The Grave thief

'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 and waited. From time to time a clerk would hurry through the door, stamping the snow off their boots, and head off to their office without even a glance at the soldier guarding very little in the dim hallway.

After the best part of an hour Dancer heard neat little footsteps patter down the corridor towards him. He remained at attention until he was sure the Chief Steward was alone. When at last Dancer did turn to face his employer he realised the man was even paler than usual, a rare sign of strain.

'You look ridiculous,' Lesarl grumbled.

Dancer bit back a comment about the way Lesarl's coat hung on his spindly frame. 'He's coming.'

'The High Cardinal can't stop it? What damn use is the man then?'

'It's out of his hands, as you well know,' Dancer said firmly. The Chief Steward's mood had been foul of late, but Dancer didn't have the luxury of time to coax him round from whatever bee was in his breeches. 'We need to find a way to stop it.'

Lesarl nodded. 'I spoke to Whisper earlier, but she had pressing business and couldn't wait for you.'

'Gods, I never expected this when Lord Bahl offered the man sanctuary. He was supposed to be a boon for the tribe! Have you come to a conclusion?'

The question prompted a scowl. Despite everything, Dancer had to keep himself from laughing; Lesarl, the hunched, glowering minister stalking the corridors of Cold Halls reminded Dancer of a play he'd seen some years back, portraying King Deliss Farlan, father of the first white-eye, Kasi Farlan, as a scheming tyrant degenerating into syphilis-induced madness. The actor had somehow managed to capture the essence of Lesarl in his portrayal, much to the amusement of most of the city.

'A conclusion of sorts,' Lesarl said eventually. 'Far from one I like however — it's a bad sign when even the theory leaves a bitter taste in one's mouth. How I will persuade Lord Isak I cannot even begin to imagine.'

'You can't kill him?'

'If we could manage that,' snapped Lesarl, 'there wouldn't be a problem in the first place!'

'But how do we deflect his attention?'

The clatter of something falling echoed down the corridor and Lesarl held up a hand to silence his companion. It was a full minute before he continued, 'I have received a letter from Duke Lomin. The man is keeping a careful distance from Lord Isak, as you might expect, but he's a loyal soldier all the same. He gave me advance warning of this. The only way we can deflect this is to offer the fanatics something they would prefer, and sooner or later, for fanatics, that comes down to a sacrifice of some sort.'

'I don't follow.'

Lesarl shook his head, lips pursed in anger. 'Bloated beasts of hatred and petty jealousy; a murderer for a sire and a fool for a shepherd,' he said, more to himself than Dancer.

The nobleman frowned, recognising the words but taking a moment to place them. When he did, the enormity of Lesarl's decision took his breath away. The words were a playwright's; spoken by the last great Litse lord, Yanao Tell, when he was told Deverk Grast had mustered the entire Menin tribe.

'How?' Dancer croaked.

'You must persuade Suzerain Torl to gather his Brethren and make a declaration.'

'Torl?' Dancer said. 'You want the Dark Monks involved?'

'Hardly.' Lesarl paced the stone-paved floor. 'But they are the only way. Tell Torl you are speaking with my authority. I cannot go myself- Lord Isak cannot be seen to be involved. The declaration must come from an independent group.'

Without waiting for a reply Lesarl turned back the way he'd come.

Dancer listening to the sound of his footsteps even after the man had turned the corner. Even when he could no longer hear Lesarl, Dancer found himself unwilling to leave his post. The chill in the air no longer mattered. It had paled in comparison to the emptiness in his stomach.

I'll just stand here a little longer. Just a few more minutes, and then I'll go and ask the finest man I know to commit suicide, just a little while longer.

Isak sat up suddenly, drawing in a deep breath, as if he'd suddenly come up from under water. He looked around, blinking in moment' ary surprise. It was a rare thing for him to be so absorbed in a book that his senses withdrew from the Land around him.