“I don’t like that term applied to me,” Aloê said quietly.
“I don’t, Vocate. I apply it to his idea of you.”
Aloê thought she was right and yet not all right. Still, it was a trivial matter to waste the dying sun’s light on.
They arrived at the lockhouse to see Bleys. He was the last Guardian in the lockup; Lernaion, Naevros, and the thains had all sworn self-binding oaths to appear at Station; only Bleys had refused.
The thains at the lockhouse door were divided among the purple-legging crowd, the red-cap crowd, the green-armband crowd, and some thains who had not yet been branded by their masters.
“Guardians,” said Aloê, “do not hinder me or Noreê or any vocate going about her self-set tasks, and you may remain. If you challenge me, you will curse the day you chose to pledge yourself to the Graith.”
“That is agreeable with our orders, Vocate Aloê,” said one of the green armbanders, and the rest of the gray-caped chickens took up the chorus: orders-squawk-orders-squawk.
Aloê dismounted in their midst, waded through them, leading Raudhfax by the reins, and finally tied up her palfrey outside the lockhouse.
Noreê left her horse in custody of one of the unmarked thains—one of her own, no doubt—and strode through the crowd to follow Aloê inside.
“Some of the other vocates disliked the thought that I had sole mastery of the prisoners,” she explained, “so they recruited their own thains and sent them to assist.”
“You see what you’ve started. Will every vocate now have a personal army of thains to do her bidding?”
“Perhaps they should,” Noreê said good-humoredly. “This is only for the emergency, Aloê.”
“After this one there will be another.”
“Perhaps.” Noreê seemed determined not to fight with her, so Aloê gave up—for the moment.
The entrance to the basement was guarded by thains with an ill-assorted rainbow of badges. Aloê brushed them aside and descended, taking a coldlight from a pocket of her cloak as she descended the crumbling stairs to the basement.
A dizzying wave of stink swept over her. The sting of urine was in her eyes and nose, and it wasn’t the most alarming thread in the reek. . . .
She took the songbow from her shoulder and gripped it in her hand like a club. The hot smell of fresh blood rode the foul air.
The chaos of the basement made no sense to her eye at first. She had stumbled over a bundle of something at her feet before she realized it was a bundle of limbs—a Khnauront, lying on its side, its throat cut from ear to ear.
“Call your thains,” Aloê said over her shoulder.
“Oh, there’s no need for that, Vocate,” said Bleys’ warm voice from across the dim basement.
Aloê lifted the coldlight high to see better and caught sight of the summoner across the floor of the basement, strewn with dead Khnauronts. He was holding a bright piece of metal in one hand and with the other was pulling at the nose of a Khnauront to expose his bare neck. Two quick slashes and the Khnauront was spraying blood, dark in the bluish light. Bleys released him and he fell on his side.
The summoner stepped over to where the last Khnauront was sitting upright, his back against the far wall. He looked at Bleys and his bloody little piece of metal incuriously.
“Don’t!” shouted Aloê.
“With you in a moment, my dears,” called Bleys cheerily. He slashed the throat of the last Khnauront and let him fall. He dropped the piece of metal beside the dying body and then picked his way carefully across the carnage toward the thunderstruck vocates.
“You don’t need to thank me,” Bleys said, as he got nearer. “Although I don’t think it would be a good idea to take my hands.” He held them up: they gleamed with blood. “After a few days of probing their minds, I determined that these objects could be no use to themselves or anyone else, and decided to get rid of them . . . since the Graith, in its usual way, could not decide what to do with them.”
Aloê exhaled, then, more reluctantly, inhaled.
“I assure you, these things were not human—merely machines for turning food into shit, as the saying goes. What can I do for you, my dears?”
Aloê said, “I wanted to urge you to swear a self-binding oath so that you could be released from this hellhole.”
“I’m afraid I can’t, my dear,” said the smiling, blood-stained old man. “Before either of you were born, I had a counterspell against binding spells engraved on my collarbone. That prevents me from swearing a self-binding oath; you can ask Lernaion about it, if you like.”
“Ur. Well, maybe we can find more acceptable quarters for you.”
“These quarters are perfectly acceptable to me. I’m not particular about things. Perhaps you’re thinking about the nightmares from the decaying fungus, but really I don’t mind them. If you ever get to be my age, which I do not wholeheartedly recommend, you’ll understand how pleasant it is to have a vivid dream, even a nightmare, awake or asleep.”
“If some of the upper floors are intact, I’m sure you can have your nightmares and cleaner air to go with them. We must have you alive to testify, Bleys.”
“I’ll drink to that, as your husband might say, my dear. Yes, I can’t wait to testify. The sooner young Illion is done with healing the Witness Stone, the better I’ll like it. Shouldn’t you be helping him, Noreê, instead of playing chief jailor to an old man?”
“I intend to,” Noreê said quietly.
“Wonderful.”
“You could tell us something of what you have to say now,” Aloê observed.
“But would you believe it? Should you believe it? I would not recommend it, if I were some third person with your best interests at heart (as I am not, of course). No, you will have to wait. Because it’s very important that you believe what I have to say.” Bleys absentmindedly wiped his hands on his white mantle of office. “I wonder what’s for supper?” he said wistfully. “Could one of you ask about it for me on your way out?”
Bleys got his wish a pair of months later. They were very long months from Aloê’s point of view. Most of the vocates started recruiting personal forces of thains, and many had companies of them marching through the streets.
Aloê and Jordel watched them pass by one day from the second floor of his house.
“I suppose they all have to swing their feet at the same time,” Jordel said, “if they’re going to walk so close with everybody’s elbow up everybody else’s ass. But I tell you, Aloê. . . .”
“Tell me, J.”
“I think that they’re doing it to threaten people.”
“I think they’re doing it because they’re afraid.”
“I think that we’re saying the same thing.”
Fear was in the eyes of the thains marching, and fear was in the eyes of the Guarded, watching from the windows in their houses and towers, and fear was in the eyes of the vocates marching at the head of their companies on the long-awaited day of Station.
Since Lernaion, the Summoner of the City, had been charged with Impairment of the Guard, it fell to the vocates to summon themselves to Station. But when Illion gave word that the Witness Stone was healed, Noreê sent her thains as messengers to summon the members of the Graith. Whether they loved Noreê or hated her, the vocates obeyed. Many whispered to each other that she would be chosen as the new summoner, to fill the place left vacant by Earno’s murder.
On the chilly summer day of the Station, Aloê rose before dawn. She was staying with Jordel again because the empty ancientness of Tower Ambrose distressed her. They walked together, without a single thain-attendant, to the Chamber of the Graith. They met Illion, also walking without a thain, and Styrth Anvri, Sundra, Callion, and Keluaê Hendaij, who contented themselves with a single thain-attendant each.
But the streets adjoining the Dome were a solid mass of gray capes and clashing badges. Aloê was idly considering the possibility of making her way through the crowd on stilts when Jordel began to shout, in a shocking stentorian roar, “Make way for the Graith’s vengeancer! Make way!”