Blood Song

Ahm-Lin and the woman who had answered the door were standing nearby, the woman glaring at the two soldiers Barkus had brought with him. Ahm-Lin was more relaxed, idly guiding a whetstone over the tip of one of his chisels, favouring Vaelin with a slight smile of what might have been admiration.

Barkus’s gaze shifted to the stone then back to Vaelin, a frown creasing his heavy brows. “What’s that supposed to be?”

“Doesn’t matter.” Vaelin reached for a piece of linen and draped it over the stone. “What do you want, brother?” He was unable to keep the irritation from his tone.

“Sister Gilma needs you. At the Governor’s mansion.”

Vaelin shook his head impatiently, reaching again for his tools. “Caenis deals with the Governor. Send him.”

“He has been sent for. She needs you as well.”

“I’m sure it can wait…” Barkus’s hand was tight on his wrist, putting his lips close to Vaelin’s ear and whispering two words which made him drop his tools and reach for his cloak and weapons without further demur, despite the immediate howl of protest from the blood-song.

“The Red Hand.” Sister Gilma stood on the other side of the mansion gate, having forbidden them from coming any closer. For once there was no trace of mirth in her tone or bearing. Her face was pale, her usually bright eyes dimmed with fear. “Just the governor’s daughter for now, but there’ll be others.”

“You’re certain?” Vaelin asked her.

“Every member of my order is taught to look for the signs from the moment we join. There’s no doubt, brother.”

“You examined the girl? You touched her?”

Gilma nodded wordlessly.

Vaelin fought down the sorrow clutching at his chest. No time for weakness now. “What do you need?”

“The mansion must be sealed and guarded. No-one can be allowed in or out. You must be watchful for any more victims in the city at large. My orderlies know what to look for. Any found to have the sickness must be brought here, by force if necessary. Masks and gloves must be worn when dealing with them. You must also seal the city, no ships can sail, no caravans can leave.”

“There’ll be panic,” Caenis warned. “The Red Hand killed as many Alpirans as Realm folk in its time. When word spreads they’ll be desperate to flee.”

“Then you’ll have to stop them,” Sister Gilma said flatly. “We cannot allow this plague loose again.” She fixed her gaze on Vaelin. “You understand, brother? You must do whatever is required.”

“I understand, sister.” Through his sorrow a dim memory began to surface, Sherin at the High Keep. He tended to avoid thinking of that time, the sense of loss was too great, but now he fought to recall her words that morning after the death of Hentes Mustor. The Usurper’s followers had trapped her with a false report of an outbreak of the Red Hand in Warnsclave. I had been working on a cure…

“Sister Sherin,” he said. “She told me once she had a cure for the sickness.”

“A possible cure, brother,” Gilma replied. “Based on theory only and beyond my skills to formulate in any case.”

“Where is Sister Sherin stationed these days?” Vaelin persisted.

“At the Order House, last I heard. She is Mistress of curatives now.”

“Twenty days sailing with a good wind,” Caenis said. “And twenty days back.”

“For an Alpiran or Realm vessel,” Vaelin mused softly. He turned back to Gilma. “Sister, ask the Governor to write a proclamation confirming your measures and ordering the city-folk to cooperate. Brother Caenis will have it copied and distributed about the city.” He turned to Caenis. “Brother see to the guarding of the gates and the mansion. Double the guard on the walls. Use our men only where possible.” He glanced back at Sister Gilma and forced an encouraging smile. “What is hope, sister?”

“Hope is the heart of the Faith. Abandonment of hope is a denial of the Faith.” Her own smile was faint. “I have certain instruments and curatives in my quarters. I should like them brought to me.”

“I’ll see to it,” Caenis assured her.

Vaelin turned to go, hurrying along the stone-paved path. “What about the docks?” Caenis called after him.

Vaelin didn’t look back. “I’ll see to the docks.”

The Meldenean captain was compact and wiry, sitting across the table from Vaelin with his lean features drawn in a suspicious glare. He wore gloves of soft leather, his hands clasped in a double fist on the table. They were in the map room of the old Merchant’s Guild building, alone save for Frentis who guarded the door. Outside, night was drawing on quickly and the city would soon be sleeping, still blissfully unaware of the crisis that would greet them in the morning. If the captain had any complaints about how he and his crew had been hauled from their bunks, forced to strip and submit to an inspection by Sister Gilma’s orderlies before being brought here, he clearly felt it best to keep them to himself.

“You are Carval Nurin?” Vaelin asked him. “Captain of the Red Falcon?”