Roger Taylor - Whistler

‘We’re all exhausted, Mueran,’ Morem replied, unusually sour. ‘It’s been far from the day any of us thought it was going to be. But no one’s anywhere near the point of collapse. And Cassraw’s probably the fittest amongst us.’

There was an awkward silence. Mueran was at a loss to know what to ask and Morem seemed disinclined to offer any suggestions as to the nature of Cassraw’s condition. Vredech looked up. He was having difficulty in concentrating. He wanted to be away from here. He needed to think about everything that had happened today; needed to let loose the questions that were clamouring for release and preventing him from thinking clearly. He turned towards Morem. ‘No reflection on you, Morem, but do you think we should call in his physician?’ he asked.

Mueran’s finger tapped the table nervously.

‘I don’t think so,’ Morem said, after a moment’s thought. ‘Cassraw will be in some pain for a while, thanks to the knocking about he’s given himself, but I’ve examined him very thoroughly and nothing’s broken. Nor is he losing blood. Everything that really matters seems to be all right. Pulses, breathing – calmer and steadier than mine, for what it’s worth. Reflexes – fine.’ He rubbed his thighs gingerly. ‘He should be wide awake and grumbling like the rest of us, not lying there motionless.’

‘Well, we’ve got to do something,’ Mueran said pointlessly.

‘Perhaps his wife might be able to help,’ Morem said, his face lightening a little.

The atmosphere around the table changed. ‘We can’t bring a woman into the Witness House, just like that,’ Laffran exclaimed, eyebrows raised. ‘It’s…’ He floundered.

‘It’s a good idea,’ Vredech heard himself saying, cutting through Laffran’s confusion. ‘If Morem says he’s not badly injured that’s good enough for me. And if there’s nothing physically wrong with him then it’s head or heart.’ He tapped his head, then his chest. ‘Either way, his wife’s better equipped to reach him, wherever he is, than any of us.’ He became practical. ‘Besides, Cassraw would have gone home tonight. She’ll be expecting him.’

Thus it was that, despite his reservations about the matter, Laffran found himself escorting Dowinne to the Witness House. Reluctantly, after his announcement that Cassraw had ‘had a bit of an accident’ he had found it necessary to give Dowinne some assurance that nothing serious had happened to him but that Mueran thought it would be helpful if she were with him. It was near enough to a lie to make him decidedly uncomfortable, and he could do little except smile at her rather weakly in the dim lamplight whenever he caught her eye as they swayed from side to side in the carriage.

It did not occur to Dowinne that it was odd that she should be travelling in one of the church carriages with the blinds pulled down. Had she thought about it at all, she would perhaps have reasoned that although those appalling black clouds had dispersed, it was still very gloomy and near night-time anyway. The reality was that Mueran wanted no indication of anything untoward reaching anyone other than those who already knew, and the sight of Cassraw’s wife being driven through the streets towards the Witness House would be around the town within the hour.

Her thoughts were elsewhere, however. After the initial shock of Laffran’s news, she tried to work out what might have happened in order to decide how she must behave when she arrived at the Witness House. But to no avail. Apart from one or two servants, women were rarely allowed into the Witness House, and then usually on special ceremonial occasions. Thus, despite Laffran’s assurances, she knew that something serious must have happened even though it might not involve any physical injury to her husband. Once or twice she questioned Laffran, but he was evasive and obviously under instructions not to say anything. After a while she leaned back into the corner of her seat and, lifting her hand, rested her head on it. The action relieved Laffran greatly as he had been looking all around the carriage in an attempt to avoid her gaze. Dowinne had always made him feel uncomfortable and being confined with her under these circumstances was proving to be a considerable ordeal.

In the darkness behind her hand, Dowinne did not find the calm reflection she was seeking. Unthinkingly, she lifted her other hand and tested the bruise where she had inadvertently struck the metal dish earlier. The slight pain brought back the thoughts that had been troubling her all day; the feeling that something bad was about to happen, that forces beyond her and her husband’s control were in motion. It was not something that was susceptible to logic, but it was real nonetheless and it was some measure of Dowinne that not the slightest sign appeared on her face, as she faced this unknown, unreasoned intrusion and determined that she would deal with whatever had happened, however grim or strange.

Alert, but calm and clear in her mind now, she lowered her hand and examined her companion. He smiled feebly yet again, and she acknowledged him with an uncertain but calculated smile of her own. ‘Not much further now,’ he said needlessly, assuming his professional sick-visiting manner.

Part of Dowinne’s old self had already noted the discreet luxury of the carriage, but now she became aware of the even more discreet quality embedded in its design, as shown by the fact that she had not noticed when they had begun the final uphill climb. It reaffirmed her new intent. She would deal with this pending problem without losing sight of her long-term ambition for a single moment.

When they finally drew to a halt in front of the Witness House, Laffran helped Dowinne down the carriage steps. She had never felt more assured. It wasn’t something bad that was going to happen – or had happened – it was only something disturbing, something that brought change in its wake. And that could only be to her advantage.

Privv was a Sheeter. He liked being a Sheeter – but then, he would. He had always been a worm. Admittedly, a worm with some skill in the handling of words, but a worm nonetheless: most at home when wriggling through the mouldering outer reaches of society or exposing to the light the darker labyrinths of human nature. Not that he considered himself to be so meanly inclined; he could justify his chosen profession, as he called it when he was feeling dignified, with the best of them.

‘It’s only the likes of us that guarantee our ancient freedom. People are entitled to know what the Heinders are doing in their name. And the Chapter Members of the church, with their secret meetings. And the great merchants. And the Guild Masters.’

And anyone else who exhibited any remotely human frailty that might serve as food for the indiscriminate and ever-greedy god of gossip that Privv so assiduously served.

It did not help that there was a great deal of truth in what he said, of course. More than a few states in Gyronlandt suffered under the heels of autocracies of one form or another, and the first two acts of such governments on coming to power were invariably to disarm their loyal subjects and then ban all the Sheets to ensure that as little as possible about what was really happening would become public knowledge.

Sheeters were a resolute bastion against such eventualities.

Sometimes.

They were also a deep pain.

Often.

Privv scowled and scratched himself unceremoniously. He swung his feet down from his desk and walked over to the window again. Not by any definition a sensitive man, he nonetheless enjoyed the view he had from this particular room. To the north stood the dominating bulk of the Ervrin Mallos, halfway up which could be seen, on a clear day, the Witness House. To the east, visible in almost any weather save the grimmest, stood the elegant spires of the PlasHein, home of the Heindral.