Masks

  Chapter Sixteen

  As they rode the carriage toward the church, Mark’s mind spun in circles. He’d teased the colonel about this amounting to a wedding, but in many ways it was far more serious a matter, assuming a person really believed in an afterlife, allolai and morbai. A marriage was a lifetime contract involving property and presumed offspring. A bonding wedded two souls not just in life but after death.

  Mark had read a great deal of history, and he knew that on rare occasions bonding ceremonies proved fatal to one or both people. The most cynical part of him wondered if it wasn’t murder arranged by the church that used superstition and mysticism to cover the crime. The part of him that believed as his father did, and sometimes heard voices in languages he couldn’t recognize, the part that saw a practical ship’s captain baldly declare that his ship called to runaway indentured servants and made them tell truths ... and Mark had spoken truths against his own best interest for no rational reason ....

  He started to chew his lip and managed to stop himself. It was a childhood habit he’d long gotten rid of. It didn’t do his nerves any good to have that habit resurface now.

  Marriage negotiations often lasted months. Bonding negotiations commonly dragged on for a year or more. Sometimes they began while a jester was still in university, especially if he showed particular promise. Most of the time, though, jesters would court several potential masters in the best political and fiscal situations they dared to try, hoping that one would find them suitable.

  And here I am, not just fleeing indenture and throwing away whatever plans Gutter had put in place for me without even knowing what they are, but jumping into bed with the first man who draws back the sheets for me.

  What would happen ... should he tell the colonel that he was a staghorn, or hope that the matter straightened out? Maybe the colonel would either not notice or care. After all, unless Mark made a particularly unwise choice of bedfellows public, the matter shouldn’t affect anything. Jesters weren’t generally held to any moral standard at all.

  He’d been on a ship full of men and not one had given him so much as a flirtatious glance. Men of his slant might be even more rare a bird than he’d feared. The matter might very well never come up simply because he’d have no one with which to be scandalous.

  And was it really a sin? Not that it ought to matter if a jester was sinful or not. By definition of a jester’s role, he was hired to sin.

  But the colonel wanted Mark because Mark was different than other jesters, and he assumed that they would act in a noble and honorable fashion together.

  You have no idea how different I am.

  The colonel was different too. Mark had met many nobles over the years, all vying for either Lord Argenwain’s favor, or Gutter’s, or both. The two men carried His Royal Majesty King Michael’s highest favor, even now during Lord Argenwain’s decline. The colonel seemed more pure, somehow, than any or all of them. And when he’d read to Mark, and held his hand, and helped him sit on the chamberpot and all those things, his touch, and the way he’d read to Mark ....

  If Gutter asked, Mark would have told him that the colonel might have looked at Mark in a way that made Mark notice his long, dark lashes, and right afterward the colonel’s gaze had hardened into a well-practiced self-denial.

  Whatever Mark thought he saw hidden behind those lashes might have contributed to this rash haste that hurled them both to church.

  The colonel fidgeted in his seat. It made him seem younger and revealed an endearing insecurity.

  “Are you having second thoughts?” Mark asked.

  “Of course I am.”

  Mark started to chew his lip again and made himself stop.

  “I would have never done something like this before the war,” the colonel told him.

  “But the war taught you that it’s more important to make a decision and act on it quickly than to dither and try to find the right decision.” He’d learned that from history.

  The colonel nodded. “Because the right decision might not exist.”

  “I wouldn’t go that far.” Mark tried a smile.

  The colonel played a hand up and down his coat collar. “In war you learn to sacrifice.”

  “So this is a sacrifice.” That made Mark feel even more uneasy.

  “We won’t know until it’s too late.” The colonel’s hand drifted down to his buttons as he gazed out at the trees and blooming shrubs and couples walking with their children dawdling behind.

  “That sounds like another war lesson.”

  The colonel nodded. He was fidgeting with a button and the poor threads were starting to stretch.

  Mark pulled his hand away. “Stop it.”

  A flash of anger lit the colonel’s eyes, helped by a beam of sunlight that managed to clear the park trees. Mark smiled again, trying to hide his fear and awe of the man. The colonel ducked his head and closed his eyes, breathing with too-deliberate a pace.

  “You can still change your mind,” Mark told him.

  “So can you.”

  Mark laughed softly through his nose. “I know. But I think I’d regret it for the rest of my life. I’ve caught the man who turned away over a hundred offers. What a fool I’d be to reject him, especially since he helped save my life.”

  “Don’t tease me. I’m well aware that this may be an elaborate trap.”

  “You’re joking.” It wasn’t funny. It was terrifying.

  “I flatter myself by it. The world’s most famous jester would find no advantage in pairing me with his creature. I’m already helpless.”

  “Looking at it from that perspective, you’re right. It doesn’t work.” Mark hesitated. “There is no way that Gutter could have predicted ....”

  “What?”

  “It’s a little insane.”

  Colonel Evan gripped his arm. “What.”

  Mark tried to twist free but it only hurt more. “You’re going to tear the sutures.”

  The colonel eased his hold but he didn’t let go.

  Mark’s mind still had a few more calculations to make. “Gutter would have had to make sure Obsidian wouldn’t come to him directly with the message. That could be done easily enough. Ensuring he would come to me ... harder, but possible.” He spoke softly, so softly he wasn’t sure the baron could hear him. It didn’t matter if he did. “Arranging for Obsidian to come to me that day would have relied on Gutter or his agent encouraging Lake to act within a narrow period of time. Still possible. It’s all possible. There are major weak points. Gutter couldn’t just manipulate Obsidian into coming to me. Obsidian had to ask me to make the delivery in his place, and then I had to deliver it successfully.”

  “I’m not sure I follow.”

  “Gutter may have directed Obsidian, or he may have manipulated Obsidian. The end result is the same, though I find it unlikely that Obsidian would involve himself in a plan where he’d die. But if Obsidian wasn’t a knowing participant in the plan, it’s less likely that Gutter could have arranged everything to turn out the way it did. And there’s another weakness. One person would have to know both of us well enough to predict that we would jump in together. Obsidian doesn’t know me that well.”

  “It does seem far-fetched that such a person exists.”

  “Extremely,” Mark agreed.

  “The few men who know me well would not believe I would ask you to be my jester.” The colonel smoothed his hand over his waistcoat. “But you’re nervous.”

  Mark nodded. “Gutter sometimes travels in disguise.”

  The colonel shook his head. “I haven’t made a close friendship since the war, and before the war, I wasn’t important.”

  “I’m somewhat reassured.” Mark resisted chewing his lip.

  “It must have been very strange growing up in a household with someone so famously intelligent, cunning and ruthless.”

  “Stranger to love him,” Mark murmured. “To worship him, and then suspect that he destroyed everything I loved so that I had n
othing left but him. And it terrifies me that Mairi’s loss may have been my fault. It may not have happened because of a grand, well-considered and long-planned calculation. I fear I may have caused him to burn with rage.” Perhaps even a jealous rage.

  “You argued?”

  “No. But—he flinched.” It was impossible to explain the significance of such a slight gesture to someone who didn’t know Gutter. “I’ve never seen him flinch before,” Mark added. “Not that I can remember anyway.”

  “If you don’t remember it, it didn’t happen.”

  “No.” Mark spoke more sharply than he meant to. He tried to soften his voice. “Don’t ever have that kind of faith in me. My memory isn’t perfect. It’s trained. There’s an important difference. I do, and will make mistakes, and I won’t see or remember things that may turn out to be critical. If we’re going to work as partners, you can’t—” He couldn’t put it into words.

  “I understand. But I will expect a great deal from you, and I will depend on what you tell me.”

  “I’ll try not to disappoint you.”

  “Why?”

  That one word had countless facets, and Mark couldn’t begin to answer any of them. The colonel had revealed his true cleverness by asking it, and that was part of one answer. “I didn’t want to be a cold, political monstrosity. But I used to be jealous of what Lord Argenwain and Gutter had. And now it’s clear. Becoming a lord’s jester is like falling in love. It’s like meeting someone and in an hour knowing you’ll be friends for the rest of your lives. I could walk away from this, and so could you, but it wouldn’t change what we feel.”

  “You presume much.”

  “Am I wrong?”

  The colonel’s lashes lowered, but it didn’t hide the pain there. “No. You’re not wrong.”

  What had hurt him so badly?

  Passers-by had collected into small groups on the sidewalk in front of the church to gawk. Colonel Evan ran his hand over his rapier—they had to leave their weapons in the carriage because apparently the ceremony forbade weapons. Mark wasn’t used to wearing a rapier every time he went out into public, but he felt a little qualm too that Obsidian’s blade might be stolen while they were inside. It had helped keep him alive that day near the docks, and he wanted it close-at-hand.

  Colonel Evan climbed out first while the driver, Philip, stood by doing a fair job of looking dressy and formal despite being a former pig farmer and common soldier. Philip offered a hand and Mark took it when he stepped down. It made him look weak, but he was weak at the moment and it looked less ridiculous than crying out in pain and falling on his face.

  Perida Church wasn’t as grand as the church near Argenwain’s manor, but it was still a thing of great beauty. Apparently they couldn’t find or ship in enough white stone, so they employed a pale gray stone streaked and bubbled with red and white. The lantern at the top of the dome was the purest white marble, as were some of the rails. They were no doubt imported at great expense. She had only two galleries arrayed from the central edifice, but two arcades bending off the galleries enclosed a vast courtyard with lemon and orange trees and blossoming vines throughout. The garden’s architecture rivaled that of any building Mark had seen in grace and beauty.

  As they crossed the courtyard, a strange bird let out a cry like music bubbling underwater and flew across the courtyard in front of them. It had an ungainly tail shaped like a lyre and flashed with gem-like sapphire, gold and ruby tones, a remarkable display that surely no hawk or owl could ever miss.

  “They’re sacred.” Colonel Evan had hidden himself behind his implacable and controlled exterior. “It’s worth a man’s life if he shoots one, and I won’t protect you if you do.”

  “I wouldn’t want to.” Mark wished they would halt a moment but the colonel kept walking. He wondered if the pain from his leg wound would get much worse than this. He hoped not. His arm had started to gnaw at him too.

  “They’re a nuisance, actually. But by protecting them in this way, only their shed feathers can be gathered, increasing their value. A single tail feather will sell for twenty ar or more—a great economic boon for the island and its people. I will protect anything that helps the islands survive, sacred or no, including those infernal feathered vermin.”

  Mark chuckled. “I think Lord Argenwain has a spray of those feathers in one of his hats.”

  Colonel Evan sniffed and held himself proudly, as if his vanity was any less than the ancient peacock’s. “I have no doubt of it.”

  “Why do you hate them so much?”

  “Come spring you’ll know.”

  They entered the building, and Mark stepped inside a church for the first time in his life. His gaze immediately flew upward to smooth ribs that graced the ceiling. Rafters formed a fan pattern at each corner whose intersections made complex geometric coffers. The center opened into a domed painting of glass and gilding and tile. Even the colonel stopped to gaze upward for a moment before he left Mark behind to stride across the entry toward an older gentleman and his even older jester companion. Aside from a young priest sweeping the vast floor, they were the only people in the room.

  “General,” the colonel said formally, extending his hand. The men shook warmly. “Jog.” He only nodded to the jester, who smiled and nodded back.

  Mark limped over to join them. They waited patiently in silence until he got there. Mark bowed.

  “This is Lark.” Colonel Evan sounded pensive. “Lark, this is my very good friend General Amery Glassfield.”

  The general nodded politely and offered his hand, so Mark shook, first with him and then with his firm-handed jester. “He’s short. I think my wife is taller. How tall are you?”

  Colonel Evan’s cheeks flushed, but Mark didn’t mind. “Five foot six, sir. And, before you ask, I’m nearly twenty.”

  “In three or four years?”

  “Less than a year, on the 26th of Brusque, sir.” Mark offered a smile, and the general smiled back. Mark dared venture a look at Jog. The jester didn’t seem extraordinary. He wore a modern set of colors—mostly navy, with hints of a little of everything and not a lot of anything else. In Seven Churches and among the higher-ranked jesters, old and highly visible heraldic selections were preferred, but those color combinations were also jealousy hoarded using social rules and traditional conventions so that it required quite a bit of maneuvering to wear, for example blue, black and white in nearly equal proportions.

  Jog kept his leather mask, dyed navy and decorated with a beautiful feathery pattern in white with hints of many other colors, in his pocket. The only paint he wore circled his eyes, lines of black interspersed with white and navy feathers and whorls. He had a matching sword, but the hilt was very worn and the decorated sheath battered by hard use. He had a scar on the back of his hand.

  Mark measured that all in a moment, and he wished he had time to take in more but he didn’t want the conversation to pause too long. “But I’m still young in my heart.”

  Jog chuckled at that. “So you two are determined. I know it seems like forever, but perhaps you might wait until tomorrow, so that we may discuss this. Perhaps over dinner?”

  “Have you told your father?” the general added.

  “If either of you have qualms about seconding—” Colonel Evan began.

  “No. Of course not,” the general told him broadly. Jog cast him a not-very-subtle look, and the general yielded to him.

  “Why now?” Jog asked. “If there’s a matter of urgency, let us help you. There’s no need to rush into something that ought not to be rushed, and for good reason. At least live with the fellow a while.”

  “Thank you, but the help I require is a matter of insufficient service, not any given task. And I see no reason to delay when I know I will not change my mind in six months or ten years.” Colonel Evan lifted his chin, his expression so sure and firm that he looked like an entirely different person than the one who’d nearly torn a button from his sleeve in the carriage earlier.


  Mark was proud of him, as if he had any right of pride in this situation.

  “Your father.” Jog left the two words hanging.

  The colonel refused to acknowledge the words.

  “If I disgrace the colonel he can just chop my head off and get someone else,” Mark reminded them.

  Jog recoiled in shock. Even the colonel looked surprised, as if it was never done.

  “Well it’s true. And he won’t be any worse off than he was on his own. I’m well-connected, though some may consider that more of a problem than a virtue, myself especially. I’m young, I learn quickly, I don’t think too much of myself, and I trust him.” He hadn’t thought of it much before, but the strength of commitment jesters made in these bargains, not just after death but in life, seemed unfair. No chopping off of heads for lords who shame their jesters.

  “And I trust him,” the colonel said.

  Mark tried not to preen at the praise.

  The general and Jog exchanged looks. “I’ve used my influence to convince Dellai Bertram to perform the ceremony.”

  “Thank you.” The colonel closed his eyes, took a deep breath, and let it out slowly. “I’m ready.”

  “Jog,” the general said.

  Jog nodded. “I’ll fetch the dellai.” The jester left the church, presumably to go next door to the court.

  A dellai. He would be head of the Church of Meridua. Mark wondered if the man was recognized on the mainland as a dellai, not that it mattered. He had real power here, and he could end all chances of their bonding if he wanted.

  Which might be a relief.

  No. We’re doing this, Gutter, generals, plots and dellai be damned.

  Like the colonel said, this might be a sacrifice ...

  It would be worth it, if he could find justice for his parents, keep the islands free, keep people like Grant safe, and do things that mattered.

  And admit it: deny Gutter, escape Lord Argenwain and spit in the face of mainland politics.

  Not just deny Gutter, but punish him if for no other reason than because he bought an innocent boy lost in grief and put his small hand into the hands of a man like Argenwain.

  He didn’t dodge his emotions about it this time. He accepted them. Suspicions and fears aside, he’d finally distanced himself enough from Gutter’s charm and grace and everything else to really feel angry at him.

  It felt good to be angry at him. Gutter hadn’t done anything wrong by introducing Mark into Lord Argenwain’s household, at least according to church law, but Mark had suffered and he knew Gutter had been morally wrong to do it.

  The general finally addressed Mark. “Has the colonel introduced you to his father?”

  “Not yet,” Colonel Evan answered for him. “After the ceremony we plan to visit my father.”

  We do?

  “And then we’ve been invited to a celebratory dinner. Private, I’m afraid.”

  We have?

  Did he just lie to his friend or decide that we’re actually going to have some fun tonight?

  “Excellent. I’d feared you would retreat into your fortress and begin outlining your strategy for an assault on island society. I hope you will allow me to arrange something for tomorrow,” the general said. “Mostly military, of course, your old friends from the war. We never see you anymore.”

  “I would be delighted.” The colonel looked sincerely pleased.

  “Be prepared for a great many more invitations, of course. We’ll do something of a brunch in anticipation of a dinner invitation from the mayor. Now, don’t give me that look. Your jester will support me in this.”

  Mark nodded. Assuming the mayor, or rather his jesteress, arranged something, they would have to go. It would be Mark’s first and best look at what they would be dealing with. “We’ll talk,” Mark promised both of them.

  Lark hadn’t even officially debuted here.

  That’s what comes from rushing.

  “Do you have any advice?” Colonel Evan asked. “As far as the ceremony.”

  “Keep a cool head.” The general’s gaze flicked to Mark. “Both of you. And listen to Dellai Bertram. He’ll guide you through safely.”

  They didn’t have to wait much longer before Jog returned with the priest.

  Mark had to fight not to stare in shock.

  The dellai had tattoos on his face.

  The priest wore his order’s distinctive white and red robes with that ridiculous but intimidating winged hat. The dellai’s hat had a cut in the center exposing crimson cloth. The white gloves with red palms, uncut beard bleached white, and uncut bleached hair declared him the head of the Church of State. All usual stuff. But those tattoos .... Had the islands reverted to some pagan practice unmentioned in secular history?

  The priest looked like a stern man of ill humor. He nodded to both of them. “You are ready to be tested and bound?”

  “Yes, dellai,” the colonel said immediately.

  “Yes, dellai,” Mark answered after, partly because he wasn’t sure the form of response and honorific would be the same as it was on the mainland, and partly because the tattoos fascinated him and he had to spend all his effort not to follow the lines snaking around the priest’s face.

  “Follow me, all of you.”

  The general and Jog allowed the colonel and Mark to follow first. Unfortunately they didn’t go into the main chamber, where lords and their jesters gathered to do mysterious things and to listen to choirs and such. They went to the left into one of the galleries, which Mark imagined would be far less interesting.

  He was wrong.

  The long hall had arched windows that came to sharp points more than fifty feet above their heads. The rafters echoed the form and intertwined into a massive weave of structural art. But this time Mark’s gaze wasn’t drawn and held up, but to either side.

  Books. Endless lines of them, and art, and sheets of music, and maps and scrolls .... Between each window stood a room of white stone with straight walls and a curved roof, like a lantern but long so that it projected nearly to the center of the gallery. Through the open doorways he saw treasures held safe from the brilliant light that came in through the windows. Every window had seats and tables where at least a dozen people could sit comfortably and study. And so did the priests and their students and young nobles study, usually in groups less than four, or alone. They wore gloves to protect the materials, and sat on the shaded side of the building so that the sunlight wouldn’t bleach the treasures they held in their hands.

  Mark wanted to dart into every room and see everything in it. The larger church in Seven Churches ... if he’d known what existed inside those galleries they would have never been able to keep him out. Perhaps the gallery on the other side had something else even more spectacular, but he couldn’t imagine anything more wonderful than this. He didn’t mind his pain so much, but he didn’t pick up his pace so he could linger as long as possible.

  “Why aren’t there any jesters here?” Mark asked.

  “They come from time to time. Perhaps they’re busy.” Dellai Betram’s sarcasm lacked both subtlety and humor.

  They reached the end too soon to suit Mark’s curiosity. Dellai Betram stopped in front of a door on the left that led into the final lantern room. He drew keys from somewhere within his robe sleeve, most likely a belt that hung over his shoulder beneath his robes, and unlocked the door.

  It opened to a stairway down. Mark’s heart started to pound. Unusual carvings lined the walls. Feathery, scrolled or somewhat floral, they mingled in a way that wasn’t particularly attractive, just strange. Some of them hadn’t been completed, existing just as charcoal lines on flat stone.

  The only light came through openings in the ceiling of the lantern room. The stairs were iron grate and let light pass on for some distance, but not far enough. It was pitch black below.

  The stairway began to spiral tightly. Mark decided to go ahead of Colonel Evan when the colonel hesitated. “Are you all right?” Poised beneath h
im on the first spiral stair looking up, Mark felt even smaller and more frail than usual.

  The colonel looked pale. “Yes.”

  Mark took a step down but the colonel didn’t follow. Mark offered his hand.

  “I’m all right.” The colonel finally took the first step onto the spiral, and they made their way down step by painful step into deepening darkness.

  “Try to keep up,” Dellai Betram grumbled. “Feel your way along the walls when it becomes necessary. The hall opens to your left. Always travel to the left when you’re going down.”

  “Is there anything to the right?” Mark asked.

  “The way out, if you change your mind. But you can’t come back that way. Once that door closes, it won’t open to you again.”

  They still had enough light to see by at the bottom of the stairs, but only just. To the left opened a darkness even deeper than the court, completely unlit even by the smallest candle. He guessed, based on the opening, that the hall was about two armspans wide and as high. Dellai Betram walked down it as if he could see, though he measured his paces carefully. Mark listened. “Take my hand,” he told the colonel.

  “That’s not necessary.”

  “Trust me.”

  Their gloved hands clasped. Mark pulled him along trying to match the stride that the priest used, his mind still counting the dellai’s paces while counting his own. It stretched his leg wound. He gritted his teeth and pressed onward. The priest stopped and turned on his heel very deliberately. When Mark got to twenty five paces he did the same.

  The priest used his keys, clicked open a door, and went inside. By the time Mark and the colonel caught up with him, the dellai had lit an elegant silver lamp with a silver striker. Mahogany furnishings adorned the small but well-appointed room. A narrow table of black stone with two chairs on one side and one on the other dominated the center. Four cushioned chairs waited on the sides, two and two, and behind the single chair at the table stood a narrow desk. The walls, ceiling and floor were blacker than night and perfectly smooth but with a dull finish that reflected no light.

  Dellai Bertram fetched some paperwork from the desk drawer and a writing box. He opened it and the ink jar within. It held seven pens.

  Unlucky seven.

  “One last chance to change your minds. All of you.” Dellai Betram looked at each of them. When his gaze settled on Mark, Mark felt pressure in his head like the start of a headache. “Very well.” The dellai sorted through the paperwork for the next hour. It was both eerie and tedious work. If something happened to the colonel, the general would see to his affairs. In the case of infirmity of the brain, the general would see to the colonel’s general care. The colonel had to outline what he wanted done in various situations, such as if he lost all powers of communication with the outside world and showed no improvement after a number of years of his choosing.

  Since technically Mark had no one present to second him except Jog, and Jog was at best a disinterested stranger, Mark had to provide a list of people to which he would entrust various duties. My effects, except for the masks, may be sold for best profit and the proceeds used for expenses related to my care. In the event of my death those proceeds should be evenly divided between Captain Shuller of the trade ship Dainty and Mr. Grant Roadman of Perida. Mark wrote fairly fast, but the speed of his hand couldn’t compare to Dellai Betram’s. He wrote nearly as quickly as Mark spoke, and neatly enough to read. If I die, I would additionally like Lord Jester Jog, if he’s willing, to write Lord Argenwain and Lord Jester Gutter of the circumstances.

  “Now wait a moment.” Jog, who’d been reading over Mark’s shoulder, gave Colonel Evan a hard look. “Did you know about this?”

  “What?” The general asked.

  “He’s connected to Lord Jester Gutter.”

  “Yes.” Colonel Evan gazed at Jog as if Jog were stupid.

  The general sighed. “I hope you know what you’re doing.”

  “Well connected,” Jog growled. “Was that a poor attempt at a joke?”

  “Jog.” The general’s voice held a note of warning. “I don’t want word of this to get out. Do you understand me.”

  “I wouldn’t dare. It might get Rohn killed, and I love him just as much as you do.” Jog covered his face with his hands a moment, then seemed to calm down. He let out a little laugh. “Hells, boy, you waited for a fair wind and got yourself a hurricane.”

  “There will be no mention of those places here,” Dellai Betram said in a warning tone, and Jog sobered. “Now, Lark, in the circumstance that you become infirm of the mind, all decision as to what will be done will fall to Colonel Rohn Evan, a baron of Perida. That can’t be changed. Do you accept that term?”

  “Yes.” He couldn’t think of anyone better anyway.

  Did you see that? The whispery voice sounded clear and close.

  “But if something happens to the colonel as well, you have some choice. How long would you wish to be allowed to live in such a state, assuming you couldn’t communicate your wishes in a sane and rational manner? A year? Five? As long as you may live? Or would you prefer someone make a judgment based on the circumstance, what they know of you, and the prognosis?”

  He could ask to be shipped off to Cathret. Maybe Gutter would take care of him, maybe not ... would he want Gutter to do that? It might be his only hope, if he had any at all. But then he’d never be free again, and he’d be in Lord Argenwain’s reach.

  He could ask to be put out of his misery.

  “Is there an asylum on the island that isn’t controlled by the Church?” Mark asked.

  What, who is that? A different voice whispered while the three men protested at once. Mark waited until they calmed down a little so he could be overheard. “I’d like to be under a doctor’s care. If a doctor can’t make me better after three months, I’d like to be sent to Cathret. To Gutter. If he’ll still have me. If not, I best be sent to find out what the afterlife is really like.”

  He can hear you.

  “Wouldn’t family, even distant relations, be better?” The colonel asked it so gently it made Mark smile despite the unnerving voices.

  “The church couldn’t find anyone. My parents never mentioned a single relative to me or anyone. They eloped.” The pressure in his head eased a little and he let out a sigh of relief, though he anticipated more voices with trepidation.

  “Allow me to employ mine. I have a sister. She’s well off. It wouldn’t be a burden to see after you if the asylum—” The colonel winced. “—does you no good. And she’s a strong enough person to let you go if your suffering seems too great.”

  “It’s not about suffering. It’s about getting better or moving on. I don’t want to linger forever, a hopeless case. I would hate that.” Mark crossed his arms. It helped him feel sheltered against everyone’s scrutiny. They probably all thought he was pathetic and alone in the world. After his time walking through the snow, he knew this was nothing like being alone.

  The colonel took a spare sheet of paper from the many strewn in front of them. “Write a letter to be delivered to her with your wishes. I promise you, she is a good woman. If you trust me, you will love her. I swear it.”

  The oath made him shiver. Mark took up a pen and wrote to her. He wanted her to know about his suspicions about Gutter, as well as the fact that in spite of it all, it wouldn’t be so bad to be in his care if Gutter pulled the matter out of her hands. It took a long time to explain everything.

  “My estate,” the colonel began, distracting Mark from his writing though he forced himself to continue, “is all in order, only now I would like something to go to Lark if he survives me. Something substantial.”

  “The garden?” the general suggested.

  “I don’t think anyone but an islander could manage it,” the colonel said. “It’s too complex. Perhaps half the fleet?”

  Mark had to lift his pen to keep from marring the letter.

  “That is more than an adequate living.”

&nbs
p; “And Hevether,” the colonel added. “My sister would have little use for it, and her living is such that she won’t need the income from its sale.”

  He has a fleet?

  When Mark was finished with his letter, he had to make a list of his effects. That, at least, took very little time. He hesitated, and then forced himself to write the amount of indenture, and what it weighed against. Part of Mairi’s profits went into a hull fund in case of a catastrophic event. Most of it would go to pay the widows and orphans and any remainder would pay into his indenture. In the event of a positive balance, though, it would be an asset for someone to claim.

  Like Captain Shuller, or Grant, or the colonel who had a fleet of some sort of ships, though he hardly needed it.

  Mark gave the dellai his list.

  And then there were the masks.

  “The masks I want sent to Gutter.” Gutter would know what to do with Obsidian’s mask, and the one he meant for Mark should have stayed in his possession in the first place. “Lord Jester Jog, will you see to it please?”

  “Yes. And by the way, since I serve as your second for the estate, we can dispense with the formality, Lark.”

  The priest made a note, then stood. “Thank you, general, for your perseverance.” The general and Jog stood, and the general and the priest shook hands.

  “Good luck.” The general shook the colonel’s hand.

  Jog gave Mark a dark, sidelong look. “Well-connected indeed,” he grumbled. “Next you’ll tell us you have the Gelantyne Mask.” But then he relented and offered his hand. They shook briefly. “Take good care of him. You’re not worthy, you know. No one could be worthy of him, but you least of all. Runty mainland fop. You’re kitten for a lion’s paw.”

  “Jog,” the general said in a warning tone.

  The jester smiled and followed his master out. They shut the door.

  All at once it was very quiet. Mark hadn’t realized how even at Hevether Hall the constant symphony of ocean, conversation, working people, wind and birds had kept him company until they were all gone.

  Dellai Bertram took an incense box and powdered incense from the desk. Within the box was a burner with an indented spiral pattern. He filled the spiral, lit the end and closed the box. “What happens in this room is not only sacred, but secret. You may discuss it between you, but it’s very important you don’t speak of it, or write of it, or hint of it to anyone else or the morbai may destroy your minds. Rohn, I’ve known you all your life. You’ll be sensible about this. As for you, boy, it doesn’t matter what you believe as far as the afterlife or spirits or what is or isn’t sacred or what does or does not have a soul. The consequences are real.”

  Mark had nothing to say to that.

  “Rohn, I know you have questions about sin. You may find some answers. They may not be answers to the questions that you most want to know about. I hope they are. I know you’re also afraid. You have good reason to be. Regardless of the answer, however, I insist that you consider carefully before you act on what you discover. No one is free of sin. And no one may act without regard for what our society believes is sinful.”

  The colonel’s eyes widened. “Are you saying—”

  “No! Even if someone does know, they have to keep it to themselves, even here. The poetry is all we’ve ever had.”

  “Written by people going mad,” the colonel said bitterly. “Written by people who might have already been mad in no way connected to revealing the truth of what is beyond mortal life.”

  “There always has been, and always will be, a barrier between us and the truth. That’s also true for our everyday lives.” Bertram moved toward the door. “No one can really know what’s true. But they can believe in some things. They may even be able to count on those beliefs to guide them to a better life.”

  “Will you answer one question for me?” Mark asked. He doubted the priest would answer, but he was desperate to know.

  “Yes?”

  “If I die before the colonel, what happens to my soul? Will he still protect me, even though he’s alive and I’ll be elsewhere?”

  “The sacred poetry teaches us that yes, you will be protected. You will be a part of him forever. Even if he decides to lop your fool head off. But I wouldn’t test him, boy. It’s his choice to protect you. He can always choose not to once he reaches the afterlife himself, if you go wrong.” With that, the priest blew out the lantern. “Take the cushions off the chairs, and kneel on them.” While Mark and the colonel did as he instructed, the dellai began to chant in an eerie whisper.

  Mark couldn’t bend his leg far enough to sit on his heels without tearing out his sutures, so he knelt straight. Even that hurt quite a bit. He hoped they wouldn’t have to kneel for long.

  The chant Bertram began to intone was in Hasle, but Mark couldn’t speak it as well as he read it, and the words didn’t quite match up with the phonetic pronunciation his instructor used to teach it to him. The cadence suggested music. It wasn’t quite the same as the language the voices spoke, but it was close enough that it made him nervous.

  Mark tried to memorize the words at the same time that he tried to translate, using the few words he recognized as a guide. Music would make it easier. Nervously, he murmur-sung under his breath along with the priest. At first he made quite a few mistakes, but by his sixth repetition he owned it.

  The priest stopped chanting.

  The door opened, then shut and locked.

  They should have been, but Mark had a terrible feeling that they weren’t alone.