Fiona McIntosh - Scrivener’s Tale

‘I’m sorry, Tailor Zeek,’ he murmured and then silently recited the Prayer of Sending that all the Brothers accorded their victims. It was short, committing Zeek to Shar’s safekeeping and acknowledging himself as the killer but on Shar’s authority to protect the Crown.

‘Search your heart until you see it as pure, Brother Cassien,’ Josse had said in parting on the day Cassien had been taken to the forest. ‘You cannot undertake the work of the Brotherhood until you have no conscience about it.’

‘How can we take a life coldly and absolve ourselves of any crime, any responsibility, any remorse?’ he’d queried, feeling angry. He recalled his mood well because Brother Josse had snapped at him.

‘You don’t absolve yourself. Shar does! But that’s not the point. You take responsibility for the killing because you are safekeeping the Crown and for no other reason. It is the law that guides us.’

‘Outside of the priory we’d be put on trial as murderers. Why are we any different?’ he’d argued.

Josse had regained his patience. His voice had been gentle when he spoke again. ‘Cassien, our work is on behalf of the royals alone. The ancient royal house of Morgravia that absorbed Briavel and the Razor Kingdom to form its new imperial throne decades ago was the seat of the dragon. You understand this, don’t you?’ Cassien had nodded. Of course he knew it. The sovereigns of Morgravia — and only those of royal blood — were linked with the dragon as their motif, the spiritual power that guided their reign. ‘The imperial throne answers only to Shar. Do you understand that too?’

‘Of course,’ he’d replied, trying not to sound exasperated.

‘Then the work of the Brotherhood, which is exclusively on behalf of the imperial throne, answers to no-one other than the imperial ruler. We are above all other courts or claims. It is not our collective conscience that should be troubled.’

Josse had made it sound reasonable. Since then — in the short space of not a decade — the empire’s structure had crumbled. The three realms that had been unified had since pulled apart with their quarrels, and now each had local governments and had settled into a loose triumvirate. The imperial throne was still acknowledged as Morgravia but any semblance of empire had fractured. Empress Florentyna had a long road and hard task ahead of her to rebuild what her father had allowed to slip.

He looked down at the unconscious Zeek. He could still walk away and the man would regain his wits shortly. But he was obliged to protect the Brotherhood as much as himself and Fynch. Besides, he’d already said the Prayer of Sending.

He smothered the tailor soundlessly. It would look as though the older man’s heart had given out. Cassien quietly overturned a chair to make it appear as though the tailor had simply fallen as his heart failed. He double-checked for any signs that he and Fynch had been in the shop, quickly gathering up the old clothes that Wife Wiggins had supplied and he had discarded. He knew there would be no written record of any of the transactions involving him.

He left silently via the back door but his mind was already reaching toward the next step of damage control. He found Fynch sitting on a low wall just beyond the alley, his head turned toward the sun. He thought the man was smiling but as he drew closer he saw that Fynch was grimacing.

The spry old fellow opened his eyes. There was sorrow reflected. ‘Is it done?’

‘Yes. No-one will suspect anything other than that his heart gave up.’

‘Then our secret is safe.’

‘Not quite. There’s a whore. He told her things. I don’t know how much she knows or whether she could even be bothered to pay attention, but I’m not inclined to gamble.’

‘A whore,’ Fynch repeated to himself, staring at the ground, although he didn’t seem surprised. ‘Does it end there?’

‘I hope so. But there’s more bad news.’

Fynch looked up.

‘Her brothel isn’t local,’ Cassien continued. ‘It’s in Orkyld.’

Fynch closed his eyes as if in pain.

‘We can’t undo it, but we can fix it.’

‘Quite right,’ Fynch replied with resolve.

‘I think we should ride, rather than take the coach. It will be faster. I can take us on a more direct route through the forest on horseback.’

‘Fine. Go to the stables and organise the horses — you have plenty of coin. I will get some supplies.’

‘This Wevyr, he’s reliable?’

Fynch snorted. ‘We have nothing to fear from Wevyr. The brothers Wevyr, in fact. They understand secrecy — were raised on it. I’m afraid your shave and haircut must wait.’

As their lips touched, Gabe felt as though he had become entirely disconnected from the world. Most of his senses simply shut down. He could hear the whoosh of his own blood pulsing in his head, nothing else. All the subliminal noises of his apartment — the drone of the fridge, the whirr of his computer, the beep from his coffee machine cycling through its stand-by phases — disappeared. Even the more persistent sounds of the building’s lift, voices from the street, the horns and general groan of traffic … all of it had been silenced.

Neither could he see his apartment anymore, or anything familiar. What had, at first, been a blank Void began to stir and change: the grey nothingness seemed to swirl and move as though reshaping itself, but even before it had fully formed, he knew what the dreamscape was showing him. He tried to pull back but he was trapped. Angelina’s lips held him, and he was sure if his ability to smell or taste were available to him, he would be surrounded by the fragrance of violets on her breath. The scene continued to sharpen. He wanted to scream but could not.

He mentally shook his head. Did not want this. Did not want to face the memory of the wreckage of his car because that would mean confronting the wreckage of his wife and son trapped inside. Dying, if not already dead.

‘Release me!’ he was sure he pleaded.

But just as the smell of petrol fumes and the tang of spilled blood assaulted him and he felt a cry of anguish racing to his throat, the scene changed. In a heartbeat, he was in the calm of his cathedral — or so he thought. It felt right, the atmosphere was right, but he saw in the shadow a man.

It looked as though it could be him but the figure had his head thrown back in agony.

The link was cut and Gabe snapped back to reality to find himself staring into the smoky eyes of Angelina. Her legs were still wrapped around his hips. She was smiling guiltily, knowingly.

‘What did you see?’ she asked, unable to mask the smug tone.

‘You … you promised the cathedral.’

‘I decided to let you choose and demonstrate just how connected we truly are. You seem upset, Gabe,’ she said softly, sounding offended now as she gently touched his cheek. ‘Are you frightened by the vision?’

‘Did you see it too?’

She nodded. ‘I don’t understand it though — it’s obviously something very personal to you. I smelled petrol. I assume the image was of the motorway accident that killed your family …’ He didn’t want her to say another word about it, and perhaps she sensed this. ‘Who is the man in the second vision?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘He’s your dream.’

‘That may be. But I still have no idea.’

‘It’s obviously very powerful if it can override not only your nightmare of the accident, but more importantly, what I intended to show you,’ she remarked.

He frowned at her. ‘What are you?’

‘I am what I am. I have skills.’

‘Skills,’ he repeated evenly, gently disengaging her arms from his neck. She obliged by releasing her legs and sitting back on the bed. ‘Explain them,’ he said, deliberately getting up and walking away from her.