The God Tattoo: Untold Tales from the Twilight Reign (24 page)

It didn’t take Forel long to slow and permit his brother to catch up. By that time a fair audience had appeared on the terrace. The grooms had been first to arrive of course, followed by
the maids we had passed on our descent. Then my wife and daughters appeared, Sana uninterested in the lack of spectacle and preferring to swing herself through the air between her anxious
sisters.

‘What are they doing?’ muttered Cebana in my ear, not taking her eyes off her beloved boys for a moment.

‘Forel thought he saw someone on the moor. Ah! If I’d stayed upstairs instead of letting him drag me down, I’d have seen where they went.’

She scanned the empty miles of open ground on either side. ‘But how could anyone hide out there? Even on a horse it would have taken them too long to get to cover. The nearest is directly
towards us.’

She was right and the idea set a prickle of trepidation down my spine. Forel was not prone to fancy for all the excitability of youth. If there had been someone there I could see only two
conclusions. Either the traveller had hidden somehow, though cover was low and horseback affords a good view, or they required no mortal means to disappear. Whatever the truth, I felt sure that
this incident would contribute to the air of ghostly visitation that enveloped Moorview and its occupants.

I was still a sceptic, but the queer mood had spread from the servants to myself. There was a chill in the air that bore no relation to our current season. I looked up to the sky and saw ugly
clouds forming. Rolling in over the heads of my sons were dark and threatening shapes, promising a storm to come and soon. I heard Cebana shoo everyone back to work, but I stood a long while and
watched Forel’s disconsolate return, shivering slightly at the change in the heavens as I remembered the burial still to come today.

The Storm Begins to Break

I remained out on the terrace until my sons returned, staring over their heads at the empty moor as they trotted glumly home. As the pair crossed the ha-ha, I noticed Dever
nudge his horse over to his brother’s and reach out to grasp Forel’s arm. Though the younger of the two hardly lifted his eyes, I knew that the gesture was the best consolation he could
get. Rarely were words required between them. Dever knew his brother’s moods better than his own. Forel’s breezy calm was sometimes eclipsed by fierce passion, and at such times any
failure was taken most gravely, however it came about.

They walked the horses past me and around the north wing, the sleek flanks of Toramin glistening slightly with sweat though it was Forel’s steed that had been through the greatest effort.
The stock pony – the excellently named Mihn for he was perfectly quiet and loyal – looked as fresh and willing as ever, his thicker coat hiding any evidence of exertion.

As for Forel, his eyes remained downcast as he passed, though I was sure his shame was unjustified. Dever nodded to me as they passed, having dropped slightly behind his brother, and I saw no
real concern on his face so I left the matter. If Dever felt the melancholy would pass soon enough, then I could busy myself with other matters.

The cloud over the moors continued to mass. It was clear that a storm was imminent. All I could hope for was that it held off until after the interment and the running repairs to the roof held.
The work had been rough and ready since we had no craftsmen employed here, but the castle had endured worse and I feared no storm.

Returning inside I made for the kitchens, a pang of hunger catching me unawares. It was such a short walk to the kitchen I decided waiting for a maid to answer the bell would be pointless. I
still found a childish delight in raiding my own kitchen and made my way down the dim panelled corridor towards it. I paused to take in the atmosphere of the house – the servants seemed to
have melted silently into the woodwork. Enclosed in silence I could not detect a single presence, as though I were alone in the entire castle. Only the occasional beat of a hammer somewhere high
above, a distant pulse running through the body of the house, reassured me that it was not so. At least one person remained hard at work repairing the roof in anticipation of the impending
assault.

I walked into the upper kitchen and stopped to take in the unfamiliar sight. A long pine table stretched out before me, bare and scrubbed clean, while a great fireplace crackled off to the right
and steps on the left led down to the stores. A kitchen is a grim place to be; weak light, a cacophony of smells that often are less than pleasant, grease and blackened fat caking pans and
implements. Hardly somewhere a gentleman spends any more time than he can help.

Quickly I realised that I didn’t know where anything was and in the dirty light I couldn’t see anything that looked appetising. A cat prowled in the far corner, silent and alert for
the slightest of noises. The high sloping windows afforded little luxury of detail, but with the fire crackling away angrily the shadows could not entirely swallow the dirty grey hunter. Cats in
these parts are only partly domesticated; it is best to call them encouraged.

Our rat-catcher paused as I watched, holding my breath for fear of disturbing its quest. The cat crouched slightly, dipping and cocking its head to one side as it waited for its prey to venture
out. The shoulders tensed, its entire body freezing into readiness. I felt my hands tighten, imagining the spring, the reaching claws and teeth puncturing like hot needles. Suddenly a burst of
noise from below ground startled the cat into life once more. I also jumped at the flurry of whispers from below and it was I the cat fixed with a contemptuous glance before disappearing behind
some casks.

I held a hand to my chest to feel the sudden pounding of my heart, but as I did so, words floated up to me from the stores below and I crept forward like a thief to discover what was being said.
As I neared the open stairway I saw faint lamp light spread over the rough stone. Moving around the stair I closed as far as I dared, for some reason suddenly obsessed with a hunt of my own.

‘I ’eard the suzerain say it, they saw a man on the moor.’

‘In daytime? It can’t be!’

‘There’s a storm comin’, s’all I know. My cousin said the ragged man brought a storm with him.’ A man’s voice now, clearly this was not just the idle, foolish
gossiping of the younger kitchen maids.

‘But Madam Haparl said he wouldn’t come, not with a Kingsguard here!’

‘I told you, the old bitch’s mad, she’s scared t’be here alone. We should leave, ’fore tonight.’

‘We can’t. I heard ’im say to the sheriff to turn out our relatives if we ran away again. What do we do?’

I guessed from the voices that they numbered only three, but it was clear that something had still been kept from me by the servants, whether fact or random fear.

‘Can we stay? Surely they can’t turn us all out?’

‘You ’eard the scion; bastard’ll do it. Asked their man Berin I did, ’e said the suzerain’s some man of the Narkang council an’ you know what they’re
about.’

‘So what do we do?’

I thought I could tell which voice belonged to whom now. There was a tall, surly faced house-servant who would fit the thick accent of the man’s voice; a sickly kitchen maid of no more
than fifteen winters was the one who had overheard everything, while a round-faced upstairs maid came to mind at the softer, less abrasive accent of the second girl.

‘What can we do, but keep our ’eads down and out the way.’

‘That’s all?’ gasped the upstairs maid.

‘All I know of. We can’t get out of ’ere, but when it got the mistr’ss, none of us saw nothin’. Reckon it’ll be after the suzerain and ’is family, but
we done nothin’. Jes keep to your room and don’t leave each other, understand?’

As the two girls murmured assent, I heard heavy footsteps in the corridor outside and the meaty tones of cook.

‘Abela, Nyan, where are the pair of you?’

I hurriedly rose, pulled my tunic straight and strode out with what I hoped was an imperious expression. As I reached the door, I met cook on the way in, fairly terrifying her when she saw me.
She was not a large woman, solidly built perhaps but with less fat than muscle on those arms. I managed to stalk past her without stopping while she stood with one hand to her mouth to stifle a cry
of alarm. Behind, I heard the skitter of footsteps up the stone steps, but the image of their faces was not enough to bring a smile to my face. That remained troubled as I went to the family room
and slumped down into one of the high armchairs.

It was time I put my brain to use in this matter, but where to start I just could not imagine. The fear that saturated the house, my mother’s death, the man on the moor, this ‘ragged
man’ – these were pieces in a puzzle I could not quite grasp. Glimpses flashed before my eyes but I had no way of knowing truth from rumour and superstition. My head began to ache at
the intangibility of the situation and so I resolved to find a way to remedy that. Much of my position in the City Council deals with the bureaucracy of city life. I am at my best when distilling
information from a pile of papers and thus my mind turned to the chaos of my mother’s room.

I stood with renewed purpose, my eyes meeting the portrait that hung above the fire as I did so. It was a powerful image – my father in his prime as youth met experience in his middle
years. He had died while I was still only young and this was as I remembered him, the steely gaze that I knew could soften into the same heartfelt laughter my brother had also possessed. The
artist, an odious weasel of a man but one of undoubted talent, had depicted father as local legend told after the battle of Moorview.

The sitting had been only three months before my father died in battle – at least, I prefer to think of it that way rather than the ridiculous little skirmish it was – and a full
fifteen since the battle of Moorview, but the strength had remained. He wore a weary but triumphant expression, a shining broadsword lowered to the ground as his foes lay slain. Father had laughed,
then scowled, when he saw the painting. He had declared it fitting for the Lord of Moorview and the pages of history, but willing to admit the truth. I can still remember the waver to his voice as
I sat on his knee and he told me a closer reality.

The shining sword that gleamed so perfectly had been presented to him well after the battle, after he’d returned from the Waste with the battered remains of the army. His weapon that day
had been a plain blade, the end of which was lost out there on the moor. It had broken during the desperate last defence where father had fought side-by-side with King Emin, the ferocious last
assault that had made a name for both him and all those few Kingsguard who survived.

By the end of the day his sword had been nicked and blunt, only fit for beating a man to death. Mud and gore covered father’s face – his helm also rusted out there somewhere –
and he claimed to have been so tired he hardly cared to ask how the day had been won. He did not witness the death of the Menin conqueror – none near enough to witness it survived Cetarn the
Saviour’s storm of magic, whatever anyone claims – but he was one of the heroic few to survive the fort. The old king and he saved each other’s life several times as the grief-mad
Menin heavy infantry fought to the death, and even now their legend is one of the greatest of the nation.

As I stood there, lost in my childhood, a maid scuttled up and nervously informed me that the priest had arrived. Since we had no butler, and the housekeeper no longer strode about her domain
watching all, the servants were in the unusual position of having to address us directly. I hardly minded myself, for our home in the city is an informal place, but the maids here had lived under
the savage tongue and traditional mind of my mother. This girl fairly trembled as she spoke, her words blurting out chaotically before she bobbed a curtsey and fled. With a sigh, I straightened my
jacket and went to meet the man.

‘Unmen, welcome to Moorview,’ I said as I entered the formal reception room.

The room was not in the best of states, faded rather than opulent, but that had not prevented the priest from perching delicately on the edge of a chair, as though trying to touch it as little
as possible.

As I entered the room, he was sitting with his hands folded neatly in his lap. It put me in mind of a child, left by its mother somewhere with instructions to behave and disturb nothing. As soon
as he saw me, the unmen leapt to his feet with a guilty expression though he had been doing nothing more than admire a painting from afar.

‘Thank you, my Lord Suzerain, I’m honoured to be asked, though I wish it could be under happier circumstances.’

I faltered somewhat, wondering what rumours had reached him until I saw he meant nothing more than the passing of my mother. ‘Did you see the countess often? I don’t believe you were
unmen here when I last visited.’

‘That’s correct, my Lord . . .’

‘Please,’ I interrupted, ‘I never became used to the title of scion and “My Lord Suzerain” sits even more uncomfortably. Minister Derenin is how I’m known in
the city, that’s the only title I’ve earned.’

The unmen bobbed his head rather awkwardly. I suspected he had been careful to memorise the protocol for addressing my family. As a country pastor he would have little experience of the ruling
class, but could hardly afford to offend a suzerain and I commended the respect he offered, even if I did not require it.

‘Thank you, Minister Derenin. I, um, I was only made unmen a few months after your last visit, but at the beginning I saw your mother quite frequently.’

‘I’m sure you did!’ I said with a smile. Loving my mother dearly as I did, I would be the first to admit that she would have found this timid and humble young man an
irresistible opportunity to bully someone. ‘But that changed, did it?’

‘Well, yes, it did. About six months ago, after her trip, she became withdrawn.’

‘Her trip? Where did she go?’

‘You did not hear?’ The unmen looked suddenly terrified that he might be guilty of gossip. ‘She ah, well she . . .’