The Shewstone Page 3
But then, without warning, Erudite Sister Librarian had been taken by a seizure one morning at breakfast, collapsed at the table, and been dead before nightfall. Her assistant, Studious Sister Cataloger, had been promoted to Studious Sister Librarian, surely something nobody could have predicted—or wanted. Eawynn caught her lip in her teeth. Too late now to regret laughing along with Erudite Sister Librarian’s biting remarks. How deep a grudge might Studious Sister Librarian be holding?
Insightful Sister Oracle stood and the murmuring stopped. “Welcome to our newest sisters. Our joy that you’re now joined with us knows no bounds.” She smiled at the other two initiates and the air above Eawynn’s head. “You’ve lived among us for many years and know our humble ways. Now you’ll play a full role in our life of prayer and reflection. You’ll continue assisting with the daily chores. We have no servants here so all must take an equal share—”
Though it’s a long time since anyone has seen you cleaning the latrines. Even with her guts tying themselves in knots, Eawynn could not resist the thought.
“—but you’ll now have your own special allotted role. Your former name will be forgotten as you become a true part of our community. To guide your footsteps, you’ll be assigned to an elder, who will be your teacher, your confidant, and your friend.”
Please don’t let it be Enlightening Sister Astrologer. But even if Eawynn was not directly assigned to her, the astrologer’s position, second in the temple hierarchy, gave her considerable sway. Would she indulge her petty spite by steering Eawynn into a demeaning role?
A year ago, when Erudite Sister Librarian was alive, Eawynn would have had no worries. Even a mere four months back, she still could have expected favourable treatment. Her father’s money and influence assured that. However, this was before her father joined his in-laws in an ill-fated attempt by Earl Blaedgifa to usurp the throne of Pinettale. Ex-Thane Alric Wisa Achangrena’s head was currently adorning a spike over the main gates into Fortaine, along with the earl’s and a half dozen other relatives. No more money would flow into temple coffers from that source, and overnight, Eawynn had gone from being a symbol of favour at court to being a decided embarrassment.
“Melodious Sister Chorister. To you we entrust the priestess who was once novice Beatrice. Henceforth she’ll be known as Harmonious Sister Chanteuse.”
No surprise there. Beatrice had a remarkable singing voice. She also had nimble fingers and soft lips, as she had demonstrated to Eawynn more than once. This came to a sharp end with Thane Alric’s trial and execution. Eawynn tried to tell herself she did not care. Beatrice had been more trouble than she was worth. In fact, Eawynn had assumed she would be the one to end it, but now Beatrice was acting as if merely being in the same room as her was an ordeal. The on-off “special friendship” was firmly off.
“Studious Sister Librarian—” Insightful Sister Oracle continued.
The rush of relief almost made Eawynn’s knees buckle. She caught herself in time. Her fears had been unfounded. Studious Sister Librarian had been able to overlook the gibes and condescension. After all, Eawynn had only been following Erudite Sister Librarian’s lead. The new librarian must know she was out of her depth and in need of help. Thanks to Erudite Sister Librarian’s coaching, Eawynn could speak six languages fluently, including archaic Pinettia, and read and write three different scripts. Whereas, despite years of study, Studious Sister Librarian could barely manage to hold a worthwhile conversation in Cynnreord.
“—to you we entrust the priestess who was once novice Agnes. Henceforth she’ll be known as Diligent Sister Caretaker.”
Agnes! Eawynn was not the only one looking surprised. Agnes was well meaning and tried hard, but she needed three attempts to spell her own name. How was she going to cope now that it was longer than five letters? And what could she do in the library? Except maybe clean the bookcases, once someone explained to her how a dust cloth worked.
The bouncing snowball grew spikes.
“Attentive Sister Chamberlain. To you we entrust the priestess who was once novice Eawynn.” Insightful Sister Oracle said her name as if it was being dragged from her mouth by a ham-fisted dentist. “Henceforth she’ll be known as Dutiful Sister Custodian.”
Custodian of what? Eawynn clenched her jaw. There was nothing she could do. Everything was set and sealed, her father’s final gift. She had preferred the pony.
Any hope it might not turn out too badly was squashed by Enlightening Sister Astrologer’s smug expression. They should have been allies, the only ones with enough noble blood in their veins to be worth mentioning. Yet, since the day Eawynn arrived, the other priestess had seen her as competition. Why? Was it no more than jealousy over who had the redder hair? Of course, recent events had made things even more combative. Just because the queen was her second cousin, Enlightening Sister Astrologer had taken Earl Blaedgifa’s rebellion as a personal slight—as if Eawynn had anything to do with it.
The meeting broke up after a round of congratulations which conspicuously did not include Eawynn.
“Come with me.” Attentive Sister Chamberlain said nothing else until they reached the Shrine to the Oracle.
On a personal level, the assignment of the chamberlain as her mentor could have been worse. Attentive Sister Chamberlain’s niece had married a housecarl of the Blaedgifa family, and she had even gone so far as to offer condolences for the death of Eawynn’s father. The issue was more that the role of chamberlain involved the maintenance of temple buildings, and there was no associated task Eawynn felt any desire to do.
The Shrine to the Oracle was some thirty feet wide and twice as long. The walls were made of the same dark basalt as the rest of the temple, but here it felt even more heavy and ominous, even though the high windows let in shafts of bright daylight. Deep alcoves were built into the corners. The ones facing the entrance were occupied by statues of Anberith on raised plinths. Numerous antique star charts hung around the walls. The only other decorations were two long mahogany friezes and a huge unlit incense burner in the middle of the floor.
“Dutiful Sister Custodian, we have ascribed a special role to you.” The smile held a tinge of embarrassment.
Eawynn braced herself.
“You’re to be custodian of the Shewstone.”
How much looking after could a stone need, especially one never on public view? In all her years as a novice, Eawynn was yet to set eyes on it. Admittedly, the Shewstone was the temple’s most valuable possession, generating vastly more income than her late father’s donations, but why did it need a custodian?
Attentive Sister Chamberlain held up a key. “You’re to have this. Guard it with your life.”
“Thank you, Beloved Sister.”
At the far end of the shrine, two steps down led to a door, which had been locked whenever the juvenile novices thought to try it. Now the key turned smoothly and the door swung open.
The Shewstone Sacrarium was smaller than expected, a windowless cave. Eawynn peered into the darkness until she spotted a lantern and tinderbox on a cabinet by the door. At Attentive Sister Chamberlain’s nod, Eawynn struck the flint.
The soft yellow light did nothing to reduce the impression of an underground hole. What little the room had by way of decoration was clearly intended to look expensive and mysterious. The walls were painted black, allowing only a suggestion of strange, twisted carvings. The table was antique, sagging slightly on one side, but still impressive. It might have been from the dawn of time, hewn from ancestral oak by the ancients. The only thing on it was a small silver oil burner. Two chairs were made of heavy square-cut timbers, looking as if the maker had only just discovered the concept of sitting.
At the back of the sacrarium, a black metal repository stood on long legs. The front and sides were cast in open latticework, allowing Eawynn to see inside. The Shewstone was a mottled stone orb, six inches across, on a simple silver plinth. The lantern light shimmered over its surface. Patterns swirled, suggesting something inside was alive and m
oving. When Eawynn got closer, the hairs on her arms stood up. The air was charged with static, as before a storm.
Despite herself, Eawynn felt a moment of awe. But then the question repeated in her head. How much looking after could a stone need?
The answer came. “Your tasks are to make sure this room is spotless. You must keep the lamps filled with oil, and burn incense before supplicants come for a divination. You’ll also attend Most Reverend Insightful Sister Oracle when she consults the Shewstone. You’ll have to ask her about other requirements. The Shrine to the Oracle also forms part of your responsibility.” The elder priestess patted the cabinet. “The equipment you’ll need is in here.”
Attentive Sister Chamberlain did not stay to watch Eawynn open the cabinet. The sound of her footsteps, crossing the shrine, faded away. Eawynn closed the sacrarium door. She did not want an audience.
Feeling like an actor in a badly written play, Eawynn opened the cabinet door. The skin on her face prickled hot and cold, anger and shame. As suspected, the equipment comprised of a brush, duster, and wax polish, along with a bucket and soap.
She had been given the role of housemaid.
Dutiful Sister Custodian? More like Menial Sister Janitor. She had been consigned to a humiliating role, just to prove the temple placed no importance on its previous contact with the late Thane Alric Wisa Achangrena. As if anyone at court would give a moment’s thought to the thane’s discarded bastard daughter. Maybe in a year or two, the elders themselves would not be so concerned.
Her father’s timing had always been off.
*
The young buck was everything Matt looked for in a man, oblivious, overconfident, and rich. Her palms itched with the anticipated weight of his purse. She trailed her mark across a square and down a side road, playing her favourite game of hunter and prey. The streets of Fortaine were hers. Fools, like the one she followed, stepped onto them at their own risk. And this one was a prize fool, swaggering along. He felt so highly of himself. Flaunting your athletic build was one thing. Flaunting the size of your coin purse was something totally different.
His clothes were fancy to the point of stupidity. His purple satin pantaloons were so puffed up they wobbled like jelly when he walked. If he went too far, he would get chafed in a most unpleasant way. The toes of his shoes were a foot long, curled back in the latest idiotic fashion. The gold embroidery on his doublet screamed, “Rob me.”
By comparison, Matt was dressed to look respectable and inconspicuous. She had a simple loose shirt and leggings, a lightweight leather jerkin, and supple rolltop boots, all in neutral colours. They were the everyday clothes of a craftsman, neither pauper nor gentlefolk. Nothing to mark her out from the crowd, and nothing to hamper her free movement.
The mark minced into the upper market, where imported luxuries like silk and spice were on sale. Matt was a dozen steps behind him, but she was in no hurry. In truth, she did not need to be lifting purses. Edmund had no shortage of people, sharp with the fingerwork, but she liked to keep her hand in. Besides, it was fun.
The mark was like a puppy, loose in a butcher’s shop, trying to take it in all at once—the colours, the smells, the noise. He even did a couple of pirouettes, looking at everything and seeing nothing. Matt was also checking out the market, but not the stuff on sale. It was pricey merchandise, but not worth the handful she could get from a snatch and run. The people were her concern. Before she made her move, Matt wanted to know who was out and about that late winter afternoon.
One of Gilbert’s lieutenants was leaning against the plinth of a statue, but the rival gang member was no concern. The upper market was neutral turf. Most stallholders Matt recognised. The best place to take the mark was by one paying protection to Edmund, and hence sure to turn a blind eye. A city watch constable was patrolling, but he was old Harry, who was bought and paid for. He would only try to arrest her if she gave him no choice. An indie homed in on her mark, but he backed off when he spotted Matt. Independent pickpockets knew better than to poach from the Flyming gang.
Matt increased her pace just enough to overtake the mark. For a few more steps, she stayed in front, then she stopped dead and jerked around, like a woman who has suddenly remembered she ought to be somewhere else. The mark bounced into her. She had given him no chance to do anything else.
They both managed to stay on their feet, although it was a close call for the mark. Confused apologies followed, while he dithered between anger at Matt’s clumsiness and a desire to be gallant with a pretty young woman. Matt bid him good day before he had settled on one or the other.
She marched back the way they had just come, with his purse inside her jerkin. However, before she had gone twenty yards, the mark started yelling. As luck would have it, he had stopped at the next stall and discovered that he and his purse had parted company.
Buffoon that he was, it was possible he would not link the theft to their collision. People like him must be losing things all the time. But it was all a little too recent and too blatant for even old Harry to ignore. Anyway, chase was another of Matt’s favourite games. She set off at full pelt.
The shouting went up a notch, so she had been spotted, but it was no cause for worry. The mark’s fancy shoes would be a bugger for running in, and old Harry was not going to knock himself out with the effort. Anyone who knew the street life of Fortaine would think twice about tackling Edmund Flyming’s adopted daughter, and those who did not would need a god or two on their side to have any hope of catching her.
Matt raced through a few twists and turns. The game was hardly started and already sounds of the chase were falling back. It was so easy, it was boring. Matt decided to put an end to it. She ducked into a dead end alley, blocked off by an eight-foot-high brick wall. Without breaking stride, Matt used a window ledge as a step up, jumped, caught the top, and hauled herself over. She dropped into the backyard of The Dog and Whistle tavern, where the last of the winter’s snow still hid between the stacked barrels.
Running footsteps echoed on the other side of the wall. They faltered and stopped.
“I thought…” gasp, “…she went…” gasp, “…in here.” Oh, what a lovely toffee-nosed accent.
“Ah. She must’ve gone another way.”
Gasp, “But where?” gasp.
“We’ll try the docks.” Good old Harry.
Matt grinned. The footsteps faded.
The gateway from the yard opened onto Pillow Row. All things considered, it would be as well to get off the streets for a few hours, enough time for old Harry to give up the hunt without it appearing fishy, and for the mark to cut his losses and go home. In another few days, he would have forgotten what she looked like, should they meet again. If only he knew it, Matt had done him a favour. Perhaps, in future, he would be more careful with his money.
Meanwhile, Matt knew the perfect place to kill a few hours. At the corner of the road was the Honeysuckle Bower, one of Edmund’s brothels.
The madam greeted Matt. “Hey there, stranger.”
“Hey there, yourself. How’s business going?”
“Horizontal.” An old joke.
The air was thick with cheap perfume and cheaper beer. The lighting was low to disguise the fading state of the decoration and the women. Sometimes it did not pay to look too closely. Imagination could be a useful tool. Yet the Honeysuckle Bower was far from the worst brothel in Fortaine. The girls were clean and friendly, the bedsprings still had some bounce, and the beer from the cellar was cold.
“Have you got a message from your Pa?”
“No. I’m here on my own account.”
Matt had been a regular visitor from the time she entered Edmund’s household. At first, just as a messenger, pampered and played with by the whores who wished to indulge their maternal urges. Once Matt reached mid teens, she discovered other reasons to visit the brothel. Her arrival today had been greeted by a couple of whores smiling at her in a way that said they were not thinking of playing pat-a-cake.
Matt pulled the stolen purse from her pocket, tossed it in the air, and caught it so it jingled. “I need to lie low for an hour or two, until someone stops looking for me.”
“With an emphasis on lie?”
“Less risk of falling over that way.” Matt’s grin broadened.
“Yvette’s been missing you.”
“She’s available?”
“I think she’d throttle me if I said no.” The madam patted Matt’s arm. “Go on. She’s all yours.”
Already Yvette had detached herself from the group of lounging whores and was sauntering forward, exaggerating the sway of her hips. Yvette wrapped her body around Matt’s, kissed her soundly, and then linked arms to lead Matt to the back rooms.
All in all, it was shaping up to be a very good afternoon.
*
Eawynn positioned the last lamp and stood back to admire the effect. The sacrarium exuded a suitably arcane otherworldliness, without being too blatantly contrived. Everything was in place except the Shewstone itself, which would have to wait. It went without saying that a mere Dutiful Sister Custodian did not get entrusted with a repository key. There was only one, and Insightful Sister Oracle kept it on a fine chain around her neck. She probably slept with it. Eawynn could only hope she was never in a position to find out for sure.
This would be the nineteenth time she played attendant, and the charade had lost its novelty. Admittedly, some humour could still be found in Insightful Sister Oracle’s attempts to speak Cynnreord, but even this was wearing thin.
The supplicant and his servant were waiting in the Shrine to the Oracle, with Redoubtable Sister Door-warden hovering nearby. She had taken over from Stalwart Sister Door-warden a month ago, when the elderly priestess could no longer manage the chaperoning duties. Except for in the public sanctuary, persons of a male persuasion had to be accompanied at all times on temple grounds, presumably to ensure they did not do anything inappropriately masculine to offend Anberith. Redoubtable Sister Door-warden was taking her newly acquired duties very seriously. She watched the men with an intensity normally only seen in cats tracking flies on a window pane.