Ramus heeled the pony on through the icy streets. Snow was swirling again, and the night was bitter cold. Two soldiers of the Night Watch, heavily wrapped in black cloaks, appeared from Potter's Street. They stood for a moment watching the old man on the fat pony, then moved on. Ramus rode halfway down Potter's Street, and turned left into Shoe Lane. The way was unlit, but candles and lanterns shone in windows, casting a glow over the snow-covered cobbles.
The pony plodded on. Ramus found the gate leading to Bramble Field. Here, on what was once common land, some twenty or so rough-built huts had been erected. Originally they were for transient workers who arrived in the summer seeking casual employment. Now run down, they were used to house the sick and the dying who had no homes of their own, and no money for rent.
Ramus saw a watchman sitting before a glowing brazier, and rode over to him. 'Good evening to you,' said the apothecary.
'Are you lost, man?' asked the watchman.
'No. I am seeking the house of Maldrak.'
'Don't know the name.'
'A retainer of the Moidart's. I am told he was moved here some days ago.'
'Oh, aye. Stinks of piss and blood. I know him. Fourth hut on the right.'
Ramus thanked the man and rode on. Tethering the pony behind the hut out of the wind Ramus entered the ramshackle building. There was but a single room, with a narrow bed and two rickety chairs. There was an old brazier^ but it held no coals, and there were no candles. In the faint light of the moon shining through the doorway Ramus could see old Maldrak lying on the bed. He appeared to be asleep.
Ramus trudged back to the watchman. 'I need a lantern and some coal and kindling,' he said.
'It'll be wasted on him, man. He's dying. He's been pissing blood ever since he came here.' The watchman made no move to rise from his stool.
'Tell me where I might find what I need,' said Ramus.
'It'll cost you. Coal don't come cheap.'
'My understanding is that the poor souls moved here are guaranteed food, coal and candle until they die,' said Ramus, his voice calm. 'But I shall pay you two daens for fetching what I need.'
'Three daens might persuade me to leave my fire,' said the watchman.
'Then three daens it shall be,' said Ramus. 'But I'll require a full lantern, if you please.'
Within the hour Ramus had the brazier glowing in Maldrak's hut, and, by the light of a lantern, was examining the old man. His skin was hot and dry to the touch, and there was a large lump just above his groin. The thin sheet below him was stained with blood and urine, and he drifted in and out of consciousness.
'I'll be right as rain in a few days,' he said, opening his eyes and seeing Ramus. 'Just need a bit of rest, that's all.'
'You are losing blood, my friend.'
'No, not blood,' insisted Maldrak. 'I bin eating beetroot. Just beetroot, see?'
Ramus sat quietly. The fear in the man's voice made him pause. The apothecary had brought with him several bottles of fever-reducing potions, and one which would help dull the pain. Only this last would be of any use to the old man. Ramus looked around the squalid room. Maldrak had served the Moidart's family for more than fifty years and this was his reward. Left to die in a cold and barren hut. 'Can I get you something to eat or drink, apothecary?' asked Maldrak.
'No, thank you,' answered Ramus, aware that there was nothing here, not a water jug, not even a stale loaf.
'Good of you to visit. My wife is out tonight. Otherwise she'd cook you a meal.' His wife had been dead for twenty years. 'How's the little pony?'
'She is well.'
'Nice little creature. I'll give you some apples to take away with you.'
'How are you feeling, Maldrak? Is there much pain?'
'Just a bit. Pulled muscle, I think. It'll heal, right enough.' The old man dozed briefly. When he awoke he talked again for a while, then paused. 'Are you the priest?' he asked.
'No, I am Ramus.'
'Course you are. Stupid of me. Don't ever get old, Ramus.' He looked around. 'Why am I here? Don't see none of my stuff. I wish the priest was here. Need to talk to him. Put things right. Because it wasn't my fault, and I could do nothing. It was all over by the time I got there, you see. Bothersome, though.'
'What is bothersome to you, my friend?'
'Best not to say. Best not. How is the old pony?'
'She is well. Rest a little. Gather your strength.'
'There's apples in the orchard. I'll fill you a sack. They'll only go bad otherwise.'
Ramus felt a weight of sorrow on his soul. He had heard only yesterday that Maldrak had been moved to Bramble Field. A young retainer had called at the apothecary's to collect the balms needed by the Moidart. Ramus had asked about Maldrak. 'He's gone, sir. He'd started acting odd, you know. And he stank something terrible. Bramble Field is the best place for him. He'll get food and medicine and stuff.'
There was no food here. This was a place for the discarded; somewhere to die out of sight and out of mind. It was rare for Ramus to feel anger, and even now it was tinged with sadness and disappointment. 'Are you the priest?' asked Maldrak. 'I need a priest.'
'Yes, I am the priest,' said Ramus sadly.
'I have sins, you know. I haven't been a good man. But I want to see my wife again, you know. I don't want the Gates shut on me.'
'They won't be shut,' promised Ramus.
'I couldn't have done nothing. When he killed her I was downstairs. I wasn't supposed to be, you see. He'd told us all to take the night off, and go into town. But I didn't. It was raining and I had on my old boots, and they leaked. I came back to change them. That's when I heard her scream.'
'Who screamed?'
'His wife, Rayena. Lovely girl. It was only a few days after the birth. She was still recovering. I thought she was just - you know -in pain. I was by the stairs and I saw him on the upper landing. He come out of the bedroom and there was blood on him. He didn't see me. Then I saw he had something stuck into his belly, low down. He dragged it out and flung it away. It was a pair of scissors. She'd obviously stabbed him as he strangled her. I ducked down. Didn't want him to see me. For years I've been wondering whether I could have saved her if I'd run upstairs when I first heard the scream. And then later I thought I should have gone to the captain and told him what I'd seen. But I didn't. Is that a sin?'
'Why did you not report the crime?'
'I was frightened. Would you like something to drink, sir? A little wine, or something?'
'No, I am fine. Who was the killer?'
'The Moidart. Most of the servants knew Rayena had been seeing the highland boy, Lanovar Ring. The Moidart found out. Don't know who told him. He hunted Lanovar down and killed him. Then he waited until his wife had the child, and he killed her too. When I got out of the house I just ran down to town. Didn't care my feet were wet. I sat in the tavern and said nothing to nobody. He was bleeding bad when I left, so I thought he'd probably be dead when I got back. But he wasn't. Then word went round that assassins had come and killed the wife and stabbed the lord. I didn't say nothing then either. Then when little Gaise was a few weeks old and his eyes changed colour I thought the lord would kill him too.'
Ramus was puzzled. All babies were born with blue eyes, the natural colour appearing later. But why should Gaise Macon's peculiar green and gold eyes have put him in danger? The portrait of the Moidart's grandmother showed she had such eyes.
'Did you know Lanovar Ring?' he asked Maldrak.
'Met him once or twice. Fine-looking man.'
'And his eyes were also green and gold?'
'Oh yes, sir. Just like Gaise. But the Moidart didn't kill the boy. Gave him no love, though.'
What a quandary, thought Ramus. To be so full of hatred that he would kill his wife, and then not to know whether he was raising the son of his enemy. Did Gaise inherit his looks from his great-grandmother, or from the highlander who cuckolded him? The Moidart could never know.
'Then came the night of the fire,' said Maldrak.
'It was only a few months later. It was awful. The Moidart came out, but we could hear the screams of people trapped inside.'
'The Moidart was burned badly,' said Ramus. 'He still suffers.'
'No, he came out unscathed,' said Maldrak. 'He shouted to someone: "Where is my son?" Nobody answered. The Moidart gave a terrible cry then, and ran back into the inferno. I've never seen the like. We all thought he was dead. Then he appeared at an upper window. His cloak and shirt were on fire, and he was carrying little Gaise wrapped in a blanket. And that had started to smoulder. The Moidart kicked out the window and jumped. When he hit the ground he rolled to protect the babe. We all ran to him, and beat out the flames. The baby had a little burn on his face, but he was all right. The Moidart was burned bad and had a broken ankle. After that I knew he would never kill Gaise. Not after risking everything to save him.'
The old man drifted off to sleep. When he awoke some minutes later he blinked and seemed confused. 'What happened to the priest, apothecary? Did he go?'
'Yes.'
'Did he damn me?'
'No, my friend. He blessed you.' Maldrak winced and groaned.
'Hurting a lot now,' he said. Ramus opened a bottle of potion and helped the old man to drink. 'Man, that's bitter.'
'It will ease the pain.'
'Am I dying, Ramus?'
'Yes.'
'Oh dear. I don't want to.'
'Drink some more. Finish the bottle.'
Maldrak did as he was bid. Then he sank back. After a while he said: 'That's a little better. I think I'll sleep now. I'll be right as rain when I've rested. Thanks for all you've done for me. He blessed me, you say?'
'Aye, he did.'
'Don't want the Gates shut when I get there.'
'Rest, Maldrak. Sleep.'
The old man closed his eyes. Ramus waited quietly by the bedside. The potion was a powerful one, and soon Maldrak was sleeping deeply. Ramus had seen such cancers before. Death from them was always agonizing. Maldrak would suffer no such agony. A few drops of the potion would take away pain. A little more and sleep could be induced. But to drink the whole bottle would slow and then stop the heart.
Ramus took hold of Maldrak's wrist, feeling for the pulse. It fluttered weakly for a while, then faded away. 'I hope your wife is waiting for you,' he said. Then he blew out the lantern and left the hut.
Since the attack on him eight months earlier Call Jace had been a changed man. His left arm ached continuously, and his shoulder pained him when the weather was cold or wet. His men noticed the change in his mood. Rarely did Call Jace take part in the joking and camaraderie of the Rigante, keeping to the great house, or wandering by himself at Sorrow Bird Lake. His son Bael carried out most of his duties, though Call himself always led the twice monthly clan meetings with his captains.
The winter had been especially harsh, and this meant there was little trouble with Ranaud and his beetlebacks, but no-one doubted the spring would see trouble. Throughout Black Mountain the word had gone out that Call Jace had been responsible, either personally or by order, for the murder of Colonel Linax. The ailing officer was said to have travelled to a meeting with Jace to discuss various aspects of the unwritten treaty between Rigante and Varlish. He had ridden out one early autumn morning, in the company of Captain Ranaud. That night Ranaud had returned, telling a tale of treachery. They had arrived at the meeting place only to find a group of highlanders waiting in ambush. Colonel Linax had, according to Ranaud, been shot in the head. Ranaud himself had escaped by drawing his sabre and charging the ambushers. Only the intervention of the Source had saved him.
The news split the community. Highlanders did not believe Jace would kill a man he had invited to a meeting. The Varlish felt vindicated in their mistrust and hatred of all clansmen. Jace himself was furious. At first he believed a renegade group of highlanders might have been responsible, and had sent out scouts to track them. Except there were no tracks. The ground where Linax had been murdered was badly churned by the soldiers who had ridden out to recover the body. But higher in the hills, where the killers would likely have fled, there was no sign of a large party of travellers.
'They'd have to have been ghosts,' Rayster told him on his return. The whole area is unmarked. Not a single boot heel. No evidence of a recent camp fire, no discarded bones from a meal.'
'They must be somewhere!' snapped Jace. 'An armed group cannot simply kill a beetleback and then vanish.'
'No indeed,' agreed Rayster.
Then how do you explain the killing?'
Rayster had shrugged. 'We can eliminate the claim that a group of raiders killed the colonel. There were no raiders. Unlikely as it sounds the only person who could have killed him is Ranaud himself.'
'That is ridiculous.'
'We know there was no meeting planned with you. Our people in Black Mountain say that Ranaud himself arranged it. He is known as a clan hater. Linax was not. The colonel's death has left Ranaud in command - and given him freedom to act against you.'
Call cursed. 'Damn, but it galls me to think people believe me to be so stupid as to arrange a meeting and then kill a beetleback. It is insane. If I wanted Linax dead I'd have planned it with at least a little subtlety.'
As the vicious winter finally gave way to the brighter, warmer days of spring fresh news reached Call. A regiment of the king's army and an artillery battalion were said to be preparing for a march to the Black Mountains. Five thousand men and fifty cannon would be heading north in less than a month. Ranaud had also reinstated the law concerning highlanders carrying weapons. Any clansman found with sword, pistol or musket would be summarily hanged.
Worse was to follow. A young clansman was arrested for wearing a Black Rigante cloak. Put on trial for treason he had been beheaded in the town square. Call Jace sent out two hunting parties in the hope of assassinating Colonel Ranaud. Unfortunately the man was wily, and rarely rode without fifty men at his back. One of the parties was ambushed. They managed to escape, but not without losing three men, and killing five beetlebacks.
For several months Call Jace had journeyed at least once a week to Sorrow Bird Lake, seeking the wisdom of the Dweller. Throughout the winter she was missing, but then in the first week of spring he saw her small boat moored in the bay. He sat in Shrine Hollow until she came to him. His arm was aching badly, and his mood was sour. 'Where do you go, woman?' he asked her. 'Why do you spend so little time with your people?'
'I spend almost all my time with my people, Call Jace. What do you require of me?' Her voice, as ever, was cool, her manner distant.
'You do not like me, Dweller. I know this, but I have never asked why. Now I do.'
The white-haired woman remained silent at first, gazing at him intently. When she finally spoke there was sadness in her voice. 'It is not about dislike, Call Jace. The Varlish are a cold race, and they - and others like them - are draining the magic from the land. What they do not realize is that, in the end, the magic is all we have. Without it the world will die. Why do I seem cold to you? You may have the blood of a Rigante, but you have the soul of a Varlish. Nothing you do adds magic to the earth. You scheme, you plot, you murder. Every day a little more of the magic dies.'
'I always appreciate straight talking,' he said sourly. 'I live with regrets for some of my deeds. I will answer for them to the Source one day. I don't doubt that. I will, though, leave the Rigante stronger than I found them. Or do you wish to deny me that also?'
'I do not deny you your achievements, Call Jace. I admire you for some of them. You did not ask me about my admiration.'
'Ah well, your likes and dislikes are not important now. Tell me why this Ranaud would kill his own colonel?'
'He lusts after glory, highlander. He wants to be famous. He thinks there are no battles left to fight - save one. If he defeats the Rigante he will be honoured. His name will be enshrined in the history of the Varlish. He is - like all vain men - a fool. If he was to wait but a little while he could have all the battles he
dreams of. A civil war is coming among the Varlish. It will drench the land in blood.'
'I care nothing for wars among the Varlish,' said Call. 'My only desire is to save my own people.'
'That does you credit, Call Jace.'
'How do I fight him?'
'You do not need me to guide you in the planning of a war,' she told him. 'What is to come is hateful to me. You must hold out until the winter. After that the Moidart will need all his troops. For the clans in the south will rediscover their pride and their manhood.'
Call gave a derisive laugh. 'Nothing could make those puppies wolves again. You think I am like the Varlish? All in the south are tainted with Varlish thinking.'
'Yes, they are. The flame in their hearts has gone out. But they are like dried grass, Call Jace. One spark will ignite them, one glorious spark, one moment of true Rigante greatness. It will break my heart to see it, and at the same time gladden my soul, for the magic will flow out and be carried upon the winds. It will flow over the land, and feed the parched souls of every highlander. Even you.'
'What are you speaking of?'
'You will know when the moment comes. You will hear of it. You will even weep, Call Jace.'
'I have not shed tears since I was a wee lad and my father died.'
'I know. Too much of your Rigante heritage is locked away, buried deep. But remember my words when the day comes. Now go and prepare for your war, Call Jace. Choose your captains wisely.'
As the snows melted Call instructed Bael and Rayster to double the training of clan warriors.
'Can we win this war?' Bael asked him.
'One day at a time, boy. We will need to hide supplies further back in the mountains, in case they breach the gates and take the valley. Food, salt, powder and shot. We must also build secondary lines of defence. The West Hills is where to start. Build gates across the pass, and move two cannon back there.'
'If they push us back into the West Hills there'll be nowhere else to run, Father,' said Bael. 'We'll have our backs to the sea.'
'I know. Call a meeting for tomorrow. It is time to appoint group leaders and plan our campaign.'