Beyond the Hanging Wall (2 page)

In the end Nona capitulated, although she was still unhappy about the idea, and Garth embarked with his father one balmy spring day on their journey first to Ruen and then to the Veins. They had spent a rushed two days preparing for their journey, making enough powders and preparations for their regular patients, and arranging for one of Narbon’s other physicians, Merton Fillis, to attend any who needed urgent attention. Garth tried to keep his excitement from flowering across his face as he kissed Nona goodbye. He knew his mother’s worries—indeed, he shared many of them—but nothing could keep his spirits from soaring on this fine day with such an adventure beckoning.

Nona patted her son on the cheek. “Be good, and mind your father,” she said. “And come home safe.”

“I will, mother.” Garth gave her one more quick hug, then climbed onto the rangy brown gelding his
father had purchased for the trip. Not only was he going to court, but now he even had his own horse!

Apparently expressionless, Joseph tipped his head at his wife—only she could read the emotion in his eyes—then swung his horse’s head into the street. “Come on, Garth. Ten hours of solid riding will wipe that grin from your face.”

But Joseph underestimated his son. Ten hours of riding a day for the eight days it took them to reach Ruen dampened none of his excitement. This was the first time he had been beyond Narbon, and Garth was determined to enjoy every moment of it and store each memory away for a lifetime.

From their home they rode through the bustling main streets of Narbon, Garth given the duty of leading the packhorse. The streets were alive with traders and their customers, for Narbon was the main entry port into Escator for the exotic goods—and occasionally even more exotic news—which Corolean transport ships brought from the mysterious lands far to the west. From Escator a goodly portion of the goods were then transported to the nine inland kingdoms to the east; Narbon grew rich as the waist in the hourglass of east-west trade.

Once they had reached the town’s outskirts, Joseph led them onto the main road north and Garth turned curious eyes towards the extensive marshlands that extended along the coastline. Few lived in the marshes, for they were warm and humid, almost perpetually enclosed in mists, and the thousands of different species of biting insects were enough to keep most people at bay.

“Look,” Joseph pointed, and Garth saw a rudimentary hut leaning against a low marsh tree some one hundred paces off the main road. A woman and a girl were washing clothes in a great tub by the front door, and they paused and briefly stared at the distant riders.

Joseph tipped his hat politely and, following his lead, Garth nodded. “Why would anyone want to live there?” he asked his father, pulling his light cloak a little closer at the thought of swarms of insects descending on him.

Joseph stared at the woman and girl for a moment longer, then turned his gaze back to the road. “They like the life, I suppose. The tides swamp through the marsh twice a day and bring fish and eels, and they are constantly surrounded by the cries of the seabirds. They claim,” he hesitated, “that it is a pleasant and rewarding life.”

“But the
marsh
!” Garth muttered. At school he had heard countless tales of the thieving lifestyle of the marsh people.

“They are harmless enough,” Joseph said, and now there was a slight edge to his voice.

Garth stared at his father. “Do you know them?”

His father shrugged a little. “Sometimes I am called to attend one or two of the marsh people, although normally they look after their own ills well enough. Sometimes that woman,” he glanced back at the hut again, “asks for herbal powder that she can’t obtain in the marsh. Sometimes she even asks for advice.”

Garth’s hazel eyes widened, and he too glanced over his shoulder; both woman and girl had disappeared inside their hovel. “You know her?”

“Her name is Venetia,” Joseph said shortly, and Garth could get no more out of him on the matter.

From Narbon they travelled the Ruen road north for eight days, sometimes sleeping in the open on the mild nights, sometimes staying at one of the inns along the road. The road was well travelled and well protected by the Escator militia, and the Baxtors encountered none of the bandits that occasionally troubled some of the minor roads of the realm. To both sides of the road the fields stretched green and fertile under the spring sun and Garth found his lessons continued even on horseback, for Joseph spent much of each day’s ride pointing out the various plants in fields and ditches, explaining their medicinal value and, sometimes, their poisonous properties. If he spied a particularly unusual plant, Joseph would stop and insist they both get down from their horses so that Garth could lay his hands on the plant.

“Sometimes you can sense the poison within a plant that causes ill health or death in men and women, Garth,” Joseph explained late one afternoon as his son squatted down by a Whitespoon fern, his fingers lightly touching its pale-tipped leaves. “Tell me, what do you feel?”

Garth frowned in concentration, his brown curls flopping over his forehead, and ran his fingers lightly over the plant. Heavy pressure often destroyed the Touch; delicacy encouraged it. He shivered, then pulled his fingers away.

“Decay,” he said slowly. “Blackness…black flesh.” He took a deep breath. “Death.”

“Yes,” Joseph said, and stood up. Garth followed his example, grateful to put some distance between himself and the Whitespoon fern. “If ingested, this fern will cause gradual death. It will stop circulation to the extremities first, and the feet and hands will decay. Then, as the rot spreads, the body slowly dies.”

“Is there anything to counter its effects?”

Joseph shook his head, his eyes still on the plant. “No. If you touch anyone who has been poisoned you will feel much as you did just then.” He raised his eyes to his son’s. “Soothe, that’s all you can do. And counsel the patient to make his or her last testament if they haven’t already done so.”

Garth shivered again and turned back to his horse. Harder even than feeling malignancies through his fingers was coming to terms with the knowledge that there would always be some things he just couldn’t fix.

They reached Ruen on the afternoon of the eighth day from Narbon. Garth was astounded by the city. He had thought Narbon a bustling and important town, but compared to Ruen it seemed as insignificant as a marsh hovel.

Ruen had been the seat of the kings of Escator for centuries, and had grown wealthy because of the crown’s patronage and because it sat at the crossroads of the major trade routes for the realm. It nestled in the hollow formed by a low crescent of hills, and Garth’s first glimpse of the city was when he and his father rounded a bend in the road as it wound through the hills.

“It’s beautiful!” Garth gasped as he caught sight of Ruen spread out before him, and Joseph laughed at the awe on his son’s face.

“Its domes and minarets and belltowers hide a myriad sins, Garth. Keep a watchful eye to your purse when we enter its streets.”

But even the thought of pickpockets and cutpurses did not dim Garth’s wonder at the city. His head constantly twisting this way and that as they passed through the fortress-like gates and into Ruen’s bustle, Garth could not see enough at once. The people of this city dressed brighter, walked faster, talked louder and laughed more easily than the good folk of Narbon. The air was full, not only of the shouts of the city folk, but also of bells and music—the chimes of the minarets and towers rang out to mark the passage of the day and to call the faithful to prayers.

They took a room in an inn close to the city centre and only half an hour’s walk through the streets to the royal palace. Joseph sent word that he had arrived, and he and Garth spent the evening cleaning both themselves and their travel-stained clothes, trimming hair and, in Joseph’s case, his beard, and laying out the preparations that Joseph thought Cavor might require.

“He called me to his presence some eight years ago,” Joseph explained as he stared at the pots and flasks he had spread across his bed, trying to decide which ones to take.

“Why couldn’t his own physician treat him?” Garth sat cross-legged at the foot of the bed, trying to rethread the laces through one of his boots.

Joseph selected a flask, stared at it, then sighed and put it back on the bed. “Only a few of our craft enjoy the use of the Touch, Garth. Cavor’s own personal physician is one of them.”

Garth nodded. Unlike his father, who cheerfully treated the common folk of Narbon for nominal payment, most physicians who could use the Touch charged such high prices only nobles could afford their services.

“But…” Garth prompted as his father continued to pick up flasks of medicines; a few he put to one side, the rest back on the bed.

“But Oberon Fisk is not very proficient at it. My guess is he can only employ the Touch spasmodically, and then only barely. Not,” Joseph paused, flask in hand, and grinned at his son, “that you’d know by his overrated opinion of himself.”

“Then
you
should be the king’s personal physician,” Garth said loyally, “if you’re better at the Touch than Oberon Fisk.”

Joseph’s grin faded. “He asked me, eight years ago, but I was happily settled in Narbon by then, you were doing well at school, and your mother did not want to leave her comfortable house. And besides,” he said, regarding his plain clothes ruefully, “I would not have cut a good figure at court.

“Now, as to why Cavor wants me, well, I can only wonder at the reason. But I would guess that it has something to do with the Manteceros.”

Garth frowned and put his relaced boot down on the floor. “The Manteceros?”

Joseph tapped his upper right arm. “His tattoo, that which is engraved on all kings of Escator.
Normally it is done as a child, a babe in arms, but Cavor unexpectedly came to the throne in his mid-twenties…”

“And tattoos don’t take well at that age.”

“Yes,” Joseph said. “I’m glad to see you’ve listened to at least one thing I’ve said.”

Garth laughed at his father’s gentle humour. Both knew that Garth had to be told something only once for it to sink permanently into his mind.

“When I saw Cavor’s mark eight years ago it had festered. The ink for the royal tattoo is slightly different to that normally used for body engraving. It has properties that are…well, dangerous.”

“What do you mean?”

“You know the royal colour is sky blue?”

Garth nodded impatiently.

“Well, the royal tattoo must be done in that colour. A babe takes it well, and heirs to the throne are normally marked soon after birth. But a grown man often reacts badly to it. Cavor has had constant problems since the mark was engraved on his biceps seventeen years ago. If the infection spreads too badly then Oberon is flummoxed. It needs a physician skilled in the Touch to heal it.”

“And you are the best in Escator,” Garth said.

“As you will be one day,” Joseph said, then grinned again. “Who knows, perhaps you will replace Oberon as the king’s personal physician in years to come.”

Garth laughed at the thought. “I will want to do more with my days than spend them with my hands wrapped about a king’s arm, father!”

If Garth had been moved to wonder by the noise and gaiety of Ruen, he was stunned into complete silence by the royal palace itself.

Its outer wall rose more than five windowless storeys from the street, a bare edifice of dark red stone, topped by prison-grey slate. Once they had been checked through the massive black iron gateways, they moved into another world; Garth completely forgot that a thriving and noisy city spread outside the red walls.

The walls surrounded a massive complex of buildings—all of the same red brick—and courtyards and gardens. Neatly manicured trees and hedges bordered walks that wandered by fountains and pools and riotous flowerbeds. Several gorgeously apparelled women strolled the walks, their eyes dark and seductive above lazy fans, cream and gold lapdogs gambolling at their heels.

A grey-uniformed servant led them silently down several of the paths, then into a dimly lit corridor. They halted and bowed as yet another lady passed them by, Garth’s eyes widening at both her silken dress and her exotic scent, then the servant handed them over to the king’s stout master of ceremonies in the ante-chamber behind the Throne Room.

“You will behave at all times with the utmost reverence,” the Master of Ceremonies said firmly, and fixed Garth in the eye.

Already uncomfortable in his best clothes and with nerves jolting about his stomach, Garth only nodded silently.

The Master of Ceremonies sniffed, and used the insides of his wrists to smooth back his already
rigorously oiled iron-grey hair from his forehead. “You will bow when you enter, and again when you leave.”

“We understand,” Joseph said. He had instructed Garth as best he could last night, but it didn’t hurt to have his instructions reinforced by this man.

“And never turn your back on the royal person. And…ah!”

The Master of Ceremonies had suddenly spotted the small bag Joseph carried. “What have you got there?” His hands fluttered in alarm, and a guard rushed from his corner station.

“Only my powders and preparations,” Joseph said hastily, letting the guard inspect the bag.

The Master of Ceremonies subsided slightly, but he still eyed the two suspiciously. Oberon Fisk was his good friend, and the court physician deeply resented the fact that the king had felt the need to call such a rustic physician in to treat his mark. Fisk had stayed away from court today, refusing to meet Baxtor.

“Well,” he huffed. “I shall ascertain if the king will see you now, or if he has more important matters to attend to.”

His tone left Joseph and Garth in no doubt that as far as the Master of Ceremonies was concerned, anything would be of more importance than them.

But it appeared that Cavor was impatient to see Joseph Baxtor, for the Master returned within only a minute or two, his face red and his hands clenched slightly by his side.

“If you will,” he said stiffly, inclining his head, and Garth, unsuccessfully trying to suppress the
nerves now careering wildly about his internal spaces, followed his father into the Throne Room.