The Fatal Child (35 page)

Outland! All their lives it had been a myth no more real than a story of the beginning of the world. A necessary curtain for the mind. Now Gueronius’s return had ripped that curtain aside, letting in a light that changed the shapes of everything. Now every man and woman in the crowd around the King – yes, and every barrow-boy in every market from Watermane to Jent – knew that if a ship sailed from Velis and set course boldly across the ocean, it would come in a fortnight’s sailing to a hot, savage coast, which, if followed first south and then around a cape to the north, would lead to the trading stations where
strange goods were offered by mariners from lands that were not the Kingdom. And they knew, too, that a ship which sailed on from there (Padry was not exactly sure how far or in which direction, but he fancied that it was north and say a month, or two at most) would cross another sea and come to a great cold land of many kingdoms where men knew the Angels and yet also things that were not the Angels, and spoke many different tongues, of which some seemed close to the words of the Kingdom and some seemed to have no words a man could understand at all.

Curiosity seized first upon the things that were most trivial – the broad hats and great cloaks that Outlanders wore, their habit of painting their faces, the bizarre things they thought good to eat. A hundred little myths were already running in the Kingdom about the quaint customs of foreign lands. And Padry sifted and sifted among the rumours, looking all the time for some hint of the evil that Ambrose had predicted. For despite his brave words to his King he was sure that it would come. It was his failure that had allowed Gueronius to cross the sea. It would not be like the Angels to leave him unpunished.

It might be a plague, although no plague had yet struck. But more and more Padry suspected that it would be an idea. It would be a heresy that would split the Church and set the Kingdom off into a war more bitter and deadly than any yet. Or it would be that men, having discovered that one boundary of their world had moved, began to question others – law,
kingship, even faith – with similar results. Or it would simply be fear. Peace rested not only on the power of the King but on the shared belief that the world would stay the same. What would men do – indeed, what would they
not
do – once fear had gripped their hearts?

The banners of the Kingdom were drawn up in a great coloured forest along the shore. They made a brave sight. The pennants of the small barons clustered around those of the greater lords and churchmen to whom they were allied: Seguin, Develin, Jent, Lackmere … Each gaudy device meant a following of knights and squires and footmen ready to face any strength that came against the land. The Outlanders would make their enquiries and be impressed, as Padry meant them to be.

Ah, but look again, with an eye born in the Kingdom. Read the stories that lay behind the banners – the feuds that would set the men who held them storming against each other in an instant! Fissures ran hither and thither through the host. Look at the banners around Lackmere! Eight, ten, twelve … Yesterday that house had been no more than a petty barony itself. Today, because of the King’s favour to both father and son, it was one of the three great powers of the south. Such a rise created jealousies, weaknesses as well as strength. Look there, at Baron Seguin with his retainers and allies around him. What thoughts were trundling through that ape-like head at this instant? And the banner of Gueronius was held by hired men, because Gueronius himself was still sulking
on his estates. Why wasn’t he here? Pique? A genuine misunderstanding about the terms of his exile? Assume the former. There would be more trouble with him yet…

Bump!
The first boat had scraped against the jetty. The low sound of wood on wood seemed loud along the shore. A palpable shiver ran through the host. Padry saw a fist clenching and unclenching in the crowd to his left. It was the Lady Develin’s. And his own palms were sweating. His throat was dry. His stomach felt hollow, as if it sensed the arrival not of a man but of some monstrous creature like one of the princes that Ambrose had dragged from the pool of tears.

Remember, we are strong, he said to himself. We are strong enough to deal with Outland. As long as we stick together.

His eyes flicked to Seguin again.

Trumpets blared at the lakeside. Men were stepping from the boats to the jetty, some in rough sailor clothes, some in costumes so dark they seemed to be black. There were feathered hats and caps down there, also black. Padry swallowed. (Why did Outlanders wear to court colours that should only be worn at funerals?) He rubbed his palm against his robe. Lines from his record of this meeting were still running through his head, but he knew they were all lies. Perhaps
The Tale of Kings
lied, too. Perhaps the invasion of Wulfram had begun not with the heroic crunch of three great keels on the shore near Velis, but like this, quietly, with soft-tongued emissaries sent
to a new land to speak of trade. He could see the Outlanders now, beginning to toil up the short slope towards them in a small group. The face of the ambassador was painted pure white under his dark cap. The shoulders of his costume were so flat and broad that he seemed almost square. He held a short white sceptre in his hand.

‘Do as you wish,’ he heard the Baron Lackmere grumble. ‘But I do not like it that Gueronius keeps Outlanders in his castle, or that with their help he casts great tubes of iron. And if I cannot prevent him from this, then I would send for Outlanders myself to help me do the same. At least then we should be on a level with Gueronius, and with Outland, too.’

There came a moment in the evening when the chatter and the hurrying eased, when the King was in his castle and the Outlanders in their tent, and there were no more cries of ‘Chancellor’ from the edge of the frantic scrum. In the courtyard of Trant the sound of hammers stopped. The repair gangs called to one another, gathering and storing their tools. Wheels rolled. Voices muttered off into the distance. And then there was silence – blessed, thick silence, like cool oil in fevered ears. Padry took himself to the chamber that had been set aside for him in the round north-east tower, laid a fresh sheet of paper on his table and set a lamp beside it. Then, with relish, he dipped his pen.

Some words were more important than records or treaties. And now was the time to set them down.

He was writing out, from memory, the lost second work of Croscan:
The Path of Signs Illuminating the Ascent of the Soul
. It had been the King’s suggestion, after they had despaired of recovering the looted book. It was a mighty effort for a busy chancellor to take on in his spare time when, really, he had little or no spare time at all. But somehow the full cycle had to be completed for all those thousands of souls who would come after, groping blindly along the Path. In the eyes of Heaven, perhaps, there might be no other task in the Kingdom that mattered more. And Padry knew he was almost the only person left who was capable of it; who could recall the passages that he had once learned by heart, and could write them with understanding, so that the flaws in his memory should not reduce the work of the great sage to gibberish.

He had been at it, on and off, for weeks; whenever he could snatch a half-or quarter-hour to scribble out something for his clerks to copy. But then all this business with the Outland ambassador had come along and drowned out everything else, and days had gone by without a moment for Croscan. Now, in the calm of the lakeside evening, he had a chance to catch up.

That was why the knock on the door was unwelcome.

‘Your pardon,’ said Lex quietly, ‘but may I speak with you?’

‘Yes,’ sighed Padry. ‘If it is important.’

It was plainly important. At least it was plainly important to Lex, judging by the uncharacteristic,
hesitant way in which he seated himself opposite his master.

‘The Bishop of Tuscolo …’ began Lex.

‘Yes,’ said Padry, nodding sadly. ‘He is leaving many stranded sheep. But he has had a long life in the service of the Angels and we should be glad that he is now approaching his reward.’

‘It’s not that,’ said Lex. ‘At least, it’s not only that. It’s the King.’

‘Yes?’ said Padry, now mystified.

‘He – he has asked me to be the next bishop.’

Padry was still holding his pen over the page. A drop of ink had gathered at the nib. With great care he set it down so that there should be no blot on the page of Croscan.

‘I see,’ he said slowly. ‘I see.’

Then he said: ‘Did he say why?’

Lex shook his head in disbelief. ‘It goes back to that-that experience I had in my last winter at Develin. I told you about it. What I’d forgotten was that Ambrose-Luke, as he then was – was with me at the time. He – he says an Angel spoke from me.’

‘Oh,’ Padry said. (Really, he was being very calm about this, he thought. He should be pleased with himself. But maybe it was because he could not quite believe it yet.) ‘And did it?’

‘I don’t know. I don’t remember it like that. But he’s firm about it. He says it happened, and he will swear it before every other bishop in the land.’

‘I see,’ said Padry again. ‘And he thinks this will make you a good bishop?’

‘I suppose – yes, he does. And that’s the problem. I’m not sure I will be. Being a bishop is far more than having a view, isn’t it? It’s …’

It was being one of the great lords of the land: administering territories, presiding over councils, doling out favours to others, making alliances with neighbouring landlords and holding your own against those who would encroach on your estates. It was intervening in the squabbles of the priests and monks, understanding not only the doctrinal points at issue but also the networks of power and region that underlay them. It was supporting the Crown on all matters to do with order in the Kingdom, without allowing the Crown to take the Church for granted. (Well, there should be no problem
there
, so long as Lex as bishop could turn a blind eye to Ambrose’s occasional – very occasional – dealings with his shadow-world.)

Lex as bishop. There. He had thought it.

Now he knew it was going to happen.

He looked at his thumbs.

‘I do not suppose,’ he said, ‘that you will be a worse bishop than many who have carried the crozier. Pick the right men to have around you and they will see that others feel the authority that you believe you lack. The only advice I would give you, if you wish men to remember you well in your office, is to seek nothing for yourself. The moment we look for rewards, more than we already have, we begin to twist from our true paths. We stand at the doors of Corruption, or Disappointment.’

‘You wanted this,’ said Lex. ‘I know that. I’m sorry …’

‘Don’t trouble yourself,’ said Padry with a sigh. He picked up his pen. ‘I advise you to accept. All that I ask is that you find me an assistant as able as the one I am about to lose. And that you now leave me in peace. I would – I would like to be by myself for a bit.’

The moment Lex was gone he put his pen down again, and rested his head in his hands. He listened to his assistant’s feet fading down the stair.

Then, abruptly, he rose.

Seven years now? Eight, in this office, shoring up the battered fabric of his masters’ kingships with his wits and pen? He had not pushed himself forward. He had not competed for titles or offices. He had not taken a
single
bribe – well, none that counted. And what he had taken as a rule he had passed on in alms.

Why had he not simply gone to the King and said,
Please will you make me Bishop of Tuscolo?

Because that was not what good servants should do! They should make their master aware of his powers in the matter, of the qualities he should look for – all that. And then they should wait for merit to be rewarded.

The pen lay on the table before him. The half-written page discussed the import of the Moon on the arc of Ascent – the trial of faith, when Truth and Untruth meet. A moment ago he had been full of it, flowing with Croscan like a fresh spring, watering the barren land. Now the water was bile, and he …

He left the room. He stomped down the stair with
his hands clutched behind him. In the passageway below was the door to the hall. Light came from within, and the sound of voices. The King was there, dealing with some matter of the new settlement that had had to wait until sunset before he had time to hear it. Padry did not go in.

Ambrose! How could a man so young be so wise, and at the same time so damned naïve? To award a bishopric for the sake of some obscure and distant revelation!
The Angels matter. Now I don’t hear them any more … Trying to do things my way when they can’t be done like that … I just had not realized that so much of it would be about money! By
the Angels he pined for, he wouldn’t have lasted a year if Padry hadn’t been there to see him right!

And what thanks did he get? Had Ambrose even thought of him? Had he seen anything in his chancellor other than a reasonably efficient spiller of ink? Had he considered whether this was a servant deserving of reward? Or had he thought…?

Ah, but that word ‘reward’ …

At the end of the passage was a stout door. The bolts were rusty but they moved under his hand. It was a postern, opening out onto the ditch and to the grassy slope beyond that ran down to the lakeshore where the ambassador had landed that afternoon. It was dusk. The air was cool.

He made his way down into the ditch, splashed over the thin puddles in the bottom and climbed up the far side. His eye picked his way in the dimming light, but his mind was turning over the word
reward
.

Do you see how you trap yourself, Thomas Padry? You spoke true words in your jealousy just now. You told Lex – who has never sought rewards – to expect nothing for himself. Quite true. Good advice.

But have you ever taken it? You, the wise, just man who presumed to give it? You wanted that bishop’s crozier for your own. You persuaded yourself it was right that you should have it. You imagined that the King would see you as the one and only possible candidate – even though you knew that he has been casting around for some mystic contact with the Angels that he feels he has now lost. (Oh, you did a good job bringing him across the lake, Thomas. Never doubt that. But did you ever ask yourself what it has cost
him?)