Deadhouse Landing

It was the middle of the night when four of the Invigilator’s deputized special proctors came to his door to escort him to the courts. He offered them no resistance. They led him through empty, little-used tunnels and it soon became apparent that they were not taking him to the open general assembly hall, but to private chambers.

They sat him in a chair at the centre of an empty room lit by a few sullen candles and then withdrew. He assumed he was supposed to be nervous, his mind racing regarding what this was all about, growing more frantic as each moment passed, creating all sorts of fantastical scenarios of accusation and guilt. He waited instead with hands clasped and eyes shut, meditating.

After some time footsteps announced a visitor. He opened his eyes to see Tallow himself in the flickering gold candlelight and somehow he was not surprised in the least. The man wore a pained, saddened expression, and held his hands clasped behind his back.

‘Tayschrenn…’ The Invigilator sounded weary and regretful.

‘Yes?’ he interrupted, making an effort to appear especially attentive.

Tallow’s thick lips compressed tightly for a moment before he continued, ‘I want you to know that I personally do not wish to follow through with what has been ordered, but I am powerless before the will of the investigative council…’

‘And these are?’

The heavy-set priest blinked, frowning. ‘These are who?’

‘The council. Which priests and priestesses are these?’

Tallow shook his gleaming bullet-shaped head. ‘Tayschrenn … I am disappointed. Recriminations against the court will not help you now. It is too late for such games.’

‘Games?’ Tayschrenn repeated, one brow arched.

‘Indeed. During questionings troubling facts and accusations regarding you have arisen. These all require further investigation. It is my unhappy duty to see to this.’

‘Questioning … torture, you mean.’

‘Determined interrogation,’ Tallow corrected.

‘And these accusations are?’

Tallow raised a hand. ‘All in good time. More facts must be gathered. We must be thorough. Until then, please consider yourself under a sort of unofficial house arrest. More isolated quarters will be provided where you should reflect upon your past behaviour. Follow the proctors and please – do not cause any trouble.’

Tayschrenn understood that Tallow very much hoped he would cause trouble. Insubordination would make the man’s job so very much easier. He decided, then, not to make any protest at all – not that he’d planned to in any case.

Tallow motioned and the four proctors emerged from the gloom. They now held staves and one pointed aside, inviting Tayschrenn that way. He rose, saying to Tallow, ‘Until we meet in the temple courts for my hearing, then.’

A sideways humourless smile climbed the priest’s lips, and of all that had unfolded or been said that evening, that smile was the only thing that made Tayschrenn uneasy. ‘Until then.’

His new ‘quarters’ proved to be a cell close to the shore. So close in fact from the evidence of salt saints and damp that waves must splash in through its barred window during high tides. The proctors waved him in and closed the door, and he heard a lock being shut. This must be one of the very few lockable rooms in the entire temple complex.

He sat on the cold stone ledge, its blankets rotting and stiff with dried salt. The flimsy door and simple lock were no barrier to him, and the sea beckoned as the waves came surging against the rocks just beneath.

They expect me to run, he realized, almost in disbelief. They wanted him to run. This cell was designed to lure him into fleeing. So close; so simple. And that would make Tallow’s job so very easy, wouldn’t it. Admission of guilt to any and all false accusations.

Well, he would not make Tallow’s life easier.

He could outwait them, and endure anything they might invent. In his researches into the Warrens he’d stood before the vast emptiness of the Abyss itself, and faced entities that would blast the minds of any or all of these so-called masters.

There was nothing they could do to unnerve him.

No indeed. It would be they who would regret these actions. He would see to it.

And so he drew his sandalled feet up from the damp stone floor and crossed them, set his hands on his knees and settled into a course of deep meditation – to wait, to cleanse his mind – and to prepare.

*   *   *

A handful of the crew of the Tempest crouched together deep in the ship’s hold and talked murder.

‘Why sail onward?’ asked Hela. ‘He’s one man, and rich! Let’s toss him overboard and be on our way!’

‘West, he says,’ hissed Gudun. ‘Like it’s a stroll across the Deep. It’s all the cap’n could do to convince him to head up the coast. I say we get rid a’ him.’

‘The isle of the Seguleh is close,’ mused the mate, Wess. ‘We could maroon him there.’

All broke out in gales of laughter at that suggestion. A bottle made the rounds.

‘Then it’s decided?’ urged Hela. ‘We take him down?’

Young Renalt of March raised a slim dagger, growling, ‘Aye.’