‘Of course he did not!’
‘Then he has nothing to fear, does he?’
Rabalyn walked away. In that moment Todhe broke away from his father and drew a knife from his belt.
‘No, son!’ yelled Raseev. The burly youth leapt at Rabalyn. Hearing the cry Rabalyn turned. Todhe’s knife flashed towards his face. Rabalyn swayed back. The blade missed him by inches. He hammered an overhand right to the side of Todhe’s jaw. The bigger youth, off balance, staggered.
Rabalyn ran in and kicked Todhe in the stomach. Todhe dropped the knife and fell to his knees. Without thinking Rabalyn swept up the blade and plunged it into Todhe’s neck. The blade thudded against bone then sliced through the youth’s jugular. Blood gushed over Rabalyn’s hand. Todhe gave a strangled cry and tried to stand. His knees gave way and he fell to his face on the ground. Raseev shouted: ‘No!’ and ran to his son’s side.
Rabalyn stood there, the knife in his hand dripping blood.
For a moment nothing was said. The crowd stood stunned into silence.
Then Raseev looked up. ‘Murder!’ he shouted. ‘You all saw it! This vile creature has murdered my son!’
Still no-one moved. But then two soldiers of the Watch pushed themselves through the crowd. Rabalyn dropped the knife and ran, vaulting the low wall round the burning cottage, and sprinting through the streets.
He had no idea where he was going. All he knew was that he had to escape. The punishment for murder was public strangulation, and there was no doubt in his mind that he would be found guilty at trial. Todhe had dropped the knife. He was unarmed when Rabalyn slew him.
Panicked now, the pain from his burns forgotten, the naked youth ran for his life.
Raseev Kalikan’s view of himself was complex and distorted. People saw him as honest and a loyal worker for the good of the town and its people.
Therefore, in his own mind, that was what he was. The fact that he misappropriated town funds for his own benefit, and awarded building contracts to those of his cronies who paid him bribes, did not alter his own view of himself. On those rare occasions when his conscience pricked him he would think: ‘But this is how the world works. If I didn’t do it someone else would.’ He used words like honour and principle, faith and patriotism. His voice was rich and deep and persuasive, and when he used those words in his public speeches he would often see tears in the eyes of the townsfolk, who loved him. It was most moving, and, caught up in the moment, he would become quite emotional himself. Raseev Kalikan truly believed only in what was good for Raseev Kalikan. He was his own god and his own ambition. In short, Raseev Kalikan was a politician.
His greatest talent was an innate feeling for which way the political wind was blowing.
When the King’s armies had suffered defeats, and the ruler had turned on his advisers, the day of the Arbiters had dawned. Until now the Arbiters had been a minor force in the political life of Tantria, raging against what they saw as the malign influence of foreigners living within Tantria’s borders. Now they were preeminent. All the ills that had befallen the new nation were laid at the door of foreigners from Dospilis or Naashan or Ventria. Even the few Drenai merchants in the capital were viewed with deep suspicion. The irony was that the new leader of the Arbiters was himself a foreigner: Shakusan Ironmask, the Captain of the Warhounds, the King’s mercenary bodyguard. Raseev had greeted the Arbiter emissaries to the town warmly, and made them welcome in his own home. He had embraced their cause and pictured himself rising through the ranks, and perhaps moving on to a greater role in the future in Mellicane.
When the Arbiters had spoken against the church Raseev had spotted an opportunity not only to advance himself politically, but also to wipe away his debts. The church owned much of the property in the town, and also lent money to aid local businesses. Raseev had taken out three large loans in the past four years, in order to promote and build his business interests. Two of his ventures — timber felling and mining — had failed miserably, leaving him facing large losses. The church men were doomed anyway, so why should he not turn their destruction to his financial benefit?
The problem was that he had not been able to stir up the people sufficiently to attack the church directly. Many of them recalled how the priests had helped them during the time of plague and drought. The attack on the old teacher by some of Raseev’s hired men had been viewed with distaste by many — though no-one had spoken out directly. And when that other priest had caused the Arbiter to stab himself some had even laughed at his misfortune.
But now there was a way forward.
People’s sympathies were with Raseev following the death of Todhe, and word had been spread that the killer had taken refuge in the church, and that the abbot had refused to hand him over to the authorities for trial. It was not true, but it was believed to be, and that was what counted.
Raseev stayed in his house that night, the body of his son laid out in a back room and dressed in his best clothes. He could hear his wife weeping and wailing over the stupid lout. How strange women are, he thought.
Todhe was useless in every way. He was dull, vicious and a constant trial to Raseev. At least in death he could achieve something.
Several of Raseev’s most trusted supporters were out now, stirring the crowds, calling for the church to be stormed and the killer taken.
Antol the Baker was a bitter, vengeful man, and he would lead the crowd. Others who worked closely with Raseev would have weapons hidden, which would be drawn as soon as they were in the church buildings. Once the killings began the mob would rage through the environs of the monastery. Those priests who were not slain would flee.
Then Raseev would locate the Order’s treasury and seize its assets. It would also be a good time to find and destroy their records.
He took a deep breath and began to work on a speech. The murders of the priests could not be overlooked, and he would be forced to speak out against the dangers of hatred, and to have the speech recorded and placed in the council records. Political winds had a habit of changing and, at some point in the future, Raseev could then point out that he had been against the violence.
Taking up a quill pen, he began to make notes. ‘The deaths of so many scar us all,’ he wrote. Then he paused. From the back room the sound of sobbing increased.
‘Will you stop that wailing!’ he shouted through the wall. ‘I am trying to work in here.’
For Skilgannon the night had been long and sleepless, his mind haunted by painful memories, and laden with the guilts of his life. He had led men into battle — and for this he felt little shame — but he had also taken part in the razing of towns, and the awful butchery that accompanied it. He had allowed himself to be swept along on a tide of hatred and vengeance, his sword dripping with the blood of innocence. Those memories would not go away.
When the Queen had addressed her troops before the last battle — the dreadful storming of Perapolis — she had ordered that no-one should be left alive, not one man, woman or child within the besieged city. ‘All are traitors,’ she said. ‘Let their fate be an example for all time.’
The troops had cheered. The civil war had been long and bloody and victory was at hand. Yet it was one thing to say the words, and quite another to be part of the slaughter. As a general Skilgannon had not needed to bloody his sword. And yet he had. He had run through the alleys of Perapolis, slashing and killing until his clothes and armour were drenched in blood.
The following day he had walked through the now silent streets. Corpses were everywhere. Thousands had been killed. He saw the bodies of children and babes, old women and young girls. His heart had been sickened beyond despair at the sight.
On the high tower wall Skilgannon stared up at the fading stars. If there was a supreme being — and this he doubted — then his sins would never be washed away. He was a damned soul, in a damned world.
‘Where were you when the children were being slaughtered?’ he asked, looking up into the vast blackness. ‘Where were your tears that day?’
Something glinted in the distance and he saw another fire in the town.
Some other poor soul was being tortured and killed. An empty anger swept through Skilgannon. Idly he touched the locket on the chain round his neck. Within it was all that was left of Dayan.
Three days they had shared after his return from the war. Her pregnancy had not yet begun to show, but there was more colour in her cheeks, and a silken sheen to her golden hair. Her eyes were bright and sparkling,
