The Shewstone Page 24

  “I like a challenge.”

  “Do you think you can do it?”

  “Just watch me.”

  *

  The library was the true glory of Cyningesburg. Only the temple had not been abandoned over the two centuries following the fall of the empire. The priests had preserved the books, and Eawynn could happily have spent the rest of her life immersed in them. Back in Fortaine, the priestesses had boasted of the hundred and forty-five books they owned. The shelves around Eawynn held thousands—histories, fables, works of religious and natural philosophy, and poetry:

  Birds are happy in the trees,

  Fish swim content in water,

  Yet I am going mad,

  I walk the earth, bound in sorrow,

  For sake of the best of mortal blood,

  Eawynn closed the book and returned it to the shelf. She had allowed herself half a month, fourteen days, to decide what she was going to do. Her time was up. What she decided might not be so important, if Matt did not manage to save the Shewstone in the next few days, but Eawynn did not want things to slip by default. She had to work out where she stood.

  In her priestly robes, Eawynn was free to wander as she wished. Nobody would question or hinder her. She ended up on a terrace, overlooking the river valley below. Three thousand years before, her ancestors, the Rihtcynn horse tribes of the plains, had learned to exploit the bounty brought by the annual floods. On the banks of the Sidea, villages had sprung up and then towns, culminating in Cyningesburg, the first, the mightiest, and the most beautiful city the world had seen.

  Much of what was written in the history books was slanted to tell the story the author wanted to be true. Digging through the bias to the truth could require cross-checking and a healthy dollop of scepticism. Yet, no matter how much of the self-glorification one dismissed, there was still no denying that civilisation had started here. Farming, irrigation, wheels, money, writing, and metal craft were all Rihtcynn inventions, along with swords and armies. Small wonder when the Rihtcynn rulers turned their attention to the outside world they met so little resistance. Stone knives were no match for Rihtcynn iron and steel.

  Yet the conquered nations had benefited. The primitive peoples had been living hand to mouth, knowing nothing other than grinding poverty. Some dwelt in caves. Famine had been routine. Not one child in four lived to see its tenth birthday, and an old man or woman was a rare sight. Before it was conquered, the entire population of Pinettale numbered about a hundred and fifty thousand. As part of the empire, it grew into millions.

  In some places, the Rihtcynn armies had even been welcomed, as defence against the marauders who plundered what little there was to take. Eawynn doubted the yellow haired people of the far north had ever eaten babies, as was claimed, but they had practised human sacrifice on a large scale until it was banned by the empire.

  Impartial Rihtcynn law struck down the cruel restrictions found in many cultures, where taking a lover of the same sex was treated as a crime punishable by death—as had been the case on Pinettale before it became part of the empire. For the Rihtcynn, the choice of lover concerned no one but the parties involved.

  Women had benefited beyond reckoning. The majority of the Rihtcynn army was male, but not all, certainly in the higher ranks, where a noble name guaranteed a command position. Most money and power might end up in men’s hands, but sons and daughters inherited equally under Rihtcynn law. A woman could be a clan elder, own her own property, run her own life. In most cultures the Rihtcynn overturned, women had been possessions, controlled by their male relatives. In fact, depending on how you defined it, the proportion of slaves had gone down not up under Rihtcynn rule.

  Maybe the ordinary people had not chosen the Rihtcynn overlords, but neither had they been given a say about the petty chieftains who preceded them—warrior elites who did nothing apart from fight among themselves and raid each other’s land. Under the Rihtcynn, farmers could plant their fields with the certainty of a harvest. They would not see their homes and crops burned when a war band swept by. Eawynn was sure folk cared more about peace and prosperity than the colour of their rulers’ hair. Of course they complained; people always complain about those in charge. You could give every single man and woman a vote in who was to be ruler, and they would still complain.

  Even the fall of the empire was not as clear-cut as painted. In Pinettale, the Rihtcynn commander had led the break away from the empire. In Ferridia to the west, it was the Rihtcynn legions who had started the revolt, angry when their wages were cut. The people of Nabithe even sent an envoy to Cyningesburg, asking for more soldiers to be sent when raiders took advantage of the empire’s retreat.

  But that was not the full story.

  Eawynn left the citadel, ambling down the wide avenue running from the central Plaza of the Emperors and out though the Lion Gates. The road carried on, gently sloping down. From where she stood, Eawynn had a clear view across the remains of the lower town. The sinking sun painted the sandstone with fire. Wind from the plains carried dust and grass seeds and snapped at the robe around her legs.

  Hundreds, maybe thousands, of slaves were at work, manhandling the ancient stone, under the eyes and whips of overseers. Shouts rang out from all directions. The half dressed bodies were covered in dirt and sweat. Hair varied from blond to brown to black, but not a single redhead. Cyningesburg was being rebuilt as it had been built before, by unfree hands.

  The scream made Eawynn jump. She followed the general drift toward the source. A naked slave was bound to a tall wooden post. Eawynn joined the crowd as the whip landed for the second time and the slave screamed again. Eawynn’s stomach contracted painfully, her guts hardened like ice. She would have turned away, but she forced herself to stay and watch as a man’s back was turned to bloody pulp. The whip bit so deep it cut to the bone. This is also the heritage of the empire. At last the screams became weaker and then stopped. The slave hung unconscious from the post. The audience wandered away. That could have been Matt. Eawynn was shaking.

  Even in Fortaine, that could have been Matt. The priestesses did not go to witness the twice monthly entertainment, held outside the Courts of Justice. It would not have been seemly, joining in with the riotous mob who turned up every time to watch the flogging, branding, and hanging of criminals. By all accounts, the scene was every bit as barbaric as the one Eawynn had just witnessed. Yet, as she was sure Matt herself would agree, it was one thing to flog thieves for their crimes, and quite another to flog a man for the colour of his hair. What else had the slave truly been guilty of?

  Eawynn retraced her steps back to the Plaza of the Emperors. The Rihtcynn had given so much to the world. What did they have left to give? Once, they had been the most advanced race in the world. Now everyone else had caught up. Did it matter if this was mainly due to the lessons they had learned from the empire? The Rihtcynn army was no longer the only one with steel swords. The new wars would not be the one-sided affairs of centuries past. They would be long, drawn-out, and bloody, and despite what everyone in Cyningesburg assumed, victory was not assured for either side.

  Suppose the Rihtcynn won, and the empire was reborn? The Rihtcynn of old had looked down on the conquered nations. They had scorned the Thraelas, but had not hated them. They held no score to settle; they nursed no grudge. This time would be different. The Rihtcynn of Cyningesburg had rewritten the story of the empire’s collapse as one of barbarity and treason. It had become a tale of savages, wantonly destroying a wonder, beyond their bestial ability to understand. The new empire would have nothing to teach, nothing to add, nothing to admire. It would be cruel and regressive, and she wanted no part in it.

  Eawynn gave a sad half smile. What chance her decision would have gone any other way? But she would so miss the library.

  The light was fading. Matt would soon be released from her work in the lower town. Eawynn returned to the apartment. On the way, she stopped by the kitchens and asked for food to be sent to her rooms. No need for
Matt to do all the fetching and carrying.

  Bread and stew arrived shortly, brought by kitchen slaves. Eawynn waited for Matt to return, but when time passed with no sign, she ate alone, before the food cooled. As the room darkened, she lit a candle. Now Eawynn was starting to worry. The image of the slave’s bloody back kept picking at her thoughts, but at last the door opened. No need to wonder who. She had not heard footsteps on the stair.

  “Sorry I’m late.”

  “Where’ve you been?”

  “I had to pick something up and wanted a cover of darkness.” Matt swung a pack off her shoulder and dumped it on the table. It landed with a solid thud.

  “What is it?”

  Matt pealed back the cloth to reveal a stone sphere. For the barest astonished instant, Eawynn thought Matt had already stolen the Shewstone. Then she looked again. The size was close enough, but the colour was off, and it did not glimmer in the candlelight.

  “What? Why have you…”

  Matt grinned. “It’s a ball of marble. It’s taken a lot of finding. There’s been no end of sandstone ones, but they aren’t smooth enough. I finally found this in the lower town this morning. I carted it up in a barrow of bricks and hid it so I could collect it on the way home.”

  “Why?”

  “It’s going to be a fake Shewstone, with a dab of paint and some sparkly bits. I’ll need your help to get the colour right, and things. You’ve spent more time looking at the real one. I only had a quick peek.”

  “You won’t fool anyone.”

  “I think I will, for just long enough. We need to swap it the evening before the ceremony. The less time we give people to study it, the better.”

  “You might get away with it in the crypt, but in daylight, it’s going to be obvious.”

  “For one, how many people have ever seen the Shewstone in daylight to make the comparison? For two, the ceremony is at dawn, so it won’t be much brighter than the crypt. And for three, even if they spot the swap they aren’t going to say anything. Smashing a fake Shewstone will be just as good as smashing the real one. With everyone in Cyningesburg assembled, it’ll be too embarrassing to stop the show and admit someone’s stolen it.”

  Eawynn frowned, trying to find fault with the logic.

  “The tricky bit comes afterward. We have to assume the fake gets spotted when they tidy up. They won’t be able to launch a major hunt, because then they’d have to admit it wasn’t the real stone used in the ceremony, but we still need a hiding place, where we can leave the Shewstone for as long as we need, until Ceolwulf, Oswald, and their henchmen have stopped looking.”

  “How do we make the swap?”

  “That’ll be easy.”

  “And you’re going to need good paints.”

  “Believe it or not, I know the very person to ask.”

  Chapter Ten

  Who takes a second look at a slave carrying a bucket of water and a scrubbing brush? Matt might have been invisible for all the notice she got from the two soldiers guarding the Shewstone. No one even asked to see the written note Eawynn had given her, although it was possible neither soldier could read. Matt put down her bucket to the right of the entrance. The crypt was exactly as Eawynn described. Matt knelt, dunked the brush in the water, and started scrubbing.

  Eawynn had pulled her personal slave off stone hauling duties an hour earlier than normal. The overseer had not been happy, but was not about to argue with a priestess. Tomorrow, when the Shewstone ritual was over, Matt would try to avoid running into the same overseer again, just in case he wanted to take revenge for being out-bossed. She had already acquired a selection of cuts and bruises that could be put down to nothing more than petty malice.

  Matt was tired from working in the lower city, but scrubbing the floor was oddly relaxing. Each tile was six inches square, decorated with a blue and white glazed design. Matt started counting them off as she worked her way along, mentally dividing the floor into rectangles.

  She had turned the first corner when Eawynn arrived, dressed in priestly robes. This time the soldiers reacted. They stood up straighter and trained their eyes rigidly on the far wall. Matt kept her head down and carried on scrubbing.

  Eawynn stopped in the centre of the four pillars and knelt. She launched into a droning chant. The words rose and fell like waves. Without understanding what was said, Matt could tell it was repetitious and very boring. The names of Anbeorht and Liffrea came up frequently. After a quarter hour, the soldiers’ pose had reverted to the previous half slouch, and Matt had reached the rear wall. She was now behind the soldiers.

  Matt worked her way over the tiles, row by row. She was within two feet of the altar when Eawynn stood. Still chanting, she took a half step to the left while bending her body to the right. Then she gave a quick double kick, a wave of the arms, and a swirl. Eawynn’s whole body swayed in a slow, ungainly, and utterly ludicrous dance, in time with her chant. Her arms were held out horizontally. Her fingers and face pointed to the ceiling.

  One soldier cleared his throat in a partly successful attempt to smother his laughter. Matt was hard put not to do likewise. For a moment, it seemed as if both soldiers might break down in a giggling fit, but their training held firm. Eawynn did not miss a beat. Her face showed no emotion except for religious rapture. She had been wasted in the temple. She was a natural and she had the soldiers’ total attention. Standing sentry was notoriously boring. Eawynn’s dance must have been easily the most entertaining thing they had witnessed in hours.

  “Geblotsest us, Anbeorht. Geblotsest us.” Eawynn trotted in a circle, hopping and kicking her feet left and right on each alternate step. She had lifted her robes, so the ankle twist was on full view. The soldiers were mesmerised.

  Matt reached the base of the altar. Eawynn’s dance became more vigorous. She spun in her most flamboyant twirl so far and her foot caught a candelabra, sending it bouncing off the pillar behind. Eawynn landed on the floor with a squeak. The clattering of the candelabra reverberated around the crypt. Loose candles rolled across the floor, still burning.

  For an instant, everyone froze. Then one soldier sprang forward to help, while the other was again locked in a battle with stifled giggles.

  Matt seized the moment. She scooped the fake Shewstone from the bucket, and dried it on the rag she had stuffed inside her shirt. The surface was still damp but no longer dripping. Another second and she had swapped it with the orb on the altar and hidden the real Shewstone beneath the grey, scummy water in the bucket.

  Possibly the soldier heard a faint splash. He glanced back and caught Matt kneeling upright and looking at Eawynn, which was quite all right. It would have been suspicious if a slave had not stopped to watch.

  “Aetfeolan thin weorc, wealh.”

  Which Matt was fairly sure meant, Carry on with your work, with an insult tacked on. She obeyed.

  “Hwa alimpende?” A shout echoed down the stairs. The sound of the falling candelabra had obviously been heard by the sentries outside.

  “Na uneadnessa,” Eawynn shouted back. Her words were repeated by both soldiers.

  Eawynn was now back on her feet, looking convincingly shamefaced. The smell of singed cloth and candle wax drifted around the crypt. Between Eawynn and the soldier, they got the fallen candelabra back in place and relit. The soldier then returned to his spot, Eawynn continued her chanting from a safe kneeling position, and Matt was past the altar with the Shewstone in her bucket.

  Matt was lost in admiration. Create a distraction, had been her request. The show exceeded anything she had expected.

  Eawynn continued chanting until Matt was halfway up the side of the crypt, then she rose, bowed to the altar, and went. The soldiers remained static until all sounds of her footsteps faded. First one and then the other started shaking with laughter. The nearer one lifted his foot to the side and wiggled it, in a tame imitation of Eawynn’s dance. Maybe that night, with their comrades around the campfire, they might be less inhibited and would stage a
re-enactment with the vigour it deserved.

  After another quarter hour, the floor was finished. Scraping up spilt wax added a little to the job, but was more than worth it. The soldiers even stepped aside so Matt could scrub the bits under their feet. She picked up her bucket and left the crypt, attracting no more notice than on her arrival.

  Soldiers could be every bit as easy as locks.

  Dusk had fallen over Cyningesburg. A slave wandering around after nightfall was liable to attract attention. Matt wanted to be quick. She had the note from Eawynn, but would rather not rely on it. An overzealous soldier might decide to search her regardless. In fact, as Matt had discovered, some would do it for fun, the chance to humiliate a person of a lesser race. She grimaced at the memory. Lesser, but not so far beneath him a Rihtcynn could not enjoy a good grope. Although if that was his motive, a soldier would not be fishing about in dirty water.

  Matt had picked a hiding spot for the Shewstone in a patch of garden a couple of courtyards away from Eawynn’s rooms. An ancient, knotted tree was surrounded by waist high shrubs. The twisted branches were nearly devoid of leaves, as it went through its drawn-out, decades-long death. The tree was old enough to have borne witness to the height of the empire. It might even have stood when the horse tribes founded their first village in the valley below.

  The roots clawed into the ground, digging deep for the last remnants of rain that had fallen the previous winter. The soil had blown away around the base of the tree, leaving deep clefts. Matt pushed partway into the shrubs and upended her bucket, like a slave watering the tree. The thud of the Shewstone on dry soil was covered by the splashing. Matt nudged the stone ball with her foot, rolling it into a hole under a curling root, and then scuffed dirt and dead leaves to cover it.