“Did your song raise its voice when you first heard the sickness was here?”
Vaelin remembered the despair he felt at Sister Gilma’s likely fate but realised it hadn’t been coloured by the blood-song. “No. No it didn’t. Does this mean there is no danger?”
“Hardly. It means that, for whatever reason, this is where we are both supposed to be.”
“This is…” Vaelin fumbled for the right words. “Our destiny?”
Ahm Lin shrugged. “Who can say, brother? Of destiny I know little but to say I’ve seen so much of the random and unexpected in my life as to doubt there is such a thing. We make our own path, but with the song’s guidance. Your song is you, remember. You can sing it as well as hear it.”
“How?” Vaelin leaned forward, discomfited by the hunger for knowledge he knew coloured his voice. “How do I sing?”
Ahm Lin gestured at the workbench where his partly carved block still sat, untouched since his first visit. “You’ve already started. I suspect you’ve been singing a long time, brother. The song can make us reach for many different tools; the pen, the chisel… or the sword.”
Vaelin glanced down at his sword, resting within easy reach against the edge of the table. Is that what I’ve been doing all these years? Cutting my path through life? All the blood spilled and lives taken, just verses in a song?
“Why haven’t you finished it?” Ahm Lin enquired. “The sculpture?”
“If I pick up the hammer and chisel again I won’t put them down until it’s done. And our current circumstance requires my full attention.” He knew this to be only partly true. The roughly hewn features emerging from the block had begun to take on a disturbing familiarity, not yet recognisable but enough to make him conclude the finished version would be a face he knew. Perversely, the arrival of the Red Hand had been a welcome excuse for delaying the moment of final clarity.
“It’s not advisable to ignore one’s song, brother,” Ahm Lin cautioned him. “You recall the harm I did when I called to you the first time? Why do you think that was?”
“My song was silent.”
“That’s right. And why was it silent?”
The king’s fragile neck… The whore’s dangerous secrets… “It called on me to do something, something terrible. When I couldn’t do it my song fell silent. I thought it had deserted me.”
“Your song is your protection as well as your guide. Without it you are vulnerable to others who can do as we do, like the Volarian woman. Trust me brother, you wouldn’t wish to be vulnerable to her.”
Vaelin looked at the marble block, tracing the rough profile of the unformed face. “When the Red Falcon returns,” he said. “I’ll finish it then.”
Twenty days after the Red Falcon’s departure the sailors rioted, breaking out of their makeshift prisons in the warehouse district, killing their guards and making for the docks in a well planned assault. Caenis was quick to respond, ordering two companies of Wolfrunners to hold the docks and drafting in Count Marven’s men to seal off the surrounding streets. Cumbraelin archers were placed on the rooftops, cutting down dozens of sailors as their attack on the docks faltered in the face of disciplined resistance and they went reeling back into the city. Caenis ordered an immediate counter attack and the brief but bloody revolt was all but over by the time Vaelin got to the scene.
He found Caenis fighting a large Meldenean, the big man swinging a crudely fashioned club at the lithe brother as he danced around him, sword flicking out to leave cuts on his arms and face. “Give up!” he ordered, his blade slicing into the man’s forearm. “It’s over!”
The Meldenean gave a roar of pain fuelled rage and redoubled his efforts, his useless club meeting only air as Caenis continued his vicious dance. Vaelin unlimbered his bow, notched an arrow and sent it cleanly through the Meldenean’s neck from forty paces. One of his better feats of archery.
“Not a time for half-measures, brother,” he told Caenis, stepping over the Meldenean’s corpse and drawing his sword. Within the hour it was done, nearly two hundred sailors were dead and at least as many wounded. The Wolfrunners had lost fifteen men, among them the one time pickpocket known as Dipper, one of the original thirty chosen men from their days in the Martishe. They herded the sailors back into their warehouses and Vaelin had the surviving captains brought to the docks. Forty men or so, all with the blunt and weathered features common to sea captains. They were lined up on the quayside, kneeling before him, arms bound, most staring up with sullen fear or open defiance.
“Your actions were stupid and selfish,” Vaelin told them. “If you had reached your ships you would have carried plague to a hundred other ports. I have lost good men in this pathetic farce. I could execute you all, but I won’t.” He gestured at the harbour where the many ships of the city’s merchant fleet were at anchor. “They say a captain’s soul rests with his ship. You killed fifteen of my men. I require fifteen souls in recompense.”
It took a long time, with boat-loads of Realm Guard hauling at the oars as they towed the vessels out of the harbour and anchored them off-shore, spreading pitch on the decks and dousing the sails and rigging with lamp-oil. Dentos’s archers finished the job with volleys of fire arrows and by nightfall fifteen ships were burning, tall flames fountaining embers into the star-lit sky and lighting up the sea for miles around.
Vaelin surveyed the captains, taking dull satisfaction from the grief in their weathered faces, some with tears gleaming in their eyes. “Any repeat of this foolishness,” he said, “and I’ll have you and your crews lashed to the masts before I burn the rest of the fleet.”
In the morning Vaelin found Governor Aruan at the mansion gate. There was no sign of Sister Gilma and an icy claw of fear gripped his insides.
“Where is my sister?” he asked.
The Governor’s once fleshy face was sagging from worry and a too-sudden weight loss, although he showed no sign of the Red Hand. His gaze was guarded and his voice flat. “She succumbed yesterday evening, much more quickly than my daughter or her maid. I recall my mother saying that was how it was with the sickness, years ago. Some last for days, weeks even, others fade in a matter of hours. Your sister wouldn’t let me near my daughter, insisted on caring for her alone, my servants and I were forbidden from even venturing into that wing of the mansion. She said it was necessary, to stop the spread of the sickness. Last night I found her collapsed on the stairs, barely conscious. She forbade me from touching her, crawled back to my daughter’s room on her own…” He trailed off as Vaelin’s expression darkened.
“I spoke to her yesterday,” he said stupidly. He searched the governor’s face for some sign he was mistaken, finding only wary regret. His voice was thick as he voiced the redundant question, “She’s dead?”
The governor nodded. “The maid too. My daughter lingers though. We burned the bodies, as your sister instructed.”
Vaelin found himself gripping the wrought iron of the gate with white knuckled fists. Gilma… Bright eyed, laughing Gilma. Dead and lost to the fire in a matter of hours whilst I tarried with those idiot sailors.
“Were there any words?” he asked. “Did she leave any testament?”
“She faded very fast, my lord. She said to tell you to keep to her instructions, and you see will her again in the Beyond.”
Vaelin looked closely at the governor’s face. He’s lying. She said nothing. She just sickened and died. Nevertheless, he found himself grateful for the deceit. “Thank you, my lord. Do you require anything?”
“Some more salve for my daughter’s rash. Perhaps a few bottles of wine. It keeps the servants happy, and our stocks are running low.”
“I’ll see to it.” He unclasped his hands from the gate and turned to go.
“There was a great fire in the night,” the governor said. “Out to sea.”
“The sailors rioted, tried to escape. I burned some ships as punishment.”
He was expecting some kind of admonishment but the governor simply nodded. “A measured response. However, I advise you to compensate the Merchant’s Guild. With me confined here they are the only civil authority in the city, best not to antagonise them.”
Vaelin was more inclined to flog any merchant who made the mistake of raising his voice within earshot but, through the fog of his grief, saw the wisdom in the governor’s words. “I will.” For some reason he paused, feeling compelled to add something, some reward for the governor’s kindly lies. “We will not be here long, my lord. Maybe a few more months. There will be blood and fire when the Emperor’s army arrives, but win or lose, we will soon be gone and this city will be yours again.”
The governor’s expression was a mixture of bafflement and anger. “Then why, in the name of all the gods, did you come here?”
Vaelin gazed out at the city. The light of the morning sun played over the houses and empty streets below. Out to sea the ocean shimmered with gold, white topped waves swept towards the coast and the sky above was a cloudless blue… and Sister Gilma was dead, along with thousands of others and thousands more to come. “There is something I have to do,” he said, walking away.