Midnight Falcon (22 page)

He strained to hear what they were saying, but could make out no words. At last they stood to leave. Banouin returned to his studying, but glanced up as they passed. The last of them, a tall handsome young man with close-cropped black hair, paused at Banouin's table. 'You are Banouin the Healer?' he asked.

Banouin's heart sank. He had helped his tutor, Sencra, removing a huge abscess from his back, and twice now had been recommended by the old man to his friends. Banouin had masked the use of his power by first applying sweet-smelling poultices, filled with aromatic herbs, like mint or lavender. Having done this he would then close his eyes and heal the wound. With Sencra it had been an abscess, with both the other older men it had been inflammation of the joints caused by arthritis. Banouin wished he had never used the skill at all, for he did not want to stand out in Stone. He wanted peace and relative anonymity.

'I do have some skills with herbs,' he said. 'A small skill, however,' he added.

'Maro, son of Barus,' said the young man, offering his hand.

'Your father was kind to me when I arrived,' Banouin answered. 'Please convey to him my best regards.'

Maro smiled. 'He is away fighting again – but I'll try to remember for when he gets back.'

Despite the smile Banouin could tell Maro was worried about him. Tension and fear were still radiating from the young man, and from his fellows, waiting in the corridor outside.

'I have not seen you here before,' said Banouin. 'What are you studying?'

'History, obviously. Why else would we be here?'

'I meant what period of history,' said Banouin smoothly.

'The early history of the city,' answered Maro. 'We all have examinations in the spring. You? What brings you here?'

'I am paid to copy the oldest and most fragile of the parchments and scrolls. Strange, really, since many of them lie unread for years. Some are even in languages no-one now knows how to read. Yet still I copy them as faithfully as I can.'

Maro relaxed. 'Well, perhaps I will see you here again. Good day to you.'

Banouin tried to return to his studies, but his heart was not in it.

Seeing the Knights beat and arrest the student had brought his dilemma home. While he loved the architecture of the city, and its libraries and museums, he could no longer blind himself to the terror being faced by many of the inhabitants. Cultists were rounded up daily, and herded to the dungeons below the Crimson Temple. Many would be hanged, others burned. Only last week forty men had been taken to the Circus Palantes stadium, where they had been tied to stakes and surrounded by oil-soaked brushwood. They had then been set alight. The crowd, apparently, cheered as the screams sounded.

Banouin had not wanted to see the evil in Stone. But it was all around him.

You must stay clear of trouble, he told himself. Do not engage in any religious debate. One day the Terror will be over. Until that day keep yourself safe.

Three days later old Sencra was arrested. Four black-cloaked Knights entered the university, marched through to the lecture hall, and dragged Sencra from the podium. At first the old man was furious, shouting at them to release him. Then a Knight cuffed him on the ear, sending him sprawling. Now Sencra's cries were piteous.

Banouin was one of a hundred students gathered to hear the tutor, and he could not believe what he was seeing. Sitting as he always did close to the door, Banouin found himself rising from his seat and moving to stand before the Knights as they dragged the crying man towards the exit.

'Of what is he accused?' Banouin heard himself say, his voice echoing in the domed hall. The first of the Knights loomed over the young man.

'Do you seek to hinder us?' he asked.

'Of what is he accused?' repeated Banouin. 'Sencra is a good citizen and a fine teacher.'

The Knight looked into Banouin's eyes. 'He has been named as a Tree Cultist. He will be taken to the Temple for a hearing.'

'It is a mistake,' said Banouin. 'Sencra has always spoken against such cults.'

'It is true! It is true!' wailed Sencra. 'It is a mistake!'

The Knight stepped in close to Banouin. 'You are trying my patience, young man. And I have no more time for debate.'

Banouin was about to speak again when the man's fist lashed into his temple, sending him sprawling to the floor. He lay there, his head spinning. Hands helped him to his feet, and he was led away from the hall to a small side room, where someone sat him in a chair.

Maro brought a damp cloth and dabbed at his temple. Banouin was surprised to see blood upon the cloth. 'I must get to the Temple,' said Banouin. 'This is not right.'

'Sit still,' said Maro. 'Right has nothing to do with it.'

'He is not a Cultist,' said Banouin.

'Of course he's not. But he has been named.'

Another young man entered, bearing a cup of water, which he offered to Banouin. He sipped the liquid. His stomach felt queasy, and his head was pounding. 'I . . . need to lie down,' he whispered. Once more he was helped to his feet. He leaned against Maro, feeling the room spin.

They took him along the corridor, and into a second, windowless room, laying him upon a cot bed. Banouin lost consciousness almost immediately. When he awoke he saw a lantern had been lit on the far wall. He lay very still. His stomach was still uneasy, but the pain in his head had eased. He touched his temple. There was a lump there, and a scab had formed upon it.

'How are you feeling?' asked Maro. Banouin rolled onto his side and saw the dark-haired young man sitting at the bedside.

'They took him away,' said Banouin.

'Aye, they did.'

Banouin closed his eyes. 'Why?'

'Stone is in the grip of the Terror. There's no point in asking why another innocent man is taken. There have never been more than a thousand Cultists in Stone. Yet four thousand people have been executed in just three years: hanged, burned, or beheaded. Some of the richer, more influential citizens have been allowed to take poison.'

Banouin did not reply. He felt the mists drawing away from his vision. He had so wanted to believe in Stone and all it stood for that he had blinded himself to the truth. By not talking about the Terror – not even thinking about it – he had created for himself the image of the perfect city, a place of learning and culture.

'I want to go to my home,' he said, struggling to sit.

'Where do you live?'

'I have rooms near the White Plaza.'

'I'll help you,' said Maro, taking his arm. Banouin stood, and swayed. Maro helped him out into the corridor and through the deserted university, out into the wide avenue beyond. It was almost dusk and the fresh air revived Banouin. He began to walk unaided. Within minutes they reached the White Plaza, where the fading sun made rainbows dance around tall fountains, and early evening diners were sitting at tables outside the many eating houses. Servants were lighting coloured lanterns and hanging them from ropes strung between the buildings. The sound of laughter echoed from one group.

Banouin sat down on the rim of a fountain pool. Maro joined him. 'How does the emperor gain by these . . . these killings?' asked Banouin.

'In the beginning he profited because the first people arrested were supporters of the republic. In short they were Jasaray's enemies. But now? I don't believe he gains at all. Quite the reverse, in fact. Nalademus becomes more powerful day by day.'

'Then why doesn't Jasaray stop it?'

'He can't. Most of his Panthers are committed to the war in the east. There are now more Knights in the city than loyal soldiers. Were he to move against Nalademus he would lose. He will probably lose anyway. Jasaray is over sixty, with no wife and no sons. He will be toppled before the year is out.'

'And Nalademus will be emperor?'

'That is my belief. But my father says Jasaray is a cunning old fox, and shouldn't be dismissed lightly.'

'Does your father know you are a Cultist?' asked Banouin, keeping his voice low.

'I am not a Cultist – though I have listened to their teachers. I think their philosophy of love and harmony is wonderful, but I have not the strength for it. And I have no wish to embrace my enemies and make them my friends. I will meet my enemies with a sharp sword and a strong arm. Though when I listen to the Veiled Lady I could almost believe.'

An empty pony trap came clattering by. Banouin shouted to the driver, asking if the trap was for hire. The man drew rein. 'Where did you want to go?' he asked.

'The Crimson Temple.'

'Climb in, young sir,' the driver told him.

'Are you insane?' whispered Maro, grabbing Banouin's arm.

'I must speak up for Sencra,' he said.

Maro shook his head. 'My father said you Rigante were courageous to the point of madness. Now I see he was right.'

'I am not courageous, Maro. All my life I have been a coward. But this I must do.'

'You must be very fond of the old man.'

'Not even that – though I like him well enough.'

'Well, why then?' asked Maro, confused.

'Because it is right to do so,' said Banouin. 'If they take him for the burning, and I do not speak, it will be as if I lit the torch myself. You understand?'

'You can't save him, my friend.'

'It is not about saving him. It is about saving me,' said Banouin, climbing into the rear seat of the pony trap.

The driver cracked his whip and the trap moved out along the avenue.

Banouin leaned back against the cushioned seat and watched as the city of Stone slid slowly by him. Crowds were moving along the avenue, seeking places to dine before attending the many theatres, and scores of pony traps and carriages flowed by, filled, for the most part, with expensively dressed nobles. Huge lanterns, set on iron posts, were being lit in the main thoroughfares, smaller lights being hung from ropes and wires in the side streets.

Stone at night was like a gleaming jewel. But the beauty of it was lost on the young Rigante. He sat silently in the carriage, his heart heavy.

'Which of the Temple entrances did you require?' asked the driver.

'I'm not sure. How many are there?'

'There's the main entrance off the Lion Road, but they'll be closing that soon. Then there's the Administrative Centre, the Museum, and the Knights' Barracks.'

'I have a friend who was wrongly arrested today.'

The driver tensed. Banouin could feel the rising fear in him. 'You'll want the Prison Building,' he said.

The trap moved on, cutting left through the Remembrance Garden, and under the Arch of Triumph, moving further into the centre of the city. There were not so many people here, and fewer lanterns lit.

Banouin's headache was returning, and he felt a little sick. He considered seeking a vision. He had not used this talent since the dreadful day back in Accia, when he saw the Knights of Stone coming for Appius and his daughter, and knew what they would do. Sweat broke out on his brow, and his stomach tightened. Those without the power would never understand the panic that had swept over him. To sit with living people who were already dead, to watch them smile and laugh, and know that tomorrow they would scream in agony, their lives torn from them. To be filled with power – and yet powerless. Banouin had been consumed by the desire to run, to leave, to put the vision behind him. He had wanted to save himself and his friend.

But Bane was a Rigante, and even the knowledge of certain death could not prevent him from trying to save Appius and Lia. How Banouin envied such courage.

'There is the entrance,' said the driver, drawing the pony to a halt some way from the gates. Banouin paid him and stepped down. The driver swung the trap and moved away swiftly.

Banouin walked towards the building. Like all great structures in Stone it was dressed in white marble and decorated with statues. The huge bronze latticed gates were open, and two Knights carrying iron-tipped spears stood guard outside them. Their cloaks were white, indicating they were Guardsmen, the elite who protected Nalademus.

The young Rigante approached the first of the guards. 'I am seeking someone in authority,' he said.

'You wish to name traitors?' asked the man.

'No, sir. My tutor was arrested today, and I wish to speak on his behalf.'

'If he was arrested, then he's a traitor,' said the Knight. 'You wish to speak in defence of a traitor?'

'He is not a traitor, sir. He was falsely accused.'

'Oh, is that right?' said the Knight, with a sneer. 'Well, then. Wait here.' He walked back inside the gates and clanged his spear point against a bronze bell hanging outside the guardhouse. A middle-aged servant emerged from the building, spoke to the guard, then ran towards the main building. Banouin waited patiently. After some time two more Knights appeared, grim-faced men with emotionless eyes.

The first guard approached Banouin. 'These men will take you to where you can make your complaint,' he said.

'Thank you, sir.'

Banouin followed the two Knights along a path of white gravel, and through a tree garden to a side door leading to a narrow corridor. Their footsteps echoed inside the building. They climbed stairs, turning first left, then right, and soon Banouin felt lost within the maze of corridors and rooms. At last they halted before double doors, which the soldiers opened. Beyond the doors was a large room, with high, arched windows. The walls were unadorned, but a beautiful mosaic pattern had been laid upon the floor, a series of interconnected lines of shimmering gold on a field of white. In the centre of the room was a semicircular table, behind which sat a priest. His head was shaved, his beard dyed blood red. He glanced up as the Knights entered, then sat back in his chair, idly fingering the pale grey pendant that hung from his neck.

'You are here to defend a traitor, I understand?' he said, his voice sibilant.

Banouin stood very still, and opened the pathway to his Talent. He could feel the emotions of the Knights on either side of him. Both were enjoying this scene, and waiting for the moment when they would drag him screaming to the cells. Reaching out he touched the mind of the Crimson Priest, and recoiled. His thoughts were of torture and vileness. Banouin was about to speak when he felt the presence of a fourth, unseen man. He focused the Talent. The man was observing the proceedings from behind a velvet curtain. Banouin sensed a cold, calculating mind, and a powerful, magnetic personality. The observer was also in pain, and struggling to deal with it.