Petrodor: A Trial of Blood and Steel, Book 2 (31 page)

“No,” said Jaryd, when the building frustration and anger became impossible to control. All turned to look at him.

“No what?” said Teriyan.

“You're not going. Any of you.” Silence about the table. Jaryd unclenched his fist, it had been steadily tightening as the discussion had progressed. “This is my affair. I swore to resolve it myself, and I shall. I shall accept no assistance.”

“Even if it kills Wyndal?” Jaegar said flatly.

Jaryd jumped to his feet, his chair toppling with a clatter. “I never asked for all your assistance!” he shouted. “This is
my
honour, not yours! I won't let you ruin it!”

“Ruin it?” Jaegar raised his eyebrows. “We make it happen. You declared yourself Goeren-yai, Master Jaryd. That is the only reason your head has not been removed from your shoulders by the king's law. You come to live here among us, you make use of our isolation, of our hospitality, and now you think to refuse our assistance in return?”

Jaryd stared at him, unable to speak. This was turning out all wrong. All his life, others had tried to dictate his future. Always they got it wrong, always they expected from him that which he could not give, or snatched his most precious goals and turned them to their own ends. He needed to do this for himself, for his own sake, for Tarryn's, for Wyndal's, before these meddling fools made a mess of everything once more…

“Tell me,” Jaegar continued, “when you gave yourself to the old ways, did you have it in your heart to actually learn something of them? Or are the ways of the Goeren-yai simply a convenience, to be followed when it suits your purposes and ignored when they do not? To be of the village means to abide by the decisions of its elders. We make these decisions in the best interests of Baerlyn and its people. You have brought these troubles amongst us with your presence, and now we shall deal with them as we see fit. And if you are truly Goeren-yai, you shall abide by that and be grateful.”

Jaryd stared at the tabletop, quietly fuming. He wanted to sit, or to turn and stride out, but he could not decide which. Neither seemed appropriate. He was trapped.

“To be Goeren-yai is not to wear a ring and mark your face with lines,” said old Cranyk, grimly. “Myself, I could not care if the boy knows a passing spirit from a horse's fart. He has mad courage, he is a warrior and he knows revenge. These, and these alone, are the soul of the ancient ways. All that he has done, Yuan Jaegar, has been in pursuit of his revenge. If you did not wish the troubles that come with his presence, you should have refused him hospitality. I say it is a sad day for this village when the concerns of selfish custom, and the fear of others’ opinions, even that of the king, should rule our honour.”

Jaryd blinked at Cranyk in mild surprise. The old man's continued support astonished him in its ferocity. He could not recall the last time any elder from his past life had supported his headstrong urges to any degree. Only…only Cranyk did not do it for the love of Jaryd Nyvar. Cranyk did it, it seemed, because Cranyk saw something in Jaryd Nyvar that reminded him of that which he valued most in the Goeren-yai. Jaryd could not deny that his decision to cast off the ways of Verenthanes had been driven entirely by selfish rage and the opportunism of revenge. But now, could it be that one of the Goeren-yai's most respected would look at him and find approval for his decision?

Jaegar looked at Cranyk for a long moment, lips pursed in consideration. Then he nodded. “So,” he said, not contesting Cranyk's words. “The matter is laid out. Now we all must decide.”

Sasha was sitting at the end of the pier near Family Velo's boats, gutting fish. It had been five days since the meeting at The Fish Head. The day was perhaps the hottest she'd ever experienced, and the air was thick enough to drink. She fairly dripped with sweat, in long sleeves to keep the sun off her arms.

Footsteps approached up the pier planks, a middle-aged man with a white beard was coming toward her. Not a docksman—he did not look work-worn, nor did he swagger with a working man's gait—his tunic and pants were plain yet good. He wore his hat low on his brow, his eyes hidden in shade.

He stopped nearby and gazed out to the horizon where thick stormclouds were building, a dark shadow on the sea. Now, a flash of lightning. “It's coming this way,” said the man. “We could use some rain, the reservoirs run low.”

“Aye,” said Sasha, scaling a fish from the tail to the head, as Mari had shown her. “I wouldn't like to be out on one of those ships when the lightning comes. Not beneath those masts.”

“It's said that lightning strikes the highest point because the gods discourage the immodesty of height,” said the man.

“Is that right?” Sasha glanced up at the Porsada Temple, high atop its far promontory, its spires reaching for the sky.

The man followed the direction of her gaze and smiled. “The temple has never been struck. The gods are selective.”

“And here was I thinking they were impartial and fair.” She remembered priests boasting the same thing once about the Saint Ambellion Temple in Baen-Tar. Until one stormy night a bolt had blasted the iron star right off the left spire. Then the priests pretended they'd never made the claim in the first place. She would have had so much more respect for Verenthanes in general, she thought, if they didn't make such silly claims.

“No,” said the man, turning back to the distant storm. “No Verenthane ever claimed the gods impartial.”

“Pity,” said Sasha. She laid the fish flat and chopped its head off, then its tail. “Bias is no blessing.”

The man looked at her oddly as she scooped the head and tail into a basket, and the meat into another. “You're very handy with that knife,” he observed as she took up a new fish. “You must be Sashandra Lenayin.”

Sasha smiled. “And I'm sure you only just figured that out now.”

The man shrugged. “There are only so many sworld-wielding women on the dockfront who can dissect a fish in the blink of an eye. And you have that lovely accent.”

“A
lovely
accent,” Sasha repeated, scaling fast. “That's far nicer than I've heard it called recently.”

“And what do men call it?”

“Barbarian.”

“My dear girl, I would never.”

Sasha slit the fish, scooped out the guts with her knife, turning to drop them into the water behind. Chopped its head and tail, disposed of them, and looked up at the man. She gave a final, fancy twirl of the knife for effect. “So now you know my name, stranger. What's yours?”

“I am Father Portus,” said the man. “Father Portus Ragini.”

“Ragini?” She blinked. “So you're Patachi Ragini's…?”

“Younger brother.”

Sasha nodded, considering. “And what do you want with me, Father Portus?”

Sasha walked the docks, a short time after Father Portus had departed. Enough time for her to wash, in the vain hope of scrubbing some of the fish smell from her hands, and deliver her fish to the Velo family stall. She'd been planning to go out on the evening boat, but that was before the storm arrived. In bad weather, Mari would want experienced sailors only. The Nasi-Keth being what they were, it was difficult to make time to help on the dawn boats—at that time, most Nasi-Keth were asleep, recovering from long nights. And so, she helped however she could, to pay for her free board.

She walked with a small waterskin under one arm, weaving her way through the early afternoon chaos. Here were a mass of fish stalls, the morning's catch on display with buyers haggling over price. There, a small mountain of octopus, a squeamish writhing of tentacles. Everything smelled of fish, including her. Seagulls wheeled overhead and occasionally scrabbled underfoot, daring the forest of moving legs for a few smelly scraps.

Sasha sipped from her waterskin as she walked, making certain never to let anyone brush against her, keeping her right hand free for the knife at her belt. Despite the crowds, it was unlikely that too many of the wrong sort of people could infiltrate here with ease—upslope men were rarely welcome and could be spotted by their hair, the trim of their beards, or their lack of fish smell even if their clothes were plain. Locals had an unerring eye for such folk, and for every Nasi-Keth amongst the crowds, there were ten more with family who were Nasi-Keth. Still, Sasha had never felt entirely at ease amongst so many people. She'd seen crowds before, at Baen-Tar festivals and the like, but those were nothing compared to this.

Nearing the big ships of the North Pier, she saw a building of whitewashed brick with a single, simple spire above its doors. Rows of vegetable stalls stood in front, doing a brisk trade with dockfront wives and their big wicker baskets. Sasha ducked through the stalls and slipped inside.

Inside was the typical high ceiling and many pews of a Verenthane temple. The entire right wall was a labyrinth of wooden scaffolding, where the pews had been moved to make way. A number of great white sheets now lay across those pews, spattered with coloured paint. Where the scaffolding neared the ceiling, it branched outward, seeming to defy a certain fall. On planks beneath the ceiling, men moved and mixed paints. Sasha walked down the central aisle, gazing upward. Goeren-yai or not, she loved this place. The air smelled of wet plaster and the men's murmured, almost reverent, conversation echoed off the high ceiling. This was a creativity she had never witnessed before coming to Petrodor, and it was mesmerising.

Father Portus stood by the first pew before the altar, gazing upward. Sasha stopped beside him. “You've never been here before?” she asked him.

Portus shook his head. “No. It is…remarkable.” A priest of the high slopes would rarely visit those of the lower. The priesthood of the Porsada Temple were wealthy men of the families. These small, dockfront temples interested them as little as did the poor, uncivilised labourers who frequented them.

“The artist's name is Berloni,” said Sasha. “That's him up there.” She pointed to one man, high on the scaffold. “He drew the original outlines. Now he's filling them in, and his assistants do the details.”

Across one side of the ceiling, a beautiful mosaic was unfolding. Half-naked figures, scenes of the Verenthane Scrolls of Ulessis, in majestic, sensual poses. Sasha recognised no more than a third of the scenes, but it hardly mattered. The mosaic background was blue, like the sky on a warm summer day, and the figures seemed to fly. Indeed, some had wings—angels, the Verenthanes called those.

“I love this fellow here,” said Sasha, pointing to a figure high on the wall opposite. A muscular man with a great beard, mostly naked, holding a babe in the crook of one arm. Both seemed to be emerging from the sea, draped in bits of seaweed, while a beautiful lady in a flowing dress looked on with love in her eyes. “He looks a bit like some Lenay men I know.”

Father Portus gave her an odd look. “You must know these men well. He wears so little. They all do.”

Sasha shrugged. “It's the style in the Saalshen Bacosh. You recognise the scenes?”

“Of course!” Father Portus looked somewhat…uncomfortable. “That's Ronard, God of the Oceans, and his son Trione. The woman is Deyani, Goddess of Love.”

“I didn't do so well in scripture class,” Sasha admitted. “But if classes were this beautiful, I might have done better. Don't you like it?”

“It's…it's…” the priest shook his head, helplessly. “They wear so little! Archbishop Augine would turn green.”

“I knew there was a reason I liked it,” Sasha said edgily. “Who cares what they wear or don't wear, look how beautiful they are! How godly!”

“I fear…I fear these may be considered indecent,” said Father Portus. “The indecent cannot be beautiful. Indeed, it cannot be art.”

“And yet here they are,” said Sasha defiantly. “Beautiful, naked, thoroughly indecent, and most certainly art.”

Father Portus shook his head, and made a holy sign with one hand. “Such thoughts come out of the Saalshen Bacosh,” he murmured. “Whatever shall they dream up next?”

Sasha repressed a smile with difficulty. If he disliked
that
, what followed would be amusing indeed. “Come, we can talk in private, just through here.”

She led Father Portus through a door at the back of the temple, where the priests’ private quarters might be expected to be, but instead they stepped into a wide, open space of bare brick walls and a plain floor littered with statues. The high ceiling echoed to the rhythmic taps of chisels.