‘True.’ And for the greatest goal of all. For only to him, as Second, did Oru reveal the truth of his vision … the belief that somehow, in some manner, he would regain the honour of the Seguleh stolen from them so long ago. A mad, desperate hope. But one he could not oppose.
His gaze fell on Lo, face turned away as he raised his mask to drink. Perhaps he should allow the challenge. Any man who could defeat Blacksword … if he could better Lo then he could have the rank.
A gentle tap at the door broke into Jan’s thoughts. He nodded for Beru to answer. On his knees, one hand on the grip of his sword, Beru cracked open the door and spoke in low tones to whoever was without. After a short exchange he opened it.
It was an old man, an unmasked honoured Jistarii who had chosen the path of priest. The man shuffled in on his knees and bowed, touching his brow to the bare hardwood floor. ‘My lord. You are requested at the temple. There is … something for you to see.’
Jan inclined his mask fractionally. ‘Very well. I will attend.’ The priest bowed again. He shuffled backwards on his knees and stepped out of the low threshold without turning his back upon them. Jan took a sip of tea to cleanse his mouth.
Palla bowed in a request to speak.
‘Yes?’
‘May we accompany you?’
‘If you wish.’
The main temple of Cant was a large open-sided building of columns and arches. It was constructed entirely of white marble veined with black. Lit torches hissed in the evening wind, casting shadows among the eerily pallid white stone columns, floor and ceiling. The High Priest, Sengen, awaited them. He wore the plain tunic and trousers of rough cloth that were the customary clothing of the Seguleh. He was clean shaven, as most Seguleh males of the Jistarii tended to be, and his long grey hair was oiled and pulled back tightly in a braid. He bowed to Jan.
‘Sengen,’ Jan acknowledged, thereby granting him permission to speak.
‘Only the Second may accompany me,’ the old man commanded, stepping forward.
Palla and Lo stiffened, exchanged outraged glances. Jan raised a hand for patience. ‘That is your right here within the temple.’
Sengen bowed again, beckoning Jan forward.
He led him to the very rear. To the altarpiece: a single pillar of unearthly translucent white stone, waist-high, its top empty. Sengen regarded the pillar reverently, his hands crossed over his chest. Jan stared at him, puzzled by his odd behaviour. Then his gaze moved to the pillar, and he started forward, amazed. Beads of moisture ran down the white stone, and a thin vapour, as of a morning mist, drifted from it.
‘It sweats, Second,’ the High Priest breathed, awed. ‘The stone sweats.’
‘What does this mean?’
Eyes fixed on the pale stone, Sengen answered, ‘It means that what we have been awaiting all this time may come. Our purpose.’
Shaken, Jan stepped away. Yet the pillar was empty … was this right? How could this happen?
‘It is your duty to make ready,’ Sengen said sharply.
Jan nodded. Turning, he caught his reflection on a nearby polished shield. A pale white mask distinguished by a single blood-red smear across the brow. A mark put there by the last First, so long ago. ‘Yes,’ he answered, his voice thick. ‘I shall.’
His three friends waited on the steps of the temple. Coming to them Jan stood silent for some time while they shifted, uncomfortable, gazes averted. ‘Lo,’ he said at last. ‘I give you permission to seek out this Seventh. We may have need of him.’
‘Need?’ Lo echoed, glancing up in startlement, then quickly away.
‘You may take one other with you. Who would that be?’
Lo gestured. ‘Beru here, if he would.’
‘No. I would have him remain. Choose another.’
Lo bowed. ‘As you command.’
‘What is it?’ Palla asked, inclining her head. ‘You are … troubled.’
Jan regarded her. For a moment he allowed himself the pleasure of taking in her lithe limbs, her tall proud bearing, and wished she had not pursued the Path of the Challenge. But that was selfish of him; she deserved her rank. ‘Gather the Agatii, Sixth. We must make ready. The altarstone has awakened.’
The three glanced to the temple, their eyes behind their masks widening in awe. ‘We thought that just a legend,’ Palla breathed.
‘Before he passed, the First imparted to me a portion of what was handed down to him. It is no legend. Now go, Palla. Tell the first half of the Agatii to gather here.’
Palla jerked a swift bow and dashed down the steps. Jan turned to the Eighth. ‘A vessel will be placed at your disposal.’
Lo bowed and backed away down the stairs. Watching him go, Beru spoke, wonder in his voice. ‘And what can this lowly Thirtieth do to help?’
‘I would have you remain among the ranks, Beru. Listen to the talk in the dormitories. A difficult time may be coming. We will all be tested. Let us hope we are not judged … unworthy.’
‘I understand, Second.’ Jan did not answer, and, sensing that his friend wished to be alone now, Beru bowed and departed.
Jan stood for some time in the chill air of the evening. He looked out across the paved white stone Plaza of Gathering to the houses and the mountains of this, their adopted homeland. That adoption was itself no secret. They knew they’d come from elsewhere; all their old stories told of a great march, an exile, although none named their mythical place of origin. That was another truth the First had confirmed: their homeland was to the north. And he had named it.
Precious little more guidance had the ancient yielded, though. When pressed for more the old man had simply peered up at him from where he lay and shaken his head. ‘It is best you do not know these things,’ he had said. ‘It is best for all.’
Ignorance? How could ignorance be best? Jan’s instincts railed against such a claim. Yet he was raised and trained to obey, and so he had submitted. He was Second. It was his duty. Perhaps it was the old man’s tone that had convinced him. Those words had carried in them a crushing grief, a terrible weight of truth that Jan feared he might not be able to endure.
‘You smell that?’ Picker asked. She looked up from where she sat with her feet on a table in the nearly empty common room of K’rul’s bar, chair pushed back, cleaning her nails with a dagger.
Blend, chin in hand at the bar counter, cocked a brow to Duiker in his customary seat. ‘That a comment?’
Picker wrinkled her nose. ‘No — not you. Somethin’ even worse … Somethin’ I ain’t smelt since …’ The chair banged down and she cursed. ‘That hair-shirted puke is back in town!’
Blend straightened, peered around. ‘No …’ She lunged for the door. ‘Get the back!’
The door opened before Blend reached it. She tried to push it shut on a man with a shock of unkempt salt- and-pepper hair and a weather-darkened grizzled face, wearing a long ragged hair shirt. He managed to squeeze in as she slammed it shut. ‘Good to see you too, Blend,’ he commented, scowling.
Blend flinched away, covering her nose and mouth. ‘Spindle. What in Hood’s dead arse are you doing here?’
Picker ran in from the rear: ‘Back’s locked. There’s no way he can- Oh. Damn.’
A toothy smile from the man. ‘Just like old times.’ He ambled over to sit at Duiker’s table, nodded to the grey-bearded man. ‘Historian. Been a while.’
The old man’s mouth crooked up just a touch. ‘Nothing seems to keep you Bridgeburners down.’
‘Shit floats,’ Picker muttered from the bar on the far side of the room.
‘So how ’bout a drink then?’ Spindle called loudly. ‘’Less you’re just too damned busy with all your customers an’ all.’
‘We’re out,’ Blend said. ‘Have to try somewhere else. Don’t let us stop you.’
Spindle turned in his chair. ‘Out? What kind of bar has no alcohol?’
