Tides of Rythe (The Rythe Trilogy) (29 page)

She kissed him on the cheek and with a wave goodbye she returned to her rooms.

“She’s a good woman. You’ve been doubly blessed.”

“And you have been a man of duty all these years. Are you sorry you were called?”

“Not at all,” Gurt lied. Often he wondered what his life would have been like had he married, instead of serving a councillor.

The two men fell silent, a gulf between them. Neither would speak of it again. 

Gurt picked up his hot tea, and Sventhan waited. He never spoke while food or drink was being consumed, Gurt remembered. Strict adherence to the Omerteran in all things. Gurt was not so strict, but he still followed the principles. It was in his blood. To forget his duties would mean he was no longer a builder, one of the largest family on the whole continent, and if the lore was true, outside it also.

The room was cool enough to forget the heat outside. The shutters allowed a little breeze into the room. Gurt looked around, eyes alighting here and there – a fat, low candle, thick Pluan table, scarred from long use. An elaborately carved chest between two soft chairs, facing a cold fireplace. The furniture was not expensive, but of good quality. All the builders eschewed the gaudy, and made do with the functional. It was their way, despite their wealth.

Gurt knew the chest was an heirloom. Sventhan would never squander his own money to buy such a piece. He would save his wages. Save them for times such as these.

Gurt turned his gaze back to the big man. Tea finished, Sventhan broke the silence.

“It is good to see you. I was at first pleased that you wrote. Saddened, too, that it has come to this.”

“I am sorry I had not written for so long, cousin,” said Gurt sadly. “Would that it were in better circumstances.”

“But we build with the stone we are given. I have read your letter carefully. The family is doing what it can. I fear it will not be enough.”

“How much does the Imperator know? Does she know what transpires in the heart of the Conclave, or of
the threat to the Kuh’taenium?
”

“She knows enough. She has hired a bodyguard. She does not know me. I’m not sure she would believe, or if we could make her. Our brothers and sisters watch her from afar. Where we are able, we watch the other council members. Unfortunately, two have been murdered. We were not in place in time to prevent it. Reih Refren A’e Eril called on you, but if you were to tell her of our family…”

“How many councillors are under our protection?”

“All but thirteen. We do not have enough family to watch everybody, and even those we do watch cannot be protected all day and all night. Outside, they are as safe as we can make them, but we cannot go inside their homes unless hired, or open ourselves to them. We would make direct enemies of the Protectorate, and there are not enough of us builders to withstand their enmity should we be exposed.”

“Then what would you have me do? Do you think it is not enough just to protect them? I had thought it would be sufficient, but perhaps I have been away too long from the fold of the family. Since Tirielle’s disbarment I have not seen how serious the threat is to the Kuh’taenium. I thought the Imperator’s letter was strange, but I come. Now I fear it is too late.”

“I hope that is not so. But as to what we can do…I think it best if you begin our return into the light. You are known to the Imperator. She knows enough of the threat, and she contacted you. Perhaps you can talk to her. Perhaps we can be hired on the Councillors’ guard, or know the names of those Protocrats who attack the Kuh’taenium…I do not know. I thought it was a good idea, but now you are here, I am not so sure. We have remained a secret for so long…and I confess, I am afraid for our family. We cannot stand against the Protectorate.”

“If I can
not
speak to the Imperator, I will…I too, am known. If I am seen by the Protectorate they will suspect Tirielle has a hand to play here…I wish I knew where she was. It must be in secret. We must not expose the Imperator, but also, for now, we must not expose the family. We could do no good should we be hunted to the death.”

“In secret…hmm. I think there may be a way.” Sventhan smiled thinly. “But I have news for you, too. I think I may know where Tirielle was. I cannot promise she is there now. One of our sisters has seen her – in Beheth. It seems she has been stirring up trouble in the city.”

Gurt bashed the table, forgetting his pain for a moment. “Blasted girl. She should be laying low!”

“She is her father’s daughter. What else would you expect?”

“I’d expect some sense from her. Still, what’s done is done. I can do little to protect her here. Reih Refren A’e Eril is our concern now.”

“Then you will introduce us? It is time I told her of her heritage. I believe we may be facing the dissolution. We have no choice but to reveal ourselves.”

“I will tell her,” said Gurt reluctantly. “I only wish you were wrong. I fear we are no longer strong enough to make a difference.”

“Then what little difference we do make must be of the greatest import,” said Sventhan, reaching across the table to take Gurt’s shoulder. “We will stand for the light come the end, whether we perish or not. The secrets of the builders may be lost, but as always, others will come after us.”

“I hope it will not come to that,” said Gurt, rising. “Time is wasting. I will find a way to contact Reih, if you can but get me inside. You will have your meeting.”

“Thank you, Cousin. You will stay here, of course.”

“I have taken rooms…”

“I won’t here of it.”

“It endangers you, to have me in your home. Think of your family, Sventhan.”
Gurt spoke kindly, but did not have the heart to refuse. A room would be welcome now.

“They are builders. We carve the stone. We are strong enough. Now, I’ll hear no more about it. Tell me more of Tirielle. We may as well pass the night away. It may be a day or two before we can find the old ways into the Kuh’taenium. They are buried now, and built over, but we will find a way in.”

“May your hammer ring true, Sventhan. Thank you.”

“And yours, cousin. Now, tell me about the girl. She makes waves already…I wonder i
f her fate is somehow tied to ou
rs?”

“I wonder, too,” said Gurt. “She is brave. There was a time when thieves got past the gate guard, and she was alone inside the estate…”

Gurt talked long into the night, Sventhan merely listening with a thoughtful smile on his face. Both men found themselves enjoying the tales.

Gurt could not forget his duty, but for a time, at least he could forget his pain.

*

Chapter Fifty-Two

It was as good a way as any to pass the time. Wen, Drun and Bourninund watched from the back of a steadily growing crowd as Shorn and Renir trained.

In the centre of the circle of watchers the two men fought bare-knuckle, pulling their punches. Shorn was hampered without his arm-brace, but to a casual observe it would not seem so. Renir was willing to take any advantage he could get.

Shorn crouched like a warrior. Renir stood like an idiot.

“Idiot,” said Wen. 

“Shorn’s dropping his left, and Renir’s falling for it every time,” said Bourninund.

“He’s a fool. Fight like that in the real world and you’ll get knocked on your arse every time. Or, if you’re unlucky, killed.”

Renir took two blows to the head, in quick succession. He blocked a spinning backfist from Shorn, and landed his own blow to the mercenary’s ribs. No one would ever know Shorn’s leg had been ruined not more than a year ago. He was swift on his feet, and his footwork was perfect.

“He’s still learning, I suppose,” said Bourninund. “He’s caught me a few good ones before now.”

“No excuse for slow hands and a fool head,” rumbled Wen, crossing his thick arms against his bare chest. “He should have learned by now.”

“How long did you take to learn?” Drun enquired pointedly.

“Not the point. We’ve not got the luxury of years to train him.”

“Just watch,” said Drun. “I think you’ll find Renir’s a surprising man.”

Wen and Bourninund fell silent, as Shorn leapt, swinging a foot at Renir’s head. Instead of trying to block the kick, Renir ducked underneath it, pushing upward. Shorn thumped to the floor, and Renir fell on top of him, pining the mercenary’s leg between his own, and twisting slowly.

Shorn tapped Renir on the arm, and strangely, the crowd applauded, slapping their sandaled feet on the deck.

The two men rolled apart, and circled again. The crowd fell silent, watching, apart from the three older men, possibly the eldest on the ship.

“See?” said Drun with a satisfied smile.

“Humpf,” said Wen. “Not bad, I suppose.”

“Never seen that before,” said Bourninund appreciatively.

“Me neither. No good if you’re fighting more than one man, though. Often, that’s the case.”

“But he’s only fighting one man,” Drun pointed out.

“Suppose so,” conceded Wen.

Shorn landed a light blow on Renir’s temple, followed by a chop with the edge of his hand against the student’s elbow. It was obviously a stunning blow. Renir’s right arm fell numb against his side, but he did not give up. He blocked another blow to his head, swung a leg and upended Shorn again.

The mercenary rose with a smile, and the two men touched fists to signal the end of their training for the day. Renir clapped Shorn on the shoulder, then looked around for the old men. Spotting them in the crowd, they made their way over.

“He’s getting better,” said Wen grudgingly as they approached. “Not many men could put Shorn on his arse. Still, bet he couldn’t best him with a blade in his hand.”

“I shouldn’t think so,” said Bourninund.

“I sincerely hope he’ll never have to,” said Drun.

“What do you think then?” said Renir as he made his way to them. “Pretty nifty, eh?”

“Don’t get cocky, lad,” said Wen.

“Not bad, bit slow off the mark,” said Bourninund.

“Bit of encouragement wouldn’t go amiss,” complained Renir.

“Don’t pay them any mind, Renir. Can we talk?” Drun inclined his head.

“Suppose so. My arm’s still numb, by the way. Thanks, Shorn.”

“My arse is numb, too,” said Shorn with a rueful grin. “Won’t be long now before you can beat any man in a fair fight. Different with the blade, though. We’ll practise that tomorrow.”

“Look forward to it,” Renir said, and let Drun lead him away.

They walked until they reached the edge of the island ship, and
Drun sat lightly looking out over the seas. In the distance, the sky was a purpling bruise, a storm heading inland from the ocean. The wind was still calm, but it would not be long in coming. Already the temperature was dropping, and this far north it was chill, despite the bitter glare of the twin suns.

“I’ve been meaning to talk to you. Sometimes I forget you’re just as important a part of this company as Shorn, or I. You might not be a child of prophesy, but I see a greatness in you.”

“Stop kidding around, Drun,” said Renir bashfully. He sat next to the priest, buttoning his jerkin against the chill outriders of the storm.

“I don’t play, Renir. Neither should you.” Drun pinned him with a serious eye. “It can’t wait any longer. I’ve been putting off talking to you, perhaps in error, but too long. I think we should talk about your dreams.”

Renir shook his head, his long hair hiding his face from those dangerous, bright yellow eyes. “I don’t want to talk about it.”

“If it wasn’t important, I wouldn’t ask. It became my business when it began affecting you. I can’t let anything endanger us on our journey. Shorn must reach the wizard, or the old ones will return, and everything we know will be burnt away. You have changed since we have been on the road, Renir. For the better, I believe, but there is something strange going on, and I must know what it is if I am to help. You cry out, sometimes you talk in your sleep, and sometimes you twitch, and lash out, but it can go on no longer. You are not alone. Everything you do affects us all. We are all linked now.”