“The doctor did not choose his walking companions,” he said. “Rose provided a list to the Mistress of Ceremonies, and she decided who should stand with whom.”
“That doesn’t mean he has to talk.”
“Nor does talk mean he is betraying us.”
“Let’s not argue about the doctor,” said Fiffengurt. “He’s lost your trust, and that’s the end of that. You’ve got a mighty task before you as well today, Pathkendle.”
“One you ought to let me help with,” said Neeps sulkily.
“Those debates are behind us,” said Hercól. “Look: we are almost to the shrine.”
Indeed they were climbing the last little rise. The broad, whitewashed structure loomed before them, and the jade-green dome of the Declarion shone brilliant in the sun. On the broad stairs hundreds of figures, in robes of white and black, waited in silence.
“Thasha,” whispered Pazel with sudden urgency. “Let me hear your vows.”
She looked at him blankly.
“You know,” said Pazel. “Your vows.”
“Oh. My vows.” She pushed a drooping orchid from her face. Then, leaning close, she rasped out a string of wet Mzithrini words. The smell of brandy notwithstanding, Pazel was relieved.
“Almost,” he said. “But for the love of Rin don’t leave out the r in uspris . You want to call Falmurqat ‘my prince,’ not ‘my little duckling.’”
“Hercól Stanapeth,” said a sudden voice behind them.
It was the pale young man from the gardens again. Hercól turned and looked at him.
“Well, lad?”
Again, that shallow, ironic bow. Then the young man fell in beside them and pulled a small envelope from his pocket. “A gentleman stopped me at the gate, sir, and bade me deliver this to your hand.”
The young man was looking at Thasha, who returned his gaze warily. Hercól snatched the envelope. It was sealed with oxblood wax and bore no writing. Hercól made no move to open it.
“What is your name, lad, and who is this gentleman?”
“I am Greysan Fulbreech, sir. King’s clerk, though my term of employment is coming to an end. As for the gentleman, I did not ask his name. He was well dressed, and he gave me a coin.” He was still looking at Thasha. “This message, however, I would have delivered free of charge.”
Pazel was finding it hard not to dislike this clerk. “I’m sure King Oshiram’s keeping you very busy,” he said.
“I don’t get a moment’s rest,” said Fulbreech, not sparing him a glance.
“Then be on your way,” growled Fiffengurt, “unless you’ve more to tell us?”
The young man looked at Fiffengurt, and for a moment his smooth demeanor failed him, as though he were struggling to reach some decision. At last he took a deep breath and nodded. “I bear another message,” he said. “Master Hercól, she on whose answer you wait has decided. This winter there shall be fire in the hearth.”
Fulbreech stole a last glance at Thasha, and left without another word.
Only Thasha, who had known Hercól all her life, saw the shock he disguised so well. A code , she thought, but who could be sending coded messages to Hercól? She did not bother to ask for an explanation, and was glad to see the tarboys keeping silent as well. Hercól would explain nothing until he judged the moment right.
But Fiffengurt could not restrain himself. “What in the bower of the Blessed Tree was that all about?”
“Very little, maybe,” said Hercól. “Or perhaps the whole fate of your Empire. How does the rhyme, go, Quartermaster? Arqual, Arqual, just and true? We shall see.”
He would say no more, but in his voice was a happiness Thasha had not heard in years. Then he opened the little envelope, glanced at the single line of writing it contained, and the joy vanished like a snuffed match.
He put the envelope in his pocket. “Greetings from the Secret Fist,” he said. “They are watching us. As if there could be any doubt.”
The Father stood atop a staircase of great stone ovals, before the central
“That doesn’t mean he has to talk.”
“Nor does talk mean he is betraying us.”
“Let’s not argue about the doctor,” said Fiffengurt. “He’s lost your trust, and that’s the end of that. You’ve got a mighty task before you as well today, Pathkendle.”
“One you ought to let me help with,” said Neeps sulkily.
“Those debates are behind us,” said Hercól. “Look: we are almost to the shrine.”
Indeed they were climbing the last little rise. The broad, whitewashed structure loomed before them, and the jade-green dome of the Declarion shone brilliant in the sun. On the broad stairs hundreds of figures, in robes of white and black, waited in silence.
“Thasha,” whispered Pazel with sudden urgency. “Let me hear your vows.”
She looked at him blankly.
“You know,” said Pazel. “Your vows.”
“Oh. My vows.” She pushed a drooping orchid from her face. Then, leaning close, she rasped out a string of wet Mzithrini words. The smell of brandy notwithstanding, Pazel was relieved.
“Almost,” he said. “But for the love of Rin don’t leave out the r in uspris . You want to call Falmurqat ‘my prince,’ not ‘my little duckling.’”
“Hercól Stanapeth,” said a sudden voice behind them.
It was the pale young man from the gardens again. Hercól turned and looked at him.
“Well, lad?”
Again, that shallow, ironic bow. Then the young man fell in beside them and pulled a small envelope from his pocket. “A gentleman stopped me at the gate, sir, and bade me deliver this to your hand.”
The young man was looking at Thasha, who returned his gaze warily. Hercól snatched the envelope. It was sealed with oxblood wax and bore no writing. Hercól made no move to open it.
“What is your name, lad, and who is this gentleman?”
“I am Greysan Fulbreech, sir. King’s clerk, though my term of employment is coming to an end. As for the gentleman, I did not ask his name. He was well dressed, and he gave me a coin.” He was still looking at Thasha. “This message, however, I would have delivered free of charge.”
Pazel was finding it hard not to dislike this clerk. “I’m sure King Oshiram’s keeping you very busy,” he said.
“I don’t get a moment’s rest,” said Fulbreech, not sparing him a glance.
“Then be on your way,” growled Fiffengurt, “unless you’ve more to tell us?”
The young man looked at Fiffengurt, and for a moment his smooth demeanor failed him, as though he were struggling to reach some decision. At last he took a deep breath and nodded. “I bear another message,” he said. “Master Hercól, she on whose answer you wait has decided. This winter there shall be fire in the hearth.”
Fulbreech stole a last glance at Thasha, and left without another word.
Only Thasha, who had known Hercól all her life, saw the shock he disguised so well. A code , she thought, but who could be sending coded messages to Hercól? She did not bother to ask for an explanation, and was glad to see the tarboys keeping silent as well. Hercól would explain nothing until he judged the moment right.
But Fiffengurt could not restrain himself. “What in the bower of the Blessed Tree was that all about?”
“Very little, maybe,” said Hercól. “Or perhaps the whole fate of your Empire. How does the rhyme, go, Quartermaster? Arqual, Arqual, just and true? We shall see.”
He would say no more, but in his voice was a happiness Thasha had not heard in years. Then he opened the little envelope, glanced at the single line of writing it contained, and the joy vanished like a snuffed match.
He put the envelope in his pocket. “Greetings from the Secret Fist,” he said. “They are watching us. As if there could be any doubt.”
The Father stood atop a staircase of great stone ovals, before the central
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