Scrivener’s Tale. Fiona McIntosh

to her he was a traveller, a wastrel. She loved him, apparently. He was rarely home from what we learned. Again, I never met him.’

      ‘There were brothers, weren’t there?’

      ‘An elder brother,’ he corrected. ‘I never saw him and I have no idea of his life.’

      ‘Go on.’

      ‘Well, the young Cassien charmed us all from his arrival. He was an agile, bright-eyed infant with great curiosity and the sharpest of minds. We all loved him. I most of all, I suspect. I taught him all that I could and ensured that he had the best training. He didn’t disappoint. As he grew he showed himself to be the most adept and willing student. Everything he turned his hand to he did well.’ Josse reached for his spiced wine again. He knew it had cooled but he didn’t mind. His voice became scratchy when he talked for long periods. Fynch’s drink remained untouched.

      ‘The Brotherhood has a knack for finding each of its members’ special talents, does it not?’

      ‘Indeed, Master Fynch. We pride ourselves on it. Some of our Brothers become specialists at negotiation, while others are skilled poisoners; some have a talent for inciting political instability, while a few down the years have shown a gift for subterfuge and all manner of clandestine activity from spying to assassination.’ He shrugged. ‘It just depends on the individual. We nurture all skills and then we choose which to focus on for a particular individual.’ Josse sighed. ‘Only a few know of our existence — most think we are a small religious sect — but we are at the Crown’s disposal, always ready to meet its needs. We are looked after by the Crown.’

      ‘And yet you live quietly as monks … frugal, spiritual even.’

      Josse nodded. ‘It cannot be any other way or these skilled men could be turned to the wrong side for money or status. Emperor Cailech set us up in this manner. His aim was for us to Opérate as a religious Brotherhood, and ensure our members make their commitment to the Crown as a monk might make his to his god. It is definitely a spiritual undertaking.’

      ‘Yes, Cailech was inspired in this creation. And you have not let him down.’ Josse nodded his head, pleased with the compliment. ‘And what of Cassien?’ Fynch continued. ‘What is his speciality?’

      ‘Ah, he could have gone several ways. However, Cassien has become something of a one-man army.’ Josse laughed but there was no mirth in it. ‘He is a living, breathing weapon.’

      ‘Please explain that to me, Brother Josse.’

      ‘Quite simply: I defy any man to be his equal in combat. He can run faster, longer, harder than anyone in the empire, I suspect. He can take uncharted levels of pain. His stamina, thinking speed and range of thought are immense — and by that I mean his strategic decisions are usually always right and they are made in a blink, even under pressure. He is strong, flexible and supple; light as air if he needs to be. If you blindfold him, he can still “see” because his senses are so finely tuned. He has developed a method of bouncing sound off hard objects to gauge his nearness to them.’ Josse gave a tight smile. ‘Just as a bat might,’ he added and frowned.

      ‘What is it, Brother Josse?’

      ‘There is something else about Cassien that I don’t know how to explain.’

      Josse watched Fynch lean forward slightly. ‘Yes?’

      He shook his head. ‘It’s an intangible skill. One I cannot put competently into words, but it’s as though he possesses an otherworldly sense that the rest of us don’t know or understand. I know he keeps it secret.’

      ‘You mean it is an inherent part of him.’

      ‘Exactly. He alone owns it, wields it, but I know not when or how. He has only admitted once to me of its existence, when he was a child, and even then he could barely explain it. I suspect he’s forgotten ever mentioning it.’

      He watched Fynch’s eyes blaze now. ‘Magic?’

      Josse felt genuinely uncomfortable. He cleared his throat, sipped his gleam. ‘There is no other explanation, I suppose.’

      ‘When did you last see him?’

      ‘Me? I haven’t seen Cassien for a decade. Our man, Loup, visits him each new moon to put him through various, shall we say, tests. And he is certainly rigorous, Master Fynch.’

      ‘And?’

      ‘He is astonishing. Two moons ago Cassien bested Loup for the first time. Loup tells me he now believes our charge to be near enough invincible in a one-on-one fight. We believe he could do a lot of damage to any enemy if he was sent in alone. One of his strengths is his quiet presence. Loup says there are times when …’ Josse trailed off, unsure how to say it, for it sounded so far-fetched.

      Fynch’s head snapped up from where he had been staring thoughtfully at the fire. ‘When what?’

      ‘Er … well, when he believes Cassien is somehow not entirely of this world.’

      He watched Fynch straighten, his chest swell as though it was being filled with anticipation and excitement. ‘This is very good news, Brother Josse.’

      ‘Is it? Frankly, it frightens me, this talk of magic.’

      ‘One must not fear magic, Brother Josse.’ His guest stood, contemplating. ‘Good …’ Fynch murmured. ‘Very good.’

      ‘So, this mission you mention suggests the Crown has a specific use for him, Master Fynch?’

      ‘It does.’

      ‘Then by all means ask the palace to —’

      ‘No. This is the most secret mission that any of your men will ever undertake because they will do so without the knowledge of the Crown.’

      Josse shook his head. ‘I don’t understand.’

      ‘You don’t have to. I promise you, he will be working for the good of the realm, for the empire it is part of and for the young royal who presides over it.’

      Josse blinked.

      ‘You trust me, Brother Josse?’

      ‘I do,’ he replied without hesitation.

      ‘Thank you. I will personally brief Cassien.’

      ‘Of course. You will need a guide. Loup will take you.’ There was a soft knock at the door. ‘Ah, perfect timing. We can offer a hearty vegetable stew with chesil manchets baked here in our own bakery. We prefer the grainiest of bread … I hope it suits.’

      Fynch smiled. ‘Bread is a rare treat in whichever form it is given to me. Thank you.’

      Josse pointed to a basin nearby and heard the sound of Fynch washing his hands as he opened the door to young Turc, who brought in two bowls of stew, vapour rising enthusiastically from the brew, and bread still so warm he could smell its escaping steam. A chunk of butter he knew had been churned only the previous day was scattered with salt flakes.

      His guest was taking an inordinately long time to dry his hands and Josse realised Fynch did not want to be seen.

      ‘Leave the tray, Turc. Thank you, lad. I can take it from here.’

      FOUR

      Gabe had half an hour to kill before Reynard arrived. He paused at the sideboard where the swan quill sat in its box and traced a finger over the feather, watching the individual spines part and then flick back into a soldierly line.

      He remembered that Angelina had a sweet tooth and realised he had time to nip out and grab some simple fruit pastries drizzled with white icing, plus a new bag of his favourite coffee beans. He liked a strong roast that hinted of chocolate and licorice, and having invested in a 15bar Italian coffee machine, he enjoyed the ritual of making his coffee to order.

      He thought again about Angelina and Reynard’s