yet.'
'Then tell me what you want to ask my sister.'
Doranei hesitated, He knew perfectly well that whilst they may have been allies of sorts in Scree, that meant nothing now. The Vukotic family were enemies of the Gods and nothing would ever change that, just as no amount of good works would bring them redemption.
'I wanted to ask about your brother.'
'Vorizh?' Koezh sounded genuinely surprised for a moment there. 'What do you want with him?'
'We've heard a rumour,' Doranei said hesitantly, 'of a journal belonging to him.'
Koezh took another sip of wine, all the while looking at Doranei through narrowed eyes. 'A journal? You remember my brother is quite mad, don't you?'
'We do. And that is why I've come to ask why someone might want to read it.'
Koezh pursed his lips. 'All sorts of fools – we are a somewhat notable family, after all.'
'Do you know of this journal?' Doranei suddenly felt the air grow cold around him, the shadows lengthen.
'No. But I will tell you this,' Koezh said softly, his dark eyes gleaming. 'Be careful when you pry into the past. The Great War saw horrors you cannot even comprehend. Some secrets are best forgotten.' He leaned forward. 'You have finished your beer – it is time you left.'
CHAPTER 23
'He's on his way.'
'What? Are you certain?' Certinse looked up, the papers piled on his desk immediately forgotten.
Senior Penitent Yeren nodded absentmindedly as he wandered over to the drinks cabinet, scratching the stubble on his cheek. 'Mebbe hasn't left yet, but he's accepted the invite.' He gave the fat brass door handle an experimental tug and smiled as the door opened.
I shouldn't have left the damn thing unlocked, Certinse thought, taking another sip of Fayl whisky and rolling it around his mouth. Yeren pulled out a decanter of wine and held it up to the light, wrinkling his nose at what he saw. The brute even knows what he's looking for.
Reaching further into the recesses of the deep wooden cabinet he found a rather smaller decanter. This time the pitch'black liquid received a nod of approval. Yeren plucked a glass from the top shelf.
'That's a goblet,' Certinse said. 'The blackwine glasses are on the far left.'
'Yep,' Yeren said, setting the decanter down so he could remove the stopper, 'but they're tiny.'
Certinse rounded the desk with rare speed and removed the goblet from his hand, replacing it with a far smaller one shaped like an opening tulip.
'I don't care. Blackwine isn't for quaffing, or whatever it is your sort do. It is to be savoured,' Certinse said firmly. To his surprise the mercenary didn't argue and filled the glass he'd been handed before raising it in toast.
'How did you find out?' Certinse pressed.
'My men are better couriers than any wet-behind-the-ears novice. Most clerical correspondence goes though us nowadays.'
'Haven't they noticed you're reading the messages?'
Yeren laughed. 'Your lot are bloody stupid, didn't you know that? They know nothing of secrecy. If they declare war on Lord Isak, the Chief Steward will have them for breakfast.'
'A good thing too,' Certinse pointed out, refilling his own glass, 'but before you make too many claims to competence, might I remind you that Ardela ended up not dead, but in the Chief Steward's custody? Lucky for you I managed to make a bargain with Lesarl to deal with her quickly.' He sighed and sat back on the edge of his desk, pondering the news Yeren had brought for a while. 'Every member of the Synod thinks he should be the leader of a glorious religious crusade,' he said eventually. 'I'm amazed they managed to agree in council that he should be invited – whatever his religious status, he's still from another tribe.'
'Well they did, and he is,' Yeren announced, unperturbed. 'You don't want him?'
'Use your brain, man; can you imagine what will happen?'
Yeren grinned. Certinse could smell the alcohol on his breath – not blackwine, but some sort of rough moonshine the soldiers brewed. Qods, he probably can't even taste the blackwine. He's just drinking it to annoy me – and to show he does know what the good stuff is.
'Would be quite a sight if you ask me,' Yeren said.
'And afterwards?'
The mercenary's face fell slightly. 'I see your point.'
'He is coming to Tirah.'
'Are you certain?'
'Of course, you damn fool.' Certinse's voice rose to a high whine. 'The Synod has approved it and invited him openly.'
'Can you not persuade the Synod to change its mind?' Prayer kept his voice to the barest whisper. He believed they were alone in the vaults beneath the Temple of Nartis, but voices carried far in the dim underground passages. Though the vaults were home to room after room of records and religious texts, there were few scholars willing to come here these days. While the newly raised High Cardinal Certinse had blunted the savagery of his pre-decessor's Morality Tribunals, it hadn't stopped half a dozen different sorts of purges being enacted. Some were cross-cult, most were simply unfathomable.
'They are suspicious of me as it is. The Morality Tribunals haven't turned out the way they intended and they're looking for someone to blame – and the tribunals were my success!' Certinse spat the last word as though it burned his mouth to say.
Prayer could imagine the look on the High Cardinal's face, though he was unable to see it because he'd positioned himself round a corner in an attempt to keep his identity secret. He had left the High Cardinal instructions for how to contact him in an emergency, never really believing it would come to that. Lesarl preferred his coterie to keep a pace back from events, listening and gathering information rather than actively behaving like spies.
'What are they saying about the deaths of Bern and the last High Cardinal?'
'They know Lesarl was behind Bern's death – Gods, even a child of five summers could work that one out – but they can't work out how to officially blame him yet. As for High Cardinal Echer, they're confused; the death of the Lady has thrown them. They don't know what to think there. They know Lesarl uses devotees, but Ardela has never been on the roster. Because she has always been a clerical bodyguard that means she's come from their own camp.'
'They have accepted your evidence?'
'Yes, and for that reason they don't want to hear any more of it. If Lesarl announces he has captured and executed her immediately they will breathe a sign of relief. None of them trust each other. Just don't let her surface where she'll be recognised, and keep her from coming after me. I've got enough problems without her pursuing a vendetta.'
'You cannot stop him?' Prayer said, getting back to the matter in hand. He heard the swish of robes against the stone wall and imagined Certinse shaking his head violently.
'Lesarl must find a way.'
'He must,' Prayer agreed. 'We don't want to have to rebuild Cornerstone Market again, do we?'
Dancer stamped his feet on the paved floor in a vain attempt to get some warmth back into them. He winced as the unyielding leather pushed down his toes, and once again tried to work out a better way to meet his employer clandestinely. Cold Halls had been aban-doned as a ducal palace, and failed as any other sort of private residence every time someone tried to make it their home. Though it was undoubtedly grand, Cold Halls lived up to its name. Dancer didn't know whether it was because of a quirk of architecture, an underground river or supernatural forces, but by the time Chief Steward Lesarl turned up he wouldn't be able to feel his own face.
Dressed in the uniform of a Palace Guard – courtesy of a guardsman only too happy to lend it out while he sat in a coffee-house with his feet up in front of a fire – Dancer lurked just inside the stable-side door of Cold Halls
