The Right Hand of God (11 page)

All over the old city the picture was the same. Struere always suffered most in times of devastation, the old man reflected. Instruere began life as two separate settlements, Inna and Struere, founded by Raupa and Furist on the northern and southern shores respectively of the large island located near the place where the River of rivers ceased being tidal. These settlements fought with each other for centuries, until they grew together, sharing in the prosperity generated by their advantageous location and casual disregard for the rules of fair trading. However, in the fifteen-hundred years since the island had been walled around and known as Instruere, the northern city of Inna had become the resi' dence of choice for the wealthy and respectable, while Struere was used as a dumping ground for the less respectable of the city. It was this that contributed in large measure to the destruction, the Sna Vazthan observed as he walked the unpaved lanes. Houses built flimsily, too close together, with no water supply save the open sewers. Warehouses set cheek by jowl, so fire in one spread easily to the next. Narrow roads, making

escape difficult for the residents. So much different to the clean, wide streets of Inmennost of the Snows.

The man spent a further hour with another group of neighbours trying to douse a burning building. The bravest among them would take it in turns to rush up the stairwell and tip his or her meagre bucket over the flames. Here again the people were too weary to say much, but they, too, told him of a small band of northerners who were trying to organise everyone's efforts, so the people in most desperate need might receive help first. He shared a flask of wine with the firefighters, accepted their grateful thanks, bade them farewell and moved on.

It was near sunset when he came upon a gathering near the ruin of the Struere Gate. Perhaps five hundred people stood patiently in a series of lines moving slowly forward. The man from Sna Vaztha joined one of the lines, and without betraying his ignorance learned he was waiting in line for some bread. Apparently a group of people - not from Struere, but where they were from was unclear; some said Deuverre, some said further north - had organised food and shelter for those who had suffered loss in the fires. These were the same people, said one woman, who had rescued the Ecclesia last night. It was true, a young man agreed. He had been there, having been promised a part in the cleansing of the hated Council from the City.

But the whole thing turned out to be a trap, he said angrily. The Instruian Guard had been waiting for them. On and on the boy talked, painting in their minds a graphic picture of the confrontation. The youth told them how his sister had been struck down by a guard, though she had begged for mercy. He himself received a wound to the leg, he said, though when he was pressed, he showed them a scar that looked weeks old. He had been healed, he claimed, along with many others. No, he wasn't imagining it, he wasn't making the story up. He repeated these claims in spite of the scepticism of those around him.

The Sna Vazthan found himself puzzled by the boy's story. Though it seemed to verify much of what he had heard, and hinted that serious questions needed to be asked of the Council at their next meeting, it contained elements that were clearly fantastic. A great light? A swordsman who raised a mound of dead guards around him? Ghosts of the dead causing the guards to flee? A man who healed with a touch of fire?

The crowd's attention turned to the man in the white robe. Who was he, they wanted to know, and where did he come from? The Sna Vazthan admitted he was a stranger to the City, but told them he had spent the afternoon labouring to put out fires. Dubious glances followed his words, until he was able to satisfy them of the truth of what he said, supplying them with names and descriptions of enough local identities to finally be believed. By the charcoal stains on his expensive robe, by the cuts and bruises on his hands, and by the way he listened to their tales of woe, he convinced them he was a friend.

The sun set, and still the line crept forward. Children cried from hunger and from fear, adults bore their grief stoically, dirty bodies rubbed together uncaring as the tide of citizens, ignored by the rulers of the City, sought a morsel of bread and whatever else could be spared. Ahead of them someone had installed a torch which shed much-needed light over the food distribution area.

Finally the Sna Vazthan arrived at the head of the line. In front of him half-a-dozen trestle tables contained what this committee had managed to gather: bread, clean water, some fruit, dried meats, a treat or two for the children. He glanced up: the light he assumed was coming from a torch actually came from something a young man held aloft. He looked more closely . . .

An arrow. On fire. Not burning the boy who held it. The obvious explanation took some time to work its way into his mind, steeped though he was in the history of Faltha. This cannot be, it cannot be. Not here, not in the humblest part of the City; not novo, when the borderlands are at peace . . . unless. ..

A great chill passed through the man's spare frame. A hundred unconnected incidents came together in a rush, the signs and portents aligned themselves into a clear message, and suddenly the man realised he was in the presence of the Jugom Ark.

'Would you like some bread?'

'What? Pardon me, what did you say?' His normally unflappable mien shattered into a thousand pieces. This is why he had been called out of retirement, this explained the appointment to the Council of Faltha. This is what he had trained his whole life for. The years with the Haukl, the decades as a Trader, the service in the court at Inmennost; all pointing to this moment. To take service with those who wielded the Jugom Ark.

'I asked you if you would like some bread,' the woman repeated gently. She was forty, perhaps, still a beauty, a cheerful face framed by long dark hair. He read patience in her face, and long-suffering, but also joy. Right now she waited for him with the pity of one who had served many who suffered from the shock of seeing their homes, and perhaps their friends and family, consumed by the flames.

'No, no, I need neither food nor shelter,' he said to her. 'What I need is to speak to the people in charge here. If you

are one, I apologise for my rudeness. And I also need to speak to the one holding the Jugom Ark. I would dearly love to hear his story.'

At the mention of the Arrow the woman's face paled, and she turned and signalled to a man standing some distance away. 'Mahnum,' she called, 'this man wants to know about the Jugom Ark.'

'Tell him to come back later tonight. We'll be talking about the whole thing then.'

'I think he's from the Council,' she said carefully.

At that, the man called Mahnum put down the parcel he had been holding and came over to where the white-robed Sna Vazthan stood. He looked up into the old man's eyes, his own widened in shock, and for ten long seconds neither man moved a muscle. Indrett moved forward, about to speak

- there were many people to be fed, and the hour grew late

- when Mahnum spoke.

'It is you,' he said in a flat voice. His face had gone grey.

The old man nodded, his countenance in turn drained of all colour.

With a snarl of rage, Mahnum leapt over the food-laden table and tackled the old man, driving him to the ground. There he began to beat the man where he lay, fists pumping, arms flailing, shouting incoherently all the while. Shocked members of the Company came to the old man's aid, dragging their maddened friend from on top of him. The stranger had not raised a hand in his defence. One eye was already swollen shut, and as he stood, aided by Hal, it was clear his right arm had been damaged in the unprovoked onslaught.

'Mahnum! Mahnum! What are you doing? What has this man done that you would attack him so?' Indrett held on to

her husband; along with Kurr, she was barely able to restrain him from renewing his assault on the old man.

Mahnum shook an arm free and pointed at the stranger. 'That man - that man,' he said, breathing heavily, 'that man is my father.'

'Is it true?' Indrett said, unsure which man to ask. 'How can it be true?'

The old man nodded. 'It is true. I am Modahl. Mahnum is my son.'

'But you are dead! You were executed for your part in the war between Sna Vaztha and Haurn!'

The Sna Vazthan spoke through swollen lips, his voice heavy with irony. 'This is manifestly not the case, though some here might wish it.'

'They tied him to a chair, weighted him down and put him out on the thin spring ice of the Preuse River to wait for the afternoon sun,' Mahnum said bitterly. 'Apparently even that was not enough to finish the old demon off.'

'That story effectively ended the life of Modahl the Trader of Firanes.' The old man accepted the offer of a chair. Others of the Company made their way over to the scene of the altercation, leaving Geinor and Graig, the Escaignian woman, Perdu and the former captain of the Instruian Guard to serve the lines of people. 'It allowed me to begin a new life, which by a fateful irony has brought me here to face my old life, and the fully justified wrath of my son.'

'Excuse me,' said Kurr roughly, 'but are you saying that you are Modahl of Firanes?'

The old man nodded wearily.

'I remember Modahl clearly,' the old farmer said. 'I remember bidding him farewell, one Watcher to another, as

he set out for Haurn to take their part in a hopeless defence of their little country against the might of Sna Vaztha. I remember his anger at what had already been done to that land. I remember hearing about the day the mighty Modahl, the finest Trader ever to have lived, was taken captive on the very summit of Tor Hailan in a battle so fierce the midwinter snow would not settle, such was the heat of combat. I wept to hear it. I heard he was borne in chains to Inmennost and executed on the day of the spring equinox, his death the finale of the events celebrating the Sna Vazthan victory. I feel sure I would recognise such a man if he still lived.

Come, stranger, and step into the light.'

But the light came to the stranger. Leith walked quietly over to where the two old men stood, and the jugorn Ark bathed them both in its flickering light, giving their visages the look of legendary heroes.

'It is you!' the old farmer cried. 'By the Most High, it is!' 'Yes it is, friend Kurr. Do you want to attack me too?' Kurr's reply was lost as the two men embraced, slapping each other on the back. Eventually they separated, and the Company could see tears sparkling on their cheeks.

The Sna Vazthan turned to Mahnum, 'You and 1 need to talk, my son.' Mahnum spat and turned away. 'You wear a great sword,' the old man continued, undeterred. 'I have seen that hilt before. It belonged to my old friend Jethart of Treika. You attacked me with your fists when you could have cut me down with his blade. Does that not say anything to you? It says to me that you know we have unfinished business.'

Mahnum spun around on his heels and stabbed a finger at the white-robed old man. 'My father is dead. It makes no sense to kill him again. He has sullied my soul enough! Who you are, old man, no longer interests me. Go away and wander

the earth! Go and delve into still more secrets, go and interfere in the politics of yet more countries! But don't ever talk to me again. There is only one person to whom you need to talk, and she's been dead for twenty years. She now lives in a country that even you can't return from. Go and talk to her!'

'Son, I—'

'Don't call me son!' cried Mahnum, and lunged at his father once again. This time Kurr was ready, and he and the Haufuth kept the two men apart. The younger man squared his shoulders, turned and stalked away.

The older man sighed deeply, his face lined with regret. 'I fear there is too much between us for me ever to find his heart again. We have much talking to do. I owe him an explanation.'

He looked up, and the light of the Jugom Ark was reflected in his eye. 'Might I be permitted a question?' Taking silence for assent, he asked: 'Who is the boy who holds the Arrow of Yoke?' The glittering gaze rested on Leith, who took a step towards the old man.

'I am Leith Mahnumsen, and I seem to be the only person who can hold on to this thing without getting burned.'

'Then you are my grandson,' Modahl of Sna Vaztha said simply, 'and you are the Right Hand of the Most High.'

The Company invited the Sna Vazthan to dine with them. On hearing Kurr issue the invitation to his old friend, Mahnum announced angrily that he would take his place serving food to the homeless of Struere. Indrett accompanied him, though obviously torn between trying to comfort her husband and finding out more about this legendary stranger who happened also to be her long-dead father-in-law. The serving lines had thinned somewhat, although a large number of people milled about in front of the gaping hole that had been the Struere Gate, so Mahnum and Indrett were sufficient to take care of their needs. Good, the Haufuth thought, he needs a chance to talk to someone.

The weather drew in and a light drizzle began to fall, taking the edge off the late summer heat.

The waxing moon made little impression on the heavy overcast, being only a few days past new. Willing Instruians had that afternoon erected a pavilion of sorts, open to the south, at the juncture of the Vitulian Way and a narrow side street, not far from where the lines still lingered and within sight of the Struere Gate. Under the canvas shelter the Company took their meal, gathered around one large board formed by putting four tables together. Basic fare, of the kind handed out to the locals, supplemented with two dozen honey cakes baked that morning by Hal, hindered more than helped by Prince Wiusago. A veneer of good cheer ruled at the table, derived in part from the work they shared and from their happiness at being together again. During the meal Maendraga was asked to repeat the story of his and Leith's adventures, and the slightly embellished description of the drunken soldier at the King of Nemohaim's unruly court set them all to laughing. But underneath the laughter and jollity lurked a sombre mood. Farr spoke of his frustration at what he saw as the lack of activity in Instruere while the others had been away, emphasising their failure to find Stella. While he spoke, the thoughts of many drifted to the Firanese Trader and his reaction to the appearance of his long-lost father.