Читать книгу Witchsign - Den Patrick, Den Patrick - Страница 14

It is easy to assume that the Emperor trusted his power to the Vigilants and the Synod alone, but all organisations are capable of corruption. To Hierarchs tempted to flee the Empire, I say steel yourselves. To Ordinaries turning a blind eye to those with witchsign, I say look to your duty. And to those who resort to assassination, I say abandon your schemes. To err is to invite the attention of the Okhrana, to err is to be hunted by the riders in black.

– From the field notes of Hierarch Khigir, Vigilant of the Imperial Synod.

The day let itself be known to Kjellrunn in glimpses and flashes, like sunlight reaching far into the depths of the ocean. Here the sound of a voice in the street outside, elsewhere a maddened dog barking in the distance. She was warm and heavy with darkness, wrapped in blankets and yesterday’s clothes. Her eyes were comfortably heavy-lidded and she’d no wish to rouse herself. Let Marek fetch the water from the well. Steiner could make his own breakfast. It wouldn’t hurt him to sweep the kitchen and stoke up the fire.

Steiner.

Something was wrong, something nameless and sour.

‘Steiner?’ she mumbled, but no answer came.

Kjellrunn rolled onto her side and forced herself to stand. She’d been disorientated before, blindly stumbling through mornings, but never anything like this.

‘Steiner, I think I’m ill.’ Still no answer.

Her thoughts were like dandelion seeds drifting on the wind.

‘Steiner?’

No need to dress, her rumpled clothes were testament to her collapsing into bed late last night. It must have been a long day. She became very still in the darkness of the loft.

The Invigilation.

To call it running would have been inaccurate, but her body did its best to obey her wishes, her feet slipping and catching on the staircase down. No need to search the smithy or the kitchen. She was out into the street and loping towards the bay with her heart beating fierce and insistent. The sun was well up past the horizon, up behind the blanket of frail grey cloud that hung over Cinderfell day in and day out.

How could I have slept in on a day like this?

She ran on, her senses becoming clearer, the cold air jagged in her lungs and throat. Her fingers burned with cold. She hadn’t even noticed the light rain until she almost slipped on the slick cobbles.

How could I have forgotten what happened yesterday?

Through the town and past cottages with plumes of grey smoke drifting from their grey stone chimneys, down the street with dark grey cobbles shining wetly in the rain. So much grey she could almost feel it, leaching the life out of her, leaching hope.

Steiner. He was all she could think of, and though her calves burned with pain she ran onward. Pinpricks of agony stabbed at her lungs, and still she ran.

Steiner. Kjellrunn knew he’d gone before she’d reached the pier. The dark red frigate was nowhere in sight, only a flat expanse of the Spøkelsea. Kristofine stood on the pier, a lonely watcher, head covered with a shawl. Gulls keened above them and the wind gusted into land, bringing showers like formless spirits trying to return home from the sea.

‘He’s gone,’ said Kjellrunn, unable to think clearly, tears tracking down her cheeks.

Kristofine turned and opened her mouth, closing it quickly to still her quivering lip, then answered with tears of her own.

‘Where is everyone?’ asked Kjellrunn. A deathly stillness had come to Cinderfell, and not a soul could be seen except for the woman beside her.

‘They’ve all retired home,’ replied Kristofine, her voice flat and tired. ‘They came to watch him leave.’ She paused a moment, a shadow of frown crossing her face, a fleeting sneer on her pretty lips. ‘They came to make sure he was taken. A few even watched the ship sail away, but they’ve all slunk home now like whipped dogs.’ She took Kjellrunn’s arm in hers and led her back to the town, beginning the incline up to the tavern.

Kjellrunn wanted to speak, but her mind remained blank and the words wouldn’t come. No sobs wracked her slight frame, but new tears appeared every few heartbeats, new tears that burned with cold as they dried on her face.

‘There are a few dozen old sots at the Smouldering Standard and half that at my father’s,’ said Kristofine. ‘Most people are home with their loved ones, I expect.’

‘Grateful their own weren’t taken,’ replied Kjellrunn, gazing ahead and holding tight to woman beside her.

‘Yes, I suppose they are. Nothing like this has happened in Cinderfell for decades.’ Kristofine sighed. ‘I see them take the children away every year, but somehow witchsign was always something that happened to other towns, other countries, other people.’

‘Like an accident,’ said Kjellrunn. ‘Like a cart that overturns and kills the driver.’

Kristofine stopped and looked into her eyes.

‘Are you unwell, Kjellrunn? You seem, I mean I know what’s happened to Steiner is awful, but you seem drowsy—’

‘Or drugged,’ said Kjellrunn, remembering the bitter tang of the hot milk that Marek had given her. ‘My father drugged my milk so I wouldn’t wake this morning and cause a fuss, wouldn’t tell them …’

‘Tell them what?’

Tell them not to take Steiner, tell them that’s it’s me with the witchsign, it’s me they should be taking to the island. This is all my fault and—

‘Tell them what, Kjell?’ Kristofine’s words silenced the deep ocean of guilt and the undertow of shame. Kjellrunn swallowed and stared into her eyes.

‘Tell them not to take Steiner, of course.’ For a second she wasn’t sure if Kristofine believed her. Kjellrunn dropped her gaze.

‘My own father drugged me so I wouldn’t wake. I didn’t even get to say goodbye.’ More tears tracked down her cheeks, though it made small difference in the rain. Kristofine pulled her close and woman and girl resumed their walk up the hill to Bjørner’s tavern.

‘I can’t come in with you,’ said Kjellrunn, remembering the flat, unfriendly stares she’d received yesterday and Håkon’s looming presence.

Kristofine inclined her head and circled the building, leading Kjellrunn through a side door. A small sitting room waited for them, shrouded in darkness. Kristofine lit an expensive-looking brass lantern.

‘Wait here, build up the fire if you like. I’ll make you some tea to warm you up. And I’ll bring a blanket. We should try and dry your clothes or you’ll catch a chill.’

Kjellrunn could only nod, too stunned to smile. No one had ever fussed over her so tenderly. Marek was a good father, but his was a functional mind, only affectionate when he remembered to make the effort.

‘Thank you,’ said Kjellrunn, an uncertain smile on her slender face.

‘I’ll be right back.’ Kristofine left the room and her footsteps sounded on the stairs in a series of creaks.

The sitting room had three armchairs, all draped with blankets and cosy with cushions. Kjellrunn wondered what it must be like to have another room besides the kitchen and a place to sleep. Another door led from the sitting room; the rumble of men’s voices could be heard through timber. She guessed the door must lead to the tavern itself.

‘Bad enough he was a half-wit that couldn’t read, but to have the taint too,’ said one voice.

‘He was no half-wit, and there’s no shame in not reading,’ replied another. ‘There’s plenty of us that get by without words.’

There were a few sullen grunts at this admission.

‘They say it runs in families,’ said Håkon; Kjellrunn would know his gruff tone anywhere. ‘We need to keep an eye on that girl.’

‘She passed the Invigilation,’ protested a woman’s voice. ‘Let her be. She’s just lost her brother.’

‘Mark my words,’ replied Håkon. ‘There’s something unseemly about her.’

‘You mean unearthly, you dimwit,’ said another voice, and the room filled with mocking laughter.

‘Kjellrunn, you’re white as a ghost.’ Kristofine had returned, a blanket slung over one arm. ‘What’s wrong?’

‘I shouldn’t be here. It’s not safe for me. I don’t know what I was thinking. Your father told me I wasn’t welcome here.’

‘I brought you here,’ said Kristofine, quiet yet defiant. ‘You’ve just lost your brother and you’re wet to the skin. Now come on, off with those clothes and get this blanket around your shoulders.’

Kjellrunn stared at the woman, just two years between them but worlds apart. She felt tears fill the corners of her eyes once more and stony grief weighed on her chest.

‘Come on now,’ whispered Kristofine. Kjellrunn shucked off the wet clothes and pulled the blanket around her quickly. Slipping into an armchair and pulling her knees up to her chest.

‘I was sorry to hear about your mother’s passing,’ said Kjellrunn.

‘Oh, that.’ Kristofine shook her head. ‘It was a year ago.’

‘I didn’t know you a year ago.’ Kjellrunn paused, watching the woman hang her clothes out by the fireplace. Kristofine knelt down and stoked the fire, adding a few logs.

Why are you being so nice to me? she wanted to ask.

Kristofine smiled and took a seat in the armchair opposite.

‘Strange you mention my mother. I was just thinking about Steiner, he told me that you never knew yours. He said he can barely remember her. That must be hard.’

Kjellrunn nodded but didn’t trust herself to speak. Hadn’t Verner said that she took after her mother? Hadn’t Marek said the arcane burned people up and hollowed them out? Her mother might well have passed on to Frejna’s realm.

‘Why are you being so nice to me?’ said Kjellrunn, so quietly the words were almost lost as the fire crackled and popped.

‘I suppose I know what it is to miss someone,’ replied Kristofine. ‘I didn’t always see eye to eye with my mother, but I’d give anything to have her back.’ She leaned forward in her chair, rested her elbows on her knees and laced her fingers together. ‘I imagine you feel like that right now about Steiner. And your mother too.’

The rumble of voices in the tavern fell quiet and Kjellrunn turned her head, ears straining for a snatch of sound or some clue.

‘Come here,’ said Kristofine, and led her to the wall where the timber’s grain formed a whorl, a knot of wood. Kristofine picked at the knot until something came free.

‘It’s a cork from a wine bottle,’ said Kjellrunn.

Kristofine nodded and held a finger to her lips, then gestured to Kjellrunn to peek through the hole in the wall. The view of the tavern was a good one, though Kjellrunn had to go up on her toes to see through the hole.

Bjørner stood behind the bar, one brawny hand resting on the polished surface. It was the only thing polished about the tavern; Steiner used to joke that Bjørner spent more time caring for the bar than he did himself. Håkon leaned against the wall nursing a pint and fixing an unfriendly stare across the room. Two men in black stood beside the door, cowing the room into silence. Kjellrunn pulled back and gestured that Kristofine look.

‘What will you drink?’ said Bjørner, his words too loud and too forced in the sullen quiet.

‘They’re Okhrana,’ whispered Kristofine, pulling back from the spy hole.

‘Imperial?’ replied Kjellrunn.

Kristofine nodded. ‘Has your father never told you of the Okhrana?’

Kjellrunn pressed her eye to the hole again. ‘My father never told us lots of things.’

The men in black had moved out of sight, but the sidelong looks of the townsfolk told Kjellrunn the Okhrana hadn’t left. She saw the furtive glances and faces lined with worry. Hands grasped at pints and even the most bellicose of the townsfolk became as field mice.

‘They are the Emperor’s watchmen, his bloody left hand,’ said Kristofine.

‘And the soldiers?’

‘The soldiers are his bloody right hand,’ replied Kristofine. ‘The mailed fist used to ensure obedience.’

‘And where does that leave the Synod and the Vigilants?’

‘They are the Emperor’s heart. The Emperor is one of them, after all.’

‘The Emperor is a Vigilant?’ Kjellrunn frowned.

‘Does your father tell you nothing?’

‘He tells me to brush my hair and wash dishes. He only scowls when we mention the Empire, and the meisters at school refuse to acknowledge anything east of the border.’

Kristofine peeked through the spy hole once more and then stoppered it with the cork.

‘We’ve never had Okhrana here before. In Cinderfell perhaps, but they usually stay at the Smouldering Standard. They never darken our door. Why are they here?’

‘Because of what happened at Helwick,’ said Kjellrunn, her eyes straying to the sitting room door, expecting the Okhrana to enter at any moment.

‘What happened at Helwick?’

‘I have to go,’ said Kjellrunn, and began pulling on her damp clothes.

Kristofine folded her arms and watched the girl dress from the corner of her eye, disapproval written clearly on her sullen pout.

‘What happened in Helwick?’ she repeated, and all trace of the kindly elder sister she’d pretended to be disappeared.

‘A Troika of Vigilants were killed. Or went missing. Something like that.’

‘A whole Troika?’

‘All three. A traveller told us just yesterday morning as he was leaving town.’ Kjellrunn hated lying but how else would she know if not for the fact she knew the killer?

‘So why don’t the Okhrana search Helwick? Why are they in Cinderfell? Why are they here?’

Kjellrunn pulled on her boots and shrugged, then looked away, unwilling to add to the tangle of deceit.

‘I have to go,’ was all she said.

‘Fine,’ replied Kristofine, ‘I need to get to work, my father will be wondering where I’ve fetched up.’

‘Thank you,’ said Kjellrunn awkwardly as she fumbled with the door handle. Kristofine didn’t move from the fireplace, watching her leave with an accusing gaze.

The sky was full of keening wind and cold rain as Kjellrunn trudged home, and remained so for many hours to come.