The Fatal Child (29 page)

There was a gate sergeant one day, standing under the middle arch with a mug of ale in his hand. ‘They need their heads examined!’ he was saying loudly to a circle of his followers. ‘That’s what. Whoever’s talking to him needs their head examined! I’ve a mind to tell him so myself.’

The other guards nodded dutifully.

‘All this going to and fro,’ the man complained. ‘It makes no sense. If they’re going to
study
up here, then make them
sleep
up here. If there’s not room for them to sleep up here, then make them do their studies in the town. But letting them go in and out every day – how’m I going to know who’s coming in with them? What if someone with a grudge puts on a hood and walks through with them? And then goes and pushes a knife into the King? And who’ll catch it for that, hey?’

That was how Melissa heard about the founding of the school.

At the King’s command the old barrack building in the middle courtyard was cleared to make space for a library, a lecture hall and writing rooms. And soon (whatever the guards thought about it) scholars in hooded, monk-like robes began to appear in the castle, processing in and out in a great ragged troop every morning and evening. Melissa saw them day after day as they crossed the upper courtyard in twos and threes with writing slates in their hands or spilled out from their hall in a laughing, shouting mob after some lesson or other had finished. She did not know what they were for. She supposed that it was their job to read all the books in the new library (who else was going to do it, after all?). But she could not see what good that would do. And she made her way firmly past them and paid no attention if they started making eyes at her like the men-at-arms.

Until the day she walked by a group that were
on their way to a lesson, and some of them smiled and winked at her, and she kept on walking, looking straight ahead of her as always. And then she stopped.

She turned round, picked up her skirt and hurried after them. The one who had caught her eye was looking back over his shoulder and saw her coming. His face was heavily tanned, bird-like under black hair – a hill face if ever there was one. And yes, it
was!

‘Hey,’ she said as she came up. ‘Hey, I know you!’

‘Yes,’ he said. ‘You do.’

‘Puka halalah
. That was you, in the mountains!’

‘Yes.’

It was him – the boy who had brought them gifts, announced by the bell on the village donkey going
tonk tonk
across the bare hillside, who had smiled, handed over gifts and spoken only gibberish. Seeing him here in the busy upper courtyard of the castle of Tuscolo was … strange. Very, very strange.

‘What are you
doing
here?’

He pointed to his tunic. ‘Learning.’

‘I mean – how did you get here? How did you learn to talk?’

‘Lady teach me. Lady send me to King.’

‘The King’s mother? That was nice of her. Why?’

‘I ask her of you.’

‘You … Oh!’

Melissa blushed. She couldn’t help it. All the blood in her body seemed to rise up
(wham!)
into her cheeks.

‘But – but…’ This was crazy. He must be crazy. He
must be a simpleton. What…? ‘But the priests! Do they teach you? You’re heathen – aren’t you?’

‘Hea …?’

‘Heathen. You don’t believe in the Angels!’

He frowned. For a moment she thought she must have offended him. But then he shrugged. ‘I make space for Angels in Heaven. Not hard. Plenty of room.’

‘But…’

‘Must go. Late for lesson. May be beaten – again.’

‘Oh. Yes you must. Shall I see you?’

‘Hope so.’ He grinned, just as she remembered him grinning each time they had stood wordless on the mountain path. And he strode off towards the school.

He might be beaten. So might she, if she was late. What was it they had sent her out for? Oh, more wretched firewood. They would never burn so much if they had to cut or carry it themselves!

Nevertheless she skipped a little as she hurried across the courtyard. Something had changed, she thought. Something was different now from the ordinary trudge of the day.

She felt that something good was about to happen.

ow say, Your Majesty,’ said Padry, in the council chamber at dawn. ‘Does the Angel Umbriel make use of a chamberpot?’

‘A chamberpot?’ repeated Ambrose, baffled. ‘No, I doubt it. Not that I think it matters if he—’

‘Why then,’ exclaimed Padry, ‘perhaps a king is more than an Angel indeed!’

Ambrose looked at him suspiciously. ‘How so?’

‘Thus: a king, who is only one, says not
I
but
We
. Whereas Umbriel, who has – as it is written – seven
eyes
, can have no
wee
at all!’

‘All right,’ grumbled Ambrose. He dropped into his chair. ‘I don’t suppose he leaves writing in his book for any reason. And when we look over his shoulder we will now see the word “chamberpot” added to the list of all our other sins.’

Padry sighed to see his pun go to waste. He had thought it rather a good one. Perhaps it had just been bad timing – the early hour affecting the King’s mood.
But dawn starts were unavoidable if any real work was to be done before the whole pack of courtly jackals started to swarm around the King. If the boy
would
sit up late over his wine …

‘So what have you got for me?’

‘The new charter for the market of Pemini, Your Majesty. The freedom to exchange goods and money, untaxed, save for certain fixed tariffs to be paid annually to the Crown, and a share to Lord Delverdis – I fear we have to give him
something
, or he will start to make his own rules – and strict prohibitions on short weights, clipped coin and the rest…’

Ambrose took the scroll. His eye moved quickly down it. ‘Why no unlicensed preaching?’ he asked suddenly.

‘That is to prevent self-named prophets taking advantage of the market crowds.’

‘But why? Why can’t they preach, if they’ve heard the Angels?’

‘The Church does not permit it. Only licensed—’

‘Then let them ban it, not me.’

‘Your Majesty—’

The door opened. Aun of Lackmere walked in. ‘At it already? Bones of the Angels! It’s getting earlier each day. What has my Lord Chancellor slipped past me
this
morning?’

Ambrose dropped the scroll on the table. ‘I’m to prevent prophets preaching in the market places,’ he complained.

‘Prophets? Damned right. String them all up by the heels. There was one down in Tuscolo quayside
yesterday, I hear. If I’d known it before sundown—’

‘What was he saying?’

Aun stared at his King. ‘What does it matter what he was saying? Prophets are trouble, that’s all.’

Ambrose slammed his hand on the table. ‘I want to know what he was saying!’

The baron frowned. ‘Why?’

‘The Angels
matter
! When we were fighting Paigan, I heard them. I heard them twice. Now I’ve come away to be King in Tuscolo and I don’t hear them any more. We talk about them. We even crack silly jokes about their chamberpots. But there’s no
meaning
to it here. What if I’ve left the Path somehow, and they prefer to watch widows and orphans and prophets instead?’

‘The Angels watch us all, Your Majesty,’ said Padry.

‘Do they? Where are they, then?’

‘Damned if I know,’ said Aun. ‘And I’ll be damned if your prophet knows either. You want to hear what he said? I’ll tell you. I’ll tell you without having heard it myself. He was saying, “Listen to me. The Angels have spoken to me. That makes me more important than your kings and bishops, doesn’t it? I don’t have to prove it to you, I’ll just tell you it’s true, so listen.” It’s the same damned stuff they all spin. Any wheelwright or landsman with a quick tongue can do it if they’ve a mind to. Then hayricks get burned, rents get refused, and you have to go and string men up just to put things back into place.’

‘It is a question of authority, Your Majesty,’ put in Padry.

‘Authority!’ snapped Ambrose. ‘All right. I’ll use
some now.’ He took the pen and scored through the phrase that had offended him. ‘You can seal it like that, or not at all!’ And he rose from his place and stormed out of the room.

Padry sighed, gathered up the parchment and added it to the bottom of the pile that he carried. Perhaps, by the time they got back to it, Ambrose would see reason. If not, well, it was not a great matter. Or not yet. The Bishop of Tuscolo was elderly and his mind was tending to wander. His Grace would fuss at the King about protecting the Church, but there was no fire left in him. The next winter might well claim him. And who knew who his successor might be? Hah, who indeed? It might be anyone, might it not?

‘Cub,’ muttered Aun, looking out of the window.

‘We are the Keepers of his Day,’ ruminated Padry. ‘But in the Night we cannot help him.’

Aun looked round. ‘What’s that supposed to mean?’ he said sharply.

What did it mean? thought Padry.

What he had meant was that between them, the ruthless, pragmatic old baron and the wily chancellor, they steered their well-intentioned young King through his kingship. They were doing well, too. Laws had been given, foundations made, trade – to judge by the revenues from market and river-tolls – had risen beyond anything in Padry’s experience at Tuscolo. All in less than eighteen months!

But of course there were places where neither of them could help him. The soul on the Path met many things, helpers and hinderers, but it made each step
on its own. Angels, goddesses, the ancient princes who came and went from the shadows around the throne – there was nothing chancellor or baron could do for Ambrose there. That would be the blind trying to lead the half-sighted. And the stink of witchcraft was never far away. Perhaps that was why Lackmere did not like what Padry had said.

Perhaps. Or perhaps it was because Padry had said
we
. The baron, like so many of his kind, looked down on all clerks as at best a necessary evil. No matter what Padry did for his King, how often he was right, how often he said things that Lackmere actually agreed with, the baron would not permit himself to be coupled by the simple word
we
. That assumed too much.

And when I first saw you, my fine baron, when you first came crawling out of the wilderness to the Widow Develin with that half-starved boy who is now the King, your armour was stained and your hair was in tangles and your whiskers as shaggy as any peasant’s. And still you look down on me. Maybe if I were made bishop in Tuscolo you will think again. It might not be long now.

He coughed and gathered his papers. He was stretching his hand for the door when he heard others approaching it from outside. They were in a hurry. He stepped back. The door burst open, revealing Ambrose again, this time with a small crowd of courtiers at his back.

‘Some interesting news,’ said Ambrose grimly. ‘Gueronius has returned.’

* * *

‘He has landed in Velis, it seems,’ said Ambrose, pacing in the circle of his councillors. ‘An Outlander vessel – hear this, an
Outlander
vessel – sailed into harbour and put him ashore. Just like that. I suppose his ship was wrecked and he has been sheltering somewhere in Outland all this time.’ He cocked an eye at one of the councillors, who shrugged.

‘We may imagine so, Your Majesty. It is said he and his companions were themselves dressed in some strange fashion that we may presume is worn in Outland. Even so, people recognized him.’

‘Ah,’ said Aun. ‘Now, you see, we may need some of that authority.’

Ambrose glared at him. ‘What am I supposed to do?’

‘It depends,’ said Aun. ‘How many has he got with him?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘The first question you should ask. Enemy coming? What strength has he?’

‘He’s not necessarily an enemy.’

‘You’re sitting on a throne he thinks is his.’

‘And what if it
is
rightfully his?’

‘Then your neck is forfeit and so is that of every man who backed you,’ said Aun, looking around at the ring of faces. ‘Don’t think of giving it up. You can’t. He’d have to knock your head off anyway, just to be sure you didn’t change your mind.’

Ambrose looked at Padry. Padry opened his mouth and shut it again. His mind was still clearing from the shock of the news. A queer, tingling feeling lingered
in the pit of his stomach. Gueronius was back. And he had come from Outland.

Outland? Theoretically he had known of it for years, a vague mystery, well beyond any useful horizon. But that an Outlander vessel should sail into harbour and put someone ashore – suddenly the mystery had a force that it had never had before this. How many were the Outlanders? How strong were they? He remembered an evening over wine, and the eye of Ambrose glinting in the candlelight as his finger pointed at Padry’s heart.
That ship must not sail
. But it had sailed indeed. It had sailed because he had allowed it to – he, Thomas Padry, who a moment ago had been back to daydreaming about a bishop’s crozier!

‘What’s he told them about us?’ muttered a councillor. ‘Gueronius, I mean.’