Марк Ньютон - Drakenfeld

Once again I looked at the scrapes, this time in more detail. ‘I must have been shaking quite a bit this time.’

‘No more than is usual.’

‘The gods were lenient this time,’ I replied and folded up my cloak. A hundred prayers to Polla echoed around my mind. ‘Thank you, Leana. As ever.’

Leana regarded me with perfect neutrality. I didn’t like a fuss being made over my seizures. I didn’t even like anyone knowing, but Leana had so often stood over me protectively until the sensation passed.

Leana alone could do this and not think it a slight of the gods – how could she if she did not believe deities could possess such powers?

A light sleeper, she would occasionally come into my room if the seizure happened during my sleep. Over the years I could think of no more trusting act than for her to stand over me while I suffered the vengeance of the gods. It was one of many reasons I could not cope without her.

‘Any visions?’ she asked.

‘No,’ I said. ‘Never have. I don’t think I ever will.’

‘A shame. In my tribe you would be deemed a notable shaman for such things.’

‘It is a pity I’m not in Atrewe then.’ Besides, even if I was experiencing visions, I could never remember a thing from a seizure. ‘I’ll need to make some offerings to Polla when we get home.’

‘I can sit by your bed later,’ Leana asked, ‘in case it happens again.’

‘I… would appreciate that. In this city more than any other, Leana, it is important no one ever finds out. In Venyn it might not have mattered so much, but here people frown heavily upon such things. There are strict procedures, strict social etiquette. People are conservative. Few would ever trust me again.’

Leana nodded. ‘If you like, I will show you an apothecary tomorrow – I saw one down towards Tradum from your house, on a very thin street. Maybe there is advanced medicine in Tryum also?’

‘There is, but what can an apothecary offer to protect against the deeds of bitter gods? No, I can only change this through prayer and by trying harder to please them. Come on, it’s late. We should at least get some rest before our early start. I can only hope that I don’t suffer from a headache during what’s left of the night.’

Swinging incense in a large silver burner, the pontiff led the small entourage down the steps of the Temple of Polla. Every priest and priestess had their face covered in a pale-blue paint, as was the wrapped body of my father, who was being carried along on a wicker throne.

The sight was painful yet I couldn’t help but feel strangely detached from the scene. It was happening – indeed I was very conscious of it – but it seemed so otherworldly, as if it was some mythological play, a story concerning the gods themselves.

It was just after dawn and the light was weak. Tryum was beginning to wake, but the funeral process had begun even earlier than this: two priestesses came to my house so that they could dismiss any bad spirits with their brushes. I hadn’t slept properly, the grinding wheels of carts making their way through the city’s streets made me want to flee to a villa deep in the countryside. Maxant had the right idea with his coastal retreat.

Even at this early hour, dozens of people had come to mourn as my father was carried to his funeral pyre, and I found the gathering to be touching. A rather hungover Veron was there, as was Lillus the barber, who nodded sadly to me across the way. Men and women from the Senate had come, but I had simply no idea who some of the others were. My father had been a man of some renown – so, for some, I’m sure there was a certain morbid fascination to see how the mighty are fallen.

Leana stood beside me, her hand moving to the hilt of her sword, scanning every face with great attentiveness.

‘Is something wrong?’ I asked.

‘I am convinced we are being watched,’ she whispered. ‘At least, there is some unwelcome presence here. An angry spirit.’

‘Surely no one is likely to try something in such a public space.’

‘Concentrate on mourning – that is your job. I will make sure we remain safe.’ Leana resumed scrutinizing the faces leaning out of windows, and those standing silhouetted on top of the nearby aqueduct. I noticed how one part of the structure was badly in need of repair, judging by the gaping hole in its masonry.

My father’s wrapped body, which would have been coated in a flammable balm, was carried into a small enclosed courtyard, where the rest of the pyre stood waiting for him, and his wicker throne was hauled up on top. The pontiff began a melancholic chant of the tale of Polla, as the goddess of the sun, she who shone light into the darkest of places. It was into the light that my father’s body would be sent. Polla was not one for blood offerings.

Torches were brought forward and the pyre was lit in several places; the flames soon began to spread, engulfing my father’s body. I felt a lump in my throat, but forced away any unsavoury emotions as masked dancers commenced the ritual of the Passage through to the Underworld. Their graceful, wide-armed movements were comforting, a welcome distraction. Only because I had travelled through many countries, and seen many different peoples, did the notion of ritual strike me as curious – that much of such displays was more about symbolism and tradition.

The flames became more ferocious and burned consistently, and for a long time. The painted faces of the priests and priestesses standing behind were soon blurred by the shimmering heat.

The sun banked higher in the sky and my father could no longer be seen. Later his ashes would be gathered into an urn, which the pontiff would then secure in the family mausoleum outside Tryum, his final resting place. Though that would not happen until the priests had conducted further rituals.

The blue-faced pontiff slowly gathered up the remains, and his priestesses came forth with brushes to cleanse the courtyard of evil spirits. People began to drift away, a few old friends lingering till the very end. One or two of them nodded to me, though I could not recall their faces – evidently, they knew who I was. Everything seemed strangely quiet, now, but that was how funerals were done in Tryum. No celebrations of life like the Atrewens; just a simple acknowledgement of death and a show of respect to the gods.

And that was that. Well, apart from the fact that Leana was right about the fact that we were being watched.

‘Where next?’ Leana asked. ‘Are you to continue to contemplate your father’s passing at a temple?’

‘No, we’ve not got the time,’ I said. ‘We should head down into Plutum, but before that I want to find out why there was an attempt on our lives last night.’

We headed to Constable Farrum’s house.

Cutting through a small plaza, we passed where vendors in wine-coloured tunics were selling cinnamon sticks and hot chickpeas. Either side of them, two stores specialized in theatre equipment, masks and the like. A wood yard stood at the far end, its operations spread over three precarious floors, and next to it was a large stonemason’s building, with various examples of craftsmanship on display out the front. Several stone busts glowed in the morning sunlight.

‘Let us not be slow,’ Leana said. ‘I cannot see who it is, but we are now being followed.’

We continued towards the stonemason’s, slipping down an adjacent alleyway.

I heard their steps closing in behind us while, up ahead, two men jumped down from an open window, blocking our path.