Deadhouse Landing

An air of expectancy permeated the crowd, and whispered rumours of what was to come made the rounds. As a high-ranking priest, he’d been asked what he thought; his answer that such speculation was a waste of time as they’d know shortly had effectively silenced his interlocutors.

The benches were uncomfortably packed, but another newcomer was pressing in next to him and he felt a hand upon his arm. He looked up to see Silla. Sitting, she squeezed his hand. ‘I’m sorry, Tay. I know you were very close to him.’

He nodded. ‘Thank you.’

The murmuring and talk faded away as the Council of Elders filed into the hall. With them came Tallow, looking like a bull among a line of thin doddering storks and ragged dusty crows. His place near the centre of the front table troubled Tayschrenn. Normally, a visiting official or dignitary would be seated at one end.

Lukathera-amil rose to speak. She was Hengan, one of the dusty dishevelled crows. She was well liked, known affectionately as Luka among the lower ranks. She raised her arms for silence, though the hall was now utterly quiet.

‘Kindred,’ she began, her rough voice thin and dry, ‘we are gathered here this eve to underscore and reaffirm one of the guiding principles of D’rek – that of continuity and reiteration. The eternal reprise and return of life and death.’

Her fellow elders banged upon the table in affirmation and the audience applauded – though quietly, and respectfully, as was proper.

Luka bowed her head for a time, then continued, ‘Though we have lost one dear to our hearts, he is not gone. He is gathered to the breast of D’rek, and for this we must rejoice. We, each of us, may look forward to being reunited with him together with all of the righteous at the side of D’rek when our time, too, shall come.

‘In this time of testing, we are blessed to have among us – due to the wisdom of the Synod of Temples – brother Tallow.’ She motioned towards him and he rose, bowed, then sat down again. ‘He has graciously agreed to serve as interim high priest and Demidrek until we, the Council, have chosen Ithell’s successor.’

The assembly applauded again, respectfully. The elders of the Council joined the applause, their quavering hands soundlessly tapping.

Luka raised her arms once more. ‘That is all. Now, let us bow our heads in prayer and thanksgiving.’ She lowered her head.

Tayschrenn joined in, of course, but search as he might among his thoughts he could not find any single thing to be thankful for. He prayed instead for wisdom among the Council, for the idea of Tallow as temporary Demidrek troubled him. Why couldn’t they simply have chosen someone and be done with it?

Later, during the meal, Silla whispered to him once more, ‘You’re not wearing your red?’

‘It was taken from me.’

‘Oh – I’m sorry.’

‘It matters not.’ He paused, considering, then asked, ‘What do you think of this Tallow as temporary high priest?’

She frowned, as serious as ever regarding temple business. ‘Well … it is good to have someone responsible in the interim. Things need to continue while the Council deliberates. And at least he’s younger and vital, more energetic. He has made quite an impression here with his decisiveness.’

‘Decisive. Well, I suppose he is that.’

Her gaze narrowed upon him. ‘You are not so sanguine?’

He could not tell her of the man’s words and actions in regard to himself, and so he merely shrugged. ‘It makes me uneasy … an outsider taking charge of the temple.’

She looked at her own bowl of thin broth. ‘He’s hardly taking charge, Tay. It’s a temporary posting only. And as to being an outsider – well, he’s the Invigilator. A trained investigator of the cult.’

He smiled thinly, for her benefit. ‘Of course.’

Chapter 7

Word came to Dancer via the tall and rather dour Napan, Tocaras, that Kellanved was ready. He still had trouble using the fellow’s new name, even though he was quite certain that Wu hadn’t been the lad’s real name to begin with, anyway, so it hardly mattered. He was almost ready himself. He wrapped the remainder of his equipment in leather, slipped it under a loose floorboard, then went up to the office.

The mage had a set of saddlebags over one shoulder, his walking stick planted before him. Dancer had armed himself with his best weapons and tools. His baldrics under his loose cloak hung heavy with sheathed blades. Rope and wire lay coiled about him, and he carried an emergency pouch of dried food and a goatskin of water.

Kellanved nodded. ‘Very good. Let us go, then.’

A new thought occurred to Dancer and he raised a hand for a pause. ‘One moment.’ The Dal Hon mage, in his constant glamour of a wrinkled old man, sighed and tapped the walking stick on the floor.

Dancer returned downstairs. The burly swordsman Choss, one of Surly’s lieutenants, sat at a table and Dancer asked, ‘Surly?’

‘Rear.’