Shadow Over Kiriath (58 page)
“Makepeace, take this to Master Amicus and his guest.” The brother in charge of the kitchen gestured at the tray he had just finished loading with teapot, cups, and plate of shortbread. “You know where they are?”
“In the Master’s receiving room,” Gillard replied, striving to keep the resentment and irritation from his voice. After two and a half months, he still wasn’t used to being ordered around. But he was definitely learning to keep his negative reactions to himself. He’d already been punished too many times for the sin of “pride” to want any more of it. They couldn’t cane him as they did the others, for fear of cracking his ribs, so they used a thin, supple switch of the sort one would use on a child. It stung like fire and left more thin marks on his pale flesh than was perhaps normal, but what he hated most was the way it reminded him of his infirmity.
He was still sporting bruises from the last one.
His hand had been unwrapped and freed of its splint a week ago, shocking him by how stiff and useless it had become. He could still hardly bend the fingers, though the brother who’d been treating him assured him it would improve with time and work. Of course, he’d not been able to say how much it would improve, though he’d insisted that even if Gillard might not ever be able to use a pen properly, he would at least be able to write.
Gillard couldn’t have cared less about his ability to write. He wanted to be sure of regaining his ability to use a sword, but he knew he couldn’t say that. And, of course, he’d had no time to pursue that goal of late, anyway. Despite having had no contact with the outside world, he was almost never alone, and constant hard work, prayer, worship services, memorizing scriptures, and mastering the complex and inscrutable system of mandates to guarantee spiritual purity occupied every waking moment.
Last week he’d been assigned with the other First-years to clean out the garderobes, a task he’d never even realized existed, let alone had to perform. It made sense that if one used the middle of the keep’s thick outer walls as a privy, one would eventually have to empty it. But it was a job for the lowest of the low, something not even proper to mention in the presence of a royal prince.
Amicus seemed to enjoy giving him the assignment, and Gillard had nearly refused, despite the prospect of another switching. Only the realization that he’d be singling himself out from the other acolytes by doing so had stopped him. That they’d had visitors that day—a party of wealthy travelers— had only made it all worse. When whispers in the hallways afterward suggested it had been the king himself with his new queen—who was very beautiful—he was more irritated than ever. Bad enough to be hauling excrement out of the keep walls at all, much less be doing it on the day his brother came to visit. The stench was so bad the guests had not stayed long, and in retrospect, Gillard supposed Amicus had chosen that time for the task deliberately so as to shield himself and the keep, and guard the secret of his royal acolyte.
Gillard could hardly blame him. Though he’d escaped the notice of the king’s men every time they’d come by in the more than two months since he’d taken his vows, it was largely because they’d barely looked at him— focusing on the older, larger acolytes who had full heads of hair. Abramm, however, knew what to look for.
Still, he’d hated missing the opportunity to at least spy on the visitors. With news of the bigger world deliberately withheld to promote the acolytes’ concentration on their calling, he had no idea what was happening with his brother, why he’d come, who he’d married, whether he was strong or weak . . . Apparently his crippling had not restricted him to being carried about in a chair, but it would have been nice to have seen the ugly scars they said he bore.
Now he picked up the tray, one side balanced on his flattened right hand, the other gripped securely by his left, and departed the kitchen. Crossing the yard to the main keep, he went directly to the first-floor receiving room. Voices murmured on the other side of the latched door as he set the tray on the floor so as to free his functional left hand. Depressing the latch as quietly as he could, he eased the door open and the murmuring resolved into actual words.
“. . . say you might know something about his disappearance,” said one that must be the guest. The words themselves were as interest-piquing as the voice, which seemed familiar, so he paused, hoping to hear more. “One man even implied he might be hiding—”
The voice silenced as Gillard realized Amicus, whose desk faced the door, must have seen it open. If Gillard waited another moment he’d be accused of eavesdropping and there’d be another switching. Quickly he squatted again and picked up the tray, using it to push the door open farther before stepping into the Master’s austere receiving room.
The visitor sat in a chair facing Amicus’s wide, dark desk, a gaunt young man with thick brown hair tied into a queue and a woolly beard upon his face. Homespun tunic and knee breeches, threadbare woolen cloak and wellworn, mud-spattered boots bespoke a commoner status, and a poor one at that, typical of those investigating the possibility of pursuing a life in the religious orders.
“Ah, ’ere’s the tea,” Amicus said as Gillard drew up beside the visitor’s chair. The latter glanced up then, giving Gillard clear sight of his face and he almost dropped the tray with the shock of it.
No wonder the voice sounded familiar!
This was no commoner looking for a better life, this was Ian Matheson, the former Lord of Bryermeade and one of Gillard’s oldest and closest friends.
Matheson barely glanced at Gillard as he took the offered teacup and turned back to Master Amicus, while Gillard went around to serve the latter. Did Amicus know who this was? Probably. He seemed to be extremely well informed. And the bit of conversation Gillard had actually heard seemed to indicate—
“Makepeace, ye may leave us now,” Amicus said gruffly. “Wait outside the door ’til I call fer ye.”
Leaving the tray on the big desk, Gillard hurried out, latching the door behind him before sagging back against it. He was so excited he could hardly contain himself. It shocked him how powerfully he responded to Matheson’s presence. Just seeing a familiar face, a friend who was inquiring about him, was wonderful, but even better was knowing that here was someone—unlike that stick Prittleman—who might actually help him do something besides all this religious nonsense. He stood there, grinning madly, then realized the voices had continued their conversation once he’d closed the door. He leaned his head back against the wood, straining to hear the faint words the visitor now spoke:
“Is he here? Please, sir, I have to know.”
“Why?” Facing the door, Amicus’s voice was much louder and clearer than Matheson’s.
“Because if he . . .” Gillard lost the words and turned quickly, pressing his ear full to the wood without a twinge of guilt. “. . . our cause is not lost.”
“Yer cause?” Amicus asked.
“To restore the rightful king to his throne,” said Matheson, lowering his voice so much that even with his ear to the wood Gillard strained to hear him. And yet, as the words registered, his joy increased tenfold.
When Amicus did not respond, Matheson pressed his point. “Surely you cannot enjoy incidents such as occurred last week. The way he came here as if he owned the place, flaunting that blasphemous shieldmark in your face . . .”
“How would ye know what he did, freeman? Ye were na here.”
“Am I wrong?”
Again, Amicus did not respond.
Matheson continued. “I heard that the Flames were dimmed for three days afterward.”
“Abramm is our rightful king,” said Amicus.
So those rumors were true,
Gillard thought.
It was Abramm who came to visit us
.
“He is a pretender!” Matheson spat. “A usurper. A servant of the Shadow.”
“Ye’re speakin’ treason, freeman. And if—”
A voice, loud and close, drowned out the rest of it: “Brother Makepeace, what are you doing?”
Gillard twisted away from the door and stepped forward. Brother Merces stood at the nearby juncture of the corridor and the stairwell, frowning at him.
“Master Amicus told me to wait here, sir,” said Gillard.
“To wait, possibly, but not to press your ear to the door.” Merces started toward him. “If he’d wanted you to hear his conversation, boy, he’d have bade you stay inside.”
“Yes, brother.”
Merces slowed as he came even with Gillard, his eyes flicking to the Master’s door. Gillard schooled his face to blandness—he was getting better and better at it—and urged the stupid oaf to move on by.
“See you don’t do it again,” Merces commanded.
“I will, brother.”
What a delightfully ambiguous statement
.
The blue eyes narrowed and fixed upon him for a long moment; then the man finally moved on. Gillard counted to thirty after the man had disappeared into the Great Room, and was just about to step back and resume his listening when Amicus’s deep voice sounded through the door. “Makepeace!”
Whirling, Gillard pressed the latch and stepped inside again. “Yes, sir.”
Both men were now standing as Amicus gestured at his visitor and said, “Bring Freeman Smith t’ one of the meditation cubicles an’ watch with him there fer as long as he has need.”
“Yes, sir.”
Though Matheson looked right at him for the second time now, Gillard saw no hint of recognition, nor even any indication he might seem familiar. Disappointed, he turned and led the way out of the receiving room and down the corridor to the stairway, which he climbed with careful concentration. The man he escorted followed wordlessly, and when they arrived at an open cubicle, he stepped past Gillard as if he weren’t there.
The room beyond was small, barren, and lit with a single oil lamp on a bronze stand. There was no window and nothing on the wooden floor, though a rolled pad stood beside a three-legged stool in one corner. As his guest surveyed his new environs, Gillard dutifully turned, closed the door, and dropped the bar to secure it from the inside.
When he turned back Matheson was still frowning around at the tiny chamber. “Why is there no chair or bench?”
“We meditate on our knees. The pads there will protect you from the stone. Or you can use the stool if you like.”
Frowning, Matheson pulled the stool into the center of the room and sat down.
Gillard watched his old friend closely. He’d expected to be recognized by now, or at least to have piqued the other man’s interest, despite the fact that Ian had barely looked at him the entire time they’d been together. Yes, he knew the way aristocrats tended not to
see
those they considered beneath them, and yes, Ian would certainly not think to look for him stubble-headed and cloaked in a Mataian acolyte’s tunic. But still . . .
You’d think he’d at least recognize my voice
.
Gillard unrolled the mat that Matheson had ignored and settled onto it, to the right of and slightly behind his friend, the position affording him a clear view of the man’s profile. As far as Matheson was concerned, however, he might have been alone. He sat staring at the oil lamp’s flame now, right hand propped on the thigh of his dirty breeches, his bearded jaw working as if he were grinding his teeth. Then he glanced at the door, at the flame again, and released a long low breath. After a while he began to bounce his knee up and down, then glanced at the door again, and finally stilled himself and dropped his head forward into both hands.
Gillard decided it was time to speak. “You seem troubled, sir.”
Matheson snorted and twisted his head aside to answer him without looking. “Indeed.”
“Would you like me to pray for you?” It was hard to get that line out without breaking into laughter.
“No.” Matheson twisted his head forward again and rubbed his face with his hands. “But thank you for offering.” He was thinner than Gillard remembered him, and his hands were rough and dirty, the nails all but chewed away. Scabs marred the backs of his knuckles.
Should I just blurt out the truth,
Gillard wondered,
or continue to play with him for a bit?
It was gratifying to know his disguise was as good as this . . .but at the same time discomfiting, as it reminded him of the other more foundational changes that had been worked in him since Matheson had seen him last. Changes that wouldn’t grow back with time or be exchanged like an old robe for something new and different. The old bitter horror flared in him, and for a moment he almost changed his mind about letting Matheson see him.
The other man shifted on the stool and said to his lap, “And just how long does he expect me to wait here?”
“Until you have your answer, I would imagine.”
“I wasn’t asking you, boy.”
“I know. But perhaps you should.”
“Like you would know.”
“I know more than you credit me.”
“Why kind of insolent twit are you, anyway?” As Matheson said this, he turned to glare at Gillard, his eyes fixing squarely upon the acolyte’s face. And for the first time he really looked at him. For one instant the frown deepened, then drained away as he stared hard. His eyes tracked over Gillard’s face, up to his naked scalp, and down the length of his shrunken body, then back up to the face. Horrified recognition surged across Matheson’s countenance as he lurched up and away, stumbling over the stool and falling against the wall, as far from Gillard as he could get in this tiny room. He stood there braced, staring in disbelief. “Eidon’s mercy! You’re . . . you’re
small
.”
“Prittleman tells me it was a result of some spell Abramm cast over me, but I prefer to believe it was the morwhol.”
Matheson remained backed up against the wall, his face pale, his eyes so wide the whites showed. He blinked, gulped, and then his gaze tracked again over Gillard’s body, down and up again to the scalp with its two weeks’ worth of pale blond stubble. “So the rumors are true,” he murmured. “You
have
taken holy vows.”
“A matter of expediency. Nothing more.” He frowned. “Come on, man. Are you going to stay slammed up against that wall all day? Whatever’s befallen me, it’s not catching.”