Palace and told the soldiers he was dying. We think he’ll announce his death. But he’s not dead! The priests took him to the prison there. With my lady. She’s with him there. If Iddor kills him, she’ll die with him. If the officers knew he was alive they might rescue them. But there’s no one I can speak to there?I hid all night, I came here by the hill paths? My lady said to go to the Waylord, tell the Waylord he is not dead.” Her voice was level, light, and even, but I realised that she was shaking, her whole body shivering, quivering, as she spoke.
“You’re cold,” I said. “You’ve been out all night. Come to the kitchen.”
And she came meekly with me.
When I said her name to Isra, Ista looked her over and said, “You’re Benem’s daughter. I was at your mother’s wedding. We were friends, your mother and I. You were always Lady Tirio’s favorite, when you were just a child, I remember that. Sit down, sit down, I’ll have something hot here in just a moment. Why, your clothes are all wet! Memer! Take the girl to my room and find her some dry clothes!”
While I did that, Gry ran back to give Ialba’s news to the Waylord and Orrec; and I rejoined them soon, leaving Ialba in good hands. I brought with me a basket of bread and cheese, for I was hungry and thought the others might be too. We sat and ate and talked?what did the news Ialba carried mean, what could we do? “We need to know what is going on!” the Waylord said in frustration, and Orrec said, “I’ll go and find out.”
“Don’t you show your nose in the streets,” Gry said fiercely. “Everybody knows you! I’ll go.”
“They know you, too,” he said.
“Nobody knows me,” I said. I swallowed a last mouthful of bread and cheese and stood up.
“Everybody in this city knows everybody else,” Orrec said, which was more or less true. But my being recognised as the half-blood boy or girl who did the shopping for Galvamand was no great danger, and to the Ald soldiers I was completely insignificant.
“Memer, you should be here,” the Waylord said.
If he had commanded me to stay I would have obeyed, but it was a protest rather than a command, or so I took it. “I will be careful, and I’ll be back in an hour,” I said. I had already changed into boy’s clothing, and now I let my hair down and tied it back and started out, leaving by the north courtyard. Gry followed me and gave me a hug. “Be careful, lion,” she murmured.
¦ 12 ¦
I looked in at the stables. Gudit was walking Branty round the court, scowling; he nodded to me. He had set out pitchforks and other tools ready to use as weapons. He would die defending the stable, the horses, Galvamand. As I crossed the forecourt, still shadowed by the house and the rise of the hills, my breath stuck in my throat, because I saw the old man with his bald head and his hunched back and his pitchfork facing a cavalry troop with lances and bare swords, and I saw him cut down, I saw him die. Like the heroes of old. Like the warriors of Sul.
Galva Street lay empty before and behind me as I crossed the North Canal Bridge. The city seemed very silent. Again my breath caught: was it a deathly silence, despite the sweet morning sunlight and the scent of flowering trees? Where were my people?
I turned and cut through the back ways past Gelbmand and over by Old Street, heading for the Harbor Market. I didn’t dare go towards Council Hill. I was nearly at the marketplace, and still spooked by the silence of the city, when I heard shouting, some way off, towards Council Way, and then the repeated summons of a shrill Ald trumpet. I ran back up West Street, out in the open, since there was no one about, until I got back to Gelb Street. Down it came a couple of Ald horsemen, just as Bomi had described them, riding at a canter, waving bared swords, shouting, “Clear the streets! Into your, houses!”
I ducked behind a broken shrine of Ennu, and they didn’t see me. They rode on, and soon I heard the hoofbeats and the distant shouts on the Downway, passing the Foothill Market. I touched the sill of the shrine and said the blessing and went on the byways between houses back up to Galvamand. I had hoped to join a crowd and be invisible and learn what was going on, but there were no crowds. Only soldiers. That was all I had learned, and it was heavy news.
Gry and Shetar were waiting for me at the front door of Galvamand. Four men had come to the back of the house, she said, all of them known to the Waylord, all of them members of Desac’s conspiracy. They had been posted, yesterday, on the East Canal with a force that was to attack the Alds in the Council House courtyard when the great tent was set afire; but not all of them had got there when the fire started, earlier than planned. The Ald soldiers had been very quick to gather and defend themselves, and soon took the offensive. The rebel force was broken apart and men were cut down as they tried to escape. They had scattered out over the city. These four spent the night first hiding in the ruins of the university, then making guerrilla attacks on Ald troops. They made their way to Galvamand because the word was all over the city that whoever wanted to fight for Ansul should go there, to the Waylord’s house, the House of the Oracle.
“For refuge? Or to make a stand?” I asked Gry
“I don’t know. They don’t know,” she said. “Look.” A troop of seven or eight men came running round the corner from West Street towards us. They were citizens, not Alds. One of them had a bandaged arm and they all looked fairly desperate. I went out on the steps and faced them. “Are you coming here?” I called.
“The Alds are coming here,” the one in the lead answered. He stopped at the Sill Stone and touched it. “Blessing on the souls of the household, living and having lived. The soldiers at the Council House-they’ll be here soon. So we’re told. Tell the Waylord to lock his doors!”
“I doubt he will,” I said. “Will you help us guard them?”
“That’s what we’re here for,” he said. The others were coming up and touching the Sill Stone. One of them said, “There’s the lion, look.”
“Will you come in?” I said.
“No, we’ll stay here and wait for them, I think,” the leader said. He was a dark-faced fellow; he had lost his hair tie, and his mane of long black hair made him look wild, but he spoke quietly. “There’ll be others coming. Ifyou had any water, though… ” He looked wistfully at the dry basin of the broken fountain.
“Go around to the side, there, to the stable,” I said. “There’s running water. Ask Gudit to let you in.”
“I know Gudit,” one of the men said. “He’s my dad’s friend. Come on.” They trotted on round to the stable. Already another, larger group was coming along the street from the other direction, from the Downway, twenty men or more, some of them armed with edge-tools, one brandishing an Ald saber. We made them welcome, and they too were thirsty, after what one of them called a hot night’s work, so we sent them around to get a drink at the stables.
At least Gudit wouldn’t be standing there alone with his pitchfork, as I had imagined him.
I ran in to tell the Waylord I was back safe and report to him that the city seemed empty, but that the forecourt of Galvamand was now getting rather crowded, and the rumor was that Ald soldiers were coming here.
This was confirmed by all the people who came. They kept arriving, a few at a time, members of Desacs conspiracy, or men and boys who had joined them after the aborted coup at the Council Square. They all said Desac and the Gand had both died in the fire. Some said hundreds of soldiers had been killed in the square, others said the dead were almost all citizens and the Alds were as strong as ever.
As the morning went on, there were more and more women among the people who came to Galvamand, walking in groups, some with a distaff in hand, a few with a baby in a sling. One group of five old women came, all carrying stout sticks and looking about grimly. Four stooped to touch the Sill Stone; the fifth, who was crippled with arthritis and couldn’t stoop, just swept her stick across it with a short and testy blessing that sounded more like a swearword.
I stood in the doorway of the house, at the top of the steps, thinking it was like a market fair, or a recitation, or a festival?a sacred ceremony of the old days, such as I had never seen?the people of the city gathering, talking, chatting, idling, waiting, excited yet patient…. But they would have worn finer clothes to a festival. They would have brought flowering branches to a festival, not swords, knives, daggers, pruning hooks, sticks.
Two men with crossbows had posted themselves one on each side of the door.
There was a great noise, southward down Galva Street, in the direction of the Council House: trumpets and
