“And wasn’t Carter a baron, at the time when their insidious machinations controlled the
Union
? Weren’t many? Did you not, my lord, even have to weed out your own brother?”
“What is your point?”
“The point I am making, Nathaniel,
is why is Carter beyond question now? Along with his obvious political gain we cannot ignore the book! Why imagine that some group of desert fanatics were behind its disappearance when we know the book represents a knowledge that the Strigoi have sought to use since the very beginning? The girl goes at the same time as the book. No! More than that, the girl is somehow linked to this book, together they might even be the key to attaining the Gate to Heaven itself, can this be coincidence? Or the work of forces that have remained conveniently hidden until now? No! I have no direct proof but mark my words the book, which you failed to find, is headed north and there is a good chance that we will find it with Baron Carter himself.”
That is if Blake does as he is told! If he refuses again then there is no choice but to treat him as enemy as well. No it was past that already, Rugan realizes as he looks around the room at the glowering General and the dark rimmed eyes of the disheveled Inquisitor, there were too many variables developing. If possible the girl should be allowed to live but Samuel Blake was just too unpredictable. Not a surprise really, the Pilgrim had predicted it from the first and Rugan himself was always aware of the limitations of relying on the living. Samuel Blake was coming to the end of his usefulness as a living man but there were ways to ensure that much of his deadly speed and ability could be kept, even revived, to continue serving Rugan after his death. Not that it was personal, of course, his frustration with Blake was petty and something he deliberately swept aside; he must not allow emotion to cloud his reason, his real enemies were the Strigoi and Rugan was prepared to bet his life that he was in the same room as one of their agents, in spite of the deluge of holy water that he had received.
Rugan considered it once more. Blake had already saved the girl from two Strigoi traps
and he was taking her north, each mile a mile closer to the Carter mansion, Rugan could still sense them through the girl’s necklace, but was that enough of an insurance?
Blake has already done much alive but can he be expected to do more? Should he even be asked? Father Rugan allows himself a secret smile, in a single moment he has decided to pre-empt the Pilgrim’s betrayal, dead hands could deliver Lillian Carter to her home just as efficiently as live ones.
“You seem overly confident without any proof. Many would be more hesitant about casting such accusations against our most prominent citizens. In some circles your allegations might be seen as treasonous, or do you think that your role of counselor and confessor places you above such concerns?” Tenichi growls, having mistaken the priest’s unfaltering smile for the sign of some confidence or hidden knowledge. “If so I advise you to seek firmer foundations for any future advice you intend to give to the General.”
“Enough,” the General interrupts, “I thought you two had buried the hatchet, there is no need for petty rivalries or squabbling, what we must discover is where the fugitives who have done this are heading.”
“I have already told you they are going north, deeper into Carter territory.” Rugan answers.
“My scouts have confirmed that they were going north before we lost them,” the Chief Pardoner agrees, “but there is no way for us to be sure that Carter is involved, as Confessor Rugan keeps suggesting. For all we know they are simply trying to return the girl home for less sinister reasons or using the river to avoid detection. Few people would risk heading straight west in any event, it’s safer to travel near the line, where settlements and people are easily found, if they just headed straight west we know there is a good chance they would not survive the journey.”
“All that makes sense, Nathaniel,” General Leedon concedes, “except it does not explain where these two men came from in the first place. How did they make contact with Lady Carter in the palace? How and why did they steal my book?”
“Your Lordship I still do not believe that Lady Carter was necessarily the one behind the book’s loss. We should be careful before ruining the alliance and accusing the girl or her father.”
“Well if the book, the girl and the father are found together would that not be evidence enough?” Rugan asks.
“Indeed it would,” the Chief Pardoner answers evenly.
Miles away the skeletal clown tilts its head in the ruddy light of the setting sun, sensing its master’s confusion. Rugan had not thought that it would be so easy to lure Tenichi into that trap and the Chief Pardoner’s ready agreement makes him hesitate. Surely he would have been more wary of the possibility that the girl and the book might be discovered at her father’s estate? After all the girl probably would try to make it home with or without the Pilgrim, just as soon as she got within striking distance and she was getting close now. Normally Tenichi would have hedged his bet and found some reason that his ally might still be innocent. He would normally have argued that finding these items together might be coincidence that would not necessarily mean anything or even a deliberate attempt to sabotage the alliance between the General and the barons. There was only one possible explanation, there was something that the Pardoner was not telling him, some reason that there was no reason to fear finding the book at the Carter mansion. Had the Inquisitor found the book already? At the lightest touch of its master’s will, the bone clown slips back from the river bank. Tonight it will begin the work of mustering soldiers for its master’s work but before that, it appeared it would be necessary to talk with the Pilgrim one last time, before he joins the ranks of the priest’s true followers.
Chapter 13:
“The Devil on Dark Crossroads”
The night is cold, as all nights are cold in the Bowl and a stiff wind stirs the dust of the slim streets of Marguild. Trees twitch and buck, tapping like boney fingertips on the glass panes of the sturdy wooden houses on either side of the straight road that runs from the riverside pier to the small market square, where the farmers come to trade with both villager and riverman alike. All the stalls in the square are long shut, before the barge makes a last stop to rest its ponies on the long trip up river, but men with lanterns are ready, even in the late evening, to help tie up and find stabling for their beasts. Marguild has survived for so long because it has kept its service regular and reliable. It will never be more than a small village with hungry sons and bored daughters but few barges make the trip back up river without taking at least a short rest here. The copious stables and the eager dock hands are testament to this. There are even a few stalls for gritters at the end of the long, musty smelling stables, though few barges use the creatures so close to the water; the insects do not do well with all the moisture and can easily drown if their abdomens are immersed too deeply in the mud and pools alongside the river.
Marguild is the last settlement beside the river before you get to Brigton and the line; the village is used to
travellers
but not ones who leave in the night. The stable hands are most perplexed when three
travellers
and two horses disembark but they do not join the ponies or ask for livery; instead a tall white haired man with fierce eyes begins a discussion with stablemaster about his prize mare. It is soon established that no matter what price he offers the white haired
traveller
will not get more than a gelding of middle years, which he accepts grudgingly and overpays for. The trio set out down the main street the wind at their backs, cold dusty and unforgiving; a few lamps burn fitfully, which along with the three quarter moon, gives them enough light to navigate the road.
The road runs straight from Marguild docks, through the wooden houses and out from the square. It becomes narrower as it leaves the last house
behind,
it is only used by locals and farmers and almost never by
travellers
, at least not since the fire. There is only one crossroads within sight of the village, once a Church had stood on the white hill of Maulten and the words of the Christ man had echoed almost as loud as the songs of the believers but that was before the blaze that blackened the hill’s tip. Some said that the devil himself had come for the soul of Maulten’s preacher that day, others that the priest himself had set the fire to scourge the sinful in his congregation. There is no way to know that particular truth. Only the graveyard is left now, dotting the pale hill with the burned and neglected stones of the fallen; if it had ever been truly consecrated the evil reputation that now hung on it had long since eroded any blessing by a man of true faith. Now and then some of the villagers would have the pale soil turned for one of their number but mostly they stayed beyond the low wall that marks the old grounds and keeps the living from the dead. Tonight a ragged clown clambers to the top of that wall, seats himself cross-legged on the old soot stained stone, the clown cannot feel the cold nor does the dust irritate his hollow eyes. He smoothes his tattered rags with thin, nerveless fingers and begins to play a soft, breathless tune.
The wind has swept those eerie sounds away by the time the three riders reach the cross- roads but the Pilgrim holds up his hand and calls for a halt none the less.
“They say that the Devil waits at crossroads, Necromancer, is that why you send your servant? For fear that if he met you here he would claim his own?”
“And you must have his eyes to see so clearly in the dark. Are you not worried that he will take those back?” The skeletal clown replies in his master’s stead, stepping out onto the road and into the moonlight.
“What is that thing?”
Aden
exclaims, peering at the emaciated shape silhouetted by the moonlight. Here and there the silver light winks from tears in the clown’s tattered regalia and the bars of its empty ribcage.
“One more servant of the Devil. Not what you want to hear, I know but I have no other explanation to give you,” the Pilgrim answers. “the body belonged an unfortunate I once knew, he died at Golifany and someone trapped his soul and body, keeping him from the rest of death. He is no more than a puppet now, a servant to whichever diabolist used his art to trap him so. His name is Etine, if that helps.”
Prompted by some echo of its theatrical past, the bone clown takes a deep bow of acknowledgement, sending the rusted bells jangling. It even opens its mouth as if to introduce itself properly but instead the words of its master echo from its hollow skull.
“A servant to be sure and one at your service had you stayed the course to Brigton,” the dry voice intones. “Tell me, Captain, why have you deviated from the course we agreed?”
“It was never agreed, Necromancer. I told you at our first meeting that I was not your creature. I have a rendezvous I must keep elsewhere and my companions must be with me. Be satisfied with the fact that I will keep both Lillian and the Gate out of Strigoi hands.”
“Indeed! And who is this appointment with, might I ask?”
“That is no business of yours, it is an appointment which must be kept, if I am ever to find the Gate and Lillian is ever to be safe. I told you from the start that my only objective was my own redemption; after that I will let the world turn as it will but until then I will not risk my soul and I’ll not walk into so obvious a trap as the Carter mansion.”
“This is who asked you to take me there?” Lillian asks, with a mixture of disgust and incredulity, “I’m glad I didn’t press the issue.”
“I did not offer you a choice girl,” the clown hisses, “it is indeed good that you are kept from the vampires but that does not mean that I value your life as they do. I will admit to some curiosity but if you prove too difficult to deal with, then I will count it a satisfactory outcome if you die and the blood suckers are denied their precious Gate.”
Sam’s eyes narrow in the darkness, the danger must be worse than he had imagined if the Necromancer was not even pretending that he would allow them access to the
Gate,
the inevitable betrayal must be close. Sam strains his senses trying to guess where the attack will come from. The smell of the grave is strong here,
but the dead have no breath or heartbeat to give them away, they could remain still as a stone until they were needed. The clown is not alone but there is no telling the direction of the anticipated attack; the scent of rot and turned earth is too pervasive to know which way is safe to run.
“Do not fear, though, my only intention is that you reach the safety of your father’s estates,” the Necromancer soothes as much as the flat voice will allow.
“Why toy with us, Necromancer? You know I will not willingly turn back and you have seen how my companions view your servant,” Sam growls.
“Yet they trust you? Are you any different from the Strigoi? Any more natural? Why should they believe you? You are aware I hope, both of you who travel with him, that before he donned the Crusader’s coat you see him in now, he wandered the Bowl for nearly a century. Samuel Blake is as much a legend as the ghosts in the hills, the possessed wretches that crawl in from the deeper desert. Even the blood suckers…”