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‘Bring to me the missive sent by Emral Lanear. And then summon a messenger. I must write to my sister. Quickly!”
Analle dipped her head again and rushed from the room.
Fingers tapping on the arm of the chair, Syntara sighed. She would need to devise a new version of the note sent to her by Lanear. Emral was too blunt in her style, too revelatory of the necessary manipulations, even when peace was the ultimate aim. Details might well offend Urusander. No, she would have to indulge what editorial talents she possessed.
Forgive me, Urusander. The note was in a temple cursive form, requiring transcription. I assure you of its accuracy, as I have done the translation myself. You will note the temple seal upon the document, signifying its official recognition.
In a displeasing flash, dark in her mind, she saw Renarr sitting in that infernal chair of hers, and the derisive amusement plain upon her face. Always an error to invite a whore to ascend to a new station. People will settle upon the level that comforts them, and abide by natural laws, as Sagander says, which dictate the limits of their capacity.
And yes, it is this new flexibility, as desired by Hunn Raal and his commoners, which does indeed pose a threat. We risk the anarchy of the undeserving, who must remain forever discontented with their elevation, knowing all too well how it hides their paucity of talent and ability – the lies behind their every claim of worth.
I see bloody days ahead.
Emral Lanear, we must make assassins of our best priestesses. Let lust be the lure, with soft pillows to stifle the cry.
From beyond her room, the slapping of bared feet. The day ahead promised to be a long one.
* * *
As befitting his new station, Sagander now had the use of a cart, and a page to manage the mule, making the journey down into the encampment beyond Neret Sorr far less of an ordeal. His aches dulled by the bitter oils of d’bayang, he lolled in the padded seat he’d had installed in the cart, his lone leg stretched out to match the ghost of the other, and watched the track wend its way behind him.
Atop the hill, the keep was now strangely imbalanced, as its eastern wing blazed blindingly bright, as if the sun had shed a precious tear that still burned upon the stones. The purity of that light stung his eyes, left them reddened and weak. This seemed unfair. Looking upon his hands, he saw their alabaster perfection, inasmuch as one could call such twisted, wrinkled appendages perfect. And when divested of all clothing, the bleached hue of Light’s blessing commanded all of him.
Except, of course, for the leg that no one else sees. That, my friends, remains black as onyx. And so it shall be, until the day my vengeance is satisfied. Draconus, hide your bastard son – one day he will return and I will be waiting for him. As for you, why, I hold to my vow. I will stand over your corpse.
The boy’s quirt snapped upon the rump of the mule, startling Sagander.
That would have served me better than my hand, the day I punished Arathan for his disrespect. A sting upon the cheek, a red welt to remind him, perhaps even a scar. Draconus would not have begrudged me that. A tutor must have discipline. By rule of law, if my hand did not touch him … but no, he’s a bastard whose own father refused him! No meeting of eyes between them! I remained within my rights!
There was a court in his mind, with tiers crowded with scholars – rivals, enemies, backstabbers – and judges arrayed behind a long bench. And in a ring outside all of them, he saw a crowd, packed shoulder to shoulder, and faces he knew well. Many belonged to his childhood, a gathering of tormentors and bullies and friends who had betrayed his trust. He saw the sour visages of bitter tutors still gripping their canes. Before this hate-filled, contemptuous mob, Sagander stood upon the speaker’s platform, and in the realm of his imagination he spoke with stunning eloquence, with the orator’s natural gift. He arrayed his defence of his actions, assembled the damning details of the abuse that then befell him.
And as he neared his final statement, he saw how the faces of the multitude, on all sides, were transformed by his words, their owners made to feel shamed by their past crimes, their cruel dismissals, and the vast catalogue of hurts to which they had each contributed. He saw, too, how the stern regard of the judges slowly, inexorably, swung to Draconus and Arathan, who stood in the cage of the accused.
Their condemnation would prove sweet, but sweeter still would be the judges’ words of awe with which they finally addressed Sagander.
‘You shall be elevated, great scholar, to the highest post in Kurald Galain. Upon a dais one step higher than that of the twin thrones, there to offer your blessed, brilliant insights – to give, in short, proper guidance to our god and goddess …’
The court never left his mind, and so too did it eternally echo with Sagander’s impassioned genius. Innocence could be won from the truth, compensation wrung by the same implacable power. Justice could be carved from a perfection of words, sentences, thoughts made concrete. In such a world, let the bullies and betrayers and tormentors beware.
In that court, upon that platform, Sagander stood upon two hale legs. There was new magic in the realm, after all. Who could say what was possible?
They skirted Neret Sorr upon the high track, and then clumped and rolled and rocked down into the Legion camp, the young page straining as the way grew rougher with frozen ruts and greasy stones. A short time later they drew up before the scholar’s tent.
While he had a room in the keep, Sagander maintained this more modest abode, not out of any love of soldiery or the mess cook’s fare, but for reasons of the private company he entertained within. Batting at the helping hands of the boy, he set his crutches down and worked his way off the cart’s edge. ‘Return at dawn.’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘But first, open the tent flap.’
‘Sir.’
Sagander ducked his way within, feeling a gust of heat from the brazier that he’d ordered maintained at all times. One of Syntara’s failed acolytes was seated nearby, and she looked up with a startled expression.
‘Is this all you do?’ he demanded. ‘Staring at the coals until they burn down? Have you no clothes to mend, no stitchwork or knitting? What of bandages? There’s always the need for weaving those in an army, yes? Keep your hands busy, child, lest your mind rot more than it already has. Now, go. And remember to set the lamp upon the pole at the entrance. Yes, just so, now out with you.’
When she was gone, he hobbled over to the ornate chair he’d had brought down from the keep and settled into it, stretching out the leg none other could see. Glowering down at it, he squinted at the ebon hue. It was a younger man’s leg, well muscled, filled with strength and life. Only rarely, when he’d imbibed too much d’bayang, did the bone break, one splintered end pushing up through the flesh, and the leg then twisted and shrank to proportions to match its companion, before the black hue shifted into shades of green, and the stench of gangrene rose from the limb like smoke.
At times, deep in sleep, he saw his severed leg lying upon bloodied grasses. He saw it nudged by a boot into a latrine trench. He saw it befouled.
