you might have thought of that. Before you launched your mob.”
“I will not be lectured to by a-” Augine cut himself short with difficulty. Marlen was surrounded by armed men, yet he did not fear. The archbishop needed him. Family Steiner was perhaps the only protection the archbishop had left.
“Your Holiness,” Marlen said grimly, “I shall be brief.” He took a measured step forward, his cane creaking. “The mobs are the crudest of weapons. They have destroyed Saalshen's presence here, and made an enemy of Saalshen far earlier in the game than was either wise, or safe. Trade shall suffer from Saalshen's retribution. Trade that pays for weapons, you understand, and soldiers. Saalshen's warriors strike from the shadows, Holiness. Be assured that the mobs did not kill them all. Guard yourself well.”
The archbishop paled.
Marlen continued, with dark satisfaction. “Worse yet, you have united Dockside against us. Where before the Nasi-Keth were split, I now hear that Kessligh Cronenverdt has emerged a leader and a hero.”
“He was gravely wounded!” Augine snapped. “I have spies too, Master Steiner.”
“Not gravely,” said Marlen, shaking his head. “Serrin medicines heal fast. Be assured that Kessligh Cronenverdt is most difficult to kill. Many thousands have been killed. Yes, thousands. Most of them poor folk from Riverside. These were your most willing followers, Your Holiness. They were your coin, and you have spent them unwisely. There is discontent amongst the dukes. Our good dukes need men of strong health and loyal hearts to work the land. They are alarmed to see commonfolk transformed into a raging mob at the deliverance of a mere speech. They feel a precedent has been set. They wonder if the serrins’ mansions were only the first, to be followed by their own castles and holdfasts.”
“The country folk are not like the Riversiders,” Augine muttered, in great discomfort. “The Riversiders had nothing.”
“And you offered them eternity.” Marlen spread his hands and gave a small, sarcastic smile. “How generous.” The archbishop glared. “The dukes’ fears may not be well placed, but they are roused all the same. They do not seek the leadership of priests, Your Holiness. Yours is the dominion of the heavens. The dukes seek the leadership of men in this earthly realm, and no other.”
Augine looked at Dukes Tarabai and Belary. Neither said a word. Each of these men could raise thousands of soldiers and had declared their intent to do so as soon as a leader for the army had been chosen. What was the archbishop's power now beside the weight of thousands of armed men? Real soldiers, unlike the mob?
The archbishop took a deep breath. “What do you propose?”
“That all future dealings in these matters be left to me, and to me alone, in consultation with my loyal friends. You have gambled and lost, Your Holiness, and you have weakened the authority of the priesthood. Now, the question shall finally be solved. My way.”
At first, Jaryd heard a muffled thump. He sat on a small chair by a window overlooking the square, hands behind his back, chained about the chair legs and in turn to his ankles. Rhyst had made sure he had a good view of the square and the wedding of his sister. The last loose end of Family Nyvar, Rhyst had said, with a nasty smile. Or the second-last, rather. That would come later.
About him were boxes and barrels, and a lot of dust. The room was narrow, barely more than an afterthought between apartments. He'd never been here before, but he knew exactly what it was and had no doubt benefited from the fine stash now stacked around him.
Jaryd heard another muffled thump. Someone was moving up the stairs, perhaps. He stared out at the sunlit square, at the crowds of townsfolk and the cordon of guards holding them back from the temple entrance. Galyndry would probably be an Iryani by now. He wondered if she went willingly. He wondered if she even believed the tales of who'd killed their little brother Tarryn. Galyndry was not a brave soul. In fact, she'd been a girlish fool for most of Jaryd's memory, but he knew himself well enough now to doubt his own judgments, particularly about people he'd thought he'd known well. Possibly he was wrong. But if he was not, why was the wedding progressing? Surely she could have protested? Fled? Schemed…he didn't know, something? Women, in Jaryd's experience, would scheme as hardened warriors fought-tenaciously and without mercy. And yet here were the crowds, and the flags, and the carnival fools and cavorters. Delya was down there somewhere too, already wed to Family Arastyn, Tarryn's murderers. And Wyndal, whose life he'd thought in danger. Fancy coming all this way, to suffer this fate, for the ungrateful likes of Wyndal.
Another thump and a muffled crash. The lordling on guard was Gyl Ramnastyr…Rhyst had wanted to guard Jaryd himself but the others hadn't let him. No one trusted Rhyst Angyvar alone in a room with the man who had sliced open his face. They hadn't beaten him badly, nor even hurt him much. Perhaps Great Lord Arastyn had other plans in mind. But Gyl was now on his feet, listening at the door.
Crash, thud, and the unmistakable ring of steel. A yell of pain. Then another thud, and a rumble that might have been a body falling down stairs. Jaryd struggled to shout out against the cloth that gagged his mouth, but made little sound. A thump of footsteps up the stairs, then a clank of keys at the door.
“Who's there?” shouted Gyl, sword drawn, eyes wide.
“Friends!” came the reply.
“On your honour, man, name yourself!”
There was a muttering from the other side. “Damn you and your blasted honour, how dare you talk honour with me?” A key rattled in the keyhole. Gyl stuck the point of his sword between door planks and thrust hard. The sword went partway through, then stuck. The door clanked open, then was smashed inward by a heavy kick, Gyl's sword still in the door. Gyl stumbled backward, whipping a knife from his belt, but it was Teriyan coming through the door, tall and swaggering, his wild red hair only making him seem larger and more fierce.
And he was wielding a sword. “What are you going to do, lad?” he asked Gyl. “Beg for a fair fight? You'd not win that one either.” Gyl stood for a moment, paralysed. Then he put the knife on the floor and backed off against one wall.
“Jaryd,” Gyl said quickly, his voice trembling as Teriyan tried the keys in the lock for Jaryd's chains. “Jaryd, you know I've never treated you poorly, I never said those things behind your back that Rhyst and the others did, honestly, I swear it…”
“Sweet spirits,” said Byorn, emerging in the doorway, sword in hand, “don't they start begging real quick in Algery?”
Teriyan found the right key and the lock fell open. He opened the manacles and began applying keys to the ankle lock as Jaryd removed the gag, gasping.
“What happened?” came a familiar voice from the doorway. “Is he…?” Sofy squeezed into the room behind Byorn.
“You let her come?” he asked Teriyan.
“Not much choice in the matter,” Teriyan retorted, “given that there's horses waiting and we leave immediately.”
Gyl was staring. “Princess Sofy? What are you…? I mean, Your Highness, what brings you…I mean…”
Byorn stepped over to him. “Kid,” he said firmly, “that's not Princess Sofy. You're delusional.” He punched Gyl in the head and the lordling thudded limply to the floor. “A blow to the head will do that to a man.”
“Great,” said Teriyan as the last lock came off. “Finally one person who recognises the princess.”
“I think he's been to Baen-Tar,” said Sofy, blinking at the unconscious Gyl. She did not, Jaryd observed, seem particularly surprised or alarmed at Byorn's actions.
“Are you hurt?” Teriyan asked Jaryd as he stood.