Retribution (Drakenfeld 2) (5 page)

‘You honour me with your decision to stay in our humble guest house,’ Jejal said, walking to the door. ‘A small deposit of a small gold coin worth seventy kron is all that is required – the rest we can settle upon departure. Food is not included.’

‘Thank you.’ Placing my bags down by the window, I casually regarded the wide street below. Seventy kron was about ten pecullas in Detratan money, which wasn’t unreasonable, so I reached into my pocket and handed over the money. Jejal scrutinized the coin in the light of the window.

After he appeared satisfied, I asked, ‘I don’t suppose you’ve heard of a man called Tahn Valin, have you?’

‘The missing bishop?’ Jejal looked up at me without surprise. ‘Yes, who has not heard of him?’

‘Who was he exactly?’

Jejal gave a shrug. ‘I cannot tell you who he was as a person – I don’t know priests in that way. But he was a much admired man. I saw him preach once. He was calm and intelligent and I liked his delivery. Not one of the great orators of our time, but he got inside people’s heads – that’s what a bishop is supposed to do, isn’t it? But he did a lot of work with those more unfortunate than us. When he wasn’t preaching he was giving alms to the poor. He was not involved in corruption like priests you might find elsewhere. That is all I can tell you about him. I can’t understand where he has gone and why he would abandon his temple.’ He paused as if recalling what it was that the Sun Chamber did. ‘That what you’re here for? Have you come to find him?’

‘I’m interested in his whereabouts,’ I admitted – which wasn’t entirely untrue.

‘Say no more!’ Jejal whispered with some urgency, and proceeded out of the room.

Listening to his steps fading downstairs, I turned to regard the room. ‘Well, we seem to have done rather well. Not as good as my home in Detrata, but not as bad as our small dwelling in Venyn City, that’s for sure.’

Leana made for the large couch and placed her belongings on the floor beside it.

‘If you want, you can take the bed instead,’ I said, ‘you’re more than welcome to.’

‘You know how I feel about comfort,’ she replied. ‘It dulls the senses. Blunts your wits.’

‘I’m only being polite,’ I replied.

‘So you believe what he said, about the bishop?’

‘I see no reason why not. It was interesting that his death has not been formally announced to the city. Sulma Tan was convinced the man was dead, so surely the issue must have been mentioned to the people by now.’

‘As she reminds us, she is a busy woman.’

‘She is. Well, we should first find the bishop’s temple and take a look around there.’

Out of the window, down below, a couple of carts were being drawn by hand from the marketplace, which was starting to pack up for the night. It was going to be a clear evening. The last of the day’s sunlight glimmered on the red roof tiles, which were of a similar sloping style to those found in Tryum. In fact, a lot of the buildings here appeared to be familiar – as if the designers had constantly looked to Tryum for inspiration when they constructed this city. There were even long colonnades and column-fronted buildings just like at home. Statues and busts adorned the fronts of buildings. More than once a fresco could be perceived through an open doorway. The temples were Detratan styled, too, and not like the tall, wooden, spired structures we saw throughout the Kotonese countryside on our way here.

‘This city is trying too hard to impress,’ I commented out loud.

‘Those on the other side of the wall would see things differently,’ Leana replied bluntly. ‘For them it does not seem so impressive.’

The last few rays of the day’s sun skimmed across the low slate rooftops of the prefecture, and the hills in the distance were now dark shadows. We walked through the streets, navigating by the answers of locals towards Bishop Tahn Valin’s temple. A gong was struck several times a few streets away, the sound carrying along the quiet lanes amidst the scent of woodsmoke from the evening fires.

The bishop’s home and place of worship was like those dedicated to Polla that I had seen in Tryum recently, a fact that unsettled me at first. I had expected a different religion – different gods in a different country – for it to have its own identity. Set back from a busy street, it was a large rectangular building made from stone, with reliefs along the top and a triangular pediment at the front, with two columns on each side of a large wooden door. I stared up at it, and for a moment it felt as if I were back at home.

As we climbed the steps towards the door, we were presented with small statues of two very different gods. A woman’s torso blended into the legs of a horse; a male god’s muscular torso met with the lower half of a fish. Both of them carried glaives and directed them to the heavens.

‘Can I help you?’

A man marched towards us, a stern look upon his aged face. He wore layers of claret-coloured cloth – from tunic to cloak – though there was no emblem or markings on his clothing. He was a stout individual, with grey hair and tired-looking, but very searching eyes. He had the air of someone who had been through a great deal of stress.

Turning towards him, I made sure he could see the brooch of the Sun Chamber on my chest.

‘My name’s Lucan Drakenfeld, and this is my colleague, Leana,’ I began in Kotonese. ‘We’ve been asked to investigate the matter of Bishop Tahn Valin.’

‘Ah. My name is Priest Damsak. We should talk somewhere more discreet.’ He held my elbow gently and steered me into the temple, all the time looking about him as if he had reason to be worried.

Inside, statues of the strange animalistic man and woman were repeated, and in every instance they maintained the same half-horse, half-fish representation. Rows of cushions and small rugs were arranged for the congregation to sit or kneel upon. Thick tapestries hung from the walls, each one depicting strange scenes featuring the same male and female gods, some versions with them in armour, some naked.

‘Which gods are these?’ I asked.

‘Astran and Nastra.’ For a moment he lost his sense of fear. ‘The two split aspects of heaven. Astran, she is the goddess of the land, while Nastra is the god of the seas.’

‘On our way here I saw a straw ox on the fringes of Kuvash. There seemed to be some sort of ceremony going on.’

Damsak glared at me. ‘Those are the old gods. The old ways. Such practices ought to be forbidden.’

‘That was nothing to do with your gods then?’

‘It was certainly not. There are unfortunate remnants of a more primitive time. Several old cults use ceremonial sacrifices of livestock where they cannot afford to waste real animals. It is a barbaric practice. It is a commune with the dead rather than the correct way of venerating their spirits.’

I had seen similar religious offerings across Vispasia, particularly Detrata. It didn’t seem so primitive to me, but I put the priest’s disgust down to the fact that it was not something his own gods agreed with.

Damsak let out a sigh and muttered something in a much older version of the language, which sounded very respectful.

‘If I may say, you seem rather concerned.’

‘Why shouldn’t I be after what happened to Tahn,’ he snapped. ‘The man had done nothing to deserve such evil treatment. What if it is someone who dislikes our gods? What if I’m to be next, sliced up in such a manner?’

‘You’re aware of his fate, then?’

He nodded his acknowledgement.

‘What have you been told?’

Changing languages to Detratan, probably so only the learned might eavesdrop, he said, ‘I know only what the authorities have shown me. I believe it is him who has been found – those parts of his arm.’ The priest held out a bony arm, and I could see a similar bangle to the one worn by the bishop. ‘What else can you tell me so far?’

‘I’m afraid I don’t know much else,’ I replied. ‘That’s why I’m here. I’ve come to find out more about the bishop and I was hoping you could help the start of my investigation. And the more you tell me, the more I’ll be able to help you in finding who did this to him. I can put your mind at ease. That is,’ I added, now he appeared less on edge, ‘if you yourself had nothing to do with his death?’

‘How could you say such a thing?’

‘Quite easily,’ I replied. ‘We must eliminate all possibilities. You might stand to gain from his death.’

‘On the contrary,’ he replied, a bitter sneer upon his face. ‘With the bishop going, I have no idea what will happen to this temple. I’m certainly not in line to follow someone as grand as a bishop. I have my place and it was by his side. We had plans, next year, to venture from the city on a pilgrimage so Nastra-knows what I’ll do now.’

‘You were going to leave the city?’ I asked. ‘Who else knew about this?’

‘It was common knowledge, as of the last new moon a couple of months ago, when we announced it to our congregation. We said we were going to leave for about a year, taking the practical aspects of our gods further afield, and living in more humble circumstances than this – by the side of the road, or in the houses of whoever would welcome us on our path. The bishop was very keen on this – in his later years he grew increasingly concerned that people needed rescuing from other foul gods. He wanted to help people. He wanted to bring them the comforts of Astran and Nastra.’

The hierarchy of this religion would be easy enough to research to confirm his statement. I made a mental note to send for confirmation of the facts via Sulma Tan.

‘Could someone have wanted to prevent the bishop from leaving the city?’

Damsak looked dumbfounded by the question. ‘If they wanted him to remain, why send him to a different spiritual realm altogether?’

‘He may have been smuggling secrets with him. Documents important to the state.’

‘This is very fanciful.’ Damsak’s expression made it clear he felt the idea absurd. ‘The bishop barely left the temple other than to help the poor from time to time. There were certainly no business affairs.’

‘How
well
did you know him?’

‘We were as brothers.’ Damsak paused for a moment, and his head turned as if he was listening to something in the distance. ‘Of the priestly kind. We spoke very little about our personal lives, but in our religious community we do not especially have personal lives to speak of. We are known only by our work.’

‘Your work being . . . ?’

‘In many ways I was learning from Tahn. There are many rituals to perfect, and a common priest like myself only has the authority to conduct a certain number, lest they go wrong. I studied our main texts under Tahn.’

‘You seem rather old to be studying,’ I said.

The priest smiled in a way that suggested he had heard that comment many times before. ‘One does not get access to higher strata of society easily in Koton. My family is from a far lower caste, and related to the Yesui clan, who were not looked upon favourably by our queen’s father.’

‘The Night of the Plunging Blades?’

‘Thankfully not then, which is why they are still here. No. A family name can mean a lot in Koton. Things are easier than they used to be, thanks to the queen. But some of the old ways are still prevalent, and authority is reluctant to give up power.’

‘Even in the house of your gods?’

‘It is perhaps more forgivable in such circumstances. Only appropriate people should be allowed to channel such gods.’

Very convenient for a priest to speak in favour of being a gatekeeper, I thought, no matter how low his rank. ‘How long ago was it that the bishop went missing?’

‘About twenty days ago. It was just after the Service of Remembrance, a day for all fallen soldiers. He conducted a most memorable service.’

‘What were his last known movements? I’d like to know where he went, if he decided to meet with anyone. No detail will be too small for us.’

‘You ask for much.’ The priest gave a sad sigh and sat down on one of the cushions. He gestured for us to do the same, and we obliged – facing opposite him. Only then did I notice the amazingly detailed fresco on the ceiling of the temple – the swirling patterns of the heavens and yet more scenes featuring the two gods.

Then the priest began to provide his verbal portrait of Bishop Tahn Valin.

The bishop had lived in the city of Kuvash for all of his fifty-seven years, Damsak told us. Like all city priests, he lived alone in a room at the back of his temple, so that someone was present even when there was no congregation. He had led a simple life; he was a bookish man who did not eat meat – something that was a sharp contradiction to the rest of Kotonese culture, which thrived on meat. The queen was an admirer of his work and even of his religious and mythological poetry – sometimes she would invite him to her personal court to read it aloud at banquets.

‘He was well loved by the community,’ Damsak said with a sigh. ‘People would often leave food offerings at his door – though he never asked for such things – and sometimes he even spent the following hours handing those donations to the poor outside the main gates to the prefecture.’

‘And his final moments,’ I asked. ‘Do you recall them
precisely
?’