The Subtle Knife, Page 2

climbed the stairs to the family's private rooms, and found Cleon's study. With the old soldier's key he unlocked the door, and stood there for a moment in the dim yellow glow that filtered through the shutters. The noise the revellers were making had fallen to a low murmur.

  The castura stood upon Cleon's writing desk. The old soldier had a fondness for the stuff, as did many Nyzaen, and the seal on the bottle had long since been broken. Its scent, a tart, sweet spiciness, hung faintly on the air.

  The rider reached into his gown, took out the crystal ampoule and sniffed the contents, very carefully. He uncorked the castura, and stood there for a moment, looking from the ampoule to the bottle. He was alone. It would be the work of a moment to add one to the other.

  “Father?” called a voice from the landing.

  Footsteps came running towards the study, and Zoe stopped in the doorway, along with Timon, Cleon's son. A handsome lad he was, of a similar age to Zoe, and with her jet-black hair, though far darker skin.

  “Father?” said Zoe. “What are you doing?”

  “Struggling to resist temptation,” said the rider. “Good thing you caught me. Cleon wanted me to fetch his castura for the toast, and I thought maybe I could just have a sip, and see what all the fuss was about...”

  “I don't think he'd mind, sir,” said Timon.

  “No,” said the rider, “I'd better not. Come on. Let's go back down, before he has to make a speech for everyone while he's still completely sober.”

  The crowd was merry enough it wouldn't have mattered much what Cleon Argyris told them, but they cheered him, and the rider, and even Zoe, who stood up from where she and Timon sat under a pergola draped with white flowers. The girl blushed as the revellers lifted their glasses and cried her name. The rider watched her, and then Cleon, as the old soldier drained the last of the castura and allowed Thais to lead him away on suddenly unsteady legs.

  Four years went by. The rider began work on the council's commission, and drew up a multitude of preliminary sketches. After lengthy deliberation, the council informed him they thought the finished painting would be better served as an iconostasis within the great cathedral that was the centrepiece of the Nyzaen faith. This was a building so huge travellers caught sight of it on the skyline before they were even inside the city; a ring of fluted spires around a colossal dome known as the Mother of Compassion.

  It was a considerable undertaking, even with a small army of craftsmen to help him. The rider found himself spending a great deal more time away from Zoe. She was no more keen on this new arrangement than he was. Cleon Argyris had opened his doors to her, and the city loved her almost as much as did the old soldier, but Zoe was still attached to her adoptive father and openly resented the council for stealing him away. She and the rider argued, never for long, but often bitterly.

  “You don't understand,” Zoe said finally, as the two of them sat beneath the dome, late at night. The faithful had all departed, and the only sounds came from the heavy tread of the guards on patrol.

  “I understand more than you think,” said the rider.

  “Maybe,” said Zoe. “But I don't know if you realise how this feels. I have... not memories, really, but I see things, sometimes, in my dreams. White sand stretching as far as I can see. Something chasing me. I wake up screaming, only I'm not really making any sound but I'm still covered in sweat, and more frightened than I ever thought I could be. And when I realise you're not there...”

  Someone coughed in the darkness and the echoes rang softly through the cathedral.

  “You saved my life,” said Zoe. “I'm sure part of me knows that, and thinks that whenever you're not there something's gone wrong. And I know that's stupid but I can't help it. And I don't think you really know what that's like.”

  “I know what it's like to realise you weren't there for someone,” said the rider. “That you couldn't save them.”

  “Who?” said Zoe.

  The rider took a deep breath.

  “There was a woman,” he said. “In Hamassus. I was a painter there, too. I was never this successful, but I was doing well. We'd had a daughter, and I'd just begun to think of travelling to other cities for more work, to approach the nobles there in person. I set out three weeks before six thousand Nyzaen soldiers forded the Paeron, scaled the hills around Hamassus and broke through the western gate.”

  The dome lay quiet.

  “She asked me if the war was going to reach us,” said the rider, “and I told her no. What would anyone want with Hamassus? It had no special strategic value, and the Nyzaen hadn't seemed especially eager to plunder our cities for the sake of it. But these same things meant it took months before the grand vizier agreed to send any more men to drive the Nyzaen back out, and I never saw my wife and child again.”

  “Was that who you were thinking about?” said Zoe. “When you used to stare out of the window at night?”

  “Yes,” said the rider.

  “Do you still miss them?” said Zoe. “I know I'm... not your real daughter. Is that why you painted me the way you did, when I was little? Do you wish you could have her back instead?”

  “Oh, dear heart,” said the rider. “Of course I miss them. But I couldn't possibly... how could I ever trade you to get them back? If such a thing were even possible? I still love you. Very much.”

  And Zoe leant against the rider, and he put one arm about her, and kissed the top of her head the way he used to when she was small, and the two of them sat like that in silence.

  “Is the war going to reach Lys?” said Zoe.

  “Not yet, I think,” said the rider.

  “But you're saying it will eventually?” said Zoe.

  “It will,” said the rider.

  Two more years passed. Nyzaen pilgrims crowded into the Mother of Compassion daily to view the rider's great iconostasis. But it had taken so long to finish several of the more august members of the ruling council had retired or passed away in the interim, and their hot-headed replacements took to using the painting as part of a new rallying cry for the faithful to come defend the last remnants of their homeland. And for all the rider's status, as an Aumejid he had no real way of influencing the council's decisions.

  Cleon Argyris would gladly have added his voice to the debate, but while his intellect remained as sharp as it ever was, over the past few years he had become increasingly infirm. No-one knew for certain why this was. Physicians could only alleviate his symptoms, and never for long enough to enable him to address the council. But he was still happy for the rider to visit, if only so they could sit in the old soldier's room and commiserate about the road down which the city appeared to be travelling.

  “The Genevine pontiff has announced he's ready to lead whatever army ends up being raised to come to our defence,” said Cleon.

  “You don't sound very happy about this,” said the rider.

  “Come on,” said Cleon. “The man's a relic. He'd never survive the journey east. And even if he did, your countrymen stand massed against us on three sides already. Any army would be needed now, not in another three years' time, or even six months down the road.”

  “You think Lys is about to fall?” said the rider.

  “Not yet,” said Cleon.

  “But you're saying it will eventually?” said the rider.

  “You know I'm right,” said Cleon.

  They looked out of the old soldier's window, to where Zoe and Timon sat together in the garden.

  “Ah, young love,” said Cleon, and he laughed. “At least I lived to see my son find a girl who seems to like him almost as much as he fawns over her.”

  “So you approve?” said the rider. “Maybe I'm being foolish, but... I wasn't sure whether or not I should say anything. I mean, I could see they cared for each other, but lately some factions in the city think, well, less of her. For having me as a father. You're not concerned about that?”

  “You're not being foolish,” said Cleon. “Well, perhaps a little. They are young. Still, your gi
rl is tough enough to weather it, I think.”

  “Do you think?” said the rider. “I don't know if she realises how hard it could get. She could always renounce the Aumejid faith, I suppose. Swear she'd never practice.”

  “Are you mad?” said Cleon. “The girl's devoted to you. I'd lay good money she'd rather convert. And what if she was still here, when your people invaded, and it came out that she'd stood up and slandered them in public...?”

  He broke off into a strained, dry fit of coughing, and the rider poured him a glass of water.

  “Though at this rate,” the old soldier said finally, “I doubt I'll be alive to see it. Still. I've made arrangements for my wife and son, if things go awry. And you and your daughter, naturally. Lys takes care of her own, my friend.”

  “You may consider me your own,” said the rider, “but I'm not sure Lys would extend the same courtesy.”

  It was almost another year before Zoe and Timon finally approached the rider asking for his blessing on their betrothal. The rider was relieved, not least because Cleon's condition had grown considerably worse. Even if betrothal was still one step away from marriage, at least now the old soldier knew he'd lived to see his son take that first step with a girl he loved. For his part the rider liked the young man. He put a great deal of trust in Zoe's judgement, and seeing her happy brought him considerable joy.

  Though there were other times the rider found himself gripped by melancholy