Reave the Just and Other Tales (24 page)

Nevertheless Duke Obal also paid a price for my aid. It may have been more subtle than that which I endured, but it was no less grievous.

The High Cardinal and others of his ilk argued that I was the whole cause of the war which had set the Duke against Mullior’s more pious neighbors. Priests damned me with their prayers even when they supported Duke Obal. Religious families shuddered at the thought of Satan in their midst. And ambitious men, men who might perhaps have made their fortunes and their futures by replacing those whom the Duke trusted, advancing to positions of power from which they could conceivably have delivered Mullior and all its riches to the Cardinal—ah, such men loathed me where I stood.

It was more than unwise for Duke Obal to call upon my service too often or too frequently. It was foolish and fatal.

I considered refusal. I sensed a crisis in Mullior which might prove lethal to me. And at all times I lived in fear that the Duke might be persuaded by his advisers, or by his people’s need for peace, to turn against me—to deliver me to Cardinal Straylish so that the siege might be lifted. I had saved his life twice—that of his beloved son, thrice—his dearest and staunchest friends half a score of times. For all men, however—and even more for Dukes and Cardinals—necessity was the mother of cruelty. I could too easily imagine that the Duke might decide my life, like his own most prized convictions, was too expensive to merit so much death.

Perhaps I had expended my last hope, and only flight remained to me.

Yet I knew I could not deny Duke Obal’s summons. He had earned my unflagging service by the simple expedient of accepting it from me. I had seen the maid Irradia tortured, and heard the High Cardinal pronounce anathema upon me. How could I not love a man who opposed such evils?—a man who did not fear my nature because he trusted my honor?

Escorted as much for my own protection as to ensure my haste, I left the portal and found my way to the Duke’s low-lying palace in the heart of Mullior.

There another surprise deepened my dread. Necessarily cautious, I turned my steps toward the private gate and the unfrequented corridors through which I customarily approached my lord. But my escort redirected me. A guard at either shoulder led me to the ornate portico which gave formal entrance to the hereditary domicile and seat of Mullior’s rulers. Before I was announced to the fusiliers at the polished and engraved doors, I grasped the significance of this development.

Despite the peril to us both, Duke Obal had commanded me to a public audience.

Holding my breath to contain my fear, I listened narrowly to the terms in which my escort had been instructed to announce me. I understood that the Duke had chosen to place my damned head on the executioner’s block of his court’s opprobrium. Apart from the danger, this violated the unspoken terms of my service. Only the form of my announcement offered any hint as to whether or not I could hope to survive the night.

The leader of my escort clearly found the occasion tedious. If I was doomed, he did not know it. In a tone of bluff boredom, he stated, “Here is Duke Obal’s faithful handservant Scriven. By the Duke’s express wish, he presents himself to attend upon his lord.”

The reaction of the palace fusiliers was more ominous. As if involuntarily, they flinched and crossed themselves. One of them muttered, “Carrion-eater.” Others breathed fervent oaths.

This caused my escort to look at me askance. Unlike the fusiliers, however, they were familiar with me, comfortably convinced that I was a minor spy serving their lord. They were veterans of the siege, hardened to it, and reserved their fear for the enemy. Surprised at my reception, they did not step back from my shoulders.

“‘Carrion-eater’?” one of them demanded. “Where?”

The fusiliers did not reply. Their captain silenced them. Stiff with disapproval and alarm, he spoke a prepared welcome. “The lord of Mullior welcomes all who serve him faithfully.” Between his teeth, he added, “I am to say that the Duke himself awaits his handservant Scriven’s arrival.”

His obedience did not comfort me. “Scriven” was not my name. Straylish Beatified knew me otherwise. However, it was the name I had chosen for the Duke’s use. While I lived, I bore Irradia’s fate written on my soul.

Covering my unsteadiness, I required myself to draw breath. My danger was as great as I had feared. Already rumor had run ahead of the Duke’s intent, hinting at worse within.

At the captain’s word, my escort bowed themselves haphazardly away. Eager to be rid of me, the captain detached a fusilier to accompany me into the palace, presumably so that I would not wander astray. I was hastened forward. For the first time, I stood accursed and dismayed in the formal entry hall of Duke Obal’s home.

It was not the opulence of the space which daunted me. I had little use for wealth myself, and saw no value in the devout tapestries, woven of gilt and verdigris, which behung the walls, the sheened marble of the floor, the lamps burning scented holy oils in their stands of gold and mahogany, the sculpted and pious busts of Mullior’s lords. Rather, I was chagrined by the fact that such luxuriance existed. An effort I could not conceive had gone into the creation of Duke Obal’s ornaments—and the work had not been done by men or women of my kind. Our lives were fixed on survival, and from day to day we had neither leisure nor inclination for embellishment. The palace’s wealth daunted me because it reminded me that I was vastly outnumbered by souls accepted by God and Mother Church, souls who could hope for Heaven—and who could afford to spend their existence on decoration.

Each step I took in such a place increased my peril. I did not belong there. I belonged in servants’ entrances and private passages, small rooms secreted from scrutiny, lofts and stables and mud. The farther I intruded here, the greater grew the certainty that my nature would be discovered. And each bust and weaving seemed to mock the idea that I would ever be free to depart.

Clutching to my breast the faith which Irradia had taught me—the faith that some among humankind understood loyalty and honor as well as they grasped war and anathema—I followed my fusilier toward the Duke.

Chamber succeeded chamber, some high and stately, others smaller and more discreet. Servants tended a few, but most were vacant, and their emptiness troubled me. It suggested that their usual occupants and attendants had been called elsewhere. Therefore I feared that Duke Obal meant to make me known to the entire palace.

Instinctively I yearned to cower and skulk forward as though I had come to haunt a battlefield. The strain of walking erect tested me sorely. Only the wisdom of my kind restrained me from creeping—the given knowledge that the more I showed my fear the more I would empower my enemies to act on their own.

Before me loomed a set of doors as high as those which guarded the portico, but at once less massive and more ornate. There the fusilier led me. Anxiously bidding me to wait, he tapped his knuckles on the wood, then stepped back to compose himself.

At once, the doors were jerked partly aside, and a man slipped between them to confront us, closing them swiftly behind him so that we might not see inward or enter.

He wore the rich braid and tooled leather of Duke Obal’s livery, although his costume was more elaborate than those I knew by sight. A pectoral cross hung by a chain of heavy gold from his neck, and a short satin cloak of midnight purple with the Rose of Obal picked out in crimson thread draped one shoulder. In his hand he held a slender staff surmounted by Mullior’s Eagle in silver and gems. This rod proclaimed him the Duke’s majordomo.

He did not look at me. Indeed, he seemed determined to avoid sight of me. Vexed by trepidation, he snapped waspishly at the fusilier, “Who is this?”

Too loudly, the fusilier replied, “By your grace, this is Duke Obal’s handservant Scriven.” Sweat stood on his brow, although the night was cool. “His presence has been commanded.”

At last the majordomo flicked a frightened glance at me, then swore in a whisper. “I know that, fool. You would have done the Duke and all Mullior a service if you had failed to find him, no matter how strenuously his presence was commanded.”

The fusilier retreated a step from the majordomo’s anger. “I’m sorry,” he murmured uncertainly. “We didn’t know—”

The majordomo swore again. “Return to your duties. Say nothing.” Flapping his hand, he dismissed my escort. Then he demanded of me, “You are Scriven? You and no other?” Again his eyes evaded my face.

Alarm closed my throat. Unable to speak, I nodded awkwardly. His manner foretold that I was doomed as well as damned.

Staring past my shoulder, he breathed, “On my soul, and for the sake of this House, I pray that the horrors rumored of you are false.”

Before I could attempt a reply, he returned to the doors. “Enter,” he commanded as he drew them aside. “The Duke awaits you.”

I could not believe that I would have been greeted in this fashion, hostile though it was, if the Duke openly meant to harm me. He could have easily had me brought before him in irons, disavowing me without subterfuge. Yet any direct rejection would have called into question the acceptance which had preceded it. Therefore, my terror suggested, I would be asked to betray myself. If I did so, I would spare Duke Obal the censure of Mother Church and his own lords for his former acquiescence in my designs.

Even then I might have changed my mind and fled. I was strong enough. I could have run like the wind—overpowered most ordinary opposition—broken from the palace and dashed into the dark streets and alleys of Mullior, outdistancing immediate pursuit. And if I set my scruples aside so that I remained strong, I might prolong my life for days. On the brink of the fate Duke Obal had prepared for me, I nearly turned aside.

But I did not. I had sworn my vows to myself and to God, and to Irradia’s memory, and they held me.

Duke Obal opposed the High Cardinal. In the Cardinal’s person, he opposed the worldly might of Mother Church. And he did not do so because that course was convenient for him, or expedient, or free of peril. Already he had been excommunicated. Worse would befall him if Mullior fell. Therefore I would trust him, and remain true to the service I had chosen to give him.

Hunching within my robes, I stepped between the doors and joined the majordomo in the hall beyond.

Although my eyes had grown accustomed to the profuse illumination within the palace, I was not prepared for the brilliance of the Duke’s ceremonial chamber. Intricate chandeliers depended thickly from the ceiling. Candelabra without number lined the walls. And they were enhanced at intervals by braziers and glittering lamps. In two high hearths blazing logs cast back the evening’s chill. From end to end, light searched the space, seeking fears and effacing concealment. By preference and necessity, I was a creature of the night, inclined to coverts and darkness—dismayed by so much flame-shine. I quailed at the majordomo’s side, despite my resolve to show no fright.

That the hall was crowded with people only augmented my alarm.

Here apparently were gathered all the highborn and significant citizens of Mullior. Among the Duke’s servants and fusiliers, I saw folk that I knew—lords and ladies, captains and commanders, priests and officials, merchants and moneylenders—and at least twoscore men and women that I did not. Some wore the garb of their duties and rank. Others displayed their finery, their wealth, or their charms, as those who courted suzerains were inclined to do at any provocation, claiming their stature by right of ostentation or appearance.

As palpable to me as the vitality of blood, their tension gave flesh to my apprehensions.

It was a singular assembly—and not a disinterested one. All Mullior stood excommunicate. Highborn and low, lords and streetsweepers, ladies and whores—all Mullior’s inhabitants faced anathema from the High Cardinal’s indignation and ruin for their immortal souls. Here were gathered, however, those whose riches and power—as well as salvation—were either threatened or enhanced by the siege of Mother Church. According to their factions and loyalties, to the sources of their wealth and standing, these men and women had tangible, worldly reasons to support resistance, or to encourage surrender. They might speak of evil and redemption—some of them sincerely—but they had other concerns as well.

As did I. I did not think ill of them for their personal considerations. I had no right—and no soul to give my judgments worth. But I also did not trust them. None of their concerns were mine.

They would not hesitate to sacrifice me.

After a moment I caught sight of Duke Obal, some distance from me. He stood in a cluster of his supporters and adherents, among them Lord Ermine, heir to the Duchy, Lord Vill, who commanded the Duke’s forces in the field when the Duke himself was absent, Lord Rawn, Master of Mullior’s Purse, and several captains noteworthy for their daring in battle. Another observer might not have remarked the particular company surrounding the Duke, but I was struck by it.

They were all men whom I had restored, in the name of my vow.

The rest of the assembly appeared less deliberately composed—grouped more by family or rank than by faction—although the Bishop of Mullior, His Reverence Heraldic, kept the company of his priests and confessors close about him. Yet the general flow and eddy of social intercourse preserved a discreet space around those who stood with the Duke. I judged that these folk were discomfited by the occasion, chary of seeming uncritically allied to the House of Obal. Perhaps under the troubled gaze of the Bishop they did not wish to appear impious by too obviously supporting a man accused of sacrilege and threatened with anathema.

A low murmur of taut conversation and uneasy riposte filled the hall, softened by the rugs which overlay much of the marble floor. The majordomo had ushered me inward quietly. At first we attracted no notice. But clearly my escort had been given instructions which defied his preferences. With his head turned from me and his shoulders clenched in distaste, he struck his staff against the floor. By some trick of the light, Mullior’s Eagle appeared to flap its wings, barking for attention. Almost instantly, every voice in the hall was stilled, and every eye swung toward us, some with interest, others in trepidation.