The door to the apartments opened and a young officer stepped onto the balcony. His face was flushed. 'You may enter now,' he said, then walked stiffly to the stairs.
Ramus pushed himself to his feet and moved to the doorway. The room within was double aspected, tall windows looking out to the north and east. Glowing coals burned within a red brick fireplace. A single armchair was set before it. Beneath the eastern window was a broad desk, with yet another single chair behind it. No-one else might sit in the Moidart's presence.
The Lord of the North was standing by the northern window, hands clasped behind his back. Dressed all in black, his silver hair shining in the sunlight, he stood motionless. A distant gunshot sounded, followed instantly by another. Ramus remained in the doorway.
'Come in, apothecary,' said the Moidart, his voice, as ever, without emotion. 'And close the door. It is creating a draught.'
Ramus did as he was ordered and stood before the desk. The Moidart remained where he was for several seconds then returned to his desk, seating himself. Then he looked up into Ramus's face. Ramus thought he had prepared himself for this meeting of eyes, but it was always a shock. It was not that the man had a malevolent gaze, nor even that Ramus could see his cruelty and power. No, it was that the Moidart's eyes were empty, devoid of emotion. The look seemed to say: 'You are nothing; a speck, insignificant and disposable.'
'My scars have been causing me discomfort,' said the Moidart. 'In cold weather the skin still cracks and weeps even after fifteen years.'
'Most men would have died, lord,' said Ramus. 'The burns were severe.'
'I am not most men. Did you bring me salves?'
'I did, lord. They should be used sparingly for they are most potent.'
Ramus waited, still unsure why the Moidart had summoned him. Usually a retainer - Mulgrave or one of the other officers - would collect the balms, salves and powders required.
'You are an artist, I see,' said the Moidart.
'An artist, lord?'
The Moidart opened a drawer at the front of his desk and removed a glazed jar. It was from the apothecary, and upon it was a hand-painted label, showing the leaf and flower of a honey suckle. Beneath it, in delicate script, were written the instructions for preparing the tisane. 'You drew this?'
'Yes, lord. I am a sketcher. No more than that.'
'One of my retainers is also a ... sketcher.' The Moidart rose and moved around the desk, gesturing Ramus to follow him. He walked to the rear of the room. A framed painting had been hung on the western wall. Light from the window shone upon it. Ramus gazed at it, awestruck. He had never seen the like. It was a winter scene of mountains, and pines laden with snow. There was no delicacy in the brushwork, which was vibrant and swift, creating an elemental power that was both immediate and stunning. Ramus stood before the canvas. The trees were breathtaking, for their depth. Ramus felt he could step into the canvas and walk in that winter forest.
'What do you think?' asked the Moidart. 'Does the man have talent?'
'It is majestic,' whispered Ramus. 'One can almost feel the cold emanate from the mountains, and hear the birdsong within the trees. And the light shining on the pines. Oh, sir, this is exquisite. How did the man create such depth?'
'Lighter layers upon darker backgrounds,' said the Moidart, 'then further highlighted with just the corners of a two-inch brush.'
Ramus glanced at the Moidart, knowing in that moment that he was the artist. The Moidart saw the realization in his face. 'You did not guess?' he asked.
'No, sir. Not until you spoke of method. It is an amazing piece. How long have you been painting?'
'Many years. You are the first to see my . . . efforts.'
'I am honoured, sir. More than I can say.' The words were spoken with genuine feeling, for Ramus was not skilled in the art of flattery.
'The hardest part was the water upon the lake, and obtaining the reflection of the mountains and trees. I discovered it by error. One merely pulls the bristles of a dry brush down in sharp motions. Would you like this painting?'
'I could not afford such a ... a masterpiece, lord,' exclaimed Ramus, astonished.
'I am not some peasant who needs to sell his wares. It is finished. I have no more use for it.'
'Thank you, lord. I don't know what to say.' He paused. 'Are there others? I would love to see them.'
'No.'
'But what of the paintings you have completed over the years?'
'Time for you to go, master apothecary. I have much to do. I will send the painting to you.'
Ramus bowed deeply. The Moidart ignored him and returned to the window.
The little apothecary walked to the door, then realized he had not unpacked the salves from his sack. With a sigh he left it behind and stepped from the room.
His mind was reeling as he descended the stairs. In the town centre of Eldacre twelve corpses were hanging from the Moidart's gibbets. Three of the men had been tortured, their eyes burned out before execution. And the man who had ordered such brutality was an artist of exquisite talent, who could capture the beauty of a moment and the raw majesty of nature in a few brush strokes.
As Ramus emerged into the light he saw the young Gaise Macon and the soldier Mulgrave approaching the house. He stopped and bowed.
'Good morning, apothecary,' said Gaise Macon. The young man seemed suddenly concerned. 'Are you all right, sir? You look very pale.'
‘I am well, lord. I heard you practising,' he said, pointing to the two silver-embossed flintlock pistols in the young man's hands.
'Yes, they are fine pieces.'
The old servant, Maldrak, came into sight, leading the pony. Ramus bowed once more to Gaise Macon. The young man stepped closer. 'Allow me to assist you, sir,' he said, cupping his hands and helping Ramus into the saddle.
'Thank you, lord. Most courteous,' said Ramus. The sun broke through the clouds, its light shining upon the young man's face. His strange green and gold eyes glinted in the sunlight.
Just like the portrait in the gallery. 'You have your great-grandmother's eyes,' said Ramus.
'So I have been told, sir,' answered Gaise Macon. 'I wish I had known her, but I was a small child when she died, and remember only a stern woman who dressed in black.'
'She was greatly loved,' said Ramus. 'During an outbreak of the lung sickness she and her ladies in waiting worked in a hospital, tending the sick. She was a woman of great courage and compassion.'
'Compassion is not a word one hears often in talk of my family,' said Gaise, with a bitter smile. 'It was good to see you, apothecary.'
Maev Ring closed her book of accounts and replaced it in the bottom drawer of the pine cabinet. There was ink on her fingers and she walked out into the sunlight to draw up a bucket of water from the well. Dipping her hands she washed her fingers, but could not quite remove the stains.
Glancing up at the sky she saw that rain clouds were bunching over the mountains. Shula Achbain emerged from the main building, and curtseyed as she saw Maev. She was painfully thin, but Maev was pleased to see some colour in her sallow cheeks.
'I have cleaned the rooms upstairs, ma'am,' she said.
'I told you to rest, Shula. And do not call me ma'am. I am Maev Ring, a clanswoman by birth.'
Shula gave a shy smile, curtseyed again, and went back into the house. Maev sighed. Shula was Varlish, albeit 'kilted Varlish' as the poorer people were known even among their own kind. Even so, it would normally be unthinkable among her people to call a clanswoman ma'am. No wonder Morain and the other Varlish women hated Shula. She had no sense of place. Bad enough, they would think, to marry a highlander, without treating them as your betters. But then Maev knew that Shula's sense of self-worth was almost non-existent. She had no confidence.
However, questions of Shula's broken personality were not uppermost in Maev's mind as she stood by the well. Following the assassination attempt on the Moidart's life twelve men had been executed - all of them clansmen. This was not in itself surpri
sing, but three of them had been successful businessmen in Eldacre. Maev had known two of them well, and doubted they would take part in any such murderous proceeding. No, their crime had been to be too successful in the Varlish world. One, Latimus Esher, had run a pottery business, his wares shipped as far south as the capital. That burgeoning enterprise was now owned by the Moidart.
Best be careful, Maev, she warned herself. Her own businesses were booming and she had now invested in three cattle farms in the far north. It seemed that anything she turned her mind to became profitable. Already she had more than five hundred pounds in gold hidden in the house.
There was movement on the hillside and, shielding her eyes, she saw Jaim, Kaelin and young Banny returning from the high meadows. Her mood softened as she thought of Jaim. Born out of his time, he was a true clansman - no matter what she said to his face. Strong, proud and angry, his heart fretted constantly against the Varlish yoke. One day his temper would get the better of him and he would do something even more rash than usual and be walked to the gallows.
The thought made her shiver. There had been a time when she believed Jaim Grymauch desired her, when they were both young. She had waited for him to approach her, but he never had. Then Calofair had wooed her. He was a good and kind man, brave and strong. Though she had loved him she had never felt as easy in his company as she did with Grymauch. Whenever Jaim was absent from Old Hills - which was often - Maev would find herself longing for his return. Yet whenever he did come back she would find herself becoming angry with him, often for no reason that she could fathom later.
Kaelin idolized him. For Maev this obvious fact was double edged. There was much to admire about the big man, yet she did not want Kaelin to copy him. The thought of her child with a rope around his neck was more than she could bear.
He is not your child. The thought was a surprising one. No, Kaelin was born of Gian, but Maev had raised him from a babe. I could not love any child of mine more, she thought.
The returning trio reached the house. Kaelin waved at her and took Banny inside. Jaim strolled across to the well, and dipped a gourd into the bucket. 'I have washed my hands in that,' said Maev.
'Then it will taste all the sweeter,' answered Jaim, with a grin. He took a long drink. 'He will be quite a swordsman,' he said. 'He moves well, and he is fearless.'
'A useless talent for a clansman these days,' she observed.
'Times change,' said Jaim. 'There's talk of unrest in the south. The king is not popular in all quarters. Only last month I heard merchants talking of the risk of civil war. A nice thought, eh, all those Varlish killing one another?'
'It is never nice to think of killing. I only ever killed one man -and I can still see his face.'
'He deserved killing,' said Jaim, his face darkening. 'He murdered Gian.'
'Aye, he did. Let's talk no more of killing. So, will you be coming with us to the feast?'
'You want me to?'
'I don't care, Grymauch. But I'll not have you shaming me again by getting drunk. If you come you must promise to avoid the brandy tents.'
'I shall give you that promise, Maev. There'll be little time for drinking. I plan to enter the bouts.'
Maev took a deep breath, seeking to calm the angry words she felt clawing their way towards her throat. 'Do you never learn, Grymauch? There'll be Varlish in the tourney this year. Champions, I'm told. Men who make their living by stalking the circle.'
'I can handle them.'
Her left hand whipped into his cheek, the slap sounding like a distant gunshot. Jaim stepped back, his face angry. 'By heaven, you go too far!' he shouted.
'Do you still not understand, Grymauch?' she said softly. 'You did not see the blow coming. You are blind in one eye. I can understand how a clumsy clansman might not take advantage of it in a friendly feast bout, but a Varlish fighting man? He'll whip in hooks and crosses and turn your face to pulp.'
Jaim stood silently for a moment. 'Aye, there's truth in that. But the bastard will have to be on his feet to do it.' He bunched his fist. 'You know what this is? It's the Rigante Hammer. I'd like to see the Varlish who can stand against it. It strikes like thunder and brings only darkness.' Suddenly he winked at her. 'And if you ever strike me again, woman, I swear I'll put you over my knee and let the hammer fall on your buttocks.'
Her hand flashed out. Jaim caught her wrist. 'Fool me once shame on you, fool me twice shame on me.'
'Let go of me, you lummox.'
'Only if you promise not to hit me.'
Maev did not struggle, but she glared at him. Jaim grinned and released her arm. 'Will you place a bet on me, Maev?'
'I do not gamble, Grymauch. But I'll place a cold compress on your bleeding face at the close. I promise you that.'
He held to her arm for a moment more, and she felt the power in his grip. His expression changed, and, just for a heartbeat, he seemed wistful. Then he let her go, and they stood together in awkward silence. It seemed to Maev that Grymauch was struggling for the right words.
Then Kaelin called out from the kitchen. 'You greedy hog, Grymauch. You ate the whole pie!'
Jaim turned towards the lad and grinned. 'And mighty fine it was too. Though I am a little peckish now.' Grymauch strolled towards the house.
Maev rubbed at her wrist. She could still feel where his fingers had held her.
On the outskirts of Eldacre was the common land known as Five Fields. It was only nominally common land these days, for much of it was permanently fenced ready for the four major feast days of the Sacrifice calendar. The fencing had been installed more than thirty years ago, effectively segregating Varlish townsfolk from the clans. Stewards patrolled the entrances to each section, preventing any Pannone from entering the wrong enclosure.
Mulgrave had arrived early, to ensure that the Moidart would be as secure as possible against assassination. He interviewed the officers of the lord's guard, making them aware of all necessary precautions. 'Watch the crowd always,' he told the assembled soldiers. 'Ensure that no-one comes within twenty feet of the lord. Watch especially for those with very pale faces. When a man is about to commit an act of premeditated murder his blood runs cold, and his features whiten. Watch also the hands of those closest to the lord. If they slip inside their cloaks or coats, move to block their view of the lord.'
Dismissing the soldiers, he then gathered the red-cloaked stewards who would be patrolling the entrances. 'Be good-natured if you find someone in the wrong enclosure,' he told them. 'Do not insult them, merely escort them to the correct area. Work always in pairs. If you suspect there is danger one man should fetch help while the other merely watches the likely offender. The most obvious reason for a clan man or woman to be in the wrong enclosure is that a child has wandered and they are seeking it. Assure them that the child will be sought and brought to them, and then escort them from the enclosure. You understand this?'
'Why be polite to clan vermin?' asked a tall, thin man standing at the back.
'Your name?'
'Jannie Clippets.'
'You are no longer a steward, Jannie Clippets. Hand back your cloak to the feast marshall.'
'I only asked a question,' shouted the astonished man.
'If I see you in a steward's cloak this evening I shall have you flogged for impersonating an officer of the Moidart,' Mulgrave told him. 'Do the rest of you understand my instructions?'
Some of them muttered 'Aye', while others merely nodded.
Mulgrave strolled away. Guarding the Moidart was never easy, for the man was hated. At feast times it became nightmarish. Some eight thousand people would fill the Five Fields, moving between tents and stalls, shows and exhibitions. A killer would likely come dressed as a Varlish, in white wig and black cloth. Obtaining an entry disc was not difficult and the Moidart would be in full view of the crowd for much of the afternoon. One pistol ball, well aimed, and no amount of guards could prevent a murder. And there was likely to be other trouble.
Largely the clan fol
k did not trespass on the Varlish areas. The punishment was too severe - twenty lashes at a public flogging. The same was not true in reverse. Many Varlish townsfolk liked to wander the clan sections, watching the Boulder Hurl, the Rope War, and the fist-fighting tourney. Food and drink were cheaper, and this year there was the added complication of the fist tourney's being an open event. It was foolishness, the thinking behind it obvious and crude. Bring up Varlish champions to hammer the clumsy clan farmers and cattle workers, thus displaying Varlish superiority in matters martial. No-one seemed to have considered the possibility that a clansman might prove just the opposite. The Moidart had said nothing about the plan, but Mulgrave sensed he was irritated by it. Cruel he might be, stupid he was not. He had made it clear to Mulgrave that he would not be present for the final bouts.
The feast was organized by the Eldacre Elders, a committee of wealthy town merchants, of whom the chairman was the Bishop of Eldacre. Their plan of events had been, as usual, posted and advertised without reference to the lord. The Moidart's power was based on the twin pillars of tax and defence. He had no say over Sacrifice feasts, which came under the jurisdiction of the Church.
Mulgrave walked across the first of the fields to where the best of the fighting circles had been constructed on a raised wooden dais. Two channels led away from the circle, one to the clan area, one to the Varlish. At the circle itself the crowd would again be segregated, the Varlish area containing tiered bench seating, the clan folk being obliged to stand in the mud. Mulgrave sighed.