The palace library was still and silent aside from the lazy crackle of the fire opposite. Isak sat facing the fire — and the door — at the huge partners' desk that stood in the very centre of the room: a nearly square block of red-tinged wood and gleaming brass fittings. The room was softly lit by a heavy-based lamp sitting in the middle of the desk, and by the brass oil lamps on the ends of the bookshelves which extended from three walls into the room.
Most of the palace must have turned in for the night, Isak guessed, though something must have started him out of his reverie. 'Probably Tila, slamming doors again,' he muttered. His eyes drifted longingly towards the massive padded armchairs flanking the fireplace. There was something irresistible about a comfortable chair beside the fire — but he'd be curled up like a cat and asleep before he'd turned a page.
He stretched and was about to return to his book when the door opened. Isak relaxed when he saw Mihn enter.
'The Chief Steward is looking for you, my Lord,' Mihn said, his voice indicating that Lesarl was right behind him.
'And the last place he expected to find me was the library, no doubt,' Isak said with a smile. His eyes narrowed. 'What's that on your neck?'
Mihn's hand flew to his neck, where a dark mark was visible over his collar. 'Nothing of importance, my Lord.'
'I don't believe you. Very little of what you do is unimportant.' He pointed at Mihn's neck. 'Show me.'
'Yes, do show us,' said Lesarl as he walked through the door.
'Lesarl, give us a moment, please.' The Chief Steward's eyes glittered at the command, but he bowed and retreated without a word. Isak was very protective of his unusual bodyguard; now that Lesarl had accepted Mihn would never be an agent of his, he avoided conflict on the subject.
'It is just another tattoo,' Mihn replied once Lesarl had shut the door behind him, a flicker of discomfort in his eyes.
'Like the ones on your hands?'
'Exactly, my Lord.'
'Tattoos of what exactly?' Isak urged.
'Leaf patterns, nothing more.' Mihn walked up to the desk and turned his head to look at the book Isak had been reading.
'Last Days of Darkness,' Isak said. 'Stories from the end of the Age of Darkness.'
'Your reading tastes have become somewhat morbid of late,' Mihn noted.
'You're the one who started me on that path,' Isak protested. 'You told me to accept everything about myself, including my dreams of death! If I am to accept something I must understand it better. I…' Isak hesitated. 'I'm not entirely sure what I'm looking for, but I need to know what the dreams mean.'
'Then I suggest you try Cardinal Jesher's collection of parables, most specifically the one entitled "The Moneylender". It is the story of a moneylender who dies, but is so obsessed by his trade that his spirit visits his debtors after he is dead, trying to collect what he was owed.'
Isak thought for a moment. 'Sounds like you've just ruined the story for me, but I'll give it a try, I suppose.'
Mihn smiled. 'Jesher was a theologian of great note in his time, and his parables are characterised by the depth of his insight. You will find his work instructive on the subject of death — you might also try a Menin play called The Stargas. The Menin style of declamation may amuse you, and the character of the Prophet Dirik is beautifully written, however inaccurate.'
'I think I've heard of that one. Doesn't he pray for death each morning?'
Mihn's eyebrows rose. 'I'm impressed, my Lord. Dirik prayed for death, for then he would be relieved of the burden of prophecy.'
The white-eye grinned. 'Don't be impressed; I just remember Tila saying I make her say a prayer for Dirik some mornings. I didn't
understand the reference so I made her explain it.' He slammed a palm down on the desktop. 'Damn you! I almost forgot what I'd kept you here for!'
'The Chief Steward is waiting,' Mihn reminded him.
Isak gave an exasperated grunt. 'Fine; you win. But tell me what the tattoos are about. You don't need to show me, just tell me. I'll trust what you say.'
Mihn didn't react immediately. His almond eyes thinned a shade and dropped momentarily to his palms. 'Very well, my Lord,' he began slowly. 'You expressed a concern over my safety, thus I have asked the witch to tattoo my arms with rowan and hazel leaves. Both types of wood are used to protect against a variety of supernatural influences. She used sap from the plants in the ink and placed charms of protection on each leaf. Her magic is not powerful, but I am not a man of power — I believe her subtlety will complement my own skills to keep me as safe as any man could hope to be.'
'Rowan and hazel, eh? Very well, thank you.' He looked down at the desk and after a moment flipped the book shut. 'That's enough reading for one evening, I think. Go and help Xeliath. She'll probably be on her way down to the training ground by now, even though there's bloody snow on the ground. I'll join you once I've finished with Lesarl.'
The Chief Steward's face bore a permanent frown these days and today was no exception, Isak saw. Tila told him how hard Lesarl was working these days, barely getting three hours of sleep on a good night, and spending large parts of his days riding from one part of the city to another.
Every other day the clerics would think up some new problem — refusing to acknowledge the authority of magistrates, or judges, or the Palace Guard — and only Lesarl's swift intervention had prevented anything worse than minor bloodshed on Tirah's streets. To make matters worse, Swordmaster Kerin had died of the injury he'd taken at the Temple of Law and the Ghosts were unwilling to back down from any confrontation. On top of that, he had fifteen lawsuits over the new religious decrees going through the courts, plus the aftermath of Isak's investiture, where he had brokered and signed more deals among the nobility than in the whole previous two years.
'You have news?' Isak asked, indicating they should sit by the fire.
Lesarl sank gratefully into the armchair's embrace. 'Unfor-tunately, I do.'
'That bad?'
'My Lord, I do not know how long we can continue in this way,' Lesarl admitted. 'We have bands of penitents attempting to restrict what little food that comes into the city, and violent clashes on a daily basis. I've needed troops to clear courtrooms and prevent the Morality Tribunals from trying civil and criminal cases…' He sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose, screwing his eyes up tight for a moment. 'Just today a priestess of Vasle set up her own independent court and she's passing sentences of drowning, while I have just had confirmation that a warehouse owned by the cult of Death is being used as a makeshift gaol for people who've publicly opposed their troops. I could go on-'
'Anything I can do?'
Lesarl shook his head. 'I don't want to give anyone the sat-isfaction of your personal intervention, and where there's fighting there's always the chance someone will try to assassinate you.' He sighed and reached his hands out towards the fire. 'If you die we have civil war, if you're injured we still need to conduct the purge we've been trying to avoid for weeks now.'
'So your news concerns something different?'
'Yes, my Lord. Your guest in Lomin has apparently become less than satisfied with incursions into the Great Forest. After the fall of Scree he started taking religious matters seriously.'
'Oh Gods,' Isak groaned. 'I think I can guess what's coming next.'
Lesarl's face was grim. 'The cults have invited him to Tirah; they're looking for a figurehead and my agent in Lomin tells me he is obsessed with the liberation of his people. His physical appetites have apparently waned since the high summer, presumably triggered by the fall of Scree, and instead he is starting to see himself as some sort of mystic, a spiritual leader as much as soldier. I hardly need tell you of all people what a terrible combination that makes.'
'Can we not stop him coming?'