A Cast of Stones (35 page)

“What's he going to forget this time?” Errol whispered back.

Before Luis could answer, three raps sounded on the floor as the primus straightened his weighted posture to ask the question for the third time. “Hearken! If anyone bears knowledge that would prevent Errol Stone of Callowford from becoming a supplicant to the most holy order of Urlock Auguro, let him speak now or bear the consequences of his silence hereafter.”

Again silence filled the hall. Many of the men on the benches
stood in preparation to leave. A few untied their scapula, and one had his robe half off.

“If it please, Primus, I have information that the conclave should consider,” a voice called.

Errol knew that voice. He spun, searching. From behind one column, his eyes glinting with triumph, came the abbot of Windridge.

Morin.

Errol felt a savage grip on his arm. Luis's breath came warm against his ear.

“Say nothing,” the reader whispered. “Absolutely nothing. Remember, the primus rules here.”

The leader of the order of readers waved a fluttering hand at the abbot. “Come, sir. Let me hear your objection.”

Morin took a deep breath as he surveyed the audience chamber. Every face turned toward the spot he occupied in the corner. He began in a booming voice, “This boy—”

And was interrupted by the sound of the primus's staff striking the stone. The sound, like a hammer against an anvil, filled the chamber.

The primus smiled at the abbot's confusion. “You misunderstand, good abbot.” He pointed to a square of stone just in front of his feet. “Come here,” he commanded, “and tell
me
your objection.”

A glimmer of irritation flashed in the abbot's eyes, but he kept his smile and made his way to the dais accompanied by his guard. As he approached the primus, he bowed and gave an ingratiating smile before he shot Errol a withering look.

Bile filled Errol's throat, and he wished nothing more than to crush the abbot with his staff.

“Primus,” Luis said. “There are things I must tell you. I need to speak with you . . . alone.”

The leader of the order regarded Luis, his face grave. “I cannot stop in the middle of confirmation. You know this, Secondus. I must hear the abbot's objection.”

Luis grabbed Errol by the shoulder and forced him back, interposed himself between him and the abbot.

The abbot of Windridge approached the primus, clearly eager to speak.

The primus held up one hand, and the abbot closed his mouth with a click. “You look familiar, good abbot,” the primus said, speaking low, so only those gathered around him could hear. “But, alas, my memory for names and places seems to be lessened by the accumulation of years. Please introduce yourself.”

The abbot bowed again. “Of course, Primus. Age is wisdom as we say in the cathedral of Windridge.”

The primus's face wrinkled in disagreement. “I've met too many old fools to believe that. Your name, good abbot.”

“Morin Caska,” the abbot said, “of Windridge.”

Primus Sten tilted his head to one side, looking thoughtful. “I think I've heard of you. Yes, I'm sure of it. It wasn't good. However, anyone can bring an objection and be heard.” He held up an admonishing finger. “But be warned; this is the hall of the conclave. Any objection you bring can be quickly tested for its veracity. False accusations will not be tolerated.”

Morin bowed obsequiously. “I assure you, Primus Sten, that the information I bring is true.”

“Well then. Let's have it.”

The abbot took a deep breath, as if to proclaim his accusation to all gathered. But at the primus's censorious glare his voice dropped, and he leveled his accusation in tones smooth as oil-covered water, even as he pointed at Errol. “This man has spent the last months in the employ of a merchant called Naaman Ru. Ostensibly, he was a guard. In reality, he cast lots to help Ru maximize his profits.”

Primus's white-haired brows furrowed. “Is this true, Errol Stone?”

Luis interposed himself between Errol and his leader. “Primus, I can—”

An upraised finger halted him, and with a motion, the primus
directed him to step to one side. “I think it would be best to let the supplicant speak for himself, Secondus. Well, boy?”

The primus's eyes lay among a network of wrinkles, like bird's eggs resting in a nest, but they held Errol with their authority. It would be futile to lie. With a crowd of readers at hand, no evasion would be subtle enough to hide what he'd done.

The abbot stared at him in gleeful triumph.

“Yes, Primus,” he said looking down. “It's true.”

The old man held up a hand at the cacophony that erupted from Luis and the abbot, stilling them. “Casting for profit is a serious charge, lad. Do you have anything to offer in your defense?”

Errol lifted his gaze to meet those green eyes. “Ru kept me imprisoned and under guard. It was either cast lots or die.”

The primus nodded. “Not unheard of. There have always been men who desired the advantage a reader could bring to trade. How did you escape?”

Errol's heart quickened to a frantic pace inside his chest. “I challenged my way through the guard ranks to first and demanded he release me.”

The abbot's face twisted. “Surely the merchant would not allow such a valuable asset to walk out of his camp. You against the celebrated Naaman Ru and all his guards?”

Errol's mouth dried. Some instinct that thrummed in time with his heartbeat screamed at him not to mention Merodach's role in winning his freedom. “I was helped by a friend. I can't say any more. I promised.”

The primus's face clouded, even as the abbot's became savage with glee.

Morin bowed again, but not as low this time. “The boy is less than forthcoming. I'm sure you are aware, Primus, that his activity is against the laws of the kingdom. If it became general knowledge that readers of the conclave were influencing commerce for personal profit, the outcry against your order would be deafening.”

“I am well-versed in the history of my order, good abbot,” the primus said.

Errol was unused to the politics of the church, but he recognized the threat behind Morin's words. If the primus made him a reader, Caska would spread the tale of Errol's actions and stoke public anger against all readers.

His hands itched for his staff.

The primus's face clouded. “A serious matter,” he said, his jaws working. “What would you suggest, good abbot?”

Surprise wreathed the abbot's features for the briefest of moments. Hunger flashed in the depths of his eyes before his deep bow hid it.

“The affairs of the order are your domain, Primus.” He straightened. “But as the boy says, he cast lots under threat. I suggest you simply send him back to his village. I am returning to Windridge fairly soon. He can travel with my retinue.”

As he said this last, the abbot's eyes grew wide with hunger until the whites shone all around.

The primus bowed. “You are wise, good abbot. And your suggestion has merit.”

Luis made a strangled noise deep in his throat.

“But,” the primus went on, “the boy's indiscretion is a threat to our order. As such it calls for something a bit, ah, more punitive than simple banishment.” He turned toward the blue-robed men assembled before him, men whose attention had fled as the conversation they had no part in had proceeded. “Quinn, would you come forth?”

A stork-like man with a short, iron-gray beard separated himself from the crowd and came forward. “How may I assist you, Primus?” His eyes had a tendency to wander in and out of focus, as if he had trouble concentrating.

“I'm afraid my memory for the minutiae of conclave law isn't what it used to be, Master Quinn. What is the proscribed penalty for a reader of the conclave who casts lots for profit? Is it not true that penance of some sort is called for?”

Quinn didn't hesitate. “The proscription against casting for profit was first enacted during the reign of Belron, eight hundred years ago. Offenders were beheaded. A hundred years later, two readers were condemned and were drawn and quartered. Nasty business that. Then, five hundred years ago, five readers were caught casting for gain. They were thrown from the highest tower. Perhaps the most inventive manner of execution came about—”

The primus held up a hand. “Thank you, Quinn. I think we know the essentials.”

They meant to kill him? Errol ached for the feel of ash wood in his hands. He took a step back in preparation to flee.

“Be still,” Luis whispered in his ear. “The primus could tell you what he had for breakfast on this day twenty years ago. He tests the abbot.”

Indeed, the abbot's face shone with naked desire as they waited for Errol's death sentence.

The leader of the conclave cleared his throat. “Yes, well, it would seem the way is clear. However, there is one small problem. The boy is not and never has been a reader of the conclave. Humph, not sure how we missed him. Everyone is supposed to be tested at the age of fourteen. If I remember correctly, cases where unattached readers are caught casting for profit are under the purview of the conclave.” The primus smiled. “That would mean me, good abbot. Death seems a bit harsh, but certainly there is some penance called for.”

Thwarted desire twisted the abbot's face. Then a smile split his visage like a cut of violence. “I would be happy to oversee the boy's penance, Primus. As an abbot, I have some experience in these matters.”

The primus nodded.

Errol knew without doubt that, should the primus place him under the abbot's dominion, he would die.

He would fight first.

And live the rest of his life in hiding.

“You are generous,” the primus said, “but I want to ensure
we make an example of the boy for those who think to test the seriousness of our order's charge.”

The abbot opened his mouth to speak again, but the rap of the staff on the stone floor forbade any further discussion.

“Hearken,” the primus called. “It has been found that the supplicant, Errol Stone, has used his talent for earthly profit.”

The crowd of blue-robed readers gave a collective gasp. Gone were the half-bored looks and postures. They now regarded the men on the dais with pointed intensity.

“Further,” the primus continued, “he is denied entry to our order and remanded to serve penance for his transgression until such time as the primus, the archbenefice, or the king shall determine. Such penance shall begin immediately and be carried out within the boundaries of the royal compound.”

So they meant to hold him prisoner.

The abbot gnawed his lower lip, flecks of blood showing on his tongue. With a bow, he turned and strode from the chamber, almost running, bodyguard in lockstep two paces behind.

Two more raps from the staff signaled the end of the conclave's meeting.

The primus stood on the dais until the last of the readers exited the hall before turning his attention to Luis. “The boy brings powerful and desperate enemies, Secondus. I think we should retire to my quarters. There is much you have to tell me, yes?”

With that, he turned and exited through a narrow door hidden at the back of the dais. Errol and Luis followed him down a dimly lit hallway. Guttering torches threw ghastly shadows against the walls as they walked. The primus caught Errol's look and smiled.

“This hallway is rarely used anymore, and few know of it. In times past, the primus kept his quarters next to the hall of the conclave. I use them now for audiences instead of living space.” He chuckled. “They're too dank for my old bones. I prefer the light of . . .”

His voice faded from Errol's consciousness as they rounded a corner.

The smell of filth drifted to him.

Three hooded monks approached, heads bent and feet shuffling.

At ten paces, clawed hands emerged from their sleeves to throw off their robes. Errol looked on faces from a nightmare. Ferrals. Pointed teeth gleamed wetly in the dim light. Red eyes shone with insane hunger. Dagger-like nails flexed in anticipation, eager for blood.

The spoor of corruption filled the cramped space. Luis and the primus gaped as the things charged, too stunned to fight or even flee. Errol darted in front of the primus, grabbed his staff of office, and swung.

The iron-shod end cracked across the head of the lead attacker. Blood gushed, spattering the gray stone with crimson.

Errol backed away, trying to find room to fight. Unable to move, the primus and Luis blocked him. “Get behind me!”

Teeth ripped into his arm even as he thrust the end of the staff into the face of another attacker.

With a howl, the thing sprang at him with its claws outstretched.

He ducked, tearing his arm from the mouth of its fellow. With a wild swing, he smashed the staff end against the ferral, but the blow missed its head and landed instead against the shoulder.

They closed on him.

He didn't have enough room. One or the other would take him. With a scream, Errol chose and aimed a crushing blow at the head of the ferral before him. The iron crunched through the creature's skull and the ferral dropped. Errol spun, even as a keening howl filled the hall. The creature behind him lay on the floor.

A long dagger protruded from its chest. Luis worked to push it deeper still.

The primus shook himself. His eyes blinked several times in rapid succession. “Quickly, we must get to my chambers. My guards are there. I'm a fool of an old man. This hallway is a death trap.”

The head of the conclave hiked up his robes and ran, leading them onward. Errol gripped the heavy staff, darting glances behind every few seconds.

Their hallway merged with a larger one, where the primus slowed and strode toward a door flanked by two men in black. “We've been attacked.” He pointed back the way they'd come. “The bodies are back there. Get them and place them in the old firing room.” His face grew stern. “Let no one see them. No one.”