Fykall, clean my house.
Fykall left his room. If he slept first, he was afraid his determination would fail in the night. Perhaps Altis had found the kernel of pride in his heart that had grown as his duties had risen from the mundane. If Altis would have him sweep floors, he would find a broom and begin.
After a moment’s thought, he decided the most likely place to find such an instrument was near the kitchens, currently located on the other side of the temple. With his head meekly bowed to the will of his god, the priest took a torch off the wall and began traversing the long, dark corridors.
He took a shortcut through the sanctuary, where workmen had left off for the day. The marble tiles sat in neat piles, and Fykall, momentarily distracted from his mission, noticed with some satisfaction that work was progressing rapidly here.
The flickering torchlight caught a rough broom leaning against the far wall of the sanctuary near one of the doors. Fykall crossed the dark room and picked up the disreputable object doubtfully. The straw end was white and clogged with an accumulation of grout from the tile, and he beat it against the wall in an attempt to dislodge the powdery substance. Looking at the resultant mess in dismay, Fykall became aware of an unusual amount of noise in the hall bordering the sanctuary. Moved to secrecy by some primal instinct, he snuffed the torch on the floor where the tile was not yet laid. Broom in hand, he walked quietly to the doorway and looked down the long hall that was dimly lit by several torches in wall sconces.
From his position Fykall could see the entrance to the eating chamber where two men stood: members of the High Priest’s personal guards in their blue-belted grey robes. The guardsmen were well-trained mercenaries, paid from the High Priest’s own pocket because they were an affectation of the Priest rather than a necessity of his office.
Fykall frowned at their presence. He had heard of no official meeting that would require them here at this late hour.
Someone in the eating chamber grunted, then swore, and the little priest’s carefully plucked eyebrows lowered even further, partially with distaste and partially with puzzlement. The grunt sounded involuntary, as if someone had been hit in the stomach.
Clean my house.
Fykall waited for the guards to look up at the sound of the voice that rang through him. If they turned in his direction, they would see him, but they stared straight ahead. He took a firmer grip on his broom.
The sound of unhurried footsteps came from the far end of the hall, the same way Fykall would have come had he not impulsively taken a shorter way through the construction area. Somehow he was not surprised that the footsteps belonged to the High Priest. The older man’s hawklike visage was composed in peaceful pleasantness, one of the expressions he habitually used to impress the masses with his wisdom and faithfulness.
As Fykall watched the High Priest, something changed. For a moment he felt dizzy, and another picture superimposed itself over the High Priest’s features when he stopped to speak with the guard. Fykall blinked, and the vision gradually faded, but he retained the feeling of wrongness, of evil that shadowed the representative of Altis in Southwood.
Fykall, clean my house.
Though the voice had not lost its power, it had lost some of its urgency, and Fykall knew what his task was.
“Did you get her?” asked the High Priest.
One of the guards nodded. “She was alone as you said she would be, lord. She awaits you as you’d ordered.”
“Excellently well done. You may go, and take your men with you.” As he spoke, the High Priest walked past the guard and entered the eating chamber.
“Yes, lord,” the guard bowed briefly and summoned his men with a short whistle.
Fykall could have tripped the nearest man as they walked down the hall to the unfinished public access, but none of them noticed him in the sanctuary doorway. Altis, it seemed, had other battles for him to fight this night.
As soon as the guards turned the first corner, Fykall walked boldly into the hall.
Sham twisted and thrust, managing to land her bound feet into one man’s stomach with satisfying force before the men were able to attach her to the sturdy chair with their ropes. She wasn’t sure where she was, having awakened from the sleep spell slung over a hard shoulder and in the middle of an unfamiliar hall.
The bonds that she wore were made of something that swallowed magic. Struggle as she might, she could find no way of working around them. She took in a deep breath, her body shaking with the force of her fury. A sharp whistle from the hallway drew the guards away as the High Priest entered.
Lord Brath surveyed her with satisfaction. “Ah, an unbeliever, practitioner of evil.”
Sham glared at him, unable to make the reply she wished because of the gag she wore. The best she could manage was a muffled growl.
The High Priest walked back and forth rubbing his hands together lightly. “I had thought to do that, to have you burned as a dangerous heretic who has bewitched our Reeve, but I have decided not to make a martyr of you.”
He turned and faced her. Her eyes widened in horror at what he allowed her to see in his face. She had no doubt that the demon revealed its golem to her deliberately because as soon as it was certain she’d recognized its nature, it became merely the High Priest. She had been wrong, she thought, when she had decided the demon would not dare enter Altis’s temple. A creature who would kill Lord Brath was not afraid of Altis—somehow that wasn’t reassuring.
“Instead,” he said softly, “I have chosen a different fate for you. As the Reeve’s mistress, it will be much easier to accomplish my goals.”
“You will do nothing in the House of Altis, foul thing,” announced a voice from the doorway with a touch of melodrama—not that Sham was in the mood to be critical.
She craned her neck and saw Fykall. He wore his short hair neatly combed and the folds of his linen robes were set with uncommon precision. He carried a rather dusty and battered broom in one hand. The little priest looked calmly at his superior as if he walked in on bound women every other day, something that did not enhance her opinion of Lord Brath.
The golem that wore Brath’s semblance turned without haste, and frowned. “Fykall, you have overstepped yourself.”
There was nothing in his voice or face to indicate that Fykall had intruded on something secret.
“How so?” inquired Fykall mildly, sweeping the broom back and forth gently on the floor.
Sham noticed that chalky pieces of mortar were breaking off the straw broom and littering the ground.
“I will speak with you later,” said the High Priest, in obvious dismissal. “Now, I have business to conduct.”
The broom stilled.
“Kidnapping?” queried the little man softly, sounding almost dangerous.
Sham shook her head frantically, but Fykall was looking at the being he must assume was Lord Brath. She wished she could warn Fykall what it was that he faced. She had no wish to see her little broom-wielding defender die.
“She’s a heretic, Fykall,” explained the High Priest reasonably. “She has been working evil in the Castle. I have reason to suspect she has had a role in the recent killings.”
“Ah, but that is for a formal court to decide.” As he spoke, the smaller man walked farther into the room, positioning himself between Sham and the High Priest.
Somehow she failed to feel any safer.
“I am afraid she’s influenced everyone near the Reeve,” expounded the High Priest. “If she hadn’t tried her magics on me, I might never have noticed what she was doing. Can you imagine anyone telling the Leopard that his mistress is an evil sorceress? Or anyone going against the Reeve if he refuses to believe? Then she would be free to do her worst unhindered. It is necessary to be rid of her before she can do any more harm.”